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stainandscribble · 4 years ago

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Moulin Rouge Sous le Ciel Bleu

Red Mill under the Blue Sky

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun/Reader (female)

Genre: Moulin Rouge; rich!Baekhyun; 1920′s!Baekhyun; angst; fluff

Warning: mention of mature situations ;)

Summary: Baekhyun never thought he would find love through the infamous Moulin Rouge, or that it would be the one place he could love you freely without the judging eyes of the upper classes. Love is not easy in 1920s Paris, but is love easy anywhere? There is only one thing you know, you love Baekhyun hopelessly and irrevocably, and he loves you just the same.

A/N: requested by the lovely, sweetest @bbyunz, based on moulin rouge and Baekhyun’s solo Bungee. I hope I fulfilled your expectations.

Word Count: 4154

In the Jardin de Paris, at the bottom of the hill at Montmartre neighbourhood, a bright red mill stood out in between the other buildings, demanding attention with its vibrant colour and eccentric exterior. Above the entrance to the garish establishment, large metal letters spelt out its name, Moulin Rouge. The Red Mill, for it was exactly what the building looked like. It certainly drew attention to itself, and Monsieur Byun didn’t doubt that was the intention of its owners. Moulin Rouge had become infamous in Paris, and Baekhyun didn’t doubt that was also the case for the rest of France too. The bright scarlet façade clashed with the crisp blue of the sky above it, making the building stand out even more during clear days like today. Looking at the red mill, Baekhyun would not have guessed that this was the building the city of love called The Bastion of Pleasures. It didn’t look pleasing to the eye, but it was a novelty, and it was the mill at the entrance that was one of the reasons for the establishment’s notoriety. That, and the women employed in the cabaret.

Young Monsieur Byun, that was what people called Byun Baekhyun, heir to an orient trading business and an expert in oriental imports. He had been sent to France by his father a year short of attending university to learn the French language and now, years later he was attending the prestigious Sorbonne, studying for a degree in Orientalism. He had become an expert to the Parisian socialites, helping them choose authentic China and silk fabrics, among many other goods, all from his family's import business of course.

But behind the posh and rich heir, he had become fascinated by the revolution, a movement started in the middle of the last century, a step towards freedoms and liberties that he had never known in his own home of Joseon.

That was how he ended up at the cabaret Moulin Rouge. And Baekhyun loved it. The thrill of doing something that in his own country would be uncalled for was exhilarating. Some days, he wished he was an artist or a poet. It was not that he could do neither, of course, he was excellent at both thanks to his extensive education. Yet, he wished sometimes that he could live off of the fortune he had and do as he wished, writing poetry, painting watercolours on rice paper and attending the cabaret.

Most importantly, in those senseless daydreams, he could love you freely.

You had met when he had come to consult you about some of the costumes you were making for a Moulin Rouge play. The settings were meant to be inspired by the Orient, it was meant to be exciting, exotic and beautiful all at the same time, and you needed help with the designs. As an orientalist, Young Monsieur Byun had visited you in your seamstress room. He was in awe of the detail you had put into the costumes and was glad to help you perfect the designs. Weeks later, he was back in your workrooms, inspecting the finished product, as well as the set of the music hall stage. Your rooms were not far from the Moulin Rouge, and so on his way back he visited you and your fellow seamstresses. He had liked your costumes and had given a good word on your behalf to the owners.

That was how you met and then proceeded to keep on meeting, each one ending with you smiling a bit brighter, his smile cheekier and cheekier.

-----

Monsieur Byun often thought that it would have been easy; falling in love with one of the dancers. However, Monsieur Byun was not a man who took the easy way. He had remained unmoved by the dancers’ charm, flirtatious nature and womanly shape. He was an orientalist, coming to Paris from Joseon, and he had no desire for the boisterous women of the cabaret, notorious for their cancan.

Instead, he had taken the hard way. He fell in love with you.

It was a hopeless love. Hopeless in more than one way; because not only had he fallen for you head over heels, irrevocably and explicitly, but also because there was no future in which he could continue to do so. Your love was fleeting, not because the feelings disappeared, but because in this world, neither in France nor Joseon, could you love each other freely. It was a secret romance. Something forbidden.

A hopeless love.

You had always known it would not last, but nothing lasts and so you loved him the same way he loved you.

A mere seamstress could never marry him. He was classes above you, not to mention that he had no doubts his father had already chosen a merchant's daughter for him, one that was from Joseon, just like him, just like his father wanted.

Tonight though, he could spend in your arms, naked and wrapped in the soft sheets of his bed with you listening to his heartbeat while his long fingers combed through your hair.

It was a peaceful night. He had sneaked you into one of his smaller residences, where no servants could spy on the two of you. You had drunk dry red wine and enjoyed a baguette along with some camembert and red grapes. It had been a simple meal by his standards, but it was everything the two of you could have wanted tonight.

In the middle of balmy summer, with the sun shining down in all its glory, warming you up and making all proper ladies sweat under their clothes, you had been kept busy by the constant repairs of Moulin Rouge costumes, as well as other work sent to you by the upper and middle-class women. You didn’t complain. it was good work, and it was always extra money- something you could never have too much of.

Baekhyun did all the complaining for you, about how you didn’t have time for him, about how he was feeling neglected; about how you were too pretty to spend the days in a workroom rather than in the garden outside, basking in the sun and undoubtedly keeping him company.

Finally, your work was done, and you had decided to take the day off and now, at the end of the day spent in Baekhyun’s arms, you were falling asleep in his arms, his light breathing felt like a summer breeze in your hair, and his golden skin was warm against yours. The body heat and the warm night had made it impossible to sleep under a duvet, and so you had opted for sleeping under a thin linen sheet.

“Mon plus cher amour,” He had whispered into the air, my dearest love, he called you. and through the thin veil of sleep, you had responded to his calling, turning in his arms so that you could face him, your lips brushing against his as he spoke, the soft touch sending shivers down Baekhyun’s spine.

“Mon cherie?” You had asked, planting a cheeky kiss on his pouty lips.

“I do not wish to live without you.” He spoke, eyes gazing into yours with such tenderness you were unsure a mortal man could be filled with this much love. Surely, such deep feeling was reserved for a thing more holy than you; for women whose beauty lived on as legend, a kind of beauty captured by poems and songs and prayers. Not you; mortal, fragile, ordinary.

“Don’t say such things.” You spoke, the softness in your voice mimicking the tenderness in Baekhyun’s eyes. His breath hitched, and you could feel the rattling of his heart against your chest, its steady beat matching the rhythm of your own heart.

“They make me love you more.” You whispered, and your lover smiled at your words, his long fingers moving to grab your hand gently, before he brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly, his lips silky like rosebuds, flushed a deep pink as blood flowed through him, red and robust. His deep brown eyes didn’t leave yours for a second.

Hopelessly, you loved him.

------

The days without him came and went, and finally, after all work was complete, Baekhyun had decided to take you to the premiere of the new cabaret show, the one you had spent months sowing costumes for, and now he would allow you the pleasure of seeing the fruit of your labours, and you had a feeling it would be sweet.

Tonight, he had taken you to the cabaret. The moulin rouge was packed with patrons, their cacophonous chatter before the show was like the beginning of a birdsong, somewhere deep in the rainforest, their words, not always French, sounded around the room like a flock of tropical songbirds, unorganised but joyous. You sat at a table for two, he dressed in a fine black suit, you in your best dress, your hair pinned up in a fashionable style you have seen many of your clients wear. When you looked in the mirror before you left the house, you could barely believe the woman in the reflection staring back at you was yourself. You wondered if Baekhyun had always though you this beautiful.

“You are exquisite. Never forget that, mon amour.” He leaned in to whisper into your ears, the dim light glowing golden against his skin, making the curve of his nose and the plushness of his lips even more refined, even more tempting. Your heart skipped a beat against your will. Soon after, the flock went silent, and you were left only with the melody of the orchestra, as the dancers entered the stage. Baekhyun sat in his chair, completely at ease as he sipped on champagne.

The show was exquisite, but no one expected anything less from the great Moulin Rouge. The dancers moved about on the stage in practised harmony. even their more chaotic routines were executed with utter grace and precision. Some dresses were shorter than others, some more scandalous. you had spared no skill stitching in feathers and sequins. Each costume was tailored, each thread perfectly in place, ever colour carefully selected.

“Something like this would never be allowed where I’m from.” Baekhyun whispered into your ear. Even without looking at him, you could feel that his eyes fell on the dancers and his lips turned into a smirk against your ears. You knew he was not speaking just about the cabaret.

“I’m glad it is allowed here.” He whispered when you didn’t respond, and a pleasant shiver went down your spine.

“They look pretty.” You said instead, eyes never leaving the stage. The dancers' span, their skirts twirling with them, exposing more of their legs, and the audience could not stop their noises of awe as they span.

“The dancers?” Baekhyun asked, taking another sip from his flute.

“Pretty women look good in pretty clothing.” You answered him with a nod, a smile playing on your lips when another round of cacophonous delight rippled through the audience.

“Are those your dresses?” Baekhyun smiled, eyes shining playfully as he carefully took in the colourful costumes, the plumes of feathers, the embroidery on the bodices and down the skirts.

“Oui.” You sipped your drink, allowing the buzz of alcohol to make the night even more enjoyable.

“Why are you staring at me?” You asked after a while, the feeling of Baekhyun’s deep brown eyes staring at you had become unnerving as the night went on, your second flute of champagne now standing empty in front of you.

“I can’t help it. You are like the moon.” He smiled, head tilting to look at you from a different angle.

“Drawing me to you.” He spoke, and his hand moved across the table to hold your one, his long fingers threading through yours.

You remained like that until the end of the show.

When the night was over, and he had draped your coat over your shoulders like a gentleman, a playful smile graced his lips, his eyes light with mischief.

“We went to the bastion of pleasures, and yet my biggest pleasure was watching you.” He told you, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, enjoying the blush that flushed your cheeks, both because of the champagne and because of him.

----

Another week passed, and you were once again in his chambers, lying among the soft sheets with a book in your hands as Baekhyun dressed. He was wearing a similar suit to the one he wore to Moulin Rouge; he had changed the jacket to one more appropriate to dinner. His hair was combed back away from his face, and you admired his straight eyebrows and dark lashes.

“How do I look?” He asked, tying a black bowtie in front of the mirror hanging above his dresser.

“Handsome as always.” You told him glancing at his slim silhouette over your book.

“You will be fine, Monsieur Byun.” You said when he turned around and sent him a wink.

“Whatever you say, Mademoiselle.” He smiled, walking over to the bed to bend down. In a flash, his plush lips were on yours, and you melted into the kiss.

Once he broke away to slip into his jacket, he glanced back at you, eyes filled with worry. You could tell there was tension in his shoulders and in the clench of his jaw.

“Enjoy yourself.” You smiled at him, trying to encourage him. Whatever was on his mind was weighing on him a lot. Enough to make him hesitant to tell you about it. It was an unusual occurrence.

“It’s just another business get together. I’m advising teapot purchases today.” He spoke, seemingly talking to himself, and you go up from the bed, wrapping your arms around his torso as you proceeded to stare into his eyes. Their warm brown reminded you of fresh morning coffee and chocolate.

“Joseon ceramics have become popular among those rich enough to import them.” He spoke, his arms coming to wrap around your shoulders. Baekhyun buried his face in your hair, and you allowed him the silent moment of peace. He held you tightly against him, and you listened to his heart, sure and steady; just like him.

“Sell a lot of teapots then, mon cherie.” You told him, and he released you, giving you one last farewell kiss.

“Don’t miss me too much, mon plus cher amour.” He called out, making his way out of the room, and you could not help but smile at his retreating figure.

-----

The dinner was a dull affair. The hosts were rich, as they always were, and loved to gossip, as they always did. Usually, Baekhyun had stayed clear of the ladies gossip, preferring to sit and drink whiskey with the gentlemen, but tonight he had found himself in the middle of the gossip. Not because he was particularly interested, but because he was the subject of it.

Standing around the room, numerous gentlemen conversed, some women also preferred to stay clear of the host’s wife, considering she was a ruthless gossip and could run her mouth like no other. Unfortunately, Baekhyun was making his way to his business partner, Monsieur Park, when he heard the conversation.

The group sat on plush sofas, a small hardwood mahogany coffee table sat in the middle, home to a fine tea set, white porcelain with delicate lotus flowers painted in red for decoration. It was one of the models they carried last summer. Ironically, it was not a higher-end set.

“I heard he took his mistress to the cabaret last week. I wonder who she is.” One of the ladies spoke, her shrill voice piercing his eardrums. From her dress, Baekhyun could tell she was one of your clients. A similar dress, although green, rather than the acrid salmon colour this woman was wearing, was displayed in your shop window. He could recognise your handiwork anywhere now.

“Cannot be high standing that is certain.” Another woman butted in, and Baekhyun wanted to stop listening. Yet, somewhere deep inside, morbid curiosity kept him still, listening to those women insult you, his blood boiling under his skin.

“A Frenchwoman and a man from Joseon. In public!” The woman in salmon had screeched, and Baekhyun had to stop himself from cursing.

“How are you, ladies?” He put on a smile instead, walking straight into the women’s conversation, halting their gossip.

“I heard you ordered two tea sets, Madame.” He turned to look at an older woman, sitting between the two who were talking about you.

“Yes. My daughter is marrying into an upstanding family, I must make sure she brings only the best to her new home.” She had spoken, her nose turned almost comically upward, as she did her best to look at him with disdain.

“I hope you will be satisfied with the quality of our goods.” He had bowed lightly, a sickly-sweet smile still present on his lips, as he had no doubt anger peaked through his eyes. You always said you could tell he was angry when you looked into his eyes. He would have said something more, but Chanyeol had come to his aid, his jovial spirit lighting the mood surrounding the women.

“Ah, Monsieur Byun, I was looking for you.” He spoke, his deep voice filled with happiness as he did his best to steer Baekhyun away.

He took him off to the side, passing the shorter man a glass of scotch. Chanyeol’s large frame towered over him, shielding him from the view of the gossips. His large hand came to clasp Baekhyun’s shoulder, squeezing him in reassurance.

“Young men are young men no matter where they come from. Do not listen to old gossips.” Chanyeol’s deep voice became a murmur, and Baekhyun had though his friend sounded more as if he was growling rather than speaking

“Thank you Chanyeol.” He muttered, drinking the scotch in gulps, too frustrated to sip the liquid. He found the burn of alcohol a good distraction.

“Better to love one woman than hate one woman.” His friend spoke, his equally brown eyes soft when they looked down on him.

“Any news from my father?” Baekhyun asked, changing the topic from one unpleasant thing to another.

“None yet. I’m not sure he even knows about her.” Chanyeol reassured him, a small smile playing on his lips. He sipped on his scotch.

“If he knew,” Baekhyun spoke, his heart beating frantically against his chest, making him dizzy before Chanyeol interrupted.

“You would be on a ship back by now, and that merchant’s daughter would be waiting for you at the docks.” He finished for him, drinking the rest of his scotch in one gulp, before going to refill their glasses.

As the evening progressed, Baekhyun received more and more requests for imported ceramics. The requests ranged from tea sets to plates and bowls. By the time the dinner finished, his notebook was filled with names and catalogue numbers.

When Baekhyun returned to his home, he had discarded his coat and untied his bowtie. A few buttons of his white shirt were now undone, revealing his golden collarbone. He sat on the sofa of his living room sipping on more scotch from a crystal glass. You had discarded the book when he arrived and chose to sit beside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. The fabric beneath you was velvet, more luxurious than you would ever be able to afford. You knew he had it custom made.

Apart from a greeting and a few quick kisses, Baekhyun had stayed silent. Despite the alcohol he consumed, the stress you have seen on his frame had not lessened. You watched from the corner of your eye as his jaw clenched and relaxed.

“Are you ready to tell me now?” You asked him, turning his chin towards you. His eyes immediately fell to your lips, before looking up into your eyes. He had always thought they looked like sapphires. Not because they were blue, but because they reminded him of the sea, deep and unexplored. They hid your heart, and so they shone like precious stones, reflected light like the stormy waters of the sea. Deep, so deep he lost himself in them and found himself in them too.

“I’m worried about my father.” He murmured, his angelic voice broke, heavy with uncertainty.

“We had known about your father from the beginning. We knew how this would end before it begun.” You told him, pressing your palm against his cheek, allowing Baekhyun to lean into your touch, basking at how warm he felt against you.

“What if I don’t want this to end?” He asked, and this time, you were the one to lose yourself in the depths of his irises.

You pressed your other palm to his cheek, and you kissed him. Passionately and without inhibition. Whether the ending was coming, or if it was already here didn’t matter. You loved him. You loved him hopelessly.

Baekhyun turned violet under your touch. He felt it seep into him when he pressed his lips with bruising force to yours, and when you grabbed at him in his bed, and again when you left purple marks over his collar bones, each one a visible stain on his body; something that reminded him he was yours, something to remind you that you were his.

-----

Days passed in colourful monotone. You woke up in his bed, went to work and attended Moulin Rouge in the evening. Each evening was spectacular; each evening was the same. Moulin Rouge had become a place you had grown fond of. There, Baekhyun could sit beside you in public, show you off as a lover. Not many people paid attention in Montmartre, too focused on the idea of freedom and liberty. You shared their desires, shared the hope that one day the world would be easier to live in. You and Baekhyun fit in. The Bastion of Pleasures was an easy place to be in.

After one of the shows, when you had finally gone back home to rest, an unexpected guest made his appearance.

Chanyeol had come in one evening, just as Baekhyun rested in your lap, your voice soothing him to sleep. Chanyeol had come in with a letter. You could tell it was from Baekhyun’s father. The characters were unfamiliar, rendering you illiterate and blissfully unaware of the contents.

“Not good.” Baekhyun had risen from your lap, and as he read over the letter, he paced. Chanyeol had sat down beside you, his figure looming over you. You were not uncomfortable, resting in his shadow was a familiar feeling by now, but the expression on both of the men’s faces was making you uneasy.

“By the end of the following year, he wants you to return.” Chanyeol told them. His deep voice rumbled through the room, and his warm brown eyes looked down at you, and them at Baekhyun with such sorrow, you couldn’t make out who was more upset at the news.

“I understand.” Baekhyun stopped pacing and called out for one of his help to bring them some cognac.

“To one more year.” He toasted once the alcohol was poured into crystal glasses and handed to the three of them.

With a cheeky smile, you raised your glass, toasting with him. Reluctantly, and with a withered smile, Chanyeol raised his glass, the amber liquid glistening in the dim light, before taking a swig.

------

That night, you lay wrapped in Baekhyun’s arms, a cool breeze wafted through the open window, drifting over your naked shoulders as you gazed up at your lover.

“Let us leave. Run away.” Baekhyun muttered, his eyes shining in the darkness of his room, more serious than you ever saw him.

“And go where?” You asked, entertaining the idea.

“Anywhere my father doesn’t find us.” He told you, and you pressed closer to him, further into the security if his arms.

“Italy?” You asked, thinking of places too far away for the Byun business to chase you down to.

“Britain?”

“French Indochina?” You kissed him, a small smile playing on your lips.

“I don’t care where we go, I’ll love you anywhere.” He spoke, his voice soft, and now more than any other night, you knew he loved you.

Baekhyun had been ready to leave everything to be with you where his father could not interfere, and you were ready to leave with him.

“Let's go anywhere then.” You conceded, pressing a kiss to his lips, whispering words of love into his ears as he held you. He whispered them back, breathed love into you with his kisses, steady and reassuring beside you, and despite the chill of the air, you were warm.

Love was hopeless sometimes, but maybe this time, just this time, there was hope.

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cardest · 4 years ago

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New Orleans playlist

Hungry for some po boys? Feeling the Mardi Gras vibes for this weekend? This is the ultimate NOLA playlist, right here. Play the songs here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC182dTlE-Gii6ZOO5ZrN1Z1T

Louisiana and New Orleans, all in the one awesome playlist. If there are songs I left out, let me know and I can add those. Or come meet me at Le Bon Temps Roulé and we’ll listen to this NOLA playlist together with drinks.

LOUISIANA & NEW ORLEANS

001 Bob James - Take Me To The Mardi Gras 002 Earl King - Ain’t no city like New Orleans 003 John Lee Hooker - goin’ to Louisiana 004 Crowbar - Wrath Of Time By Judgment 005 True Detective - Theme (The Handsome Family - Far From Any Road) 006 EyeHateGod - New Orleans Is The New Vietnam 007 The The Meters - Chicken Strut 008 Paul McCartney - Live And Let Die (from Live And Let Die) 009 The Rolling Stones - Brown Sugar 010 Lucinda Williams - Crescent City 011 King Hobo - New Or-Sa-Leans 012 Concrete Blonde - Bloodletting 013 Down - Underneath Everything 014 True Blood Theme Song (Jace Everett - Bad Things) 015 Corrosion of Conformity - Broken Man 016 The New Orleans Jazz Vipers - I Hope Your Comin' Back To New Orleans 017 Willy DeVille - Jump City 018 Left Side - Gold In New Orleans 017 Necrophagia - Reborn through Black Mass 018 Johnny Horton - The Battle Of New Orleans 019 Dr John - Litanie des Saints 020 Foo Fighters - In the Clear 021 Redbone - The Witch Queen Of New Orleans 022 Jucifer - Lautrichienne 023 Danzig - It's a long way back from hell 024 Harry Connick, Jr. - Oh, My Nola 025 The Gaturs - Gator Bait 026 Jon Bon Jovi - Queen Of New Orleans 027 Cyril Neville - Gossip 028 Carlos Santana - Black Magic Woman 029 Gentleman June Gardner - It's Gonna Rain 030 Eddy G. Giles - Soul Feeling (Part 1) 031 Tool - Swamp Song 032 Beasts of Bourbon - Psycho 033 Seratones - Gotta Get To Know Ya 034 Chuck Berry - You Never Can Tell 035 Grateful Dead - Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodleoo 036 Pale Misery - Hope is a Mistake 037 Exhorder - Homicide 038 King James & the Special Men - Special Man Boogie 039 Chuck Carbo - Can I Be Your Squeeze 040 Amebix - Axeman 041 Tomahawk - Captain Midnight 042 Waylon Jennings - Jambalaya 043 Heavy Lids - Deviate 044 Red Hot Chili Peppers - Apache Rose Peacock 045 Necrophagia - Rue Morgue Disciple 046 Johnny Cash - Big River 047 Albert King - Laundromat Blues 048 Meklit Feat Preservation Hall Horns - You Are My Luck 049 Le Winston Band - En haut de la montagne 050 Dr. john - I Thought I Heard New Orleans Say 051 Down - New Orleans is a dying whore 052 Samhain - To Walk The Night 053 Creedence Clearwater Revival - Green River 054 Southern Culture on the Skids - Voodoo Cadillac 055 Bonnie, Sheila - You Keep Me Hanging On 056 Warren Lee - Funky Bell 057 Elf - Annie New Orleans 058 Cannonball Adderley - New Orleans Strut 059 Doug Kershaw - Louisiana Man - New Orleans Version 060 Willy deVille - Voodoo Charm 061 The Animals - The House of the Rising Sun 062 Porgy Jones - The Dapp 063 Lost Bayou Ramblers - Sabine Turnaround 064 IDRIS MUHAMMAD - New Orleans 065 John Lee Hooker - Boogie Chillen No. 2 066 Hank 3 - Hillbilly Joker 067 Nine Inch Nails - Heresy 068 Talking Heads - Swamp 069 Irma Thomas - I'd Rather Go Blind 070 Mississippi Fred McDowell - I'm Going Down the River 071 Dee Dee Bridgewater - Big Chief 072 Dr. John - Creole Moon 073 Agents of Oblivion - Slave Riot 074 Steve Vai - Voodoo Acid 075 Saviours - Slave To The Hex 076 Kris Kristofferson - Casey's Last Ride 077 JJ Cale - Louisiana Women 078 Cher - Dark Lady of New Orleans 079 LE ROUX - Take A Ride On A Riverboat 080 The Melvins - A History Of Bad Men 081 Floodgate - Through My Days Into My Nights 082 Opprobium - voices from the grave 083 Quintron & Miss Pussycat - Swamp Buggy Badass 084 Child Bite - ancestral ooze 085 Sammi Smith - The City Of New Orleans 086 The Explosions - Garden Of Four Trees 087 Bobby Boyd - straight ahead 088 Bobby Charles - Street People 089 Wall of Voodoo - Far Side of Crazy 090 Rhiannon Giddens - Freedom Highway (feat. Bhi Bhiman) 091 Elton John - Honky Cat 092 Serge Gainsbourg - Bonnie and Clyde 093 Fats Domino - I'm Walking To New Orleans 094 Cruel Sea - Orleans Stomp 095 Down - On March The Saints 096 Danzig - Ju Ju Bone 097 The Neville Brothers ~ Voodoo 098 Megadeth - The Conjuring 099 Miles Davis - Miles runs the voodoo down 100 Elvis Presley - King Creole 101 Led Zeppelin - Royal Orleans 102 The Lime Spiders - Slave Girl 103 BIG BILL BROONZY -'Mississippi River Blues' 104 Kreeps - Bad Voodoo 105 Dirty Dozen Brass Band - Caravan 106 Kirk Windstein - Dream In Motion 107 Eletric Prunes - Kyrie Eleison - Mardi Gras 108 Merle Haggard - The Legend Of Bonnie And Clyde 109 Corrosion of Conformity - River of Stone 110 THE ADVENTURES OF HUCK FINN (MAIN TITLE) 111 Zigaboo Modeliste - Guns 112 ReBirth Brass Band - Let's Go Get 'Em 113 Inell Young - What Do You See In Her? 114 Jimi Hendrix - If 6 as 9 (Studio Version) Easy Rider Soundtrack 115 Deep Purple - Speed King 116 Exhorder - The Law 117 Crowbar - The Cemetery Angels 118 A Streetcar Named Desire OST - Main Title 119 WOORMS - Take His Fucking Leg 120 steely dan - pearl of the quarter 121 Tabby Thomas - Hoodoo Party 122 Black Label Society - Parade of the Dead 123 Dwight James & The Royals - Need Your Loving 124 Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter (2012) The Rampant Hunter (Soundtrack OST) 125 PanterA - The Great Southern Trendkill 126 Ween - WHO DAT? 127 Earl King - Street Parade 128 Ernie K-Doe - Here Come The Girls 129 Dejan's Olympia Brass Band ~ Mardi Gras In New Orleans 130 Body Count - KKK Bitch 131 Goatwhore - Apocalyptic Havoc 132 C.C. Adcock - Y'all d Think She Be Good To Me (from True Blood S01E01) 133 The Meters - Fire On The Bayou 134 Dr. John - I Walk On Guilded Splinters 135 Balfa Brothers - J'ai Passe Devant ta Porte 136 Ween - Voodoo Lady 137 King Diamond - 'LOA' House 138 Creedence Clearwater Revival - Born On The Bayou 139 Dax Riggs - See You All In Hell Or New Orleans 140 Professor Longhair - Go to the Mardi Gras 141 Dixie Witch - Shoot The Moon 142 Ramones - The KKK Took My Baby Away 143 Fats Waller - There's Going To Be The Devil To Pay 144 Mississippi Fred McDowell - When the Train Comes Along with Sidney Carter & Rose Hemphill 145 Treme Song (Main Title Version) 146 Tony Joe White - Even Trolls Love Rock and Roll 147 Nine Inch Nails - Sin 148 Exodus - Cajun Hell 149 NEIL DIAMOND - New Orleans 150 James Brown - Call Me Super Bad 151 Jimi Hendrix - Voodoo Child ( Slight Return ) 152 Allen Toussaint - Chokin Kind 153 Dash Rip Rock - Meet Me at the River 154 Hawg Jaw- 4 Lo 155 Hot 8 Brass Band - Keepin It Funky 156 Hank Williams III - Rebel Within 157 Dejan's Original Olympia Brass Band - Shake It And Break It 158 Jelly Roll Morton - Finger Buster 159 The Royal Pendletons - (Im a) Sore Loser 160 Little Bob & The Lollipops - Nobody But You 161 Gregg Allman - Floating Bridge (True Detective Soundtrack) 162 Michael Doucel with Beausoleil - Valse de Grand Meche 163 Dolly Parton - My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy 164 Othar Turner & the Afrossippi Allstars – Shimmy She Wobble 165 Jucifer - Fleur De Lis 166 Soilent Green - Leaves Of Three 167 Ides Of Gemini - Queen of New Orleans 168 Betty Harris - Trouble with My Lover 169 Lead Belly - Pick A Bale Of Cotton 170 Candyman Opening Theme 171 Goatwhore - When Steel and Bone Meet 172 Acid Bath - Bleed Me An Ocean 173 Pere Ubu - Louisiana Train Wreck 174 Walter -Wolfman- Washington - You Can Stay But the Noise Must Go 175 Alice in Chains - Hate To Feel 176 Body Count - Voodoo 177 Live and Let Die - Jazz Funeral 178 Smoky Babe - Cotton Field Blues 179 Professor Longhair - Big Chief Part 2 180 Lewis Boogie - Walk the Line 181 James Black - Theres a Storm in the Gulf 182 The Balfa Brothers - Parlez Nous A Boire 183 The Jambalaya Cajun Band - Bayou Teche Two Step 184 The Deacons - Fagged Out 185 Thou - The Changeling Prince 186 Black Sabbath - Voodoo 187 King Diamond - Louisiana Darkness 188 Doyle - Cemeterysexxx 189 KINGDOM OF SORROW - Grieve a Lifetime 190 Hank Williams III - Louisiana Stripes 191 FORMING THE VOID - On We Sail 192 BUCK BILOXI AND THE FUCKS - fuck you 193 Down in New Orleans - The Princess and the Frog Soundtrack 194 Trombone Shorty & James Andrews - oh Poo Pah Doo 195 Whitesnake - Ain't No Love In The Heart Of The City 196 The Dirty Dozen Brass band - Voodoo 197 Joe Simon - The Chokin' Kind 198 Down - Ghosts along the Mississippi 199 AEROSMITH - Voodoo Medicine Man 200 Nine Inch Nails - The Perfect Drug 201 The Byrds - [Sanctuary III] Ballad Of Easy Rider 202 The Iguauas - Boom Boom Boom 203 PJ Harvey - Down By The Water 204 Louis Armstrong - Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans 205 Dr John - Right Place Wrong Time 206 ESTHER ROSE - handyman 207 Lightnin Slim - It's Mighty Crazy 208 Slim Harpo - Blues Hangover 209 Irma Thomas - Ruler Of My Heart 210 WEATHER WARLOCK - Fukk the Plan-0 211 Superjoint Ritual - The Alcoholik (Use Once And Destroy) 212 Stressball - dust 213 Trampoline Team - Kill You On The Streetcar 214 Xander Harris - Where’s your Villain? 215 Dukes of Dixieland - When The Saints Go Marching In 216 Kid Congo & The Pink Monkey Birds - Su Su 217 Danzig - I'm the one 218 EyeHatteGod - Pigs 219 Hank Williams Jr - Amos Moses 220 The Cramps - Alligator Stomp 221 Crowbar - The Serpent Only Lies 222 Shrüm - drip 223 Thou - The Only Law 224 DR. JOHN - Babylon 225 Garth Brooks - Callin' Baton Rouge 226 Wild Magnolias - All On A Mardi Gras Day 227 NCIS New Orleans TV Show theme 228 Skull Duggery - Big Easy 229 Harry Connick Jr. - City beaneath the sea 230 Elvis Presley - Dixieland Rock 231 Tom Waits - I Wish I Was In New Orleans (In The Ninth Ward) 232 Neil Young - Everybody's Rockin 233 Philip H. Anselmo & The Illegals - Delinquent 234 CORROSION OF CONFORMITY - Wolf Named Crow 235 Widespread Panic - Fishwater 236 Lillian Boutté - Why Don't You Go Down to New Orleans 237 Bryan Ferry - Limbo 238 Scream - Mardi Gras 239 EyeHateGod - Shoplift 240 Better Than Ezra - good 241 Duke Ellington - Perdido (1960 Version) 242 Bob Dylan - Rambling, Gambling Willie 243 Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - sAve my soul 244 Le Roux - So Fired Up 245 Concrete Blonde - The Vampire song 246 Boozoo Chavis - Zydeco Mardi Gras 247 Idris Muhammad - Piece of mind 248 Les Hooper - Back in Blue Orleans 249 Doug Kershaw - Cajun stripper 250 DOWN - Witchtripper 251 Soilent Green - So hatred 252 Professional Longhair - Big chief 253 Willie Nelson - City Of New Orleans 254 Tom Waits - Whistlin' Past The Graveyard 255 Brian Fallon - sleepwalkers 256 Patsy - Count It On Down 257 Into the Moat - The Siege Of Orleans 258 Bruce Cockburn - Down To The Delta 259 Jello Biafra · the Raunch and Soul All-Stars - Fannie Mae 260 Exhorder - Asunder 261 Cane Hill - Too Far Gone 262 The Slackers - peculiar 263 Crowbar - A Breed Apart 264 COC - Wiseblood 265 Necrophagia - Embalmed Yet I Breathe 266 EYEHATEGOD - Fake What's Yours 333 Alan Vega - Bye Bye Bayou 666 DOWN - Stone the crow

I don’t beads by the way! Hit play here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC182dTlE-Gii6ZOO5ZrN1Z1T

#new orleans #New Orleans playlist #NOLA #NOLA playlist #Louisiana #corrosion of conformity #Alan Vega #necrophagia #New Orleans songs #mardi gras #Mardi Gras songs #crowbar #eyehategod

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elcinelateleymickyandonie · 3 years ago

Text

PETER CUSHING.

Filmography

1939: The Man in the Iron Mask

1940: Laddie

1941: They Dare Not Love

1948: Hamlet

1952: Moulin Rouge

1954: 1984

1954: The Black Knight

1955: Magic Fire

1956: Alexander the Great

1957: Time Without Pity

1957: The Curse of Frankenstein

1957: The Abominable Snowman

1958: Violent Playground

1958: Dracula

1958: The Revenge of Frankenstein

1959: The Hound of the Baskervilles

1959: The mummy

1960: The Flesh and the Fiends

1960: The Brides of Dracula

1960: Sword of Sherwood Forest

1961: Cash on Demand

1961: Fury at Smugglers' Bay

1962: Night Creatures'

1963: The Man Who Finally Died

1964: The Evil of Frankenstein

1964: The Gorgon

1965: Dr. Terror's House of Horrors

1965: The Skull

1965: Dr. Who and the Daleks

1965: The Goddess of Fire

1966: Island of Terror

1966: Daleks - Invasion Earth 2150 A.D.

1967: Frankenstein Created Woman

1967: Island of the Burning Damned

1967: Some May Live

1967: Torture Garden

1968: The Blood Beast Terror

1968: Corruption

1969: Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed

1970: Scream and Scream Again

1970: Incense for the Damned

1970: The Vampire Lovers

1971: The House That Dripped Blood

1971: Twins of Evil

1971: I, Monster

1972: Tales from the Crypt

1972: Dracula AD 1972

1972: Fear in the Night

1972: Asylum

1972: Dr. Phibes Rises Again

1972: Panic on the Trans-Siberian

1973: And Now the Screaming Starts!

1973: From Beyond the Grave

1973: Nothing But the Night

1973: The Creeping Flesh

1973: The Satanic Rites of Dracula

1974: The Beast Must Die

1974: Madhouse

1974: Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell

1974: Shatter

1974: The Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires

1975: Legend of the Werewolf

1975: The Ghoul

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brooklynislandgirl · 3 years ago

Note

📝 for the answering of applicable questions, please!

~Quietly, in the Lower Garden District~

~Colour~

The man behind the counter is ready to reach over and strangle her. She can see it in his expression, so put upon by each time she shakes her head and asks if she can have another sample made. She almost wishes he would try, he'd lose more than the hour that she's been at this. That might be uncharitable of her but the man reminds her of the kind of person who, when not wearing his little vest, is exactly the kind of person who sees Beth and Anakin walking down the street together and curls a lip, makes passing commentary to other middle-age white guys. Too poor, too weird, too questionably ethnic to suit them. The kind of person who would walk faster when it got dark, or would lock up before they could make it to a door. There's more of those than either one of them care to acknowledge, and the irony is almost delicious. Except that sometimes Anakin cannot help but to be very aware of that kind of prejudice and it really takes another chunk out of his self-confidence.

"Allow me to explain again," she says softly, in crisp and enunciated haole. "I said I want a very specific shade of blue. A hint of royal with a tinge of cadet number five. Then mix at the edges a touch of Prussian and just enough Turkish Steel to give that depth soft edges. Then overly sky atop it all. Or better yet, please find me a customer service specialist who can, in fact, understand what I am looking for because clearly? You're not it." That might be her fault, she does want to paint the living room the exact shade of Anakin's eyes.

~Song~

She doesn't play as well as Andy could, and she would never be a singer though she enjoyed it maybe because it was more about intent than execution, one of the few things that held true in absolute. And sometimes neither one really mattered when he folded himself up like an envelope just so he could rest his head against her chest and instead of plucking strings, she only ran fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and she focuses hers across the back yard. Beyond the pool and past the grass. Colours blur and fade and there's a ripple of dissonance within the Tapestry to make a boundary between what is solid and inflexible and what is hidden in a space outside of the Tellurian. Words they don't use in every day conversation. She isn't quite singing now instead humming a tune that would reveal more than maybe they're ready to dive into. Other words they don't use, either. Her palm comes to rest on his brow as tender as she knows how. The other reaches around him to tuck one of the knitted blankets around him. He doesn't seem to mind the combination of warmth between herself and the acrylic, is maybe the only other person who could be cold in anything else less than 80 degrees and 90% humidity. It takes an infinite amount of patience, skill, and mana to redirect the rain to a different part of the city. He'll forgive her weariness even if he doesn't understand why she will go to bed early, sleep in late. And that's okay. He doesn't need to know. It's better if he doesn't, it would spoil the gift. 'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home.

~Scent~ The balcony door is open letting muggy air move sluggishly in through the French doors. Beneath her the bed is a little too stiff for comfort. Her laptop almost too warm as it rests on her thighs and only serves to remind her that she should probably get out of the charcoal grey suit she's wearing. She closes the screen and pulls her glasses off, raising them so they rest in her hair. Takes a sip of the wine she'd bought at...some store she won't remember the name of... but that came recommended by the bellhop.

She didn't have the forethought before leaving for Baton Rouge to steal borrow something to bring along. For reasons that she didn't want to explain because there's no very polite way to explain she's grown used to having him sleep beside her. That there's something soothing that comes wafting up from his skin the closer he gets, arm wrapped around her, leg half thrown over. At the end of a day there's his natural chemistry that mixes with clean laundry and cigarette smoke, something sweet and spicy from his preferred night cap. Sometimes there's blood. Sometimes the distinct smell of wood or metal from something he's working on for himself, the kind of tinkering that seems to bring him peace like nothing else can. There isn't an exact name for it but she can recognise it at a thousand paces. It makes her want to burrow furtively into his chest cavity and find some way to live inside of that newly hollowed out space. Maybe just thinking about it was all she needed. Maybe it's some new kind of magick trick. Regardless, she'd managed to doze off just long enough to be startled when the door of her hotel room clicks shut and he's there. Pulled out of her day dreams and turned into flesh. With exactly the kind of apologetic grin she's become as familiar with as she is the smell of him. "Guess, I jus' couldn't sleep." And she knows there's more going on behind the sheepish look, and the way he stands at a polite distance away, maybe waiting for permission. She doesn't say a word. Only turns down the previously pristine other side of the bed before slipping from hers. The white silk blouse hits the floor seconds before she disappears into the bathroom.

~Meme~ She eyes Anakin. Looks at her phone. Back and forth for five solid minutes before she just starts giggling. Which turns into a laugh.

~Sound~ It's those little sub-vocalisations that get her. Every near guttural groan, every single one of those breathless whimpers that cling to the edges of her senses soft as cobwebs or hard as thunder. There are so many layers between them, so much context to be drawn from even a half of a sigh. They are a siren song even if she doesn't know what rocks he wants her to dash herself on.

~Setting~

She cringes. "I don' wanna tell ya." He's helping her work on a psychological profiling assessment that's required of her continuing education class, which is all part of her professional development. But she's worried because it's going to sound incredibly racist, coming as it is not from a white-passing woman of colour but one of incredible privilege who absolutely knows what it's going to sound like. But she cannot resist the look of self-accusation and anxiety that creeps into his micro-expressions and doing anything else would feel incredibly dishonest. Something she doesn't want to foster in him. "Somewhere 'round sunset. Da bayou waddah look like it on fire. Dere's some soft Zydeco music goin' on in da backdrop. Air's hot an' heavy like steam 'tween lovers an' if ya real quiet, can hear da bayou jus' come alive wi' oddah souls. Dere's pirogues bobbin' along, an' you can smell some ono grindz cookin' somewhere. Spanish moss all hangin' down from cypress an' willow trees. A mixture of old spirituals an' dat beautiful, melodic pidgin dat get spoke down dere...I know is nevah really li'dat.... also make me t'ink of witch blood an' Mokole dat pass as gators... all dem ghosts an' da kine ya nevah can put ya finger on but dat give ya chicken skin jus' t'inkin' 'bout..." ~Fashion Style~

Clothes litter her floor. Flung without a care to their resting places. Some on the edge of her bed or the arm of a chair. Suits and jeans and tee-shirts. Undergarments and socks. Like some small hurricane exploded out of the closet, just with less water. There's sarongs too. Luau shirts that just aren't him. Shoes too. Finally, she steps back and examines her handiwork. A frame work of satin boxers that will caress the most delicate parts of him without bunching or pinching. An accent of which are picked up in the suit lapels and bow tie. White shirt, black buttons. Silver cuff-links. Socks that are thin as a Friday night prayer, and absolutely voluptuous Paolo Scafora oxfords in a blue so dark they look black at first glance, polished to a mirror gloss. Dior and Stefano Ricci. Famous labels from famous houses of style.

If the gala wasn't required...Anakin wouldn't be seeing the light of day and there'd be very different reasons the clothes would be laying scattered about.

But she kind of also misses that scruffy plain, slightly tattered tee-shirt and skinny jeans even she would have a hard time getting up past her own hips, and questionably aged converse. Aesthetically speakin, Anakin is ever clothing designer's wet dream and she has never wanted to be a circular scarf more in her life. "Wow. Jus'....wow." ~Feeling~

"Belonging."

It's all she says before she kisses him. Softly and sweetly, a little wet from a stray tear that slips down between their lips. Admitting this is admitting that maybe, just maybe, she loves him, too. Which puts a countdown on everything. Which means that he's going to find the wherewithal to leave her and to take with him every that makes her feel even the littlest bit real. She doesn't know if she'll survive the loss, so it's best that she make the most of it before he goes. ~Animal~ "If you were one dem changing breeds? You'd be a were-fossa. Dey are dese medium sized ....well. Dey kinda look like cats, but also...dey don't. Related to da civet but also like...mongooses. Mongeese? Wha'evah. Dey from Madagascar. Da Malagasy got kapu of a kind an' actually are sorta afraid of dem, an' wi' good reason...dey carnivorous ay-eff." She glances over. "Don' laugh! Dey beautiful an' rare an' I really like dem a lot. An' I'm not gonna tell ya any more about dem. Gonna make a new animal, an' call it a' Anakin." There is every possibility that she will do this. Some day.

~Holiday~ Christmas. It will always be Christmas. Not the lights and snow and carollers, though there's plenty of that to go around. Not the chill and dank air, not the interminably long night, not even because of gifts. It's not a childhood of Santa surfing or canoeing, and it isn't sandcastles and malasadas left by the lanai doors from Hawai'i, either. Maybe it's a touch of the peace and goodwill often associated with the season, and how he came to find her when he needed her the most. But if she had to give just one reason, it's that he brought her back a sense of wonder that she'd thought was lost when her world had shattered. He took something terrible and turned it into something beautiful. That isn't an ordinary, every day kind of magick and she doesn't know how she will ever be able to express her love and gratitude for him.

"Wha'ya t'ink about mebbe da Bahamas dis year? Get out of da city for a lil while, I promise I won' make ya go for da beach."

~Season~

When Beth thinks of seasons, she thinks of it being a mainland phenomenon. Her own islands only really have two: Kau from May to October, where everything is beautiful and averages about 85 degrees give or take, and Ho'oilo from November to April when the best tides bring in the biggest waves. It's only cooler by about ten degrees. Which is maybe why she always feels so cold so far away from home. And why she likes it here so much. She knows other places have as many as six seasons, broken up into more agricultural and solar tied patterns of weather and climate and sometimes even just spiritual nature. But taking all of Anakin into account, she would have to say... "Monsoon. It's da time of life-giving rains. But also it can be dangerous for the same reason. Cool but lingers along your skin. An' it's somet'ing I keep wi' me always, waitin' for it."

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thisdayinwwi · 3 years ago

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Bertha Trost exiled from London

The Seattle Star., Jul 9 1915

The most dangerous woman in London has just been deported as an alien enemy. And there never was a more harmless-looking person. In early Victorian dress, with snow-white hair arranged in nodding curls, Mme Bertha Trost has for years been one of the most picturesque figures in the Westend and Hyde Park. Regularly every afternoon she drove in the park dressed in figured silks worn over an ample crinoline, a poke bonnet half hiding her delicately rouged face and grandmotherly hair. It was vaguely known that she claimed to be a reincarnation of Marie Antoinette, and that at her splendid house in Mariborough gate W she had enshrined a coffin "that she might be beautiful In death." ATTENDED BY GIRL PAGES IN PALACE Obviously Mme Trost was rich. She maintained a splendid home just opposite Kensington gardens where she lived surrounded by Louis XVI furniture and superb plate. But while girl pages in rich silk gowns of Louis XVI period served the guests at madam's frequent "at homes" the queer old lady kept no servants, but lived quite alone, doing all her own cooking and much of the housework. This seemed more remarkable because Mme Trost was a beauty specialist in Bond St W.-a business woman whose trade it was to pander to the follies of the idle rich. Practically all her clientele occupied important social or official positions. After a treatment those who wished to rest their nerves could drink tea and play bridge if they lost, madame was a liberal banker. As time passed and accounts grew the ensnared clients became helpless before their creditor’s curiosity. A more inquisitive old lady never lived. For wheedling Information she was almost without a rival. But one day, after war began, Mme. Trost asked an apparently harmless question of a clear headed, debt free woman. That night Scotland Yard became mildly suspicious of the beauty specialist. Official investigation proved that the quaint Victorian in life was a German subject born in Frankfort, that she had lived 3O years in London and identified herself with everything English, but had never been naturalized. Scotland Yard discovered that long ago, when Bertha Trost was young, she stood in the shadow of Austrian royalty until her connection with an intrigue caused some one highly placed at the Vienna court to suggest that she would be better off in London, where suitable provision would be made for her.

HER CLIENTS GAVE HER STATE SECRETS The Bond st. "business," with its bizarre boudoirs, was merely a blind to hoodwink the police. Behind the trilis screens and rose-strung shutters madam could carry her schemes The Important women whose physical defects she knew, whose notes of hand she held, could often be induced to yield up official gossip, even secrets of state. Mme. Trost a subterranean profession became dally more obvious. Recently she began to drive out with wounded officers just home from the front. Then, grown suddenly reckless, she attempted to visit the camps of German prisoners in England. Scotland Yard called a halt and demanded an explanation. The truth came out. Mme Trost, married 30 years ago in Germany, was searching for her son, a German prisoner, now interned in England. Mother love had made her careless of consequences. In an effort to nullify the decree of exile to her own country she attempted to marry a British subject by special license. But the Birmingham bridegroom, who answered the summons by the first train, arrived in London just as the Lady of the Crinoline was arrested Now her long scheming is ended. For the "quaint old English lady" was a dangerous secret agent, a spy In skirts in the pay of Germany.

#Bertha Trost #espionage #spy

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lyrazehedgieboiii · 4 years ago

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Legacy

Yo, hedgie squad! I’m back with another quick one shot that I found in my Ipad, and decided to post it here! So, what inspired me to write this is the word ‘Legacy.’ Hamilton constantly repeated the same word throughout the musical, and he defined it in such a unique way. And I quote “Legacy...what is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see... I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me,” - The World Was Wide Enough; Act Two

That made me think about Sonic. I try not to think of a Hamilton crossover with Sonic, because Hamilton ends up cheating on his wife, and I can’t imagine Eliza’s pain go to Amy. Although Amy definitely fits the part of Eliza, I just don’t want to feel their heartbreak, as that’s what fanfiction does to me. I thought:

“Sonic doesn’t seem like the type to settle down, but he would need his legacy to be passed on to the future, for any villains that may rise when Sonic passes. What if he asks the woman most dearest to his heart to bear the son of Sonic the Hedgehog?” That’s right, folks. The foreplay and aftermath of how his legacy passes on. There is no lemon in this, but rated M for mature themes. If you want the more ‘mature’ version, I’m currently making it, and it’ll be on my Wattpad.

It was a summer night, and a thunderstorm had just passed Amy’s humble little cottage in the meadow, the sun peaking out from the dark clouds above. A 26 year old Amy Rose had opened up her curtains, smiling at the sight in front of her. It was Sonic. The sun’s rays were shining above his head, creating a halo in her innocent jade eyes. After watching him slowly approach her door, she realized that he was coming to her house.

She opened it to reveal a royal blue hedgehog with long blue quills. He wore a scarf, Amy personally didn’t think it was appropriate for the weather they were in. He wasn’t the only one to have grown. She wore a mature dress, a little tight, but that’s what makes her look like a woman, Rouge told her once. She had also grown her quills out as well. She smiled genuinely, Sonic doing the same. He slowly walked in when Amy moved to the side for him. They stood there, beside the closed door, the windows showing that the sun had become even more brighter. She decided to speak up, seeing as the awkward tension was rising.

“...Wow, it’s not everyday we see the hero of Mobius walk into the abode of his number one fan...” She had hesitated, but Sonic could clearly hear a faint joking tone.

“I like to think of you as good friend, but if you wanna go along ‘number-one fan,’ I’m not stopping ya.” Sonic could see the miniature glint of sadness appear in her eyes upon being called his best friend, but she covered it up with her cheery demeanor.

“Just tell me what you’re here for?” This time, he heard her mature voice, something age gives you along the path of life. She smirked as she said it, but Sonic was not here to joke. He sighed.

“I’m here to ask you a very big favor. If you need time to think about it, I’ll let you do so. Please, just hear me out.” Amy’s smug smile had faltered, wondering what he would ask of her.

“What is it?” She asked, leading him straight to her living room. They both sat down, side-by-side, eye contact never breaking. There was a different type of tension this time. It wasn’t awkward, it was the type that raised the mood and emotion within the two people to the point it started to show externally.

“I’m growing old.” Sonic simply stated, wanting to give the message to her slowly, but also fast enough so she could decide what her answer would be. Amy laughed, the tension only staying within Sonic. He couldn’t help but smile, the sight of Amy laughing brought a fluttering feeling to his heart, a feeling that only she was able to access.

“Is that all? Of course you’d be growing old, silly! It happens to everyone!” Amy chimed. She got up to get him something, before she was pulled back down gently by her waist, something that surprised Amy.

“I mean...soon enough, later on, I might die. I could die any day, and no one would be able to pass what I worked so hard to build. What we worked so hard to build. A world where everyone is safe.” He looked up to find a confused Amy.

“I...I’m afraid I don’t follow, Sonic. Are you dying?” Amy questioned him worriedly. Sonic shook his head in denial.

“No, Amy. I meant...I need someone to continue to be a hero once I’m too old to do anything.” Amy stared at him, trying to understand.

“Why don’t you ask Tails? He’ll continue being a hero!” Amy told him.

“He’s 22, Ames. He’s not that far along.” The corner of his mouth turned upwards, but quickly went back to a straight line. He sighed again. “I mean...I need a heir. Someone with my blood to continue on, fighting any villains that come to his world. What if Eggman also has a descendant, but no one knows about it? I need a child, someone with my speed to continue on.” He explained. Amy understood, but wanted to hear the favor being asked directly from his lips.

“What are you asking of me, Hedgehog?” She stood up, and put her hands on her hips. He stood up as well, stepping closer to her.

“Be the mother to my child, Ames. It’s your dream, right? Well, it’ll come true! I want you to give birth to my descendant.” Sonic took her hands in his own and his eyes pleaded her. She could never get herself to say no to those eyes. Hell, she wouldn’t say no anyways.

“Th-This isn’t a j-joke, right? You’re serious? If you’re kidding I’ll never forgive you!” Her eyes showed the same pleading look as his. He smiled, bringing her in to embrace.

“I’d never play with your heart like this, Amy. I’m serious about every single word. I want you to be the one that gives that special motherly compassion to my kid.” He whispered in her ear, seeing she was shorter than him. He felt his chest become a bit wet, and he pulled away to find that she was crying.

With a smile.~

He smiled too, leaning down to wipe her tears away with his thumbs. Gently, he tilted his head and slowly brought his lips onto her glossy pink ones. A lot was spoken in that kiss, something along the lines of:

“I love you...”

“I love you too. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier.”

“I really do care for you...”

“So do I, I want you to know that.”

“Don’t run away this time, just tell me if you’re going to run.”

“I won’t run away unexpectedly, I’ve fulfilled my boyhood fantasies.”

They broke apart, absolutely no lust featured in those deep pools of green, one pair showed happiness to no end, the other showing slight satisfaction to how happy the jade pair was.

“So, that’s a yes?” Sonic asked, one hand on her cheek, the other on the small of her back.

“It was always a yes, Sonic. I’m surprised you even had to ask.” Amy giggled. He brought her in for another kiss, and another, and many more throughout that night.

The next morning Amy had found out that she was indeed pregnant with Sonic’s child. Or children, but they didn’t know that yet.

Sonic stayed by Amy the whole time while she was pregnant, and restricted her from even thinking about battling Eggman, although she had gotten away with it many times, resulting a strict lecture from him. She ordered sound proof ear plugs, put them in and Sonic wouldn’t notice that there was anything in her ear, while she closed her eyes and listened to his muffled voice.

He dealt with her mood swings, knowing that they were normal, but couldn’t help but feel a bit annoyed when she gets all irritated when he tries to touch her, but also gets clingy and depressed when he just goes out for something like buying necessary groceries. On Amy’s second month, she allowed him to sleep with her, but she seemed to get up a lot to go to the bathroom, but Amy assured Sonic that it was completely normal.

On her sixth month, her pregnant stomach really started to show. Everyone could see that it was not fat, but a perfect circular bulge. It was obvious she was pregnant. She was forced to tell everyone about what Sonic and her did. They were all happy about it, and congratulated them. She had a baby shower that only their friends knew about. They received many gifts, most of them being unisex, some being gifts for girls, some for boys.

Amy knew that with her symptoms, she would have more than one baby, and was worried about Sonic. How would he react to that?! He showered her with love, and made her feel special, because she was. As Amy’s stomach grew, she started to feel self-conscious at how she looked, and how she did basically anything in front of Sonic. Sonic noticed her behavior changed to all nervous and stuttering when he was in the room, and was afraid that she was feeling stressed out. After all, stress was bad for the baby...well, babies. He rushed back to their house, quickly looking around for her. He found her in the bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror.

When she closed her eyes, Sonic quietly walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, taking in her scent and beauty. He didn’t understand what she was so conscious about. She was gorgeous in his eyes.

Wait.

Not gorgeous.

Perfect.

This woman has fought off and has become friends with countless amount of enemies.

This woman always wears a smile on her face, even when things are going absolutely terrible for her.

This woman knows how to make everyone happy, even if it means she has to sacrifice her own.

This woman happily agreed to birth the descendant of Sonic the Hedgehog.

Just by looking at his eyes, Amy could tell he was lovestruck. Completely, and utterly lovestruck. The sweet everythings he whispered in her ear at night were enough to get her content and energetic self back.

Next came her last month. Any day now, she would give birth to Sonic the Hedgehog’s children. They weren’t just his children, but her’s too. Her water broke just as she she was cooking something for lunch, she felt something wet. She screamed Sonic’s name, who was luckily in the dining room, chowing down on a chilidog. He ran her to the hospital immediately, and stood by her side as she gave birth to three healthy baby boys. Amy apologized to Sonic over and over again, but Sonic cut her off with a kiss.

“What are you apologizing for?” He asks, as he holds his youngest in his arms, cradling him a bit.

“This was more than one baby!” She exclaimed, but before she could open her mouth, Sonic’s mouth was on her’s again.

“So? I may not be showing it, but I’m really happy that I have more than one kid. I’m a triplet too, you know.” Amy smiled. She looked the two bundles in her arms, kissing their foreheads. Sonic knew he had made the right decision. Of course, she wouldn’t let him name any of the kids “Sonic Jr.” They all looked like Sonic, although the oldest looked a little more indigo, and the middle child had a few royal purple highlights and Amy’s bangs. The youngest had Amy’s eyes, but otherwise, he looked exactly like Sonic.

They named them from oldest to youngest. Flash, Dash, and Blur.

They would carry on his legacy.

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queerchoicesblog · 4 years ago

Text

La Vie Bohème

Hiya, folks! So, as previously announced, the wlw writing project continues after a break with a miniseries set back in the City of Lights - & Love - at the time of the Belle Epoque, at the turn of the century.

The story of Élodie and Léa continues: what’s next?

Next chapter out on Monday, I think!

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions to homophobia, reference to sexual activity (if you are a minor or it bothers you in any way, you have been warned)

Tagging: @scottishqueer

Previous chapters: Paris, Paris ; One Night At The Moulin Rouge , The Handkerchief, The Cage of Fools

Hope you enjoy it: if you do, please consider spreading the word!

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The following day I wake up late, around lunchtime. My roommates are all out: Marie left me a note saying she's out for a walk with Alain. Poor Marie, what a concerned look she gave me last night when she saw me sneaking inside our room without my coat! I had to craft a wild story to justify my attire and being so late. I can only hope she believed me...at least, she didn't ask too many questions. I head to the kitchen and warm up the stew leftover my friend saved for me. The events of the night are blurred, they waltz together in a haze: the Moulin Rouge, the Cage of Fools and the jigs I danced with Élodie, her perfume, her laughter, the violet a gallant admirer sent me, then the gendarmes, the clash of their batons, our mad run. The sad look on Élodie's face, the little kiss she pressed on my knuckles parting.

I wash myself and head out for a walk too, wrapping myself in the only other coat I have, much lighter than the lost one. My neighbourhood is certainly not renewed for attractions but it's Sunday and everyone is out to enjoy their day off. Some kids almost collide with me while chasing each other while an old lady nearby invites every passerby to try her apple tart, cheap and decadent, she repeats. Last night was the wildest night I've ever had in my whole life. After the initial embarrassment, I felt incredidibly...happy. I felt like floating on air when Élodie spun me in her arms or when we had a toast at our new friendship. Why did it end so soon? Who called the gendarmes and why they wanted to arrest those people who were just having fun? I don't get it...people crossdress every day now on the stages of cabaret theatres and no one ever complains. Their acts receive thunderous applauses and some artists have adoring fans every night. Why is it so different to call for a mass arrest? The men and women at the Cage of Fools were just doing what popular crossdress artists do: singing, dancing, making sure everybody was merry and bright. Was it because of the two men kissing a few tables away from where we sat? Nobody cared there, I didn't care, honestly. But now that I think of it, that might be the cause. Crossdressing performers never kiss each other on stage. I walk up to a hill into a second hand marketplace, hoping to find a replacement for my old coat I can afford. Could it be that my friend Élodie is a...how do they call them? A sapphic? I heard the word for the first time when I worked as a maid at the uncle Yves' client house. Madame pronounced it with ill grace, speaking of one of their acquaintances while I served breakfast. When I went back to the kitchen, I asked the cook the meaning of the unknown word, that I assumed a fancy insult: my masters wanted to play the role of the rich and the rich don't share the same language with us commoners. They invent new words, more fitted to their uptown world, not tainted with the smell of the street. The lady got all red and threw me a cloth, scolding me for eavesdropping a conversation and warning me to mind my own business. Needless to say my curiosity ran wild and I finally got an answer a few days later when I asked to the maid of a visiting guest. Could it be? The following week is pretty eventful: an important commission and Marie receiving a letter from home, urging her to go back to Aergenteuil to help assisting a sick relative. They would have never asked, knowing all the trouble that would cause her, if they could have done otherwise, her parents wrote. Marie is very close to that aunt and she sobbed in my arms at the thought of losing her and the job all at once. It took time to me and our roommates to comfort her. I told her that she didn't have to worry about the job: we will talk to the girls tomorrow and we will cover for her during her absence. If most agree to help, it will only mean a few extra hours each. Luckily, Marie is well loved at work so things run relatively smoothly, despite the boss' evident contempt. She profuses in an endless series of thank you and praises when I walk her to the carriage station at dawn before heading straight to work. We hug and I give her a tiny slice of that cheap and decadent apple tart the old lady sells at the crossroad. A little treat for the journey home, the only one I can afford. "You're a true friend, Léa. I will never forget this" she says, eyes veiled with tears before taking her seat on board. As the carriage disappears from view, I realise it's the first time we are separated from each other since we first met. Predictably, I end up missing her: we've been around each other for so long that now not walking back home with her, working side by side and sharing lunch on the staircase makes me feel a bit empty, as if a part was missing. Marcel and Alain are busy with work too as festivities approach fast and I have my fair share of Marie's work to worry about. However, from time to time, when I'm not so tired I only want to touch the bed, I pay a visit to the Moulin Rouge. The first time Élodie spots me, she runs straight into my arms, hugging me tightly: she must have thought she would never see me again after our misadventure with the gendarmes. She lets me assist to the acts backstage and I get to befriend other dancers, now used to see me around. I even fix their costumes if they get damaged during the performance. I do it gladly, even if it adds up to my daily amount of work. I usually gets cheek kisses or champagne as payment but sometimes, despite my deflections, they drop some coins into my hand, arguing that the Moulin Rouge tailor is half as good as me. When it happens, instead of saving them, I go buy a dinner at a bistro nearby with Élodie. I'm always starving but she never makes jokes of me for that. I tell her about Marie and the extra hours and, in return, she pretends not to be so hungry and offers me her slices of bread or some mashed potatoes "she won't eat anyway". We talk for hours, until I can keep my eyelids open. We start seeing each other more often. I must admit it's relatively easier now that I don't have to worry about bothering Marie and my friends are busy. Only my roommates look at me differently: I'm positive they suspect I have a secret lover. Now my day off is split between a little work at home in the morning and Élodie. We stroll down the Tuileries Gardens, arm in arm to protect each other against the cold. Élodie loves this place: she doesn't care it's overly popular, to her it's a testament to the the beautiful things people can create, an urban Eden. Who am I to contradict her? The Palace in the distance, the trees, the quiet murmur of the Seine nearby...it's rather gorgeous. One day we bump into a couple of her friends of the Cage of Fools. I could barely recognise gracious Pierrette in her male clothes. She goes by Pierre during the day. "Amélie" the other woman says, offering a hand to shake and I recognise one of Élodie's friends who were playing cards. "We've already met but I don't think I properly introduced myself". I assure her that I remember her. Then, lowering my voice as if I don't know if I can speak freely about it, I ask them about the fate of the Cage. Pierre/Pierrette frowns, she's one of the owners and had a hard time being released by the gendarmes after the arrest. The bar and ballroom is still closed, the authorities denies a reopening. They're planning a night incursion to retrieve all the lost goods, if there's any left. But so far it's hard to tell what will be of the Cage. Then, noticing my sullen expression, she adds: "It will open up again, darling. It's Paris, Pigalle: places like this always rise from their own ashes. We just don't know when and how" We all share a weak smile. The silence is broken by Élodie. "I was thinking of throwing a little party at my place to cheer up the mood" "At your place? But how?" Amélie inquiries, skeptic but intrigued. "A roof party, so there will be space for anyone. We can lit some fires to keep warm. You're all invited and I will ask some girls at the Moulin. A little feast to forget about our sorrows" True to her word, the next week, when I receive a letter from Marie informing me of her upcoming return, she proudly announces me that the party is happening: it's on Saturday night after the act at the Moulin. "Will you be there?" she asks, taking my hand into hers. The sudden gesture draws a smile on my face. We now seat together in bars and bistros very different from the Cage of Fools and I've come to miss casual touches like this. We've been very careful since that raid, especially Élodie. "Of course, I will" I nod over a steamy bowl of soup. She claps her hands excitedly, flashing me a bright smile before scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper she retrieved God knows where. Then she hands it to me. "Don't be late, I'll be waiting for you" Her words colour my cheeks rosy, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. Unsurprisingly, she lives in Monmarte, the artist neighbourhood. I arrive early, afraid to be late. I ate my dinner with great haste once back from work and spent a whole hour getting ready, a detail that -I do not doubt it- cemented my roommates' theory of the secret affair. I washed myself, did my hair up just like Marie taught me, and put on my best dress, which is nothing fancy but I am quite fond of the colour and its lacy sleeves. Once I put kohl on my eyes and some rouge on my lips, I head off into the night. When I finally arrive, I spot some familiar faces in front of the building: Léa's friends. I wave at them and they greet me with affability as if we've known each other for a while. "Good evening, Léa. You're radiant tonight" Pierrette says, kissing both my cheeks. I'm glad to see her back in her female clothes, she even placed a flower in her hair for the occasion. "Élodie hasn't arrived yet, she and the girls must be on their way" Amélie informs me, rubbing her hands. I say that it's fine especially if you're in good company. We chat, hugging ourselves and I discover that they all works as secretaries, bar Pierrette who is "an unsuspecting accountant by day, the best bartender in town by night". Just then, a cheerful choir of voices resounds in the street, approaching. We turn and it's the dancers of the Moulin Rouge. They cheer and wave at us, swaying bottles of wine and champagne raided from the theatre. After a quick round of kisses and loud greetings, we all run up the stairs before catching a cold. Élodie's apartment is messy and rather small for the number of guests attending the party so we quickly take the stairs and head to the roof. The sight is gorgeous: as the others light a couple of fires and one of the dancers harmonises an accordion, I take a moment to admire it. From the top of the hill, Paris lays beneath us like an ocean of light and chimney smoke. An intoxicating combination of misery and beauty I have never seen before. Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to see Carmine, one of Élodie's colleagues, handing me a glass of wine. It's stronger than I expect but I keep sipping it as we chat, grateful to have something to kindle my bones in the cold. A lively tune starts playing and we all share a toast to our host, who performs an exaggerated reverie in full response. The atmosphere is bubbly: some dance, others chat and crack jokes with each other...everyone is in good spirits. I wonder if this is the life my new friend is used to, so careless and free. So different from the one I know. What does she see in me? My ordinary seamstress routine, my life....is a stale dry biscuit in comparison to what she does. I'm saved by the male dance, Laurent, who asks me to dance. I accept: after all, I am here to enjoy myself and he will lead, I only have to follow his moves. As we sway I catch Élodie looking in my direction while chatting with the girls and drinking wine. I have no recollection of how much time we spent there, I remember walking down the stairs arm in arm with Amélie. As some guests take their leave, we gather in the living room and the the tiny kitchen downstairs to keep warm. Laurent produces himself in an impression of Monsieur Ziegler that elicits a general round of laughters. Pierrette and one of the girls sing one last song, a popular duet for the "last ones standing" then say goodbye. When the last guest walks out of the door, Élodie turns towards me. "Stay and help me sinking that?" she asks, nodding at a half empty bottle of champagne. Before I can answer, she's already looking for two glasses. She returns with just one. "You have the glass, I take the bottle" she announces. I laugh at the tipsy note in her voice as she pours liquid ambrosia in my glass. "What?" she chuckles. "Just saying that maybe you should take a seat, mademoiselle" I tease her, guiding her to the sofa. She rolls her eyes and obliges...then at last minute, she pulls me down too. Some champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass but I find a seat beside her. We both giggle. "To the best party host in Paris" I raise my glass. She smiles and mirrors my gesture. "To the most gracious guest, the pearl of Roscoff" We cling our glasses and I blush a little, diverting my eyes. When I look back at here, her eyes rests dreamy on a painting laid nearby on the floor. One of her roommates is a painter, she explains absentmindedly, he finished it yesterday. I tell her she's a real bohemienne, living in the artist quarter with a painter.... "An actress and a music-hall trumpet player. And I'm a dancer myself!" she adds. Then she falls quiet. She smiles to herself, a rather melancholic smile, as if she's contemplating her whole life. "La vie bohème...that's the life I chose" she says after a while. "I've never thought I would achieve that though. I've never thought I would get this far" "How come?" I sit more comfortably and she takes a gulp of champagne before speaking again. She was born in Bordeaux, a place now filled with memories of a lonely grim childhood. Her mother was, is -since she's still alive as far as she knows- a prostitute, who spent more time walking the streets than cuddling her little girl. Sometimes she received clients at home and Élodie ran hiding in the filthy toilet in the garden until they were gone. She never knew who her father was but she likes to think it was a tormented poet or a travelling artist...more likely and ironically, he could have been a gendarme off duty or the spoilt heir of a local noble with a taste for the sordid cheap pleasures the streets of the suburbs offer after dark. Her mother wasn't kind to her -one day when she had a bit too much, she admitted she never wanted a child- but provided for her. She was the one teaching her the can-can. "Decades ago only prostitutes danced like this, now it's different...but I guess it's part of the profession lore, so to speak" she laughs sombrely. "I mean, some girls at the Moulin still do that, dancing and selling their graces to paying admirers. I suppose it's easy to cross the line if you always want more and more and adulation is a weird poison. I don't judge them, if no one is forcing them to do so, they can do what they want...." She turns towards me, placing her hand over mine. I give it a squeeze. "I don't do that, Léa. I don't do that...I saw what that life did to my mother, what it turned her into and when one morning I packed my things and left, I swore to myself to ever do that, even if money was running low, if I could avoid it. I was barely sixteen when I arrived here, alone, in Paris. I was lucky enough to find kind people who didn't take advantage of me...and I...and I started to dance. Dancing gave me freedom" I don't know what made her so suddenly nostalgic, maybe it's the alcohol we had tonight. But her story makes me appreciate her even more: the world has been unkind to her at first, filling her childhood with hardships, but she fought back. She danced away from her misery with ineffable grace and dignity like a brave butterfly. "And now look at you: you're Lila, star of la quadrille" I flash her a bright smile. "I'm proud of you" She laughs softly. "Are you?" "Yes, of course!" I sit a bit straighter, as if it could give my word more authority. "You've faced adversities and you went so far. Only the most talented dancers are allowed to perform in la quadrille!" "You read it somewhere?" "Everybody knows that!" I exclaim, amused and surprised by her skepticism. Then, to prove my point, I hand her my glass and stand. I find a spot clear enough and declare astonished: "Like, I could never dance like you do every night!" And I start mimic the can-can routine at my best, that I'm pretty sure turns out to be a grotesque parody of the real dance. I do it to amuse her and I smile when I finally hear her laughing. She places the bottle and the glass back on the floor and claps her hands, whistling like some spectators do at the Moulin. "What? No, don't clap, that was just silly!" I dismiss her, chuckling. "Well, whatever that was it was...something" she shrugs before bursting into another laughter, softer this time. "Whatever it was? Hear hear, a can-can dancer who doesn't even recognise it!" I make a scene to be offended and throw her a cushion from the nearest armchair. She ducks just in time to avoid it. We both giggle then she stroke her chin and regards me more carefully, pensive. "You have enthusiasm but you lack technique" "Told you I'm a bad dancer" I shrug. The memory of the two of us dancing at the Cage of Fools crosses my mind like a meteor and my heart starts racing again in my chest. "May I?" she says, standing. I nod even if I don't know what she means exactly. I get it when she saunters closer and positions herself behind me. When she gently places her hands on my hips, I inhale sharply. "First of all, you need to loosen up a bit. You're too wooden...sway your hips, like this" She hums the melody of Offenbach and guides my movements so that they match the rhythm. Again, it doesn't take long before I surrender and follow her lead. I don't know how long we sway like this, I must have closed my eyes. I only hear her voice behind me. "See, definite improvement! Now rise your skirt up a little" I freeze and turn towards her. My cheeks warm up and I try to blame the wine I had. "You don't want to trip over your skirt while dancing this, you can hurt yourself" she smiles encouragely. "That's why you do that then...I would have thought..." I shake my head but do as she says. I bend down and reach for the hem of my long skirt then I grab it as I saw the dancers do and lift it up till my the height of my knees. "Well, that's one reason" "I knew there were ulterior motives" I laugh. "The Moulin is not exactly a convent, right? You have to show your legs to the paying audience" she explains, mocking Monsieur Ziedler's voice. "They pay good money for them" "I see no paying audience though" I chuckle, turning my head slightly. "Because you have little imagination, mademoiselle Pearl" she whispers into my ear. Her breath hot on my skin sends a shiver down my spine and my heart pounding against my ribs. "Ready for the gallop? Three, two, one-" "Wait, wait-" Before I can process what's happening, under the lead of Élodie, we gallop from one side of the room to the other, moving laterally like crabs. I understand now: I saw this move over and over during the acts. Élodie gives directions and tells me to sway the skirt as we move. We soon end up laughing again when we almost trip over a tin box on the floor. When we stop, I feel dizzy and lean back against her for sustain. "Enough of that" she announces between laughters. "Now, knee up, girl!" I oblige and start jumping on my other feet. My balance becomes way more precarious. To think that dancers like Élodie make this look so easy...I let out a shriek as I fear of tripping. She encourages me to rise my knee even higher up to my chest. "But I will fall!" "I'll catch you" she reassures me, holding my hips a bit tighter. "C'mon, Léa, a bit higher...higher...yes, like this! You're a natural...and now kick!" I follow her instructions and my kick sends the books on top of a pile nearby flying across the room. It's a miracle they don't land over the painting. "Well, that's one hell of a kick, darling!" Élodie cheers as I lower my leg. Her laughter is contagious, I soon join and we don't stop until we're out of breath. Then I throw my head back and it finds her shoulder. We're still in the same position. I can feel her chest rising and falling against my back and her hands on me. I slowly turn my face towards her and find her looking back at me. We go quiet, trying to catch our breaths. Has she always been so beautiful? This whole time? I remember her cheerfulness, the way she let me spin into her arms and listened to me, resting her chin on her hand at the Cage. How she immediately grabbed my hand at first sign of danger, the tender light in her eyes when our faces were inches apart in that back alley. I decide to do what probably she failed to do that night: I follow my instinct, without thinking twice. I lean forward and brush my lips over hers. A tentative kiss, the lazy stroke of a shy lover. She mirrors my move and our hands move almost at unison: hers around my waist, resting on my stomach; mine over hers, stroking her wrists and intertwining our fingers. The kiss that follows makes me tingle in her arms as a fire erupts underneath my skin. She kisses me again on her own accord this time: it's surprisingly tender and it tastes of rouge, champagne and a refrained passion that finally finds its way. My knees go suddenly weak and I feel dizzy again, lost in our embrace, lost in her. She whispers my name like a prayer and I spin to wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her again. Her hands run up my back, holding me close as if I could run away any minute but there is nowhere else I would like to be now. I cannot refrain a moan when her lips find my jaw and brush over my neck: they burn on my skin and I wish she would never stop. Our kisses become more fervent and fierce as we backpedal down the corridor, bumping into the walls yet uncaring of anything else than the sudden fire consuming us. Élodie pulls me into what must be her room because she kicks the door shut and we soon tumble over a mattress. I fall on top of her, letting out a giggle. I go quiet when I meet her eyes. Illuminated only be the moon light she's the most enchanting vision I've ever seen. Her hair messy and sprawled beneath her, the ruby red of her lips so close I barely refrain myself from running a finger over them. She looks up at me, her eyes gleaming like stars. She reaches out and touches my cheek. She strokes it gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. She looks...in awe, vulnerable, adoring. For a moment I wonder if that's what lovers feel when they look at each other, when they lay in each other arms: a sweet ache of the heart, the purest amazement. "Kiss me again" I whisper, begging as a mendicant even if I don't need to. She finds my mouth again and again and runs her fingers through my hair. I place one hand on her chest and I feel her tremble imperceptibly at my touch. She suffocates a gasp against my lips while her heart hammers underneath my fingertips. I whisper her name this time and I kiss her jaw just like she did earlier, mirroring her moves. My hand runs down her side: I'm too lost in her to know what I'm doing. When I feel her knee beneath the fabric, I caress backwards up her tight, rising her skirt. That's when it happens. Élodie squirms and grabs my hand. She breaks the kiss and asks me to stop. Suddenly ashamed of my hunger, I retrieve my hand and prop myself up. My cheeks must turn crimson when I mutter my apologies. "I'm- I'm sorry, I thought you wanted it too" I let her space to move freely. Hiding her face from me, she sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing hard. Then she stands. I sit and try to compose myself. "What I want....that's not the point" she sighs. "What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "Did I do something wrong?" She still gives me her shoulder. When she speaks again, she hangs her head, defeated. "This has nothing to do with you, Léa. God, no, if you only knew..." She sounds on the verge of tears but she must swallow them back because when she turns to face me her voice is less cracked even if she looks in pain. "Léa, I like you. Way more than I should and since the moment I bumped into you and you talked of fireworks. I gave you my handkerchief only as a mere expedient to see you again and you what you did? You turned it into a little work of art for me and you barely knew me back then. You have a kind word for everyone, you're helping your roommate in a moment of need without asking for anything in return. You're a good girl, one of the most honest girl I know and I..." She takes a deep breath before shaking her head forlornly. "You didn't even fully realise what happened at the Cage" I keep quiet for a moment then I speak, keeping my voice low and fiddling with the hem of a sleeve as a kid being scolded: "The gendarmes wanted to arrest everyone because there were...sapphics and men kissing other men. And people like Pierrette there" I say because I don't know if there are words for them that aren't insults. "...Yes" she confirms, meeting my gaze again. Seeing her now, one could doubt the very same girl was laughing and having a blast one hour ago or so. She looks so troubled, her eyes a mix of tenderness and sorrow. Guilt, maybe. "Léa, I...I would spend the night with you. You wouldn't even have to ask me. But-" she grimaces and my heart skips a beat, bracing for the worst. "What will happen when you hear that this is illegal, that people get sent to jail or the asylum -you remember? We joked about the asylum- for things like this? Because the authorities say it's like an...an illness, a taint-" "Why are you telling me all this?" I protest, standing too. "Because that's what happens out there! It took days to get Pierrette out of jail" she exclaims. "I should have never taken you there, I've been such a fool-" "You're a good girl too, Élodie" I interrupts her, reaching for her hand. "Don't tell me you doubt that" She looks down at our hands then meets my eyes, forlorn. "Am I though?" her sad smile pierces through my heart. "I almost got you arrested that night, little pearl. What would have your boss or your friends said if we hadn't been fast enough and those gendarmes had locked us in together with the others? You barely knew me back then, you would have hated me and I couldn't have blamed you" "But I don't hate you!" Now I am the one on the verge of crying. "We...we would have found a way out, I'm sure of that!" Élodie smiles at me, a weak pained smile. She retrieves her hand and caresses my cheek. "Maybe we would have, just like in one of those ballads chanteuses sing" she sighs. "But the truth is I care too much for you and so far I've only been a reckless fool, a selfish reckless fool. I could never forgive myself if you-" Words got stuck in her throat and she lowers her eyes for a moment. Then she presses a soft kiss on my forehead. "It's too late to walk the street alone at night. You can stay here tonight and...you can take the bed, I'll take the sofa" Having said that, she walks away. "Élodie, you don't have to...please, stay" I beg, hoping to stop her but when I turn she's already closing the door behind her. I consider the idea of running after her but I soon realise it would be absolutely pointless and I don’t want to make things worse. I stand for a moment, shaken. Then I lay down on the bed still warm of our embrace and look out into the night. The moon that made Élodie look even more beautiful and ethereal is still up there in the sky but now I'm alone. Silent tears rim my cheeks. I lay awake for hours, unable to sleep. For some reason I know that Élodie is doing the same.

#wlw writing #wlw writing project #wlw miniseries #lgbtq #wlw love #original work #paris #belle epoque

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labyrinth-runner · 4 years ago

Text

The Show Must Go On

Part of The Greatest Thing

Christian x OC

Moulin Rouge Fanfic

Read the rest here

As the weekend came upon her, Estelle found herself sitting in the guest room of Mr. Danvers' home, getting ready for her engagement party. She looked into the mirror to see a woman she didn't recognize. The light in her eyes was gone and she wasn't quite sure she'd ever get it back. Everyone was downstairs waiting for her, but she had to build up the courage to face them, for when she went down there, it would be the beginning of the end. When she went down there, she would be engaged to a man she did not love, while the man she loved was in another country. She would be one step closer towards being another man's wife and having to let go of any dreams she had of a life with Christian. As she pinned a hair in place she sighed.

"So this is the day that dreaming ends," she murmured.

"Only if you continue to think of it that way," her father said from behind her.

She met his eyes in the mirror, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," he said with a small smile. "I know how you must feel right now-"

"Do you?" Estelle asked quietly, "Because, if you did, you'd know that this is the hardest decision I've ever had to make. I could have been happy."

"You still can be," her father reassured her. "Sometimes, these things take time to grow."

"Its not the same," she murmured, looking down at the scarf she had in her hands.

Her father sighed, "His show is this weekend, isn't it?"

Estelle nodded.

"Well, if his show is still going on, then so should yours," her father advised, taking her chin in his hands. "Smile, and go greet your guests." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before leaving.

Estelle looked into the mirror one last time, studying her face, and forcing a smile. She made herself a promise. "Inside my heart is breaking, and my make up may be flaking, but my smile still stays on."

She stood, smoothing out her skirts and giving herself a resolute nod before making her way down the stairs to the party.

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

Christian made his way through Grub Street towards William Cavanaugh's house. He knocked rapidly on the door.

"What?" William asked as he ripped open the door. His eyes widened on his friend. "Thompson! You're back in town!"

The two men shared a friendly embrace before William asked the big question.

"Why are you back?"

"Estelle. I need to see her," Christian said seriously.

"It's a little late for that, I'm afraid," William sadly replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Tonight is her engagement party to that Danvers fellow," William said, sadly clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll get the wine."

"No. No, I- I have to see her," he said adamantly. "I came all this way. I can't... I can't lose her without putting up a fight. She deserves that much."

William sighed. "Come on, I know someone who definitely has not left for the party yet who might be able to sneak us in."

Christian smiled.

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

"You're mad," Annalise commented when they told her the plan.

"Anna, come on, darling. You know they'd do the same for us," William pleaded. "Besides, didn't you come home to make sure that Estelle was truly happy? Wouldn't seeing Christian again make her truly happy?"

Annalise closed her eyes and exhaled. "Alright. I'll put the large trunk on the carriage. Christian, you sneak in by hiding in there. William... you'll be my date. It should distract enough that people won't even notice another person at the party. Let me ask my brother if he has any spare suits you two can borrow."

Christian and William shared a grin while Annalise went to fetch them some new clothes. Yes, everything was going so well.

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

Estelle made her way through the crowd, but the attention was all too much. Everyone wanted to know details about their courtship, and she didn't have any. She couldn't tell them the truth, could she? No, she knew her father would resent them being informed that he made her leave the love of her life on Christmas to marry a man she hadn't even met a few weeks later. When Anna arrived and stole the show, she was grateful. Her friend shot her a wink and she nodded before slipping out into the cool January air to take a walk in the garden.

Her feet were cold in the freshly fallen snow, and she could see puffs of her breath in front of her, but she kept walking. She only stopped when she came upon a dead rose bush. A wry smile crossed her face, "That is to be my fate."

"Nonsense," a voice came from behind her. "My little star, if you were a plant, you would be an evergreen; always perfect, and always in season."

Estelle stiffened, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "You're not really here. You have a show in Paris. My emotional turmoil is just making me hear things."

Arms came around to hug her into a warm chest. She turned into him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"Shhhh, it's alright," Christian murmured, stroking her back. "I'm here now, and I'm not letting you go again."

"You... you can't be here," she said, pulling herself together after a few moments.

"What do you mean?" Christian asked.

"Christian, this is my engagement party for another man," she pleaded for him to understand.

"Run away with me," Christian begged. "Please. We can be as we were in Paris. You said all we needed was love."

Estelle looked at him hopelessly, "That was then."

"I don't understand," Christian said, brow furrowing. "What's changed? Do you not love me anymore?"

"No! That's not it," Estelle said adamantly. "I love you, Christian. I always will."

"Then, why can't we be together?" he asked.

Estelle swallowed and looked at the ground. She needed to tell him the truth. "My father is on the brink of ruin. If I don't make a wealthy match, then my sister may never have a season."

"So you're marrying Danvers, then," he stated, "because of money."

"Christian, I don't want this," she said, taking his hand, "But, she's my sister. I want to make sure she's happy."

"Your adoration for Mary is admirable," Christian admitted. "I can't fault you for that. If I had a sibling that I cared about, I suppose I would do the same."

"I wish it were different," Estelle sadly stated.

"So do I, darling," he sighed. "So do I."

Estelle reached up to cup his cheek. "You missed your show for me."

He leaned into her touch and gave her a lopsided smile. "I already know how it ends."

"How does it end?" she asked quietly.

"With the penniless sitar player wishing he was a Maharajah," he murmured, turning to kiss her palm. "I hope he can learn to make you happy."

"He'll never be you," she promised.

He pulled her in for a long hug, kissing the top of her head. He let out a shaky breath, loosing his resolve to be strong. "I... I don't have the strength to let go. I don't want this to be goodbye, Ellie."

"Christian, what choice do we have?" she whispered.

"You have a choice to be happy," a soft voice said from behind a hedge.

The two of them broke apart to see who it was.

"Mary? How long have you been standing there?" Estelle asked.

"Long enough," her sister said, walking towards them. "When you were missing, I said I'd find you. I heard..." she trailed off, looking down at the ground. "Is it true that you're only marrying Mr. Danvers for my sake?"

"You were never supposed to know," Estelle replied.

"Well, I do know, and I can't let you go through with it," Mary said resolutely. "Your happiness is just as important as mine. Besides, who says I'll find someone I love in a Season, anyway? Maybe my match isn't part of Society? Or... maybe I've met him already and I don't need a Season to tell me that."

Estelle smiled knowingly. "Young Mr. Renton?"

"This isn't about me, Elle. This is about you," Mary quickly corrected. "Now, will you please just go in there and call this whole thing off before you both end up miserable for the rest of your lives?"

Estelle blushed and gave Christian a look. "Mary, tell them that I'll be back in a moment and that I'll have an announcement to make."

Mary nodded. "Alright, but do hurry up!"

When they were alone again, Estelle turned to Christian. "I don't wish to implode one relationship without knowing for certain that I'll have a future with someone else."

Christian grinned and fished a box out of his pocket. It was wrapped in green and tied with a red ribbon. "You never did open your Christmas present."

Estelle blushed a dark shade of scarlet as she took it from him. Carefully, she unwrapped the box and opened it to find a ring with a modest moonstone set into the silver.

"I thought diamonds were a girl's best friend," she teased.

"I heard that a moonstone stands for new beginnings and success in love," he murmured, getting down on one knee. "And... William may have told me you mentioned it."

She looked down at him with a big grin growing on her face. Gently, he took her hand.

"Ms. Devereaux, would you do me the honor of being my wife?" he asked her seriously. His heart was thumping in his chest, although he knew her feelings towards him.

"Yes, Mr. Thompson, I will," she beamed, pulling him up from the ground to kiss him. He held her close, kissing her deeply in the softly falling snow.

The two of them made their way back to the party before splitting up. Estelle strode over to the stairs that led into the ballroom and tapped a glass for attention.

"Everyone, I would like to thank you for coming to my engagement party this evening, but I'm afraid you have been a bit misled," she announced.

A quiet rumble spread through the room, trying to contemplate what she meant.

"You see," she continued, "This is an engagement party, because there was an engagement tonight, but it is not between Mr. Danvers and myself," she said, shooting Mr. Danvers a wink. "Although Mr. Danvers is a very lovely gentleman, and a truly remarkable catch, I'm afraid we simply would not work because we both are in love with other people. In fact, I have recently been asked for my hand in marriage by the love of my life, Mr. Thompson, to which I said yes." Her eyes fell on her father's dumbstruck face. "I do apologize for the misinformation that brought you all here this evening. I do hope you enjoy the rest of tonight's festivities." She gently stepped down the stairs into the awaiting chaos.

Her father was upon her in a moment. "Estelle, a word."

She took in a deep breath and nodded, following him into the adjacent study.

"What do you think you're doing?" her father asked incredulously. "We had an agreement!"

"Mary found out. She told me to follow my heart," she replied calmly.

"So you listened to the advice of a teenaged girl and not your own father?" he seethed.

"Yes, because my sister has my best interests at heart, unlike you. I don't know what happened to make you stop being a father to me after mother died, but I'm tired of it! I have never been good enough for you," she said in exasperation, letting out her pent up feelings. "But, I am good enough for Christian. Christian loves me for who I am, no matter what the circumstances are. I thought you'd want me to have a love like that, because that was how you and mother were."

"And look what happened there!" her father pointed out. "Had your mother married who your grandfather wanted, she would still be alive, because they could have afforded the best treatments."

"Money doesn't matter!" Estelle shot back.

"It does if you want to be in society."

"Why would I ever want to be in a society that keeps me from being happy when the whole purpose of a society is to protect us so that we can acquire the things we need to be happy?" she asked. "The whole point of a society is to create a sense of security so that we may progress to acquiring happiness and things that make us happy. Things like love and happiness are neglected when we are trying to survive in the jungle state. Yet, society is not the jungle state. Why are we putting so much pressure upon ourselves to acquire as much wealth as possible and equating that to surviving when you can survive with less and still be happy, father? My time in Paris was possibly the happiest time of my life, and also my poorest. When money is out of the equation, you focus on less superficial aspects of a person and can form a true bond that transcends the boundaries of class."

"You are just like your mother," her father sighed.

"Is that so wrong?" she asked softly. "Mother had a happy life. The only one who seems to think she should have had more is you. It's a shame that it was cut short, and I miss her, too, but you know she was happy. She wouldn't have traded her life for anything. She had a choice, Father, and she chose you. Now, I have a choice, and I choose Christian. You may choose to support my decision, or you may disown me, but either way, I will still be with someone I love."

Estelle turned and went towards the door, pausing. She took a deep breath before readying herself to go out into the storm that was brewing beyond.

#The Greatest Thing #Moulin Rouge #Christian x OC #christian moulin rouge

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victoria-daydreams · 5 years ago

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Skylark - Chapter Four

Chapter Three

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: So I’ve been noticing this story slightly gaining traction and I’m eternally grateful for that. Sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Pairings: Collins X OC

The Tuesday date that Alice and Jack had planned led into several more dates between the two of them. For Alice, this came as a shock, that fateful night at the Garden Rouge should have been a one off thing. She didn't expect to see Jack again, let alone for him to show up at her other job two days later. Meeting Jack was a like breath of fresh air for Alice, he was like a hammer shattering the monotonous everyday life.

Alice flicked on a couple of lights and looked around her home. The flat was of an average size, not too small but neither too big. It was one bedroom with an en-suite bathroom which was down the hall. Her living room, where Jack and Alice were currently standing in was connected to the kitchen.

The living room felt warm and cozy, more lived-in as Alice once said when she finished furnishing her flat. Art lined the walls that she bought from the markets there was a bookshelf filled with novels and a cabinet that stored all her vinyl records and had her record player and radio on top. A small coffee table was placed in front of a sofa. The dining area was near the entrance of the kitchen, consisting of a small, round table with two chairs pushed in under it.

"Pinch me I must be dreamin'," Jack began, a smile quirking up on his lips. "Alice Lloyd finally let me into her flat," he finished, his tone teasing.

"Oh hush," she lightly scolded, hitting him on his arm. "I can't just let anyone into my flat," she said, walking into her kitchen.

Jack grinned at her before walking over to the mantelpiece and examined the handful of photos displayed there. He pointed at a picture of a older woman and older man who both wore warm smiles on their faces. Although it was hard to tell due to the black and white photograph, the woman was a shade darker than the man she was standing next to. She had a round shape with her hair pulled back into a bun. The man next to her was tall and slim, but had a slight muscular build. His hair was side parted and wore pair of round glasses.

"Yer mum and dad?" he guessed.

"Yes, that's them," Alice answered, joining him in the living room with a glass water in hand. She smiled down at the photo and trailed a finger along the edge of the frame. "This was taken a few years ago, but I'd like a photo of them that's more current," she added.

Jack picked up a photo showing three children, two young boys and a teenage girl. The girl stood in the middle the boys with each hand on one of their shoulders, all of them were grinning. Their clothes showed that the picture must have been at least a decade old.

"Who is this?"

Alice tried to snatch the frame out of hands, "Hey! Give me that!"

Jack laughed and held tight to the frame. He peered at the photo.

"Is that ye in the middle?"

Alice nodded, "Yes that's me and my two little brothers,"

"You look happy," Jack commented.

She smiled, "We were, still are," she confirmed, before taking the photo from him and brushed a little dust from the frame, then settled it back carefully on the mantelpiece. Alice grabbed Jack's hand and led him to her sofa and the two of them sat down. She placed her cup down onto the coffee table in front of them. "Did you still want to go out for dinner?" she asked, curling her legs underneath her.

"I would love te, that's if ye not te tired, ye did just get back from work," he answered, running his hand up and down her leg.

"I'm never too tired for you," Alice smiled, lightly hitting his leg and standing up from the sofa.

Jack mirrored her expression and pushed himself off the sofa and followed behind to the front door. He grabbed her jacket from the coat rack next to the door and held it out for her. Alice slid it on, digging into her pocket for her house keys she grabbed them and opened the door, but not before grabbing her purse.

"What do you have an appetite for?" Alice asked, as Jack stepped out.

"Hmm, I don't know," he answered, watching Alice close her front door behind her.

"Well, there's this spot in Soho that serves Chinese food that Mary told me about," Alice suggested, as she locked the door.

Jack placed a hand on her lower back, "Feeling adventurous are we?" he joked, as she moved away from the door.

She wrapped her arm around Jack, "I thought we should switch it up," Alice chuckled, looking up at Jack. "What's the harm...Mum!" she began, but cut herself off from finishing the rest of her sentence due to the woman in front of her. "W-What are you doing here?" she asked, snatching her arm from Jack.

Alice' mum shifted her gaze from her daughter to the man next to her, "I wanted to ask you to come to dinner at the house," her mum said, with a thick Jamaican accent.

"You couldn't have called?" she questioned, with a hint of disbelief as Jack discreetly removed his hand from her.

"Is it a crime to see my daughter?" she asked back, arching a brow. "And who's this?" she inquired, focusing her attention back to Jack.

"This is uh..." Alice began.

"Jack Collins ma'am," he finished with a smile, stepping forward and extending his hand out.

She took his hand and shook it, "How do you do Mr. Collins? I'm Mrs. Lloyd," she greeted, returning his smile. Jack's smile widened making his dimples prominent. "So Mr. Collins, how do you know my daughter?" Mrs. Lloyd asked curiously, clasping her hands together.

"Alice and I are-"

"Friends!" Alice cut in, letting out a nervous laugh. "We're friends," she repeated, with a nod.

Mrs. Lloyd quirked an eyebrow, "Well Alice, you and your friend are more than welcome to come the house for dinner," she stated.

"But we-" Alice began.

"I won't take no for answer dear," Mrs. Lloyd interjected. "You already skipped out on a family dinner already," she reminded.

Alice exhaled deeply, "Fine," she conceded.

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Lloyd cheered. "The three of us can catch a bus to Brixton,"

"We'll be right behind you Mum," Alice said, and watched her mother walk away and out the building, the slamming of the door echoing in the hall.

"I'm just yer friend?" Jack asked, disbelief written all over his face.

Alice spun around and faced him, "Oh Jack, I'm sorry," she apologized, grabbing both of his hands. "You mean much more than that to me, it's just that I know Mum would not approve of our relationship," she explained, shaking her head.

"And why not?"

"Because your white," Alice replied, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You can't possibly-"

"Yes I think that, because I know my mother," Alice said, cutting him off and let out a sigh. "Listen, I will make this up to you Jack, but first we have to get through this dinner with Mum," she finished, and standing on her tip toes she pressed a soft kiss to Jack's lips.

The bus ride to Brixton felt like an eternity for Alice as she sat stiffly next to her mother. In reality, the bus ride that seemed it would never end was only an hour really. But with the painstakingly awkward fifteen minute walk from the bus stop to the house Alice believed that everything was moving at a snail's pace at that point. As soon as Alice entered the foyer of her childhood home two pairs of arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

"Alice!"

A smile formed on Alice's lips at the embrace of her twin younger brothers Wesley and Thomas, it was the first smile she cracked since encountering her mother in the hallway of her flat.

"And how are you two?" she asked, grinning down at the two boys. "You're not giving Mum any trouble are you?" she questioned, a knowing look on her face.

Thomas shook his head, "No, we've been the perfect angels," Thomas stated, glancing over at his brother.

"He's right," Wesley confirmed, nodding his head.

"Boys, we have a guest," Mrs. Lloyd announced, as her sons released Alice from their embrace. "This is Mr. Collins, he'll be joining us for dinner," she introduced, Jack flashed them a friendly smile and gave a little wave to the boys. "I want the two of you to keep Mr. Collins company while your sister and I set the table," Mrs. Lloyd informed, Wesley and Thomas nodded their heads in understanding.

"Right this way Mr. Collins, we can stay in the den," Thomas stated, pointing towards the room down the hall.

"Thank you," Jack smiled, as he shrugged off his coat and placed it on the coat rack. "And please call me Jack," he added, following behind the two boys not before shooting Alice a glance over his shoulder.

"Are you Scottish Jack?" Thomas asked, his voice slightly fading away.

"Indeed I am," Jack replied.

Alice and Mrs. Lloyd both removed their coats before making their way to the kitchen. As soon as Alice stepped into the kitchen her nose picked up the mouth watering smell of curry chicken.

"You made curry chicken for dinner," Alice noted, going to open the kitchen window due to the hot, humid air and the smell was strong with curry.

"And rice and peas," Mrs. Lloyd added, putting on an apron and tying it around her waist. "So Alice, when were you going to tell me?" she questioned, turning the stove top on and grabbing a wooden spoon to stir the curry chicken which was in a metal pot.

"Tell you about?" Alice asked back, playing dumb as she grabbed plates from the cabinet.

"About your friend, Mr. Collins,"

Alice placed one plate down after another, "When did you become so invested in my social circle?" she inquired, looking over towards her mother.

"Since you decided to gallivant with a white man,"

"I think you're overreacting Mum, I do have friends that are white," Alice reminded, now grabbing the utensils.

"They're women," Mrs. Lloyd shot back, glancing at her.

Behind her mother's back Alice rolled her eyes, as she placed the utensils down onto the table.

"Will Dad be joining for us?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Unfortunately not, another late night at work I'm afraid," she answered, now filling each plate with food. "And don't think I didn't notice that you were trying change subjects Alice dear,"

Mrs. Lloyd put a decent amount of rice onto each plates in a circular pattern, leaving an open space in the middle. Next, she poured the curry chicken with potatoes into the middle of every plate, hot steam emanating from the yellow curry.

"Alice, men like Mr. Collins are not to be trusted," Mrs. Lloyd warned.

"You barely even know him mum," Alice argued, keeping her voice low. "He's been nothing but a gentlemen to me," she added, sticking her arm out.

"If a white man takes interest in a colored woman just know his intentions are never pure," Mrs. Lloyd stated, her back still turned to Alice. "They just want to sleep with us and toss us aside afterwards before they brag about it to their friends," she finished.

"Jack isn't like that Mum," Alice sighed, shaking her head. She walked to the entrance of the kitchen and stuck her head out. "Boys, go wash up. Dinner is ready," Alice announced, before turning around. "And please show Jack where the bathroom is," she added loudly, as she set down glasses filled with water onto the table.

Mrs. Lloyd walked over to the kitchen table with two plates of steaming food and placed them down where Wesley and Thomas would be sitting. Alice followed behind her mother and set down another two plates across from her brothers. Just as Mrs. Lloyd grabbed her plate the sound of quick footsteps bounded from the hallway. Thomas and Wesley burst into the kitchen breathless with grins on their faces.

"Mum!" Wesley shouted, excitement all over his face. "Jack's a pilot! He's in the Royal Air Force!" he exclaimed.

"He flies spitfires!" Thomas added, sharing his brother excitement.

Mrs. Lloyd craned her neck in Alice's direction, "Is he now?" she asked, arching her eyebrow.

Before Mrs. Lloyd could say anything Jack entered into the kitchen, unaware of the tension that was building between Alice and her mother.

"It smells wonderful in here," Jack complimented, his trademark smile on his face.

"It does so let's eat," Alice agreed, trying to hurry along this dinner as fast as she could.

Everyone took their seat, Mrs. Lloyd was seated at the foot of table, Thomas and Wesley sat on the side of the table, while Jack and Alice sat next to each other across from her brothers much and Alice noticed the look of displeasure on her mother's face. A prayer of grace was said before everyone could eat and it was led by Mrs. Lloyd. When the prayer Alice grabbed her fork and jabbed it into the curry covered chicken, raising it to her mouth.

"So Mr. Collins, my boys tell me you're a RAF pilot," Mrs. Lloyd stated, after taking a bite of her potato.

"That's correct," he smiled. "I joined as soon as the war broke out," he informed

"Jack told us he's on leave here in London," Thomas stated. "But if I was pilot I would never take leave, my head would stay in the clouds," he grinned.

Alice glanced over to Jack and noticed his smile faltered slightly, she knew Thomas meant well, but at the end of the day he was still a boy. He didn't understand the horrors of war and what they could do to a man's spirit and mind. Subtly, Alice reached over to Jack, placing her hand over his and giving a squeeze.

"How long are you here for Mr. Collins?" Mrs. Lloyd inquired.

"Only for a few months," Jack answered, before taking another bite of his food.

"And I take it because of your leave this is how yours and Alice's paths crossed," Mrs. Lloyd guessed, before sipping from her glass.

"Yes, I met her at her job," he nodded, a smile on his face as he briefly looked at Alice.

"Which one?"

"Mum," Alice called, exasperation laced in her tone.

"The bookshop," Jack lied, and Alice was internally grateful that he could read the room.

"Mmm," Mrs. Lloyd hummed, ignoring her daughter.

"Have you heard Alice sing?" Wesley questioned. "She's amazing she could be the next Billie Holiday!" he beamed, looking at his older sister adoringly.

"Or Josephine Baker," Thomas chirped.

"Mr. Collins, I know when soldiers go on leave they want to have all types fun while they're here," Mrs. Lloyd stated, looking at Jack.

"Yes, I suppose so," Jack agreed, with a slightly confused expression on his face.

Alice observed Jack's expression and looked over to her mother, starting to wonder where she was going with this.

"And I'm sure you want all types of fun with my daughter before you have to go back, isn't that right?" she finished, shooting Jack a knowing look and Jack's face turned slightly red.

Alice threw her napkin down, "Mum!" she hissed, standing up quickly. Her chair screeched along the kitchen floor. "You think you're protecting me, but your not! You're hurting me!"

Alice stormed out of the kitchen and made her way into the foyer, snatching her coat from the rack. Too angry to put her coat on, she threw it over her arm and just as went to grab her purse a pale hand grabbed it for her. Alice looked up at Jack with tears brimming in her eyes.

"I would like to go back to my flat now," Alice stated, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll be more than happy te take ye there," Jack responded, brushing a tear from her face.

#collins dunkirk #collins x oc #black fanfiction #black oc #dunkirk imagine #black!female character #black!oc #black original character #dunkirk fanfiction

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chakrababy · 5 years ago

Text

The Secret

(flashback)

Hinata held her stomach with trembling hands as her breathing echoed through the dark cave. She could also hear the strong claps of thunder outside which made her ears ring. "No…not today." She whispered and struggled to get up of the damp earth. "Not today…"

Not today.

Still breathing heavily, she let a small amount of chakra form on her knees and at the sole of her feet. She lost so much energy that even standing up was a making her body tremble. She smiled a little – shaking her head at the thought that this was not what she was expecting to happen. She was after all- Konoha's Hyuga hime… and the hokage's future wife.

So who would dare ambush her small group of orphanage nuns when they were out to help the poor unregistered civilians living in between the boundaries of Konoha and Suna?

Hinata's heart clenched as she remembered her group that mainly consists of women- and most of them doesn't know anything about fighting. She hoped that they were okay – Hyuga Ko after all was with them when she was separated from the group. Her loyal friend would not let any harm come to those old ladies who had pledged their lives taking care of the sick and poor.

But will Ko be able to defend the group when they were outnumbered? The people who attacked them in the middle of the forest road seemed to be decent fighters. Rouge shinobis perhaps? They came out of nowhere and they were able to hid their chakra very well.

Her group even have white flags raised – a symbol of peace and good will. All villages – enemies or not always respects the white flag of peace. So, an ambush was not expected on their part.

Hence the reason why you put yourself as the bait. Hinata though to herself.

One strong clap of thunder made Hinata flinched and she gripped her middle – she was bleeding… and if her suspicions were correct – she was also poisoned. The moment the blade sliced her skin – she instantly lost control of her chakra which was weakened her terribly.

She could not even use her byakugan to save her life.

Another clap of thunder – and a shadow appeared at the mouth of the cave.

They found her.

Hinata gritted her teeth. Not good… She was weak and bleeding. Not enough chakra to heal or to defend herself.

But then again, she is a ninja. She won't give up until she's cold and dead.

Her right hand left her middle and slowly touched the small leather packet attached on the side of her upper leg. Then she pulled out a kunai.

Then she waited.

The shadow – obviously belonged to a man – moved, taking a few steps inside the huge rock. That was the only signal that Hinata was waiting for. She has to score first if wants to get out of here alive. With the last of her strength, she jumped towards the threatening figure with the kunai intending to kill.

But the shadow disappeared.

Hinata whirled around wildly – looking for the dark figure. No chakra signature… no sound…. She was blinded.

"Ugh." Hinata suddenly gasped as a hand grabbed her wrist. However, her hand with the kunai was still free so she made use of it. Serving a kick which did nothing as it was blocked easily by her unknown opponent- she tried to slash and stab.

Another hand tried to grab her but she was like a wild animal, almost growling in desperation to defend herself.

Suddenly, Hinata was pushed back until her back was on solid rock. One strong hand held her right hand above her head while another one was on her left hand - keeping it securely behind her.

"Don't hurt yourself Hyuga." A cold voice said and Hinata paused dead. She doesn't hear it often but she knew that voice.

A shot of lightning outside the cave provided illumination for a spit second. But that was enough for Hinata to see who the shadow was.

He was wearing a cape – caked with mud. His wet hair covering half his face that was still as handsome as ever. The face which made plenty of women swoon and many great shinobi tremble with fear. It was also the face that hundreds saw for the last time before they died.

It has been years since she saw him – but she knew very well who he was. "S-sasuke ?" His name came out as a question. Hinata could not believe it. How…?

"Hyuga." Sasuke let go of the kunoichi who's chakra signature flickered like that of a dying firefly. This one's wounded for sure. Good thing he found her just in time or else Naruto will have a fit. He could not stand that stupid idiot making a big fuss.

Sasuke knew that the Hyuga princess and the idiot have a little something going on between them. Naruto had to go to the moon in order to rescue this girl from that mad tenseigan user and it will be a mess if the Uzumaki finds out that he did not help her when he was coincidentally around the area she was passing by.

He got to give it to her though, she was able to hid herself very well and gave him a hard time looking for her inside this dark forest.

Hinata felt Sasuke's grip lost their strength around her wrists but his hands still held her firmly. "We…we were ambushed." She let out with her soft voice. "I n-need your help…"

"Hn"

"I need to find Ko and the others."

"Hn." Again was Sasuke's short reply.

Hinata blinked as a hand lifted a few strands of hair away from her face. When she looked up- she was greeted with the Hokage's grinning face. "I like your short hair. Ino did a good job."

She was tending the garden in front of her house and was so focused that she was not able to even hear her husband came in by the wooden gate.

I really need to go back to training. Hinata thought as she dusted her hands. Naruto doesn't assign her to missions anymore so it greatly affected her kunoichi sense. Not to mention she was in her first trimester of pregnancy.

Haruno Sakura said that this time…it's a girl.

"Naruto." She also let out a smile. "I thought you were planning on eating lunch with Shikamaru and Temari today." Her husband has this meeting with the representatives of Suna and it was scheduled to happen on lunch time. "Did you finish early?"

"The Suna ambassadors are coming in a little late. They sent me a message half an hour ago. Shikamaru decided to just wait for them so we can all eat together."

"I see."

Naruto looked around their private compound. The area was suspiciously quiet. "Where is Boruto?"

"He went with Iruka-sensei. Sensei came by to bring us some of the sweet potato cakes he bought from a trader and there was no getting Boruto away from him. Sensei will bring him back later."

Naruto laughed, combing his short blonde hair with his fingers wrapped in white bandages. Iruka was more doting than Hiashi Hyuga when it comes to Boruto – and that is saying something. "I see."

"Let's go inside? I made tea earlier. I will reheat it for you." Hinata said, dropping whatever she was doing. "We can also taste the cakes together."

"Yes please." Naruto grinned again, his eyes forming a straight line. He can't be thankful enough that he was able to go home to this beautiful woman he calls his wife. She gave him a son…and another child soon.

She gave him a family he can go home to every night.

"Hina…remember that old guy we used to buy tickets for the …" Naruto paused and whirled around, blue eyes flickering side to side as if looking for something. Hinata noticed her husband's unexpected pause and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Hinata asked.

"That…chakra." Naruto said with a weird expression. That was just a very light flicker but he knows who it belongs to.

"Naruto…"

The Uzumaki smiled. "Go in Hina. Prepare the tea and cakes. I think we have a visitor."

"V-visitor?"

Naruto patted her wife's head and gently nudged her to the direction of the house. "I'll be right back okay? I love you."

Hinata was still frowning when Naruto disappeared right in front of her with a flicker. With a sigh, she slowly moved herself to the house. What can she do? her husband is the Hokage and is always busy nowadays.

Sasuke was sitting on the ground, his back plastered on a tree trunk when Naruto found him. It has been eight months when they last saw each other and that encounter was very brief.

He came back to Konoha to check on Sarada – as Sakura sent him a message that their only daughter was sick.

"Oy Sasuke." Naruto's face was angry, his white cape dangling behind him. "You missed your daughter's birthday last month you stupid newt."

"Hn." Sasuke replied with his signature grunt.

It was Sarada's birthday but Sakura got it all covered. He doesn't want to spoil the party with his presence. He may be in good terms with the Hokage and with the other Konoha Eleven but some still feared him.

Or hate him.

"You just arrived?" Naruto asked, removing his Hokage hat and sat beside Sasuke. They were in an open field. It used to be a training ground for the academy students but Naruto closed it in order to grow the plants and trees back again. A lot of trees died because it was used as the student's target with their paper bombs and kunai- intentionally or not.

Not it was just a peaceful place and people don't usually pass or stay at the area.

"Yes." Sasuke responded and closed his eyes. It was a rough trip and he was tired.

"And as usual you did not go to Sakura-chan right away. You have a wife and a daughter you know." Naruto said, feeling bad for his other best friend. Sakura deserves a little more from this dark-haired idiot.

But Sakura knew what she is getting herself into. Naruto thought silently.

"I'll leave the report on your table tomorrow." Sasuke said, eyes still closed. "Shikamaru

"Okay. Don't leave me the same one paragraph shit you always send me."

The Hokage's remark made Sasuke smirk. "Because you can't read idiot."

"You're the one who is stupid you little piece of –'' Naruto stopped midway his curse and lightened up, remembering something important. "Hey… Hinata is pregnant again. This time Sakura said it's a girl."

Sasuke's eyes slowly opened, or at least the one that was not hidden behind his black hair.

Hinata.

"I'm so happy so congratulate me." Naruto continued to lighten up, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm going to have another kid teme!"

"Hn."

(flashback)

Sasuke looked at the pale face of the woman in front of him. Her long dark hair being pulled back by the wind. Some strands though, was sticking to her face because of the tears that kept falling from her pupiless, pearlescent eyes.

"Why did you follow me here?" He asked coldly, although a part of him was dying to hold her close. "They will think that I kidnapped you."

"Sasuke…" Hinata clenched her fists. "You can't just go like that."

"No. It is you who can't just go like that." Sasuke corrected the woman. "Remember who you are hime. And remember who I am."

Hinata was desperate. She doesn't know what to do. All she knew was that if she let Uchiha Sasuke out of her sight today…she won't see him again. She knew he will get out of his way to hid himself from her.

If only she could turn back time. She would have preferred not to meet the Uchiha on that cave two years ago.

Then she wouldn't have to be in this situation.

She would be happily preparing for her wedding with Uzumaki Naruto – the love of her life even when she was a kid.

But…now…

Sasuke's face was stoic. "Go back Hinata."

"Sasuke…"

"You have nothing here." Sasuke was still acting stone-cold but he meant what he said. There was nothing for the Hyuga if she chose this path with him, only regret. The life that he was now taking was not fit for the Hyuga princess.

Hinata deserved so much more…

And after everything that Naruto did for him. He can't betray that Uzumaki again. He will die first before doing so.

Hinata bowed her head low. "Sasuke… I don't know what to do." The words that came out were just a whisper. It was the truth. She was lost…extremely lost.

She doesn't want to hurt Naruto or Sakura. Her father…everyone. "Why is it that I can't stop myself and just let you go?"

Sasuke took the step towards the Hyuga. Every step he took felt like being stabbed in the gut. And with every step towards her – is one step away from Hinata forever. When he reached the sobbing woman, he touched her cheek to wipe the hot tears streaming down her face.

"You don't deserve someone like me Hinata."

"Sasuke…we are in a dead end, aren't we?" Hinata whispered again, still not looking up.

A hand found her chin and slowly lifted her head up. The sun had just set and the shadows that framed Sasuke's face made him looked more emotionless. But on the moment that their eyes met – Hinata saw the sadness on them - echoing her own.

"Sasuke…"

"I'll always watch over you Hyuga." Sasuke said as he looked straight into her eyes, his left obsidian eye slowly turning red. "So be sure to live happy…that way, you can make me happy even without knowing it."

Hinata let a sob escaped her body, knowing what was going to happen next.

"I …love you…Sasuke."

"Let's eat at my house." Naruto said, pulling away Sasuke from his thought.

"I can't." Sasuke replied.

"Why?"

"I have to see Sarada."

Naruto nodded. "Yes. You do that Sasuke. Be a good father damn you."

#sasuhina fanfic #naruto fanfiction #hinatasasuke

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scarletgardensrpg · 4 years ago

Photo

LIVING ♦ TWENTY-FOUR ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

GABRIËL DE JAAGER is a Yellow Jacket affiliated with the House of Eden. The youngest son of the Netherlands’ Koninklijke Landmacht Commander, Gabriël defected early to the House of Eden and was instrumental in the organization and execution of the Oranje-Nassau massacre. Gabriël is one of the few non-Undead soldiers to serve in the House’s massive army, as well as a close adviser to Thalia. Although he is a formidable fighter and strategist, his notorious temper makes him difficult to work with.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violence

Thalia Yamaguchi met his gaze, and after a brief moment, turned away to wave to the bartender for a second drink. Sifting through the din of the Moulin Rouge, Gabriël settled gingerly into the seat next to her, every nerve singing. When she swiveled around to face him again, he saw that her cat eyes sparkled like tahitian pearls, and her manicured hands were laced neatly underneath her chin. Smug. Neither spoke—for in coming to meet her, Gabriël had already said everything she needed to know. At last, the bartender brought out his drink, an oranjebitter, and Thalia nudged it smoothly toward him with a pale knuckle. Drink, young Gabriël, she purred, and he could have killed her there, three bullets to the head and a crushed windpipe under his foot. But to level his gun at Thalia was to level it at Luana and Maurice. She’d made sure of that. We have something to celebrate, then, in your coming, Thalia said, lifting her own drink. Aan de koningin.

To the Queen. Gabriël knew, she didn’t mean Catharina.

- ❀ -

He was born brawling. The birth was difficult, and after, so too were the years: an endless parade of trouble presenting itself to the de Jaager family in the form of one single boy, scowling and insolent. In some ways, it was understandable—with four older brothers ahead of Gabriël, there was nothing really left to prove, only that he, too, could bite and bruise. They were all the sons of the Generaal, held in the highest esteem and afforded great luxuries for their father’s service to the Netherlands: but where his older brothers were handsome, serious boys in white shirts and chinos, who played football at their private schools and brought home immaculate grades every quarter, Gabriël ran with wolves, himself a sharp-toothed terror. How many lips had split under his fists? How many fights broken up by weary principals, expulsions begrudgingly demoted to suspensions behind doors as a favor to the de Jaager name? Gabriël snarled, bright with fury, and it took all four of his brothers to wrench him off some misfortuned kid.

By fifteen, he boasted a disciplinary record riddled with bullet holes: backtalk, fighting, truancy, fighting, vandalism, fighting. All this violence; and from what place did it come? All this rage; and where could he put it all down? They said he was hanging around wrong folk by then—bubblegum bitches with switchblades under their latex skirts, penoze runners from the hidden alleys of De Wallen, street-racing boys with wolfish smiles who kept Gabriël out hours past curfew. They said he was marked—a winding dragon on his arm, inked in by De Dame’s very own consigliere, that frightening Yamaguchi girl. His family was, of course, at a loss. How were four brothers reared into soldierly perfection, only for the fifth to emerge like some fresh wound of a nightmare, teeth bared and knuckles bloody? Even Gabriël could not have put a name to his recklessness, his enduring love affair with adrenaline, his need to throw the first punch, always—only that he was certain the world would swallow him whole, if he were even a little softer. He had not thought it possible, ever, to be soft. De Jaagers were cold machinery, were war rampages—what nervy soul dared to ask gentleness of him?

In the end, there were two. The sun princess, who spotted him from across the expanse of a palace courtyard and, like a barnacle, attached herself henceforth to him with comedic determination—and the moon prince, sapphire-eyed and erudite, who had merely swept his gaze across the dragon tattoo with disinterest, before turning to go. Neither of them afraid. They had played together as children, once, and so now played together again, even as the Scarlet Death wreaked havoc from what felt like a million miles away: Gabriël grumbling in the gardens, dragged along by a glowing Luana to admire the daffodils; Gabriël mussing Maurice’s pale hair by the waterfront, telling him, I’d be good, for you; Gabriël driving his fist into the pretty jut of Thalia’s face after she’d given her sick ultimatum. I never knew you to be a fool, she’d laughed, almost maniacal, stumbling to her feet with a hand cradled to her cheek. You’ll help my men into the palace, or we’ll blow it up from the outside. I’m offering you a choice and a chance. Aren’t I merciful? Gabriël lunged again, but this time, she moved like quicksilver. Click.

Listen, kid, Thalia purred. One hand leveled the gun to his temple, steady as a heartbeat—the other dug its nails into his shoulder, where the dragon she’d inked into him sprawled.

Gabriël listened.

CONNECTIONS

LUANA & MAURICE – HIS SORROWS, HIS LOVES. Here are two truths, and a lie. Truth number one. He loves them. Truth number two. He is responsible for the blood. And the lie? He regrets it. There was, truly, no other alternative that would save them from the same fate their family suffered: seven years ago, they were, all three of them, teenagers helpless to the machinations of politicians and killers. Agostina was hungry for a power vacuum, Thalia was happy to create it—and the rest is bitter, bitter history. There is, of course, an abundance of history between he and the royal twins. He never did return Luana’s feelings perfectly, but grew to love her all the same for the kindnesses she showed him, and for the countless hours they spent together at her whimsical behest—indeed, it was difficult not to grow fond of someone so effortlessly charismatic. As for Maurice...that is more complicated. They resembled something closer to good, true friends: shared interests, shared silences, shared understanding of the uglier things in life. For Gabriël, he had seen in precocious, careful Maurice a future king—someone to swear loyalty to and serve, as his father served Catharina. Perhaps, they were standing at the precipice of something more than friends, too—but all that is gone, now. The twins, who have recently returned with hollow faces and hunted eyes, hate him for a treasonous crime he did commit. He will not attempt to argue otherwise.

THALIA – A THOUSAND DEBTS AND GRIEVANCES. In the beginning, they were friends. It was hard not to feel heady with power when Thalia Yamaguchi claimed she liked you: she was a striking woman, rumored to inherit the penoze someday and already possessing the cruelty and efficiency required to lead the Netherlands’ most powerful crime ring. She’d shown him every nook and cranny of Amsterdam that was worth exploring: secret passageways in and out of cartel territory, underground fighting pits, glittering clubs, smoky brothels, stretches of urban streets where initiates lounged against the brick like neon demons. When she’d offered to mark him, Gabriël had accepted with awe and pride. Now you’re tied to me forever, she’d mused, etching her tattoo into his shoulder—and he had laughed, not understanding she was serious. Gabriël may have been the instrumental turncoat, but Thalia was always the originating mastermind behind the massacre, understanding it would take nothing less than the annihilation of an ancient family line to ensure her good standing in Agostina’s new empire. Gabriël hates her for it, of course—but finds he can’t fully commit to his rage in this one regard. Thalia had offered an opportunity for Gabriël to save Luana and Maurice, promising she’d turn a blind eye if he could make arrangements for them to leave Amsterdam forever. It is not a kindness, exactly—but it was not something a completely heartless woman would have concerned herself with.

IVONNE – THE ACE. She’s the PYTHIA. Gabriël knows this because he had, painstakingly, traveled to London in the days leading up to the massacre in search of one Walpurga Albert—only to find her creation, Ivonne, instead: wrist-deep in carnage, lips stained in unspeakable sin, head cocked to the side as she regarded him with calm, intelligent eyes. He had asked of her what he couldn’t trust to ask of any other soul in Amsterdam: save the children. And this she accomplished, with a shaking of hands and exchanging of goods. You owe me a debt, now, Ivonne had said. Someday, I’ll call on you to repay it. Gabriël isn’t necessarily interested in whatever strange agenda she’s pursuing, but he feels she is someone to keep an eye out on. He’s upset with her for not ensuring the twins would never return, as this puts them back in danger—but finds there’s little he can do to ask for a second favor. He is already indebted to her, and this makes him uncomfortable. Debts are the currency of the PYTHIA; it feels uneasy to know she could call on him at any moment, and he would be likely forced to do her bidding.

OPEN ♦ FC: GERON MCKINLEY

#gabriel #l #o #house #all #lsrpg #lsrp

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isitgintimeyet · 5 years ago

Text

Letting Go

AO3

Happy Thursday! Thanks for reading and all your support, two more to go after this. Hope you enjoy!

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta

And @happytoobserve for the encouragement

Chapter 14: Hello Again

Hello, again, hello Just called to say hello I couldn't sleep at all tonight And I know it's late I couldn't wait

Neil Diamond, Alan Lindgren

A sense of déjà vu crept over Claire as she scrambled around on the office floor, searching through the piles of papers emptied from her filing cabinet. The one certificate -- her medical degree from Glasgow University -- that she needed for her job applications and she couldn’t find it. Although she now knew exactly where it must be… back in the safe in the loft… at Uncle Lamb’s house.

********

Jocasta opened the front door and welcomed Claire warmly into the house. She led the familiar way into the kitchen.

“Ye’ll have a brew afore ye go and find yer certificate, will ye no’? Murtagh will be in shortly. He’s just planting up some tubs fer the garden.”

Claire gazed out of the window and watched as Murtagh carefully placed a large terracotta pot, full of a riot of brightly coloured pansies, on the ground next to the swing. Instinctively, she gave a slight smile and turned to Jocasta.

“You know, when I came to live here after my parents died, that swing was the first thing that Uncle Lamb gave to me.”

“Ah, I ken it must hold many memories fer ye. Murtagh’s godson, Jamie, reckoned it must be important… tae leave it in the garden, even though it’s no’ been used fer years.” Jocasta glanced across at Claire, who was again turned towards the window.

**********

Eight years ago

“Ye ken, at Lallybroch, I’ll build a swing fer our bairns. Weel, more than one swing. We dinna want them tae be fighting over it. Swings and a seesaw and a wee climbing frame… mebbe a treehouse. There’s an old tree…”

“Wow, Jamie, you have this all planned, don’t you?”

“Aye. Do ye no’ think about these things, about the future?”

“Well, yes, but more generally. I want us to be together, I want to be a qualified surgeon. More than that I hadn’t planned. Who knows what will happen?”

“I ken. We’ll be together at Lallybroch. I’ll always want ye with me.”

**********

Murtagh joined them at the kitchen table as Jocasta poured three mugs of tea and placed the biscuit tin on the table. Murtagh opened it, and after offering it to Claire, helped himself to a couple of chocolate digestives.

He sighed contentedly. “Ah, there’s nothing better in the afternoon than a cup of hot tea and a chocolate biscuit. And nowadays we seem tae have more biscuits in the tin than we used tae, Jocasta?”

“Aye, weel, that’ll be because Jamie’s no’ been here as much as he was. He’s a devil fer all the wee snacks. He can go through ma pantry like a swarm of locusts.”

“Ye’re not wrong. Jamie, he’s ma godson, ye ken,” Murtagh explained to Claire. “He’s been visiting with us a lot, up until fairly recently.”

Claire tried to focus on her mug of tea, desperate not to let any emotion show on her face.

Murtagh continued between mouthfuls of biscuit. “Aye, he was here regular a while back. And I kent there must have been a lass involved tae be driving from Lallybroch so much. But nae more, apparently.”

He paused, brushing a couple of stray biscuit crumbs from his beard and took a swig of tea. “He admitted it last time he was here, that there had been a lass he had his eye on, wanted it tae go further but it wasna any use. She was with someone else and now it’s too late.”

Claire tried to relax and keep her breathing steady. Jocasta watched her out of the corner of her eye.

“And…” Jocasta prompted. “Did Jamie no’ have anything more tae say about it?”

“Weel, here’s the thing. He kent her a long time ago, afore he went tae America. And now he’s back but she’s moving away with a new job. It’s a shame, it’s time he settled down. He needs a good woman...”

“Are ye ok, dear? Ye’ve gone awfa pale.” Jocasta laid a hand gently on Claire’s arm.

“Er, yes… I’ve just… it’s my blood sugar.”

“Aye, of course, that must be it. Have a biscuit, dear, and we can go and get that certificate.”

***********

With the certificate safely in her bag, Claire made her way into the kitchen to say goodbye. Jocasta was still in there, now busy peeling potatoes. Murtagh had returned to the garden to continue the planting.

“Thanks for this. Sorry I had to disturb you. So, goodbye.”

Jocasta wiped her hands on her bright floral apron. “Will ye no’ sit down a minute? I wonder if we could have a wee chat.”

Claire sat down at the table. “Oh, is there a problem with the house?”

“Och no, the house is fine. We love living here. It’s, weel, I hope ye dinna mind me asking, but ye said on the phone ye needed the certificate fer a job. Are ye moving away tae a new hospital?”

“Possibly… er… there may be opportunities elsewhere for me… nothing’s been decided yet… I’m just exploring… you know…” Claire’s voice tailed off as she looked down at her hands, unwilling to let Jocasta see the truth on her face.

“And ye’re no’ planning on leavin’ because of a man?”

Claire shook her head, fighting back tears.

“Claire dear, I’m sure this is none of ma business, but I canna help but ask… is it ye Jamie was talking about? Did ye know each other years ago?”

Claire thought for a moment before answering truthfully. “I did know Jamie before he went to America, but we sort of lost touch. What made you ask?”

“I dinna ken… I suppose it was a few things. The way Jamie reacted when I spoke about moving that swing, the way he somehow kent his way around this house without being shown, the shocked way ye reacted when I mentioned Jamie’s Da. But I’m guessing ye were more than friends?”

Jocasta walked over to the fridge and poured a glass of water. Sitting down, she pushed the glass in front of Claire. “Here ye go. Do ye ken how Jamie feels about ye? Is that why ye’re planning on moving?”

“I thought… I thought… when we met -- by chance -- he was so cold to me. We hadn’t parted on good terms eight years ago. He has become friendlier to me.” She blushed remembering their night together. “But I thought he was keen on our friend Anna and that’s why he wasn’t around so much now that Anna has a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Claire, I dinna think that's the reason at all. Now, if ye are sure ye want tae move away, or if ye have a new man, that’s fine. I only wanted to let ye know what I think… Did I do wrong?”

“No, Jocasta.” Claire now made no attempt to stop the tears from flowing. “You didn’t do wrong.”

************

Claire’s patience was beginning to wear thin. So far she had rung John’s mobile half a dozen times. Each time it had gone straight to voicemail. She had left three messages (John, it’s Claire, can you give me a call please… John, call me as soon as you get this… John, I need to talk to you urgently) and left similar messages on text, WhatsApp and Messenger. Finally she had bypassed technology and run downstairs to stick a handwritten message on his front door.

Claire knew that Jocasta would have willingly given her Jamie’s phone number, or that she could simply Google a phone number for the Lallybroch stables. But she wanted to know exactly what John had said to Jamie. Plus, she did not think that she wanted to talk to Jamie over the phone.

She wandered into the kitchen, randomly opening cupboards, not quite sure what she was looking for. Finally, she decided to occupy herself while waiting for John by baking scones from a recipe she knew by heart. Indeed, the recipe was one of the first Claire had used when trying to forget her broken heart eight years ago.

The scones were baking in the oven, their comforting smell filling the flat as she heard a knock at the door. Claire rushed to answer it, almost tripping over a pair of discarded shoes in her haste.

John stood in the doorway, his face etched with worry. “Claire, what’s the matter? I came as soon as I got your note. Did you ring me? I’m sorry, my phone needs charging.”

Claire led him into the living room, suddenly feeling slightly foolish and incredibly over dramatic. This wasn’t a matter of life and death. Or maybe it was… the final death of any lingering dream she may have, forcing her into a new life away from Glasgow.

She indicated for John to sit while she perched on the arm of a chair, too tense to relax.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, John. It’s just something I need to know. Have you mentioned to anybody my plans to move away?”

“No, why? Has the hospital found out? Are they making it awkward for you? It wouldn’t have come from me. I haven’t told anybody… oh…” John stopped.

“Well, something did slip, but there’s no way it could have got back to the hospital. I was chatting to Jamie a couple of weeks ago, and he was joking about the English emigrating to Scotland and accidentally I may… actually I did… mention that there would be one less English immigrant in this city as, chances are, you are moving away for a new job. But that was it, I swear, I’m sorry. Somebody else must have said something to your bosses, it that’s what this is about.”

A kaleidoscope of butterflies started in Claire’s stomach at John’s confirmation that Jamie knew about her plans. “No, that’s fine,” she reassured John. “I know you haven’t told anyone at the hospital.”

Whilst this was the absolute truth, Claire decided not to elaborate on the real reason for her question and to let John think her issue was with the hospital.

John stood up. “If there’s nothing else, and you’re ok, I need to go. I’ve got loads of reading... work stuff to do.”

Claire pulled nervously at her lip with her fingers. “I would like to ask a favour… but you can say no if you want.” She hesitated before making the decision. “Could I borrow your car today, please? I’ll pay the extra insurance and fill up with petrol. There’s just something I need to do, somewhere I need to go. I’ll bring it back late tonight.”

“Hmm, a Friday evening assignation, hey? Sounds intriguing.”

“John, I promise I will tell you all about it tomorrow. So, what do you say?”

John sighed exaggeratedly and smiled. “You’re on, Claire. Call in on your way out for the keys. I’ll ring the insurance and make the arrangements.”

**********

Claire had set the sat-nav with the address for Lallybroch, but, in reality, that was unnecessary. The route up to the Highlands was as familiar as it ever had been. Some sort of muscle memory took over, her brain automatically recognising where to turn, where to brake, where to give way. This left her free to consider her actions.

Claire prided herself on never making rash decisions, always weighing up all options, and considering all outcomes before taking action. There had been one notable exception, of course, when all rational thought had been discarded as quickly and carelessly as her underwear.

But now, as she drove closer and closer to Lallybroch, she wondered what exactly she was doing. She hadn’t weighed up all options, considered all outcomes. What if Jocasta was wrong? What if it wasn’t her he had been avoiding? What if he wasn’t even at Lallybroch? Claire had been so intent on this grand, dramatic gesture, nothing else had been considered. There was no safety net.

Claire turned off the road and drove slowly along the drive. She passed the turning for the stables and offices and decided to go to the house first. Pulling into a parking space in front of the house, she was relieved to see Jamie’s sports car there. No other cars were around.

She clambered out of the mini and stood clutching her Tupperware box of scones, unsure where to go first. The house looked unchanged, the solid grey stone softened by the purple flowering wisteria climbing up the walls. Her feet crunched on the gravel as she moved closer, but... front door or back door… visitor or family?

She started for the front door as, from the side of the house, she heard footsteps. Suddenly, Jamie came round the corner. He didn’t see her at first, being occupied with his phone. He was not dressed for company -- his black jodhpurs and riding boots were splattered with mud, the pocket of his gilet was torn and his polo shirt was faded with age. Claire thought she had never seen him look so handsome.

Jamie looked up and saw her. There was a moment of silence.

Finally, Claire spoke. “Hello, Jamie.”

Jamie gave a small smile. “Hello.”

#outlander fanfic #outlander fan fiction #Letting Go #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #chapter 14

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ribbonshades · 5 years ago

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☾ identity

It was much harder than any other game Charles had played, and he didn’t think he would win. It was days of willing his frail body to keep running away from Noise and Reapers, hiding in the alleyways of London and ducking into store fronts to survive. No matter where he went, though, he knew that the Composer had her eyes on him the whole time and that she decided arbitrarily who wouldn't move on at the end of each day, anyway. Luckily for him, she seemed to have a soft spot for the shy, defenseless ones. Soft to the point of being rotten, probably.

"It's Charles," he'd mumble every time she got his name wrong.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Your name is written [REDACTED] in your soul, you see. It's nothing personal, love." Eliza waved her continuous mistake off, making his heart sink to his stomach. But he was too timid to say anything more.

"You're so precious, [REDACTED]," she'd say, insistently reaching forward and brushing her thumb over his cheek. He flinched away from the touch, only ending up with her repeating the process, more roughly this time. "I love mixed Asian girls, I can't wait to doll you up," she went on. Charles felt numb, ice seeping in his bones. She'd smile serenely and bid him well on the day's mission. Day after day, he wondered if he should have joined Mom and Dad if it meant sparing him this.

In the end, she and her preferential treatment were the only reasons he survived the Game. Someone he didn't recognize stood next to her when the end of it came. They looked otherworldly, high strung, sympathetic, tired. They reminded him of the only teacher he had that referred to him as a boy. He felt like he could trust them.

"Charles, correct?" the newcomer said. His face brightened and he nodded. "Ah, good. Well, congratulations on winning the Game. It has been quite a week, mm?"

Eliza was nearly bubbling over with excitement, already her basket was full of 5 pairs of new, lamp shaped wings and Charles could feel that she wanted him to be her sixth. He swallowed and tried to keep his eyes up on the stranger in front of him.

"You may come back to life, or you may live the rest of your existence in the London UG, as a Reaper. What would you like to do?" the figure said.

"Uhm… I… have a question…" Charles mumbled.

"Yes, dear?"

"My parents… they're gone, right…?" he said, swallowing back heavy tears in his throat. The stranger gave a small, weary sigh.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Do you have other family that would take you in?" they asked, their brow knit with the slight worry they allowed themself to show.

"... No," Charles exhaled. He truly didn't know what would be the better option. If he went back to the RG, he would be forced to live as someone he wasn't, without his medications that served as his lifeline. He may even be strong enough to end it all, if it came to that point. But if he stayed in the UG, while he would still struggle to live as Charles, his body would stay the same. He could escape, one day. And, well, if it didn't go favourably, he supposed he had the option of ending it all then, too.

Charles shivered. Eliza was watching him with wide, glassy blue eyes, her silver hair in curls framing her face.

"I'll… become a Reaper," he said, looking up at the angelic figure with tears welling in his eyes.

"... Alright. If that is what you wish, Charles."

-x-

He was whisked into a whirlwind of a first few days as a Reaper. He was given a dormitory to live in, a small one bedroom with a communal bathroom, the wings separated by gender. His closet was full of tartan skirts and blazers that he resented, the desk piled high with books on the UG, Reaper powers, and the history of London. As soon as he was settled and dressed appropriately in the wrong gender’s uniform, he was subjected to various tests that drew out his Reaper power and tested his Noise Form.

"Shadow powers? Oh, that is lovely, [REDACTED], I've been needing a new Reaper in the Espionage department," Eliza gushed. The pile on his desk grew higher with texts on spying and assassination techniques. He was assigned a number, used in place of his old name when necessary. He almost liked the number better.

His only respite was Allen, the only person who seemed to be able to keep Eliza in check. Charles couldn't quite tell what gender they were either, though Eliza referred to them as a woman, as Alexandra. He wondered if that was the reason why they were the only one to call him Charles. He decided he liked them, and he looked forward to spending time with them, whenever he could, and upon seeing the amount of work they did for the city, he gained a great respect for them.

"Say, have you ever wanted to alter your appearance or anything?" they had asked one day while they were eating crumpets for afternoon tea time.

"Ah– Uhm, sometimes…" he responded, nearly dropping the butter knife into his cup. They knew very well that he did, why were they bringing this up?

"You've always seemed a tad uncomfortable in your skin, Charles. What would you change?" They smiled knowingly.

"Well… I guess I want to look cooler… like an albino bunny?" he said, tilting his head.

"Aha, bunnies are cute though!" Allen smiled, leaning back. He felt his lips move on their own, cracking a small smile himself.

Other than those rare, fleeting moments, Charles endured his day to day, undergoing harsh training to optimize his powers and to sharpen his skills as an assassin. He was showered with praise and unwanted affection from Eliza, with comparisons to various female, Asian assassins in media.

"Oh, but you wouldn't turn against me like some of them do, will you, love?" Eliza smiled, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the forehead.

The thought never occurred to him, but after he mulled over the possibility, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

-x-

Once it was all done, Charles left a note on his pillow addressed to Allen and fled the city. He sunk into his shadow the instant the rest of Eliza's body dissipated into static, only narrowly catching the salute of gratitude from the newly crowned Composer. Truly, there was no real threat to staying in London, but he didn't want to wait around to be employed by the new monarch and to spend eternity repeating the last two years. He appeared somewhere outside the bounds of the city, where he wasn't sure if his powers would be as reliable anymore. With nowhere else to go, he did what any respectable Brit on the run would do and boarded a train to Paris. RG or UG, he knew any Parisian would help him in his escape if they knew he was trying to get away from London.

With some luck and a shaky conversation in half English and half French, he ran into a winged man who he knew would be able to help him. Charles briefly explained an embellished version of the truth, though the man connected his story of "I was wrapped up in a political scandal" with the news of Queen Eliza meeting her demise and was delighted to help him.

"Please, do stay 'ere!" the man offered, "I can only 'ope to assist ze one who ‘az liberated London!"

"Uhm… Do you know who could change my appearance, maybe…?" Charles asked, tugging on his hair nervously.

Somehow, Paris was a vain enough district that there were powerful Reapers who's sole purpose was cosmetic alterations. He was face to face with yet another Reaper whose gender he couldn't determine at first glance.

"Ah… S'il vous plaît, uhm… Cheveux… court? Courts? Et blanc? Blanche? E-et, les yeux… rouge," he stuttered, holding up a picture of the haircut he wanted. The Reaper clicked their tongue and nodded.

"Rouge vif ou foncé?" they responded, and jesus christ Charles would have to learn French fast if he wanted to stay here.

"Vif… ah… comme ça, ici–" Charles pointed at a bright red fabric scrap hanging from the Reaper's belt. They gave a thumbs up and gestured for him to get onto the table and lay down. The procedure itself was quick and painless, and he couldn't help but smile when a mirror was brought to show him his new reflection.

"C'est tout pour vous aujourd'hui?" the Reaper asked, tilting their head. Charles took a breath. He had blindly trusted Allen and gotten favourable results there, so…

"Ah, euh… Aussi… Ici…?" Shakily, Charles pointed his hand downwards to the bottom of his torso. The Reaper watched him and waited for him to continue.

"... Efface-là, s'il vous plaît."

-x-

He spent almost two years district hopping across Europe, learning several languages along the way. It was wonderful, having freedom. He relished being able to dress how he wanted, being able to use his powers for something less ugly for once, focusing on learning how to configure his stealth powers into various cute animal forms. His tour ended in France again, this time in the southern city of Marseille as a bunny hopping around the gardens flanking the mansions. The day was just beginning, and Charles was just basking in the sun for a spell when–

"Papa! Un lapin!"

He peeked his eyes open to see a young boy run out of the terrace area towards him. A girl stood at the door warily, watching her brother move with such little restraint over a grey lop in the grass. Charles was picked up into the boy's arms and brought inside, placed on a cushion and fought for in frantic, accented French that he couldn't quite understand fully. It seemed that the mother was trying to argue that they couldn't take care of a bunny, and the boy fired back that they should at least take care of him until they find the owner. It was one phrase in specific that had him, though.

"Nous pouvons être sa famille!"

At that, he burrowed closer to the boy. The mother conceded and instructed a butler to purchase supplies to temporarily house a bunny. In the meantime, the boy hugged him, victorious.

"Je m'appelle Jean, Monsieur Lapin! Et vous?" the boy grinned. His sister sighed and came over to pet him on the head, too. Charles wondered if he could imprint an RGer from this form, seeing that he asked his name– so he tried it, suggesting his own name in Jean's head.

"Hm… il ressemble à… Charles!" Jean grinned and squeezed Charles more, the latter utterly confused at how it worked, despite the French accent making his name something quite different. Moreover, considering how Charles was very much not a French name in the least, it will be interesting to see how he justifies this to his parents.

Nobody minded, though, and the missing bunny posters went largely ignored. Once two months had passed, the father patted his head and announced that the rabbit was now part of the Duvert family.

Charles' nose wiggled happily at having one again.

-x-

After years of obsessively consuming anime and video games, Charles could barely believe that he was now living in Japan. As a bunny, of course– he couldn't get away with running off for a week quite as often as he did before, but he knew Carel's schedule and he knew how to teleport out of his cage, so he spent many a day loitering around Shibuya until it was time to head back home.

It was a lovely routine, though it lasted only months. That December, Jean died in an accident that Charles knew resulted in him playing a game. He wanted to go to where he died and work the game and ensure his survival, but Carel's grief was too much for her to bear by herself. Charles steeled himself, hoping that he could come back and waiting for the day Carel's memories of his death were wiped, to no avail.

Wanting answers, Charles waited for a time where Carel would be out of the house for longer periods of time and took a train to Kawasaki, where Jean died.

"Haha, you're gonna get erased if you don't keep up, newbie!" Jean laughed horridly, blood from his last erasure still speckled on his glasses.

"I'm… keeping up…" Charles gritted his teeth, keeping an eye out for the partner of the Player he had erased earlier that day.

"Sure you are. You couldn't keep up with me, I bet," Jean retorted, licking his lips. Charles squeaked as Jean moved closer into his space, his arm resting on the wall behind him. "Maybe you can keep up in other ways, though. What do you say?" he asked, his voice lowered.

"N-no thank you," Charles huffed, quickly slipping into his shadow to safety. The district had done awful things to Jean, and Charles couldn't bear to see more. He made an effort to avoid Jean for the rest of the game and slipped away from Kawasaki as soon as he was able.

-x-

"Charles! I missed you!" Jean said, holding his arms out to hug the bunny. "It's been so long, huh?"

Not as long as you think, but I'm glad that Carel knows you exist now, Charles thought, snuffling in Jean's arms.

-x-

"You, ah. Knew I was a Reaper even before I came to Shibuya?"

"Uhm… yeah. I worked a week in Kawasaki while you were there, and…" Charles trailed off, looking to the floor to avoid seeing Jean's reaction.

"Ah," Jean responded, "I remember now. I, uh… I'm sorry."

"Be sorry to yourself, you tried to get your pet bunny in bed with you," Charles scoffed.

"H-hey, I was just like that back then, it was a phase–!" Jean squawked indignantly, failing to save face.

"A phase is something that ends, Jean…" Charles tsked, turning back to his newly decorated room. He heard Jean sputtering more behind him as he closed the door.

-x-

A few months after becoming Conductor, Charles sat down with Jean and told him how he became a Reaper. It went exactly as he thought, Jean crying on behalf of him and wallowing in pity that wasn't even for him.

"Sorry," Jean breathed, wiping his glasses, "I just can't believe everyone has gone through hell. Please tell me you're happier now, where you are."

Charles reached forward and swiped his thumb over Jean's teary eyes, wicking away more moisture, his palm resting on his cheek. Jean's eyes widened at the gesture, having never seen Charles be that physically intimate with him before.

"I'm much happier now that I can finally be who I am. So, thank you, Jean." Another rare smile surfaced on Charles' face, and the combination seemed to be too much, as Jean burst into fresh tears right after.

-x-

With approved leave, Charles arrived back in London, almost 15 years after he last left. He was dressed smartly, a dark grey suit with a red tie, and a pair of rabbit shaped cuff links that Jean had lent him for good luck. He still remembered well the way towards the entrance of the God's Palace, and his feet led him there without much thought. Once just inside, he approached the reception.

"Hello, I'm the Conductor of Shibuya, here to meet with the Producer of London," he said. The receptionist looked over the schedule and gestured for him to sit down. It was a short wait before Allen appeared at the door, looking a little confused at having a meeting with a foreign Conductor, though the answer was clear as day as soon as they laid eyes on the man sitting in front of him.

"You're alive," Allen remarked once they had gone outside for privacy.

"I am."

"You're also taller than me now," they laughed, looking up. With the slight heel of his shoe, Charles was indeed 5 inches taller than he was before. He chuckled and took a seat on a bench nearby, Allen following suit.

"What made you reach out? I thought you'd never come back with the letter you left me," they said, their hands folded in their lap.

"I was telling my friend… the Composer, about how I became a Reaper, and I realized that I never got to thank you." Allen tilted their head, a brow raised.

"For not intervening in Eliza's assassination? I mean, I'm not supposed to get involved in that, but–"

"For seeing me as Charles. Honestly, I don't think I would have held onto that if nobody saw me as who I am for two years," Charles explained, a serene smile on his face. Allen smiled widely.

"Of course I would have. You saw me as Allen, too." They smoothed out their skirt, their smile widening into a grin. "Might I say, you're looking quite sharp. Almost made me swoon when I saw you."

Charles' cheeks pinkened slightly, though he was a large contrast to the flustered mess he would have been even a few years ago. "I did some growing up," he replied nonchalantly, bravado enough to keep an air of confidence up.

They talked for hours, catching up from over the years, walking around the city Charles had called home for half his life. He felt reacquainted enough with the city by the time that he had to go.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Allen." Charles held his hand out to theirs; confused, they placed it in his. As was his nightly routine so many years ago, he knelt down to a knee and kissed the back of their hand, eliciting a startled noise from them.

"H-hey, you don't need to do this again–" they sputtered. Charles looked up from his position and smiled.

"It's the ultimate sign of respect here, isn't it? I'm doing it because I want to, not because I have to," he responded, getting back up afterwards. "Either way… keep in touch. I'd love to come visit again when I can, I didn't realize how much I missed London."

"London's a home for you, Charles. Come back anytime, okay?" Allen grinned again, taking a step back to let them part ways.

"Thank you, Allen. Take care," Charles said, letting go of their hand. He waved as he slid into his shadow to make the journey back home, feeling light and fulfilled.

#events #i havent written out charles' full backstory yet so that + trying to figure out what hes doing now in this timeline was nice

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ineffablecolors · 6 years ago

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THE WIFE [8/?]

The Wife || Ch 8 ~ 4.7 k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 || FF.NET&AO3 Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are? A/N: People in this chapter are going at it. Our guys... are becoming pros at hand-holding. :D Also haaave you seen these beauties X and X by @marcella2727 and X by @spartanguard ❤

“She doesn’t paint like anyone I’ve seen.”

Killian snorts – a mix of pride and fond exasperation as clear in the sound as the sky above them.

“Alice doesn’t do anything like anyone else.”

Granny told them it will be the last truly sunny day of the year. Alice promptly carried her easel and half the blankets in the house on the green grass outside. Emma is supposedly working on the garden, Killian is supposedly going over the accounts from a ship that made port a couple of days ago. In truth, they are lying in the shade, a respectable amount of space between them that Emma has been slowly – and, hopefully, covertly – eradicating as the minutes tick by.

“She has never been one for realistic detail either.”

Emma’s eyes slant to the side and find Killian looking for something among the branches above them. He has one leg bent at the knee and the other stretched out before him, his prosthetic hand cautioning his head from the bark of the tree he is leaning against, while his right one twirls a fallen leaf round and round. His white shirt and windswept hair give him an additionally carefree and dreamlike quality.

It is quite possibly the most relaxed she has ever seen her husband. She likes it.

“It looks like it’s just…,” she inclines her head to the side and looks more carefully at the artwork in the making – Alice seemingly completely oblivious to Emma’s attempts to put her strong and fluid strokes into words. “Made of light.”

She smiles a little and nods to herself. There is hardly a recognizable shape on the canvas but the clusters of light seem to almost shimmer in the autumn sun.

“Hmmm.”

Killian is watching her with a temptingly unreadable expression on his face. There is something lively and almost gratified in his gaze but his features are much too soft for her to call it mischief. And Emma has always been curious to a fault but she has found herself growing even more so in the company of her husband.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just that… Nothing is only light or only shadow – each needs the other to exist. So it’s just the person looking at it that decides what to perceive, I suppose.”

She looks back at the picture. Of course, now she can hardly believe she didn’t see it. For the clusters of light to come to life there is a shadowy background to it all. But, long as she stares at it, it doesn’t come to the forefront and Emma exhales with a little of both relief and pleased surprise.

“Maybe it’s all about the day you look at it.”

“The day?”

She feels the blush in the roots of her hair. Emma has never been one for philosophical discussions and ideas – she doesn’t have the background and education for it, nor has she ever received invitation or encouragement to participate in such conversations – but the warm light and the scent of Killian’s coat rolled up under her head and the way he is quietly, curiously, waiting for her to elaborate her point seem to loosen her tongue.

However, none of that makes it much easier for her to put her thoughts into words right away.

“It’s just that… yes, here I am seeing light but… I’m sure, on another day, I should’ve seen little but the darkness trying to consume it.”

Killian nods along as if her words make perfect sense and wastes no time in turning them into a proper argument.

“So you don’t think the interpretation has so much to do with the character of the observer but rather with their state of mind.”

It takes her a beat or two but his questioning look doesn’t grow impatient. She nods and, when Killian seems to lose himself in his thoughts, she doesn’t know if she feels bad for appearing to disagree and argue with him or rather proud that the statement he proposed does sound sensible and as good an argument as his own.

“I suppose there is a fair bit of truth to that. And it certainly makes it all look much more hopeful,” he concludes, his gaze now as intently focused on Alice’s work as Emma’s is on him.

She decides she doesn’t half mind attempting to put her notions into words in front of him.

“Oh, would you stop it? How is a woman to let her brush flow with so much pointed attention weighing it down.”

Always willing to gratify his daughter’s wishes, Killian just chuckles and languidly rises to his feet. Emma is still debating who she should keep company – and mostly where it will be more appreciated – when his palm appears in her line of sight, palm up.

“How do you feel about giving Buttercup a little exercise, love?”

*****

“Everyone is positively buzzing with anticipation.”

Admiral Liam Jones looks up from the letter he is composing to admire the satisfaction that sits perfectly on his wife’s exquisite features. Anyone who doesn’t know Mrs Liam Jones well enough would think her barely interested in the particulars of her own ball but to Admiral Jones her simmering excitement has been clear for days now.

“Your new sister-in-law is quite the ambiguous figure. And thus, a source of great attraction.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

In all honesty, Liam Jones is still rather perplexed and not entirely convinced of the wisdom of his bother’s choice of wife. Then again, it might be the burden of responsibility that makes him weigh every impression and bit of information so carefully, seeing as he was the man who brought the story of Miss Emma to Killian’s ears.

Of course, when he did so, his intension was nothing more than to share his confusion and general frustration with the way families go about marrying off their female members these days. He certainly didn’t mean to arouse Killian’s sympathy for the girl, let alone his affection. And now he still doesn’t know how much of that – if any – his brother holds for his new wife and, it just might be, that Admiral Jones is as eager to see Mrs Killian Jones at the ball as any other guest.

But he is, of course, much better at concealing such infantile curiosity.

“And what does our captain have to say about her?”

“Killian and I write about matters of business and leave matters of the heart for the rare evening of rum and cigars.”

“Then you believe his marriage to be of the latter’s persuasion now? Because I could have sworn it started out as the former.”

“And I could have sworn my wife was above common gossip.”

“It is hardly gossip when I’m asking my husband about his dear brother. And it is hardly common when said brother has abstained from any engagements of the heart for so long.”

“But you know perfectly well how obtuse we gentlemen are on those topics. I should be completely helpless and wait for you to have an interview with the new Mrs Jones and bring me some insight into my brother’s household. Seeing as you have forbidden me to pay him a visit.”

“Oh, try not to be so melodramatic, Liam. I’ve forbidden nothing, I merely suggested that we should allow them that period of time that most couple reserve for courtship before the actual nuptials.”

“And, as always, I deferred to your wisdom. But I am glad I will get to see some more of my niece. Perhaps you can write to Alice and ask her to stay for a day or two after the dance. It should further promote your scheme of courtship for married ladies and gentlemen.”

Elsa’s eyeroll makes him smile and reach for her hand, pulling her closer so he can slip his arm around her waist.

“You mustn’t expect too much from Killian, my dear. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that he has spoken to her half a dozen times in the last month.”

“Oh, I have no expectations of your brother. Just the hope that the timidity of that wife of him might have started to wear off by now.”

Liam shakes his head and lets his eyes run over the words he wrote one more time even as his hand slips lower to caress his wife’s thigh. He marvels at her ability to see into people’s souls without exposing any of her own. He himself rarely reveals much but, in consequence, rarely finds much out as well.

But, as is his habit, it is his brother he worries about. For Killian has always been good at reading people but always at the cost of leaving himself open to be read and cheated in turn.

*****

“I see you have broken the sole rule my daughter imposed on you.”

Emma comes to a stop two steps above him. The curls on either side of her face slowly settle and stop their swaying motion as well. He steels himself and doesn’t allow his gaze to slip lower and ascertain whether her breasts – both confined and accentuated by her corset – have seized their own bouncing movements.

Until this moment Killian hadn’t seen his wife in a gown quite like this one. It is certainly more fashionable and well-fitted than the one Alice picked for their wedding and much more adorned and flattering than anything she wears during the day, whether she goes into town or sits curled up in a chair in the library all day.

He likes the deep green colour, the way it makes her eyes impossibly brighter and lets her painted lips stand out even more, but frankly, he finds the tightness around her already slim waist and the generous push to her bosom rather unnecessary, and the light rouge on her cheeks feels like cheating, especially since he can tell how cold and pale she is underneath it all.

And even so, he would be the most shameless liar, if he claimed that she doesn’t look enchanting – like a forest nymph dressed up for a night of human fun, ready to play havoc on all men’s hearts. He will blame that image for the way his mouth has gone a bit dry and for the fact that he finds himself incapable of reassuring her even when he can see that she has taken his jest to heart.

*****

Rule? What rule was that? Of course, it stands to reason that she has blundered this already.

Emma hasn’t attended a ball in near two years and, as much as she enjoyed bringing Alice pleasure by letting her do her hair and colour her cheeks, she is afraid they should have consulted with someone better informed and more well-versed in the art of ball preparation.

“It’s just that you were not supposed to outshine the hostess, I believe.”

It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to decipher his comment and find the compliment inside, by which point Killian looks just as uncertain as she feels.

“I merely meant that—”

“Oh, I understand. I— Yes, well… thank you.”

He nods and holds his right hand out to her in a gesture that is becoming more and more familiar and Emma takes the last two steps and allows herself the comfort of his rough skin under her soft fingertips. Whether she does that too quickly or whether Killian is a second too late in stepping back is unclear to her but the result is that they are brought much closer to each other than either seems to have intended – so much so that, given the time – since she is sure she has the patience – Emma could count each shot of ginger and thread of white in his beard.

It is just as she decides that she has studied the barely visible indents on his lips long enough and prepares to lift her gaze above them and meet his own to judge if he is entertaining thoughts similar to her own that Ruby rushes into the room.

“Miss Alice says she will be just a minute.”

“Miss Alice has no notion of how long a minute lasts,” Killian replies immediately, even though his voice is a touch more choked than usual.

Then again, that might well be Emma’s imagination at play, her own reflexes seem sluggish and delayed and have left her staring at his profile once again.

“O you of little faith.”

This time she manages to react timely and look up the stairs to see Alice in her pretty blue gown, pretending to be mortally wounded by her father’s pointed remark.

“One swallow does not a summer make, darling,” he shoots back.

Alice waves her hand in a clear dismissal of her usual tardiness and rushes down the stairs – a hurricane of lace and tulle and pearl-white ribbons. She skitters to a stop beside Killian and loops her arm around his free left one, looking up at him expectantly.

“Shall we?”

“By all means.”

*****

Emma can hardly stop the little gasp that passes her lips as Killian hands her down from their carriage. Admiral Liam Jones’s estate bears no small resemblance to a modestly sized castle made of white marble. It fits perfectly with what she has seen of the regal Mrs Liam Jones but, for the life of her, Emma cannot image ever feeling at home in a place like this and she tries not to shudder a little at the sheer vastness of it.

“I imagine you would be rather unwilling to go back now that you’ve seen the superior Jones household.”

Killian’s tone is light enough but behind it she can tell that he truly believes she might covet a house as grand and awe-inspiring as the one before them. So Emma seizes the moment when Alice skips impatiently toward the entrance and steps closer to her husband, raising a little on her toes so her mouth ends up just under his ear, her nose barely brushing his warm skin.

“I should like to go back right away if I wasn’t afraid of ruining the superior Mrs Jones’s ball.”

Killian’s arm tightens around hers as he leads them after his daughter and Emma would’ve wondered how her comment might have been received, if it wasn’t for the sidelong glance he gives her – it is part genuine surprise and part mock consternation and Emma bites the inside of her cheek and does her best to remain perfectly composed and not enter Admiral Jones’s home like a giggling girl on her debutante ball.

Instead she throws herself into expressing her gratitude to Elsa as soon as she makes her way to them.

“I’m certain Captain Jones has been all too candid about my affinity for balls at which I’m not expected to dance but only entertain,” Elsa says with an elegantly careless gesture and a benevolent smile as she takes Emma’s arm and leads her away. “It is terribly liberating to host your own ball instead of attending others’s.”

Emma thinks all the expenditure, planning and preparation beforehand might compensate for the supposed freedom of the evening itself but she keeps that to herself and instead takes her time to admire the magical atmosphere and splendor of the ballroom that has been revealed to her. If it wasn’t for all the people milling about and surreptitiously stealing glances at her, Emma thinks she might have almost enjoyed this.

“Now, a few people have already expressed their desire to be introduced to the new Mrs Jones,” Elsa’s voice is almost placating but it doesn’t do much for Emma’s nerves.

“Oh, I—“

“Not to worry. I shall feed them to you in small doses so you can digest them as easily as possible. But if there is anyone that you wish to meet—“

“Thank you, I doubt— That is I’d rather just…”

She manages to stop herself but her treacherous eyes slip away in search of Killian and Alice without permission. The latter is nowhere to be seen, already lost in the depths of the brilliant ballroom, but her husband is just a few paces away, conversing with his brother.

Looking at them, side by side, Emma can hardly believe she ever thought Admiral Jones equal – let alone superior – to Killian in any way. Then again, she cannot point out the exact features and mannerisms that make the younger brother appear so much more handsome and appealing to her, just that when he laughs a little at some remark of the admiral’s she feels the flutter of it all the way in her chest.

“Well, then.”

She turns back to Elsa in time to see her putting away whatever expression left the twinkle in her piercing eyes and Emma does her best not to feel like she has been caught doing something wrong. Certainly, it isn’t wrong of her to look at her husband and to delight a little in the fact that he is wearing a red vest that stands out among all the white and black of the gentleman all around and which, according to Alice – if put on, means he is actually willing to dance tonight.

*****

For all the lightness of her satin slippers, Emma’s feet are already starting to ache. Her face feels uncomfortably flushed while the rest of her is familiarly cold and the vibrations and odours of the bodies all around her feel inescapably suffocating. She has forgotten how tiresome and stuffy balls can feel. She also keeps forgetting all names as soon as she has heard them and just prays that Elsa Jones is truly as omnipotent as she appears and won’t make the mistake of introducing her to someone twice, for Emma surely won’t be able to correct her.

“May I have this dance, Mrs Jones?”

The question – the voice – sends the first pleasant thrill of the evening through her. She looks up into the blue eyes of her husband and exhales in relief – glad for an interaction that doesn’t call on her to contract her face into shapes that don’t come naturally.

“We would be the most impertinent couple on the dancefloor, if I were to accept.”

“Would we now?”

“Indeed. I just refused a Mr Humbert on the pretext that I did not feel like dancing this one and you are being rather peculiar, asking your own wife.”

She thinks it is the first time she has referred to herself in that way and that is the source of a second satisfying little thrill.

“And is that the truth?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“That you do not feel like dancing?”

The question is completely matter-of-fact and, for some reason, the way he is looking across the room as they talk irritates some small vanity Emma didn’t know she possessed.

“I would dance with you.”

Her reply has the desired effect and, much to her satisfaction, Killian’s attention is now solely her own as he narrows his eyes a little and tries to suppress his smile in the face of her own challenging one.

“Then I suppose we should make our peace with being impertinent.”

*****

“It never ceases to amaze me how you arrange everything just so.”

“Everyone seems pleased, do they not?” Elsa looks around at her guests and lets her satisfaction show in throwing her shoulders back a little more than usual. “Even if your brother is being quite bothersome, paying all that attention to his wife.”

“I think you should count it as a victory to have him dancing at all. And, not to make myself into Mrs Jones’s champion, but you have been running that girl to exhaustion.”

“It is not my fault that her grandmother kept her so out of society that half the town doesn’t know her. Not shying away from all the attention is by far the best move now.”

Elsa takes few wifely duties as seriously as that of being well-acquainted with all who may have occasion to do business with one’s husband and, in the case of the brothers Jones, that includes most of anyone important. But she can almost forgive Emma for the neglect of her social obligations, if just for the way she smiles at Killian every time they come together during their dance.

“Frankly, my dear, knowing what a tree your brother can be, I really didn’t expect him to charm her so quickly.”

“So you find her charmed?”

“Oh, Liam,” she pats her husband’s arm and goes to check on how supper is coming along.

*****

After seeing Alice twirling joyfully in the middle of the ballroom, answering all of Elsa’s demands for her attention and forced pleasantness, conversing with Admiral Jones long enough to gain the impression that his brother may be the only person more prominent in his heart than his wife, and spending a dance in Killian’s arms, Emma is more than ready for the evening to be over. If it was, she could label it as a tiring but somewhat successful affair.

Unfortunately, the exquisite supper Elsa is sure to have planned for them is only the half-way mark.

So Mr Booth sees her into the supper-room and promptly takes a seat beside her. His conversation is not particularly unpleasant or disrespectful in an obvious way but Emma’s nerves are too tightly strung out already and with every course she finds herself growing more and more uncomfortable with his familiar attitude and cavalier way of speaking to her.

“I’m sure, just like our hostess, you are so very accomplished as to put us all to shame and in awe of you.”

“And I can assure you I am not. I neither draw, nor sew particularly well and I’m completely ignorant of all instruments and foreign languages.”

“Oh, but surely you’ve seen and done a great deal.”

Emma watches her knuckles stand out sharply where she is clutching her knife and doesn’t reply.

“And surely you ride?”

She swallows and forces her eyes back to his, lifting her chin a little higher.

“I do. My husband recently bought me my first horse.”

“Your first? Of course, a lady looks her best on a dancefloor and on a horse,” his smile is like a freezing little trickle down her spine. “I’m partial to the beasts myself. I believe you know my horse dealer, Mr Cassidy?”

Her stomach turns over and the fork clatters against her plate. She is sure no amount of rouge can bring the colour back to her face.

The presence of this man and all that he is now associated with is enough to keep her every muscle tensed but it is the memory of Neal telling her that the only place she would look better than on his horse is in his bed that steals any response she could have made and Emma bears the last course in silence before she excuses herself and rushes to the cloak-room to gather herself.

That proves to be her biggest mistake of the night. The maid she finds presses in a corner by an overeager valet is just on the right side of too young and uncertain to throw her further into memories that make the cold sweat now collect at the small of her back.

And Emma thinks she could’ve made it through the rest of the night, if there was anything to look forward to but all she can foresee is Elsa arranging her perfect dances by making Killian accompany some other smiling redhead on the dancefloor and bringing more people for Emma to be agreeable to. But it’s the thought of an invitation to dance coming from Booth’s leering face that makes up her mind.

Her main worry becomes verbalizing a proper excuse when she finds Killian in conversation with two older gentlemen but whatever expression is painted on her face seems to negate the need for words as he quickly excuses himself and leads her to the side.

“Is something the matter, love?”

She opens her dry mouth but no sound comes out.

“Emma?”

He approaches her the way she has seen people approach dogs that cower away from the slightest movement. If she could scoff, she would, but she is afraid it will turn into a sob before they make it out of the door.

She tenses a little when Killian’s hand settles on her arm and he removes it before she can tell herself to relax.

“Do you wish me to find Alice or Elsa?”

She shakes her head quickly and tries to apologize with her eyes as she makes herself ask.

“Can we leave?”

She is not truly worried that he will be angry or upset but she certainly expects some reluctance or confusion, not the ready acceptance on Killian’s face.

“Of course. Could you wait for me to make our excuses to Elsa?”

She nods and offers to fetch Alice.

“That won’t be necessary. She will be staying with her aunt and uncle for a couple of days.”

Minutes later, as Killian helps her into her coat and then into the carriage, Emma feels grateful Alice is not around as she seems to have spent all her smiles and what little warmth she brought with her from home.

Killian settles across from her in the carriage and she tries not to see this as a reproach of any sort. Instead she clasps her hands together, wets her lips and tries to bring some levity into her shaky voice.

“Well, aren’t I entertaining? You never know when I will make you rush off in the middle of a ball with half-formed excuses.”

In truth, she gave no excuse at all and the outward silliness of her behavior comes to her gradually with every bit of road they cover. Yet, she knows she should’ve been quite incapable of dancing with the way her hands and legs are still shaking a little and cannot make herself regret whatever actions brought her into the comfort and safety of the carriage and Killian’s sole company.

“I assure you, you will never hear me complain about leaving a dance early.”

Killian’s tone is light as well but his gaze is heavy and intent on her and his hand twitches restlessly on his knee. He seems tense and imposing and a better woman might have wished to spare him the turmoil but Emma just breathes deeply and treasures feeling guarded rather than threatened.

“Emma—”

She wouldn’t have minded finding out what he was about to say but as it is, leaving the noise and pressure of the evening behind and finding some measure of peace and comfort by moving clumsily across and sitting beside him is more important to her in that particular moment.

Killian shuffles a little to the side to make space for her and, for a little while, Emma thinks she can settle back into herself by staring out of the window and getting lost in the stars and dark clouds as her hand clutches his own. But the light drizzle that is washing the world outside only makes her more acutely aware of how cold and stark and unforgiving the world can be so she turns around to hide her face in his shoulder instead and, this time, when Killian’s arm goes around her, she only leans closer.

She leans into the warmth and scent of him, into the space between his neck and shoulder that feels scorching hot against her cheek, into the safety of his even breathing and his right hand entwined with hers, into the steady beat of his heart against hers and the tenderness of his mouth against the crown of her head.

It takes most of their journey home but Emma feels her own heart settle back securely in her chest as the rocking motion of the roads lull her to sleep and, just before she slips away, she notes with shockingly little surprise that she is warm all over.

She also notes that she is quite possibly in love.

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