#french flea markets

[oldfarmhouse]

s://instagram.com/amy_brocantellving

[danaeanaira]

Dream lamp

[meirimerens]

IT'S ALL GOING TO BE OKAY. AFFIRM !

[postcard-from-the-past]

Flea market in Saint-Brieuc, Brittany region of France

French vintage postcard

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

♡ Little things I've done to mark Edwige's birthday ♡

♡ got up in the late morning (she had a rule -- once she was able to afford it, ofc -- where she didn't answer calls before 11am because she would go to sleep late and would then stay in bed till late morning. Also she just hated getting up early. Girl, same :P)

♡ listened to a reading by Edwige <3

♡ walked to the theatre (she apparently would only ever walk to the theatre when she was going to be on stage; she never took other forms of transport)

♡ attended a show at the theatre (fairly obvious from my previous point lol -- it was ballet but hey it was the only thing on today okay so i hope she liked ballet -- I enjoyed myself regardless)

♡ wore a nice outfit because she was a style queen

♡ expanding on my previous point, specifically wore high heels (my awesome burgundy cunty ones) because she liked wearing high heels (though perhaps not as high as the ones I was wearing but shhh)

♡ watched a film she starred in (i was planning on watching L'Aigle but changed my mind last minute and watched a comedy instead bc I needed something more lighthearted)

♡ drank a glass of red wine (French, naturally) in her name (okay, more than one glass, but I do small measurements)

♡ listened to some songs she enjoyed

[♡ bonus: i was also planning to smoke a cigarette in her honour too but it's late-ish now and idk if i want to go outside and smoke - I might have to smoke tomorrow instead (also tbh it's not exactly healthy so probably for the best)]

[lakecoded]

7 and 12!

7. is there a series/book that got you into reading?

i can't think of anything specific??? i've always loved reading and tore through all the magic tree house/junie b jones/fairy books i could get my hands on when i was little so maybe those??

12. did you enjoy any compulsory high school readings?

i liked king lear when we read it in grade 12 english and i really loved the wars by timothy findlay when we read it (also grade 12). also we read ru by kim thuy i think in grade 11 french class?? and i really enjoyed that one

[crazymadpassionatelove]

Cool Girl

Notes: None of this would be possible without my dearest darlings @ab4eva and @precious-little-scoundrel! All the hugs and kisses to you both xo

Part 2

-

Here's the thing nobody ever admits about being the other half of a celebrity: it's actually as hard or as easy as you make it. Enter hunky, gifted actor who just happens to be hung like a horse? Well, being his lady isn't hard at all. You just have to know the rules. Number one, you can't hear the noise. Not literally, you can hear it. You must strive to live in such a bubble that none of it matters though. You shop, power walk your gated community, and take cock like it's the only job you have. Truly, it is. Pleasing him is of utmost importance. Be ready to hop a plane at a moment’s notice, or even get fucked on said plane. You're so busy spending your man’s cash snapping up authentic mid-century modern homes before certain celebrities turn them into minimalist gray prisons, raising money for dogs who need prosthetics, and trying your hand at that sourdough bread craze, you really don't even have time to see the Instagram hate being spewed your way 24/7.

Number two, remaining an enigma. Selling energy drinks on social media? Having your man pay off some fast fashion brand to “partner” with you for a collection? Appearing on some campy sitcom as a guest star? Not for you, the thought of it actually makes you recoil. You're too busy doing all the little things and making his once barely furnished house a home. Homemade chocolate chip cookies with the chocolate specially flown in from Belgium on his private plane? Check! Gold vintage jewelry via that cute little flea market in Paris is clanking as you insist on being the ones to change the bedroom sheets. A housekeeper comes once a month, and even she comments coyly about your chemistry. Still, she need not see the soaked sheets from the multiple round of lovemaking the two of you do at all hours of the day and night.

Being seen on the red carpet is not your cup of tea, but it's the equivalent of attending your man's office Christmas party. So you pick out a dress, aka one of the couture houses offers to dress you, and he flies you to Paris for multiple fittings and macarons. Then there's some vintage Van Cleef jewelry that appears on the dining room table one morning, and a fresh new pair of Louboutins is the final piece to the puzzle. Then, looking very demur and shy, you appear on his arm, clinging to it actually. You'll smile at the various television hosts and press. Speak softly, and practically defer to him for all questions. He's the star, you're just a great supporting act. Then, when the night is finally done, you both breathe a sigh of relief and he thanks you for being such a good sport. How about a McDonald's drive thru run, huh? That face, oh that handsome fucking face of his that you've been dying to kiss all night. He just always knows what to say. So that's how you're papped still in your couture gown, he in a wrinkled white button down, his jacket slid around your shoulders, feeding each other French fries and chicken nuggets, splitting a milkshake. How wholesome and Americana honestly.

That night he promises to thank you again. Austin's perfect lips wrap themselves around your puffy clit as two, then three fingers curl, shove, and squelch inside you. “You were such a good girl the whole night, baby.” There's something about being called a good girl that makes you absolutely feral. He brings you to orgasm over and over, you lose count after about 7. He's just getting started though. He hasn't even slipped inside. When he does though, it's rough. The glorious slapping sounds of flesh fill the room as he brings himself to the edge over and over, denying himself a release and giving you an additional, what three or four orgasms? You've left feral behind and have crossed over into absolute animalistic filth as you bury yourself in the goose down pillows and practically shove it in your mouth howling. Letting him have his way as you throb and clench, hot and pink with almost blurred vision as he talks you through it. Peppering the conversation with lots of “that's my girl, my pretty baby cums so damn pretty”. When you think you're in need of a paramedic, he blows inside you something reminiscent of Niagara falls. He knows how much you love a vocal man. You end the night not being able to feel your limbs or do anything beyond closing your eyes with a lazy, bashful grin. He gives you one last slap to the ass then mentions as you drift off, “Could you make some of those brownies of yours for the cast and crew tomorrow?”

The third rule of being the other half to everyone's favorite blue eyed baby boy actor? Less is more. This sort of goes hand in hand with the enigma rule. Those celebrities who traipse around in loud designer clothing and accessories covered in flashy logos? That's not you or your man for that matter. Sure you have handbags that cost more than some people's cars, but they are solid authentic leather bags your guy finds you in far flung corners when he's on location. No one really notices when you're papped and printed in People Magazine. You keep your head down in aviators he takes to wearing, a nice little subtle nod. The bands you each wear on that finger are a solid Welsh gold. Whenever his slightly deranged fans see you, the one thing they can't call you is a golddigger. You drive a jeep or even that old Ford truck he restored himself, no Lamborghinis in your garage.

Part of the less is more shtick though is being able to give a cute little nod to him here and there when appropriate. When he's cast in a certain biopic that alters his career and your lives? You sit tight and let him have his moment, after all, you know all the behind the scenes work that goes into it. The blood, sweat, and tears. There are times when he takes method acting to such a level that it's almost like going to bed with another man. You can't exactly complain though. The slight drawl that appears when he says your name is something he is never able to truly shake and you're glad. When the moment is right though, you post a tongue in cheek Instagram post. Your feed is normally bogged down with pictures of the pets, your baking, and various charities you support. This time though, you post a rare photo of yourself looking like you're a certain sort of American royalty stepped from a time machine. It's a candid shot with you at his feet. Worshiping. Except now it's sort of like you worship two men. It's fairly well received, friends tell you, though there will always be hate. Remember, you can't hear the noise. You certainly can't hear the noise women old enough to be your grandmother are making as they lust over the man who's cock you gag on every night.

Those utterly delectable fingers of his snake inside you, make you hiss and come undone as that tongue in cheek sort of throw back makeup you're sporting runs down your cheeks. “Who's my pretty girl?” He teases you. A good hour later when he finally allows himself his own release he's panting your name into your ear. He settles himself in between your breasts. Didn't his agent once mention the girls on Tumblr call him baby boy? If only they could catch a glimpse of him now. Murmuring against your skin and tracing what feels like hearts on your arms. You scroll Zillow and read out the six-figure price tags on castles in Ireland. How does fucking in a dungeon sound, honey?

Rule number four? Be ready to go to bat for him at any moment, others opinions be damned. Being Austin's other half brings out a protective streak in you. A maternal bodyguard quasi agent of sorts. Always keep your eyes peeled for the photogs, especially when he's indulging in that pesky little smoking habit he doesn't exactly like to advertise. That actual management team of his isn't bad, especially once the Elvis flick is underway and you learn just exactly how bad certain managers can be. Still, nobody has his best interests at heart the way you do. Keep his favorite snacks on hand in your purse, water ready at a moment's notice. Your boy has a tendency to work himself to the bone and you certainly cannot allow him to run himself ragged. Tea with hot honey every night was a must while he immersed himself in Elvis. Be his soft place, let him cry and vent while you run your fingers through those golden locks. Take whatever you can off his plate so he can dedicate himself to his craft.

Some wonder if you've lost yourself in him and his life, but it's the exact opposite. You've found yourself. When that angel boy praises you during press tours and jokes on talk shows about you flying out in the middle of the night to see to it his shirts are starched the way he likes and he eats breakfast, well you just sit there and smile. “I couldn't be me without her.” Those words make you melt and you immediately crave the feeling of his hot cream inside you. Playing Elvis brought out a side of him that never truly leaves once filming wraps. Stressed? Tired? Enamored? Him bending you over while you're brushing your teeth becomes a common occurrence. “That's my baby – take it, take it,” you've gotta talk it all out of him sometimes and that's fine with you. You stand in the wings of the Kelly Ripa show and try in vain to hide your red face when a PA offers you a napkin. “I think you spilled something down your leg,” the young girl offers. Something spilled all right, him inside you with his hands gripping your hair just minutes before he was due on stage.

Everything is just so right, it's only natural that cool girl very quickly becomes cool wife.

-

[girlsdressingrooms]

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024) 

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

 In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style. 

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

[morsmortish]

obsessed with thinking about “frazzled englishwoman” pandora. she wears multicoloured silk scarves and long felt coats. mismatched fingerless gloves and designer sunglasses. frayed denim skirts and ripped tights and brown boots. she carries a birkin bag much like jane birkin herself, overflowing with old french literature and various other knickknacks. her makeup is messy and smudged. she partners birkenstocks with wollen stockings. she leaves lipstick stains on all her teacups. chipped nail polish and chunky silver jewellery. big dangly earrings and tangled hair. oversized turtleneck jumpers and ankle-length skirts. you can even include a beret or any other unorthodox hat if you’re feeling frivolous. she has a takeaway coffee in one hand and a flip phone in the other, with a cigarette tucked behind her ear. she drives a beat up black mini cooper. she haunts flea markets and charity shops. she smells of cigarettes, dusty bookstores, and chanel perfume.

[sirianasims]

The Don Diaries

Another day, another drama! It's Sunday, the day after prom, and Nicolo is up for his 6 AM jog like the overachieving maniac he is.

Meanwhile, Adriana and Don are having their customary Sunday mother/son brunch of french toast so she can hear about how prom went.

Since Nicolo is working today, they go to the Flea Market to hang out and try some new and exciting food.

While they are enjoying their samosas and curry, however, we discover something new about Adriana, which may help explain why she decided to stay home after Don was born.

Poor Adriana 😭 She's really not enjoying this, so after lunch, she goes home. Don, however, decides to hang out a bit.

There are, after all, girls to meet! And while Don did hit it off with Alena after prom, and has a bit of a crush on her, you never know.

Don heads inside and runs into a girl in the arcade, Julie. She's heart-farting all over herself, which should be a good sign.

Don and Julie have fun and play some games, but Alena must have felt a disturbance in the force.

She and Don have been exchanging messages so there's a bit of a budding romance going on.

Stay classy, Don.

Alena seems to sense that Don is out chatting up other girls, though, because this happens.

So they meet up at a different arcade. The vendor is just happy to be there.

Don, future womaniser extraordinaire, decides to tell his date that she's his, uh, favourite.

Surprisingly, she responds positively to this - for reasons that are unfortunately about to become apparent.

And so, after some more flirting, Don actually manages his first kiss! He's ecstatic.

He even pushes his luck, and...

Don couldn't be happier.

That is, until…

Close-up of Don dying inside.

Don is a romantic kid with parents who model a perfect committed marriage of soulmates. He was not prepared for this.

They hang out for the rest of the date, but Don does not seem as thrilled as someone who just got his first kiss and first girlfriend in one day should be.

He gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek as goodbye.

Poor Don.

No need to rub it in, Alena.

And just when Don gets home and thinks this awkward day is over…

MOM COULD YOU MAYBE KNOCK??

It doesn't matter how supportive and sex-positive your parents are...

... the WooHoo Talk is never not awkward.

[hrrtshape]

DAY IN THE LIFE — fame dr 'CHILL DAY' edition

⋆ 8:30 AM – rise and shine in my gorgeous, light-filled apartment overlooking the pulse of paris near the opera garnier. the sun filters through elegant french windows as i slide out of bed in that loewe "i told ya" t-shirt (reference to challengers and jfk jr, hello????). making make a fresh coffee, lounging back on your plush couch with a journal in hand.

⋆ 9:15 AM – time for makeup, and the morning glow-up begins. walking to the pristine, marble-tiled bathroom, as i start with dior prestige la micro-huile de rose for that lit-from-within radiance. next, dior forever skin veil SPF 20 goes on as primer, adding a layer of sheer perfection. then comes the dior forever glow foundation, finished with a touch of YSL touche eclat for a much needed radiance, especially after that...uh, shameful night of over-sweetened margaritas.

bronzed with chanel les beiges healthy glow, cheekbones looking enviable and effortless. i sweep hermès' rose hermès silky blush across my cheeks for that subtle parisian flush. for eyes, it's the dior 5 couleurs couture palette in soft browns with a little extra shimmer from chanel's LES 4 OMBRES for that delicate, specific victoria secret's look. IDUN mineral's SILFR mascara and charlotte tilbury pillow talk lip liner with gucci rouge à lèvres voile lipstick to finish my look.

⋆ 10:00 AM – curls brushed and outfit on: bootleg jeans, chloé paddington boots, a fitted red knit sweater, and a vintage MIU MIU bag – a look straight out of a pinterest moodboard.

⋆ 11:00 AM – i slip out of my apartment, making my way to BO&MIE near the louvre. i grab a warm, flaky pain au chocolat (because we all need sweet treats in our lives) and a chai latte to go, the perfect balance of cozy and sweet. it’s a quiet sunday, and i take this little ritual down to the seine, settling on a bench to take in the morning lull. imogen heap playing softly in earbuds, a dreamy soundtrack to the sounds of paris waking up around.

⋆ 12:00 PM – i begin a gentle wander through the 1st and 2nd arrondissements, where sunday flea markets pop with trinkets, vintage finds, and that peculiar magic only parisian markets can hold. perusing tables with glimmering jewelry and rare books, picking up an old poetry collection that catches the eye, and maybe a tiny golden charm to hang off my bag or to gift a friend. a few fans recognise me, some shy and some thrilled, and i lean in for pictures with a warm, “i don’t bite!!!!!” 🫶

⋆ 1:30 PM – meeting a friend at VESPER, diving into sushi and cocktails that match the chicness of the moment. the laughter, the cocktails, the buzz makes everything feel light and sparkling. by the time we're done, i've had a few (as per), feeling just woozy enough to make the walk interesting.

⋆ 3:20 PM – with a bottle of water to balance out those cocktails, i head over to the musée de l’orangerie. monet’s water lilies are a calming spell – the colours, the quiet of the museum – all washing over, letting everything slow down for just a beat. besides the previous alcohol makes everything just a bit more technicolour.

⋆ 4:00 PM – galeries lafayette calls, and i'm in for a mini treat. picking out a new lip gloss, maybe a rich red or muted mauve, and stop by ladurée to snag some macarons. meanwhile, phone is buzzing; it’s thé manager, with urgent texts about an absolutely irresistible film offer.

⋆ 5:00 PM – meeting up with another friend, slipping into the comfortable flow of wandering conversation, stopping at a small, antique café for tea. the macarons make a reappearance, and it’s that kind of timeless paris afternoon – where you can talk about everything and nothing and let hours drift by.

⋆ 7:00 PM – friend heads out, leaving me alone at the café. perfect for pulling out a journal, pouring out poems, song drafts, and a little doomscrolling (because even in paris, i'm only human).

⋆ 8:00 PM – dinner with a close circle, back in the spotlight with cocktails, laughter, and some elegant dishes.

⋆ 10:40 PM – finally back in my apartment, the curls loosened, phone nearly dead, and the soft hush of a small headache as the city quiets. i slip into something cozy, nestle into bed with a new book, and drift off feeling like me and paris are all alone together, back to where the day began – calm, sweet, and wholly mine <3

[oldfarmhouse]

french flea markets

https://www.instagram.com/whitecottage_flowerfarm

[thesimquarter]

hello! sims 2 miniopolis update!

first of all, my current sims 2 urbz sims >:3 outside of the obvious change of a default skin, they don't look that different compared to my old versions of them. But! believe me they are better.as well, this time! there's the DS exclusive characters and a few sims intended to be townies. In order, Lloyd, Red Man, Daschell Swank, Chet R. Chase, Bucki Brock's sister, Joe from the Flea Market (yes, he does have a name), Ava Cadavra, and Gordie Puck. Indeed, they're very red.

And an update to the town in general! I've finished most of the easy lots now, mostly having harder lots to do now. Such as the Mausoleum, Circus, Brownstones + Slice O'Life (which I… attempted. can you believe that the map of this game doesn’t follow the laws of physics?), etc.

New lots include: - Junked Schoolbus (which IS connected to the Chopper Garage visually but they aren't the same lot) - Chopper Garage (which i am not going to put underneath the road/jail! it looks cool in-game, but possibly impossible to do in the sims 2 but it makes no sense spatially!! the other side of the garage would just be underground!!!) - Cemetery (Mostly just empty buildings for aesthetics. No graves… yet. and there probably won’t be until the final version of the hood.) - Miniopolis Chronicle (TINY) - Miniopolis Hospital + University (if this was ts3 i probably would have made them separately) - Club Xizzle (what is it supposed to look like on the outside + should there be two?) - Glasstown Megamall - Cinema d'Urbania (how do you make a cinema in this game? big TV?)

I redid King Tower as well, just to make it fill out a 3x3 lot instead of a 2x2 lot, and Café Multiplaya has a new outdoor seating area (to fill in space). The Coffee Shop, the Market, and Glasstown apartments were in my last post, just kinda in the background. The Market has a lot of creative liberties taken to it, as I just didn't like how it translated into the Sims (as in it's made to represent the real-life French Quarter Market more). The Glasstown Apartment has a few other units in it for some of the Urbz sims (more on that in a bit!)

I removed pretty much, all the elevation from the .s4c terrain. It's easy to put back butttt, the sims 2 just doesn't work in a way that's friendly to sloped lots (and simcity 4 for slopes that take <1 unit of distance, you can't make steep cliffs in these games. so, basically, due to the compactness of the city, there isn’t enough room to add in slopes without making it all janky). They may come back at the end if we can Wizard the slopes to work the lots, but for now...

Ignore the weird road off the Sim Quarter. I was experimenting with what could be done with the riverboat. I was thinking about putting it on a beach lot and making a joke about it being temporarily landlocked (read: i already did) and was trying to find a good, functional place to put it. There may be other ways to do a riverboat though… hmmm

Anyways onto housing for the Sims. So, the Glasstown Apartments has a few more units to fit in a few other characters (Lottie Cash (I did manage to squeeze a bowling alley in there), Lily Gates, and Darius) but other than that? Very little! (I did Ewan’s House. however, it’s just a box; i took modest pretty literally). I might make a post soon where I talk about where each Urb would probably live, just as an excuse to talk to myself for a little while.

[toomuchracket]

have you ever done a blurb where they visit Paris again when they’re finally together and go on little dates and do all the cute touristy shit? that could be so adorable

Maybe a cute little Parisien date, he could surprise her with a weekend away - corner shop cafes, flea markets and french kisses

i think this is your first birthday present from matty after you start dating, actually - he doesn't whisk you away on your birthday itself, because you made plans with your family before you and him got together and he really wants to spend time with them, but a few weeks later you guys are SAT on that eurostar from london (yes, you could've just flown, but he liked getting to look at you on the train on the og paris trip so he thought it would be cute to do again lol). he books the most exquisite little boutique hotel, with a suite that looks like a whole apartment and has a balcony and the nicest bathroom you have ever ever seen, and even though you were only on the train for a little while and the time difference is literally an hour it's decided that you'll simply stay in the first night "to cure the jet lag"; a poorly-veiled excuse to order room service and make out for ages and have sex until neither of you can stay awake any longer, aka the perfect night lol. the next day, though, you're out exploring paris, brunching in a café before getting the métro (holding hands the entire time) and going to the louvre - matty thinks the mona lisa is "a bit shit", but it's fun to wander around looking at art with you, snuggling and snapping candids of each other and just enjoying getting to be anonymous together in the crowds. the running bit of the entire weekend is matty being like "ooh, babe, we're in france" and pulling you in for a french kiss because "we have to do as the french do", which actually you grossly exploit so he'll let you have a couple of cigs a day lmfao, and also him just totally spoiling you. like, you wanna pay for dinner, or coffee? absolutely not. see a cute poster at the flea market, or a new book in shakespeare and co? his treat. even the SLIGHTEST interest shown in a dior bag? he's flagging down a sales assistant and whacking out the credit card already. but he caves on your final day, when at breakfast you say "i know it's cheesy, but i want us to put a padlock on that bridge. you and me, together as long as iron holds out. and given that it's what makes up the very centre of the earth... l'éternité, baby", and matty's so sweetly emotional that he agrees to let you buy the padlock lol. a very lovely, very loving weekend <3

[postcard-from-the-past]

Flea market of Besançon, Franche-Comté region of eastern France

French vintage postcard, mailed in 1937 to Dreux

[leclsrc]

This req is gonna sound weird but do yk that scene in friends where ross is hugging rachel by the legs? on his knees? could i have a charles drabble w/ that? ty!

the final frame – cl16

You and Charles move in together, among other things.

auds here... this req is from before christmas hahaha. i do not watch friends so i scoured the internet for this ‘scene’, i hope i was right and i hope i did this req justice! this is the last one for now and i’ll hopefully reopen them fr in a minute. title from this

The night’s colder than you anticipated, a cool draft sending goosebumps up your forearm as you inspect the fillet of salmon in the oven. You step forward, off where you’d been leaning on the island, to heave the window shut—the act usually requires all your strength—but Charles bounds into you from behind, pressing insistent, laughing kisses onto your neck.

“C,” you say, giggling yourself, a hand coming up to stroke at the nape of his neck. “Stop, there are people in the next room.”

He bites on your jaw a little and you laugh. “Next room, babe. Like, right in the next—just two metres—!”

Laughing still, he finally lets up and effortlessly shuts the window himself. He pecks another kiss, just on the tip of your nose, murmurs I love you and lets it settle into the herb-smelling air. “Are you tipsy?” You ask, teasing. He winks.

“No—really, though,” you press a little, lacing your hands together. “You’re fine?”

“Totally.” He smiles. “Bit nervous.”

“I was, too,” you start, squeezing his hand, “until I remembered these are literally just our friends. And they’re stupid, and they’ll probably love us even if we announced we murdered someone.”

He nods and smiles, slots your mouths together. When he pulls away, he murmurs, “I love you. You look beautiful.”

Really, you’re just in a two-year-old dress from a flea market in Provence, and your hair is dry and ratty and tied into a bun, but you appreciate the compliment. He’s being genuine, eyes gliding over you with ease as he presses yet another kiss to your cheek; you loop your arms around his neck, smiling up at him. This is so foolish, you think, to be so idiotically in love like this, but it’s Charles, and it makes so much sense.

“You’re glowing, really.” He doesn’t give, still spouting compliments like a broken fountain. 

“You suck.” You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, which seems ironic because you’re with a man who loves words, loves to tell you how much you mean to him, muffled by skin or said through a mic or in French or Italian. You tug him closer. “Should we go?”

He pauses, exhales. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Your friend group has gathered here, at Charles’ place, under the pretense that you’re trying to finish the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine Charles had purchased from France, but really, it’s for you both to announce your moving in together. Little milestones like these have always been celebrated by your group, and this is no different; tonight, Max has even volunteered to fix the clock that permanently reads 12:38 on Charles’ flat’s mantle.

You lead the way from the kitchen into the living room, where everyone is engaged in some kind of chatter or activity. Lily’s legs are draped over Alex’s lap and she’s coaching him through a Rubik’s cube. Lando is busy telling a joke to Carlos and Isa. And Max is three feet off the ground fiddling with a clock, turning deviously to ask: “Where have you two been?”

“Shagging,” you reply with nonchalance. 

“Your hair’s still perfect,” Lily says disapprovingly. “Don’t lie!”

You roll your eyes, stifling a smile as you lean into Charles’ arm that’s wrapped itself around your shoulders. In the future, you’ll tell yourself you should’ve noticed his clammy hand pressed against your arm, or turned and noticed his blank stare, his too-nervous gait. So many signs, you’ll think, and you ignored them all because you felt so damn happy. “Okay, I’m lying. The truth is…”

You turn to him, brows raising. “…you wanna go?”

“I wan—do you?”

“Sure, if you—”

“Just tell us!” Lando yells impatiently, sitting straighter, abandoning the joke in favor of this. “Tell us. Now!”

“Okay, um, we—well, a few months ago we decided we kind of. No, we definitely wanted to live together. And, to save you all the sexy details of getting leases and looking around Monaco for flats—we got one just two weeks ago. So this is—what it is, is it’s, uh, really a dinner to celebrate saying bye-bye to Charles’ flat. Okay? Right. Okay.”

You pause. The room erupts in whoops and cheers—many utterances of the word finally! float across the room. Immediately Isa and Lily are standing, demanding to see pictures of the new place, directions they can input into their cars and phones so they know exactly how to get there. Carlos, Lando, and Alex all cheer, offer alcohol as housewarming gifts. Max nearly drops the clock.

And this is it, you think, the rest of your life’s been decided. With this group, and your Charles, and the flat that will be yours by tomorrow morning.

—

Your house doesn’t feel much like home.

You know it’s an unfair statement, that it’s only really been two, three months of living together. But something has shifted, something you cannot name no matter how hard you try to. It’s just as cold tonight as it was the night you were in Charles’ old place announcing this one, but everything feels different now.

The move had started excitedly, with you sending near daily updates to the group chat with Isa and Lily, of paint swatches and ship-ins from IKEA. They sent flowers, came over to inspect the place, and so did everyone else—Max returned the now repaired clock, nailed it onto a spot on the wall the entire group agreed on. Slowly, bit by bit, the place began to feel like it was yours. 

But the nights without Charles grew long, and the days with him at work or at the gym or at a media affair—some of which he’d easily denied in favor of you before—grew more frequent. The flat, big and wide and lofty in an affluent neighborhood, felt bigger when he was gone. You were alone, a stranger in your own house, without him. 

You can’t pinpoint anything.

You can’t pinpoint the when, the how, the why, the if. To you, everything is vague, and that’s the worst part: how can you fix something you can barely understand? You haven’t shared a cup of coffee in ages, and the most you see of him is half his foot departing the front door in the morning. It could be work, it could be the preparing for the season, but in six years of being together nothing’s felt quite like this. You wonder if it’s deliberate. 

But your texts to Isa and Lily stay the same. Cream or eggshell? Cerulean or slate? And when they ask about Charles, you ignore the bite of guilt and lie instead. C and I just had brunch, he said eggshell, but the truth is, you’re the one settling on eggshell. You’d asked him ‘cream or eggshell’ three weeks ago and he said he’d think about it but he didn’t come home until four, and he hasn’t answered it.

He gets in on Saturday night earlier than usual, eyes dark with exhaustion. He’s wearing a suit, and you don’t know why. You can’t place half the places he’s been lately. His texts are choppy, standoffish. Here. Leaving soon. I’ll see you? “Hi, baby,” he croaks when he sees you nursing wine at the kitchen counter.

“C,” you say quietly. “Hi. When did you get in?”

“Just now, I was driven.” 

“Oh.” You pause. “Want a glass?” You raise the bottle.

He seems to hesitate, stopping in his tracks a bit before nodding defeatedly and pacing toward you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheekbone, then finally your lips. You relish this, because you haven’t had it in so long. This intimacy, this affection, this kiss that isn’t pressed onto you while you’re asleep and he comes home with apologies flowing from his lips.

You pull away, pour him a glass of red. “Isn’t it crazy to think we have a home now?”

His smile flickers a little, and you notice. You try not to sound nosy when you pry. “C,” you say, the lump rising in your throat. Here you are, celebrating one of the happiest chapters of your life, but Charles won’t even meet your eyes. This is it. After months of not knowing, you think, you have to know. Now. “Are you okay?”

The wine is only half-poured. He sighs shakily, shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He sounds so, so far away.

“You’re scaring me,” you say, laughing. But you sound more nervous than amused. He sounds nervous, too.

“Baby,” he says suddenly, like a dam in his mind has broken and everything is spilling out, all the damage, all of it, and it’s washing onto you like a massive wash of water. “Baby, I—I fucked up.”

You cannot withstand the wave. Your eyebrows knit together. “Tell me,” you insist. Even more surprisingly, he crumples to his knees, hugs your thighs and leans against you. You press, anyway. “Talk to me, C. Please.”

“You can’t fix this,” he says resolutely, “you abso—you can’t.”

“I will,” you say. “I love you.”

“I slept with someone else.” This is a great, big, terrible feeling. You really can’t fix this. You’re back to being clueless. Your heart stops, and so does your breath, heavy and heaving. Words are dry when they try to leave your throat, leap off your tongue. Your hand, threaded into Charles’ hair, pauses. You feel him crying, but you feel nothing else.

“You what,” you ask. It’s so dry, everything is desert dry. A whisper, a breath, a murmur in the cold kitchen.

“I’m sorry.”

“C,” you say, and you can’t even cry yet. You’re stunned, struck with dizzy disbelief. “Was it—when, like, last season…?”

His silence answers you, and you stumble backwards, out of his grasp. You shake your head, like you’re trying to quell the tears, the lump in your throat, the nerves in your stomach that threaten to bubble over.

“Don’t say this year.” You shake your head, over and over, shaking and shaking, like it will rid you of the conversation you’re currently having. You think of the paperwork, of the nearly dropped clock, of signing the lease, of eggshell and flowers, of housewarming gifts yet to be unwrapped.

Tearily, you muster, “Don’t tell me, C. Don’t fucking do this to me, please. Don’t.”

“I barely even know her,” he says. “Once. It happened once. It meant nothing.” Your soul crushes, shot and wilted.

“No, it meant everything,” you say angrily. You’re angry now. Angry and sad, and furious and boiling with rage. You’re everything. You’re a house fire, right here in the flat. 

And you stand, feet bare on the tile, thinking about how you’ll have to live with this forever, branded like an ugly stamp. You loved and he did not. Get out, you say. Get out and don’t come back, I don’t care. Don’t fucking come back. You shove him weakly, but he gets the message, ushers himself to the coat rack. You’re not even yelling. You’re just breathing heavy, shaking your head, like you’re denying this ever happened.

You only cry when he’s left, loud, exruciating sobs. He wrestles himself outside still apologizing, saying he’ll be back tomorrow. You’re torn between hoping he will be and hoping you never see him again, crumpled to the hardwood of your brand new house, knees weak, heart weaker. You don’t get up until morning.