#They were doomed from the start but they d i d n t h a v e t o b e | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

Text

T H E

P A R I S

C H R O N I C L E S

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut in the other chapters. This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up).

Summary: Newly divorced you decide to travel to the Riviera and spend the summer in the house you and Timothée have inherited. After a very successful art exhibition he comes down to join you. Things should be easy, but they aren't.

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

R E A D

P A R T

O N E

A N D

T W O

H E R E

***

Menton - July, 1953

Menton, the most easterly town of the Côte d'Azur, belonging to the Arrondissement of Nice. It is located practically on the French-Italian border, the influences of both countries clear in multi-coloured houses, the decorated windows and in the sixteenth century bell tower.

The beaches are rocky but wide, and in the summer season packed with vacationists looking for an escape from the city; to lay their bodies down and soak up some sun, breath in some fresh air and occasionally to dip their bodies into the ocean in an attempt to escape the heat and cool down.

There’s a village square, in the middle of which a fountain; made in a century in which people still believed in dragons. From Bentwood chairs you can sit back and enjoy a meal, or a simple cappuccino, al fresco; as you watch the occasional hopeful tourist throw a coin into the fountain, making wishes with sanguine smiles. Or perhaps play a game of chess with a stranger.

On a cobbled-stone street nearby a market is set up each morning in a belle-epoque building, inside of which cheese, fish and meat are sold, and outside vendors are selling fruits and vegetables on wooden tables covered by green cloths.

Away from the pastell-coloured village and the expensive resorts and hotels by the beach there are steep hills, where most of the Menton locals reside. Some houses small and quaint; others almost obscene in their obvious wealth.

One of these houses is called Villa Marguerite

***

From the villa you can see the ocean spread out in front of you, almost recklessly big and bold and blue. Behind the house; acres upon acres of lemon trees, the bright yellow and green hues creating sharp contrasts to all the surrounding blue. There’s a garden too, emerald green grass and cedar trees that with rain will spread its heady scent all over the property; some mornings it is the first thing you smell.

The morning sun shines upon the terrace and you lean back in your wicker chair and sip on your morning coffee. Music is coming from the kitchen radio, only a few meters away.

The day lay planned and untraveled in front of you with all its horrifying possibilities. In a few hours Timothée’s train will arrive at the station and the upcoming reunion fills you with equal parts anticipation and terror. You had offered to meet him there, as his train arrives. You can picture it in front of you, standing on the dusty station under the scorching sun, eyes on the railroad track before you, awaiting the first sign of the train. You’d wear something nice for him, a white sundress perhaps; to show him that you are still the young sweet girl he fell for in Paris – that the colossal weight of a wedding ring on your left ring finger has not left you changed. You can picture what he’ll show up in, paint-stained jeans and white t-shirt. It will be awkward at first, it must be after all these months apart. But you’d conquer your fear and you’d hug him, pull him tight against you and breath him in; the familiar scent of him, the irresistible and unplaceable mixture of turpentine and smokey whiskey and of Paris.

There have been nights you’ve woken up gasping for air, where your hands have searched in vain around you in bed, panic-stricken, looking for the familiar frame of a lost lover. Every time, upon realizing that he’s not there, you would fall back against the mattress, and with deep breaths force your lungs to accept air. You’d close your eyes tightly shut and perhaps it was a trick your brain played on you, some devilish scheme – but in those moments, when you needed him the most you could almost concoct his scent out of thin air, could almost smell him, almost feel him lay beside you. There were times you would have sworn on anything holy you could feel the warmth of his body beside yours.

You had suggested to meet him at the station, but he had turned your offer down so firmly it had bordered on rudeness.

In the passing months since his department from London you had shared two brief, silence-filled phone calls.

One of them early one morning in May, just as the lilac bush burst out in bloom outside your window, the scent of them heady and intoxicating, and the missing weight of a diamond ring on your left hand still a strange sensation. Still you lift the phone; asking the operator for a number in France. You had called up his studio to inform him that you had moved out of your soon-to-be former husband’s house and were now taking house in Mayfair, in case he needed to reach you. Timothée´s voice had been tense and hoarse, as if he had just woken up and was not happy about it. In the background a woman had laughed.

The second time he had called you, in the late hours of the evening mid-June, just as the magnolias had set in bloom. You had informed him that you were planning to go down to Menton the following week, to start with the process of going through your aunt’s possessions. He in turn had informed you that his exhibition was to finish up on the 15th of July, after which he planned to travel to Nice by train and thus arrive the following morning. You had then offered to meet him at the station, to show him the way to the house at his arrival, which he had turned down. The tone of had been curt and the conversation short.

And that had been your only contact since that day in London. Before coming to Menton you had gone to Paris, to sign some papers and go through a few objects in your aunts’ apartment. You had not informed Timothée of this nor had you visited him.

Now here you are, weeks later, awaiting his arrival; foot tapping nervously against the floor, eyes fixed without seeing, mind recklessly wandering. Soon he’ll arrive at the station and you try not to connect that fact with the terrible sense of doom that’s been growing stronger in your stomach these last few days. But it seems undeniably connected.

Doom, like things have already been set in motion, the faiths decided; beyond your control or demand.

You feel ungrounded, restless and unbound; like the light morning breeze can sweep you away at sea. Trying to get a hold of yourself you focus your eyes only to see the endless blue sky above you or endless blue sea in front.

The sense of temporariness, of insignificance, of irrelevance in the grand scale of things washes over you and nausea settles in the pit of your stomach. Sitting up straight in your chair, force your foot to stop stomping the ground, you close your eyes and inhale slowly.

From the open window kitchen, you can still hear Louise, your aunt's maid, playing the radio. The French pop tune playing is unknown to you plays but she signs along over the sound of cluttering plates and running water. Upon your aunt’s death had ended up unemployed and in search of a job. She had written to you in London, asking for a position, and you had taken her on.

A sea gull screams somewhere above and from your neighbour’s house you hear children playing.

The sun is warm on your skin; the stone floor warm beneath your feet.

Feeling calmer, you open your eyes.

but still all you see is blue.

***

Timothée travels to Nice by train with a third-class ticket.

The compartment is unbearably hot. He tries to lay as still as possible on the hard bunk bed, afraid that any movement will make him warmer. Trying to ignore the sweat forming on his brow he focuses on the rhythmic pace of the train moving underneath him, wishing it would lull him to sleep but all it does is leave him with a vague feeling of nausea. His fellow passenger in the bunk bed below is in the bathroom next door, violently vomiting and the retching sound is coming through the thin walls . The light above his bed keeps flicking, every other second leaving the already dim room, with its dark oak panels, in complete darkness.

And dying for a cigarette.

He’s hot and sweaty and he thanks his lucky star he turned down your offer to meet him at the station. The thought of seeing you again after all these months, no doubt radiant in the sunlight, like an angel in waiting for him; and then him, wearing sweat-soaked rags that’ll no doubt smell of bile and dust and liquor.

He’s glad he turned your offer down; wants to make a good impression on you, to show you that he has changed, that he’s no longer the penniless painter; that he has made a success out of himself. The exhibition had been an incomparable success, Le Monde had put him on the front page and Le Journal du Dimanche had written an entire feature on his use of the colour blue – which they had been dubbed “as revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely”.

He wondered if you had seen it. He wants you to have seen it, to be proud of it; of him. To know, because you had to know, that it was all for you.

But lately fear had crept up on him. Like mold it had grown from a single thought; slowly and steadily until it covered everything, until it was a certainty he knew as well as his own name; a fact poisoning his every breath.

What if you didn’t love him anymore? What if, after all this time and suffering you found out that, actually, without all the hinders standing in your way you didn’t actually find him all that interesting.

He would be forced to go on his way, certain in the knowledge that you no longer loved him; instead of the current status quo of endless possibilities of the untraveled road, where anything can still happen. Where there is still hope. It had crossed his mind, the thought of just not going. To stay in Paris and paint and dream; safe in the knowledge that at one point the most beautiful woman in the world had loved him. Never having the possibility of that changing.

But it would be a cowardly thing to do, and whatever else he was he was no coward. But he also knew that there was no use pretending, he was not the same as he was when he met you. How could he be? He had been a planet, knocked out of its orbit, forced to find a gravity anew. And he had, it had taken time and pain and more self-discipline than he knew he had in him. He had dusted himself of and gone on with life. But when you left Paris the first time had felt safe in the knowledge that you loved him.

If you were to reject him now, it would only be because you found him lacking; disappointing.

The stranger retches in the bathroom again and behind closed eyelids Timothée can still see the flicking light. He pretends it’s a blinking star.

Lately he’s been reading less Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky; switched them for Nietzsche, Sartre and Aristotle. This new world of science and philosophy opening up a whole new world for him. It had set his mind to ponder about love and religion and of the whole galaxy too; about his place and role in all of these things.

Every day, several times over, he had wanted to call you. To tell you about his discoveries, read you abstracts from his books and ask your thoughts on it. He wanted to know what you made out of all these subjects, to hear where your opinions differed from his. He wanted to argue with you about them.

Yet every time he picked up the phone to call you, he had put it down again. He had felt silly, calling you about such mundane things. Didn’t want to bother you in your grief. He knew, had bought each new glossy copy of the Tatler with a shameful face, that you were going through a difficult divorce.

He didn’t want to complicate your life any further.

The stranger comes into the compartment again, groans loudly and shuts the door with a bang behind him before throwing himself down on the lower bunkbed.

“Fucking hate trains” he states.

“You don’t say” Timothée answers dryly. It’s stifling hot in the compartment and the other man has brought in the strong scent of bile back with him to mix with the stench of sweat.

The train takes a sudden turn and the man below groans loudly again. Timothée hears how he fiddles with something and then the click of a lighter. He asks the man for a cigarette and the he kind-heartedly hands him his entire package of Lucky Strikes. Perhaps as an apology for the smell.

The rest of journey is spent chain-smoking cigarettes until the late hour, the compartment a fog of smoke, until he finally falls into slumber somewhere after Lyon.

The next morning his travel companion, looking rather worse for wear but relieved that the train has stopped at last, helps him with his luggage as they depart the train.

A strange feeling of having been reborn settles over him as he blinks up at the sun, his eyes adjusted from the previous dark dimness of his coupé. The station is dusty and oven-hot but he strives forward through it, bag with his belongings slung over his shoulder. Just as he expected he’s arrived sweaty, with ruffled dirty clothes and a stench of bile and sweat lingers on him. It had most definitely been the right decision to turn down your offer to meet him at the station. And so, instead of looking for a taxi to take him to the great big house on the hills he makes his way down the cobbled streets in quite the other direction.

There’s nothing like the ocean to wash away the sense of filth. With a gasp he breaks through the water surface and forces large gulps of fresh air down his throat. The water is cyan in shade and the surface glitter under the sun. He wades his way through the water and back to the beach, sending a silent prayer that the posh hotel he’s snuck into won’t notice that he is in fact not a guest paying hundreds of Francs a night for the luxury of a private beach, complete with white sunbeds and linen-clad waiters ready to service your every whim, but in fact just a common free-loader.

The small rocks are scalding hot and under his bare feet but he makes his way through the white parasols and sunbeds, careful as to not disturb the suntanning guests, his shabby bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll be damned!” An American voice roars out and Timothée stops dead in his tracks, heart beating painfully in his chest; as if he was an animal, knowing he was about to be caught in the hunt. “If it isn’t my favorite painter!”

Slowly he turns around.

Underneath a white parasol, sprawled out on a sunchair; broad-shouldered, blond and suntanned, lay William.

Fuck.

William stands up and moves closer to him. “It is you! Man, what a surprise!” he bursts out in his thick American accent and claps him on his shoulder. Timothée just stands there, still with the feeling of being caught; trapped. William just smiles at him. “I was just going to grab an early lunch, care to join me?”

The hotel restaurant is situated on a terrace, making the most of the ocean view, azure blue sea glittering under the sun. The beach is full to the brim with suntanned bodies, sipping drinks under big white parasols. They’ve both changed out of their swimming trunks, William into a nice white day suit, freshly pressed of course. Walking behind him onto the terrace Timothée feels especially shabby in his worn linen trousers, albeit he’s currently wearing his only items of clothing not covered in paint splatters.

They are seated by the railings, a small white clothed table. They order margarita pizzas and beers. They small talk, filling up the blanks since they last saw each other.

Timothée tells him of his work, the successful exhibition, his newfound love of Nietzsche. About his reason for coming to Nice. William in turn tells him of how he changed his mind about returning to America, how he’s fallen in love with the Mediterranean, how life here has inspired him so much he’s taken up writing. In fact, he has already written most of his first book, and it is set to publish at the end of summer. He is now looking for a house, some permanency for the first time in his life. He will settle down here, he tells Timothée in a solemn tone.

Timothée well recognizes the signs of a man trying to escape from himself. He doubts very much if William is the type to ever settle, has no doubts in fact that next time they’ll speak William will have taken up an instrument set to join a band, or learn a new language ready to move country yet again. Timothée knows a drifter when he sees one.

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to warn the other man about the uselessness of attempting to outrun oneself, doesn’t advise him to instead make peace with the past and himself; knows that there is no use, that he'll find this out for himself soon enough. So instead he smiles, lights the last of his Lucky Strike´s and orders them some more beers.

They drink and talk, dream really, far into the afternoon as the sky changes from bright blue to nuances of powder pink and lavender. They dream up scenarios for William’s future; a summer spent in sunny Nice soaking up the sun, before setting to Capri in the autumn to work on a new book. They decide he should take a break in the winter to go skiing in Saint Moritz before returning to Nice in the spring, to finish up his book.

More beers are ordered, and subjects discussed, but when a longer silence takes place William leans back in his chair, a shy look on his face that makes him look more boy than man.

“So” he begins, and Timothée’s interests are piqued. The terrace is full of people by now, taking a late lunch or simply enjoying an afternoon drink, waiting for the sun to set and the real party to begin.

“So?” he offers, pressing the other man to continue.

William clears his throat, cheeks flushed, and not purely from the day spent in the sun. “So, you��re going to see her now?”

Timothée is not surprised by his question, had expected it since he told him why he was here, had expected the subject of you to arise. It felt inevitable. The subject of you too big to ignore.

“Yes” he says, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. They’d bought new ones from the waiter many beers ago, the crystal cut ashtray between them filled to the brim with stumped out cigarettes.

“Yeah should get going soon really, she was expecting me this morning.”

Silence for a heartbeat, as the sky turns red, the sun almost setting.

“And it is true, what they’ve written in the society pages? She’s getting divorced?”

Timothée, not knowing what to do with his hands, lights yet another cigarette; even though his throat feels too dry; too tight. “Yeah” he manages to get out.

Silence again. William is keeping his eyes on the setting sun, seemingly lost in thought.

“Mind if I tag back with you to the house?” he says eventually. The words come out almost superiorly. Yet Timothée senses the fragile vulnerability under the arrogance. “I’d just like to say hi to her” he then adds in a softer tone. “Our last goodbye…” he trails off for a second and something like regret flashes in his clear blue eyes, “Look, I treated her abhorrently and I’d like to put things right, it’s the least I can do”.

And who is Timothée to deny either one of you that?

The ground is slightly unsteady under his feet as they stand outside the hotel, waiting for the taxi the porter had ordered. He had, perhaps, had one too many to drink. He sways from one foot to the other. It is just past midnight and he should have gone home hours ago.

And maybe he shouldn’t arrive at your first meeting in months, the first meeting post-divorce, absolutely wasted. A knot ties somewhere in his stomach.

And, he thinks as he slides into the backseat of the taxi, maybe he oughtn't to bring your ex-fiancé with him to said meeting. An ex-fiancé who had broken up your engagement days before the wedding, left you pretty much at the altar to marry someone else instead. Your first love.

The knot tightens harder.

He watches the city, now dark and full of people, pass by outside the window. As the taxi goes up the hills he tries to focus on the ocean outside; now the darkest shade of blue. The moon is yet to make an appearance to light up the evening. They drive up a final curve and finally Timothée can see it. The white house atop the hill is large and neo-classical in style, with painted mint-green shutters, currently open wide to let in some evening air, and up the white walls magenta colored bougainvillea climbs.

The lights are on and Timothée feels light-headed. He blames it on the drinks. He blames it on the day spent under the beaming sun. He blames it on the long journey there and the fact he slept so badly on the train.

He blames it on anything other than the fact that he’s starting to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have come here tonight. If perhaps he should have stayed at the hotel, sobered up and after a good night sleep come here; bunches of casa blanca lilies in hand and a forged reason for his lateness on his lips.

And he definitely shouldn’t bring William with him.

Something twists painfully inside him and he feels a bit sick. Because he knows William is your first love; but what if he’s your greatest one as well. What if the two of you after reuniting again, found that there were still love there. You both had divorces in your past now, you both had money, and freedom. What if William wasn’t just your first love, but your greatest one?

He definitely shouldn’t have brought him here.

He watches with regret settled deep in his bones as the taxi drives away, and William is walking up the pebbled path to the front door. So Timothée takes a deep breath, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and forces his feet forward.

They ring the door and surprise hits him for the second time that day, when the door opens and Aunt Marguerite’s maid Louise stands there, wearing the usual look of disapproval as she takes in the state of him.

She sniffs with disgust. “You are late” she tells him with a stern tone, before stepping aside to let him enter. “Madam is on the terrace”. He drops his bag on the floor as she leads the way through the house, William at his heel. His feet feel like cement, but he keeps forcing them forward.

The first thing he sees as he steps out onto the terrace is the moon, now high in the sky, casting its reflection on the water below. Then, on a sunbed with your face towards the ancient blue spreading out in front of you; not directed to him. He sees you in the moonlight, curled up underneath a blanket, a glass of red wine beside you. The only light on the terrace the moon and candles, lit up around you.

Without turning to look at him you say, in a voice painfully familiar, “was beginning to give up on you. Thought you’d missed the train”.

“Sorry” he says, and it surprises him how calm he sounds; because he’s pretty sure something is exploding inside his chest. “Got a bit distracted.”

You turn to him then, a half-smile on your face that freezes immediately upon seeing who is standing behind him. Painful silence falls between you, heavy like a wet blanket, while the ocean roars beneath, its waves crashing against the rocks.

“Wills?” Your voice sounds so vulnerable it makes him want to weep, to go hide; to ask something holy for forgiveness.

“Hi baby” William answers and Timothée nearly whimpers, wants to look away but can’t seem to turn his eyes from the scene in front of him.

Your eyes are big and glossy in the moonlight as William moves closer. Nausea rises in Timothée’s stomach as he watches William sit down on the sunbed beside you; hands clasped before him like a schoolboy in church.

“I’m sorry” he begins, “this must come as a surprise to you but…”

“Excuse me” you interrupt him, voice cold but your vulnerability clear as it. “I think I will retire to bed. You can stay over if you wish, Louise will prepare you a room. We’ll lunch tomorrow.”

And all either Timothée can do is watch as you stand up, spine all straight and head held high as you walk past him, not casting him a single look as he hangs his head in shame.

Timothée blinks slowly into the bright light; confused as to where he is for a moment. He blinks a few more times, his lasting impression; white. White sheets, white walls, white lilies on his bedside table, white wooden floors and white curtains moving in the breeze from the open balcony door; outside of which azure blue sky. Then,

Menton.

You.

He groans, burying his face in the pillow. The pain in your eyes as you walked past him the night before; eyes brimming with carefully held back tears. Why, why, why on earth had he brought William with him? Why hadn’t he just told him no? Surely it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to turn down his request to force his way back into his ex-fiancé’s life?

But he wanted you back. And Timothée had handed you to him.

“Fuck” he groans.

Despite his protesting, heavy limbs and sore head he stands up and moves through the room, to the gilded mirror by the antique dresser. Slowly he blinks back to his miserable reflection. A skinny man, with unruly, dark curls and anxious, wide eyes, dark circles like bruises underneath them. He thinks of William; tall and golden and broad shouldered enough to carry the weight of the world on them. And rich enough to own it.

He wants to hurl.

Instead, with the determination of the already damned, he moves through the room, knowing there is nothing left to do but face the day; and the consequences of last night. Finding a pair of clean linen trousers and white shirt he pulls them on with fumbling hands. Rooming through the pockets of the trousers he wore last night, carelessly thrown over a wicker chair, he finds the package of Gauloises he bought at the hotel the previous night. He puts them in his pocket, he is going to need them. Feeling like a man walking up to the gallows he steps out of his room.

Louise, who’s in the kitchen preparing breakfast, huffs in displeasure when she sees him.

“Yeah, yeah” he mutters, “I know”.

She pulls up her blonde hair and ties it in a knot in her back, seemingly doing her utmost to ignore him, but he’s pretty sure she’s just doing it for the opportunity to sneakily give him the finger.

Out on the terrace you sit by the table, reading. Wearing a white silky thing, your hair wet from a bath, pearls of water falling to the ground as you move to flip a page in your book. You are bathing in the morning light, covered by it; and maybe it’s just to Timothée’s eyes but everything else seems to fall into shadow.

Walking more assuredly than he feels, somewhat comforted in the fact that William is not yet up, he takes a seat beside you at the table. You flip a page in your book, and you don’t look at him. A seagull screeches in the sky, but otherwise the world remains quiet.

“What are you reading?” he asks, though feeling it is a trivial question in the midst of everything. He feels foolish, trying to ease into conversation with you, when all he really want to do is apologise; to take your hands and tell you that he’s sorry.

“The Odyssey”

“You like it?”

Your eyes don’t move over the page, but you don’t look at him either; instead fixated on the page in front of you.

“Yes” you say eventually. “But I find the prose hard to get used to”.

“Well” he says fishing in his pockets for his Gauloises, “personally I prefer The Iliad. There’s a feeling of doom in it that stays with you, like their fates are already set out for them and they can’t escape it. They’re left to just live their stories out”. He brings a cigarette to his lips but soon discovers he’s forgotten a lighter. He swears under his breath, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Then something silver reflects in the sun, right before his eyes. You’re reaching out your hand to him, and in the palm of your hand lay a cigarette lighter. Gratefully he takes it and lights up.

“Thanks” he says, trying to hand it back to you, but you shake your head.

“No, it’s yours. Apparently, my aunt had it ordered for you before she passed. I was going to give it to you yesterday.”

Timothée feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach. He lays down the cigarette and looks down at the silver lighter. It’s beautifully crafted, old fashioned in a good way and thoroughly stylish. Marguerite through and through. He turns it in his hand and sunlight reflects from its perfect surface. Only then does he notice the engraved text, in cursive writing; “Fuck Picasso”.

He breaks out in laughter but feels a simultaneous need to cry. To lay down on the floor and weep. He misses her, would do anything to hear her scold him for his behavior again. To have her tell him that he is being defeatist and to keep trying; keep fighting for what he wants.

He looks at you, and he can see the same conflicting feelings reflected in your glossy eyes.

“Le petit dejeuner, madam” Louise says, putting down the tray with coffee, bread, brie and fresh fruit on the table between you. She sends Timothée a scorching look as she does so.

Once you’re both sipping on cups of coffee you clear your throat. “She did leave you the Picasso painting as well, you know”.

Timothée nearly drops his cup of scorching hot coffee in his lap. “Sorry?”

Reluctantly the corners of your mouth twist into a smile. “You never read the full version of the will, did you? She gave the Picasso to you. Said you were the only one who could possibly appreciate it”.

He snorts with laughter again, and again it comes with a sting of grief.

“You sure you don’t want it?” he asks, because a Picasso is no ordinary gift and he feels as if he’s stealing it from you; you who actually were related to the woman.

But you just shake your head, a small but sincere smile on your lips. “I got the Monet”.

“Bloody landscape artist” Timothée teases and you laugh. This is an old joke, an inside joke, one that has made you laugh before. Your laughter feels familiar and warm and he wants to pull you closer to him, feel your skin; warm from the sun, against his.

“You are just jealous” you tease back, and your eyes; the same colour as your aunts, sparkle in the sunshine. “You have never been able to paint a landscape”.

“No” he says, reaching for a stem or green grapes, “I’ve never found a landscape more interesting than a face” he adds, pulling the sweet fruit from its stem and placing it between his teeth; slowly biting down, relishing the taste.

He wants to say, ‘there’s nothing I’d rather paint than your face’, but swallows the words along with the fruit. He watches your face as you look at the sea; hair still wet against your now slightly rosy cheeks.

“Good morning” says a cheerful, though somewhat raspy, American accent.

Timothée turns and sees William walking towards you. He’s all tousled blonde hair, white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top; showing seamlessly endless amounts of suntanned golden skin. Styled with a Rolex watch and bare feet he’s all Hamptons; all American.

Timothée looks at him and thinks Paul Newman would be proud.

He picks up and finally lights his cigarette, using his new treasure.

William sits down by the table, leans back and sighs. “Gonna be a beautiful day” he announces to them, as if the weather was his to rule. Timothée watches him in the morning light, all golden and decisive. He thinks of Zeus, of power and of glory.

You gesture for Timothée’s cigarette package and he picks one out and hands it to you. Leaning closer, closer and closer still; your face so near that he can count each of your eyelashes if he so wishes, your arms nearly touching his. He lights you up. All the time he can feel William’s watchful eyes as he observes the two of you.

Louise comes out with another cup of coffee and places it in front of William before heading back to the kitchen. In the silence between them they can hear how she puts on the record player, the tunes of Chopin floating out on the terrace. Timothée meets your eyes and you both smile.

Flashes of memories from another life, you and him in Paris in his old studio. Dancing in the evening, hips pressed together as you’d swayed gently from side to side, your chest pressed to his, feeling so close it was as if you were sharing breaths. Or you posing on the carpet, naked in the afternoon light as he attempts the impossible; trying to recreate the loveliness and complexities of you. A Herculean task. All the while Chopin played in the background.

“So what are we all doing today?” inquires William and Timothée breaks eye contact with you. Maybe he is imagining it, but he thinks there’s a harshness behind Williams' forceful cheerfulness.

You enter into conversation with William, all small talk and politeness, as Timothée smokes his cigarette and looks the other way.

“Can I talk with you?” William asks, his hand around your wrist, holding you in place. “Alone, I mean.”

Your plates have been cleared, the coffee cups stand empty and William has reached over the table to take a hold of you. Timothée, who’d spent most of the breakfast in silence, his face towards the sea, playing with silver lighter in his lap, now stands up. “I’m off to explore the village” he says with a tone of indifference. But there is something strained about the way he’s holding himself, a tenseness in his shoulder, a frozen look on his face. It is in the way he refuses to look at either you or William as he walks away.

You watch him leave before gently pulling your hand away from William’s. “I must say, it is a surprise to see you here, Wills”.

William doesn’t hang his head in shame or embarrassment but keeps his clear blue eyes on yours.

“I didn’t know that you were here in Menton, that’s not why I came here. But I did go looking for you, in Paris”. His voice never shakes, neither does his hands. He is as steadfast as you remember him from school. Ha had been taller than everybody else, towering over them all. He could easily have been awkward, already standing out with his American accent. But he wasn’t. William had been born with a sense of self-assurance most could only dream of. Dubbed arrogant by some you had felt admiration.

Your school had been set up in two buildings, one for the boys and one for the girls, and separated by a field. Most classes were taken separately, the only times the genders had mixed was during meals and announcements, or on special sports days.

You can still remember it so clearly, when you fourteenth year old set your eyes on sixteen year old William for the first time. It had been on the football pitch during a friendly start of the term game. He was new to the school, a head taller than the other boys and no one seemed to be able to take their eyes off him. It was clear that he was unused to the game, having grown up mostly playing American football, but he soon got his head around the rules. You see it so clearly in front of you, how he had made his way through the defence, his long legs carrying him through in quick strides, before scoring his first goal; the whole crowd going wild. He was a natural talent, as soon you would learn, he was in most things. He took on the world with a natural ease, assured in his belief that everything would go his way.

At the end of the match he had stood there, arm slung around the shoulders of his fellow comrades, all grinning from ear to ear. They were the victors of the game; the heroes of the school. William in the middle, head slung back in laughter, almost radiant in the late September sun. He was and always had been golden, had always seemed more than human to you, almost godlike in being. The other boys had certainly found him so, the only exception being Freddie Fairfax and his friends, who never had a kind word to say about their fellow student. However the rest of the boys had soon made William their unelected leader. The king of god on mount Olympus. His eyes had met yours in the crowd of admirers and just like that - you were done for.

When he had asked you to the school dance, mouthed crooked in a smile and hands unstirred; so unlike the nervously trembling boys, you had said yes. The other girls had envied you and when you walked into the great hall with him he had taken your arm in his and kissed you on your forehead; told you he thought you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. You had felt chosen; blessed even.

And when he had asked you to marry him, down on one knee like a gentleman and with a hand that didn’t shake with nerves, you had said yes. Had thought that had settled everything. That you would marry the man you loved in front of all your friends and family, securing a financially stable future for your parents. You’d go on a honeymoon, a world tour perhaps, and later; children. After having found the perfect family home in Kensington, among all your friends.

Alas, that was not to be. No wedding, nor children or home had come along. Instead, heartbreak.

And you had fled, humiliated, to Paris.

“Yes” you say, feeling unable to look away from his blue gaze. “Yes, Timothée mentioned that. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you, I had already left for London by then”.

“Yeah” he says, corners of his lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes filled with something more like pity. “To marry Freddie Farifax”. And then he’s on his feet, moving around the table and before you know it, in Timothée’s chair. He leans forward and grasps your hands in his. They feel warm and steady, whereas yours are cold and shaking.

“Babe” his voice is like a gentle breeze. “Babe, look at me”.

You look up from your clasped hands and back into his blue eyes, at the moment more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I should never have left you” he continues, voice sweet and tender and barely louder than the breeze. “I was bewitched. I know, I know it sounds stupid but I just lost my head about Linda. I was a fool, a goddamn fool. I realized as soon as we left for New York that who I really wanted was you. It was like waking up from a dream. She was just such a lovely thing, so carefree and - no please, listen” You had tried to remove your hands from his but he kept a firm grip around them. Slowly he moves one of his hands from yours, up to your face to cup your cheek. It’s tender, and it feels like it had always felt when Wiliam touched you - the same feeling you got when you lay sunbathing; kissed by the sun. A mild breeze through the trees and the scent of him, citrus and cedar, hits you like an embrace from the past.

At fifteen, a few months after you first set eyes on him, he kissed you. Calmly, with a hand cupping your face; just like now, he had kissed you until you felt tender and starry eyed. It had been in the library, in the row furthest down, a copy of Anna Karenina sticking into your back as he pressed you against the bookcase.

He had smelled the same then, as you stood on your tip-toes to reach him his arms surrounded you.

He had smelled the same in baronessa Digby’s guestroom during her annual ball. After hours spent dancing, pressed up against one another he had snuck you both in there and on the bed showed all there was to know about love in its physical form. Flashes of memories come back to you of his body above yours, muscles defined and body almost golden in the candlelight, pressing you down onto crisp white sheets. The scent of lemon and cedar everywhere.

He had been gentle and patient, moving in and out of you with steady, slow thrusts at first, deliberate and calm in all his movements. His hands were steady the whole way through but you were shaking all over.

“I should never have left you” he repeats, and you can feel the shame coming off him in waves, see the regret in his eyes and in the furrow of his brow. “You never should have had to marry fucking Freddie, the piece of shit”. Something thunders in his blue eyes.

“I’m not angry with you William. I felt hurt and humiliated when you left but it’s all in the past now, so if it is my forgiveness you’ve come here for you can have it”.

“It’s not,” William says, almost before you’ve finished speaking. “I mean, I’ll gladly take it but what I want is you.” All you can do in response is stare at him and he laughs, almost bitterly, before continuing “to think, that had I not made such a massive ass of myself we would have been married now. We would be happy. I can still make you happy, baby”. He makes the last word sound like a prayer. He strokes your cheek.

“Make me carefree?” you ask, and you swear, you can feel the ocean move in protest in your lungs.

“Yes, just give me a chance and I’ll make you the happiest being on earth”.

You look into his pleading eyes. Part of you wants to say yes, because part of you still loves him. Part of you is still that fourteen year old girl, enamoured by the school hero. But you know now, have come to realize with time, that William never has, and never will understand you. Not you as you as you really are How could he understand someone so different from himself? A godlike creature whose hands never tremble, who has thunder in his eyes and whose love burns bright; but also quick. Would you choose a life with him there would be other Linda’s. Other infatuations, there was bound to be, even if he would always make his way back to you.

But though Wiliiam’s hands never tremble they know nothing of steady.

“William” you say, finally untangling your hands from his, “Will I’m sorry but it’s too late. I have already moved on”.

William leans back in his chair, a deep sigh escaping him. “Yes, yes I was afraid of that. The painter boy seems to have stolen your heart quite thoroughly, hasn’t he?” You don’t answer and William digs in his pockets for cigarettes.

“I see” he mouths out round a cigarette, brows furrowed in concentration. He brings his own silver lighter to his mouth to light up and it reflects in the sun, like bolts of lightning. “Still” he adds with a voice smooth as honey, leaned back in his chair; breathing out smoke between you, “well, he might get to keep the real you but I won the painting. Quite the consultation prize”.

***

When Timothée steps back into the house, several hours later the clouds are dark and heavy with unshed rain. The world feels charged with energy, as is the way right before thunder. Louise greets him with her usual disapproval at the door before simply nodding upward, uttering the single instruction, “upstairs”.

He makes his way through the house, dark and quiet in the late hour, up the stairs and drawing room. It is a large room, with wallpapers of navy dyed silk on which several paintings in the modern style are set up. Heavy oak furniture outlines the room, decanters of whiskey and cognac and any other liquor that could be wished for on one of the tables and in the middle of the room two elegant white sofas facing each other.

On one of them you sit, a martini at the table in front of you, next to an enormous vase of casa blanca lilies. The whole room smells of them.

Not knowing what to say, where to start he walks past you, across the room, to make himself a drink. Pouring himself a generous measure of Laphroaig, which he drowns immediately, before pouring himself a new one. Dutch courage.

“William gone then?” he asks, staring down at the amber liquid in his glas, hating how casual he sounds.

“Yes, he went back to his hotel”

So the supposed love of your life was only temporarily missing then. Timothée squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his hands around the table, as if to stop himself from whimpering. He feels pathetic and weak. Opening his eyes again, the room dark around him he walks to the sofa and sits down opposite of you.

Outside he hears the first few drops of rain.

“So you two patched things up then?” There’s a forged cheeriness to his voice and he hates how disingenuous he sounds.

For a few long seconds he is met by a silence so intense it makes the hair on his arms stand up. Then it really starts to fall outside, the sky opening up with rain, the clapping sound of it as it hits the roof like thunderous applause.

“I’ve decided to let the past be the past”. You’re so calm and collected; so cool and unfaced. Yet he can sense that you are holding onto yourself with an iron grip, not letting go an inch of your own feelings or reactions. It reminds him of the way children clutch their hands around objects they know they shouldn’t possess, determined not to show what they are hiding.

He takes a sip from the whiskey, the smokey smell of it mixing with the heady scent of lilies. So this was it then. He had ruined his own chance of happiness by bringing William back to you. Timothée had not been to compete with Freddie Fairfax and his money and title, but he had always known that you had not married that man out of love, and that had made the blow on his feelings less hard than if you had simply preferred Freddie; chosen him. But with William it was a different matter. You did not need to be with him out of any necessity. If you had chosen him; then it was because you loved him.

“Well, good on you” he says, drowning the rest of his glas. “Sweet of you to forgive him, you know, after basically leaving you at the altar and humiliating you infront of everyone you know. Really, it’s big of you”.

“Yes, me and William had a lovely chat this morning” your voice is cold as ice. You’re on the sofa, spine straight and shoulders tense, taking a large sip from your martini. “He told me about a poker game the two of you had in Paris. How you paid your debts with a nude portrait of me".

Lightning strikes outside and for a brief second the whole world goes white, like the flash of a camera, before once again leaving you both in shadow.

Timothée is dumbstruck; can’t get out a single word. He wants to protest, to deny it, but there’s no use. He’s never been a liar.

“How fucking could you?” The venom in your voice feels lethal, as if he’s injected it like poison and it’s making its way through his system.

And here comes the thunder.

“I trusted you with that painting and you let him fucking have it! My ex-fiance has a naked portrait of me because of you. I knew I couldn’t trust you, I knew it! It was all too good to be true. You just wanted me because you knew you couldn’t have me, because you knew it wouldn’t last. I was just a conquest you would get a few nice paintings out of!” You’re shouting now; unbound and full of rage. Unable to stand still you’ve gotten up, pacing the room.

“You knew it wouldn’t last?” he answers with a sarcastic laugh, anger shouting through him as well now. “You made sure it you mean? You used me as some sort of escape fantasy because you felt lost and trapped! The princess and the penniless painter. Those were just roles we played. You just wanted to feel desired again and no one has ever desired you as much as i have, but as soon as Freddie fucking Fairfax came along you dropped me, and guess what? I could have lived with that. I understood it even. But you made your way back into me, gave me hope, and now you’re fucking leaving again with fucking William!" He’s on his feet as well now, standing just feet from you. "So yeah, I’m sorry I gambled away the painting, that was wrong of me but don’t make out as if I’m the reason this can’t last when you have always been the first to leave. You have always been the first to leave!”

Lightning like a flash, capturing the hurt look on your face, burning it onto his retinas forever.

“You can say that all you want but you've had one foot out the door for a while, haven’t you? You never called or wrote after you left London. And when I called you early that morning there was some girl fucking giggling in the background! I had to go back to Paris this spring to sort out some of aunt's things and I didn’t go to visit you because I knew there was gonna be someone else there!”

And here comes the thunder again, louder than before.

“Oh that’s it sweetheart, jealous are we?” his tone is low and mocking and your eyes are burning into his. They seem to sparkle in the dark and though adrenaline is shooting through his body he can’t help but he can’t help thinking; that this is the most beautiful he’s ever seen you; unbound and unleashed. Despite his anger he’d like nothing more than to lean in and kiss you.

But he is angry, and so he continues in the same, low tone, “and you accuse me of having one foot out the door? Ye get jealous of some model coming in to have a painting done - who I’ve never even touched - but I have to watch your husband parade you on his arm at the opera? And be a spectator as you and fucking Wills reunite?”

“You’re the one who brought him here!”

“I know!” he shouts. Both your chests are heaving with anger, the air loaded with thunder. He takes a step back from you, runs a hand through his hair in frustration and sighs. “I know” he repeats, defeated now. Walking away from you he crosses the room and throws himself down on the sofa, his head in his hands.

Outside it keeps raining.

You sit down on your old spot on the sofa again, hands in your lap, cool and collected once more. “I have not gotten back together with William. I’m sorry I made you believe that. I’ve simply decided to forgive him and let the past be the past. That’s all”.

Timothée lifts his head up, something like hope blooming in his chest among all the despair. “Yeah? Well I’m sorry about the painting, I really am. In my defence, I didn’t know he was your William until after”.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. I asked him to get rid of it”.

“Nevertheless, I am sorry” he looks you straight in the eye as he says this, wanting you to know the sincerity in his apology. “Do you want me to leave? I can go back to Paris tomorrow”.

Silence, then thunder once again, though this time further away.

“No” you say in the end, still in that cold voice, but you sound genuine when you continue, “no please stay. It is your house just as much as mine. Stay as long as you want”.

“Please, let me paint you again?”

Rain in July is a rare thing in Menton. Nevertheless, a storm had raged the night before. You had often heard the expression the calm before the storm, however you had always found the aftermath of storms all the more fascinating.

“No” you answer him, flipping the page in your book; Anna Karenina this morning.

Timothée is standing by the barristrade under the golden mimosa tree, trying to capture the landscape beneath him. He wears a frustrated, nearly pained look on his face as he stares at the canvas. You can hear his groans of ill contempt.

“Fucking hate landscapes”.

“That is your vanity speaking. You know you aren’t very good at it and so you hate it. Like all men you hate the things that make you look less than average". On the page in front of you Vronsky has decided to pursue Anna, despite knowing that she is a married woman.

“I’m not vain” Timothée mutters, like a petulant child. “I don’t like landscapes because they are ever-changing, just when you’ve managed to get the precise shade of the sky it has already changed into something else entirely.”

“But faces change all the time too. I’d say there’s as much variety in a face as it is in a landscape” you argue. Looking up from your book you observe Timothée. The mimosa branches hanging down, it’s golden flowers framing his head like a halo, the impression strengthened by the morning sun shining through.

The sweet, succulent scent from the tree, reinforced a thousand times with last night's heavy rain, hangs around them like an invisible cloud.

“You’re just defending landscapes because your precious Monet couldn’t have enough of them”.

“He painted people too”.

“Yeah, but he wasn't as good at is. Maybe he too was vain”.

”Monet never used black, did you know that?” You say, apropo of nothing. “And for a while Picasso only used blue. Do you think this is how they’ll define you one day? In a textbook, a picture of a portrait of me - and underneath it written in black on white: Portrait of a girl unknown. For this period in the artist's life he refused yellow. Is that how they will define you?”

“I don’t refuse yellow anymore.” He’s stopped painting now, but faces away from you, looking out at the ocean. You see his fingers twitch for a cigarette.

“Maybe not, but you don’t see blue in the same way. Neither does anyone else if Le Journal du Dimanche, I saw what they wrote about your exhibition, congratulations by the way.” His back is very still and you keep going. “What was it they wrote? ‘As revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely’?”

You can’t explain even to yourself why you are doing it, why you are antagonising him. It is petty and it should be beneath you but like a child you try to goad a reaction out of him.

“You made me look at all colours in a different light.” It is a quiet confession, sincere in its simplicity. His hands are clasped around the brim of his chair, like he’s trying to hold himself very still. “You made me listen differently as well, I could never hear the beauty of Chopin until you played it for me. And the scent of lilies will always remind me of you. You made me feel different too, different from anybody else. Like I had been reborn into a new body, with new feelings. A new purpose. Even the air in my lungs felt different; cleaner somehow.”

You don’t know how to respond to that; feeling as though all malice has been sucked out of you like poison from a snake. Perhaps there’s nothing to say.

“Let me paint you one more time”

“No. Why don’t you just hire a model instead?”

“I don’t want another model, I just want to paint you”

“Well William’s still at the hotel if you’re planning to gamble it away after”.

Maybe all bitterness hasn’t escaped her yet. Timothée takes up his brush and goes back to his canvas. For a few long moments everything is silent.

Then, in a quiet voice he speaks. “Why didn’t you go back to William? I saw how much you loved him, when you first came to Paris. I remember. But if you’ve decided to forgive him, and if there’s still feelings there, then why not?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want you to be happy”.

You throw the book on the table, close your eyes and lean back in your chair. “I’ve always figured that the world can be split into two; that people are either like birds, or like trees.”

You can hear Timothée dropping his paintbrush again and had you had your eyes open you would see his curious eyes as he watches you with open adoration.

“You see,” you continue “some people are drifters, and other settlers. Some people grow roots where they stand, trying to reach as far down into the earth as possible in order to feel secure. They are steady and they grow but they never change and they never change their outlook on things. And when they have to move, they have to be ripped out by the roots and it hurts. Others, well others are like birds. They fly from branch to branch and sure, sometimes they build nests but they never stay for long. They need air beneath their wings, they need freedom.”

“And William is a bird?”

“Yes, William is a bird. A drifter. He will always move from branch to branch. In his lifetime he will have a thousand infatuations and sure, if we were to marry I think he would always come back to me but I cannot live like that. I would be a tree, trying to force my roots through concrete”.

“And that is the reason you don’t choose him?” His voice breaks slightly at the end and you can’t help but love his fragility, his vulnerability in this moment.

“That yes” you say, opening your eyes and feeling blinded by the sun. “That and the fact that I’m not actually in love with him anymore”.

Silence again, because maybe there is nothing more to say now. Timothée picks up his brush and you take up your book and continue to read your book; ‘There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness.’

An hour or so later Timothée swears under his breath and abandons the landscape by walking out. Further away you hear the heavy front door close and you know he’s left for the village. You stand up and walk over to the painting, inspecting his work. He has painted the scenery in front of him, but despite the golden mimosa tree there is no yellow to be seen on the canvas; only various nuances of blue.

****

August, 1953

A routine settles at Villa Marguerite.

Each morning Timothée wakes before you and makes enough coffee for two. He takes his cup and his brushes out to the terrace and he tries to paint the ocean. Some time later the radio in the kitchen is turned on as Louise begins to prepare breakfast. Later still he hears your footsteps as you come out to join him on the terrace, wearing the same white dressing-gown each morning.

“There’s coffee if you want some”.

These words are his timid confession, his quiet ‘I think of you each morning as I wake’. A kind of ceasefire has settled between you. You don’t argue with each other but then again, you hardly speak.

When you come back out on the terrace, coffee cup in hand, you sit down under the golden mimosa tree and Timothée wants to sigh but he doesn’t. He wants to sigh, because you are beautiful. Because in the morning light, dressed in a white dressing-gown, you look more angel than person; the golden mimosa flowers like a halo atop your head.

Each morning he wants to capture the moment, just like you this, on his canvas. Not because of the etherealness of the setting; but the domesticity of it. You, morning hair and a cup of coffee that he has brewed for you; bare feet and nightgown.

You’re both silent as you drink. It is peaceful. In the village church bells ring. He feels no need for church. Heaven, he thinks, are mornings with you. Anything else can wait.

The rest of his days are spent painting, trying to catch the colours and moods of the ever-changing ocean and sky in front of him. By lunchtime he’s grown tired of trying, and so he walks down to the village where he strikes up a conversation with whomever is available. Nice is in high season and the streets are full of tourists. During midday however, when the sun is high in the sky, most people are hiding in whatever cool space they can find or lay their bodies on the beach. But Timothée finds he doesn’t mind the heat,

He’s made some friends during his time in Nice, foremost a fellow Parisian his age named Nathaniel, and an elderly French-speaking Italian named Marco. If Marco, who owns a bistro in the square, is available they play chess and argue about politics. Marco always wins. When Nathaniel, who works down by the docks, goes on his lunch break he comes to join them, and they eat together, whatever Marco’s bistro has to offer for the day. They share glasses of wine and discuss jazz, the two younger men unsuccessfully trying to convince Marco to arrange a jazz night at his bistro.

When the other men go back to their work Timothée strolls. Sometimes he walks down to the beach, where sometimes he runs into William. They chat, and it’s not exactly comfortable but neither is it awkward. They both get through it.

Some days he spends strolling the village, watching the pastel-coloured houses, dreaming about the inhabitants' lives. Other days he goes to the ancient little library in town, where he spends his afternoon strolling through the book shelves. He picks up books, reads a few chapters of them; though never starting at the beginning, before putting them down. Like this he goes from book to book, never being able to commit to a single story.

In the end he re-reads The Odyssey - the first page to the last. He doesn’t know what to think about it; except maybe that if The Iliad left him with a distinct feeling of doom, the feeling that sticks with him after The Odyssey is a distinct sense of homesickness. Of nostalgia.

He returns the book at the desk, asking the librarian for more books on Greek mythology. She hands him one and with the book safely pressed against his side he strolls down to the docks and there, on a bench overlooking the ocean, he reads. He reads until the heat fades and seagulls stop screeching and the sky turns pink and until all the fishing boats return to the docks.

He walks back to the village, pays for a box of pralines and a bottle of fine red wine to share with you on the terrace after dinner, and moves his feet towards home. All the time he thinks of Helen of Troy, of Persephone, of Aphrodite.

You eat dinner together and talk. You discuss The Odyssey at length. Debate about what is worse, to feel homesickness to a place you cannot return, or doom for the future. You tell him of a new play you’ve gotten your hands on, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. You talk about the play in a way that has him enamored. He asks to borrow it from you and you lend it to him.

You share the wine and the pralines as the sky grows darker and the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks louder. You drink and eat and talk until your eyelids grow heavy and it’s time for bed and Timothée thinks to himself that even if you are not his to kiss good night he can still have this. He counts it as a blessing.

Your bedrooms are located right next to each other and as he lay in bed reading your copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the dim night lamp light he can’t help but feel close to you, knowing that just on the other side of the room you lay sleeping. Like in all your books the pages are full of underlined lines scribbles, the corners of the pages dog eared and the spine cracked.

He turns the page and sees that you have underlined a sentence. ‘I’m not living with you, we occupy the same cage’.

He continues reading until the sun starts to rise outside, then he goes back in the story and underlines a sentence of his own. ‘One thing I don’t have is the charm of the defeated’.

Notes:

The last part will up up sunday/monday

also, please, if you've managed to get through this beast of a story please leave some feedback. I've been working on this for a very long time and I'd love to hear your thoughts.

So this was like… a year in the making? Honestly never thought it would be this difficult but here we are. Also, I don’t hate Picasso as much as it seems I do. Also, is the quote “There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness” in the book? Or is it just in the Joe Wright movie? My ex kept my copy of Anna Karenina and I can’t remember

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina (I will defend the Joe Wright adaptation until death even though I know it’s no good, alright?), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothee chamalet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothée chalamet #timothee fanfic

109 notes · View notes

slythraco · 3 years

Text

Julian Albert - SFW ALPHABET

Author’s note: Took a break in my requests to write this ! Might do the NSFW version if you’d like it ! Let me know if you would like to see this with his other characters too 😉 have fun !

Masterlist

————————

A = Attraction (how do they show their attracted to you?)

Julian is not really the expressive type, always preferred to hide his feelings and emotions behind a wall of coldness and anger. So making you understand he likes you was quite a challenge for him. He started by complimenting you sometimes, which surprised you every time.

He would also help you with your work without you asking, then make it pass like a act of kindness because he’s in his ‘good day’ rather then assuming the real reason.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/why not?)

Yes ! Absolutely, Julian and you always talk about finding a family one day. Even if he’s scared of the idea of being a father, you’re always there to comfort him, knowing he would make an amazing father.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

Julian is a sucker for cuddles, he just love feeling your body against his. Every time you’re not far away from each other (and in private) he just feel the need to take you in his arms. So when you’re both at work, he take a break just to meet you at your desk who is literally 2 meters away and give you a good hug before going back.

When you’re home, he loves to sit in bed, his back against the headboard, you between his legs while you read a book together. This position gives him room to kiss your neck and collarbones, but he can also touch your thighs or higher if he doesn’t feel like reading.

D = Dates (What are dates like with them?)

It’s all or nothing, he can either prepare the best night ever, Diner with candles, Sky gazing after a good meal, date in a gastronomic restaurant or just share a glass of whine at his home while dance to random musics. But you like these both ways of doing it. A good moment with Julian is always good to take.

E = Emotions (Do they express their emotions? If so, how?)

It was a big problem in the beginning of your relationship, the fact that he didn’t really open up to you to show his feelings. He was still protecting himself from getting hurt. But once he did it one time, and finally realises that you would never in any circonstances, judge him or leave him for what he truly feels. He became the most expressive person he’s ever been, he tells you everything that’s on his mind and it makes him very happy to have found someone to talk to about what’s going trough his mind. And you’re probably the only person that gets to see him like that.

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love)

One day you got attacked by a meta-human, you got harmed a little bit but it was enough to make Julian scared and start freaking out. That’s when he realised how much he didn’t to lose you and how deeply in love he was.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

Gentle in his gesture, yes. Gentle in his words, no. Hear me out. Julian is the most attentive person, the last thing he wants is to hurt so when he’s hugging you or kissing you, it’s gentle and full of his love.

But sometimes, when he gets angry or is in a bad mood he can get rude in his words or get violent. Careful, he could never lay a hand on you, he would breaks things around him rather then get physical to you. But yeah, be prepared he can get really rude to you but he will always regret what he said and always excuse himself until you forgive him but he would certainly blame himself for the rest of his life.

H = Hands (Do they hold hands? If so, how?)

Yes, everywhere, Julian is not really into PDA but if there’s one thing to steal from it it’s this. When you’re walking outside, arriving at work, sitting next to each other, he always find a way to grab your hand and it’s honestly, adorable.

I = Impression (What was their first impression of you?)

Being his colleague, Joe had to warned him of your your coming in the office. It kinda bored Julian at first, knowing he’d have to share his lab with another person annoyed him but as soon as he saw you, all his bad thinking flew away.

He found you really nice, intelligent and way more punctual than Allen. And also really beautiful, you blew him away by your intelligence also. He really thought you were too good to be true.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

Yes, Julian is a really insecure person, he’s always scared of loosing you so when he sees you talking to another men he would almost always ask you about him afterwards.

If the person your talking to gets a little bit too touchy for his taste he would intervene and either call you by your affectionate nickname (my love, my heart, my darling,...) or he would kiss you to make it clear who you belong to.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who intiated the first kiss?)

His kisses are always gentle and full of love or passionate, he’s mostly the one to kiss you first just because he can’t contain himself when you’re around him. He could spend his whole life kissing your lips.

L = Love language (What are their love languages?)

Gifts, gifts, gifts. He loves to cover you with gifts. He likes to buy you little things that remind him of you. That’s his way of telling you he loves you.

M = Mornings (Are they a morning person? What are they like in the morning?)

It depends, on day work, since Julian is very focused on punctuality he can gets pretty stressful in the morning. Running everywhere to be ready in time, and make sure he tie is perfect.

But I’m off days, he’s the biggest lazy guy in town. Mostly because he loves just to lay in bed and cuddle with you rather then get up and start the day.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil you? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Like I said before, Julian loves to buy you things so yes he spoils you A LOT ! And when you want him to buy you something, he can’t resist, always wanting to put a smile on your face.

O = Open (Do they say everything about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or overtime?)

Like mention before, It took a while to Julian to finally open up to you but as soon as he feels safe enough, he tells you everything !

P = Patience (Do they have patience? Are they angered easily?)

Julian has zero patience, he gets mad when he doesn’t have what he wants right now. It amuse you sometimes so you tease him with it but it’s is at your own risk.

Q = Quaint (What’s their favorite non modern thing to do?)

Julian as a disc record player in his appartement, he loves to listen to old vinyl with you. You learns to dance a slow with him thanks to it.

R = Remember (What’s their favorite moment in the relationship?)

It’s hard to choose but probably the day you accepted to be his girlfriend, it was such a magical day. He prepared a wonderful date that night, he made a whole delicious meal for you to to share together in his appartement. You slowed dance in his living-room and then his kisses you for the first time before asking you to be his after admitting his feeling to you. You spent the rest of the night cuddling and kissing like teenagers, it really is an amazing memory.

S = Security (How protective are they?)

He globally trust you so he’s not really overly protective, unless you propose you help to the flash team. Even more since you got attacked by a meta not long ago, this is the only time he can get really protective.

Otherwise he’s just normally protective, telling you to be careful when you come back late from work, etc. But it’s always in a cute and loving way never toxic or anything, he just cares about your safety like any boyfriend would.

T = Talking (what do they like to talk about?)

Obviously, sciences and all of that, but he also loves to talk about you, he always want to know more about you, your past, your family. Every little knew information about you makes him really happy.

U = Ugly (Whats a bad habit of theirs?)

Criticising EVERYTHING and everyone. That’s one of us default he always finds someone to say about something (especially Barry Allen), he can be either funny because we all know how sassy Julian is but it can be annoying sometimes.

V = Vaunt (Do they like to show you off?)

Yes ! He’s always so happy to present you as his girlfriend. He’s so proud to have you by his side. The worst thing is when someone goes to him and say ‘No way, you’re really dating Y/N’ with that, you’re stuck with him for an eternity, he will be doomed to hear him boast of having a wife as brilliant as you.

W = Whole (Do they feel incomplete without you?)

Absolutely, Julian would be lost without you. You’re his everything, all he does is to make you happy so yes.

X = Xylophone (What’s a song that reminds of your guy’s relationship?)

Can’t help falling in love - Elvis Presley

You two danced to this song the night he kissed you for the first time.

Y = Yuck (What’s something they hate that you do?)

Teasing him, you love to make him crazy and angry because let’s face it, Julian angry is the sexiest thing ever.

Z = Zzz (Are they a heavy or a light sleeper ?)

Heavy sleeper for sure, when he finally leaves work and get to bed, you never hear about him again before he wakes up the next day.

#julian albert #julian albert imagines #julian albert is underrated #julian albert x reader #julian albert imagine #imagines request #imagines

84 notes · View notes

nblesbianbenhanscom · 3 years

Note

43+45 for kaspbroughzier or streddie

anon! hello! a million years later, and your fic is ready! are you even still here? i hope so ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

i had to go with the kasproughzier cause i love those goofs and also sonia is the perfect no, really you don’t want to meet my family.

the prompts were ‘trust me, you don’t want to meet my family’ + ‘you may technically be an adult, but you are still my child.’

***

read it on ao3

Little Dashes of Doom

“Eh-Eddie, your phone is r-ringing,” Bill says. It’s the tenth time in the last half hour.

“Just turn it off, Bill. I’m not going to answer it.” Eddie doesn’t look up from his computer.

“Buh-But it’s your ma.”

“I know, Bill. I already told her when I was coming home. She can chill.” He sounds tired, and Bill just wants to wrap him up in a blanket and make him relax between him and Richie. This semester had really kicked all of their asses.

Bill watches the phone as it stops ringing. It dings a moment later with a voicemail. Bill picks it up and turns it off. He kisses Eddie’s hair as he sits it on the table next to him.

“H-How’s the puh-aper coming?” Bill asks as he opens up the fridge. Bill himself had just finished his own last final just a few hours before.

“I hate fucking Shakespeare,” Eddie growls.

“Th-That good, eh?”

Eddie doesn't respond while Bill looks through the fridge. He finds a beer and heads to the couch where Richie is playing on their shared Switch. His legs are spread awkwardly, one up and over the back of the couch, the other hanging down by the floor. Bill sits in between his legs, pulling Richie’s leg into his lap.

“Hey, babycakes, you ok?” Richie asks without looking up.

“I’m ok.” Bill takes a sip of his beer. “You ok?”

“Yeah, fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Shit! I just fucking died!” He sighs and lets the Switch fall to his chest. “What are we doing for food?”

“We have l-leftover p-pizza,” Bill says.

Groaning, Richie sits up and tugs himself closer to Bill with his legs. He leans close and kisses Bill’s neck.

“I am so tired of pizza.” Richie scrapes his teeth against Bill’s chin. “Maybe I’ll just have you for dinner. How does that sound?” They giggle and Eddie huffs from the kitchen.

“Ugh, rude of you to start without me,” Eddie grouses, but there’s no real heat to his words.

Bill and Richie giggle again.

“S-Sorry, E-Eddie!”

“We were just discussing dinner.” Richie kisses Bill’s neck again.

Giggling, Bill pushes him away. “Shhh… St-Stop.”

Richie just pulls him closer and they giggle again.

“If I fail my final, it will be all your faults!” Eddie yells.

“Wh-What d-do you want for d-dinner?” Bill asks.

Eddie is silent for a minute. “Surprise me.”

Bill turns and kisses Richie. “We’re guh–nna go p-pick up dinner.”

“We are?” Richie asks. Bill nods. He holds his hand out and Richie takes it. They go to the door, tug on their coats and boots. It’s cold outside, but Bill just holds tightly to Richie’s hand.

“Where to, Big B?” Richie asks after they’ve climbed in the car.

Bill shrugs. “I don’t care.” He thinks for a minute. “Wh-Where do you—”

“I already told you what I wanted.” Richie winks.

Leaning back against the passenger seat headrest, Bill smiles at him. “Ok, b-but like a-actual food, Richie.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Richie says. They talk for a few more minutes and end up going to the local diner. They get pancakes, fries, salad, and pie. Sometimes Eddie has trouble eating when he’s stressed, and they want to make sure to get him something he’ll eat.

When they get back, Eddie’s computer and his books are in a neat stack. The bathroom door is closed and they can hear him screaming at someone.

“I am working on my finals, mommy!” Eddie screams. Richie and Bill hesitate in the doorway. They look at each other but creep in. It’s been a while since Eddie had gone off like this. When they’d first met him a few years back, he’d yelled a lot more. Richie liked to tease that he was a feral chihuahua until Eddie’d absolutely lost it and tried to beat Richie up. It hadn’t gone well; Richie was so much taller than him and he had just pulled him into a hug, apologies sliding off his tongue. He promised to never do it again. After that, there were less and less explosions until there were none.

“No! No! You listen! I’m doing my work. I’ll be home in three days. Three! You have my–” Eddie pauses. “Please, would you just–”

Richie puts the food on the table and Bill clears away Eddie’s school work.

“God damnit, mom! They are not my roommates, they are my boyfriends. We have been over and over–” Another pause. “Well maybe I won’t come home then!” There’s another pause followed by a loud banging sound and then Eddie begins to sob.

Bill and Richie look at each other as they sit there listening to Eddie cry and yell at himself. Bill can’t quite make out everything he’s saying, but he knows it’s not good. He hears things like pussy, and coward, and little bitch. Things that he’d been told his whole life. Things Bill had thought he’d worked through.

Bill had apparently been wrong.

“I’m gonna go get him,” Richie says, and gets up. Bill catches his hand, and shakes his head. They sigh.

“Wuh–ne m-more m-minute.” He swallows hard. Richie sits back down slowly. Bill hates this just as much as Richie, but he doesn’t want to push Eddie too hard.

Slowly, Eddie’s sobs lessen. Bill wants to get up and go to him, but still he hesitates. Richie leans into his space and rests his head on Bill’s shoulder.

“Can we go get him now?” Richie asks.

Bill licks his lips. He’s about to say yes when they hear the bathroom door open, and Eddie sees them as soon as he looks up.

“Oh,” he says softly. His eyes are red and puffy. He swallows hard several times. “I-I–” And then tears fill his eyes, and his face crumbles, and Richie and Bill go to him, pull him close and let him cling to them as he cries.

“It’s ok, Eddie, we’ve got you,” Richie murmurs into his hair. “We’ve got you.”

“L-Let it out, b-baby,” Bill whispers.

Eddie’s fingers dig into Bill’s shirt as he sobs. His whole body is shaking and Bill wishes he could find Sonia Kaspbrak and give her a piece of his mind, but he tries to push these thoughts away as he kisses Eddie’s hair.

They sit on the couch, and it takes a long time for Eddie to calm down. Even after he’s stopped crying, he still clings to them. He whines when Richie pulls away.

“I’ll be back, my love, just going to get you some water,” Richie says as Eddie grips his shirt hem.

“But I–” Eddie’s hoarse, and Bill can’t help but feel sorry for him.

“I-It w-will help,” Bill says. He reaches out and pulls Eddie’s hand free. “It will help.” Slowly, Eddie lets go and lets Bill lace their fingers together. He leans back into Bill and closes his eyes.

After Eddie drinks his water, he looks around at them with heavy sad eyes. He’s cradled between them, both of them pushing into his space.

“I’m–I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

“What for, love?” Richie asks. He strokes Eddie’s hair, kisses his temple.

“Because I–Because I’m such a freaking mess,” Eddie whispers.

“Yo-You’re n-not a m-mess.” Bill kisses Eddie behind his ear and Eddie’s eyelashes flutter a little.

“Your mom is a fucking cunt,” Richie says.

Bill frowns at him. Eddie usually freaks whenever someone says something bad about his mom.

“Yeah, she is,” Eddie says.

Bill and Richie make shocked noises. Bill squeezes him.

“I’m just so tired of her. She’s...” His voice waivers and takes a deep breath. “I have to use the bathroom.” Eddie gives them each a kiss before he gets up.

Once the door is closed, Richie looks at Bill, scowling.

“What the fuck is that bitch’s problem?” Richie growls.

“I d-don’t kn-know.” Bill sighs. He scoots closer to Richie. “I h-hate her so much. It’s been s-such a l-long t-time si-since–”

“Yeah, he’s been doing so good.” Richie huffs. “I just wish I could meet that bitch just one time so I could–”

“Trust me, you don’t want to meet my mom,” Eddie says. Richie and Bill jump, neither of them had heard the toilet flush. “C’mon. I’m hungry.”

Sharing glances, Richie and Bill get up and follow Eddie into the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table, pulling the food out of the bag and frowns at the fries.

“Aww, fuck, they’re cold.” Eddie’s lip trembles a little. “I’m sorry. I should have waited to call. I just finished my final and I–”

“N-No, b-baby. It’s ok. Th-The fries w–ill heat up,” Bill says.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “That’s why God invented microwaves, right?” He picks up the container and throws it in, pushing buttons quickly. “See? It’s fine.”

Sniffling, Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Nuked fries taste so gross.”

“I think we got some cheese and Ranch. That will help.” Richie goes to the fridge as Eddie looks at the rest of the food and looks up at Bill.

“You two are the best, do you know that?” Eddie asks. Richie kisses his hair as he wraps his arms around Eddie’s shoulders.

“N-No you,” Bill says.

Wrapping his fingers around Richie’s forearms, Eddie kisses his inner arm. “I love you both so much.”

“We love you, too.” Richie pulls away as the microwave beeps.

After they eat, they curl up on the couch to watch TV. They’re all crossed limbs and elbows in stomachs and pulled hair, but they don’t really care. Eddie just lets the others hold him close, pet his hair, kiss him.

“Are you doing better?” Richie asks after a bit. Eddie shrugs.

“Wh-What happened?” Bill asks.

Eddie shrugs again. “Just the usual. I finished my paper like right after you left, so I decided to call her before she called the police like she did that one time, and she said since I was done with my finals that I needed to come home right away. When I said I want to stay with you two, that my ticket is nonrefundable or exchangeable, she said she didn’t care about the cost, that she’d pay and…” He sighs. “She just wouldn’t listen. She kept saying, ‘You may be an adult, but you’re still my child.’” He huffs. “I’ve been financially independent from that old bag for over a year. She has no right to say shit like that to me any more.”

“N-No, she doesn’t,” Bill agrees.

“Honestly, she never should have talked to you that way, ever,” Richie says. Eddie leans a little closer to him. He plays with the strings on Bill’s hoodie.

“I know,” Eddie whispers.

Bill can hardly believe what he’s hearing. His heart fills with pride and he pulls Eddie’s legs into his lap and cups Eddie’s face in his hands before kissing him so, so gently. When they pull apart, Bill pushes his forehead into Eddie’s forehead.

“L-Love you,” Bill whispers. When he pulls back, Richie presses his own kiss into Eddie’s temple.

“You know, you don’t have to go,” Richie says. “You can come home with us.”

“O-Or we c-could go wi-with you,” Bill says.

Eddie shakes his head. “It will be ok.”

Sighing, Richie shakes his head, no. “You shouldn’t have to deal with her alone. Let us come with you.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Eddie murmurs.

“Y-You d–idn’t. We’re t-telling you. We’re coming wi–th you,” Bill says. Richie smiles at Bill.

“You really don’t–”

“Eds, you may as well give it up. We’re coming with you, and if your mom can’t deal, well, fuck her, and we’ll leave early.” Richie pauses. “In fact, plan on it. We’ll all have to change our tickets, call our families, but we’ll split up the break evenly. It will be fun.”

“We can’t afford that!” Eddie protests.

“Y-Yes we c-can! I just got p-paid for th–at piece I wrote a why-while back,” Bill says.

“No, Bill, you were going to use that for a new computer!” Eddie says.

“I’ll j-just st-steal yours.” Bill strokes his arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie murmurs, but there’s a small smile on my face. He sighs and leans into Richie. “You guys are the best, do you know that?”

“N-No, you.” Bill laces their fingers together.

“Yeah, spaghetti, you’re the best.” Richie kisses his hair.

Eddie closes his eyes, and settles back.

“We d-don’t have to m-make any d-decisions tonight,” Bill says. “W-We can t-talk t-tomorrow.”

“Ok,” Eddie says. He sighs again and sits up. “You guys wanna do something?”

“Like what?” Richie asks.

“Play Mario Kart?”

“Only if you don't cry when I kick your butt!" Richie says as he pulls himself free and gets up to set up the Switch. Eddie scoots around and leans into Bill's side.

"Yeah, we'll see who cries, Tozier!" Eddie teases.

Bill knows it is a toss-up between the two; they are both really good. It's Bill that's going to be the loser, but he doesn't really care. He's terrible at video games, but he loves being with his boyfriends.

He sits there listening to them argue about who is the worst player and waits to be handed a controller. He loves listening to them bicker like this, and he knows Eddie bickering is a good sign. Licking his lips, Bill leans into Eddie, eyes closed for a moment.

"You ok, Bill?" Eddie asks as Richie's attention falters. He's fighting with the cords and cursing under his breath.

"Yeah, I'm good." Bill takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Love you so much."

Eddie squeezes his hand. "Love you."

"Got it!" Richie says triumphantly. He tosses a couple of controllers at them and sits near the TV. "You two losers ready?"

"Shut up, buttmunch," Eddie says. "Get ready to eat my dust!"

"Bring it!" Richie says.

Bill struggles with his controller and gets settled. He knows the next couple of weeks are going to be hard. Eddie had agreed tonight that they would change their winter break plans, but that doesn't mean that it isn't going to be a struggle. He knows Eddie wants to break free, but Bill knows it isn’t easy; Sonia has a firm grip on her son.

Bill is not looking forward to the back and forth that is inevitably coming, but he decides there is no point in worrying about that now. Right now, Eddie is happy, Eddie is safe, and the three of them are going to have a good night. Tomorrow is future Bill’s problem, and tonight all he has to worry about is not driving the wrong way on the track. He knows everything will be ok.

#kaspbroughzier #bill denbrough #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #it #it chapter 2 #i love these losers so much #i'm sorry it took so long #life got hectic #then i took a writing break #i hope you like it.#Anonymous

29 notes · View notes

hains-mae · 4 years

Text

Flowers - Pt. 3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 (end)

(Damian x Reader) Soulmate AU

Rating: T

Ages: Damian and you are 16, everyone’s ages follow after.

Summary: Soulmate AU where the wounds on your soulmate turns into a flower tattoo on your skin, if it heals with no scars the tattoo goes away, if it heals with a scar then the tattoo stays.

It just got worse.

Disclaimer: I do not own DC. If I did, I wouldn’t make it as confusing as it is now.

The convention hall was huge. The lights shone brightly at the many innovative inventions made by the young minds of Gotham City. the entire city was invited to participate after all. As Wayne Enterprise made the whole event international, we had guests from all over the globe looking for potential students to take under their wing. Rumour has it that everyone on the guest list was hand picked by the man, Bruce Wayne, himself.

I looked around in a daze as I clutched the metal briefcase that held my project.

Running in an hour or two of sleep and caffein, I made my way through the growing crowd. Finally I was able to locate my designated table, a small booth in the chemistry section. I made quick work on unpacking the projector and placed it square on a folding table. It would play the presentation of what my project was about and all the necessary details to explain the chemical compounds and a quick scanned blueprint.

“I feel so nervous.” I mumbled to no one in particular.

Then placing a black cloth on the table as my workspace, I made sure to put the specifically designed gun carefully on a stand that I had quickly melded together. The projectiles rested in the container. Only two remained. I stared at it for a while as the scene of that fateful night replayed in my head.

I had found my soulmate.

Which was good.

He was Robin.

Which was bad.

There was a chance he could be Damian Wayne.

Which was worse.

This relationship was doomed from the start. My soulmate was a freaking vigilante! He was running around at night, putting his life in danger. Death was a constant in my mind after that. Knowing that one day I might loose him. It was a weird thing, this soulmate bond that we shared. Somehow meeting him solidified his existence in my life. Now every time I received another flower on my skin I would know what might’ve caused it. Worry started to form in my gut as I thought about the bullet wound in his shoulder.

I shook my head to get any more lingering thoughts out as I willed myself to focus on the task at hand. I needed to get my head in the game.

Pulling the beakers and flasks out as carefully as I could, I placed them each on the other side of the table. I filled them with their chemicals and started the burner. I had wanted to show them the process as a prototype. I doubted anybody here wanted to be encased in rock.

I was so deep in thought as I mindlessly tinkered around to keep my hands busy that I didn’t even realise a figure standing before me until he cleared his throat.

Looking up from my notes my eyes grew wide.

Mr. Bruce Wayne, owner and CEO of the Wayne Enterprises was standing at my table. He had a charming smile plastered on his face.

“My, what an interesting piece we have here. Don’t you agree Damian?” His voice was calm and even.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

“I do, father.” He agreed. His eyes caught mine, and all I could do was stare into his green orbs.

“Oh forgive me.” Mr. Wayne chuckled and held out his hand. “Bruce Wayne.”

I returned the gesture and shook his hand telling him my own name.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He said. “And this is my son, Damian.”

“We met.” He said simply, but still took my hand and shook it.

“I’m really interested in your work.” Mr. Wayne continued. “I’d like to come back after I make the opening speech.”

“Of course.” I plastered on the best smile I could muster.

It wasn’t too long after that when Mr. Wayne came back, but this time he had an entourage. To his right he had his sons, all 4 of them. They were exactly as the magazines showed and described them to be. Each one was dashing. I didn’t know much about them, but hearing their names tossed around every day in school made me involuntarily learn anyway.

Richard, the eldest had a polite smile and kind blue eyes. They were warm in a comforting way and his manners were that of a well bred socialite. He waved at some of the students and nodded at a few of the adults he passed.

The one beside him was Jason, his cold glare could strike fear into anyone’s hearts. Especially when he is backed up with high status and money. No one dared mess with him. But even I had to admit there was a certain charm to his features, he had a bad boy kind of vibe.

Tim was next, walking just a few steps ahead of his older brothers. His nose was buried in an iPad and his fingers were flying through the screen at top speed. He was just a few years older than me, and I’ve actually seen him around the campus before, but I never met him.

Lastly, Damian. He stole a glance at me as they walked towards my table and turned to Tim, mumbling something before looking ahead.

To Mr. Wayne’s left were two well renowned chemists that I personally follow. Their works and research papers were incredible, it was actually the basis of my own invention. Instantly the butterflies in my stomach fluttered around.

After introductions were made, I presented my work and did a sample test before leading their attention to the finished product which were the glowing orbs.

“And what inspired you to create such an invention?” Mr. Wayne inquired.

“I just wanted to help.” I said truthfully. “We’re aware of the crimes around our city, and I thought it would make the job of catching the criminals easier.”

“And it will.” He smiled. “I’d like to offer you an internship in my company. And if you wouldn’t mind, a mentorship with my two top scientists there.”

“It would be an honour!”

This had to be the greatest moment of my life. For the first time that day I felt my mood get better.

The rest of the days passed on in a blur. My invention was one of the top picked topics in the scene, much to my pleasure, and the interview for the internships and mentorships went well. I honestly couldn’t ask for more.

Mr. Wayne’s secretary handed me, and a couple of other students he scouted, a form to fill out and sign. Our parents/legal guardians were immediately informed and the school assured them before any action is taken they will be holding another meeting. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Many of us were able to grab great opportunities, both in and out of the cities.

I looked around and saw all the doors opening up for the next generation in Gotham. Happy smiles and excited chatter filled the room. Promises of a greater future were announced. I realised, this was probably history in the making. This would be where everything turns around for the better. I might sound overly sentimental, and perhaps a tad bit exaggerated, but I was feeling hopeful.

The interviews were over, and after the last of them had been held, the announcement came to remind us of the upcoming gala. We had an entire day to prepare – “Therefore, use it wisely.” Our professor advised.

Many of the girls had rushed out in groups (with a teacher chaperone) as they headed towards the fancy boutiques and malls. I on the other hand decided to be practical. My roommate and a couple of friends that I had made during my stay, required it be essential that I tag along with them. I was peer pressured (and I say that lightly), but it felt good to explore the city without the danger.

“Oh my god I just saw the Wayne brothers!” Someone squealed at the store front that we were in.

“What? No way! Where?” Another piqued.

We heard the teacher sigh and ask us not to make a scene since we were in public. I felt myself tense at the thought of him and his green eyes.

“They’re heading this way!”

I dove behind one of the clothing hangers and hid as best as I could. Good lord, is this some kind of drama series? My new friends sputtered out a greeting as I imagined them walking by, and all I could do was concentrate on not self-combusting.

“Y/n?”

My eyes darted up from the spot on the floor that I was staring at. I didn’t want to come out, but the longer I stayed behind the wall of clothes, the more embarrassed I became. With a defeated sigh, I walked out.

“H-hey.” I waved lamely.

“What were you doing behind the clothes rack?” Damian cocked a brow at me.

“I was looking at it, kinda the reason I came here.” I said, not really meaning to sound defensive but it came out that way anyway, and I already wanted to take it back.

“You’re that girl with the blue marbles.” The eldest said smiling broadly. “Y/n L/n, right?”

I nodded meekly.

Dick smirked and went back to his smoothie.

“The one Damian wouldn’t shut up about?” Jason teased wickedly. I felt my blood rise up to my face.

Damian kicked him behind his knees which only made the man laugh.

“You know better than to tease.” Tim rolled his eyes at his brothers antics. “You’re embarrassing him in front of his crush.”

I just wished the floor would swallow me whole right now.

Tim immediately hid behind Dick and the laughter was nearly uncontrollable from his brothers. Damian was currently fuming, and tomato red in the face.

“I’m going to kill you Drake.” He said through clenched teeth.

Dick groaned. “Cant you guys behave?” He strolled over to me and tapped my shoulder lightly. “You’re embarrassing y/n.”

“Sorry, it was just meant for lil-D over here.” Jason apologised.

“Alright boys, that’s enough.” The teacher called out. “We’ve got a schedule to follow. I’ll have to cut this meeting short.” She was right, and I was so thankful at the moment that we did.

Dick apologised again, and pushed his brothers to move along. As soon as they were out of earshot the girls bombarded me with questions, demanding they know the details. There wasn’t anything to tell, since I’ve only known them as long as the length of this trip, but they didn’t let the subject go. I thanked my lucky stars that the rumours I heard about the boys and their fanatic fangirls did not exist in the group I was in. They had gushed about how lucky I was to catch their eye – I really wish they didn’t – and how amazing it must be for them to hold an interest in me – I honestly could care less. But girls being girls, I had to let them be.

The evening of the gala arrived faster than I anticipated, and true to their promise, the girls had all squeezed themselves into my room.

“You guys really don’t have to do this.” I said, slightly exasperated.

“Nonsense.” They quipped back. “We’re all going to look fabulous and make a great impression.”

They rolled out their brush pouches and stacked their make up on the vanity table. I eyed it all wearily.

Sometimes I had to hand it them, females can be terrifying when they need to be.

“Do you think this will be it?” One of them asked out of the blue. “Is this what is going to turn this city around.”

“I hope so. Thing’s are getting worse around Gotham, if this works, we can secure a safer future.”

“Look at us sounding diplomatic.” We laughed at that.

“I think it’ll work out.” I told them with an air of confidence. I saw the looks everyone had at the gatherings. It wasn’t just hope. There was a sense of motivation. An active decision in every one of them that wanted to strive for more. It was encouraging and empowering.

We all shared a unanimous agreement and continued on preparing.

I wasn’t joking when I said I would be practical. I pulled out one of my mothers old gowns from a battered box that was hidden deep under my suitcase. It was off white, with a few hints of lavender and creamy grey. The dress was long-sleeved, made with loose and flowy material. The collar tapered upwards and into a modest keyhole neckline. On my waist rested a silver strap embezzled with crystals. It’s length reached the floor and the slightest movement swayed in the wind. It made me look like I was floating.

As we made our way to the entrance of the gala, men in black suit tailcoats took our coats and opened the grand doors. I was in shock at the beauty of the room.

The entire ceiling look painted on by Michelangelo, in between hung massive sparkling chandeliers. The windows were from ceiling to floor and draped in expensive red velvet curtains. I gazed in awe at the marbled floor that were polished so well we could see our reflection from it.

Light music hummed tastefully in the air as my friends were whisked off by the boys for a dance.

“Y/n!” A savvy voice called out from across the crowd. Turning around I found the Wayne brothers around a table. I managed a wave.

They waved back and invited me over. How could I refuse? Steeling my nerves, I walked towards them.

“Good evening.” I said politely.

“You look stunning.” Dick complimented. Beside him was a woman with incredibly dazzling red hair, it almost looked like it was on fire. Her bright smile reached up to her green eyes. “This is Kory. Kory Anders. Kory, Y/n.”

She stood up tall and shook my outstretched hand.

“Pleasure.” I said as I introduced myself.

“It is glorious to finally meet you.” She said. “I have heard many things.”

I noted her slight accent and choice of words. She must’ve come from another country.

“All good I hope.” I chuckled nervously.

Her smile only widened. “You need not worry.”

“Would you like to sit with us?” Tim offered.

I looked across the dance hall and saw that my friends were already at their own table. I accepted it and sat down at the last seat which was available, and as fate would have it, it was next to Damian.

When I moved to take my place, his perfume infiltrated my senses, leaving me slightly light headed. I pushed my qualms away not wanting to look rude.

“Hello again.” I spoke to him.

Damian nodded, his expression unreadable.

We made small talk, and discussed about the what I should be expecting when I started working at their fathers’ company. They gave me the basic ropes and tried to ease the pressure away.

Then the topic moved to my invention. I told them how I actually got the idea from my dad, they found it honourable in a way. I felt a sense of pride blossom.

Jokes went around as the food was being served. I quickly learnt Dick had the worst case of pun-overdrive, yet it still had me giggling because of how bad it was. Jason was not any better at his come backs to his brothers play on words. They made quiet the duo. Kory laughed heartily between them. Tim and Damian were taking turns lightly jabbing one another, it was almost endearing. As I looked at them from where I sat I couldn’t help but miss the simpler times my family and I shared.

The melody from the band took a slow turn and I saw Dick stand up.

“May I have this dance?” He offered his hand to Kory and exaggerated a bow.

“I would be delighted.” She giggled and let herself be swept onto the dance floor.

I watched as they danced to a slow waltz. Her hands were on his neck as his was kept firmly on the small of her back. They looked lovely together.

“That’s my cue.” Jason spoke up, his eyes gazing the crowd for what I assume was a possible dance partner.

Tim followed shortly behind, but not without leaving us with a wink and tap on his nose.

Damian cleared his throat, breaking my reverie.

He stood and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

I blinked at him, surprised that he actually asked. I gingerly put my hand on his and nodded.

He expertly sashayed us to the middle and twirled me around before moving us to the rhythm of the music.

“You’re good.” I should’ve known he was a skilled dancer.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He replied.

His scent was overwhelming, especially being this close to him. I reminded myself that his boy could very well be Robin.

Robin, the vigilante. I sighed inwardly. How could I have forgotten? But if he was then… My hand that was on his shoulder tightened ever so slightly as I remembered the gun shot.

“Is everything okay?” Damian asked, squeezing my hand.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” I lied. The urge to just ask him never felt so powerful until this moment.

It’s not your place to know. I scolded myself for being presumptuous. This could all have been a big misunderstanding on my part, and I could very well upset him if I asked, not to mention embarrass myself. It wasn’t that I wanted to pry, but the bond I shared with my soulmate only seemed to strengthen these past few days. It drew us closer but I couldn’t begin to explain how. You hugged him, you hugged a stranger – that is a mystery in itself, my inner muse stated.

But then the question of the day was; if he was aware of who I was. There was no way he could possibly tell, there was no proof except for the time I cried out in pain when he got shot. Then again, anyone would’ve screamed if they witnessed that.

I settled with the verdict that he most likely doesn’t know.

“I’d like to apologise about yesterday.” Damian said, sounding solemn. “My brothers have been a thorn to my side ever since I could remember.”

I laughed. “It was embarrassing, but I forgive you, and your brothers.” He visibly relaxed. “It felt like I was reliving some old memories.”

“Do you have siblings as well?”

I shook my head. “No, but it would be nice to. Unfortunately right now it’s just me and my mom. It gets a little lonely but we manage.”

Damian let out a quiet ‘oh’ before lapsing into silence again. I didn’t want to kill the mood so I quickly thought of what to say to keep the conversation going.

“So what about you?” I asked. “I mean, anything you’re comfortable sharing of course.”

The boy sighed and looked up to think before answering.

“I like to paint.” He said. My eyes grew wide at that.

“For real?”

He arched a brow in confusion. “Yes. Is something wrong with that?”

I quickly shook my head again. “No, no of course not. I just, well, it’s surprising. That’s all.”

“Tt, not something you expected?” He teased lightly which only made me surprised all the more.

Was he trying to – flirt?

I laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

Damian looked a little proud of himself.

“What do you like to paint?” I asked curiously.

“Mostly portraits.” He answered easily. “And my pets.”

I gave a fake gasp. “The Damian Wayne, painting his pets. I would never have guessed.”

He smirked.

“So, is it a dog?” I asked.

“Yes, there’s a dog.”

“There’s? Meaning there are more?”

He smirked again this time wider.

“A cat.” I guessed.

He nodded. “Yes there’s a cat too. Though I doubt you’d be able to guess the rest of them.”

Laughing again, I shook my head in disbelief. “You are one intriguing person, Damian Wayne.”

“I could say the same about you.” He told me squarely.

The heat on my cheeks creept up. I looked away a little embarrassed.

He opened his mouth to say something to me, but was cut off.

I heard screams.

Damian quickly pushed me to the ground and shielded me as the glass windows shattered. The shards fell ferociously all around us.

“Fuck.” He gritted his teeth and looked down at me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. “What was that?” I clutched my head, my ears were ringing from the sound of the blast that shattered the windows. I looked around panicked and scared.

“Don’t know.” He told me gruffly as he pulled us both back up.

Grappling hooks shot up from the broken windows and before I knew it I saw the pointed end of a sword aimed towards Damian’s.

“Damian!”

In that moment I cast aside all the doubts. I still wasn’t sure but if by a long shot; this was Robin, if Damian was Robin, then he could do something about this.

He knew how to fight. Unlike me. If I could give him a head start or a fighting chance, then he and the other superheroes could save everyone.

That’s what I told myself anyway as time stilled and I took the leap.

The blade sliced into my lower back and for a split second all I could feel was searing hot white pain. I cried out as it rippled through my torso. The sword was pulled out just as quick as it was pushed in. I could swear the world was tipping over. The blood had gushed out and I found it staining Damian’s pristine suit.

I could barely hear Damian’s scream as I phased in and out of consciousness. Somehow he had blocked another hit that was aimed at us before kicking the man as far away as possible. He pulled me towards him and muttered something incoherent before dashing across the hall.

The warmth of my own blood pooled over me. Mom would kill me when she saw the stain, if I wouldn’t bleed to death before she finds out that is.

“Shitshitshit, y/n!” He ducked behind a table and grabbed a bunch of napkins, applying pressure as he held it against my stomach. “Stay with me, you’re going to be alright.”

I weakly nodded, feeling sick to my stomach at the smell of iron and sudden blood loss.

“Fuck.” Jason slid next to us as the gunshots started to fire. He noticed me and his features paled. “Oh, shit.”

“Jason, I need to bring her somewhere safe!” Damian said, his voice urgent.

“All citizen, please evacuate the building!” A strong voice bellowed from above us. It was a woman, dressed in purple. Her hair was on fire (literally) as it trailed behind her.

Starfire. But what was she doing in Metropolis…?

The people ran towards the entrance and a man in a tight body suit with a blue winged symbol on his chest directed the crowd flow.

Superboy zoomed in next, his features etched in worry as soon as he saw me. The wound must’ve been worse that I thought.

“What the hell is going on?!” Damian demanded from the superhero. “I thought this place was secured.”

“Kryptonite.” Superbly answered with an ominous tone. “I don’t know what happened but we should get the civilians – uh, you guys, to safety.”

The amendment wasn’t lost on me.

“Y/n, I’m going to find you after all this is over.” Damian promised. “Until then please, hang in there.”

I managed a weak smile and a sad excuse of a chuckle as the blood started to run down the corner of my mouth.

“I still need to guess the rest of your pets.” I joked, hoping to lighten the scene.

His response was a pained smile.

“Take her to Alfred.” He delicately passed me on to Superboy’s arms. “He’ll know what to do.”

Superboy nodded and flew away. The last thing I remembered was Nightwing and Starfire fighting off mechanical robots and ninja assassins. After that, my world went dark.

...

... to be continued ...

359 notes · View notes

animensfw-smut · 4 years

Text

Hunter! Deku x Wolf! Reader

Gif doesn’t belong to me :)

WARNINGS: NSFW, 18+

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*(y/n) 's pov*

I was born into a family of rare wolves. Many people wanted to capture us for entertainment, because we were rare. We were half human and half wolf.

Right now I am running from a green-haired boy who had freckles all over his cheeks. I reached the end of a cliff, slipping off it. I closed my eyes waiting for the drop of doom.

'Huh...?' Slowly, I peaked one eye open and red crept up my face.

Looking closely, his face was cute, and his eyes looked kind.

"You okay?" He asked with a smile. Once I was out of my daze, I had realised that he had saved me by pulling me to his chest, his hand resting firmly against my bum because of the way he grabbed me. Alert, I hopped out of his arms and got into a battle stance. A blush was also evident on his cheeks,

"A-Ah...! I-I'm sorry...! I d-didn't mean t-to..." He looked really flustered which was... Kinda... Adorable...

I sucked in a breath, my mind going hazy. I had the instinct to pounce on him, and so I did. He was shocked and fell to the floor with me on top of him.

"H-Hey..." He groaned as he hit the floor. His blush became a darker red when I nuzzled my cheek against his.

"You're soooooo cute~" I whined, hugging him closer to me. Hesitantly, his arms wrapped around my waist, pressing me against him. Something hard poked my thigh and he let out a moan as I accidentally brushed my leg over it.

My eyes widened, and I looked down to see a tent had formed in his pants. I sat up straight which didn't help, and instead made things worse. I was sat right on his bulge.

"Ahn..." His hands gripped my waist.

"A-Aren't you scared th-that I might capture you...?" He asked with a red face. I tilted my head in contemplation before shaking my head,

"Looking at you up close, you don't seem that mean." He gave a bright smile,

"I'm Izuku. It was part of my job to find rare animals, so I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel unsafe. I just needed to record everything in my book."

"Ohhh, I'm (y/n). So what did you want to know?" He gulped before looking away,

"Can you mate... With a human?" A bright blush dusted my cheeks as I asked,

"Do you want to find out for yourself?"

He thrusted up, pushing my hips down at the same time. My hands rested on his chest as I closed my eyes. The thin pieces of fabric separated us, but he continued to rut his hips up into my core. I let out a moan, and Izuku grinned,

"Mind taking off your clothes for me?"

I got off him, taking off my clothes as he took off his. He lay me stomach down on the ground, lifting my hips up,

"(y/n), you comfortable?~"

"Mm." I nodded, and he slammed into me. His thrusts started slow, gradually picking up the speed. Izuku's thick cock rubbed against the right spots inside me,

"Nnngg~ Izuku~" I moaned out loud. One of his hands wrapped around my (f/c) bushy tail and lightly pulled,

"Ahh...!" My nails dug into the ground as I grit my teeth and my hips pushed back against his. Izuku's arms wrapped around my midsection, pulling me even closer to him, his muscular chest against my back,

"Your reactions are so cute (y/n) ~" My knees buckled when he pulled out so that only the tip was in, and pushed back in with one smooth and hard thrust.

"Izuku...!" If it was even possible, after I moaned out his name, his cock twitched and grew harder. He bit my shoulder, his muscles in his arms flexing as he tightened his hold around me. Izuku pounded into me, pushing me further into the ground. I whimpered,

"I-Izuku, I'm g-gonna c-cum~" He grunted in response. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, drool escaping my mouth as I came around his dick. Izuku continued to slam back into me, creating lewd squelching noises. Another knot bubbled up in my stomach, and a sob sounded from my lips.

"C-Cumming..." Spoke Izuku and he came inside me as soon as I climaxed for the second time. I collapsed on the ground, and he turned me over, cuddling against me.

"Do you... Want to live with me?" Asked Izuku as he looked at me. I gave a smile and nodded.

#izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #deku x reader #deku #bnha #mha #anime smut #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

139 notes · View notes

camelove · 3 years

Text

Quest for Camelove

Paring: Reader x Regret

Rating: T

Warnings: blood, violence, fainting, strong language, implied drinking

Summary: A regular trip to the Tavern sends you off searching for the vision of a soulmate... not your own, but of a random drunkard you’d been forced to sit beside for lack of any free seating.

A/N: This post was made to serve as inspiration for the Camelove 2021 event which will take place from 8th till 14th of February. For more examples, follow the #Camelove2021 example posts tag! We look forward to seeing what you create for the event!

A writer, an artist and a giffer walk into a bar.

You’re one of them.

You’re good at what you do - if you do say so yourself - but recently, inspiration has been running dry. So, as one does when hit by a dry spell, you’re stopping by the Tavern in hopes of drowning your frustrations.

As you make your way inside, you look around at the sorry bunch of sloshed sods, wrinkling your nose at the claggy smell of sweat and cringing away from a man who collapses against the table in front of you, having just been socked in the nose by one of the other customers.

You sigh long-sufferingly. To your despair, there’s at least one person crammed into every nook in the damn place. If you want to sit anywhere, you’ll be getting up-close and personal with one of your fellow patrons.

You weigh up your options - briefly considering just turning around and heading home - but eventually your thirst wins out, and you resolve to suck it up and squeeze yourself into whatever spot seems the least unappealing. You set about ordering a drink and, once armed with two pints of apple juice, you turn to deciding whose company you’re going to subject yourself to. In the end, you pick...

A - The stooped elder currently engrossed in a book of lizard anatomy

B - The bloody-nosed man at your feet who’s slowly returning to consciousness

C - The bloody-knuckled person responsible for the man at your feet who’s slowly returning to consciousness

D - The Barkeep who’s wringing out a cloth, looking like they wish it were the neck of their current customer

E - The customer who’s pissing off the Barkeep with inane complaints

F - The person nursing their wrist after getting thoroughly trounced in an arm-wrestle

G - The person at the dart-board who’s started directing their shots towards the bard in the corner

H - The bard in the corner currently using their lute as a shield while simultaneously warbling about pixies with long, agile tongues

I - The person crying alone in the corner opposite to the bard

J - The person in the other corner currently shoving their tongue-- actually, scratch that, they look busy--

K - The cloaked figure at the final corner table who you see surreptitiously swapping a coin for a vial of… something

L - None. You turn on your heel and stalk out, planning to join the horses, only to find that someone has decided to hit the hay right there amongst the muck. They startle and wake as you approach.

...who, you later find out is:

A - Old Man Simmons

B - Julius Borden

C - Balinor

D - Mary the Barmaid

E - Dragoon

F - Valiant

G - Elena

H- Gilli

I - Edwin Muirden

J - Tristan and Isolde

K - Will

L - Tyr

You flop down and pray that for the love of Camelot, your unwanted companion does not decide to get chatty.

“Hey.”

You groan and let your head thump against the surface before you.

“Hey,” they persist, leaning closer. You roll your head to the side in order to send them a scathing glare. They tut sympathetically. “Bad day? I feel you, mate.”

You wonder to yourself what you’d done to deserve this.

Your parasite companion keeps talking.

“Everything’s just a bit much, lately,” they sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m not going crazy, you know?” ‘Oh, really?’ you want to snark back, but you keep your lips zipped in hopes that they’ll take a hint.

They don’t.

“I mean, it’s not every day a dragon says you have a soulmate.” They whistle lowly. “I mean - a soulmate. Can you imagine?”

You can’t, actually. Mostly because you wonder who could stand the company of such a blabbering prat. If the dragon had told them they knew where they’d meet their doom, you’d have gladly taken up the role yourself.

“Well,” they continue, oblivious to your plotting of their demise. “He didn’t say soulmate, exactly. He said “Destiny”, though I figure that’s basically the same thing. Still - I could meet the person meant to complete me - the apple of my eye, the other side of my coin, the courage to my strength…”

You roll your eyes and hit them with a deadpan expression.

“Bully for you.” Their eyes widen.

“Oh, I hope not,” they say, sounding worried, “I wouldn’t want my soulmate to be an ass.”

‘Why the hell not?’ you brood, ‘you’d be a matching set.’

They sigh from beside you, a melancholy look overtaking their features.

“Wish I could go after them myself, but I’ve just… y’know. Got too much stuff on my plate to go tracking down some hidden stranger.”

‘But you have ample time to talk one’s ear off? Glad to see you have your priorities in order.’

They’re twiddling their thumbs nervously. Their eyes keep flicking towards your face and away again. You purse your lips tighter. “Though... I know it’s not like I’m the only one who has a job to do. I’ll happily compensate, mind.”

You take a sip of your juice. You look over at them. You sigh.

“Why are you telling me this?”

They perk up immediately at the sight of your attention.

“I know you,” they blurt. You edge away slightly. “Not in - not in a creepy way. I just follow you.” You edge away another few inches. “I mean- wait. The stuff you post out, I scroll past it, sometimes. I always like it.”

“You mean ‘stroll’.”

“I said that, yeah.”

Despite yourself, you’re flattered. You put a lot of effort and pride into your work, and it’s always pleasant to hear that someone appreciates it. You grunt out a thanks.

“I just mean-” they’re fidgeting again, and you wonder what has them so worked up. Clearly, they’re sitting on a question, and it’s just when they’re beginning to get a constipated colour to their cheeks that you sigh, heavily.

“Just ask.”

“How much d’you want? To - uh - find my soulmate?”

A shocked silence, before-

“What?”

“How much d’you want? A hundred? Two hundred? Mind you, I’m talking copper, I haven’t got a lot on me right now-”

“Why-” you interrupt, wild with disbelief, “in Albion’s name would I want to go and find your Soulmate?”

“Er…” They scratch at their head. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“What the dragon said.”

“What did the dragon say?”

“It said that- well…” They shuffle awkwardly. “He said that I just had to wait and… help would come to me. And I waited. And you came to me.”

You stare. They wince. “He, uh... he said it was Destiny?”

You continue to stare.

“Why me?”

“Well... I’m not... entirely sure.” They cough into their fist, avoiding your eyes. Then they perk up. “But you’ve done a lot of work for couples in the past, right? Put ‘em together in those lovely pieces of yours.”

You grit your teeth, grinding them together.

“I create fanworks of them,” you hiss, “I don’t- play their bloody matchmaker, and I certainly don’t go gallivanting across the five kingdoms to do so, either.”

“You wouldn’t have to go through all five kingdoms,” they have the audacity to say, as though that’ll soothe your ire, “only, like, two. Camelot and Mercia.” They deflate slightly at your unimpressed glare. “C’mon,” they whine, “You’re so skilled. I’m sure you could pull something off.”

You continue to glare. You pin them with it until they squirm and flush, looking down. With a sigh, you turn away and stare into your juice. You drink. Slam the pint glass down, sharp.

“I’ll go collect your damn damsel.”

Their eyes light up.

“You will?” they gush. “Cailleach below, if I didn’t have a Soulmate, I’d ask you to marry me.”

You grimace.

“Please don’t.”

They babble out a recount of the cryptic information the dragon had given them. You nod here and there, mostly letting their words fly over your head, only taking a mental note of the stuff that might be of use. You’ll face many difficult decisions. Light will come to your aid. Take a note of any numbers you choose along the way. At the end of it, you’ll find a vision of the one you’re searching for.

It’s more for yourself than them that you’re doing this, you say to yourself. Who knows; this trip might be the spark you need to fire up your creativity. Besides, you’ve been cooped up inside long enough. It’s high time you got out a bit.

That’s how, half an hour and a few more pints of apple-flavoured drinks later, you’re picking thorns from your person after having fallen into a bush in the middle of the woods, and you find yourself faced with a fork in the path. One prong takes you through the forest. The other, through caves.

As you mull over which path you should take, you wonder what kind of person this elusive Soulmate will be.

Will this pairing be sweet? Or will it be a bit more… unsavory?

Once you've gone through and collected the numbers, click here

#camelove2021 #camelove2021 example posts #Day 7: Free day #Quest for Camelove

24 notes · View notes

hjbender · 4 years

Photo

The Lighthouse and the Siren AU

One guides men to safety. The other lures them to their doom.

New England, 1821. Whaler Thor Borson returns home after a two-year voyage to discover that his wife has died of tuberculosis and his young son is being looked after by his estranged father. Odin Borson, a sailor himself who is now an eccentric and ailing lighthouse keeper, lives on an island and has not spoken with his son in years.

Drowning in grief and cast adrift in life, Thor moves in with his father and begins training as the next keeper of the light. The old man speaks of sirens and legends as if they were real, warning his son and grandson to stay away from the water. Thor thinks his father has gone strange from so many years of being alone.

It isn’t until Thor starts seeing a face in the waves and hearing eerie singing at night that he begins to suspect his father might not be as mad as he thought. He soon becomes obsessed with this beautiful, dangerous creature, and slowly his grip on reality begins to loosen as the powerful currents of loneliness and lust threaten to drag him out to sea.

325 notes · View notes

seoulnotes · 4 years

Text

Luce in altis | x. The Lies of the Guilty

S Y N O P S I S | Passed down from centuries worth of history, the remnants of a hatred between two kings reside in a small village that serves as a border between their two feuding kingdoms. y/n lives in that village and must seek aid from one of the kings. Her trust is tested when she learns of the king that is truly wicked.

C H A R A C T E R S | Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin, reader (y/n) ; (mentions of other members)

G E N R E | fantasy, romance, drama — royalty au ; PG-15

W A R N I N G S (chapter specific) | none

W O R D C O U N T | 3.4k

All parts here

⇠ prev. (ix) | next (xi) ⇢

I told myself it was just a coincidence, reminding myself as I took steps in circles in my room.

Just a coincidence. I don’t even know who the hell he is.

When I finally managed to relieve the unsettling thoughts of the familiar face, I was hit with a new dilemma—one that left my thoughts whirring with no end.

I paused my steps in pacing and dropped onto my bed, hand on my forehead.

He had kissed me.

Jimin kissed me and I kissed back.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

I came to Hemera to get help, to further move my plans to help my village. I feel like I took further steps back at this point, similar to when Taehyung kept me in Erebus with no intentions to help me.

Whatever emotions coursed through my veins melted away because then I felt myself fall into a trance of remembering his soft lips on mine, how safe I felt in his arms.

Was it right for me to take part in this? I trusted him, right?

Unconsciously, my hand reached up to graze my lips. He kissed me there.

I snatched my hand away at the thoughts creeping into my mind and threw myself back into the bed.

I let my worst quality consume me: pushing things off until I needed to confront them.

I’ll face him in the morning.

His eyes were hesitant when they met my gaze at breakfast. I knew his mouth was ready to form words, questions about last night, but he was biting them back.

He wanted to talk about it, but he had no way of starting this. I felt his eyes glancing from his food before him, to me, then back to his food many times.

He was ready to discuss last night because the only ones present at breakfast were him and I. I was sure it was his request.

The dreaded clanking of utensils against plates and bowls continued for what felt like an entire century. I couldn’t stand it anymore, the clanking grew louder by the minute.

I placed my fork down onto my plate, even the clang of that broke silence.

“About last night,” I began.

Jimin’s eyes rose quickly to meet mine, widened slightly.

“I shouldn’t have. You’re betrothed to my brother,” his mouth then shut into a hard line. He had made his decision, chose his words carefully.

Oh right.

Suddenly, I felt rejected. It wasn’t him saying he didn’t share the same potential feelings, yet it felt like a rejection.

I knew better, yet I allowed my own feelings to speak. I pried; I wanted to know if he didn’t intend the kiss like he didn’t want it. “Are you saying it was a mistake?”

He shook his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “You’re really putting me against disadvantageous odds, y/n.”

The answer confirmed enough and left me feeling hopeful and content that my own potential feelings were reciprocated.

I didn’t ask further. That was as brave as I could get. I definitely didn’t have the courage to confess my own feelings.

I was sure I had feelings for Taehyung and look where it had ended. Caution was practically screaming at me this time.

“y/n, I like you… if it wasn’t already clear,” he said, face reddened slightly and a hand went to the back of his neck. “But I understand, you are betrothed to my brother and I can’t do this to you. I can’t make you into an unfaithful queen and wife. We can just forget that this happened if that is what you want.”

He would not overstep that boundary to feed into his own avarice. It was an invisible barrier, but he knew it was not right to step across it. Yet another quality to admire of Park Jimin, the determination to uphold what was right.

Silence filled the room, yet thoughts were flying in my head.

“Probably for the best,” he mumbled, head dropping slightly and he returned to take a sip of his coffee.

I trust Jimin right?

No, I couldn’t trust him yet. It’s only been a week. My mind went back to Taehyung whom I trusted after a week, the trust no longer there. Then Taehyung’s warning crossed my mind once again, gone as fast as it came.

I’ve known him longer than a week though, in Erebus.

I’m still betrothed to Taehyung in the eyes of the public. Don’t. He’ll see me as an unfaithful person. How will he feel then?

Do I really have feelings? I wasn’t good at finding out about those.

I shook your head as if getting rid of the pestering thoughts. “I want to think about this. Please give me some time to think about it. It’s just—I need some time.”

Jimin nodded, grasping where my answer was coming from. A glimmer of something like hope evident in his eyes as he offered me a smile.

I was doomed; I was never going to be able to reject this man, was I?

The following days became quiet days at the palace. After the conversation, it was a mutual agreement to leave space between us. I was either at the library or in my own bedroom. Jimin was probably handling matters of his kingdom; I didn’t pry into his schedule.

Silence gives one a lot of time to be thinking and did the battle of thoughts ensue.

If I touched the book Jimin bought at the bookstore, I thought of him. I couldn’t read a chapter without my mind wandering away from the story to the owner of the book.

My feelings practically consumed my every minute.

When I ate dinner, I thought of him. Was he eating alone like me? I would question.

I was in his goddamn palace, the thought of him never escaped me.

Perhaps I was in deeper than I had thought.

One conclusion I came to was final: if I was to confess, I would have to be willing to tell him of my family and what had happened. I would confess not only my feelings but the entire truth and he might hate me at first for using him as an escape from Taehyung.

So I weighed my final decision on that.

I was in the one place I knew that I could hide in and be comfortable: the palace library, in search of a different book. That ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ was unreadable with the ties it had with Jimin.

I walked along the shelves, fingertips grazing different spines of books.

My heart paused as my eyes just barely glanced at a certain book.

On the spine of the book was a bleeding moon imprinted with gold foil.

A crescent moon with two drops of blood falling.

“I was looking for you,” Jimin’s voice pulled me from the horror I felt rushing through me as I tore my eyes from the shelf. “It’s been a few days since we really spoke.”

I didn’t know why, but I quickly shifted my hand to an adjacent book and gripped it. “You know I’m a newfound bookworm that’s most likely to be sticking their nose into a book.” I hoped my nervousness didn’t bleed into my word as I offered a smile.

Jimin chuckled. He tried to act as casual as possible. This was the first time we were speaking since his own confession.

Thankfully, he didn’t notice how my heart was shaking within my chest and how shocked I was to even notice too much.

“Finished the book from the store already?” He mused, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, looking for a new one.” I attempted to return an entertained smile, hand patting on the shelf of books. “Any recommendations?”

“I’m not much of a reader,” he replied. “So, can’t say that I can give you any recommendations.”

“That sounds awfully terrible for someone who owns a whole library in their palace.”

“It came with,” he joked before glancing around at the span of the library, glass windows that peeked above the shelves letting in sunlight. “No, it was just a procedure to have one built.” He shook his head, a smile on his lips.

“They wouldn’t let me get away with building this palace without a library in the blueprint.”

Silence presented itself at the moment. I stared at the king five feet away from me.

I realized I was in deep when the unsettling thoughts of the book dissipated as I watched the small smile on his lips. I liked that smile and the way it made his eyes crinkle, magnifying the emotions.

Don’t y/n. Stop.

The smile slipped as the silence continued to pass.

I knew the look on his face whenever we saw each other. He would have that glimmer in his eyes but his teeth drew on his bottom lip to stop him. He wanted to ask if I had an answer.

I didn’t know why I was reluctant to speak. I had almost wholeheartedly decided that the quick pacing of my heart in Jimin's presence was not just nothing.

“Dine with me tonight?” Hope clouded his eyes and they studied mine, waiting for an answer.

I nodded, accepting the invitation.

It wasn’t so bad, I preferred to not dine alone anyway.

Dinners with Jimin were never anything extravagant. Jimin himself only wore a simple shirt and trousers.

It felt normal again except for the ongoing silence that never seemed to want to end. The silence barred conversation from taking place and I cursed that it was my own imagination forcing me to think that this was all due to a kiss.

I searched my mind for anything to talk about. Anything.

“You’re going to have other guests from the continent?” I asked suddenly, remembering the man who stole Jimin away the other night.

“Yeah.” Not missing a beat.

“Are they already here or they’re coming?” I wanted to slap myself for falling into my default defense against silence which was asking as many questions as possible to keep conversations going.

“A letter arrived a few days ago about their coming.” He responded although a strange look made its way to his face, brow crinkling as if to ask why I was even asking this so randomly.

“Oh, are they important people?” y/n, what kind of question is that?

“Some diplomats who want to visit the kingdom,” he gave me a funny face.

I nodded, moving the fork on my plate and pushing a piece of zucchini around.

The conversation died again.

“How long do you plan to stay?”

I looked up from my plate. “Huh?” The question had caught me off guard. I realized I just came here without telling Jimin anything and I still had not told him anything.

“I don’t mind you staying a while,” he chuckled at the lost look I wore. “I was just wondering if you would be needed back in your kingdom and the engagement,” he trailed off towards the end.

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” my cheeks reddened as I gave an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t do much in my position anyway.”

“Don’t worry about it then.”

The meal ended on a neutral note, not high like before, not low as if something was terribly wrong.

As my mind drifted, I realized, something was wrong. The book at the palace library.

I would need to go back tomorrow.

I felt something astray down to my bones and a chill ran through my spine at the thought of the clear image of the bleeding moon from my dreams many weeks ago.

With the situation not nearly cleared, I was not worried Jimin would take part in my day as I walked the many corridors to reach the large double doors with the library behind it.

I prayed that the book was still there as I walked along the shelves, eyes scanning every spine that came to sight.

The gold-stamped bleeding moon.

I didn’t know why I felt obligated to find out on my own rather than asking Jimin, but something told me it was not wise to do so.

I reached a hand to grab the book from the shelf. After tipping back, it didn’t move from the shelf.

I frowned, brows furrowing. Why was this book stuck?

That was until I had realized a creaking sound resounded beside me as the shelf beside the one facing me slid back. The shelf moved back slightly before disappearing behind the adjacent shelves.

I froze.

What was hiding behind this shelf? I slowly slid over to the opening, allowing my sight to adjust to the low light of globes of light that hung along the right side of the dark stone hallway.

At the end of the hallway, a curve took place as lights hung lower on the wall indicating a downward staircase.

I knew it was dangerous, but I stepped inside of the hallway. It was even more foolish that I closed the entrance behind me after entering. I gripped the edge of the wooden shelf and pulled.

It surprisingly budged easily, sliding to shut and I watched as the last bit of light from the library disappeared from my sight and I was left with just the dimly lit globes of light to keep me from succumbing completely to the darkness.

If I went further, I wouldn’t want whoever was hiding this secret to find me.

I pulled onto the fabric of the skirt of my dress as I descended down the stairs, hand grazing along one of the walls cautiously.

The sound of my heart beating rapidly within my chest signaling danger, danger, danger! I felt my breathing become shallow as I descended lower and my hands gripped tighter.

I willed my ears to clear of the thrumming of my heart and focus on any noises, voices, anything. There was only the sound of water dripping from an unkept source.

Drip, drip, drip.

I found flat grounds at the end of the stone stairs.

Where the hell was this? Furthermore, what the hell was this?

The lights along the walls did a terrible job as I strained my vision to follow the short hallway. On one side, I began to approach a more well-lit space beyond an arch.

I leaned against the edge of the arch, inching my head around slightly ensuring no one was in the room.

Where the hell am I?

My heart plunged when my line of sight was met with cells, many cells, cells that lined both sides in the opening beyond the arch.

I felt sick. The cells resembled too similar to the ones from my dreams for comfort. The way they were lined next to each other were nearly interchangeable with ones from my dreams.

Without guards in sight, I stepped forward into the open area, a more well-lit area.

I didn’t know whether I wanted to find out who was behind the metal bars. The thought of confirming my own nightmares. I shuddered at that thought, a chill running down my spine.

I chose the right side, the one my mother would have been in.

Before I could register faces to the people in the dimmed cell, “y/n?”

I felt my insides turn as a woman walked to the bars, hands wrapping around the metal as her head appeared from the dimness.

Her hair was tangled, a mess compared to what I had last seen of her hair pulled into plaid. Her eyes shined and I noticed how dark circles took away the usual tone under her eyes. She had aged a decade in the span of a few months.

But she still was and always would be—

“Mother?” I almost couldn’t use my voice. It broke off at the end as shock coursed through me before tears sprung into my eyes and my vision blurred the face of my mother.

I rushed to the bars, a sudden wish that I could become strong enough to rip the metal apart and pull her into an embrace. “y/n, how did you get here? They took us and we couldn’t see you in the crowd. Thank god you’re alright,” she whispered, evidence of tears trailing down her cheeks as she reached a hand out to sweep her thumb over my cheek as if to test if I was really here.

I nodded confirming her thoughts. I’m here.

I melted into her touch, seeking comfort as my hand reached out to wrap around hers. For a quick second, I was a young child who had been without her family, lost. “Mama,” something I had not used since youth. It came out in the most vulnerable way with tears trailing from my eyes and my hand holding tightly to hers.

I wanted to spend hours, even holding her hand, but I realized if she was here, Namjoon and my father had to be in the cells across. “Namjoon, Father,” I whispered. She nodded confirming my thoughts.

I turned, seeing Namjoon and my father at the cell, eyes wide. The rest of my village seemingly confused as to why I was not with them, how I managed to escape.

This was the reunion I had wanted but it was in the worst situation possible.

Before I could walk across to them, there were low voices speaking to one another.

My eyes drew open and I turned to my mother. Her eyes widened before she whispered, “go hide! Don’t let them find you.”

I willed my panic and thoughts of my family to settle as I scanned the room quickly, trying to find something to hide behind.

On the other side, another arch was there. If it mirrored the side I had entered in, I could hide behind the walls.

I would either find out or get caught and I made the quick decision to hide behind there. I would find out soon enough if it was a good hiding place.

“I don’t understand why His Majesty is just keeping them here. There’s no benefit from that; just wasting food and time.” The voice belonged to a male. Their gears shifted leaving the sound of clanking metal as they walked.

His Majesty? Jimin? This was Jimin’s doing? I realized I never crossed that thought once, not even when I found this place.

I pressed my back against the wall, holding my breath as much as I could and trying to steady my pounding heart. The dungeon was created from stone, even a water drop would echo nevertheless a human’s breath.

The footsteps grew stronger.

This is it; they’re going to find me here. They will take me to Jimin and God knew what would happen then. I emptied my mind of those thoughts, sparring myself the full hit of emotions I would feel soon enough as my fight or flight instincts kicked in.

I clenched my eyes shut before opening them to search my surroundings. There had to be somewhere better to hide, better yet, somewhere to escape from here.

My eyes landed on a door at the end of the adjacent short hallway. Was that another exit? But I wouldn’t be able to make it, I’d have to cross the main area and they’d surely see me.

Then a realization dawned on me.

I could sail. I released a breath.

“Did you hear that?” Footsteps continued and I clenched my eyes shut.

Please, let me be in my bedroom. Please.

Within the darkness of closing my eyes, I searched my head for images of my bedroom. If I could sail a few floors above, please. I pictured my bedroom, the king-sized bed sitting in the center, and the window that overlooked out of the back of the palace.

When I opened my eyes with my breath held, I was in the center of my room and a wave of relief washed over me and I dropped my knees to the floor, thanking whatever gods had helped me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I pressed my head into my arms realizing I was shaking throughout.

Then came the nausea. I ran to the washroom, falling to my knees and allowing myself to heave into the waste bin.

This was the worst part.

A gentle hand brushed my back and pulled back my hair from my face. I froze.

My heart stilled before I could regain myself and lift my head from the opening of the bin to meet a familiar pair of brown eyes.

“Taehyung?”

a/n

quite a short chapter compared to my other ones :( but I put all the parts I wanted to happen in this chapter. I’m not really sure what I want to do about the updating schedule yet (aka still kind of adjusting to my new work schedule) but once again, if you’re interested, you can just send me a private ask or message for the tag list!

yours truly, Selene ♡

Taglist:

@huskymae (couldn’t get your tag sorry)

55 notes · View notes

nickyneshwrites · 3 years

Text

Cold Chapter 3

Bold=???

He was pacing around in front of his desk flicking his blade around in one hand, mumbling to himself, and fidgeting with his phone in the other hand. Shizuo still was nowhere to be found and Izaya was desperate. He had heard whispers of his possible location but had come up short everywhere he looked.

If this kept up he was going to raze every single gang in the city to find his lover, pathetic humans, and their opinions are damned!

He stopped flicking his knife looking at the glinting blade and in a moment of complete frustration threw it, it stayed stuck in his office wall. Then he felt and heard his phone ring and quickly pushed the knife from his mind.

“Yes hello. . .What about him?. . .Where are you?! . . .Skip the pleasantries Shiki, Where.Are.You . . . I swear if I have to listen to you-! . . I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blonde monster needed to go, not that it wasn't fun having Orihara flustered but it wasn't nearly enough fun to keep the raging monster in his company.

Not only had he injured six of his men he’d torn up a whole room and had to be moved to a more… accommodating environment. This was just getting out of hand.

Shiki sighed, then let his mind wander. A lot of this seemed strange, for one Orihara was showing an unusually open amount of interest in Heiwajima, normally he at least tried to feign disinterest, earlier the pure worry in his voice was clear as day.

Listening to the grunting and squeaking happening in the room over was now setting him on edge even more, as he lingered on the fact that the only thing keeping the blonde man firmly tied to the bed was a ridiculous amount of tranquilizer and thick chains.

The doctor who he had asked to look after the blonde was certain in his methods of detaining the crazed man but it was in Shiki’s opinion that he was seriously underestimating the strength of one of Ikebukuro's most notorious men.

He goes over to the door and the grunting stops. Upon opening the door he sees the blonde laying still, eyes still open he keeps a good distance away from the man in case he decides to lunge but it soon becomes obvious that he is in some sort of unconscious daze.

He looks to see if he's still breathing and finds that he is and sighs, good he really couldn't deal with Orihara going rouge again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was swimming in it, all the self-doubt, the fear of hurting others, the complete overwhelming. . .

“Sh. . .n”

Despair! Admit it for you know it's the truth, all of the love you hold is fake and you only push your pathetic existence upon those around you!

He wanted to deny it but he couldn't, his strength was a tool of destruction that would eventually drag all of those he holds dear to their doom.

Blackened tendrils crept up his subconscious submerging him deeper in their viscous fear dragging up all the truths he tried to keep hidden in himself.

A figure stands before him with an obscured face and it speaks directly to him in a hushed voice.

“-Ch. . .an”

The love you share is false, admit it! You took advantage of the hate you shared and shaped it into a twisted form of love that you've disillusioned yourself into believing.

He tried to escape to deny all of what he was hearing but it was too late he could no longer breathe and the darkness had taken hold devouring all his light.

"S-h. . .uo!"

Yes accept it, then return to your lie no but know no matter how much you run or you brush me away. Know I will still be there.

The figure leaves in black wisps and silence reigns in his consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Izaya enters a building at the back end of Shinjuku, normally he would care to know just what it is that goes on in a place like this but right now he doesn’t.

All he wants is to find Shizuo to grab hold of his brute and bring him to his flat and keep him there so something like this doesn’t happen again. He’d always known the moment he lost control of his Shizu-chan bad things would happen. He just never assumed it would be to the stupid brute himself.

He walks down a flight of stairs and is met with a tall door, he knocks three times then waits.

“ O-orihara-same, welcome uh, Shiki-dono is w-waiting in the lower level.”

A small man stands behind the door in front of Izaya, and as the informant gives him the once over it's obvious the man is scared. Izaya's usual mask of aloofness has melted into one of neutrality and the man is right to question his safety with such a gaze aimed at him.

Once they get moving Izaya takes time to notice that the man is in a lab coat and that the area they’ve walked to looks quite similar to an underground clinic.

The creaking of bed frames, the sound of heart monitors, and the distinct smell of bleach are the next things to assault his senses and he starts to get anxious. It seems Shiki has more going on under the city than he was privy to…

This just means there's something for him to look into after this whole situation is solved.

Once they pass through that area he is led to a door to the side and it takes all of a second for Izaya to understand what he's looking at, he doesn't like it and before the meek man can open the door to the room, a blade is pressed to his back.

“Ne doctor-Kun, I've followed you here without complaint because you told me you were leading me to Shiki-dono so could you explain to me why I'm being brought to the interrogation room?”

His tone was pleasant but the danger was clear and the knife pressed in the smaller man's back was sending a very clear message. He was frozen in place trying to find his voice while not fainting from all the stress, he was not prepared for this at all.

“Sh-s-s-sh-iki-dono is in the t-this room, the patient is there too after he d-deemed them too danger-rous to leave out in the main building! Please don't hurt me I was ju-”

The black imposing door is opened and the doctor crashes to the floor, passes Shiki, and immediately scrambles away from the violent man he was forced to meet.

“S-Shiki-dono your g-guest is here and with that, I think I should take my l-leave!”

Izay has long since stopped listening to the blubbering idiot and passes only a glance at Shiki before he walks by him and cautions a look around the room behind the Awakusu-kai member, and he sees him laid up there, his Shizu-chan!

“Shiki-dono knows how to treat his guests so whatever this is should also have an explanation, right? A reasonable explanation that will explain why it was necessary to chain an injured Shizuo to a bed, right?!”

He wasn't pointing his knife at anyone despite the strong urges to attack though his breathing was giving away the obvious distress? Anger? Or maybe even fear he was feeling.

This situation was exactly what Shiki was trying to avoid, he has every intention to pass Heiwajima over to Orihara but he was sure to the tense man it didn't look that way. He takes a step back to sit in the chair in the corner and looks straight at the informant, he knows he has to play this right or things could blow out of proportion and he's not in the mood for the melodrama.

“He’s simply restrained for his safety and that of my men, this room was the best for such a situation, and seeing as we couldn't get him to calm down this was the best I could arrange, he’s under a strong tranquilizer and has been showing strong signs of mental distress”

At this point, Izaya has heard what he wants and is moving towards the bed, as he approaches he notices that Shizuo's eyes are wide open but is seemingly unresponsive. He touches the blonde's arm and can't help the intake of breath he makes when he feels how cold he is to the touch.

“Shizu-Chan comes on I know you’re stronger than whatever this is…”

Izaya pockets the knife he's still holding and moves to grab onto the blonde's shoulder, he pulls on the chains there loosening them as much as he can.

“That isn't a good idea Orihara-san, he isn’t very stable and I don't think disturbing him in this state will not end well”

But again Izaya wasn’t listening, he just kept pulling and calling for the blonde getting lost in a haze of frustration as he rasped out his desperate call.

“Shizu-chan please you're not allowed to fall to anyone but me, wake up. Come on Shizu-chan I can even buy you those ridiculously sweet milkshakes you like just … Wake up Shizuo!”

He sounded close to tears and Shiki sat in shock at the display in front of him, the whole situation was kind of surreal. He was sure he had a good guess as to what the nature of their relationship was behind closed doors but this type of emotional response was more than he expected coming from the normally supercilious informant.

Then from behind the trembling back of the smaller man he saw it, the moment heiwajima eyes came back into focus but still holding that crazed spark.

“I-izaya?”

There was a moment of silence as his eyes and Izayas met like they were trying to talk through them to push forward the pain they each had to endure.

And in one act of utter relief, Izaya kisses the blonde, hard and passionate and desperate with all the pent-up energy he'd built up being released in the only way he could think to communicate.

He doesn't even hear as the chains are broken and fall to the ground with a heavy thump. But he does feel the blonde's hands pull at his fur coat and he sees the tears trickle down the fractured man's cheek.

A tired moan ripples through the kiss and Izaya retreats leaving a thin line of saliva connecting their mouths, his breathing is haggard and it takes him awhile

to calm down. He looks over his tired lover, Shizuo's normal bartender uniform ruined, now a tattered and stained shirt and ripped pants with his sunglasses nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry Izaya! I’m sorry I’m like this -this monst-i c-cant its just - i-i-I’m sorry! Im wrong were wrong I’m sorry so sorry sorry so much I-I-I-i”

Shiki leave the room he’s heard enough and decides he doesn’t need to know what else is going to be said, he’s given the informant what he wanted and as far as he’s concerned he’s done his job.

It’s up to Oriharta to fix the obviously damaged Heiwajima and to that he wishes him all the luck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been 2 days since Izaya brought Shizuo back to his flat, it's been quiet. Once Shizuo was showered and fed all Izaya wanted to do was hold onto his blond and never let go but he never came in fact he seemed to want to keep as much space as possible. Shifting from any type of contact Izaya initiated and spending hours at a time in the guest room instead of their shared bedroom.

The body that once housed his loud and lively lover was cold and distant. And when he wasn’t hiding, Izaya caught glimpses of a crazed fear in the blondes eyes, and he so wanted to help, to put this whole issue to rest and go back to how things were before his disappearance but it seemed impossible when the blond was so distant.

Shizuo's sitting on the sofa silently looking out at Izaya's unfinished game of chess, he doesn't really understand what about it had him quite so entranced but it was

better than seeing the hurt in Izaya's eyes when he looked at him. He’s standing in the doorway even now just looking; probably weighing how much trouble it would be worth to keep someone as useless as himself just sitting around.

He hears him let out a sigh from the door frame and steels himself as he comes and sits next to him.

“Shizu-Chan look at me, we need to talk ”

Shizuo did as he was told.

“You need time I get that but you need to at some point tell me what it is that you need me to do to help you. I care ok, when you disappeared I went looking everywhere, I found the bastards who attacked you that day and tried my damndest to make them pay. And as much as it hurts me to sit here spouting sentimental trash it hurts more to see you so… so broken, I love you so please just tell me what's wrong Shizuo”

And how could Shizuo ignore how sincere he sounded, those uttered words his name falling from the lips he’d spent years chasing? He shuffled over to the smaller man who was obviously giving him space and rested his head on Izaya's lap. Izaya didn’t really do anything at first but then he started running his fingers through the blonde locks soothingly.

“Just don't leave me”

The words travelled the silent room and seemed to be made more real by the silence and while no reply was made, the gentle way in which fingers caressed the taller man's cheeks were enough to make him know they were acknowledged.

A promise made in tranquility only truly believed by one of them.

#durarara #izaya orihara #izaya x shizuo #izuo #nickynesh ideas #shizuo heiwajima

1 note · View note

secret-engima · 4 years

Note

How does Clarus handle the revelation that HE has an illegitimate son? Let alone illegitimate /grandchildren/? (He's a grandfather?!)

Ooohohohohoho *rubs hands* this is gonna get long I can feel it but HERE WE GO:

-Short version? Badly. And with strong alcohol and much dazed staring.

-Longer version? He is incredibly doubtful at first and maybe (out of stress) says something to that affect to Axis, who just- looks him dead in the eye without a word and there is a fire and stubbornness there that looks too familiar and makes Clarus’s heart sink (there’s a memory from his young, pre-married days of a Galahdian woman with those eyes and that skin tone, who had looked at him with a similar fire and contempt before he’d managed to charm her. But that was once and so long ago, surely it’s just a coincidence. Surely if he had an illegitimate kid it would be from one of his longer flings when he was truly young and dumb?). He’s seen Axis around the Citadel a lot before now because he’s Nox’s close friend, they’ve even talked cordially a few times, but ... his son? Surely not. Surely he would have known before the young man stormed in and demanded a blood test to prove he could be Nox’s Shield. Axis has been around for like- idk how long but definitely upwards of a year, because the Council only really kicked up the Shield fuss after Nox’s existence was leaked to the public (I think). Surely Clarus wouldn’t have remained oblivious to the presence of another child of his blood for that long right? RIGHT?

-Clarus awaits the results with increasing dread and a feeling of doom at the sheer burning, resentful, confidence this young man has in his declaration. Like Axis believes down to his bones that he is Clarus’s illegitimate son and is angry that he must now flaunt that fact to get what he wants (a permanent place at Nox’s side). It really doesn’t help that Nox spends the wait lingering near Axis, shooting worried looks at Clarus and bristling protectively whenever Regis’s Shield comes near (like he’s afraid Clarus will hurt Axis for this, like he’s afraid Axis will be punished for announcing his lineage to the world).

-The results come through and Clarus’s world comes down around his ears. Axis watches the doctors hand Regis the positive report with sharp eyes, then promptly turns on his heel and walks away. He doesn’t look at Clarus even once. Nox trails after him with a sigh, like he expected this, and starts talking softly to his Shield (to Clarus’s SON) about how being his formal Shield means he’ll have to move into Insomnia. Clarus doesn’t hear anything more past the ringing in his ears and the hand Regis has on his back to keep Clarus upright.

-He goes home and gets drunk. In between the glasses of whatever poison he’s snatched from the wine-shelf (he hasn’t checked), he tells Juno everything. He’s always told his wife everything, and he can see in her eyes that she isn’t really surprised. She’s known from the start that Clarus had been with other women before meeting her. He’d gone to extraordinary lengths to prove to her that she was different. That he had been serious about her in a way he hadn’t with his flings. So the knowledge that he’s apparently been seeing his illegitimate son around the Citadel without realizing just makes her sigh and pat his hand and take his wine away before he can get blackout drunk.

-Clarus continues to panic the entire time Axis is gone to “retrieve things from his home outside Insomnia” (read: tell his own wife Porrima that they have to move to Insomnia now, sorry about that). Nox shows very little sympathy, instead busying himself picking out a nice house in one of the “security approved” neighborhoods for Axis to live in. Regis, Cor, and Juno make up Clarus’s sanity for about the next two weeks it takes him to get his composure together, figure out (sorta) what to say to his long-lost son (as well as what to tell Gladio and Iris oh boy), and tentatively follow Cor’s directions to the house Nox picked.

-Clarus has no idea how Nox found the one house in upper Insomnia that was essentially an overgrown greenhouse of jungle plants (the last owner had been from Tenebrae and imported a lot of plants from his homeland), or why Nox chose the three-story, plant-infested house for his Shield (wouldn’t Axis get lonely living alone in such a big house?), but he sucks it up, gingerly makes his way under the drooping, flowering vines dangling from the trees to the front door and rings the doorbell with the hand not holding the housewarming/please-talk-to-me-I’m-your-Dad-and-I-want-to-know-you-better gift.

-Axis opens the door and stares him down, Clarus manages to stiffly get out a greeting and offer the gift (how do you talk to your illegitimate son you didn’t know you had until two weeks ago????) and Axis looks like he’s debating shutting the door in Clarus’s face when a woman shows up behind Axis, takes one look at Clarus, and invites him in.t

-The woman turns out to be Porrima Arra. Axis’s wife. A Galahdian woman with a prosthetic leg and a much friendlier demeanor than his son (his SON. Clarus is still not over this fact). She serves tea and apologizes for the mess because they are in the middle of moving in (Nox scoots by and dumps an armchair out of his armiger, which is a shameless abuse of magic but hey). Nox gives Clarus a look that might be pity, gives Axis a look that is definitely pity, and calmly asks if he needs to go “watch the gremlins” while they talk.

-Clarus has maybe three seconds to wonder what “the gremlins” are (pets? Galahdians are known for exotic tastes. Or maybe its a nickname for some of the glaives Nox has befriended?) when there’s a loud clatter from upstairs and a loud shriek noise that his father instincts recognize instantly. Axis seems to teleport out of the room, Nox on his heels and Porrima limping behind and Clarus finds himself bringing up the rear as they all tear up the stairs.

-The three children, two girls and a boy all about Iris’s age, blink up at the sudden appearance of adults in the room from beneath the cardboard box fort they have just knocked over. They all look like a flawless mix of Axis’s and Porrima’s features, with identical smiles as they look up at Axis and call him “Pater!” and scramble out from under the boxes to crowd around, “N’uncle Nox!” and Clarus-

-Clarus finds himself sitting down rather hard on the floor.

-This attracts the notice of the three children (Axis’s children. His son’s children. CLARUS IS A G R A N D F A T H E R) who hide between Nox’s legs and peer at him in question.

-Axis takes one look at Clarus’s expression and sudden seated position on the floor, sighs heavily, and says, “This is your grandfather, Clarus Amicitia.”

-”Is he safe?” Asks one of the little girls in suspicion, eyes narrowed in what is probably supposed to be a fierce glare but really just makes Clarus’s already stuttering heart melt.

-Nox laughs softly and pats their heads, “He’s safe. He’s just a little surprised is all.”

-Clarus suddenly has three kids (G R A N D C H I L D R E N) crowded around him asking questions that keep slipping off into the unintelligible Galahdian native tongue. Clarus looks up helplessly at Axis and Nox and he can see the moment Axis’s burning, vaguely resentful expression softens into something kinder.

-Clarus spends the afternoon sitting rather dazedly in an armchair, babysitting his grandchildren (G R A N D C H I L D R E N. THEY’RE IRIS’S AGE HOW YOUNG WAS AXIS WHEN THEY WERE BORN-) while an amused (if vaguely wary) Porrima babysits him and Axis, Nox, and the collection of glaives that just trickled in help finish the moving process.

-When Clarus finally gets back to the Citadel hours later, he staggers into Regis’s study, drawing alarmed reactions from both Regis and Cor, snatches Regis’s brandy off the desk, takes a drink straight from the bottle, then sits down on the couch and numbly announces, “I am a grandfather of triplets. They’re Iris’s age.”

-Beneath his own shock, it is extremely gratifying to watch Regis lose it as badly as Clarus himself is. Cor just muffles his laughter behind a hand (troll already knew about them, he’d been to Axis’s new house first he’d SEEN THEM and NOT TOLD CLARUS the little-)

-Clarus throws a couch pillow at Cor’s head and the man laughs openly in their faces while Regis fights down his growing grin as he realizes that Clarus no long has any grounds to lecture Regis on “safety first” and “his reckless youth”.

-Clarus has horrible friends. See if he tells them anything about his grandchildren ever again.

#SE asks #hamelin-born asks #Nox verse #Melodies and Manuscripts #Secret Engima Rambles #ffxv #clarus amicitia

163 notes · View notes

kshitij1997 · 4 years

Text

Hello again!

Let’s continue, shall we?

This chapter is strictly based in Arendelle, unlike the last few chapters.

All Frozen and Tangled characters belong to Disney.

Chapter 11: If it takes forever, then I’ll walk forever

Iduna had noticed a change in herself; she had never been so weary as she felt now. Worry had become a staple state of existence for her. The trio, as her three daughters called, had been shattered. There was a time when they were inseparable; Anna, Olva and Elsa walking hand in hand, a bunch of peas in the same pod.

That was when life was easy, but what a difference a single incident makes.

Her mind raced back to when she saw the carnage; the ballroom floor solidified into an ugly amalgamation of snow and ice. Elsa’s ice had always been beautiful but then, in that ill moment, it flashed the white light of doom and destruction. As for her children, they were there, two of them unconscious, a massive cracked debris of ice, a snowman reduced to fine powder. And there Elsa was, holding her fainted sisters wailing to the sky and constricted by terror. With Anna having a streak of white across her hair, and Olva’s right side marred by scars from the sharp ice.

She remembered feeling grotesque by the spoils; how Agnarr had to hatchet through the door held firm by the ice. The fragments of her family fallen prey to a probable moment of panic; a moment of ill moment. This was a cold worse than winter.

She remembered how she and Agnarr had to gallop on their royal steeds as they never had, in that moment she felt as if she was on a death wish, trying to rein in her horse and holding fast her two injured children. She had known this would happen, and she let it happen.

Grand Pabbie warned her, she should have been more careful.

Elsa shouldn’t have panicked.

And yet, there they were, about to reach the lair of the stonepeople.

She remembered how Grand Pabbie was not pleased ‘Every time Your Majesties choose to grace us with your presence, it always disrupts our winter meditation. Sometimes, I am forced to believe that you are wishing for a polar event.’

‘Forgive us please Grand Pabbie, we seriously need your help and guidance, there’s been an accident.’ Agnarr pleaded as he’d never done before.

‘An accident with your firstborn’s powers? For why my aid would be needed otherwise?’

‘Grand Pabbie, my children’s lives are at stake, you must help us, we have nowhere else to go.’ The king ignored the irreverence.

Grand Pabbie relented ‘Apologies for my annoyance, Your Majesties. Tell me everything.’

Iduna remembered telling Grand Pabbie everything, or at least what she could understand from what Elsa had managed to tell her between sobs.

The hermit of half rock-moss and half flesh answered quickly and definitively; it was imperative to reverse the effects of Elsa’s powers; else the victims could freeze into solid ice. Grand Pabbie reassured them; they were lucky it was the head, not the heart. One could fool the head, but the heart was another matter entirely; the heart required a genuine act of love and sacrifice, those were hard to come by. As for Olva, it was more towards shock and blunt force trauma, they had done a disservice to her by bringing her there, while she should have been resting. Iduna felt personally responsible for that; she had insisted the whole family to go.

‘Grand Pabbie, what about the powers themselves? Is there any hope?’

Grand Pabbie turned to directly face Elsa; the great golem like hermit moved slowly but with purpose towards the little platinum blonde girl. The girl couldn’t help but stare at his presence; someone who didn’t emote much, but his feelings were remarkably easy to understand and notice regardless. In that moment she saw sympathy and pity; It was something she’d never seen before. She realized that didn’t like that feeling at all.

‘Your poor child of destiny, how one must step up to face the world regardless of age and be brought to reality. I’m sorry it was so sudden and such an unfortunate circumstance for you. Your powers would only grow from here on, to command the forces of nature akin to the ancient giants. Bringing joy and relief to those who need it.’, Grand Pabbie stated as he manipulated a few wisps in his hand to show an eight-headed star glowing blue and bright.

‘However, the power would also bring terror and fear and loss of control as they assert themselves, which would lead to your doom and destruction.’ Grand Pabbie continued as the star collapsed upon itself, crumbling into a red mass of death, smothered by red fire and smoke and a bright, shining sword coming straight for her. Elsa had to hide into her father’s arms from the horror.

‘The only thing you must fear is fear itself. It is your greatest enemy.’ The hermit finished as the wisps trailed off into nothingness.

‘What now, Grand Pabbie? Is she done for?’ Iduna asked worriedly.

‘I have just told you how she may combat the challenges she faces; she can’t succumb to fear. I would advise to help her build trust with a few close people and help her naturally experience and embrace her powers. She cannot be made to feel like a monster. She must be dealt with empathy and compassion. As for the other two of your daughters, for Anna I would need to induce some slight amnesia, because her mind is a little too fragile to understand it. However, Anna must be made to understand soon, this is a temporary measure, she can’t be kept in the dark forever. For Olva, as she wasn’t directly struck with Elsa’s powers, she doesn’t need any procedure, but she does need to be cared for very carefully, we don’t know how she may react to certain things yet. It may manifest as anything, she may experience pain, fainting, lash out in anger, or worse turn unfeeling towards everyone. Or maybe she wakes up unscathed. Regardless, I hope you can help her meaningfully. Please don’t treat this lightly, it is imperative.’

Iduna was at a loss for words; how would she and Agnarr manage it all? As for Agnarr, he was lost in thought, putting his intuition to practice. At length Agnarr spoke, ‘What if Olva has amnesia induced as well?’. Grand Pabbie was taken aback, he almost looked offended, ‘Your Majesty, that is a very irresponsible thing to ask. How can you even consider it? If I try inducing amnesia upon her mind, it may induce unprecedented effects, it may even worsen her recovery. Please don’t ask me to do it.’

‘I order you to do it.’ Agnarr put his foot down.

Grand Pabbie could not resist now, it was an order, even if it was from a monarch acting out of character.

‘Alright, Your Majesty, I’ll do as you say. Little dark-haired one, forgive this poor servant of nature, for he has to do something terrible.’ With that, Grand Pabbie put a heavy hand upon Olva’s forehead. The unconscious girl woke up at once, as if in a trance and screamed into the pale moonlight, a sharp contrast to how Anna took it. But then magic to counter magic was usual, magic to answer for something blunt, not so much.

Iduna remembered how Elsa stood there in shock, how she wanted to shut her eyes but couldn’t; how she herself had to close her eyes and grab on to her family, she couldn’t bear to watch it.

The procedure was over at long last, when Olva fell unconscious again, drained from the ordeal and turning pale, as if a certain glow had been taken from her body.

Elsa only asked one question ‘They won’t remember that I have powers?’

‘It is for the best.’ Agnarr said.

Looking back at that moment, Iduna felt that she should have raised her voice and tried Agnarr to see sense. Alas, that moment was past.

Now, Agnarr had been gone almost a month, shoring up alliances to help despite the blockade. She had to face them all alone. She had to take charge, she couldn’t abandon the kingdom, or her family. Even so, sitting through the meetings was tedious, especially when she had to explain and defend every move in front of the council, who didn’t consider the blockade popular at all.

To say nothing of facing her daughters, how many times must she lie to them? The mere thought exhausted her-

‘Ma!’ Anna’s voice could be heard from across the hall as it broke Iduna’s chain of thought.

‘Yes dear?’

‘Why won’t Elsie come out? Is she not feeling well?’ Anna asked.

‘No, she’s fine, why do you say that?’

‘It’s that she’s avoiding me. When I asked her to come out and play, she flat out said no. Did I do something wrong?’

Bless her innocence.

‘She’s worried about something; I am helping her with it. I promise she’ll be better soon.’ Shit, that was a mistake.

‘I know she’ll be better Ma, but she hasn’t come out to play in so long! Winter’s about to end soon, I don’t want to miss the last snow of the season.’ Anna said with a frown.

‘She has to take her studies seriously, you know, one day she must lead. You want her to do well, don’t you?’ It felt icky tricking her child like that, but it was for the greater good. Moreover, there was some truth in it.

‘Yes, I do, but it’s like she’s gone away. I don’t know if she’d come out again.’ Anna said with a choked tone.

‘What about Olva? Didn’t she play with you?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know what’s happened to her. I mean, we still had quite some fun, but we did miss Elsa. Then suddenly, Olva started screaming, shouting ‘my head, my head!’ then fainted, I had to call the help. Didn’t you hear, Ma?’ Anna said

Now, that was news to her. What kind of a mother was she? The kind who half-heartedly juggles everything and fails, Iduna reflected bitterly. Oh, I wish Agnarr was here.

‘I heard, she’s in the infirmary, I thought she had a bruise, I didn’t know she fainted.’ Another half lie, great.

‘Also, she’s grown, I don’t know, more angry? She always has a frown on her face. She wasn’t like that earlier, she used to crack jokes, dance around, Ma. Now she just sits blank for a long time. I had to shake her to get her attention. Is she alright?’, the little princess was obviously bewildered.

‘I’ll sit with her, don’t worry. She’ll be fine, I promise.’ Making promises was becoming a bad habit.

‘Now, it’s getting late Anna. Come, I’ll take you to your room’

‘I don’t want to sleep in there, it feels so empty since Elsa and Olva moved out.’ Anna moaned.

‘Come on, don’t do this.’

‘Ma, can I sleep in your room tonight? I don’t want to be alone.’ Anna asked, with a sad expression.

‘Alright, come with me.’ Iduna sighed.

One mother and daughter had settled in their room, Anna asked ‘Tell me a story.’

‘Anna, please go to sleep.’

‘Ma I remember you promising us when we were ready, that you’ll tell each one of us a story. I want to listen to mine, I think I’m ready.’

Iduna looked at Anna, knowing exactly what she could do. The least I can do is prepare here for the worst.

Iduna began her story:

It was the story of Isabel, who wanted to go to France. She’d spent virtually her entire childhood dreaming about it. As the daughter of a wealthy colonial governor, she grew up with every luxury available to 1700s Ecuador, but in her young mind, it was nothing compared to the magic of France. In her teens, her dream began to come into focus. A dashing young Frenchman, Jean Godin des Odonais, came to town on an expedition. Isabel took to him immediately, and by all accounts, Jean was equally in love with her. They married within the year.

A few years later, with Jean’s work wrapped up, they made plans to move to France. Jean went ahead to arrange passports and travel across the Atlantic. He was to return for Isabel and their unborn child—the only one of four who’d live past childhood. He thought he’d be gone two years. He was gone for twenty. Because Spain and Portugal ran South America (and neither were allies with France), they wouldn’t let Jean make the return trip. He couldn’t even get letters to Isabel; he could barely get them to Europe. And when his letters begging for passage did make it to Spain and Portugal, they were mired in red tape, not moving anywhere. He tried everything he could think of to reunite with Isabel, getting so desperate that he tried instigating war between France and Portugal.

His efforts were unsuccessful; he spent two long decades almost going crazy trying to get to her, and she had no idea. Still, Isabel waited. Even as neighbours said Jean wasn’t coming back. Even as her daughter grew into a woman. Even as her family fell on hard times. She waited and waited and waited, until her daughter died of smallpox.

She had been nineteen and never got to meet her father.

So, Isabel stopped waiting, and based on the hearsay that Jean was still alive, left to find him. Joining together a group of 42 people, she set off to reunite with her husband on an incredibly dangerous journey. The group included her two brothers, her nephew, her servant, Joaquim, some maids, a doctor, and several native porters.

The 3,000-mile route, which wound around an active volcano, across ramshackle wooden bridges, and through the heart of the Amazon jungle, had only been done by a handful of groups before. They estimated it would take six months. The group started dwindling when they found an abandoned village. It had been ravaged by smallpox and burned to the ground. The porters fled immediately. The group continued in a canoe down a flooding river, although none of them knew how to canoe or swim. Isabel nearly drowned, and they lost many of their supplies. They soon ended up at a sandbar, where they split up. The doctor’s small group took the boat and continued, promising to send back help. But after two weeks with no rescue in sight, Isabel, her brothers, and her nephew built a raft and set off downriver. The raft sank almost immediately, taking their supplies with it.

They continued on foot, with Isabel finally switching from frilly dresses to her brother’s spare trousers. They walked into thick jungle without food, direction, or sunlight. There they became a playground for wasps, scorpions, fire ants, and many things worse. The carpets of flies refused them sleep. The jungle refused them food.

Four weeks, they walked. And they began to die.

First her nephew.

Then her brother.

Then her other brother.

Until Isabel was the only one left.

Isabel had lost everything. Her children, her home, her family. Twenty long years of heartbreak, weighing her down. And so, she lay down on the jungle floor, curled up next to her brother, and waited to die.

Anna was in tears at this point and asked, ‘Please tell me she’s going to be fine.’ Then proceeded to come closer to Iduna, her face buried into Iduna’s arms.

‘Let’s find out, little one’ Iduna said and continued:

But try as she might, she could not die. Even as she began to slip away, a voice called out to her, a voice that would not let her go to sleep, that talked of tasks unfinished and duties undone.

It was the voice of her dear Jean. He said, “Get up, Isabel.” And slowly, she began to crawl forward.

After eight days alone, she stumbled across some native hunters, and immediately collapsed. Over the next month, they nursed her back to health, ridding her of botflies and other parasites. Her hair had turned permanently grey. Her hand was crippled. But she was alive. She gave them two gold necklaces, and set about freeing her servant, Joaquim, from jail, as he’d been suspected of murdering her.

Six months later, for the first time in 21 years, on a boat on the Oyapock River, Isabel Godin saw her husband.

They sailed to Europe three years later, and in her beloved French countryside, she lived a quiet, long, happy life.

Anna breathed a sigh of relief ‘Oh thank goodness! Poor Isabel, she went through a lot!’

‘Yes, she did, baby mine.’

‘Why did her daughter have to die? It’s not fair. She was completely alone near the end.’

‘Life’s not very fair, as you’ll find out soon. Moreover, she did it all for love. She held faith that she would meet her trapped love someday.’

‘Hmm, I guess. But why did she suffer so much, Ma?’

‘As you know, not a lot of people are as well off as we are, they would struggle in their lives if trapped in this manner. But Isabel rose to the occasion, made a big sacrifice and found peace and happiness in the end.’

‘Ma, if Elsa or Olva are in such trouble, would I be able to do the same?’

‘That’s a question you’ll have to answer yourself. I can’t answer it for you, I’m sorry.’

‘I think I’d do the same. If they’re in any such event, I’d follow beyond doubt to help or rescue them. And, if it takes forever, then I’d walk forever.’ Anna declared as she caressed her white streak of hair.

God bless you, poor child, Iduna thought as she tucked Anna in for the night and bid her good night.

With that done, she made a beeline for the infirmary where she found Dr Klaus keeping Olva under observation.

‘Your Majesty, please come in.’ said the weary doctor as he straightened his coat and rose from his seat.

‘Oh, don’t mind me. How’s Olva doing?’

‘She’s better now. However, earlier she was in a state of intermittent consciousness. When she was awake, she was describing a most terrible headache. I believe she used the phrase “A knife of ice carving inside her head.” The doctor told as he checked his notes on the dark-haired princess.

‘Furthermore, she also mentioned seeing a pale blue light, atop a high mountain in her vision. At that point she had begun to grow agitated and almost had a fit. I had to give her brandy to sedate her. She should be fine and wake up in the morning. Still, it would be wise to be alert. ’ The doctor finished.

‘Oh no, doctor. What’ll happen now?’ Iduna asked with fear.

‘It’s still early stages. From what I understand so far, the trauma from the accident may have triggered something dormant into activity. We must not treat this callously; she must be treated with utmost care. She needs to feel safe.’

‘I understand Dr. Klaus, but these headaches have persisted for more than a month now, and they only grow worse. What shall we do?’

‘I would suggest help her find a distraction, a hobby, something she can engage with, something that soothes her.’

‘I understand, thank you Dr. Klaus.’ Iduna said as she planted a small kiss on Olva’s forehead and turned to leave.

‘Your Majesty, what about princess Elsa? How’s she coping? This must be hard on her.’

‘She’s grown quiet and withdrawn, I’m trying my hardest to get her connected back to us.’

‘Try harder, your majesty.’, with that, the doctor made his leave and went back to observe princess Olva.

As the queen made her way back to her chambers, she found Elsa’s room to be slightly open. Taking advantage of the ajar door, she went silently inside Elsa’s room. What she saw, she would remember for a long time.

Her daughter was fast asleep, but her room was a mess. There was snow and ice on edge of every cupboard, windowsill or even the ceiling. It was clear that she had clearly tried to hold it in and failed. There may have been a struggle, she had tried to dig in the floor, but her efforts ended in vain, and she had deflected a blast of ice at the wall, the same bluish-white stain as usual. It had been ages since Iduna could remember Elsa making anything beautiful from her ice. This was fear, completely driving her powers.

Iduna suddenly noticed her daughter’s hands; there were bruises in her palms, clearly from her attempt to dig in her hands to prevent her powers from leaking. On Elsa’s face were the dry marks of tears shed a while ago; the poor princess had cried herself to sleep.

Iduna realized tearfully, Elsa needs more help.

Yeah, we’re getting to Do you want to build a snowman?, that weapon of mass emotional destruction. But as always, the world is happening around them, and they must keep up!

And yes, Isabel’s story is absolutely true, and Anna’s mantra “If it takes forever, then I’ll walk forever” is on brand. More power to Anna, I say.

As always, constructive feedback is always welcome!

#frozen #frozen elsa #elsa #anna of arendelle #elsa and anna #frozen anna #anna #anna appreciation #snow sisters #OC: Olva[Sister to Elsa and Anna]#queen iduna #frozen iduna

8 notes · View notes