#camille reads things

[figueroths]

so I’m reading this romance called here for the wrong reasons about two contestants who fall for each other while competing in a bachelor-style dating show and it’s fun so far but I am screaming they’re about to do a mud wrestling group date and this man (the bachelor) for real just said as a feminist I know it’s crucial for women to have an outlet for pent-up aggression like agdjsksks me when I see hot women and lie

[mimsier]

ring in the new year with a readathon!

posting on the day because I’ve been so sick all of december that I hadn't planned to make an event™ of it this year. but I have a stack of books & comics beside me plus audiobooks through libby, and reading is my favorite way to kickoff and end each year! so I'll power through 💪🏽

I’ve done this publicly once before and while I’ve updated the boards, the prompts and this post are largely the same as a time-saving measure. I’m sharing in case anyone wants to join in ♡

boards: one (pictured), two (blue/purple), three (grayscale, easy to read)

fills are focused on checkpoints along the way of reading + easy peasy pitstops when you need a break, rather than focused on what you’re reading, so it's friendly to multiple genres and formats! win by any pattern you choose!! this is all for fun & the love of reading

new year’s eve & new year’s day #readinthenewyear

prompts are intended to be self-explanatory but feel free to ask for clarification! keep reading for an alphabetical list, plus some totally optional alternatives for the free space

enter a book giveaway finish 1 book finish 2 books finish 3 or more books liveblog a chapter (or more) post book recs post readathon wrap-up predict the ending (follow up: how close was your prediction?) read 100 pages / listen for 1 hour read 250 pages / listen for 5 hours read 500 pages / listen for 10 hours read at midnight read more books than planned reblog from a book’s tag reflect on 2022 reads reread a favorite set or join 2023 challenge(s) share 2023 most anticipated reads share 2023 reading resolutions share favorite line(s) snap some pics take a break update readathon progess write a review

free space alternatives: • check out booktube! like + comment • liked a book? look for more by the author! • hated it? embrace schadenfreude and check out 1 star reviews! • resolved to read more next year? join a book club • add books to your tbr • create a goodreads or storygraph account • make an edit • make a bookmark • share about your reading habits

[theorahsart]

Incorruptible pt 45

I like to think that when they got along, Brissot and Camille sang Revolution Songs together (they're not drunk, they're just...Brissot and Camille together in a room).

Also, the song is VERY loosely translated from this song, made in 1791. Robespierre was featured in songs as far back as that! Because the song seems to pursue rhyming over other elements, I also chose rhyming over a more direct translation.

Another also: thank you @anotherhumaninthisworld for several posts and links, which helped me figure out Brissot more easily, alongside discovering that he's like *ridiculously* short lol

[monimarat]

L’Ami du Peuple delivery!

Révolutions de France et de Brabant, No. 77

[zuliuli]

*gently holds*

Also who hurt him 😭

[chocobox]

this is also kind of personal (yeah, i know, somehow too personal for this blog. kinda shit you tell one person and MAYBE a therapist.) but arthur has been the first person capable of breaking me out of some real nasty habits. it's not perfect, but it's the first time i've ever made headway in addressing the issue and it makes me really really emotional. i love him so much

[septembersghost]

Harry's tattoo 😭

idk how to break it to people but he falls extremely hard in love, and he really seemed to love her, so i am not surprised, but it does make me a bit sad for him/them...he can say it's for the 1D song. or the cat! she's an icon

[rosamundpikegf]

getting into Cuckoo by Gretchen Felker-Martin and so far its gripping me

[samah-h]

A Confession from the Heart of Suffering: An Unbearable Reality

I hope you read my confession, and thank you. This is the reality of all the people of Gaza.

Whenever I think of the life we used to have before the genocide, I have to struggle to hold my tears so I don't cause my children more pain than what they already feel. Our life, then, was neither easy nor perfect but it was full of warmth and the simple joy of being together under one roof .

We have never felt completely free because we have always been under a siege that has only gotten worse during this war but at least we felt somewhat safe and we had quite a decent life with the means that we were allowed.What kept us going was our belief that the future might be brighter one day.

Unfortunately, there seems to be no better tomorrow for us anymore. Nothing remains of our previous lives but rubble and memories, and the future is so bleak and full of uncertainties.It's not just the walls of our house that were turned into ruins, it's our hopes and dreams that were reduced to ashes. Now, we only dream of things that might seem so trivial to other people around the world like being able to sleep in and wake up in a comfortable bed or having a meal without standing for it in line for hours.

We dream of having enough clean drinking water so we don't have to worry about dying of thirst. We dream of the days we had a home with a regular kitchen and stove, the days we could celebrate special occasions with family in peace. Above all, we dream of not losing the people we love in a split second and of living safely and with dignity.

Instead, we have been wrongfully sentenced to a life of fear, displacement, and humiliation beyond belief. It is a living nightmare here now. Everything needed to ensure the bare minimum of decency and normalcy is denied to us. As you well know, there is no safe place in Gaza anymore and We are deprived of simple rights like having having a roof over our heads or enjoying some peace of mind for even one single day. The airstrikes and the buzzing of drones almost never stop. We live with a very real sense of impending doom day and night.

The water and food scarcity are only getting worse with time. Even regular chores like cooking or doing the laundry have become true challenges. I cannot propely bathe my children because the little water we get is polluted and their sensitive baby skin keeps getting irritated.

Before the war, my nine- year-old daughter was so picky about which outfits to wear; it made me laugh that she acted that way at her age but now we don't even have enough warm clothes for the winter. It kills me each time she says she doesn't need fancy clothes anymore and only wants to feel warm and go back to school. What makes it worse is our tent has recently been flooded by rain.

The whole camp turned into a swamp overnight. The children woke up soaked, shivering and terrified. It was almost impossible to calm them down as the rain kept pouring. We are doing our best but even if we succeed in finding the treatment, it's going to cost almost a fortune. This is why we need your support even more now.

All we do now is fight for survival every day. I never imagined,even in my darkest nightmares, that I would be searching high and low to put food in my children's mouths and keep them warm or that I would be begging the world to literally save their lives but I have no other choice now.

Despite the unbearable suffering we're daily going through, I still believe in humanity. please keep us in your prayers and help us anyway you can. Donate if you're able to,reblog and share our story as widely as you can.We are grateful to each and every one of you

Vetted by @bilal-salah0

7,464$ / 10,000$

[thesmokinpossum]

I hate Vickery but honestly I have to be on him on the whole *disturbed and disgusted face* “you of age son?” like I disagree with you on everything else mr. police abut this was indeed nasty af

[banana-pancake5]

This stuff is so cool!!! I love Camille’s powers so much!!!!! I love how Frida is called Big Sis it seems so fitting and intimidating. Big mama retiring Frida from the nexus seems so in character I love it! Gewiudbwsiubdwsiubdwsuiswdiudswb I have more I wanna say but the words ain’t wording ;-;

I love this very much and I am so incredibly excited for more about this au!!!!!! Also now you really got me thinking about my Frida…

I have lil questions about spiders web widens!

Does Frida mainly live in the Hotel or the Battle Nexus (I would assume the battle nexus would have lodging)? And if she lives down in the hidden city would Frida be allowed to sneak up to the surface? Or does Big mama keep her close at all times?

Also is it known to the public that Frida is Big Mama’s daughter?

Alsoooooo is there any lil fun fact(s) you’d like to share about Camille?

Hi, Moo! Thanks for the questions ^^ this was a really well timed ask bc I was thinking about all of these today so yay

This was very long so imma put a cut hahaha

1. So. What I’ve been thinking so far is that Frida (and Big Mama) would live in the hotel. I believe that one room with the lava lamp to be hers, as I’ve probably mentioned before but let’s just pretend I didn’t. But today I was watching “Battle Nexus: New York” and at the end, after the shredder attack, the entire hotel crumbles to the ground. I did not notice this before so unless it’s in the last two episodes that I plan on watching tomorrow, I guess they won’t be living there during SWW? I think they would be almost done rebuilding but would be in an alternate place probably. Mama’s web of resources is quite expansive so they probably will have some place else I’ll figure out the details to later.

When she was an active participant in the Nexus, Frida would have lived there. This was probably several months, but at the point of the story, she’s a couple years retired from the Nexus. Not by choice (though she would have chosen that), Big Mama just felt she was getting too much attention and didn’t want her to develop an ego.

Wherever their new living space is, it probably is in the Hidden City, but Friday doesn’t get the opportunity to roam. Her job is to assist Big Mama, and Frida is a bit of a workaholic. Never leaves her side except for when Mama sends her on errands. Big Mama has quite the hold on her, but it can’t stop Frida from taking an extra second to people watch… she has quite the interest in them.

2. Frida’s public image is a bit choppy. She’s a sort of legend in that not many people know much about her and lots of info seems to conflict. Many know Big Mama has a child- it’s in her name after all- but they can’t often put a face to the child. She grew up around the hotel but didn’t do much apart from her studies. Then once she got to an age Mama deemed old enough to fight, she became known as a warrior and eventually a champion. Once she had proved herself (or really, once Mama felt threatened by the amount of attention Frida was getting), she retired from the Battle Nexus and began her duties at the Hotel. She became known by the other staff members as “Big Sis”- no longer the child they had seen grow up, now a seasoned killing machine. Once the opportunity arose, Frida became Mama’s assistant until it was her main and most important role. When she makes appearances in public, her masked persona is known for her strength and brutality. When she is unmasked, she is the daughter of Big Mama- prestigious and powerful. Very few know the true extent of who she actually is. And wow this is getting long…

3. Hehehe I was just wanting to mention this ^^ I don’t think I’ve discussed Camille’s mystic abilities. In SWW, there is a distinct difference between mystic stuff and the Hamato ninpo. What Frida uses is her ninpo; Camille has had no such luck with ninpo stuff though (being alone for most of her life and all that). She does, however, possess a knack for mystic stuff and has some “natural” mystic powers. I say natural bc it’s as natural as it can be when you were made in a lab.

So first, she has psychometric precognition and retrocognition. That means when she can see the future or past (specifically relating to the individual) when she touches people. This results in her greeting people by just grabbing their faces (“I know more stuff the closer I touch to their head”). It’s not consistent though. For instance, it doesn’t always happen. She may touch someone and get nothing then do it again and oh wow so many visions all at once. She also can’t tell if it’s future stuff or past stuff which leads to lots of confusion.

Second, it’s not an innate power but Draxum taught her a telekinetic spell which is one of the few things she managed to remember from that time. She has the spell running almost constantly bc it’s very convenient and plays into her fighting style a lot.

[wholoveseggs]

Omg love your elijah stuff it's the best out there! Could you write a fluffy smut where the reader and elijah get married and she's still human and they plan for her to turn on their wedding night. But since she's about to become a vampire and knows elijah loves the taste of her the blood she has him drink from her during sex one last time and she drinks from him so after sex and aftercare his blood is in her system and he turns her then:)

Something Sweet

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

It's the day of your wedding, a day you've dreamed about since you were young. Everything is exactly as you imagined it would be, except one thing. Today is not only the day of your wedding, today is also the day you die... And you never wanted anything so badly.

♡♡Thanks for the request lovely @sarah-bear706318! I made this one super fluffy♡♡

5.5k words - Warnings: smut, oral sex, so much flufffff, blood drinking, sappy Elijah, something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

Trying to fix my tags! I re-added all of you, and now you will be posted at the top! If you no longer wished to be tagged just shoot me a DM {I won't be offended} xoxo~

@gorgeouslydangerous @starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv @myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming @criminallminds @rosemarypotion @spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse @sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2 @itsjulzandmydiamonds @spideysbabe @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury @sekaishell @ziayamikaelson @amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28 @loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy

It was the day of your wedding and you were awoken by the birds chirping outside of your bedroom window. You rolled over to find your side of the bed empty and cold, a note from Elijah in his elegant handwriting.

My love,

I thought it best if I did not see you until the ceremony, as that is a tradition.

I have not been able to sleep. I am both excited and nervous for today, my beautiful wife. I will spend every waking moment cherishing you.

Elijah

You smiled to yourself as you read his words, imagining him pacing the floor as he wrote this, probably in the study or the library.

You pressed the note to your chest, you could hardly believe that you were getting married today. It was a day you had dreamed about since you were young. You had imagined what your wedding dress would look like, the flowers you would pick for the arrangement, how you would wear your hair. But now, none of that seemed important, the only thing on your mind was what came after the wedding.

Elijah would make you a vampire tonight, and then you would have eternity together.

He was still hesitant, even though you had insisted this was what you wanted. He worried that one day you would regret it, that you would hate him for it, that it would break the connection between the two of you.

But he was wrong, you knew it would only strengthen your bond. You loved him so much that it was impossible to put it into words. You would do anything for him, give him anything, including your life.

After a few moments of lying in bed and thinking of your handsome husband to be, you heard the sound of your bedroom door opening. In walked your three bridesmaids and your maid of honor, carrying a tray of delicious breakfast foods.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty!" Rebekah said, walking around the bed and placing the tray on the mattress in front of you.

"What are you still doing in bed?" Freya asked.

"Yeah, it's your wedding day! We have a lot to do!" Camille exclaimed.

You chuckled and sat up in bed, tucking the duvet over your legs. Hayley laid on the bed next to you, popping a bottle of champagne open and pouring four glasses.

"Everybody relax, we have lots of time," she said, handing you a glass. "Don't stress her out,"

Rebekah rolled her eyes and picked up a bag from the floor.

"We have some gifts for you, Mrs. Mikaelson," she teased.

"I'm not Mrs. Mikaelson, yet," you pointed out, taking a sip of the champagne.

"Oh please, the two of you act married already, he is the most whipped man I have ever seen," Rebekah said, sitting on the other side of the bed and passing a wrapped present to you.

You giggled at her comment, knowing it was true. You were a little surprised by how much he was willing to bend to your will. He was a stubborn man, but with you, he was a complete pushover. He told you once that he found it impossible to deny you anything, and that's how he knew you were the one.

You carefully unwrapped the gift and found a beautiful necklace, with a sapphire pendant, you held it up to the light, the rays bouncing off the gem and painting the walls of your room in blue light.

"It's beautiful," you said, smiling at the girls.

"It's something blue, from Freya," Rebekah explained, as Freya fastened it around your neck.

"I spelled it so you can always find each other, no matter where you are. So when you are away, you can always feel him close to you," she explained.

You were touched by her thoughtfulness, touching the stone as it rested against your chest. You couldn't explain it, but it did feel like him, like he was right beside you.

"Thank you, Freya," you said, squeezing her hand.

"Okay now mine!" Rebekah interrupted, holding her present out to you. "Something old,"

You grinned and took the large box from her, opening it to find a beautiful vintage corset, along with a matching set of lace underwear and stockings.

"Rebekah, these are gorgeous!" You said, running your fingers over the intricate designs.

"They're vintage, of course," she said, proudly. "Elijah is rather fond of that time period, I thought they might... inspire him," she added, winking.

You blushed, he didn't need any encouragement in the bedroom, you were certain of that.

"My gift is next," Hayley said, holding out her gift to you. "Something new, and I'm really sorry, but they aren't quite as classy as the last two," she said, nervously.

You took the bag and opened it, it was full of luxury naughty nightwear, baby dolls, bras, panties, a silk robe, all in different colors and fabrics. Along with a few sex toys and a pair of handcuffs.

"I had to get you something practical," she said, with a smirk.

"I love it, thank you," you said, giggling. "I will certainly put them to good use,"

"Okay now mine, it's something borrowed," Camille said, handing you a small box.

You opened the velvet box and found a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings, with a matching bracelet.

"Camille, these are beautiful," you breathed, examining the sparkling jewels.

"They've been in my family for a long time, they belonged to my grandmother," she explained, clasping the bracelet around your wrist.

You looked at your wrist and smiled, your friends were the most wonderful women you had ever met, they had been so welcoming and so supportive, and now here they were, giving you the best gifts ever.

"Thank you, all of you, so much. This has been the best morning," you said, pulling them all in for a group hug.

"More champagne!" Rebekah exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and topping up everyone's glass.

"We still have the day to go, I'm going to have a terrible hangover at my own wedding," you pointed out, taking a large sip anyway.

"Not for long," Rebekah said, a mischievous smile on her face.

The wedding party went quiet, everyone knew exactly what she was talking about, that Elijah was planning to turn you after the reception.

"It's really happening then, tonight?" Hayley asked, looking at you.

You nodded.

"How are you feeling about it?" She asked.

"A little nervous, I guess," you admitted. "But excited,"

"It's a big decision, are you sure you are ready for it?" Freya asked, putting her arm around you.

"Absolutely. I've never been more sure of anything," you said, without hesitation.

"You'll make a lovely one," Rebekah added, pulling you out of bed and to your feet.

"Come on, we have a lot to do, the hair and makeup people will be here in an hour, and I need to make sure you eat something first," she said, ushering you towards the bathroom.

"And then we can finally see this dress!" Hayley added, excitedly.

The five of you spent the rest of the morning in a flurry of activity, the girls made sure you ate and drank water, despite how much champagne was flowing. The hairdresser and makeup artist did wonders, and then finally, it was time for the dress.

You had put on the vintage corset and underwear, rolling up the stocking and clipping them in place. The girls helped you step into the gown, fastening the buttons up the back, before you stood in front of the mirror.

Rebekah started to cry and Freya and Camille put their arms around her, all of them staring at you.

"Are you okay, Bekah?" You asked, looking at her reflection.

She wiped her tears and sniffed. "He's going to faint when he sees you,"

The four of them laughed and you turned around, holding out your hands.

"Well, let's go get married,"

The music started as you entered the garden, and everyone stood, turning to look at you.

It was like a fairytale.

Your eyes were on Elijah the entire time, his eyes were a bit glassy and he was nervously playing with his hands. Klaus handed him a tissue, patting his shoulder and Rebekah hooked her arm in yours , guiding you down the aisle.

"No fainting yet," you whispered to Rebekah, making her giggle.

"I promise I will catch him if he does," she whispered back.

He held out his hand to you when you finally reached him and you took it, Rebekah handing your bouquet to Hayley.

"Hello," you whispered, looking up at him.

"Hi," he replied, smiling down at you, his brown eyes warm and loving.

"You look perfect," he said, softly.

"So do you," you said, grinning at him.

Klaus cleared his throat and began to speak.

"We are gathered here today, to join Elijah and Y/n in matrimony. They have both written their own vows, so Elijah, you may start,"

Elijah squeezed your hands and smiled at you, his eyes soft and full of love.

"My love, you are the one that I have waited centuries for. The one who brings light into my life. I love you so much, I will be forever grateful that I found you. I promise to spend every day of eternity showing you how much I love and cherish you. Thank you for agreeing to marry me, thank you for loving me," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You felt tears in your eyes as he finished speaking, reaching up and brushing a tear away with his thumb. The crowd aww'd at his words, and the entire wedding party dabbed at their eyes with tissues.

"I'm afraid my vows are going to sound a little lame after that," you teased, making Elijah chuckle.

"Elijah," you began. "I have loved you from the moment I saw you. You have always been there for me, through good and bad, you have taken care of me, supported me, loved me. I know my heart is safe with you. You have always said you would give me the world, and I know you will, and I want to give you mine, for as long as I live,"

Elijah's eyes became glassy again and he took a deep breath, fighting back his tears.

"Do we have the rings?" Klaus asked.

You glanced down the aisle to see Hope toddling towards you, with a pillow in her hands. Everyone watched her and she reached you, proudly handing the rings to her uncle.

"Thank you, darling," Elijah said, ruffling her hair.

"You may exchange the rings," Klaus said, Hope was now clinging to his leg, watching the ceremony with fascination.

Elijah slipped the ring on your finger, and you did the same, looking down at the two silver bands. You realized that your ring had a lapis lazuli stone embedded in the metal, the one that would allow you to walk in the sunlight when you were a vampire.

"Elijah, do you take Y/n as your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish, until death do you part?"

"I do," he replied, staring deep into your eyes.

"Y/n, do you take Elijah as your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish, until death do you part?"

"I do," you said, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"Well then, by the power invested in me by a monk in the 12th century, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,"

Elijah cupped your cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone, before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. His hands moved down your back, tilting you backwards, dipping you. The guests cheered and applauded, and the photographer snapped pictures.

"I love you," he said, whispering the words into your mouth.

"I love you, Mr. Mikaelson," you said, grinning.

He pulled you up, his eyes were bright, and his cheeks were flushed, his happiness radiating off him.

"Mrs. Mikaelson," he said, softly.

You kissed him again, the two of you wrapped in each other's embrace, his arms holding you tight against him.

"Let's get this party started!" Marcel yelled, causing a cheer from the crowd.

The two of you made your way back down the aisle, and back into the house. As soon as you were inside, you pulled Elijah in for a passionate kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"We are married," you said, giggling.

"Indeed we are," he replied, smiling.

"Can't we skip the party, and just go upstairs now?" You asked, kissing him again.

"My greedy little wife," he teased. "Don't worry, tonight will be worth the wait,"

The compound was elaborately decorated, with lights and flowers hanging everywhere, and the guests were laughing and dancing, having a great time.

You sat at a table near the dance floor with your new husband, watching everyone. His hand was resting on your thigh, squeezing it gently every so often.

It was getting late, the sun had set and the guests were getting more and more drunk. The music slowed and the couples swayed together, some kissing and holding each other tight.

"So," Elijah whispered in your ear. "How are you feeling about tonight?"

"I can't wait," you said, turning to look at him. "I just can't wait for us to start our lives together,"

"Me either, sweetheart," he said, brushing his lips against your temple. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I want this." You placed a hand on his cheek. "More than anything."

He let out a long sigh, his hand squeezing your thigh tighter. But he didn't say anything else.

After a moment, he stood up and held out his hand.

"Dance with me?"

You took his hand and he led you out to the dance floor. You wrapped your arms around his neck and his hands rested on your hips.

The two of you danced slowly to the music, lost in each other's eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" You asked him, breaking the silence.

"Nothing." He replied, smiling softly, looking away.

You narrowed your eyes. "Don't lie to me, Mr. Mikaelson."

He chuckled. "Fine. I'm thinking about how beautiful you are, and how lucky I am."

"I'm the lucky one," you whispered, leaning in and kissing him softly.

The two of you continued slow dancing and you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"I'm nervous," He admitted, softly his hands running up and down your back.

You lifted your head and looked up at him. "Why?"

"I don't want to see you die," He looked into your eyes, and you could see the pain behind them. "I don't want to watch the light leave your eyes, and not be able to do anything about it."

You cupped his cheek and stroked it. "I'll come right back, Elijah. You have nothing to worry about."

He nodded, then leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow. His hands on your hips, slowly guiding you, the two of you still moving to the music.

After a few minutes, he broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I don't think I'm capable of not worrying about you." He said, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

"Well," You whispered, smiling up at him. "That's something we have in common, then."

His hands were on your lower back, his fingertips tracing patterns on the soft fabric.

"Do you remember when we met?" He asked, looking down at you.

"I do." You said, giggling. "It was the most cliché thing ever, but I remember it like it was yesterday."

"You were wearing a green dress." He recalled. "You were trying to get a book from the top shelf at this little bookstore. You had climbed onto a chair and were stretching your arm as far as you could, but you just couldn't reach it. And I thought, 'that's the most adorable thing I've ever seen'."

You laughed, remembering how flustered you'd been. "And then, I dismissed your attempt to help me as being creepy,"

"Until you tripped over your own feet and fell into my arms." He reminded you, a smirk on his face.

"You caught me, though." You whispered.

"That I did," he murmured. "And I will always catch you."

You stood on your tiptoes, kissing him softly. "I'm glad," you said.

His hands moved lower, grabbing your ass, and pulling you closer. You blushed and looked around quickly, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to you.

"I remember something else about the day we met," he whispered in your ear.

You looked up at him and smiled. "What?"

"How you looked in my bed that night, the soft little moans you made," he teased.

You bit your lip, a wave of arousal washing over you. The memory still fresh in your mind.

"You have a way of making me lose all sense," you said, breathlessly.

"I know," he smirked, his eyes sparkling, "I've got you right where I want you."

You giggled, burying your face in his chest, breathing in his scent.

"You are so bad," you whispered.

He hummed in agreement, squeezing your ass once more, causing you to let out a little squeak.

"We should say goodbye to our guests," he murmured. "There is a car waiting,"

You nodded and let him guide you around, saying goodbye to all the guests. They followed the two of you out to the courtyard, and then they began throwing rice and rose petals, while the two of you got into the waiting car.

As the car drove away, the guests cheered and you couldn’t help the huge grin on your face, waving at them until they were out of sight.

Elijah's hand rested on your thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb. You rested your head on his shoulder, watching the city go by.

"So, are you going to tell me where we are going?" You asked, glancing at him.

"There's this lakehouse, about an hour from here. It's a quiet, private place, not even my siblings know about it." He said, pulling your hand into his lap.

"You didn't tell anyone about it?" You asked, a little shocked.

"Not a soul," he said, smiling. "I've had a few secret hideaways over the years, but this one is special."

"Why is that?" You asked.

"It's where I go to get away from everything, to clear my head and recharge," he explained. "And now, it's going to be our special place,"

"That's sweet," you said, kissing his cheek.

The drive seemed to take forever, but finally the car turned onto a long driveway. Elijah helped you out of the car, and then he scooped you into his arms.

"You are such a romantic," you said, giggling.

"I try," he teased, carrying you inside.

He set you down in the entryway, and then took your hand, leading you around. It was a gorgeous home, and it was obvious that Elijah had put a lot of work into it.

But he didn't give you much time to admire it, before he was on you, quickly dragging you to the bedroom.

His hands roaming your body, his mouth crashing onto yours, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Don't you dare rip my wedding dress Mr. Mikaelson," you breathed.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, his hands gently tugging the fabric.

You giggled and pushed him away, holding his gaze, then you turned and looked over your shoulder at him, motioning to the buttons going down your back.

His fingers deftly undid the small buttons, taking his time, as if he was savoring each one. He kissed along the back of your neck and shoulders, pushing the straps of the dress off, and letting it fall to the ground.

His hands went to your waist, helping you step out of the dress, and he knelt down, picking it up and placing it carefully on a nearby chair.

"Such a gentleman," you said, softly.

His gaze roamed over your body, admiring the way the lingerie clung to your skin, accentuating every curve.

"Gorgeous," he said, stepping closer, his fingers tracing along the boning of the corset.

Your hands went to his chest, reaching up to undo his bowtie. He watched your hands, his eyes darkening with desire.

You tossed the tie aside, and began unbuttoning his shirt. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, your hands continuing their path.

When you got to his pants, you stopped, a wicked grin spreading across your face. You ran your finger along his waistband, teasing him.

He groaned and picked you up, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck.

In an instant you were on the bed, the speed of vampires never ceased to amaze you. You lay there, looking up at him, your hair fanning out around your head, and you couldn't help but grin.

"Will you teach me to do that?" You asked, referring to the vamp speed.

He chuckled, leaning down and kissing your cheek. "Of course, my love. I will teach you everything you need to know."

You smiled, then reached up and pulled him down, crushing your lips together. He pressed his hips against yours, and you could feel the bulge in his pants.

"What else can you teach me?" You whispered, biting your lip and looking into his eyes, trying to look all sweet and innocent.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked, his eyes darkening. "Lots of things."

You ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly. "I can't wait."

He grinned and leaned in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. His hands moving all over your body, caressing and squeezing.

"But first I'm going to take this corset off." He said, his fingers trailing down your chest and finding the ribbons. "I'm going to untie it slowly, and then I'm going to kiss every inch of your skin."

You let out a small gasp, his words sending a wave of arousal through you. He pressed his hips harder against your hand, still working to slowly untie the first ribbon.

"I'm going to make you come all over my tongue," He said, his voice raspy and low, working on loosening the second ribbon, pulling it free. "Over," He tugged on the third, "And over," the fourth, "And over."

You moaned, his words making you dizzy, and he grinned, pulling the last ribbon loose.

The corset fell away, and Elijah quickly pulled it from you, tossing it aside. His hands were on your breasts immediately, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, causing them to harden.

He lowered his head, his tongue flicking out and swirling around one nipple, before sucking it into his mouth.

You were panting, your hands gripping the sheets, watching as he made his way down, slowly removing your panties. He kissed his way up your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.

He looked up at you and smirked, then slowly lowered his head, groaning as he licked a broad stroke over your pussy.

You gasped, arching your back, pushing yourself closer to him. He chuckled, his hands gripping your thighs, pushing them further apart, his tongue teasing and licking at your clit.

You were in heaven. The sounds he was making, the way he was devouring you, it all felt incredible. You couldn't help the moans and whimpers escaping from your throat, only fueling him on.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight of him between your legs, the way his gaze would meet yours sent a thrill through you. He looked so content and satisfied, his eyes hooded, his tongue working you expertly.

He suddenly slipped a finger inside you, curling it against your walls, searching for that sweet spot. When he found it, he smirked, picking up the pace of his tongue lapping at your clit.

You came undone in seconds. Your walls clenched around his finger and your back arched, crying out his name.

He lifted his head, staring up at you, his eyes black. He licked his lips and winked at you, two of his fingers still pumping in and out of you.

He looked down at your flushed face and swollen lips, watching your body coming down from your high. You were always so beautiful after an orgasm. He could always coax these little spasms out of you afterwards, making you moan even more.

"I love you." He whispered. "My perfect wife."

With a wicked smirk, he slid a third finger in, curling against your g-spot, a delighted squeak escaping your lips as you squeezed his fingers.

"I can't wait to spend eternity with you," He said, his voice slow and gruff, the pleasure overwhelming you. "Watching you come like this, every night."

He continued to pump his fingers, with firm and steady strokes, the pressure building and building. Your body began to tense again, your moans becoming louder and more desperate. He grinned, watching you fall apart for him.

Your body started to shake, the waves of pleasure hitting you again and again, as you came on his fingers. He captured your lips in a rough kiss, swallowing your moans.

You collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily, the aftershocks still rolling through you. Elijah leaned down and kissed your neck, nuzzling against you.

"My wife," he said, savoring the way it sounded.

You giggled, still feeling a bit floaty. You looked up at him, taking in the sight of him. He was so handsome, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his eyes shining with love and affection.

"My husband," you said, reaching up and brushing some hair out of his eyes.

He smiled, his hands tracing along your bare skin. "You don't have to turn tonight, if you're not ready,"

You shook your head, smiling. "No, I want to. I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice full of concern.

"Eli," you said, cupping his cheek. "I'll be okay,"

His expression turned a bit serious, his eyes flashing with worry.

"You're my whole world, I won't lose you," he said, kissing you deeply.

"You won't lose me," you said, softly.

"Promise?" He asked, his hand moving to your cheek, stroking it gently.

"I promise," you said, your heart fluttering.

He gently pushed your legs apart, his fingers stroking your thigh, the touch sending sparks through you.

"I will never let anything happen to you," he said, positioning himself between your legs.

"I know," you said, gasping when you felt him ease into you, slowly and gently.

"I love you," he said, leaning down and kissing your lips, as he began to move his hips, pushing himself deeper. "More than anything,"

"I love you, too." You gasped, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him closer.

One of his hands went to the small of your back, the other cradling behind your neck. He held you to him, forehead to forehead, his eyes boring into yours.

He rocked his hips, grinding against you, filling you completely. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, then his lips pressed against yours, whispering how much he loved you.

You felt as though your heart beats were the same, the way it was pounding in your chest, in time with his. The way he held you like this, close and tight, it was everything.

The heat and friction began building between you, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder. The air filled with the sounds of your moans and sighs, your bodies moving together.

You could feel another orgasm building, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. He seemed to sense this, his pace picking up, his eyes locked on yours.

"I want you to come with me," he said, his voice husky and low, as his hips drove into you, over and over.

"Yes," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his back, leaving crescent moon marks in his skin.

Together, you let go, your bodies trembling and shuddering, clinging to each other. He buried his face in your neck, groaning, his teeth scraping your skin.

You lay there for a few moments, holding each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. His lips were still against your neck, his arms wrapped around you.

"Elijah?" You asked, hesitantly.

"Mmm?" He mumbled, not wanting to move.

"I know how I want to die," you said, quietly.

He pulled back, looking at you. ". . . You do?"

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip, you weren't sure if he would be willing to do this for you.

"I want you to drink from me," you said, softly.

His eyes widened, a look of shock on his face.

"I mean, only if you're okay with it. We can find a different way... You can just snap my neck like we originally planned... I just thought...," you said, quickly, starting to ramble.

He cut you off with a deep, passionate kiss.

"Are you sure?" He asked, once the kiss broke.

You nodded, a shy smile on your face.

"Absolutely."

"Alright, but if it gets too much, tell me. We can always stop," he said, his hand resting on your cheek.

"Okay," you said, nodding.

He sat up, leaning against the headboard, pulling you into his lap. His hands on your hips, he didn't move for a moment, just looked at you, a gentle smile on his lips.

"I'm ready Elijah... I want this," you said, cupping his face, and brushing your lips against his.

He kissed you softly, with pure tenderness and love. He looked into your eyes, and you could see the conflicting emotions running through him. Fear, happiness, sorrow, joy.

You stroked his cheek, reassuring him.

"I love you," he said, biting down on his wrist and bringing it to your lips.

"I love you, too," you whispered, taking his blood into your mouth, his free arm wrapping around your waist.

His wrist fell away, and he tilted his head, pressing his lips to yours. Then, he kissed a trail down your neck, stopping right over the vein.

You could feel the sharpness of his fangs, his mouth ghosting across your skin. His hands moved to your back, rubbing it soothingly. He was still hesitating.

Your hands gripped his chest, preparing for the sting of pain, the dark shroud of death that awaited you.

His fangs sank into you, and your body jerked. But the pain was fleeting, as the pleasure began to take over. His hands moved up and down your back, pulling you closer, his mouth working over the bite.

He was so gentle, and tender, the way he was holding you, caressing you. It made your heart swell with love, as the blood flowed from you.

He drank slowly, savoring the taste of your blood, listening to your heart beating slower, your breathing becoming shallower.

He could feel your life force slipping away, the blood no longer rushing through your veins. He felt an almost uncontrollable fear, and he had to fight the urge to let go.

You began to drift away, darkness creeping around the edge of your vision. Your eyes fluttered shut, your heart skipping a beat, before it came to a complete stop.

He pulled his mouth away, and pressed his forehead to yours, his tears falling on your face.

He let out a choked sob, the anguish of losing you was too much. He knew you would return, but in this place of nothingness, the void, it was all too real.

Your body was cuddled into his, your head resting in his shoulder, the wound on your neck still oozing blood.

He closed his eyes, and focused on the future, of all the things he would teach you. The places he would take you. The adventures you would have.

He was going to make the most of this eternity with you.

It didn't take long for your heart beat to return, or for you to stir. Your eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light.

"Eli?"

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Welcome back," he said, smiling.

You returned his smile, snuggling against him, and sighing.

"How do you feel?" He asked, his arms tightening around you.

"Hungry."

He laughed, stroking your hair. "I have just the thing for that,"

You nodded, sitting up, and looking at him. He looked tired, his eyes rimmed with red, his hair tousled.

"Have you been crying?" You asked, gently.

He nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

You kissed him softly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"It's alright, my love. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his.

"Good," he said, letting out a shaky breath.

He held you, his hands stroking your back, your hair.

You lay there for a while, in the safety of his arms, before he pulled away, and smiled at you.

He reached for a blood bag he had gotten ready, and handed it to you. You tore into the bag, and drank deeply. You hadn't realized how thirsty you were, until you tasted the blood. It was sweet, and thick, and it was exactly what you needed.

He watched your eyes turn black, dark veins snaking underneath them, and smiled. You were beautiful.

When you were done, he tossed the bag aside, and wrapped his arms around you again.

"So, what happens now?" You asked, your eyes searching his.

"We live.”

[arolesbianism]

Decided to make a quick list of who we have or don't have full names for so I can start speculating in my head who they're gonna give full names first of the batch based off of nothing lol

[wndaswife]

genesis, awakening | thérèse raquin & fem!reader

Moving to Paris didn't present Thérèse with the life she initially expected until a young woman visits the haberdashery.

Word count: 12 107

Tags: smut, fluff, masturbation, cunnilingus, face-riding, so much on symbolism and their many thematic components, can you tell i just finished reading a certain hunger, and also, i hope you will enjoy this as much as i do: power bottom!thérèse raquin | MINORS DNI

In her earlier years, Thérèse thought quite a bit about her father. She wondered when he would come back and what he was doing and when he’d send his next letter. She imagined that all she had yet to hear from him were stories he would tell her in a near future when he would come back to collect her as he had promised, away from Madame and Camille and Vernon’s dull French countryside.

Once Thérèse turned fourteen, things began to change for her; Madame gave her more responsibility, more demanding homeschooling, and she, by Madame’s account, was now a blossoming young woman.

Initially, thoughts of Thérèse’s father remained, for she worried that once she grew out of childhood, her relationship with her father would inevitably differ immensely from when he had last seen her. After all, he had only ever known Thérèse as a child, and now that she no longer was, what made her any different from any other passing woman?

When Thérèse was given the letter from Madame notifying the family that her father had passed, it had been a few months at that point since she last thought of her father, and it had only been in briefly passing curiosity. 

Over the years, Thérèse’s responsibilities became plentiful, and she became increasingly preoccupied with the concerns of her day-to-day life with Camille and Madame. She hardly had any time for herself — even her very thoughts became overtaken with the weight dumped onto her shoulders for her, and her only, to carry for the household. 

Her life, initially only indebted towards Camille and Madame for giving her a home, soon became theirs, similar to property.

Last summer, when Thérèse was told that she, Camille, and Madame would be moving to Paris, she imagined countless different paths her life could take from then on, divulging from the monotonous countryside life she’d always been accustomed to. 

In her mind, there were thousands of different ways the move to Paris could have gone for her. For example, she imagined meeting friends and making them on her own, travelling — if the shop’s earnings became bountiful enough — and, in general, feeling like her life was truly her own, and that she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life paying anyone back for the fact that Madame had taken her in when her father could no longer care for her.

But nothing seemed to change aside from the fact that, atop of still being expected to tend to Madame’s every whim and care for Camille as both a wife and a second doting mother, Thérèse was now expected to help run the haberdashery.

Although it was both her and Madame that took part in running it, Madame was often dozing off or partaking in her own interests around their tiny, dingy Parisian home, often only coming down from the arcade when a shop patron had an inquiry or a request that Thérèse wasn’t sure how to approach on her own. But as Thérèse’s experience with running the business became increasingly comprehensive overtime, there was little to no reason for Madame to come and assist her at all.

It wasn’t necessarily that Thérèse needed Madame’s help, but rather that she didn’t want to have to run a business at all. 

In fact, Thérèse didn’t want to live the life she was living to begin with; running a haberdashery in the suffocating little alleyway of Passage du Pont Neuf was never anything she had imagined for herself once plans were made to move to Paris. 

Thérèse wished desperately for someone to blame for the way things had turned out, for if there wasn’t anyone to take the blame for what had happened, then it would become clear that the way things were was the way things were always going to be. If there was no causal reason for the life she was living, then she’d have no choice but to accept the fact that the way her life was playing out was simply its natural course.

Initially, Thérèse had even tried to blame herself for how things were, for it was her endless fantasising and romanticising that led her to be as disappointed as she ended up becoming. But even in blaming herself, there had to be some inevitable form of correction she would’ve had to uptake, and that would mean putting away her fantasies and dreams.

But without even the imagination that things could be better — and in Thérèse’s wildest fantasies, her life would not only be better, but it’d be a life that she truly enjoyed living — then she’d have nothing else but to accept the way things were. She feared that perhaps she’d grow into Madame, or even duller than she, if that were possible.

Thérèse’s life had no defining landmark, no deviating paths but the one she was placed on the moment she began living with Camille and Madame. 

Since last summer, and it was spring now, Thérèse felt entirely trapped; she felt that she didn’t belong to herself, that nothing she did would ever escape the future that was inevitably laid out for her, and that not even her thoughts could wander very far from the reality of her life.

Even the very reaches of language couldn’t very well belong to her either as she wasn’t sure if ‘miserable’ was a way to describe her life, nor ‘dull’ or ‘boring,’ for how could her life be any of those things if it had never been anything different?

She felt no different from a walking corpse, similar to the brief amount of time a chicken has before the rest of its body hits the ground even after its been decapitated, turned into an infinite stretch into the future. 

But she could not even pretend under any veil, no matter how heavy nor opaque, that she wasn’t alive. Perhaps things would’ve been easier on her if she could at least fool herself into believing that everything she did was of another’s will — anyone else’s but her own — but she felt it in the boundless pit in her chest, the weight in her stomach, the gravity pulling at her limbs each time she arose in the morning. She knew she was alive and that she did what she did willingly because she felt it.

It’d be easier, at least, if her actions were not her own; being a coward and a slave to a life she hated was perhaps her heaviest burden.

With the peak of the spring, the normally dingy suffocating Passage du Pont Neuf was especially constricting; the tiny passageway was overcome by the heat of the sun and the humidity from the past rains, the mossy faded rooftop panelings and stone walls shining dull and damp and mean and unappealing. 

Just after lunchtime, when the sun reached its peak and stretched up above the tall buildings of the alley, Thérèse could finally lay her eyes on something worth looking at through the windows of the haberdashery, sitting at the shop’s counter with François endlessly dozing in her lap.

With her chin in the palm of her hands and her fingers gently stroking the soft white fur of the quietly purring cat, Thérèse let herself bask in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes and let her breathing grow steady, with every second resembling more and more the mild-mannered cat sleeping in her lap.

Surrounded by the silence of the still shop and the faint purring from François, it felt as if Thérèse’s body was gently thrumming from the outside in, the stagnant hum of her surroundings blanketing her body with the gentle heat of the sun.

The chime of the bell by the door didn’t wake her from her conscious dozing — it was the approaching steps towards the counter that made Thérèse finally open her eyes. She blinked away the sunlight and quickly repositioned herself so she looked presentable.

Even François stirred awake at her body’s sudden jolt, and he lept from her lap and, with great yawning stretches of his lithe white body, headed off beyond the curtain that divided the shop from the arcade’s staircase. 

“I am sorry to have woken you and your cat,” the customer apologised in a way that seemed genuine. 

Thérèse turned her attention away from the escaping François to the customer in front of her, only for her eyes to meet the most beautiful thing she’d ever had the fortune to lay her eyes on — in fact, perhaps the more beautiful thing that’s ever found itself in Passage Pont du Neuf. 

Her cheeks immediately flushed and she looked down at the counter, initially stuttering before she finally spoke an: “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have been dozing.”

She searched, panicked, for things to say, and when her eyes ran over the small box of multicoloured buttons on the shelf under the counter, Thérèse remembered that she was running a shop — not simply talking with a beautiful stranger she met while doing errands. 

She raised her head and looked down at your arms, avoiding gazing upon your face lest she grow even more distracted, and saw that you were holding a generously-sized box in your arms, your forearms upturned with your fingers wrapped along its front-facing edge.

At the sight of the way Thérèse eyed the box, you carefully placed the case on the counter and pulled up the top to reveal a carefully-folded dress inside. “For a special occasion,” you said, “I want to have some of this dress fixed up since it has been moved around quite a bit since last spring until I stored it away to bring it here.”

Thérèse watched as you took the dress out of the box carefully; your delicate fingers tucked themselves under the folded dress, slowly unfolding it so you could lay it on the counter and display it out flat for her. Her eyes flickered up to your face occasionally, hoping that with each glance of your face, she could slowly build a detailed mental image of what you looked like without having to stare like she desperately wished she could.

She thought you were pretty, and that it was cruel that a face like yours had to suffer the backdrop of Passage Du Pont Neuf that lay beyond the confines of the constricting haberdashery. 

Suddenly Thérèse felt embarrassed, and she wondered if she herself gave off a impression alike to the rest of the old shop and the narrow passageway of damp moss and cracked stone walls and rushing crowds who wanted to do everything but spend another moment along the path they took only as a shortcut to get to where they needed to be — somewhere doubtlessly eternally more fascinating than where Thérèse currently was and would always remain.

“I was curious if I might possibly get a replacement for the lace trim,” you said and ran your finger along the underside of the trim that trailed down the sides of four pale yellow buttons that led down from the dress’ collar.

When you looked up from the dress to look at Thérèse curiously, she realised she had inadvertently begun staring at you in the way that she had kept trying to avoid while you were speaking earlier, though she couldn’t recall exactly when she started staring. She swallowed and adjusted herself then looked down at the dress to examine the lace you had pointed out.

She felt her cheeks begin to flush as her face was in the general direction of where the dress was, and from her inability to meet your eyes, it almost seemed like you were looking directly at her instead of the lace.

Absently, she started playing with the loose strands of her hair that had escaped from its braid in an attempt to both hide some of her face and adjust her appearance.

“If you are looking to maintain the original design, I do not believe we have this exact kind of lace here,” Thérèse thought aloud then leaned to the side to pull out a box of carefully-stored lace trims of different patterns, shades, and material. They were organised so one would be able to see each pattern while they were set down. “The lace on your dress seems Italian in design, and we only have one kind of lace from Italy, but even this looks too far off from what your dress has.” She pointed to the one at the left corner of the box and your eyes followed curiously.

“The only kind we have with a pattern like yours is this one,” Thérèse pointed to the different kind of lace to the right, “though it is far more dense and visibly not as expensive.”

The familiar language of the haberdasher made Thérèse forget for a moment that she was standing in front of you — whomever you were, since she had yet to officially know — until she looked back up for a response and found herself facing you again. She straightened her back and rubbed the pads of her fingers under the smooth underside of the shop’s counter, feeling anxious for a reason she could not explicate even to herself.

There was a girl who used to frequent the Seine one summer when Thérèse was younger. The girl visited the Seine regularly that summer for her father worked as a fisherman somewhere along the river’s currents and was positioned there for the season. 

When they first met, and it had been during one of the many occasions Thérèse took time for herself in the afternoon after Madame’s homeschooling lessons, a young Thérèse understood her fascination for the girl around her age to be due solely because of the girl’s tales about her father — a father she travelled with, a father who was ever present in her life.

Perhaps this might have been true at the time, for it was hours talking about her fisherman father that the two spent meeting up in the afternoons after Thérèse’s lessons and while the other girl’s father was too occupied for the girl to have any business loitering around fish and their fishermen.

But even after Thérèse saw her for the very last time, since her father was working by the Seine only for the summer, it was not her tales of her father that Thérèse thought of. In fact, Thérèse thought frequently about the girl — and the girl only. 

She thought of her hair and how it looked the perfect shade of the fireplace in Madame’s living room when it was set aflame, but only when the fire first leaps from the wood at its initial ignition, for the shade of her hair ignited something similar within Thérèse that could simply not analogise properly should it be compared to a fire that had long been burning. 

She thought of the colour of her eyes similar to the depths of the Seine that Thérèse could only see from the land’s surface and would never find herself coming close enough in order to make out a shade with her own eyes; the Seine, though beautiful, was far too dangerous to approach with proximity at that age. Though after having stared into such a vibrant shade of deep blue for nearly all of that summer, any curiosity she previously had of the Seine's deepest colours were sated and even paled in comparison to the mere recollection of her.

That was the last Thérèse had ever had her thoughts so preoccupied with another in that way until now. There were passing strangers, of course, that Thérèse glanced at more than once when she could and thought of for a few moments afterwards, and even other shop patrons that Thérèse found rather charming.

But she could not stop looking at you, and she felt silly for she did not even know your name, and you likely did not care to know hers.

“Oh,” you said, leaning over the box of lace and taking a closer look. There were some frayed parts of the lace that could not be fixed due to its original intricate stitching, and some parts that had become simply lost through the months of being moved around for space conservation and whatnot; it had to be completely redone with new lace.

Your fingernail grazed against your bottom lip and you confessed, “I am not quite sure which would look the best as a replacement. To be honest, I do not know very much about fabrics and stitching and all such things ladies ought to know.”

That made Thérèse smile, inexplicably. She thought you were endearing, and for some strange reason, your mention that you were put to the same constricting standards of being a lady in Paris as she was developed within Thérèse a certain fondness for you.

“I understand,” she told you with a friendly smile. “I could restitch the new lace for you. This dress seems rather important to you, so I would understand if you rather a stranger didn’t touch it in your place.”

You lit up at the suggestion and questioned, “Truly? I wouldn’t want to tax you with such labour.”

Thérèse promised, “It would truly be no trouble at all.”

“How much more will it cost?” you inquired and began sorting through the francs you brought.

In quick protest, Thérèse reached over the counter and brushed her fingers against your knuckles before leaning back and keeping to herself as quickly as she had reached out to touch you. “It’s alright.”

You looked at her and Thérèse felt panic rise within her, recalling that the two of you were indeed strangers, and she had no reason to do such a favour for you. She didn’t meet your eyes long enough to decipher the way in which you regarded her, for she’d soon die of humiliation if you regarded her as someone strange.

“It calls for a very simple kind of stitching, and we have been trying to gain a reputation as a tailory as well as a haberdashery; the stitching at the moment is included in the price of the lace,” Thérèse explained. “However I completely understand if you would rather a more officiated shop did the stitching for you, or even if you preferred to do it yourself.”

To Thérèse’s relief, you replied, “Ah, I see. In that case, since it isn’t too laborious for you, it would be fine.”

Thérèse was surprised — pleasantly, even — that you were so considerate of her time and effort. 

If all this for a stranger, how much more for your lovers?

The thought made her wobble.

“May I have your name?” Thérèse asked and opened a small notebook in which all the shop’s patrons were sorted and organised by their purchases. When you gave her your name, she found herself overcome with a feeling of euphoria writing each letter of it, asking for the exact spelling, and having your name stored so that you could not stray very far from the shop that you likely wouldn’t ever visit again once she was finished with your dress.

It was painfully unprofessional, what Thérèse did next, telling you that you could pick up your dress next week due to the other tailoring that had to be done before yours, which was to say that there was none, actually, since she had earlier lied about the haberdashery wanting to take up more tailoring orders. She did not want to have to see you for the last time so soon, so she withheld it for another week.

She was in an endless cycle of unprofessionalism, it seemed, for next, she told you that when you picked up your order next week, you ought to ask for Thérèse. There were two reasons she told you that — firstly, because it was unlikely that Madame would be working by the counter, there was no reason for you to need to know her name if it was she herself that was going to tend to you either way, and she wanted desperately for you to know her name as she did yours, and secondly, because if there was a chance that it was Madame out front instead of her, your asking for her would leave no room for Thérèse missing the chance to see you again.

But all her lack of professionalism’s accompanied guilt was soon disregarded when you asked, “You are Thérèse?”

Something crept up Thérèse’s spine when you said her name and made her shiver. She nodded. “Yes.”

“I like that name very much. It’s very pretty,” you told her and smiled politely. “I will remember to ask for you.”

Thérèse could almost faint.

Over the week, Thérèse did her very best carefully restitching the lace trim for you with the kind you chose from the box. She wanted to add something else to the design in the attitude of some form of a gift or something similar, but she had to maintain the dress’ original integrity and she knew when to not cross any boundaries.

After all, she was still a haberdasher, and women’s fashion was seen with high regard in Paris — this she was quick to learn once moving from Vernon to the city — so she knew quite well how to handle clothing.

When she was finished restitching the trim, she held it up by the top of its sleeves so she could see it upright and flat. She imagined you wearing it, and though she didn’t know very much about you, she imagined she got to know a little bit just by looking at the dress and knowing it was the kind and the style you would like to wear for an occasion that was special.

It was a shame you were only a visitor of the shop; she would have enjoyed getting to a woman with such exquisite taste in clothing. She still would have enjoyed getting to know you, frankly, even if you had horrendous taste in clothing. 

A week after you had visited the shop, Thérèse was waiting for your arrival with your dress carefully folded back into the box you had given it to her in. She decided to give you a small extra roll of the lace you chose as a gift in case you wanted to make any more alterations or in case you simply just liked it and wanted it for more of your garments. 

This time, when you arrived, Thérèse was completely awake and could not even think of dozing off, not even if she tried, for she’d been thinking of seeing you since the moment she awoke in the morning. 

After reassuring Madame that she could take the day off to rest, as she would have either way, Thérèse had the whole shop to herself. 

When you entered the shop, you were carrying a small basket concealed by a patterned cloth. Upon approaching Thérèse, you laid the basket onto the counter and greeted her. She was curious about the basket, and even François seemed to be too, for he rose from his place along the wall and sniffed at the basket. 

“François,” Thérèse warned and swatted him away quickly, to which he lept off from the counter and walked off. “I apologise,” she said. 

“It’s quite alright,” you reassured with a smile that Thérèse thought was just painfully charming. You reached over to the basket and uncovered it, revealing a small sealed jar of what looked to be strawberry or cherry jam, freshly sliced bread, and another jar of a medley of different berries. “This is for you — as a thank you for doing the restitching.”

Out of all the ways Thérèse fantasised about this afternoon with you — and she did, quite a bit — this was certainly not one of the ways. “Oh, please, no, it’s okay,” she told you. “Please, don’t. I was glad to do the stitching for you.”

“You are glad to do your own labour,” you slid the basket closer to her, “and I am glad to do mine.”

Thérèse searched your expression for any hint that you might be convinced to change your mind, but you seemed stubborn. She thought this was endearing too. She liked your kind heart and how eager you seemed. 

Then she looked down at the basket and sorted through it with her eyes. “This must have cost you a large sum,” she said, looking back up at you with a shy smile.

“Not at all,” you answered. You thought she looked cute when she was finally accepting your gift, the guise of the shopkeeper now pulled back to reveal the shy young woman behind it. You wondered what she was thinking. “My family owns farmland near Vernon, and I visited this past weekend and thought to bring you some of their jams and berries, but the bread I did get fresh from a bakery this morning.”

“Your family lives near Vernon?” Thérèse asked, her interest piqued. She had always regarded Vernon with such disdain and hoped that she might never have to visit again, but associating such a place with someone like you made her regard it differently. She never imagined that anything but her own resented memories could reside there. “My family and I moved from there in the summer.”

“Do you miss it very much?”

The question was almost comedic, but Thérèse thought it would be impolite to laugh. “Quite the opposite,” she answered. “I was glad to move from Vernon, but honestly, I haven’t had much chance to explore Paris aside from my walks in the mornings.”

“I understand,” you told her sympathetically. Thérèse melted. “I enjoy visiting, but I can hardly sit still in the countryside for more than a weekend.”

Before Thérèse could panic about what to say next to fill any impending silence, you said, “But you are interested in the city? Exploring more of it?”

“Exceedingly.”

“If you have a day off from the shop, I could show you around Paris,” you offered.

Thérèse felt her face flush with warmth. “Sh-Show me around?” she repeated.

The soft pink of Thérèse’s cheeks made you smile. 

You said, “If you don’t mind, then I would love to.”

Straightening and playing with the sleeves of her dress, Thérèse answered, “I wouldn’t mind at all. I would love to accompany you. Thank you.”

A brief moment of silence did indeed end up passing between the two of you, but instead, filled with a kind of warmth that made Thérèse both elated and weak in the knees. She felt that she had made her first friend in Paris, and more importantly, it seemed that you wanted to spend time with her too. 

You were grateful for Thérèse’s restitching and especially grateful for the additional lace she gave you, and you discussed which day the two of you would be able to spend time together.

Thérèse was most flexible to whichever day was best for you, for she knew Madame would be thrilled that she had made a friend — not that she would ever get the chance to meet you for a while, for she wanted you to be privy to only her for as long as possible. 

Next Tuesday was mutually decided upon.

Alike to Thérèse’s fascination with you — although you didn’t yet know how mutual the feeling was, of course — you weren’t quite sure what had come over you when you offered to show her around Paris. Initially, you told yourself it was because she used to be a resident of Vernon, and familial sentimentality led you towards the urge to show her around Paris.

But your thoughts about Thérèse, when you had them, and you often did, were very rarely if ever related to Vernon or any form of familial sentimentality.

Thérèse and how she took form in your mind started with her hair, dark brown and smooth, and immediately after came her skin, seemingly translucent in its delicate shade of porcelain cream and tinted with the pink of her flushing cheeks when you were lucky enough to see her grow bashful at your words. Then came her voice and its girlish elegant placidity, then her eyes and her lips, the slope of her nose and the curve of her chin.

You wondered, especially, how she was beyond the confines of the haberdashery and beyond the walls of Passage du Pont Neuf. Inexplicably, though it could be easily attributed to knowing her no further than within the environment of the shop, it was difficult for you to imagine Thérèse beyond the gloomy shadows of the narrow alleyway or from beyond the counter of the shop.

That was not to say anything about who she was as a person — after all, how could you presently have anything substantial to say about who she was — but rather the kinds of circumstances she was under. In the curious glints of her eyes and the lithe cat-like movements of her elegantly-moving body as if trained to maintain such composure laid something in slumber, larger than the stillness of Passage du Pont Neuf.

Over the week until the upcoming Tuesday, you steadily began to feel guilty for how often you were thinking of Thérèse, for your scrutiny of her made it seem to you that you were subconsciously treating her as a subject of some kind of personal research endeavour — but this could not be further from the truth. Truly, Thérèse interested you, and it was merely your disturbance with your own fascination in her that began manifesting into guilt in order to avoid coming to the realisation that you simply could not stop thinking about her.

One could almost label your thoughts of Thérèse as perverse, and you did not want to be labelled a predator, even by your own moral judgement.

When Tuesday arrived, Madame agreed to run the shop while Thérèse had plans elsewhere, feeling pleased, frankly, that Thérèse had finally made what she described to be a friend. 

Madame knew Thérèse to be gloomy and hollow of passion and vivacity, which was not so much a concern to Madame Raquin and it was an irritant, particularly because her niece’s sombre nature often became much too suffocating for the small confines of the shop. It was only when she scolded Thérèse for her lack of spirit in front of the shop’s patrons that she at least began making efforts towards behaving as typical girls of her age did. At the very least, she was willing to wed Camille and willing to run the haberdashery, albeit because Thérèse had very little personal reservations of her own as to have any opinion about anything at all, or at least, if she did have opinions, they weren’t ever pressing enough to escape the confines of the often critically-judgemental mind that Madame knew laid beyond the line of her motionless pale pink lips.

You had it in your plans, though you did not disclose this to Thérèse in the spirit of keeping it a surprise for her, to visit Jardin des Plantes. It was your personal favourite spot to go when you wrote and when you needed time for yourself, and when you first moved to Paris many years ago, it was also the first place you felt yourself drawn to.

In some ways, taking Thérèse there was both an invitation into how you understood Paris in its essence and an invitation into your own personal world; there was more to your interactions with Thérèse than a tourist to a newcomer, for there was a personal investment too, a personal interest in bringing yourself closer to her.

The two of you walked your way towards the botanical garden, taking the path you normally would to and from your place of work. To you, it was typical, but for Thérèse, it was as if she had only moved from Vernon the day prior. You could not believe how little of Paris she had seen, and selfishly, perhaps, you were glad and proud that it was you who was introducing her to what she had long been missing.

Conversation with Thérèse was endless.

You spoke of your occupation as a writer for a periodical, which Thérèse found fascinating and immediately wanted to know more about — What do you write about? Do you like it? How did you find yourself coming into a career of writing? Were you always a writer? — your childhood in Vernon and the rest of your years in Paris, your tastes in literature, and countless other things that Thérèse’s piqued interest never strayed far from.

You asked about Thérèse too, of course, about her arranged marriage to her cousin Camille, her aunt, her opinions on Paris, her own childhood and years in Vernon before moving away, and most interestingly to you, her ambitions and dreams.

She was an ambitious person, with hopes for herself and her future that stretched far beyond the reaches of her family or Passage du Pont Neuf. Perhaps laid to rest years prior, such hopes seemed to reawaken at the taste of freedom now that she had distance from all that she wished to move onwards from. But where she would go if she had achieved such separation, Thérèse did not know, and so she believed she could only ever dream and never accomplish.

During your walk, you discovered a vividness about Thérèse, a brilliance, an ignition of light that had its sights set far from the shadows of Passage du Pont Neuf and the Raquin family’s haberdashery. But in the gardens, there was fragility and sensitivity, and you found yourself equating her to the flowers she was immediately absorbed by.

Thérèse was gentle with the flowers and plants, careful not to disturb them from their natural paths of growth, even as she walked among them, yet all the while incredibly fascinated and captivated by them. She had never before seen so many different kinds of flowers of such vivid colours and appearances, much less the incredibly long vines that reached up the arches of the bridges over the water and up the brick walls of some buildings and such well-designed shrubs as if carved by hand.

In the Vernon, where Thérèse had seen the most plants, there was no such colour nor plant so alive, so grateful to be in the environment in which it grew.

At a particular plant, Thérèse paused and looked at it, leaning down slightly and surveying it.

“What is this?” she asked you, pointing a hesitant finger at the pink and green plant who, in its centre, was budding and growing healthy white flowers. “This one with the teeth.”

You came to her side and Thérèse straightened. When she did, she brushed your shoulder, and in response, she stepped closer so the length of her arm was pressed against yours. 

To the green and pink plant and its blossoming flowers, you answered, “Dionaea muscipula — the Venus Flytrap.”

The name sounded silly to Thérèse, and she laughed.

“It traps flies?” she asked.

“Yes,” you answered, equally as humoured. With a hand on her lower back, you encouraged her to step forward so you could demonstrate something. Blushing, Thérèse nearly missed your demonstration for how you touched her body and how she stared at your face. You started speaking again, and she forced herself to look at the plant.

Gently as to not bend the plant where it should not be, you laid a steady finger between what Thérèse described as an open mouth with its needle-shaped teeth.

“See how it closes — slowly,” you said. 

“It closes slowly,” Thérèse noted, “yet its prey is still devoured?”

You removed your finger from the plant’s trap and watched as it very steadily returned to its original open-mouthed position. “I believe the pink colour of the trap is appealing for the flies, and that it emits a certain scent that is alike to the nectar the fly seeks for nutrition. The fly believes — perhaps, anyway, I am not sure — that it is eating from the plant. The plant is slow and attractive enough to keep it from straying. The ‘teeth’ prevent its escape once it's closed enough.”

After a silent moment of thought and perhaps of admiration of the fascinating plant, Thérèse asked, “And its name, after that of Venus?”

“If I were to make a guess as to why it was named after Venus, I might be inclined to say that it is due to its appearance,” you supposed. “The pink of the inside and the white flowers, especially. It’s a beautiful plant.”

Beauty, yes — Thérèse conceded. But Venus, in her representation, was not only significant in her symbolic nature of beauty and femininity, but also desire, sex, and prosperity.

And Thérèse could not help but find that the alluring shape of the flytrap represented that of which was particularly vulvar.

When Thérèse arrived back home just before dinner, Madame and Camille were set to leave to celebrate a promotion Camille had just gotten within his place of employment. Their plans involved dinner with several of Camille’s work acquaintances and some of Madame’s friends that often came to Thursday’s dominoes games.

Her presence at this celebration had evidently not been anticipated nor planned, for both Madame and Camille seemed hesitant in what to do once she arrived slightly earlier than either of them anticipated.

Fortunately for them — and for Thérèse, too — she was in no mood to do anything but stay at home, and to this, they graciously permitted without protest.

That evening, Thérèse was restless, but a sort of restlessness that was distinct from what could typically be attributed to night terrors. From the restlessness that derived from night terrors, she would tie herself up in the mess of her bedsheets as she tossed and turned, desperate for slumber to overtake her. In trying to shut her eyes, shadows would become foes and an unsettling fear would dig its way into her stomach, paralysing her. 

But tonight was different — and exceptionally so.

There was restlessness, indeed, and a gnawing in her stomach was surely present, and a paralysis-like possession certainly overcame her, but what made this restless evening different from that of what was haunted by night terrors was that she was not overcome by any sort of fright.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

There was a thrumming in her stomach, a simmering of the blood in her veins, a greedy possession that overcame her with urgency in the likeness of paralysis, but it was not quite that either — it was not paralysis for Thérèse did not lack any ability to move. Rather, the subtle tension within the base of her stomach and the pumping of her heart and its accompanying adrenaline made Thérèse want to do everything but stay still.

But what was she to do aside from lay still and fall asleep, she did not know.

There was something awakening from a long slumber deep within her, having been so deeply-shrouded that Thérèse herself was little acquainted with it.

By God, what was this urgency that her body kept clawing towards? It was as if her very skin was an obstacle for this awakening beast, and it called for her to act on it, to move in accordance to its will.

In closing her eyes, shutting them tightly, it was not imaginary shadow foes that came to the forefront of her mind, but you. It was your face she imagined; it was your voice; it was your scent; it was your fingers. 

Her body took the form of another, and it was your perfume she smelled in her hair when she lolled her head to the side. It was your hands that pulled her nightgown up to pool around her hips, and your fingers that dipped into the slope beyond that of her smooth lower belly. Her thoughts were comprehended through the sound of your voice, telling her to release, release, release.

The tight wet velvet embrace that greeted Thérèse’s fingers when she entered herself, she understood as her own, but it was your touch that drove her to pleasure. The quickening speed of her fingers and her other hand and its wandering, a soft palm beneath the linen of her nightgown and up the expanse of her stomach, pads of her fingers pressing into the dips of her ribs and further, further until she groped her breast so harsh it made her whimper — it was your doing, and this ferocious beast that had been scratching at her skin from the inside, howling to escape, was you.

When Thérèse reached her peak and laid a sweaty panting mess atop her bed in the bedroom lit dimly by a flittering singular candlelight on the bedside table, she returned to herself. 

In the silence of her bedroom, still feeling the gentle tremors of her harsh, desperate release, Thérèse realised that what she had done was of her own doing. Where else were you but where you currently were, in your own bedroom, perhaps, dreaming and slumbering, apart from her.

There was no one else but her, and it was she who was the awoken, the desperate, the howls for recognition. 

She was this predatory beast, predating on herself.

In spite of having reached her hilt of pleasure, Thérèse felt herself aching for more, and it does no good to cannibalise oneself. 

She needed prey. 

She would take you whole.

In the morning, Thérèse wrote to you through the post you had provided her in the case that she might have wanted to reach you when you could not see each other. During the stroll back to Passage du Pont Neuf, you both expressed an interest in seeing each other again, but unfortunately, you’d be busy with the attendance and planning of your brother’s wedding for several days after that Tuesday. So she wrote in hopes that the two of you could plan the next time you might be able to see one another.

She wrote to you about the Thursday evening games of dominoes and sometimes cards, and that she would like to have you in attendance next week, for she knew you could not attend this week’s upcoming game.

The impatient days tending to the shop and awaiting next week’s evening game were painfully dull and ridden with anxiety-like compulsions. The awakening in Thérèse had arisen much too far from its place of previous resting and could not be put to bed, and it made her pace and pace, nitpick at her clothing, twirl her hair around, organise and reorganise the shop’s inventory. 

Even Madame had realised, though she was assuaged and convinced when Thérèse simply told her that with the upcoming summer and the gradually-warming weather, she had begun to feel a tinge of spryness bubble from within her as if it were out from its hibernation. 

The excuse, Thérèse thought, was rather humorous, for it was not some low bubbling of gently arising energy that had begun to form within her, but a vicious hunger so demanding and starved that it was painful. 

Her beating desire, however, was alleviated for a day or two once she received your correspondence from the post, writing back in your ever so beautiful and delicate handwriting that you would indeed be able to attend next Thursday’s game — and also that you greatly anticipated seeing her again.

Thérèse read over your letter again and again as if taking each word into her mouth and chewing it, running her tongue over every written letter and swing of your ink pen against the coarse page. But it was not enough — it was not you.

So she waited, pacing, organising and reorganising, brooding over her lack of you, until next Thursday came.

When Thursday came, you arrived, and punctually so. 

Coincidentally, you had met with one of Madame’s friends on the way to the game — never mind how you came to realise the two of you were headed to the same place for this was not of pressing concern for Thérèse — and so it was Madame who first greeted you at the door. 

From the kitchen beyond the dining room, Thérèse could hear you introducing yourself to Madame. 

It was a bit of a shame, for Thérèse had wanted to keep you to herself for as long as she could, but if she wanted you within the short span of time in which her dwindling patience would not allow for any further waiting, she had to make some sacrifice. 

As the guests filed into the dining room, Thérèse came forth from the kitchen with a serving platter of a pot of tea and several cups, and your eyes caught onto hers. She could tell that you had been curiously awaiting her arrival, wondering where it was that she had gone while you took a seat at the table. 

Your curiosity remained even as she left once more to fetch another serving plate of danishes and tarts, and remained, still, when she returned; you meant to ask why she was not taking a seat at the table. 

One of the guests had forgotten to stow away their hat along with their light coat at the entry hall, and Thérèse obediently took it for him and left the dining room to the entryway to hang the man’s hat up. 

You excused yourself and followed her. 

“Thérèse,” you called after her, your voice hushed within the silence apart from the busy dining room. 

She hung the hat from the coat hanger and turned to you. “Y/N,” she greeted and smiled. “How was your brother’s wedding?”

“A bore,” you answered immediately. Then you added quickly, “Though, I am happy for him, indeed. Many blessings to the wedded couple.”

Amused by your crassness, Thérèse’s smile widened and she nodded, “Indeed. Blessings.”

“I was hoping you might play alongside me tonight,” you confessed. “I’m no good at dominoes.”

Thérèse told you, “I do not play.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t believe she had an actual answer, frankly. Why didn’t she play? She sat to the side, primarily, by the window at the corner of the dining room, ready to serve food and drinks and open the window when requested. 

At her silence, you did away with your original question and then said instead, “You invited me to play a game in which you are not participating? I wished to spend time with you tonight.”

Your frustration excited Thérèse. She felt her hunger spike. 

“Disappointed?” she asked. 

“Rather.”

Your frustration was not that of which could be compared to critical judgement, but a state of vulnerability, an expression of a lack — a lack of her. 

Thérèse could sympathise with your dissatisfaction.

“I apologise. I invited you with the sole intention of seeing you, and I dearly wanted to, but I did not consider that past seeing you, we could do nothing else.” She stepped closer. “After the game, perhaps we might go for a walk. I’ve yet to see where you live.”

The corners of your lips pulled into a delicate smile and Thérèse swooned. “Then another walk it is,” you affirmed. 

Thérèse was unsure what had been going through her mind when she imagined that her hunger would be sated, or at least partially, once she was finally able to see you again. She sat in the corner of the dining room, sometimes getting up to serve drinks and desserts, passing by you often and meeting your eyes even more frequently. 

But she was driven mad sitting apart from you and doing nothing but watching, nothing but seeing. 

In salivation, the object of nutrition is its trigger, an anticipation that one is soon going to digest what is desired. Of course, there are further, more scientific reasons as to why the salivation begins; the brain takes part, primarily, with its neurotransmitters and its comprehension of hunger and craving. But none of it would occur without a subject in mind — the subject to devour, the subject to prey on.

And while watching you socialise and laugh and look over to her occasionally, watching your lips wrap around the rim of your teacup or swallow a bite of the tart from your plate, Thérèse was nearly drooling. 

Her fingers, unless she was imagining it, were trembling ever so slightly as she helped clean the table once the game was over. She brought the dishes to the kitchen and tucked in the dining room chairs. 

Madame encouraged Thérèse to cut her domestic duties short in order to walk you home for you hadn’t ever crossed through Passage du Pont Neuf so late into the night and knew little of where to go from the shop, and Madame had taken a liking to you and how well-mannered you were. 

“Were you amused in seeing me lose as often as I did?” you asked Thérèse after parting from the rest and down the sidewalks that led to your place. 

“I was far more amused seeing you continue to play in spite of how often you lost,” she answered. 

You laughed. “You are a sadist, I think.”

“You were not pained in losing,” Thérèse lightly contested. “I gathered you might even be less entertained if you were to have won.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

You lived in a building that housed several other residents, each with their own residential units, and yours was at the very top with two windows that stretched up close to the partially-angled ceiling. It was spacious enough to fit both your workspace, your kitchen, and your bedroom. There was little divide between these rooms aside from the floorplan in which one had to turn to get to one room or another, but generally, it was a rather open concept apartment unit.

Clearly, it was space enough for a person who lived alone, and the interior design and small fireplace and expansive windows was evident of your bountiful earnings as a writer for the periodical you worked under.

“Will you leave now?” you asked Thérèse once you were both standing in the middle of your apartment.

“You are asking me to?”

In quick specification, you clarified, “No, I mean if it is in your preference to leave. Are you planning on leaving now?”

“Is it in your preference to have me leave?”

Thérèse’s pressing of you made you slightly unsteady and your cheeks warmed. “No,” you said.

She smiled. “Then, no, I will not leave.”

The two of you talked on the couch of your workspace, as you did when you had been on your walk together several days ago. The conversation foresaw no end, and the comfort of being in a place that was privy only to the two of you only encouraged its seemingly infinite stretch. 

You were sitting across from Thérèse, her legs folded on the couch in front of her as she sat horizontally to face you, her knees pulled up and laying against the couch’s back. She had undone her hair so you could now see it in its length, which was unexpected for the way her hair was always done made it seem that it was much shorter than it really was. 

She was elegant and so ladylike.

The soft light from the fireplace across the room, about four metres from the foot of your bed, illuminated her face in a warm glow.

Suddenly, you felt the need to confess. “In the last few days, ever since I asked you to accompany me through Paris, I must admit that you have been going through my mind an awful lot.”

“This is awful?” Thérèse asked, straightening. She didn’t believe that you had truly meant to say that thinking of her was awful, but it really was amusing to see you stutter.

“N-No, I don’t mean that,” you corrected immediately. “I only meant that-that…” You searched for the words and adjusted yourself on the couch. “I felt guilty — perhaps this is the word — for thinking of you so much. To me, it felt predacious.”

To this, it seemed that Thérèse’s eyes seemed to momentarily flicker with ignition. You thought it merely a lick of the flame from the fireplace, reflecting against her eyes. “Is that so?” she inquired, pressing. “What felt… predacious to you?”

“Only that I couldn’t seem to stop thinking of you,” you explained. You shifted, uncomfortable as you exposed to her thoughts that you had been trying to avoid out of the shame that you had been having them. “But it was more so the kinds of ways I thought about you. I thought of things like your hair and… I’m not sure. Your voice, your lips. Silly things like this.” You began to speak quicker as if trying to rid yourself of the taste of your words from atop your tongue. “It felt scrutinising.”

Thérèse seemed to be contemplating something in deep thought as she looked at you. She took a small breath and spoke a confession of her own. “Y/N, I must also admit that I have been thinking similar things. Though, certainly, I would not equate my thoughts of you to scrutiny.”

“To what, then?” You wondered.

“Consumption,” Thérèse said, and the word captured you. 

Trying to understand her usage of the word, you worked through it. “Your thoughts of me… consumed you?”

The glint in Thérèse’s eyes returned and for a second longer than before, and you looked over to the fireplace, now concerned for its constant leaping, only to find it rather docile.

“You misunderstand,” Thérèse said. When you turned, she was rising from her spot on the opposite side of the couch, hair spilling from behind her shoulders, moving onto the heels of her hands as she advanced towards you. Her other hand found your thigh under your dress and the pressure her fingers applied through your clothing made it seem to you that she meant to dig right through its fabric. “It is not I who was being consumed at the thought of you.”

Your breathing quickened and Thérèse only advanced even further up your body to the point that you had to shift back with your elbow resting on the armrest behind you.

Thérèse’s delicate fingers moved their way up your stomach and your chest that was picking up pace in its rising and falling. Her fingernail hooked itself under one of the buttons of your dress and pushed it to the side. You watched as it was nearly pushed beyond its slit to unbutton itself, but Thérèse let it slip from her fingernail. Her fingers wrapped around the collar of your dress and the tips of her fingers grazed against your neck and over your collarbone, nails raking lightly against the warm skin of your chest.

With a hand placed beyond your head and positioned atop of the armrest behind you, Thérèse gave herself height so she could run her eyes down what limited skin your dress’ collar exposed.

“Thinking of you…” Thérèse’s own breath began to quicken. “It was I who was consuming you. How I’ve hungered for you in the past few days, Y/N, salivated over how the salt of the skin of your neck would taste if I were to run my tongue across it, how your body would intertwine with mine.”

Her eyes finally left your clothed body and she met your gaze. “I want you,” she said simply.

You swallowed. “I’d be most pleased if you would have me.”

Her fingers tightened around your collar and she used the leverage to pull you up, slipping herself off from the couch and having you stand along with her.

She undid the buttons on your dress and began to undress you, while you took just a moment to catch up to the realisation that you also ought to be doing the same for her. 

When your arms were free of your dress, Thérèse pushed it further down and tucked a few fingers beneath your crinoline so she could undo it and have it pool to the floor along with your skirts. 

With skilled hands that only a woman could possess, Thérèse undid your corset with precision. Though the process of completely untying a corset was tedious, there was something so delicate and delicious about the way Thérèse undid yours.

You watched as her fingers weaved through the laces and loosened it slowly, steadily. Once or twice, she even looked at you and met your eyes as she did, her eyes having ignited with something hungry and captivating. 

Once she finished with your corset and let it drop to the floor, allowing you to step out of the pool of your garments, you were now only in your chemise while you were still slowly undoing Thérèse’s corset. 

She was a haberdasher, after all, and though the two of you were both familiar with the doing and undoing of a corset, it was Thérèse who was most skilled with the handling of clothing. 

Her hands laid atop of yours and your fingers ceased their movements. She stepped towards you and laced her fingers through yours as she began to undo her own corset. You watched, down the space of her own chemise that slowly began to loosen as her corset was further untied, the rising and falling of Thérèse’s soft porcelain breasts. 

“You need not be so concerned with being seen as a predator,” she said, her voice not quite a whisper but still rather low, like a gentle hum in the tune of a bedtime story. She stepped out of her own pool of clothing on the floor now that she was in her own chemise. Her hand found your chest and as she advanced forward, she pushed you back steadily so you were forced to walk backwards. 

“Would you much rather prefer being preyed on?” she asked and ran her hands down your shoulders. “That would please me, anyhow.”

You swallowed. You didn’t quite realise how far Thérèse had been pushing you back until you had to quickly jut out your elbow to keep your weight from suddenly shifting onto your back. She raised a knee onto the edge of the bed and you watched as her chemise slid down her thigh. Her hand ran up the path between your breasts and encouraged you to continue moving backwards.

Her fingers reached the hollow base of your throat, the centre of your collarbone, and she pressed down gently, watching her fingers apply pressure to your compliant skin. Then, when your head was laid atop your pillows and her thighs were straddling your hips, Thérèse leaned down and pressed her warm lips to your neck.

“Perhaps what you had felt before was not guilt.” Her bottom lip ran up the expanse of your neck as she moved to kiss the warm space behind the lobe of your ear. “But rather a feeling of inadequacy, knowing that your desire would never take the form of that of a predator. You need not feel this way — not with me. And if not with me, then you need not ever feel it again.”

Her teeth tugged at your earlobe, let go, then pressed her a kiss again to the pulse of your neck, then down, and down further, until she could run her tongue flat against your neck, up further until the tip of her tongue pressed into the hollow space beneath your jaw bone. She bit down on the skin of your jawline then released. “You ought to know your place, and not feel compelled to take another.”

She straightened to look down upon you, fuelled deep within the warmth between her thighs by the look on your face with your flushed cheeks and lips parted to release your warm quickening breaths. 

“Would it not feel better, knowing that it is I who will prey on you?” She spoke while moving further up your body, her knees moving herself upwards and her thighs brushing up your waist, up the sides of your ribs, your breasts. “Better, knowing that you ought to simply let yourself be consumed?”

Your eyes explored the uncovered expanse of Thérèse’s smooth thighs as she sat herself on your chest, your fingers tightening around your bedsheets and repressing the urge to reach up and touch her.

“Y/N.” Thérèse said your name. You looked up and slid her fingers down your cheek, cupping it softly and tipping your head up to meet your eyes. “I will not ever let you be anyone else’s but mine.”

Her words, though possessive and dominating, seemed almost as it were a forewarning as well; Thérèse still seemed to have reservations of this part of herself, and perhaps in a way, she feared what might happen if she were to completely give into it — give into herself. She worried about what she knew were to happen if she progressed any further.

“I have no interest for anyone else but you,” you told her, meeting her eyes tenderly. You released your bedsheets and laid your hands against the sides of her smooth thighs, warm palms leaving goosebumps in their wake as your fingers pressed into the pliable flesh of Thérèse’s ass. 

Her hips buckled and she sighed through her nose, closing her eyes momentarily as she savoured your words and the first feeling of your hands on her body unobstructed by clothing. 

Thérèse, suddenly overcome by certainty and a hunger now driven to what she felt was alike to famine, took your hair into her hand and used it as leverage to move herself further up. She raised from her position on your chest and after one failed attempt at keeping her chemise around her hips, she grew impatient and pulled the garment off altogether, tossing it back to the foot of the bed. 

Finding that she did not want to face the same frustration with her underwear, she did away with that too. 

Your eyes ran over her bare body, her smooth belly and the curves and dips of her waist and her hips, how soft her thighs looked, how perfectly her breasts were shaped, and the pink tint of her hardened nipples. Brown hair cascaded down her arms and chest.

“By God, I have never seen anything so beautiful,” you remarked. Your hands, unable to keep to themselves, ran up the expanse of her stomach, fingers wrapped around her waist as they moved further up. Your hands cupped her breasts, thumbs moving across Thérèse’s nipples. 

She hummed shakily, both satisfied by your hands and words and also pleasured by them. Her hands came to the backs of yours, encouraging you to grope her rougher.

“When you came into the haberdashery,” she spoke, “I felt pity for you, that something so beautiful had to find herself amongst the rotting carcasses of that god-awful place.”

In gentle protest, you reminded her, “But there was you.”

Thérèse smiled down at you. Such consideration you had, and a kind heart. “And so there was.” She let go of one of your hands and stroked your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

She led your hands to her hips, and she wrapped her hand around the headboard of your bed. She moved herself onto her knees and settled them on either side of your head. 

The scent of Thérèse’s sex made you salivate, and your fingers pressed into her hips with anticipation. Delicate pink folds presented themselves to you as she positioned herself above your face, so inviting. 

Her other hand stroked your cheek one once more with her thumb before her fingers delved into your hair and repositioned your head. Then, she lowered herself onto your lips and you immediately opened for her. 

Your tongue ran through smooth silken petals firstly in curiosity, lips wrapped around the warm embrace of her cunt. Her flavour spread into your tongue and your hands pulled her further down against your face. 

Thérèse’s jaw was slack, her arm pressed against the wall in front of her so she could rest her forehead on her forearm. Her body was overcome with pleasure and, initially, she found it hard to do anything but moan and shut her eyes. 

But the moment your tongue became that of a starving mouth rather than a curious one, Thérèse knew she had to start moving.

The pads of her fingers pressed against the back of your head, keeping your mouth against her pussy. She rolled her hips forward and back, nudging her clit against the tip of your nose as your tongue chased her cunt hungrily. Nectar spilled down your cheeks and smeared across your chin. 

“Y/N.” Thérèse breathed your name. She let go of your hair and groped her breast, moaning in jagged rhythm as her rapid breaths meshed with her groans of pleasure. She had never felt such pleasure, and it was entirely sensical that it was you who was the first and only to give it to her. “Keep going, just like that. Don’t stop. You make me feel so good.”

You looked up at Thérèse from beneath her and felt the urge to explore her further. Your tongue dipped into her, into the slippery tang of her sweet nectar, while your one hand let go of her thigh and travelled up the curve of her ass and up her lower back, feeling where it dipped along the contour of her spine.

Her hips continued to roll against your face, thighs tightening around the side of your head as she depended less on the grip of the headboard and further on the stability of your head beneath her. 

Your hand gripped at her waist, thumb pressed into her soft cream skin.

She let out a partially-repressed squeal and let go of the headboard, both hands now gripping your head with her fingers interlaced within your hair. You supported her with your one hand on her waist and your other on the back of her thigh, and Thérèse began grinding down against you with such speed and intensity that you could hardly move your tongue. 

She took charge of her impending release, leaving you to be but an inanimate object she was merely using the tongue of. 

Her fingers pulled your head up, right against her pussy so as to achieve the friction she needed, and you kept your tongue stiff and pliable for her delicate cunt. 

“A-Ah… Y/N.” Thérèse’s voice started to become higher pitched, needier. “I’m…” Her head lolled back and her hair poured down the length of her arched back, her breasts moving in accordance to the rhythm of her hips, her neck becoming exposed. How terribly you wanted to press your lips there, where her skin was warm and smooth and scented of her perfume. 

One of Thérèse’s hands released your hair and suddenly jutted out, her palm meeting the wall as she reached her pleasure’s peak. You could watch from beneath how her eyes squeezed shut and as her head fell forward, jaw slack as she cried out. The sight was almost animalistic in how unrestrained and entirely carnal it was.

In release, she was no longer constrained by the shadowed holds of the shop or Passage du Pont Neuf or even her own personal reservations, but a being so raw in her desire and expression, and entirely without guilt. 

Thérèse’s body suddenly went lax and she leaned backwards, her other arm quick to hold herself up with her palm flat beside your hip. She caught her breath and you finally took your first full one once her cunt parted from your lips. 

In silence and in awe for several moments, you merely watched the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed, deep and drawn-out. 

Carefully so as not to disturb her balance, you arose onto your elbows and allowed Thérèse to adjust herself along your body. She opened her eyes and watched as you moved. She moved along with you so she was soon sitting in the middle of the bed with her knees bent against her chest and her hands behind her, holding herself up. 

You advanced on all fours and parted her legs, kissing up the smooth skin of her inner thighs. She welled with admiration for you as she watched you on your knees in front of her, kissing her hips and her stomach, beneath her breasts, her nipples, her neck. Your kisses became more delicate as they reached her face, one hand cupping her cheek as you kissed up to her temple and then her forehead, and finally, her lips. 

Her elbows buckled when you leaned down beside her and took her with you. She laid herself down beside you so the two of you were laying opposite of the headboard and closest to the fireplace opposite the bed, your eyes meeting tenderly with hers as you stroked her cheekbone with your thumb.

Your other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against you so her hips were pressed against yours, legs intertwined as if in their own entangled dance. 

“I am hopelessly captivated by you.” Your hand moved away from her cheek and into the soft waves of her smooth brown hair. “I’d like to never leave such a state in any foreseeable future.”

Thérèse’s tranquil expression tugged into a slight grin and she moved herself closer so her breasts were pressed against your chest. “You needn’t concern yourself with any such future in which you belong to anyone else but me.” Her gaiety tinged with charming arrogance was incredibly endearing to you.

“Every morning since the beginning of time,” you said, “the sun has risen and it has set.” Thérèse listened intently to the gentle hum of your lullaby-like voice. “And yet books upon books have been written by hand of the many poets with hearts of unfettered lovers dedicated solely to the sun’s rising and its setting, and I presume, for as long as poetry and love are to exist, that this human habit of loving even the most inevitable will stretch into the far reaches of the human future. The inevitability in a future in which I am yours and no one else’s could not, and would not, even if it could, ever cease my desire for its occurrence.”

Thérèse kissed your lips. “How lucky am I to have captured such a woman with as much prowess for the written word as she has within her heart, then.” From her grin, you could feel the evenness of her teeth brush against your lips.

“And you,” you said with a tinge of hesitancy, “foresee a future in which you have in your possession more than only me?”

Thérèse moved up onto her elbow and you kissed the top of her breast as she shifted above you. “In the time that I have known you, which, admittedly, I would say is much shorter than I wish I could say — but we have the rest of time to make up for it — I have come to realise and accept truths about myself that I could not have otherwise, and that is to mean I could not have done so without you.” She brushed hair from your forehead with delicate fingers.

“In any interaction,” Thérèse said, “there exists two irrefutable beings, one being interacting with the other in mutuality. Before you, Y/N, I was neither being nor anything truly existent. I had no form, no sense of myself, no identity. For someone who has no established understanding of who they are, it becomes impossible to have anything important, to value anything or have any possession which is truly theirs. Do you understand, or am I speaking with the tongue of a madwoman?”

“I understand,” you said.

Thérèse smiled. She knew you would. “I am only who I have become because of you.” She kissed the bridge of your nose. “I am as much yours as you are mine. Everything I am is yours, and only yours.”

Then she asked, “Are you happy to own me, Y/N?”

You took her into your arms, pulled her down close so you could kiss her while Thérèse tried her best not to laugh too hard as to disturb the way your soft lips were pressed against hers. 

She curled herself up against you and you held her close to your chest, one arm serving as a rest for her head and the other wrapped around her body. 

“I am the happiest I have ever been,” you told her honestly. 

Thérèse smiled against the warm embrace of your body, laying her head against the cushion of your breasts. She, too, was the happiest she’d ever been.

[mingus-archives]

"The Tell-Tale Heart"

Okay so I want to preface this that I have not read much Edgar Allen Poe so I will be missing those layers in my perspective, but anyways something that really struck me in "The Tell-Tale Heart" episode of The Fall of The House of Usher was the moments after Victorine throws the book end at Ali.

Before this, we're presented with this version of Victorine who may be stressed and pressured but ultimately does not actively appear to be amoral. She's just being put in a bad position by her shit father; she wants to do good and develop a life-saving medical device, and she just has to cut corners to stay afloat. It's only Camille who seems convinced Victorine is some awful person.

Then, the bookend. Another cut corner. Instead of talking things out with Ali or being patient, she acts impulsively and immediately to stop the problem. It's just like the first time she dosed the chimpanzee with epinephrine during surgery in a panic when she realized the device wasn't working. She hits Ali in the head and, on realizing the severity of her actions, runs over to her.

Ali is bleeding out on the floor, her body writhing horribly and she lets out these awful choked noises. Victorine goes to her and seems immediately horrified and brokenhearted. Then, the security guard checks in through the door. The guard is concerned over the scuffling noises overheard.

And Victorine fucking says to him, "Have you never heard a woman getting eaten out before?"

Her girlfriend is dying by her hand, and she pretends the sounds of her dying are the noises of sexual pleasure. This to me is the reveal, this is when the audience truly sees that Victorine does not have and never had a heart. The love she's shown, for her passion, her girlfriend, her device, is nothing more than mistaken greed. It's a mechanical heartbeat, it sounds almost like a heartbeat, but it's a pale imitation to anyone who pays attention. And like with Ali's corpse, the mechanical heart of Victorine is just keeping a soulless body alive.

The Fall of the House of Usher structurally represents the family itself: it begins with the announcement of the deaths of all the children. The children are dead from the beginning of the show. And as Annabel points out, the children in the story were dead from the start, killed by greed and wealth. And then we learn that they were literally dead, as Roderick and Madeline had already sold their lives for wealth before they were even born. We're not seeing the family die, we're seeing the final moments of corpses decomposing. We're seeing the dilapidated house finally collapse. The Fall of the House of Usher is not about death, it's about the walking dead, like the visions of Roderick. A family kept alive with a mechanical device just going through the motions.

[theorahsart]

I wanted to draw Camille writing this letter to his Dad, because 8 months on I still think it's one of the most hillarious things I've ever read. Credit to the translated text goes to this wonderful LJ user who's taken the time to translate letters much more eloquently then I can manage rn