#hes so dear to me for every other reason but its the french press that we truly share | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

early2000smovieimagines · 3 years ago

Text

Meeting and Dating Napoleon Bonaparte

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

- Having worked at the Museum of Natural History for over two years, very little was capable of surprising you at this point. You’d come to expect the unexpected and you were almost always prepared for anything.

- Apparently though, there was still a few things that managed to catch you off guard: like your dear friend; and ex coworker, explaining that Ahkmenrah’s evil brother was trying to take over the world …or the fact that you’d wind up finding Napoleon Bonaparte of all people; or wax figures, …sort of attractive.

- Yeah... that was an interesting discovery....

- So, as the story goes, Larry informed you that the museum exhibits were in trouble and that he’d be traveling to Washington in hopes of saving them from whatever danger they’d found themselves in. With very little convincing, you’d agreed to accompany him and you soon found yourself facing off with Kahmunrah and his various minions.

- Which led you to this exact moment: standing cornered in a random room as Napoleon and his guards pointed weapons at you and; mainly, Larry.

- You watched silently as Larry and the man went back and forth, arguing about height and whatever other unimportant thing came up before you’d made yourself a little more known by complimenting the French mans plan.

- Whether you were being serious or merely taking the piss is unimportant, all that matters is that you’d made it seem as though you found the man to be impressive and that you’d directed his attention towards you …and boy did he like what he saw.

- He immediately walked over, putting on a smile and thanking you as he began to noticeably behave in a far more flirty way.

- Although it wasn’t entirely successful; particularly after he slid across the floor to question Larry about your relationship, it did manage to catch you off guard and get you just a tad bit flustered.

- But, just as soon as it began, it was over in a flash. The man forced Larry to come with him, interrupting you as you began to say that you were coming with them, telling you that their fight was not with you; which you would probably have considered to be quite noble in just about any other circumstance.

- Your story momentarily ends here but that isn’t the last time you encounter the Frenchmen. It’s only a few months later that the Museum of Natural History gets a few new guests....

- The first time Napoleon awakens again, he almost immediately encounters Larry; which neither of them are very happy about. What he is happy about is the realization that if Larry is here, there’s a very likely chance that you are as well.

- So; with forced nonchalance, the man asks about you.

“And your friend ...is she here?” He says slowly, looking around as though he expects you to show up at any moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s here. She works here so …you know,” Larry pauses. “She’s probably in her office …working. Downstairs …her office.”

- They stand in an awkward silence for a moment before they both excuse themselves and Napoleon goes off in search of you.

-�� He runs into you just as you’re coming up for a break, greeting you with a charming smile and a “Bonjour Mademoiselle”. And, for the first time since you first met, he properly introduces himself, kissing your hand and making it increasingly obvious that his interest in your love life was not merely a “French thing”.

- And though you should probably be doing whatever you can to get away from the wax figure with a questionable moral compass, you find yourself unable to. Instead, you stand and speak with him, making conversation until you really need to get back to work.

- But that isn’t the last time you speak with him …he makes sure of that. It seems as though you’re the only thing that really interests him in the museum and soon enough, you’re growing quite used to; and fond of, his growing presence in your life.

- It doesn’t take long for Napoleon to try and ask you out. I mean he conquered most of Europe; wooing a woman is childs play compared to that, right?

- Partially. While you do like him and admit that his French flirtation is tempting, you also know that you have to be reasonable and being reasonable does not include dating a museum exhibit who is only capable of coming alive at night with the help of a magical tablet.

- So the two of you play a game of cat and mouse where he flirts and you enjoy it but do your best to pull away when things start to get too heavy and you can feel the damning words approaching the tip of his tongue.

- You never let him get to the point of actually asking you out. You excuse yourself, you distract him, you change the subject, you do whatever you can to keep your head on straight.

- And it works, it works for a pretty good amount of time, but there's only so long that you can avoid the inevitable; especially when its obvious that you both like each other.

- So finally, the wax figure manages to get the words out, very romantically and suavely asking if you would be his, and though your mind is telling you that it really isn't a good idea, you cant help but say yes.

- He smiles and plants a kiss on the hand of yours that he was holding, telling you that he’ll meet you at your office the next night and the two of you say goodbye.

- Your first date is a stroll around the museum, talking and enjoying your newfound attempt at a relationship.

- You share your first kiss a week or so later after you have a few good dates and decide that you want to continue on with this out of the ordinary relationship.

- You’re sitting outside on the steps of the museum, looking out at the view of the city under the stars when he leans in and presses his lips to yours. You share a soft kiss before you pull away with a smile and scoot in closer to each other.

- After that, the two of you get to experience all the nitty gritty of relationships with each other.

- Napoleon isn't shy about his interest in and affection for you so pda isn’t a rare occurrence in your relationship. He adores you and he thinks that people should know that.

- His arm around your waist; depending on your height it’s probably the easiest place for him to reach.

- Keeping close to each other. He’ll oftentimes hold your hand or your elbow and stay right by your side, looking at you lovingly and listening to you intently.

- Knuckle kisses.

- Slow, romantic kisses.

- Him occasionally just laying one on you; particularly when he’s frustrated or overcome with another sort of powerful emotion. They’re always abrupt and passionate and wind up taking your breath away.

- He uses a lot of pet names on you; oftentimes ones that make you sound small or cute: things like my little darling, my little mouse, etc. He’ll also use a plethora of French terms of endearment on you since he doesn’t speak a whole lot of English.

- He secretly likes when you use pet names on him but he probably won’t admit it to you; he’ll just have a little smile on his face and a warm reaction to them whenever you happen to use them.

- Don’t even bring up the idea of him being the little spoon because he will never take kindly to it. He’ll always be the big spoon or have you resting your head on him regardless of how little sense it may make snuggle-wise.

- The two of you are only capable of seeing each other at night and only when you can get away from work or when you’re able to get night shifts so he likes being able to have a keepsake of you. More likely than not it’s a photo or note that you wrote him which he keeps in his pocket or hat.

- Bringing in little treats for him. He’s stuck inside a museum and his own waxy body most of the time, he’s bound to miss things from the outside world so it’s always nice when you surprise him with something no matter how small.

- Having him by your side whenever you can. He likes lazying around and just being in your presence while you work so you better get used to him.

- He’s always the first one to greet you when he awakens or as you arrive at the museum for your shift. He likes having that honor.

- Telling him about the outside world. He’s missed a lot so you’ll definitely need to fill him in on some current events. He’d also be rather interested in hearing about his impact on the world and how people view him; just try not to mention the complex thing too much.

- Learning about each others lives. He’s obviously going to have a lot more interesting stories but he never minds listening to yours; even if they’re really boring in comparison.

- Letting him brag about his military prowess. He’ll probably try to act all humble and modest in the beginning but will then start eagerly talking about it like you were begging him to do so.

- Hyping him up and making him all smiley with your compliments. He’s pretty approval driven so your praise and validation does wonders to his self esteem.

- His soldiers standing guard or interrupting you if something important is happening.

- His soldiers have also probably helped him execute grand gestures that he’s thought up for you.

- Trying to sneak him out of the museum and into your home every now and again.

- If you’re able to sneak him away for a night then he’d probably enjoy going to a quiet café or restaurant; somewhere the two of you can relax and enjoy some nice food away from the typical chaos of the museum.

- He’d definitely be the type of guy to order for you at restaurants; if you were able to go to restaurants. It’s really up to you if you want to spend your hard earned money and take the time to try to figure out a way to get him out for the night.

- Getting him to play little games with you. You have to do something to pass the time, right? And he’s secretly a bit of a pushover for you so it’s never very difficult.

- Using his telescope to look out the windows of the museum.

- Picnics in areas of the museum or right outside on the steps.

- Marching/strutting around the Museum. Something tells me that he’d walk around with his chin held high and his chest puffed out; as though he were still emperor.

- Romantic language; though he probably speaks in French when he wants to be all lovey dovey with you.

- Him looking you up and down. He’s fairly obvious about it but it’s up to you to know if you’d be able to pick up on what he’s doing.

- Get used to winking and borderline salacious facial expressions and gestures because they’re fairly common with him.

- Love letters.

- He’s old fashioned; partially because he’s just old, so chivalry and social etiquette is a big part of who he is; though it might only surface when he’s around you. He’s always on his best behavior whenever he can be and acts endearingly gentlemanly.

- Gossiping with each other.

- You having any Napoleon “merch”; for lack of a better word, would make him completely smug and he’d have no other choice but to tease you for it.

- Dealing with his overdramatic reactions and behavior.

- Making sure he doesn't get into trouble; or at least trying to whenever you can. Sometimes it’s just inevitable so you’ll have to do your best to provide damage control.

- Letting him handle his fights. It’s best to just sit back and let him deal with things sometimes; he likes thinking that he doesn’t need any help even when he really does.

- Ivan probably makes sure that you have only the best intentions for Little Nippy and once he likes you, he’ll feel the need to defend and protect you as well.

- Larry thinks you’re sort of crazy for wanting to be with a wax figure; particularly one who literally had a complex created in his image, but you just pay him no mind.

- Napoleon isn’t an incredibly jealous person, mainly because he’s not afraid to be direct and ask questions. If he thinks something is going on between you and another person, he’s going to interrogate them to see what their intentions are.

- But on that note: he does get jealous when you fawn over someone else; someone like a movie star, or show fascination in another exhibit; although it’s less jealousy and more him feeling insecure and wondering what they have that he doesn't.

- He isn’t particularly protective but he also has guards he can order to watch over you whenever he perceives there to be some form of danger. That being said: he’s immediately rushing to your side the minute he hears you let out any pained/frightened noise or hears that something might have happened to you.

- Given how sensitive he is, there’s bound to be a few arguments in your relationship. They’re never very serious but they still occur.

- He’s easily placated with an apology or an explanation but if you’re not in the mood to give one, it still wont take him very long to forgive you and begrudgingly admit that he may have overreacted.

- Napoleon tells you that he loves you quite a bit but he leaves it for when you’re alone or tries to say it quiet enough for the people around you not to hear. He wants people to know that you’re together, he doesn’t want them thinking he’s weak.

- Your relationship might not be the most conventional nor is it one that’s easy to keep up for years to come, but you know that you care about each other more than anyone can know and that's enough for you.

#napoleon bonaparte imagine #napoleon bonaparte imagines #napoleon bonaparte headcanons #napoleon bonaparte headcanon #night at the museum headcanon #night at the museum imagines #night at the museum imagine #night at the museum headcanons #battle at the smithsonian imagines #battle at the smithsonian imagine #battle at the smithsonian headcanons #battle at the smithsonian headcanon

129 notes · View notes

potter-imagines · 4 years ago

Text

Flowers in Braids (Fred Weasley)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Request: Could I request something please? 🧡 I just had a thought, a concept if you will, okay, so, Goblet of Fire Fred, and his gf y/n braiding his hair? 👉🏻👈🏻

Warning: None, just fluff

Word Count: 3k (short n sweet, hope you guys enjoy!)

Cloudy rays poured into the windows of Hogwarta giving a small glimpse to the declining temperatures outside. Crowds of students jogged out beyond the castle grounds all meeting up in the small village outside Hogwarts. Hogsmeade was buzzing with life as where the castle was empty besides the students who had yet to reach the age of permission to even enter Hogsmeade. Despite the younger kids cooped up inside their dorm rooms and wandering around the grounds, your boyfriend, Fred Weasley, and yourself had chosen to skip out.

The two of you were locked away in his dorm room, chatting amongst yourself as you kneeled over him, eyes trained on his hair. After working him in for quite some time, you managed to convince Fred to let you give him two French braids. His hair had finally reached the perfectly length and you had been itching for months to try different braids in it.

��Does that feel good, Freddie?”

Your fingertips raked against the skin of his scalp as you reached for another strand. The long orange strands slipped like buttermilk through your grasp. Braiding the outside piece of hair in, you tied it under the middle section of his hair, pulling tightly. Fred jerked back at your force causing his spine to smack against your knee. You mumbled a quick apology, having lost yourself in the rhythm of the weaving pattern. When you braid your own hair, you had conditioned yourself to the scalp piercing pulls. Fred was new to this, so you had to take it easy so he’d let you braid his beautiful locks again. Your boyfriend just smiled smugly with his eyes drawn shut and hummed.

“Mmmhhh.”

Taking a small section of his hair, you braid it into the pile of fiery hair and gave a softer pull to tighten it lightly. The further down you got, the faster your finger moved. Sitting on your knees, you continued weaving while taking a peek at his face. Fred looked half asleep, a small smile displayed across his face. You paused your work to leave a chaste kiss to the side of his rosy cheek. Fred’s eyes pried open by the touch and gazed up at you.

“Is that a yes?” You asked, giggling like a child. Your boyfriend just melted into your touch as you ran your free hand through the left side of his head that wasn’t braided yet. Tracing your fingers through his free strands, Fred leaned further in your touch. He was always a sucker for having you play with his hair.

“Hmmm.”

His hands were folded in his lap, thumbs fiddling quietly. This was by far the most relaxed you had seen him- besides when he was snoring in slumber. Fred was your crazy, energetic, childlike, prankster boyfriend. Although now, he was the exact opposite to his normal demeanor. He hardly uttered a word, basking in the sensation of your touch and pull. His breathing deepened, heavy puffs falling from his chest. You stared for a moment longer then wrapped your hand around the side of his face, other hand holding the end of the braid. Leaning him back a tip, you leaned down to plant a kiss to his lips. Fred grinned against your lips, but soon enough kissed you back sweetly. Whispering you used your hand to guide his head away, closer to the blanket resting on the bed.

“Tilt your head down, love.” You directed him. His ginger hair was as soft as silk, draping over your knuckles with every twist. As your fingers brushed against his neck, you could feel the vibrations of his soothing hums. Reaching around his tall frame, you grabbed a small rubber band and scrunched it around your hand. Hitting the end of the braid, you wrapped the band around the bottom of his hair with ease. Giving one last pull, you took a look at the first finished braid.

“Lemme see, darling.” Fred made grabby hands behind his back motioning for the mirror. You handed him the oval shaped pastel pink mirror and watched on in anticipation. Fred’s eyes roamed your work, examining every detail of your nearly perfectly french braid. He reached up in surprise and lightly tapped the tight weaves.

“Wicked. Are you planning on finishing the otherside or am I meant to walk around like this?” He asked laughing. Handing the mirror back to you, Fred settled into his previous spot, his back pressed to your knees. You giggled at the sight of him. One braid was secured stiffly on one side of his head while his strawberry locks laid past his shoulder on the other side. You rose up so you were kneeling. Fred was quite tall, his towering height made it difficult to see over the top of his head. Grabbing your comb from the mattress, you curled your fingers around the top section, dividing it into three equal strands. You brushed through the pillow soft mane, another hum sounding from Fred.

“What do you think the next task is gonna be? The dragons were terrifying! Still can’t believe you were cheering for the killer dragons over our own friend.” The recollection earned a mental scoff. Remembering the events of last week, you wondered about the upcoming second task. The first task was not exactly your cup of tea. Despite your boyfriend’s astonishment and eagerness over the deathly dragons, you were petrified. Fred kept his hand laced in yours for the entirety of the task. As he cheered crazily with George, he’d squeeze your hand in reassurance to let you know he was still paying attention to you. George would give you hugs every few minutes- half to calm you and the other half to piss his twin off.

Fred chuckled again, leaning his head back so he was looking at you from an upside down view. He puckered his lips causing you to roll his eyes but reluctantly gave in and left a kiss to his ready lips.

“I think you mean amazing, love. Harry’s dragon was by far the best!” His thunderous roar filled the room. George and Lee were out at Hogsmeade, joining the rest of your friends for the day. Any other night Fred and yourself would be taking the long stroll to the village with the group. Hogsmeade trips were highly anticipated but for some reason, neither one of you really felt up for the trip. When Fred woke up, his only plan for the day was to remain attached to his bed. Not having any desires for a busy day, you decided to join him.

“Doesn’t mean you have to cheer for it, Fred.” You commented, snickering to yourself. During the first match, you sat in the stands of the Quidditch Pitch- now dragon arena- in between Fred and George. The twins hollered in excitement when the task was announced. Each competitor that came out, the twins looked through and waited anxiously for the reveal of the dragon. In all honesty, they couldn’t care less about who won or who was competing, they only wanted to see the dragons and their mass destruction. Even when your dear friend was almost killed by the fire breathing monster, Fred and George jumped up and down in delight, clapping their hands and screaming happily, “Go, dragon!”. It was a bit embarrassing to be sitting with them as other students sent dirty looks, especially the Hufflepuffs cheering on Cedric. Fred merely shrugged as you threaded the end of his hair,

“But I wanted to. Anyhow, Harry said it’s got something to do with water and George and I saw Dumbledore and Snape out on the Black Lake so I’d say it’ll be some task out there. Now let me see!” Fred whipped around as lightning speed, looking for the handheld mirror. You could see the excitement on his face. Dragging the mirror towards himself, Fred lifted the glass but just as he did, you snatched the mirror away from him.

“Wait, Freddie, I’m not finished. The flowers, remember? I picked out the purple and white ones just for you.” You squeaked. Fred had promised he’d let you stick some flowers in his braid once you finished. With everything inside of him, Fred desperately wanted to scream no. It already took you months to convince

“But… I wanna go show George my braids and if I have flowers in my hair…” He stopped mid thought when he saw your pouty expression. Puppy dog eyes and a puff out bottom lip, you gazed up at Fred with a begging stare. A smile hit his lips immediately as rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. But I only want the little white ones.”

Grinning in victory you started separating the stems from the petals. Getting the flowers laid out on the large bed, your eyes darted up to Fred in question.

“The daisies?” Holding up the delicate flowers, you raised your brow to Fred. His doe gleam hit yours then down to the miniature flowers. A cheeky smirk flashed across Fred’s face as he flirted,

“The only flower I know is you, darling.”

Your face went deadpan as you shot your giggling boyfriend a playful glare, feigning unamusement. Fred could be extremely sweet when he wants to do and today, that seems to be his main motive. Rolling your e/c eyes you resumed your concentration on his braided hair and the generous pile of daisies laying next to your thigh. Carefully, one by one, you twist the flowers to snap the excess stem off. Then you individually tucked each petallful bud into his locks, cautious not to go overboard like you would in your own binding braids.

The pale petals poked out, It was the kind of brilliant white that would even make new snow look grey, the kind of white that sears into your retinas and makes you temporarily blind. The bright contrast made the pumpkin orange shade of his hair pop in the light. Smoothing your hand over the bumps, you gazed upon your work. Handing the mirror back to Fred, you informed him that you had finished.

“Do you like it, Freddie?” You placed your hands together, hiding your face behind them. This was the first time Fred ever let you even attempt to style his hair, and to Fred Weasley, his hair meant everything. Now in your sixth year, it has reached its peak. Fred and George were very proud of their shoulder length orange locks, and you could understand why. Dating for already three years, you could confidently declare this style was your favorite. This being the reason you yelled in horror after the stunt Fred and George pulled during their entry, or attempt of an entry, for the Tri-Wizard tournament. After he finished tousling and rolling around on the floor with his twin, Fred ran up to you for help. Much to his surprise, you took off like a rocket in the opposite direction. Your friends all laughed at the sight of the twins until tears were streaming down their cheeks. His aged state, and frizzed crazy white hair was too much for you to process all at once. You nearly cried in joy when the prankster came knocking on your door hours later back to his normal state. Back again were his beloved ginger locks. The traumatic event still haunted you. Since then, you never missed a moment to admire his beautiful long hair.

One thing Fred loved was your need to constantly touch his locks. Sitting in class, Fred will lean his head on your shoulder as the professor drones one. Muscle memory kicks in and your free hand will sneak up his back and start running your runnings through his hair. When names were being drawn out of the flaming goblet, Fred sat in front of you with George. He squeezed himself between your legs, his arms resting on your knees. While the headmasters snatched their slips of papers falling from the fire, you’d be fiddling with strands of his hair, petting over the velvet like hair. To Fred, it was always comforting to sense your hands on him, no matter where.

You waited patiently, nervous for his reaction. Fred’s large hands moved the mirror in various spots, trying to get a peek from every possible angle. Eyes raking over the braids, a twinkle beamed on Fred’s lips as he exclaimed,

“It looks wonderful, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you, I love it!” Your heart jumped with happiness at his approval. Throwing your arms around him, Fred maneuvered so he was fully facing you. He returned the hug, gripping your body tightly in his arms. His lips sneaked a quick kiss to your blushing cheek.

“Serious? Or are you just being nice?” You asked softly.

Pulling away, Fred slid you forward so you were sitting practically in his lap. Once more he sealed a peck to your lips, then left a lingering kiss on the tip of your nose.

“No, really, I honestly love it. We gotta go find George and Lee! They should be back soon. But if they ask for you to braid their hair, please say no, darling. I only want you braiding my hair, not George’s. He won’t shut up about it if you do.” His tone was a facade of chaff, a hint of seriousness shining through. It was clear he was pretending to be all jokes but the sincerity lingered. You rolled your eyes overtly and smacked his chest like a child.

“You’re so dramatic, Freddie. I won’t touch your brother’s hair, Merlin’s sake.”

Just as you went to stand up, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your frame and yanked you to your previous position.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought we were gonna show George and Lee-”

The warmth of his breath smacked against the chilling skin of your neck. His arms were stiff around your waist, not even giving you a chance to escape. Giggles stormed through you at the feeling. Fred’s fingers poked and probed at your sides, starting an attack of tickles. You tried to pin his hands down although he overpowered you in seconds. He paused his tickle war not long after, allowing you to catch a gasp of air. Smiling brightly at you, Fred extended his legs out so you were placed between them.

“But I haven’t gotten to braid your hair yet! Now, turn around for me, darling. Hand me the brush please. Your braid is gonna be all flowers, no hair.” The contagious laughter of Fred encapsulated the atmosphere. Your hands shot up to cover your face in embarrassment. Fred had tried- at least ten times- to get a braid to stick in your hair and he had yet to succeed. His idea of a braid was starting with holding all three strands of hair at once and just twisting them in a repetitive cycle. The thought of grabbing pieces of hair to braid in was just another level of hair styling to Fred. Glancing up at Fred you gave him an unsure gaze.

“I’m gonna look like a clown, Freddie.”

Not missing a beat, your gentleman of a boyfriend just smirked, replying,

“A cute clown, love. A cute flower clown. You’ll have people thinking Halloween came early!” Already expecting what was to come, Fred cowered behind his arms, using them as shield from your hits. You didn’t strike to hurt, just to sting. Part of dating Fred was falling victim to his teasing. As close as you were, his jokes never truly offended you. There was a line drawn years ago and his toes never even grazed it. Crossing your arms over your chest you scrunch your nose in pretend annoyance.

“Freddie! Not nice.”

Your boyfriend laughed gently then reached over to pick up your basket of flowers on the ground. Sifting his hands through the pile, Fred was deep in concentration as he plucked out about five flowers of various shapes. The thing that stood out to you was the color. Although different in type, all the flowers were a pretty lilac tone. You assumed he had chosen flowers for your hair until he spoke.

“I’ll let you put some purple flowers in my hair, if you’d like? Would that make it up to you?” He asked you sweetly. Fred knew you weren’t actually mad, a small part of him wanted pastel purple flowers to begin with. He just didn’t want you telling everyone he chose them himself- this way he could say he had to, in order to make you happy. The words lit a spark behind your eyes and you eagerly pivoted on the bed so your back was against his front. Nodding to yourself you agreed to his offer, trying not to show your excitement too much.

“Now face the wall, love. I’m gonna give you a Italian braid so sit still.” Your eyes widen in confusion as you whip around to face him. Fred grinned enthusiastically, holding a small portion of your hair in his hands. Squinting your eyes, you laugh a bit at him.

“An Italian- Freddie, no, darling. It’s called a French braid!”

His saucer like eyes just stared at you, the terminology flying straight over his head. He flickered between your gape, then down to your hair, then back up. Bobbing his head he seemed to agree with you. He grabbed your shoulders gingerly and positioned you so you were looking at the wall again. Mumbling to himself, Fred whispered words of encouragement earning a chuckle from you.

“Oh, yeah… a French braid.” His hands roamed through your hair, fingers brushing against your scalp. Nimbly he separated your strands into small portions. You felt the strong tug on your hair when he suddenly stopped abruptly and asked faintly, “Sweetheart… how do you braid hair?”

802 notes · View notes

southparkxreader · 4 years ago

Text

title: home is where the heart is. pairings: christophe delorne x reader x gregory of yardale. tropes: mutual pining, always away for work, excited hellos and hesitant goodbyes. note: this probably turning into a series ? most likely. anyway, constructive feedback is always welcomed ! i will admit this is a little lackluster, but my first imagines always are on ( my ) blogs. feel free to send in requests after checking out my pinned post !

“ i can’t believe you’re already back ! “ it’s impossible to hide the excited giggle as the words are spoken, practically bouncing on the spot as you don’t hesitate to throw your body towards the two men. they were taller, so it was a little awkward as your arms were wrapped around the two of them and squished in the centre - but it doesn’t stop your spirits and still practically nuzzle in their sides, gregory stood there, usual charming grin planted on face as one arm wraps around you, squeezing your side; a complete opposite reaction to what christophe had, who offered a fake huff of annoyance at your attitude - though you knew him, knew him well enough that you can see the small ghost of a smile that pulled in the corner of his lips that hid behind the unlit cigarette “ i thought you guys weren’t meant to be back for a couple more months ! “

“ we weren’t, however we managed to finish the job and thought it would be a nice little surprise “ pressing a kiss at the top of your head, nose remaining buried in the crown of your hair as eyes slip shut. their work was mentally draining, it was nothing but destruction and death - which granted, is what he signed up for, it’s what he’s good at : both he and christophe were the best at the job which is why they together were always away and spread thin with how many people required their assistance, however it doesn’t make it any less draining. but knowing that he had you to come back to ? it always made it that little better “ it appears that was the right decision to make - “

“ oui, you’re like a little puppy “ voice deep, teasing, you don’t miss the faint coo behind the tone which causes your face to flare up red, a deep blush coating cheeks that had the french mans eyes gleaming at the reaction gained, which only eggs him “... loyal and waiting at home for the masters to return - now, if the puppy could let us in - “ you make a noise of embarrassment, elbowing the man in the stomach in retaliation at the comments made, it also made you painfully aware that the three of you were just stood in the middle of the hallway for the world to see - you briefly thank that exam season was closing in and most people were rushing by or locked up in their dorms, studying until their eyes hurt, completely oblivious to your existence and your friends.

“ i hope you know that i hate you - “ moving to the side to allow them into your flat, nose twisting up as christophe took your chin between his fingers - not missing the murmured, ‘of course you do’ under his breath as he passed by. the smile on your face doesn’t ease, back of your hand pressing against your mouth as to try and ease the pain in cheeks ( and to hide the growing redness on your face that made you look like a strawberry, it always annoyed you how easy it was for the pair to get under your skin. )

“ we weren’t interrupting anything, were we ? “ gregory hummed, seeing the revision sheets scattered over the floor: an organised mess only you can understand, even then you had moments of not understanding a thing that was going on “ i’d hate if we intruded on your studying “

“ no please interrupt, if i don’t get a break i’m going to have a breakdown - “ you look back at the two of them standing in the middle of the living room, watching the way christophes neck craned to the side as his back stretched, removing his shovel from its usual place on his back, you never understood how casually he carried that thing around, the looks gained was always something that amused you without fail. clicking the kettle to make them their favourite beverages : tea, one sugar. coffee, black and no sugar. you wished your memory was as good in classes as it was remembering the pairs favourite things.

“ you better be lookin’ after yourself “ the way christophe spoke always sounded like an underling threat, “ you are, aren’t you ? “ his eyes are dark, a protective light to them that had you almost hypnotised on the spot - how you managed to get him, of all people, to give a shit about you always made you a little winded. christophe and gregory are so intense in everything they do, with every emotion they felt : the way they care was no different.

you opt to busying yourself as you pull out three cups from the upper cupboards, trying to act as if the intense stare didn’t make you waver on the spot, smile falling a little as your eyebrows crease together. there’s no point lying to them, they’ll call you out eventually “ as well as i can be “ now making the beverages, peaking up as you see christophe and gregory sit opposite you on the counter “ i’m just trying to get through this year at this point. i might have to add another year, but forget about me - “ sliding their respective cups across “ how was the trip ? “ you know they can’t say much regarding their work, despite how much you’ve pressed in the past - but you knew it was... less than legal. the less you know the safer you are, they had once said when you were still in the early days of knowing them, you knew to read the room and move on : to understand that their life was chaotic and violent, had seen enough that would bring the modern day man on the streets to his knees. you’re just happy that they trust you enough to stick around to even hint what they do, you’re happy just to provide them a safe place to return to.

“ i went to this charming little art museum when the moment allowed it, you would’ve loved it, ( y/n ) - “ “ more proof that ‘zis british bitch is a pussy, every time you talk i realise there’s no dick between your legs - “ “ do you think about whats between my legs a lot, dear christophe ? “

it was then all chaos broke out, them arguing between themselves in between sharing information about what they saw, you trying and failing to hold in the laughter over the rapid fire insults that was shared between the two men, you have no idea how long you were stood there and they were sat, speaking about nothing and everything, joking and biting insults that were filled with nothing but love but still with the intention to get it under the others skin. though just like always, the burning question of how long they’ll stay this time is in the back of your mind. you wished they stuck around, that their work didn’t drag them across the world for months, sometimes years at a time - but you never let them vocally know, and if they can see the way your face falls when they say they’re back in town for only a few days, they don’t mention it. you love them, and they loved you just as much : which is why none of you dared to confirm the emotions in the air, dare not make the roots already growing that much stronger. their lives were unpredictable and you couldn’t handle a world such as theirs, you didn’t deserve to be introduced to what their normal lives were for what they’d call selfish reasons. right now, they had you to come home to, and that was enough.

#christophe delorne x reader #gregory of yardale x reader #south park x reader #south park imagines #southparkxreader

114 notes · View notes

bloodpacks-archive · 4 years ago

Text

french gardens | jumin han

warnings: sheeesh (horny) again. uhh, yeah. they uh- they do be kissin. do they fuck? no. do they think about it? uhhhh

word count: 2.3k

note: hi guys hannah keeps tempting me to write horny shit and now i’m here and idk what to do. one day i’ll go back to non-horny shit i promise i prooomise

Jumin learns to live in the rain.

It almost never rains during galas. Jumin can’t remember the last time he heard the pounding of water against windows while he spoke in the tongues of negotiations. It’s a distracting noise, but not an unpleasant one, either.

Similarly, she stands next to him, a deep wine silk dripping off of her shoulders, pooling around her waist, and barely brushing the floor. Her back is exposed to him, and he finds his hand resting there as they speak with the other executives.

Well, Jumin’s doing a great majority of the speaking. Although she’s been trying her best to learn French with him as her teacher—spending many a night with only a faint city glow to illuminate her, whispering basic sentences and phrases until her accent is just right—she’s not quite there yet. Though she loves to listen. She had told him that it was better practice anyway, that no matter how many times she wished to hear him say fille intelligente with every correct sentence, it would never be enough for her to truly know it without hearing conversation.

Now, she listens to him speak in easy French, the accent curling around his tongue and fitting easily into his mouth. It’s not the French he speaks with her, not punctuated by his breath against her ear nor is it there to accompany the quiet moonlight. It’s a sharper form of the language, dotted by formalities and practiced smiles.

He notices her gaze in the corner of his eye, the way she looks up at him with delicate eyes and the beginnings of a smile. He glances down to her when he finishes speaking, notices how she gingerly holds the glass of champagne in her fingers.

Perhaps I should buy her some champagne back home, he thinks, watching as she raises the sparkling flute to her lips, a brow raising as his eyes meet hers. He turns back to the men that stand in front of him, but rubs his thumb into the divot of her spine. He feels her relax into his moving touch, glances down again to see her twist her wrist so the champagne flute sits closer to herself and her shoulder.

The conversation lulls for a moment, and Jumin takes the opportunity to excuse both them. He shakes their hands with a grateful smile, and then guides her away. He brings her through the crowd, his hand still steady on her back, and moves them to the top floor—a quieter part, where only a few people gather around paintings and sculptures.

They stand in the corner, a Monet painting only a few feet away from them and next to windows that lead out to a covered balcony. The rain does not coat the windows here, but he can see stairs down to a garden—covered in sculptures and archways—becoming drenched with the light rain of the night.

“Any reason for getting me alone?” She asks, champagne having found home next to her lips. His gaze returns to her, his back almost against the wall and she stands in front of him, chin tilted upwards to meet his eyes.

“No,” He replies, “none at all.” Though one of his fingers dips under the silk of her dress, feeling the bare skin that rests beneath it. Both her brows raise this time, her head twisting quickly behind her to see if anyone’s there, and then returning to him. He drags his fingers back up from under the fabric, and then his eyes flick to the balcony. She follows his gaze, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Awfully large windows,” She states, her voice low.

“I’ll be polite,” He replies. Her eyes flit over his face for a moment, narrowing at him, but then she nods, moving out of the way so he can separate from the wall, and then reaching a hand out for him to take.

“Then lead the way, my dear.” His fingers wrap around her hand, feeling the chill that forever coats her skin, and before he drags her outside, he raises her hand to his lips. There, he presses his lips to her knuckles. She hums at the touch, and he can’t help the way his mouth curves into a smile. Without another word, he moves to bring her out onto the balcony, the windows behind them.

Outside, the air is cold. With the rain and the night have come a gentle breeze, and he immediately looks to her. Bumps raise across her shoulders, and she brings her free hand up to rub the opposite arm, hoping to rid herself of the chills that have risen against her skin.

“Here,” Jumin says, and then begins to take off his suit jacket, leaving himself in only his shirt and his vest. He wraps his arms around her to place the jacket around her shoulders, and she whispers her thanks to him, pulling it tighter across herself.

Then he watches as she leans her elbows onto the railing, reaching a hand out, palm facing towards the moon, to let the rain bounce against her skin. He moves closer to her and brings his hand underneath the jacket that now lays across her shoulders, his warm hand moving to curve around the chilled skin of her back.

She hums at his touch, her eyes fluttering shut and her head leaning towards him until he can feel the soft touch of her hair against his chest.

“It hasn’t rained back home in a while,” She muses. Her palm is covered in droplets now, and she tilts her hand to watch as they slide down her skin.

“No, no it hasn’t,” Jumin replies. He bows his head to her, enough that the scent of her shampoo—chamomile and lavender—flows up and into his nose, sending his head spinning and his hands begging to be closer to her. With the cover of his jacket on her shoulders, he dips his fingers beneath the silk once more, his thumb rubbing over the top of the wine colored dress while while the rest of his fingers curl around her waist, pressing into the skin there.

“What happened to polite?” She asks, but her voice is sweet and she turns her head to gaze at him, looking up at him with a smile painted onto her lips.

“Please, my love,” He begins, “You’re dreadfully intoxicating.” He leans down then, until their noses nearly touch and he can feel the way her breath escapes her.

“You’re too much,” She says, though laughter breaks free of her lungs until the sound meets his chest. But then she shakes her head, looking at the windows once more. “We should stop now, I’d rather not have anyone see us like this.”

Jumin nods at her, and goes to move away, but then his eyes drift to the staircase that lays behind her, spiraling down to the gardens below them.

“Then let’s explore the gardens,” He replies, leaning back in to her until his lips are near her ear before whispering, “You’ve missed the rain, have you not?”

“Dear, you’ll be soaked-“

“Do you fear the rain?” He asks. He pulls far enough away so he can see the way she pulls her lip between her teeth, can see the way she shakes her head at him without ever moving her eyes off of his. “Then neither do I.”

He pauses to allow her choice, to allow her to deny him of his proposal, but rather, she’s the one to grab his hand and pull him down the stairs, both of her hands grabbing one of his. He allows her to take him, allows her to float down the stairs as though gravity means nothing to her, and he’s one to follow. Always one to follow.

Jumin watches as she steps out from the stairs and, within moments, is hit with rain. At first, droplets cascade down her hair and over her clothes, but then they begin to soak in—her hair becoming darker with the weather. She turns around to him, her lips pulled into a grin, water slipping over her skin and reflecting the lights from the gala and the moon. He notices the absence of her champagne and looks back up at the balcony to see it long forgotten on its railing. Yet here she stands before him, nothing but joy evident on her face as water drips over her eyelids and onto her lashes.

So he steps out from the stairs, feeling the rain gather in his hair and on his body. She brings her hands up, then, using one to cup his jaw while the other runs through his hair, letting the rain settle into the strands. Then she brings that hand down until she’s got both thumbs resting on his cheeks. His hands move to rest on her hips, begging to pull her closer, but then she moves away from him.

“Come, my dear,” She says, sliding her hand down to his, “You wished to explore, didn’t you?”

“Only so far,” He replies, and she turns, a knowing smile placed onto her face. So she guides him away from the staircase, allowing both of them to become even more soaked than before, but brings them to an archway tunnel covered in vines, a stone bench laying beneath it.

The leaves offer some shelter from the rain, but even still, he can feel the drops as they slip through and onto the top of his head. But he finds he doesn’t particularly care. She turns back to him, then, closer than before, and pulls him down to her until he’s only inches away from her lips. His eyes fall down to them before trailing back up, noticing the way a droplet slips down the length of her nose, the way her lashes are dotted by bits of water left by passing beads of rainfall.

“Is this what you wished for?” She asks, her voice nothing but a whisper. He leans closer to hear it, the tip of his nose hitting against hers. She laughs bumps their noses together again, and this time he feels just how cold it is.

His hands move to wrap around her before he speaks, finally free to touch every inch of her skin that she allows. While one hand moves up, going beneath the strings that tie the back of her dress to feel between her shoulder blades, dull nails lightly scratching along the skin there, the other hand does as he’s done all night. Finally, he dives beneath the dress, firmly pressing the pads of his fingers into the skin of her hip. Her eyes shut and she breathes in before laughing, oh so breathless against his skin.

“Please,” He breathes against her lips. It’s only a moment more when she closes the gap that lays between them, her skin cold against his, but a welcome chill. Her hands crawl up into his hair, messing with the strands that lay at the base of his neck. He feels as water drips down his spine, and he’s acutely aware of the fact that he surely looks like a mess right now, certainly no longer presentable for a gala.

For once, he finds he doesn’t care. He would be enveloped by rain or fire, heat or chill, if it meant he could feel the press of her lips against his. He would storm into any event, drenched in rain, shirt clinging to his skin, if it meant he could kiss her under nature’s tears.

He pulls his lips from hers to bring them to her jaw. He trails kissing from there down her neck, careful not to bite at the skin despite the dying urge to. He feels her tilt her head back, feels unsteady breaths leave her throat. Her hair falls down her shoulder, and he’s hit with chamomile and lavender again.

With the scent wandering about his nose, her hands pulling at his hair, the sound of her breathing quiet in his ears, the sight of rain upon her flesh so near to him, and the taste of her skin against his lips—he wishes for nothing more than to allow her to become the entirety of his senses. He would live and breath her if he could. He would do nothing but listen to every moment of her and live as nothing but something to perceive her.

His lips reach her collarbone, and he can’t help but run his teeth along the skin there. She intakes a sharp breath and he laughs, low, into her shoulder. There, he moves a hand away from her back to slip the strap of her dress down her arm. He kisses her shoulder now, moving across to the top of her breast.

“Jumin-“ She breathes, and he stops, moving back up to kiss her jaw.

“Let me do nothing but worship you, my love,” He whispers, and then kisses the corner of her mouth before pulling away. “Please.” She breathes in, her eyes slipping closed at his voice, but shakes her head, moving her hands away from his hair to settle onto his cheeks once more.

“Another time,” She begins, “But not here.” Jumin nods, and she leans in to press her lips to his. He grips at her waist once more and she laughs into him, burying her face into the crook of her neck.

As the rain continues to fall upon them, Jumin glances back to the gala building. He doesn’t dare unwrap his arms from her, letting her head continue to rest on his shoulder.

“I think it would be a poor decision for us to return the way we came,” He says, and he feels as she nods into him. He turns so he can kiss the top of her head, and then grabs his phone, already sending a message to Driver Kim.

#jumin han #jumin han x reader #jumin han x mc #jumin x reader #jumin x mc #mystic messenger #mysme #mysme fanfic

110 notes · View notes

dcbutinamrev · 3 years ago

Note

BESTIE I DON'T EVEN HAVE A PROMPT JUST

HAMDRE!

PLEEEEEEASE?

KJSAKEJWWAKJEWKJE *screams* YES-

Sorry this is so late bestie, it took me all day to write this cause tumblr keeps distracting me-

But anyways-

But have some Hamdre for your soul.

(Some of the lines are from D&I when Hamilton met Andre-

(This is a long one- )

~~~

Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton sighs to himself as he sits at the long, rectangular table in the parlor, reading a letter from Laurens--no doubt upset again about Hamilton betraying him because of his marriage. Hamilton shakes his head, a slight scowl to his face as he grips the letter tighter, his leg bouncing up and down anxiously underneath the table, desperately wanting it to knock against a particular person's. He rests his chin in his palm, his fingers tapping against his freckled cheek. In his peripheral, he sees the aides eye him worriedly. They have been doing so since Laurens left for the South, but no one ever bothered to ask. But Hamilton knows his quietness and always forlorn expression, hurts his dear friend Richard Kidder Meade more than the Marquis.

"Oh, Jack..." Hamilton sighs, slamming the letter down flat, face down onto the table. He groans frustratingly, running his hands through his russet curls that are constantly always being out of place, as though every second of the day were he had just woken up. "Why can't you understand...? I love you both, you and her...why...why can't you see this...? I would never betray you...I would never lie to you--unlike you...The reason I...I didn't tell you of my Betsey sooner was because...because I didn't know how...Just like you feared of loosing me when you debated on telling me about your wife you left in England...along with..." Hamilton scoffs out a laugh. "God, a daughter..." He swallows the lump down his throat, blinking his eyes fast as he tries to control his breathing. "I...I was afraid to loose you too..." Another pause. He swallows again, licking his chapped lips, chapped and dry from the lack of kisses from Laurens. His hands shake. "But...I...I guess...I already have..."

Silence fills the room. Hamilton shivers involuntarily, shaking his head as he sits back from the table, running a hand through his dark red hair again before letting it slide down his face exhaustedly, letting his skin drag along with it.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" says a very fine familiar French accented voice Hamilton knows all too well.

He feels his burdens and worries lifted from his chest almost in an instant, his eyes slowly cracking open and he sniffs, rubbing the edge of his watery indigo eyes--the very same deep violet eyes Laurens had always find entrancing--with the heel of his palm before sniffling.

Hamilton scoffs out a laugh and shrugs as the Marquis pulls out a chair from the table and sits himself down beside Hamilton. He tilts his head to one shoulder, furrowing his brows.

"Are you alright, mon ami?" Lafayette asks, breaking the silence.

Hamilton sighs heavily through his nose, staring down at Laurens's elegant, beautiful handwriting. He swallows again and presses his lips together.

"I just..." Hamilton shakes his head. "I just...I'm terrified, Marquis..."

Lafayette presses his lips together tightly, keeping his expression calm and collected. Instinctively, he rests his hand upon Hamilton's slightly smaller one, squeezing it comfortingly. Hamilton tips his head up and smiles gently.

"I know," Lafayette tries.

Hamilton knows Lafayette is just trying to offer him some comfort, but Hamilton couldn't help but snap, "You don't know..."

Lafayette sighs. "Alexandre...Laurens is my friend as well. I care for for him as much as you. But--"

Hamilton yanks his hand away, clutching it towards his chest and letting out a shaky breath, glancing away from the Marquis. "You don't...You don't know..."

A pause.

"Have you heard anything on what the General has said on the condition for Major Andre?" Hamilton suddenly says, his voice tight as he turns back towards the Marquis over his shoulder.

Lafayette presses his lips together again and respectfully takes his hand back, resting it in his lap. He ducks his chin a little towards his chest. "He requests to see one of the General's staff." A pause. Hamilton raises an eyebrow, expecting for more. "He requested you specifically."

Hamilton eyes Lafayette for a moment before nodding once, standing up from his chair and pushing it in. He folds the letter into neat squares before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. He begins to turn about, but Lafayette catches Hamilton's wrist, flashing him a pleading yet concerned look.

"Alex," he whispers.

Hamilton stares at him before yanking his wrist free and marching out the parlor, swinging the door shut and letting it slam shut behind him.

Hamilton stands in front of the closed door, his jaw clenched as he closes his eyes. He breathes in deeply, holding his breath for a few seconds before reopening his eyes and letting out a shaky breath.

"Oh, my Jack," is all he says, his voice cracking, before clearing his throat and marching towards Andre.

***

"Major Andre?" Hamilton says as the guard closes the door behind him. Hamilton scans the room, searching for a familiar coat of red, a mysterious braid, dark brown eyes--the color of coffee--searching for skin, pale as a peach.

"Colonel Hamilton." Andre stands from his seat at a circular table in the far back of the room, inclining his head respectfully towards Hamilton.

Hamilton stands a few feet away from Andre, his breath hitched in his throat and his deep blue eyes--almost indigo--widen slightly at the sight of the doomed Major in front of him.

He is quite handsome, Hamilton thinks, quirking an eyebrow. Up so close, at least.

Andre tilts his head slightly to one shoulder, his brows furrowing together as he smiles slightly down at Hamilton, whose freckled cheeks suddenly turn a deep shade of red--almost red as his coat. Andre raises an eyebrow as Hamilton dips his head slightly, pressing his lips together tightly. Hamilton meets Andre's eyes and he swallows, his head still dipped low.

He is...beautiful, Andre thinks, curling his fingers to resist the urge to tuck back a loose strand of dark red hair out of his half-opened eye. Extraordinarily...breathtaking...with eyes like his...violet...

Brown...Hamilton thinks as his eyes up towards Andre once more. They're brown...and that braid...his accent...

The two stare at each other for rather a very unusually long time, perhaps roughly around fifteen minutes or so, the room filled with nothing but silence and their own breathing.

Andre clears his throat, blinking out of his daze. He bends, bowing respectfully which catches Hamilton way off guard. He watches Andre with wide eyes and flushed cheeks as he brings his smaller hand up towards his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamilton's knuckles as if he were greeting a woman.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Major," Hamilton says politely as Andre guides Hamilton towards the small table.

Andre nods, a warm smile to his lips. "You as well, Colonel Hamilton."

"Alexander!" Hamilton bursts out instantly. Andre raises an eyebrow. Hamilton clears his throat. "Please...Call me Alexander, Major."

"Then you may call me John," Andre says.

Hamilton straights himself up taller in his seat, trying to keep himself calm at the name John.

"I was told you wished to speak to someone from the General's staff," Hamilton says. "I am here."

"Thank you," Andre says quietly as he shifts some papers around smoothly, graceful--almost like a dancer--before handing Hamilton a sealed letter. "I have a letter for His Excellency."

Hamilton takes the letter, eyeing it suspiciously as he chews on the inside of his cheek. "Might I ask to its contents?"

Andre smiles grimly. "It regards my execution."

Hamilton stills, his shoulders tensing as he stares at the General's full title, swallowing hard. His fingers shake. "I shall deliver the letter directly into his hands..."

Andre nods curtly. "Thank you."

Hamilton shifts in the chair but he does not stand. It appears Andre has nothing more to say, nor anymore specific reason for calling him. Yet Hamilton would rather not remove himself just yet. He finds the mysterious man quite...fascinating. Charming, polite, handsome...accomplished, from what the rumors have said. Hamilton wonders what they could talk about if Andre were allowed more time?

Andre must have been reading Hamilton's mind because he says, "You have such singular eyes, Lieutenant Colonel..." This catches Hamilton's attention as he tips his head back up from the letter. Andre grins, tilting his head to one shoulder as he furrows his brows. "They are such a startling blue...almost...violet...I would imagine they could make for an impressive portrait..."

Hamilton purses his lips together in an effort to control the smile which threatens his face. He clears his throat.

"You are...kind to say so..." A pause. Hamilton glances back up and his eyes catch a rough outline of a woman's hair, wavy and curly at the same time, sees the rough lines marking her thin shoulder, the fluff of her dress. He smiles slightly as he turns to Andre, his eyebrows high with curiosity. "Are you an artist yourself?"

Andre whips his head suddenly to Hamilton, blinking out of his daze. Hamilton leans forward slightly, his hands clutching onto the letter underneath the table. He raises an eyebrow curiously.

Andre smiles thinly. He nods. "Though I may confess...I have not painted in some years." He turns to Hamilton. "I blame your Revolution for that."

Hamilton sighs rather dramatically. "A loss indeed."

"A man need not only be a soldier."

Hamilton chuckles, a faint sound causing the corners of Andre's lips to quirk up slightly. Hamilton's eyes travel to the portrait of the strange yet beautiful woman before him on the paper. He frowns instantly, remembering the way Laurens would always sneak in a drawing or two whenever Hamilton isn't looking, remembers how delicate the lines were when he shaped out his hands and eyes and the curled strokes to indicate his curled hair, the dots on his cheeks to indicate his freckles.

"Are you well, sir?" Andre says, breaking the silence in the room.

Hamilton blinks out of his daze and tips his head back up to Andre's. Hamilton clears his throat, shifting around in his seat.

"Um...yes...my apologies...it's just..." He lets out a shaky breath, seeing Laurens in his head, running through the field to dodge cannon fire and bullets, slicing his sword against a Redcoat's chest, a Redcoat jabbing his sword directly--

Hamilton shakes his head, forcing a tight smile onto his face.

"It's just...he...my friend...he's currently in the South...but your style reminds me very much of his." A pause. "He is an artist too, you know."

Andre smiles politely, resting his hand on top of Hamilton's for comfort most likely. Hamilton stares at Andre's slightly larger one, his strong fingers curled around between his index finger and thumb.

"I think I would have liked to meet your friend," Andre says.

Hamilton nods in agreement. Andre furrows his brows, realizing Hamilton looks rather distant.

"You are scared?" Andre admits for him. Hamilton turns to him sharply. "For your friend?"

He swallows. "Yes..." He turns back to their hands on top of each other. "He was... he is...known to be...quite reckless. He would often come back injured after a battle. He was shot in the shoulder three times once, if I recall." Hamilton sighs heavily. "Sometimes I wonder if he only lives to frighten me. If so..." he scoffs. "He's doing a damn good job of it."

Andre couldn't help but chuckle a little. He glances up at Hamilton, who smiles softly. He clears his throat.

"What is his name?" Andre wonders. "Your friend?"

Hamilton sighs once more. "Laurens...John Laurens..."

Andre nods. "Of course." A pause. "But have faith and hope, Colonel Hamilton, that your friend will return to you alive and well and unharmed. He's a right thing, you know? For himself, for his country, for you."

"Why are you telling me this, Major Andre?" Hamilton asks.

"I'm telling you the truth," Andre says, lifting Hamilton's chin up to meet his eyes.

Hamilton's heart skips a beat and he breathes in sharply through his nose. He can see Andre's jaw clenched and lips pressed tight, clearly fighting off temptation for something. But his eyes shine with a look Hamilton knows well enough.

"Hamilton...Alexander...I know I only have known for the briefest moment...but I must confess, you are truly indeed beautiful. I have never seen someone with such exquisit eyes as yours, a shade of auburn as your hair--" Andre grins when he sees Hamilton's freckled cheeks flush with color. He continues. "--But...since it maybe my last day here..." He clears his throat. "I'd very much like to kiss you..."

Hamilton's eyes fly wide.

"If you'll allow me, of course."

Hamilton swallows and without thinking he nods shakily. "Better make it quick, Major."

Andre smiles wide, leaning down to press his lips against Hamilton's, gripping Hamilton's elbow tightly. Hamilton grunts with some surprise as both of his hands fly up to cup both of Andre's jaw. Hamilton squeezes his eyes as Andre's lips presses harder against his, groaning occasionally, shifting himself closer so his chest is flushed against Hamilton's. Hamilton argues back, fighting for dominance but he knows Andre will win at this game.

After a few minutes, Hamilton pulls back slowly, a lopsided grin on his face. Andre huffs as he tries to catch his breath, pressing his forehead against Hamilton's.

"Thank you," Andre whispers.

Hamilton nods, his eyes closed. "Of course, Andre."

Andre pulls back and stands, squaring his shoulder. He grabs hold of his braid in his left hand and with his right, uses it to grasp hold a small pocket knife and slices a small piece of his braid off with a grunt.

Hamilton stares wide eyed as Andre places it gently in his palm. Andre nods.

"Keep it," he says. "For I'll have no means for it."

Hamilton never lets it go.

***

The following day becomes Major John Andre's execution, the sky a dark gray, clouds rolling in followed by a soft warm breeze, the leaves shifting from the dark evergreen color to more oranges and browns.

Hamilton stands among between General Washington and the Marquis among the crowd surrounding a tree. Hamilton closes his eyes softly, breathing in a couple of times, before slowly reopening them. Just as he does so, Major Andre's carriage arrives. Hamilton swallows the lump down his throat when he sees Major Tallmadge hop out first, swinging the door open and roughly pulling out a well, formal dressed British officer: red coat smoothed and ironed, almost looking new, dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the Major's typical mysterious braid shorter than before.

Hamilton breathes in again, clutching onto the braid beneath the cloak he wears to keep himself warm.

He sees Tallmadge guide Andre up to the wagon, flipping his coat around as he shifts to the opposite side. He pulls out a white handkerchief and hands it to him. Andre snatches it from Tallmadge's hands, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on Hamilton's.

Andre smiles softly yet reassuringly when he sees the Colonel's eyes beginning to water.

"Will be but a momentary pang," he whispers into the chilled air to both himself and Hamilton.

Hamilton seemed to have heard for he nods his response.

Andre breathes in shakily, staring up at the sky for a moment before wrapping the white handkerchief around his eyes.

"If you wish to speak, now will be the time," Tallmadge says.

Andre breathes in, keeping his fixed on Hamilton's.

"Bare me witness...that I may bare my fate like a brave man."

Hamilton whimpers, flinches when he hears a shuddering snap, almost like a branch snapping against a person's knee. Hamilton whips his head over his shoulder, feeling a few drops of tears roll down his cheek. He clutches onto the braid in his palm as he feels the Marquis wrap his arm around him comfortingly, shushing him.

Hamilton's chest aches and squeezes. He stands among the crowd, letting the sight before him sink in.

He wishes Laurens were beside him so he may grip his hand tight.

And never let go.

#AAAAAAAAHHHH #IT'S FINALLY FINISHED #I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS ALL FRICKIN DAY #HOPE YOU LOVE IT BESTIE!#asks #ask liz #skye!#ficlet #hamdre #alexander hamilton #john andre #I am so exhausted-#oh my god-#the longest fic (time wise) i have ever written-#whew im tired #thank god it's finally finished-

16 notes · View notes

lyracasstuff · 4 years ago

Note

Heya!! I actually just found your blog and I would like to say how amazing your writing it! Aaaa it's so cute and you seem very sweet!! <3

I came here to ask for a idv match up! I'm a female, she/her, I'm bi but I do have a preference towards men. Also, I don't mind a survivor or hunter!! Whatever you feel like atm dear. I'm very energetic when you get me in the right mood!! I love baking and editing! I also quite like photography. I'm a very loving person but can get cold if I feel bad so it's a bad habit TwT. I do give lots of compliments to people and it may seem like i like them but I just really like pointing out nice things about people. I love hugs and kisses especially!! I love it if my s/o could give me attention but not too much yknow? Like i want them to be happy with their life with me and their life outside of our relationship. Umm I hope that's enough!! Thank you for making your blog! It is very nice!! You're doing great!! I appreciate you <3 (ps. Make sure to eat and drink enough~)

Thank you for caring about my health dearie~ Honestly,, I could also say the same for you..(｡･ω･｡)

And I'm quite glad that you enjoy reading my blog posts! It means quite a lot for me whenever I hear people enjoying my blog as much as I enjoy writing them..( ´ ▽ ` )

After much thinking,, I've decided to match you up with...

Joseph Desaulnier!!📷

Let's first address the big elephant in the room: Photography..（・∀・）

Since the both of you love photography,, I can most *definitely* imagine you two taking pictures of scenery found in the manor..

As well as *some* of the silly things that happen outside of matches.. Although,, it's more on your end than Joseph's..

However,, I must also remind you that you WILL be bombarded with questions partaining to your "equipment"..(｡･ω･｡)

Whether it'd be a modern HD camera or your smartphone,, it's safe to assume that Joseph will be VERY much curious about these "equipment" that you have brought from the "future" ((even though we call it anything *but* from the future..))

"Are you telling me that this camera of yours can capture pictures instantly??? With just a simple press of a button??? Then, does that mean you won't have to stand for long periods of time to take your picture???"

((Fun fact: the first cameras that were patented require you to stand for long periods of time to take your picture which explains why plenty of the pictures during the Victorian Era were people staying in one position like standing..))

"This "smartphone" can ALSO capture pictures?? Would you mind showing me how, ma chérie??"

"The quality of the pictures are ABSOLUTELY DIVINE! From what time period must you be to access this kind of machinery, ma chérie???"

I highly suggest that you study your equipment thoroughly because Joseph *will* be asking questions about your photography equipment..

Well,, that and Joseph will *literally* fumble with *every* single nook and cranny of said equipment where he might actually break something on accident..

Which is rare for the gentlemanly and disciplined Joseph,, however we ARE talking about one of his biggest passions here..╮(─▽─)╭

Another topic here that is perhaps connected somehow is editing!!（⌒▽⌒）

Joseph is quite astonished when you told him one time that photos can be tweaked from your time period..

Now, on one hand,, he is amused as he sometimes *does* struggle with getting the perfect picture when the environment around him just isn't having it..

But he also can't fathom the idea of people actually editing their photos so much that sometimes,, the unedited version looks far too different than the edited version...

When I say that,, I specifically mean people who probably use photoshop just a *bit* too much..(^_^;)

Not that there is anything wrong about it as everyone knows.. After all,, sometimes we just use it solely for entertainment by making weird, abstract collages of people..

((Like photoshopping a bunch of characters from different fandoms to make some sort of crack-crossover movie poster..╮(─▽─)╭))

It just that Joseph prefers less edited photos as he believes that a photo can shine on it's own when it's taken skillfully..

((Another fun fact: Based from what I can gather, the French in the 1800s preferred a more natural look, which is evident by their choices in makeup like powder for the face or some simple rouge for the lips and cheeks.. Of course,, we are excluding the hair as we all know that big, elaborate wigs were all the rage in this era..))

In fact,, he might even throw a *little* shade towards photos that are super edited...(◎_◎;)

Pls tell him to calm down and not insult people who do something similar to that.. It'll only escelate and get worse in the future..

Okay,, now that we've discussed those, I think we shall head on over to other things, don't you think??（・∀・）

Another reason as to why I paired you with Joseph is because of your upbeat and loving energy!!（〜^∇^)〜🧡

Joseph's life before the manor was already pretty gloomy, and it hasn't really improved when he got into the manor..

So your very energetic and affectionate nature will surely bring in some lost warmth to his life!!（＞ｙ＜）

Although,, please be patient with him for at least a little while.. After all, him *suddenly* receiving love and attention is a bit overwhelming for him to process all at once..╮(─▽─)╭

When he *does* gets used to it, he appreciates it very much..(∩_∩)

With that being said however,, he is still quite disciplined about the time that you two spend together AND the time that you two spend seperately from each other so you won't have to worry about having your boundaries being meshed together..（・∀・）

On the topic of affections,, Joseph will actually be a bit shocked to hear you dish out compliments to everyone in the manor.. And quite frankly,, as well as everyone else that you complimented

((Listen,, we're talking about the Victorian Era,, where modesty is highlighted as a core value..))

I'll be honest in saying that for a split-second,, Joseph *might've* actually thought of you as a flirtatious person

So when you explained to him that that's just how you are and that you just like to point out nice things about other people,, he's confused..(^_^;)

"Wait, but you complimented Mike's juggling act. Shouldn't that mean that you would like to court him??"

"Didn't you tell Victor that you thought he was sweet?? Pardon me for asking this, but are you... Interested in him, ma chérie?"

You're going to have to explain to him that just because you like a certain aspect of a person,, that doesn't mean you actually like them AS A WHOLE...

He may or not have demanded that you bake for him the next time that you two will have your afternoon tea together..(⌒_⌒;)

It's his "apology gift" as he puts it...

Okay,, I know I said that Joseph absolutely appreciates your loving side,, but he also *adores* your more "colder" side..

And no,, it's not because he's a masochist..(｡･ω･｡)

See, as much as Joseph relishes in the feeling of protecting someone he cares/loves.. Even he can admit that sometimes,, it gets too exhausting when your partner is the *literal definition* of a walking doormat..

I don't know about you,, but I kind of picture Joseph as someone who wants to have a partner that, at the *very least*,, can stand on their own two feet.. It gives Joseph a sense of pride,, see???

In conclusion,, I personally think that you and Joseph would work wonders for each other!! Different in your personalities, but united through the same common interest of photography.. I'd say its a decent balance of "opposites attract" and "similarities attract"..

🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷🎞📷

Author's note: On the topic of people photoshopping the heck out of their photos.. DON'T HARRASS/BULLY/INSULT THEM PLEASE!!! I will be blunt in saying that I frankly do not care whatever your intentions were, because when you strip said intentions away from the grand scheme of things,,

All that's left is a situation where someone insulted/bullied/harassed another person just for editing their photos a bit too much..

And when you put it like that,, wouldn't you agree that it sounds idiotic? Because in all honesty, it is..(¬_¬) After all,, those photos won't be affecting you much in the long run now,, would they??

And even if you said that you did it with good intentions, the way you acted upon these "intentions" was poorly done when it could've been handled *much* more efficiently...

So in short,, pls don't harrass anyone that you know that does these to their photos, it's not only for their sake but also yours..( ´ ▽ ` )

I apologize for ranting like that,, however I feel as though these types of situations are completely meaningless AND avoidable had it not been for the people that continue to stick their fingers into others' honeyjars.. So I personally as though it needs to be said.. Again, sorry if this rant is a bit unsettling and a bit "rough on the edges"..(⌒_⌒;)

Well that's about it.. Until next time,, I'll see you all in my next post!!ヾ(＠^∇^＠)ノ💚

#identity v #identity v imagines #identity v headcanons #identity v x reader #identity v photographer #identity v joseph #idv #idv headcanons #idv x reader #idv imagines #idv hcs #idv photographer #idv joseph #joseph desaulnier #joseph desaulnier x reader #joseph desaulniers x reader #idv matchups

70 notes · View notes

thestraggletag · 4 years ago

Text

Silver Tongue, a Rumbelle fic

Summary: Based on this prompt. Royce Gold is determined to confess his secret feelings towards the librarian. Unable to do it in person he sits down to write a letter but a combination of liquid courage and a determination to truly unburden himself made him perhaps a bit too ardently honest. And a bit careless.

This might have a sequel.

Rating: NC-17

It had taken a long time to arrive at this point, but now that he’d made the decision Royce Gold was oddly calm, as if having made the decision had magically ended the slow-burning agony he’d been in since the library had opened three years ago. He hadn’t much thought he would be affected by the event, and had privately thought it wouldn’t last. He could not see there being any need for a library in Storybrooke, a town where most people had last held a book in high school, if even then. He had thought it would not last long, one of Regina’s many pet projects that was abandoned when it did not justify its constant spending of town funds.

He had been wrong, in the end, because he hadn’t factored in the librarian. Belle French swept into town with her high-end, short-skirted fashion and noticeable Australian accent and he thought the moment he saw her that she wouldn’t last. Too foreign for a small town like Storybrooke. He had been wrong, though. She had soon made friends with the miners, and Granny and Ruby, and even a few of the teachers from the local school. She also made sure to make the library indispensable, organising book clubs and other after-school activities for the children, offering computer literacy courses for adults and a place for the knitting club to meet, as well as regular table-game nights that surprisingly became wildly popular with certain crowds. And had made Granny an unbearably-cocky backgammon champion, two years running.

So she had stayed, and soon he had begun to notice the danger in it. The way he could not stop staring at her in the diner, or as she walked down the street. They way he got tongue-tied when in her presence, and turned softer, kinder. The way his smirks turned to smiles around her, and he laughed easier. She was smart, and learned, and had a delightful sense of humor. Dark, like his. And yet she was a being of light. Kind, always ready to help, and willing to see beyond the surface. Beyond the drunken escapades of Leroy, or the scandal surrounding Miss Blanchard and Mr Nolan, or his own sordid reputation. And it was that thing that made her so dangerous, how unafraid she was of him, and how determined she seemed to be in getting to know him.

He had been half in love with her before he realised it. The attraction he could deal with- after all, she was a gorgeous woman, and he a man with eyes- but the feelings scared the fuck out of him. It was too late to stop himself, however, so he resigned himself to being a besotted fool… from a safe distance. Only the more they interacted the less he seemed reconciled with the idea until it felt like he was choking on his unexpressed feelings.

That’s why he had decided, in a fit of uncharacteristic emotional bravery, to unburden himself. Confess his feelings, likely be politely refused, and put an end to the madness. Or perhaps, if fate smiled upon him, be rewarded with a tentative acceptance to a dinner date, and perhaps more. It was always a possibility, albeit a small one, but enough to give him the push he needed.

He had decided it would be best to write her a letter. He got stupidly tongue-tied in her presence, after all, and there was something whimsically old-fashioned about a written letter, which he was sure she would appreciate. So on Friday night, after dinner, he locked himself in his study, fished out his Waldmann Tango and his best stationary, and…

Drew a resounding blank.

It was difficult to start writing with a blank page, he reasoned, so he tried at first simply to write the opening line, immediately falling into a ten-minute debate on whether to address the letter to “Miss French” or “Belle” and what to put in front of it “Dear Miss French”, on one end of the spectrum, seemed too dry and cold, and “Dearest Belle” on the other, too forward and presumptuous.

In the end he decided on “My dear Belle”. There was no point in writing a letter declaring his feelings if he could not even bring himself to call her by her given name and the slightly possessive edge to his greeting might come off as ardent rather than off-putting.

The opening paragraph seemed easy at first: “I am writing to you in order to express certain feelings I am sure have gone unnoticed so far, given the pains I’ve taken to ensure they remained hidden, in part due to our mutual circumstances and standing in town…” yet after a few times reading and re-reading it he had the odd, sinking feeling he might be writing the slightly-more-modern version of Mr Darcy’s ‘In vain I have struggled’ speech and that hadn’t gone over well the first time around. Luckily for him, at least, Belle had no sister he could insult while he was at it. So he scraped it and tried again, but soon felt everything he wrote sounded too formal, stilted and lacking in emotion. He was laying it all down like it was a contract to seal one of his deals, and it was hardly conducive to romance, or reflective of his true feelings.

He stood up, going for the wet bar he kept in the corner of the office. He selected a half-full bottle of Lagavulin and poured himself a generous three fingers into his favourite tumbler, deciding to forgo ice altogether. He needed to loosen up and good Scotch always helped in that. He sat down again, downed the drink in one go, and took another shot at it. He wanted to sound… Passionate, he supposed. It was the whole point of the letter, after all, to confess his true feelings. And his feelings were… ardent. Powerful. All-consuming, at times. Like a small, flickering flame that had slowly built into a veritable inferno. Though he did not wish to frighten her, he did wish to unburden himself and leave her with no doubt regarding his feelings.

“There hasn’t been a day since you arrived in Storybrooke that I haven’t felt your presence in some small way. You’ve taken a permanent residence in my mind and my heart, and there are days when I can scarcely think of anything else. All it takes is a small conversation or even a passing smile and I’m rendered useless.”

He fetched the Scotch from the bar and poured himself another drink, deciding it would be best to leave the bottle nearby. He felt he was finally getting into the groove of things, building up to something that sounded less like a legal clause. He downed his second Scotch, feeling the pleasant burn as it travelled down his throat, and took his pen again.

“You need not be concerned if you do not share my feelings. I will respect whatever decision you make. I simply wanted to tell you of the warmth you inspire in me, the way you’ve torn through all the walls I’ve built between myself and the rest of the world. And yet I know you to be, above all things, kind. More beautiful on the inside that you are on the outside, if that’s at all possible. I know that I am safe in your hands, whether you choose to give me a chance or not. Thank you for treating an old beast with kindness and humanity and know that, no matter what the outcome is, you have a friend and an ally across the street from the library, if there is ever anything you need.”

He signed it simply “Yours” because it felt apt. He certainly felt hers, in any case. Below he signed his name, trying to make his signature a bit more whimsical, give it a tad more flourish. Afterwards he stretched, poured himself another drink, and read it. It was… Good. Not too dry, not too passionate. Solid. Respectful but a good representation of his feelings at the same time.

Well… to an extent. He gulped down his third glass of Scotch and poured himself another, ruefully acknowledging that the letter was not quite honest. It was a bit restrained. Or a lot restrained. It felt like the gentlemanly thing to do, to tone down some of the more unbecoming feelings, keep those more intimate urges locked up for the time being. But perhaps, he mused, he could let loose a bit, to try and see if a more emotionally-honest letter would actually be preferable.

He could tell her, perhaps, a bit more about how it was hard for him to keep his eyes off her when they were in the same room. How utterly beautiful she was, small enough to make him wanna crowd her in, whisk her away somewhere and lean over her, feeling her breath on his neck. How he adored her high heels and flirty skirts and wished nothing more than to-

He removed his tie, and scratched out that last sentence, automatically fishing for his drink to try and cool himself down. He was beginning to get inappropriate and, anyway, he did not wish to come across as if he was solely enamoured with her physical appearance. Though he very much was enraptured by it, it was her personality that had made him fall for her. Things like her kindness, her understanding, her insatiable curiosity. He wished to share everything with her. Wanted to teach her all the secrets of his trade, have deep discussions on books they mutually liked, bare his soul to her inquisitive eyes.

“In my dreams, over and over, I am a willing slave to your curiosity, your insatiable need to explore and experience. When I close my eyes I see us in every way two people can be together, entwined till it’s impossible to decipher where I end and you begin. You let me press my mouth against every inch of you, drink from your cunt till I’m satiated, but it’s never enough. I wish to vainly attempt to quench your curiosity anywhere and everywhere you’ll let me, at any time of day. Over and over till neither of us can walk and I cannot remove your scent from my fingers, my mouth, my cock.”

He stared at the paragraph, head tilted to the side. The paper looked a bit blurry, so he checked to make sure he was wearing his glasses. He was. Odd. He reached out for his glass of Scotch, surprised that it was empty. He refilled it, noticing the bottle felt surprisingly light. He re-read the paragraph, trying to figure out if it was a bit too risqué. But, he reasoned, Belle was risqué, in her attire, in her reading choices. Sure she would appreciate him being the same, going out of his comfort sort in order to convey the depth of his affection.

“I dream of fucking you for hours on end. Slowly, with the care and thoroughness you deserve, till we’re both numb and spent. I want to make you ache in places where the pain bleeds into pleasure, and convince you that only I am worthy of making you come. That none of the boys you might have had between your lovely legs were worth a second look. I want to become your favourite toy, there for whenever you might need me, eager to please, to make you sigh and moan and keen till you are hoarse.”

He was hard, he noticed, but it was hardly a surprise, though he thought he might have drunk a bit too much for his body to rise to the occasion. He thought about touching himself for the briefest second, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was on a writing roll, it wouldn’t do to jeopardise that. Instead he poured himself another glass of Scotch, surprised when he had to tip the bottle all the way. He didn’t remember drinking enough to empty it, but he must have. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the letter.

“I want to take you against the stacks of the library, amidst the books you love so much. I want to fuck you in the backroom of my shop so your smell lingers there. I want to go down on you in my bed for ours, till the silk sheets are ruined beyond repair. I want to consume you anywhere, everywhere, knowing that I will never be truly satiated, that it will never be enough. Have you splayed across my dining room table so I could eat you out as many times as I wanted, as much as you needed. I want to do everything to you, and have you do everything to me, till I can’t scrub you from my skin, the same way I cannot seem to be able to erase you from my heart and my mind.”

It was a bit of a sappy ending, but he supposed it balanced the more physical emotions out. He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish, smiled in satisfaction and staggered to his feet, determined to make it to his bedroom. He would get a good night’s sleep, wake up refreshed, and deliver the letter personally first thing in the morning.

In the morning, once he was done throwing up and had managed to shower, he shook his head at the idea he could’ve ever thought he would wake up anything other than terribly hungover. He popped a couple of aspirin, forced himself to swallow a few bites of dry toast, and dressed himself for the day. Before going out the door he remembered the letter, wincing when he recalled specifically the second draft he had made, clearly in a state of drunken foolishness. He picked up the sheets of paper, thinking for a second about ripping them up. He stopped himself at the last minute, though. The letter might not be fit to ever be seen by Belle, but he fancied the idea of rereading it later. He folded it neatly into an envelope and fetched a second one for the original, much more suitable letter. He would slip that one underneath the library’s door on his way to the shop.

He was startled by his home phone ringing, picking up to see it was the tip on the estate sale he had been waiting for. He jotted down the necessary information, went back to his desk to retrieve the letter and was out the door a few seconds later. He hurried to the library and, before he could convince himself otherwise, slipped the envelope with the letter underneath the doors, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety afterwards. He had done it, and though he felt unbearably nervous about the whole thing, he was proud of himself for following through.

Or he was, until he opened what he thought was the unsuitable letter and realised it was the original first draft. He had switched them up by mistake. Ice flooded his veins, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut, leaving him gasping for breath. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not with Belle. The more he thought about it the more his mind recalled fragments of the letter, lingering in its uncouth language and vivid imagery. He was fucked, totally and completely.

Unless…

Maybe she hadn’t opened the letter yet. Or she had, but hadn’t gotten around to read it all. The first page or so was quite reserved. Perhaps he could sneak into the library and retrieve the rest, or swap it for the correct letter. He had the keys to the library, as it was his property, rented by the town. It would feel and likely be a terrible violation of the librarian’s private space, even though he did not intend to go beyond the library, but it would be worse to allow her to be submitted to such basic thoughts as the ones he had written down the other night.

With that in mind he took the library keys from his safe and went out into the night. Storybrooke, being a small town, was deserted at that time, which was a blessing. Less people to see him slip inside the library using the back door, or hear him as he rummaged around inside, trying to be quiet and not use his phone flashlight, lest that alert Belle upstairs in her apartment somehow. Tentatively he made his way to her office, sure she would have surely put the letter, hopefully unsealed. But when he got close he noticed light coming through the windows of the office, where the blinds were partially-lowered. It seemed that, given his fucking luck, Miss French was still diligently toiling away doing something or the other for the library. Nevermind. He would take a discrete peek, to see if he at least spotted his letter atop her desk, and if he did he would hide in some shadowy corner of the library and wait her out. If he didn’t he would cut his losses and go back home, to try and figure out how he was ever going to face Belle again.

He approached silently, drawing one of the slats down to peer inside. He spotted Belle right away, leaning back on her office chair with an ottoman propping her feet up. She was reading something and for a moment he appreciated her face, eyes focused on the page, cheeks slightly flushed and lips parted. Then he registered the rest, the shirt tossed above the desk along with her bra, the black silk camisole making her hardened nipples visible and her left hand, which disappeared somewhere beneath her rucked-up skirt. She sighed, head rolling back as she whispered something.

He didn’t know what registered first, whether it was the fact that she was saying his name or that it was his letter she was reading, clutched tightly to her right hand. There was no doubt as to what she was doing, and yet he could hardly believe that Belle fucking French was bringing herself to orgasm in her office while reading his letter. He pinched himself, unwilling to believe he was seeing what he was seeing, but the sting felt all too real. It wasn’t a dream, it was, somehow, reality. Sweet, sweet reality.

He needed to get out. As much as he burned to just burst into the office and let his mouth do what Belle’s fingers were attempting, it wouldn’t do. By some miracle she was not offended or otherwise put off by his risqué letter, but she sure would be by him breaking into the library. Offended and perhaps scared, unsafe, which was the last thing he wanted her to feel, especially in his presence. He would sneak out, quietly, and swing by the library tomorrow afternoon, right after closing time. As much as it would embarrass him to bring up his letter he would know she reciprocated his feelings, or that at least she was open to them, and that would give him the courage needed to ask her out.

It was a solid plan, a great plan. And it would’ve worked, he was sure, if he hadn’t knocked over a banker lamp as he backed away from her office. The antique bronze made a horrible noise as it collided with the floor, and the green shade shattered upon impact, making a mess.

“Who’s there?”

Fuck.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #silver tongue

61 notes · View notes

fishmongeringstudies · 3 years ago

Text

nine: the tender machine kindness of daily routines and actions whose net worth comes not from their immediately visible impacts but the way your hands learn to steady themselves in the warm flickering light of morning, years after the candles and the ouija board have been put away

being a college student means having to face up to big, harrowing decisions every day such as should i drop this shirt on the floor after i take it off or walk the extra two and a half meters to my laundry hamper? most of the time i opt for the former, although the peculiar thing about leaving stuff on the floor is that the ratio of stuff to floor gradually inverts itself like a body turned inside-out to reveal the soft, fleshy inside until there is no more floor and altogether too much stuff. at that point, there are no more decisions to make. either you pick up all those shirts or make the walk to breakfast in the nude. given that the dining hall is known to be unenthusiastic about the smallest of transgressions like bare feet and people without skin, i doubt they would let me in. unless i seduced them. but it is hard to seduce a building.

the dining hall in this college is named after yet another rich alumnus who, fearing that they would be forgotten when they died and fade away into obscurity, therefore experiencing a second, more significant death, decided to assert dominance over one of the key facilities for survival at their alma mater. the building is short, squat, and emits a faint glow like a convenience store glimpsed from afar at four o'clock in the morning. upon entering the first set of swinging doors, one finds oneself greeted with two more sets of doors and a choice of one or the other. the left door will take you past an office. the right will take you past two more doors. one of them leads to the bathroom. the other leads to hell.

the dining hall appears to have been built on some kind of slope, because once you get past the first door and the second and pass through the gates of reckoning, the path splits again into two rather grand staircases of significant width and height, which lead you some two storeys down to a square-shaped room with a big fireplace perched at one end. it dawns on you then that this, this place hidden under the great yawning jaw of heaven, is the real dining hall. you squint at your surroundings in mild disbelief while awkwardly fingering your phone in your pocket so that the other person waiting in line doesn't strike up a conversation. the path outside looks flat as fuck and yet the stairs seemed to go on forever. the only conclusion: this building is cursed.

other things that are cursed: unripe bananas, misplaced sympathies, birds with teeth. liberal arts colleges. sad novels. people who end all their text messages with a full stop. the last one is a lie.

wow liberal arts colleges are really cursed though. i know what you're thinking. not this again, you moan in an extremely non-sexual way, dragging the heel of your palm down your face. not him again. i am tired of him, you complain. excellent. this makes two of us. but one cannot put something away until you are sure of all its contents. and even now, days and weeks and months later, i'll be brushing my teeth and admiring my reflection in the mirror when i'll find myself abruptly subjected to the blunt force trauma that is delayed realization. memories are like mille feuilles. a lot of effort to make and a lot of effort to get rid of. and if you take the lazy way out, slicing your knife perpendicular to this delicate, thousand-layered monstrosity, you are bound to miss something crucial.

question: have you missed anything this semester? what have you overlooked; what have you let slip you by? look over your shoulder. do it right now. perhaps you will discover the ghost of your deceased great-grandmother, trying to whisper to you her beloved recipe for tang yuan. take everything she says down. you will need it one day. i promise.

these days i'm not scared of anything in my head anymore. that's the nice thing about having fear manifest itself as a thing with skin and some internal organs (at least i assume he has them. to be honest you could tell me he has half a kidney in there and nothing else and i'd be like yes that makes sense, of course you're right) that moves and walks and talks like a person but otherwise has the cognitive capabilities of a chair. it's like playing an rpg horror survival game. only the antagonist isn't hot.

i am though. and so is summer, sweet sticky-skin summer, though i woke up today and it felt like february all over again. it was eight degrees celcius in the morning; eleven in the afternoon. now it is nine. so this is how it is when one is thousands of miles from the equator. one step forward, two steps back. take ten steps in a rough circle and then four steps to the left. tango with me. chase cars with me. we can chase cars all day. i'll wear your shirt and you'll eat mine.

this semester the salsa club held its weekly meetings on friday at 8:45 in the lounge attached to the dorm i lived in. on one such friday i was playing pool in the adjacent room with someone i don't talk to anymore and another i wish i still did but never seemed to find in the same room as myself. it was my first time playing pool. the stick reminded me of sun wu kong, the monkey king and his magical monkey king staff. or was it a stick? the details escape me. the evening escapes me, too. i know at one point one of them left to join the salsa club. i know at some point i cleared the table.

it must have been the third or fourth week of the semester when they convinced me to play pool, because i said yes without thinking the way i never had before that and never will again. back then i was still scared and lonely and to be fair, i was scared and lonely for half of april and most of may, but these are fundamentally different sentiments. back then i was scared of everything. these days i am acquainted with a more academic, nuanced fear; persistent laughter, 500-word moodle short responses sent over text, fists.

the first time i did laundry in the spring i googled "[my college name] laundry machines" because i had to be sure that the laundry machines in this specific basement in this specific college weren't super fucked-up for some reason and i was terrified that they would be and that i'd fuck up even the laundry, dear god, if i couldn't do the laundry then what was the point of trying to do friendship? i threw everything in the washing machine at five o'clock in the morning and dragged it across the white-tiled floor to the dryer at five-thirty. at five-fifty i texted good evening to a friend. at six-twenty-seven i washed my chopsticks.

at six thirty-five i stood in front of my dresser in my room with a freshly-laundered shirt pressed against my face and a spill of sunlight sliding down the left side of my body. i breathed in. the fabric smelled like flowers. like it'd emerged from the cycle of reincarnation, pure and dumb as a baby. i breathed in again. my hands and cheeks were warm. the birds outside my window were screaming in french. in that moment i found that i believed, for the first time since i'd gotten here, in the transient nature of all things. even sadness. even the sneaking feeling that i would never settle into this room with its shitty ceiling light, which turned out to be true, which was paranoia later justified by truth. even you.

then i folded it up carefully, and put it away.

05.29.21

#the author cannot recall if the salsa club met at 8:45 or 8:30 but they know it was 8 something so if anyone from the salsa club #reads this please dont get on my case i was never part of the club i only spectated on it once with a hidden agenda that died 2 days later #amen

15 notes · View notes

meow-bebe · 4 years ago

Text

Elusive

The First installment of my Neo Classics collection, ‘Elusive’ is set in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.

“Ten Lee throws the most extravagant parties in New York, though he rarely seems to be in attendance himself. When you find yourself in his mansion one warm June evening, you aim to find the elusive Ten Lee and get a bit more than you bargained for.”

Paring: Ten Lee x reader, Jung Jaehyun x reader

Genre: Roaring 20s au, Jazz Age au, The Great Gatsby au

Warnings: quite a bit of alcohol, general debauchery, mentions of adultery, mentions of smoking, this one gets a bit suggestive (heavy make out session, removal of outer layers)

Word count: 6.4k

Tonight’s soundtrack: Booty Swing - Parov Stelar, It Ain’t Over - Monsta X, Catgroove - Parov Stelar, Miss Jackson - Panic! at the Disco, Love Talk - WayV, Nicotine - Panic! at the Dicso

A/n: hiya! before you read, i’d just like to say that this fic is my pride and joy. Its my child. It took me over a month to plan out and write, is the longest thing ive ever written, and im very very proud of it. so please, if you enjoyed elusive give it a reblog! send me an ask! just scream in the tags, but let me know you enjoyed it! ill appreciate it more than you can ever know, and it will definitely help to give me motivation to keep working on the next parts of neo classics.

“The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

In all of New York, fanciful, expensive, outrageous New York, there was one man known far and wide for his parties. Those in attendance always returned touting fabulous stories of more liquor than an army could drink in a week, of the celebrities that shamelessly showed their faces, and of the cover that night and perhaps hundreds of people could offer to those wanting to make a fool of themselves or sneak off with a mistress. It couldn't be denied that they were possibly the best parties in the whole state.

And the man behind it all? The elusive Ten Lee.

Ten was an enigma, a figure shrouded in mystery despite opening his property to all those who fancied a wild night most weekends. Very little was known about him to the general public. Even many of those in his own social circle knew little to nothing about the man. Supposedly he had inherited most of his fortune, and having only begun taking up residence in New York in the past year or so there was quite a bit of speculation that he was foreign. Despite being the topic of many a gossip column, Ten wasn’t exactly a public figure, and it seemed that this absolute lack of information about him bled into the atmosphere of his extravaganzas as well. Many of his regular partygoers never bothered to question his presence, or lack thereof. Ten had always interested you, and upon your invitation to one of his grand functions, you had decided that this was the night you would meet the little known Mr. Lee.

Not that you were truly invited, but not many people were. Most just came anyway, saying they knew someone who was involved with Ten, or they had known him before he claimed his inheritance and became the Mr. Lee that all high class New Yorkers knew of. (Or was there a time before? Perhaps he had started out just as anyone else and his sudden acclamation of a large sum of money led him to spend on the most frivolous of things. Or maybe the man had arrived from his mother’s womb as the classy and expensive bachelor he was known as. No one seemed to know.) No matter what their story was, each attendee often brought along several plus ones. Automobiles would bear them out to Long Island, and they would flood onto the lawn, ready to dance and drink and make good use of all the expensive treats Ten provided.

It was through a friend that you found yourself being driven out to the island one evening in late June. This was not your first Lee party, and it would not be your last, however you, unlike many of the other guests, held on to some shred of dignity and only showed up when invited. Even if you were only brought along because Irene didn’t want to be seen alone, it was something. Not that she ever kept to herself for long.

Irene, a close friend of many years, was a self proclaimed rising starlet, although in reality she had been a very minor character in two films. She could be a bit dramatic at times (as her “profession” called for), and her title as “actress” was certainly an exaggeration. Still, she was a dear friend to you no matter how much she liked to stroke her own ego. And using her small claim to fame, Irene had managed to worm her way into the heart and car of a man who was also trying to make his way in the film business. You suspected he was about as in the public eye as Irene. Nevertheless, he had managed to get an invitation through one of his higher-ups and invited Irene to accompany him, which of course meant you would be tagging along as well. And truly, it wasn’t as if you minded. You enjoyed a night out as much as the next person, and Irene was your ticket into many affairs you wouldn’t otherwise find yourself attending.

There were a few others driving out with you, all chattering amongst themselves and buzzing with excitement for the coming night. Irene, placed strategically in the front seat, appeared to have latched onto the driver as her catch of the night. This was expected, after all he had been the one to invite her. You didn’t fool yourself into thinking she would stay by your side for very long anyway, Irene was notorious for ditching you as soon as a particularly good looking man showed up. You were fine on your own, and didn’t usually mind being left to your own devices. Depending on where you were you often got the urge to explore, after all the rich lead different lives, and getting a glimpse of that was always a good time. Irene often encouraged you to find someone of your own to pass the time with, and while sometimes you would find someone who could hold a half decent conversation, it was never very high on the night’s agenda. Though it seems tonight, in a rare break from your usual habit of flying solo, you had found someone. An attractive young man who had been introduced to you as Mr. Jung was seated at your side, and had begun talking quietly with you as the automobile sped along towards the island.

“You look quite dashing tonight, Miss一?”

His voice was deep and soft, gentle and just a tad bit sultry.

“Y/l/n. Y/n Y/l/n,” you fill in.

“Miss Y/n Y/l/n,” Mr. Jung muses, and though you’ve heard them many times before the familiar words feel different when he says them like that, perfectly proper in his every action except for the slight seductive tone slipping through his barriers. A pleasant shiver runs down your spine as he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to your gloved fingers, the black of the silk making a nice contrast with his pretty pink lips. “A beautiful name, though not as beautiful as the one who holds it.”

You giggle, raising the hand not grasped in his to cover your mouth, and reply, “Oh Mr. Jung, how you flatter me.”

“Please,” he lets your fingers slip out of his, “just call me Jaehyun.”

Well, perhaps not entirely proper, but there was no denying that you were enjoying the attention he was laying on you. Finding Ten Lee might be the final goal of tonight but he could be notoriously hard to find, and even if you did have ulterior motives there was no reason you shouldn't enjoy yourself in the meantime. Jaehyun had been nothing but gracious and flattering, and it never hurt to have a gorgeous man’s arm to cling to. You chat idly with Jaehyun for the rest of the ride out to Ten’s mansion, words flowing freely between you the whole time yet each learning not a single note worthy detail about the other.

By the time you arrive, just before dusk is preparing to settle herself over the bay, the party is already in full swing. Though the real festivities begin once night falls, many guests arrive in the afternoon, early enough to enjoy the section of the beach that falls on Ten’s property. They swim in the green glass waves of the bay and generally enjoy everything that the mansion has to offer while it's still light out before changing into evening wear in one of the many spare rooms and coming down the wide marble staircases in pairs, ready to throw themselves into the pulsing energy of the night.

The beach is now empty as the unfamiliar man in the front seat pulls into the long drive snaking up the lawn and tries to find a place to park amongst the crowd of other automobiles. People dressed to the nines, still in their swimming suits, and everything in between trail up the lawn, bright light and the sound of many people talking all at once enticing them towards the house.

The car comes to a stop, finding a lucky spot not too far from the house, the excitement rolling off each and every person surrounding you palpable in the air. Jaehyun opens the door and steps out before offering a hand to help you down. You take it with a slight smile, T-strap heels clicking against the pavement as you dismount and shut the door. The hand placed on top of Jaehyun’s quickly found its way to his elbow as he leads you up the lawn towards the french doors, thrown wide open and spilling the bright light that illuminated the inside and the growing noise of the party as people traversed in and out of the house.

Irene and the driver were not far behind you, a familiar flirtatious bounce in her step as they traipse up the lawn. You knew from the way she looked at him一predatorial, like she was going to devour him but make him feel like he was the one doing the stalking一that you wouldn’t be seeing much of her after a certain point in the night. This wasn’t uncommon for Irene, she always said she liked the “thrill of the chase without having to do the chasing.” You supposed your own plans for tonight weren’t all that different, what with your search for the host. Usually that would’ve bothered you, as you didn’t particularly approve of Irene’s galavanting at events she shouldn’t really be present at in the first place, but tonight you were too wrapped up in the events unfolding to care all that much.

The tiered silk of your dress swished against your calves, the heavy beading giving it a swing which accentuated the swing of your hips that grew with your confidence as you made your way up the wide steps leading to Ten’s front door. With each stride you take forward the noise inside seemed to dull a bit, fading away until it was just a buzzing murmur in the background. Your vision zeroes in on the mahogany doors, a small window to what felt almost like a whole other universe contained inside the mansion. You tended to get star-struck easily, but there was something different about the feeling tonight. An excitement burned in your veins, one you had never felt before, as if your body was in the know about some mysterious outcome or event of tonight. It felt as though you were surrounded by a bubble of water that hazed over the silhouettes of people and faded the harmonies of the symphony buzzing somewhere inside, laughter and the faint clinking of glasses tinny in your ears.

There was something about the atmosphere that drew you in. You would never quite be able to explain the feeling, that odd tugging deep in your chest yanking you forward by some invisible string of fate. All feeling seemed to have left you except the aching want to throw yourself into the fray and dance until your feet fell off, drink until the sun came up, feel the burn of others’ cigarette smoke in your lungs until you choked, search for a companion until you found the right one.

Time had slowed, and the usual clacking of your heels deepened to a hearty thud for each step you took. Every movement dragged you farther down under the surface, your sense of anything outside the confines of the house melting away until you had been utterly consumed by the muted liveliness of the party before you had even joined in. Everything happened so fast for being in slow motion, and before you could get the gears turning once again and recognize that you were no longer on the path leading to the steps Jaehyun was leading you through the double doors. The bubble popped. Imaginary water came crashing down around you, streaming off your hair and down your dress. The sensation was so strong you could swear that you felt the rivulets on your arms, the dampness of your hair on your neck.

Everything was suddenly crystal clear, blurred forms regaining their sharp edges and an almost overwhelming surge of music and din of conversation assaulting your senses all at once. You look down at the ground, somewhat disoriented and almost expecting a puddle of water underneath you, drips falling from the hem of your dress, but there was nothing. The ground was dry, as it should be, and you shook your head slightly to yourself in hopes it would draw you back to reality a bit.

As Jaehyun tugs you along, slipping nimbly through the crowds gathered in the tastefully decorated foyer, you simultaneously began to regain your wits and let your thoughts drift. An odd mix of cigar smoke, lust, and overbearing perfume hung in the air, threatening to put you in a trance and drag you away. There was always a feeling of disconnection with the world around you that creeped in at Ten’s parties. Often you would let it carry you away, but tonight you were here for more than just your own enjoyment, and so you clung to Jaehyun like a lifeline. He would glance back at you every few seconds, a reassuring smile on his face as your hand on his arm began to squeeze just a little tighter, the tiniest bit afraid you would lose him in the kinetic chaos of dancing and laughing.

No guest goes without a glass of something to wash their inhibitions right down the drain, and many swipe the tiny sandwiches or pastries offered by butlers expertly balancing platters of hors d'oeuvres in hand as they expertly navigate through the throngs of people. You’re no black sheep tonight, for Jaehyun presses a glass of expensive champagne into your hand as you seek a somewhat less crowded place to enjoy the night, a replica clutched in his own. There are none who stand alone in this crowd, either surrounded by a group just as free spirited as themselves or paired off, hanging off their partners’ arms and not so subtly sneaking suggestive glances at each other.

For each corner you turn you see a familiar face一an old acquaintance from school, a friend’s sister, the man who works at the bank. But just as quickly as you recognize them their identities slip from your mind, partly from a combination of the overwhelming amount of people crowding around you on every side and the buzz of energy and alcohol.

Ten’s parties were known for being quite anonymous to those looking for a good time. Those in attendance would always see people they knew outside the bubble of safety Long Island offered on night like these, yet no matter how scandalous their behavior it would never become public knowledge. Gossip was unavoidable, yet that was always how it stayed一mere gossip for the wealthy ladies to discuss over tea. As darkness fell over the bay so came a cloak of anonymity that drew in people like moths to a lightpost.

An hour or so of aimlessly wandering the three story mansion, people have dispersed a bit which means that the rooms are a bit easier to navigate, though there is still no lack of bodies. You trail along through the groups of dancers, some getting drunk, all throwing caution to the wind (perhaps a little too much). The symphony had changed songs, now playing something with a bit more of a sexy tone to it and you sway slightly along to the beat as you walk. Idly chatting with Jaehyun, one hand on his arm and the other filled with a glass of something sticky sweet to replace the long gone champagne, the two of you traverse through Ten’s mansion, both surveying the rooms and glancing at the people passing by.

He’s got quite the handsome face, and most people wouldn’t look past that on a night such as this. But he’s looking for something tonight, you can see it in his eyes. The subtle way his gaze flicks up and down the figures of women in dresses fancier than yours as he uses eyeing the crowds for a clearish path as an excuse to not be looking solely at you. The slight desire he holds as his eyes take in the people milling about matches exactly with the look he gave you when you first sat down next to him in Irene’s friend’s car, and the way he flicks nervously between observing the other women in the room and you, still holding fast to his arm, lets you know that he’s not yet sure if you’re what he wants.

It doesn’t bother you though. He’s not what you’re looking for tonight either.

You’re looking for Ten. Though you only vaguely knew what he looked like, you always kept one eye sliding over the many people you run across, hoping to see a face that would strike you as the one person that intrigues you most. You’ve always heard rumors that he never seems to be present at the parties he throws, but personally you have a hunch that he likes to hide in the cover of the crowds. You’ve done your fair share of research about the man, not that drunken recollections and idle gossip are much to go off of, but none of the people you’ve asked about him seem to care all that much. Free drinks, a good time, and the beautiful people that crowded into Ten’s mansion was enough to make most forget about the mysterious host within a matter of minutes.

But not you. He intrigues you too much, and though you’ve been tempted to drown yourself in the pleasure offered up on all sides, your quest to find Ten is more important.

Not so important that you can’t enjoy yourself as you search though. Jaehyun is good company, and the two of you mingle amongst the other guests. As you drift along, you meet people you would never believe were really there, had really talked with you, were it not for the reputation that Ten’s extravaganzas held and the fact that you had seen them with your own eyes. Actors, musicians, the richest of the rich, all to be found in the same house at the same time. Supposedly he knew many of them personally and had genuinely invited them. Many of the stories you’ve heard sounded more like they were just fantasies that had been made up with the help of some strong liquor and many expensive looking partygoers, but it seemed as though there was more truth to them than expected. Ten was a strange figure, and while most just take advantage of the numerous bars and sensually lit gardens, you’re itching to get to the bottom of the mystery that is Ten Lee.

After several hours of drifting here and there in the house, you and Jaehyun find your way down to the gardens. The party still rages on the lawns, though there are a few less people and a bit more space. It's just as well lit as inside, and the alcohol flows just as plentily. Your surroundings are somewhat more tame, as people have more space to move around and less reason to do so.

After exploring the gardens for a while, you nudge Jaehyun and tell him that your feet have begun to feel tired, after all standing around in heels for several hours isn’t exactly the most fun you’ve ever had. The two of you find a place to sit quickly, and you settle at a table already set up with a small group. A company of eight gorgeous figures sit there, several paired off with a partner equally as stunning on their arm. (You have to wonder; were only those perceived by the host as beautiful invited? What of those who just showed up?) Irene is among them, the reason you had decided on this particular table. She shares a drink with the driver from earlier, talking with you when necessary though most of her attention was focused on the man on her right. You sit to her left, with Jaehyun on yours. Swirling your drink around, you do your best to pay attention to Irene, although it’s not going so well.

Something, or someone, has caught your eye.

Your attention is brought back to the conversation you’re supposed to be participating in when Irene laughs一a high pitched sound that could be perceived as either mellifluous or grating depending on your temperament一as tonight’s beaux says something that’s supposed to be funny. You don’t think he’s particularly humorous but half heartedly play along anyway, eyes unabashedly set on the man sitting across the table and to the right a bit.

He’s truly ethereal, both in looks and mannerisms. With a sharp and elegantly curved nose, dark hair swept tastefully to the side, and a sparkle of something dangerous you can’t quite place but find attractive anyway in his catlike eyes, he draws stares not just from you, but all across the garden. The sharp contrasting colors of his tuxedo seem to brighten his honeyed skin, his every movement graceful as he entrances you, all dazzling smiles and pretty features.

You can tell that he’s so much more than that though. There are layers and layers to this man, all hidden just below the surface, and you feel the desire to claw your way into him and analyse every bit swelling somewhere in the back of your mind as he catches your eyes locked on him. His smile grows just the slightest bit before he turns back to the light flirtation he seemed to be pressing upon the woman next to him.

Though he had been an ideal partner for the earlier parts of the night, Jaehyun is almost forgotten in the presence of this new man. However, not so much that you don’t notice his attention drifting to another table. Watching his line of vision, you locate the young woman he has his eyes set on. She’s not hard to find, beautiful even compared to the other guests she’s gathered with. Wearing a slinky red dress topped with a fur shawl, she’s certainly quite the sight to see, and your companion has been observing her for a while now.

It appears you weren’t what he was looking for after all.

“Jaehyun,” you say, sipping on your drink delicately, “You should go on without me for a bit. I see how you’re eyeing the bar over there.”

It’s a lie. His eyes flick from you back in the direction the woman in red was for just a second, and though it barely happened, a subtle movement that seemed instinctive, ot’s enough to give him away. Though he does his best not to show it you can see the recognition that you’ve seen through his show of keeping his eyes solely on you dawning in his eyes.

“Ahh, but I shouldn’t leave you alone.” Still the same gentleman you met in the back of the automobile. Or perhaps he was just putting up appearances, there was no way to tell. It didn’t really matter anyway, you had your sights set on something higher than the possibility of the deeper fragments of this man’s personality.

“I’ll be fine,” you wave off his concerns nonchalantly. “I’m not alone anyway, I’ve got Irene here!” At the sound of her name your friend looks over, leaning on the tabe slightly as she sends a wink at you and Jaehyun.

You read the wink as more of a “I see you eyeing your man, if you don’t disappear with him it’s quite a shame and I might just take the responsibility upon myself,” although you were hoping Jaehyun, who you assumed was unused to Irene’s wiley charms, would see it as more of a “I’ve got Y/n, you go on now.”

Either way, he seemed to take the hint, although he remained reluctant.

You pat his arm, “You go and have fun, Jaehyun, I don’t want to drag you down.”

“Not at all,” he replied gently, and it seemed to you almost calculated the way his eyes didn’t stray from you in the moment. You weren’t sure why he was bothering to keep up the premise that he would be returning, that his interest in you hadn’t evaporated the moment the fur shawled woman pulled his attention to her the very first time. You both knew, and no one around you was aware enough of their surroundings to pay you any attention. But no matter, it wasn’t important to you.

“Well,” his words are hesitant, as if unsure of his decision, “if you insist. Would you like me to grab you anything?”

“No, no, thank you but I’m alright.”

As he stands up and pushes his chair back into place, Jaehyun gives you one last look. It’s apologetic, he isn’t particularly proud of the way he was just leaving you for someone a bit more flashy and boisterous. But again, you don’t care. He can either deal with the guilt in the morning or drink enough to forget the whole night, it was no longer your problem. It hadn’t been since you locked eyes with the pretty man across the table.

Before Jaehyun was even out of sight the man you had been watching across the table catches your gaze once again. This time he stands and sidles over to the chair on your left that Jaehyun had abandoned moments before, sitting lightly beside you.

“Good evening.” His voice, low and silky with a hint of an accent you can’t quite recognize, would have knocked you right over if you were the swooning main character of some unrealistic romance film. He takes your hand and presses it to his lips, a coy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Might I ask whose presence I’ve been graced with tonight?” he inquires, and you tell him your name. “Miss Y/n,” he repeats. "Pretty." You raise an eyebrow at this, enjoying his efforts nonetheless.

“And you? What’s your name?”

He merely hums in response. “Has anyone told you that you look gorgeous tonight darling?” You let his avoidance slide, momentarily moving on. Some people wished to not reveal themselves, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t continue to enjoy his company.

“They have, in fact,” you say, thinking back to Jaehyun. You glance across the room but he’s long gone, the woman dressed in red having disappeared as well.

“As it should be.”

Your attention is drawn back to your current suitor, and the nights former flirtations are quickly forgotten as conversation strikes up between the two of you. Every other word out of his is some flirtation or another, and you absolutely bask in the attention that the cat eyed man lays on you. His forearms are leaned on the table, and he’s staring up at you as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You’re sure that your face mirrors his, but in your case it’s true. He really is the most strikingly beautiful human being you’ve ever had the pleasure to set eyes on. And for the moment, he’s all yours.

There’s something oddly familiar about him though, and the fact that you can’t figure out why is rubbing you the wrong way. It would be quite impossible to forget a face like that. The feeling is not so much recognition as it is that odd niggling feeling of deja vu that plagues your thoughts in a situation that you know you’ve never experienced before. You try to stay slightly wary of his presence, but he’s downright entrancing and your focus slips to his stunning features every time you feel like you’re approaching the answer as to who he is.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed when he leans closer to you, lips brushing lightly against the hair falling over your ear. “Perhaps we could find somewhere we could talk a little bit more一” He sets a hand on your waist and a shiver runs up your spine一 “privately.”

You grin slyly as he pulls away, awaiting an answer with his own smirk.

“It would be my pleasure.” You glance over to Irene, thinking you should let her know that you would be sneaking off for a while, but she was already gone.

And so, all suspicion tossed right out the window, you follow this handsome stranger. His arm tucked securely around yours, the two of you dash up through the bright gardens, whisking by the tables full of couples making eyes at each other and under the pretty strings of lights, up the lawn and once again through the french doors, still wide open, although with less people flooding in and out. You duck through the crowd of people still meandering around in the foyer, expertly weaving around dancers and drinkers. He takes you through the ballrooms and up a few grand sets of grand staircases, which you certainly would have tripped down were it not for the tight grip he had now moved to your waist.

“You seem to know your way around quite well, do you come here often?” you inquire as you slip down a hallway that was mostly devoid of guests.

That odd, dangerous glint you saw when you first caught sight of him reappeared in his eyes. “You could say that,” he chuckled.

Before you could wrap your head around what that meant he was pulling you into a spacious bedroom at the end of the hall and letting his hold on you cease to draw the door shut behind him. You turn away from him and marvel at the bedroom he had chosen. The room (which you assume to be a spare) is although fairly simple obviously belonging to someone extremely wealthy.

A pretty chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and you have the feeling that the cufflinks scattered across the desk and the edging of the mirror above the vanity might just be real gold. You can see expensive velvet peeking out of the slightly ajar wardrobe, and just from glancing at them think the bedsheets to be silk.

The only light in the room comes from the golden gleam of the gardens spilling through the french windows. The pretty glow gives the moment a sensuous and romantic feel, and you turn back to the cat-eyed man. He basks in the golden light, as if he knows that it's good to his complexion, accentuating the honeyed tone of his skin and shining in his hair.

A hopeful smile works it’s way across your face, a gleam of eros in your eye as you take a step closer to him, hoping he doesn’t turn out to be a total bore like many of the men you meet at parties. A matching desire shows on his face, fingers reaching up to begin working at the black material of his bowtie. He expertly undoes the knot, and tosses the inconsequential scrap of fabric to the side.

Placing a hand on your waist, he draws you towards himself as he takes small steps backwards, eventually landing against the wall with a slight thud. Your arms wind their way around his neck, and you press yourself up against him, sandwiching his lithe body between yours and the wall.

As he traces your features with his eyes, a slight change occurs deep within them, a darkness pooling in his pupils and that familiar hint of danger from earlier making itself present once again.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards slightly, and as he leans forward you tilt your head to nudge your nose against his, eyes fluttering shut. You meet him halfway, lips pressed together in a light kiss, almost as if you were just testing the waters, unsure as to whether you were truly interested.

And, come to find out, you definitely were. His mouth was soft on yours, keeping your pace for the moment. You draw back for a moment, taking a breath and reinitiating the kiss, plunging yourself into his mysterious depths.

He tastes of secrecy and some sweet cordial you can’t quite place, and you have never known something quite so heavenly. The heavy feeling of his mouth on yours is addictive, all your senses alight at once, and your hands grasp the lapels of his jacket, trying to draw him closer despite there being no space left between you.

“What should I call you?” you whisper against his lips as you come up for air. His eyes flick open, meeting your own as you take a step back and pull him along to slip your hands under the shoulders of his jacket. He chuckles slightly, detaching your hold on him to undo the button and slip out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair before the vanity.

“That doesn’t matter.” His hands resume their rightful place on your waist, one sliding down to your hip and drawing you into his figure. “Just enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, trust me,” you press a kiss to his jaw, taking his hand and slinking out of his embrace to place yourself on the end of the bed, “I am.” (You don’t notice until later, but the sheets were in fact silk.)

You tug him along to where you sit, bringing him forward and between your knees. You tilt your head upward as your hands come to rest on his waist, sealing your lips together again.

You lose yourself to him, the feeling of his thin, wandering fingers tracing your silhouette and the way he pays the same amount of attention to every inch of your body, as if he was trying to memorize every dip and curve of your figure under the silk of your dress. The sweet taste of his mouth entrances you, and when he moves to press his lips to your neck or the line of your jaw between long winded kisses you feel as though you’ve ascended.

Time no longer exists in the muted bubble of a third floor bedroom in an unfamiliar house. Perhaps it’s only been seconds, and maybe you’ve been locking lips with a handsome stranger for hours, the party melting away to make way for dawn to dutifully traipse her way into the sky. Nothing matters anymore, you’re far too immersed in the passion of the moment to pay much attention to anything other than your unnamed lover.

Though in reality it’s only physical, he’s explored you so much that you feel with each slide of his tongue against yours he reveals another one of your secrets, one of your stories, something only you know. Despite the intimate impersonality of finding a lover in a stranger, despite the illusion of invasiveness that his careful movements bring, you want to fully surrender yourself to this feeling. Breaking a particularly lengthy kiss, he presses on your shoulder to get you to lean back, and you rest your weight on one hand behind you, the other busy clutching at the silky strands of his hair.

“You know,” you say, words broken in between the slotting of your mouths back together, “I came to this party in search of the ever so elusive Ten Lee, but goodness一” you press a particularly sloppy kiss to his lips, and he hisses as you tug gently on his hair一 “I do believe I’ve found something much better.”

“Oh, darling, don’t you see?” He presses on your shoulder again, and you fall back to sprawl yourself across the bed. He hovers over you, dipping to kiss the corner of your mouth. “I am Ten.”

With a smirk that would haunt you for the rest of your days, he gives you one last mindblowing kiss before evaporating into the shadows of the room, straightening the black vest he wore and slipping his suit jacket back on. As you pushed yourself back up so you were supported by your hands behind you, dazed and trying to comprehend what he had just whispered against your skin, Ten turned to look at you. He threw you one last look, a dangerous, beautiful look, before slinking out the door, back into the whirlwind of dancing and debauchery.

That night would never leave your mind.

No matter how many parties you attended, no matter how many men circulated through your life, no matter how much you drank, you could never forget Ten. And you’ve tried. He would forever live in your mind, fleeting thoughts of a bedroom flooded with golden light, of his discarded suit jacket, of that gleam in his eyes the first time you saw him.

It would take you many years and much consideration to finally figure out what that look in his eye was, that strange mirth you had never seen another wearing. Later in life, when you’re much wiser and have experienced more than your younger self who met Ten could even imagine, it comes to you one day. You realise that he seemed to find as much pleasure in the facade he presented to the world, the fanciful rumors and scandalous whispers that followed him like a shadow, as he did in the heated intimacy you shared in a darkened bedroom one night of the Roaring Twenties.

You would attend many more parties held in that mansion, sometimes dragged along by Irene, sometimes finding yourself there alone and unsure of why a somewhat faded memory keeps leading you back here. Every time, you held onto a fleeting hope that you could see just a glance, a sliver of the man you met that fateful night. But as much as you held onto the notion that you would see him again someday, you knew it was foolish. Ten’s reputation preceded him, and he liked to uphold that reputation.

True to your logic, Ten would never make himself known to you again. For years you would search, a futile attempt to prove to yourself he wasn’t just something you dreamed up in the haze of alcohol and the feeling of weightlessness one can only find on Long Island Sound on Saturday nights as the extravagant parties thrown by a man who rarely showed his face rage on.

Ten Lee, larger than life, beautiful, nebulous Ten Lee, truly was elusive, barely more than a shadow to his grand reputation.

77 notes · View notes

victoria-daydreams · 4 years ago

Text

Till Kingdom Come

Chapter One: My Story Is Much Too Sad to be Told

AN: I’m fairly shocked at the reception this story got, I didn’t expect to gain immediate attraction because I posted it at like 3am lol. Nonetheless, I am grateful to all the people who read this story. Once again, this chapter is dark as well. I promise this whole story is not going to be doom and gloom, but it feels inappropriate to even try to glaze over the cruel treatment of slaves in America and to be honest, this chapter is probably just a glimpse of what real life slaves were put through.

Word Count: 3.1k

Trigger Warnings: slavery, violence, physical/mental abuse, racism, racial slurs

Chapter Two: Life Being What It Is

That was seventeen years ago.

Sabine's life had changed for the "better", at least that's what Mistress Genevieve would try to convince her as such. Sabine certainly didn't see it that way, she was still a slave, after all. Not to mention, that the Martin family has for all intents and purposes, mentally and physically scarred her for the rest of her life.

Sabine was fucking miserable on the Martin Plantation.

From the moment Sabine arrived on the plantation as a child, she became something of a pet project to Genevieve. She taught Sabine arithmancy, how to read, write, and to speak proper English and French. This was not out of kindness though, no, this was a source of derision. Whenever Genevieve would host any type of social gathering, Sabine would find herself being paraded around by her Mistress to her guests.

She despised the gatherings with every fiber of her being, she was subjected to the most degrading comments by the party goers.

"Dear me, I didn't know negros had the capacity to learn how to read,"

"Genevieve, you must have the patience of a saint to be willing to teach a member of an illiterate species,"

"You taught the monkey to read and write? What's next Genevieve, music?"

This is what Sabine had been put through for as long as she could remember. Every time she learned and mastered something new, Sabine knew what was to come. She hated the fact that accomplishing something a white person could do was met with oohs and awws in the most mocking fashion from Genevieve's friends. Sabine remembered one night that word had spread at a party that she was fluent in French and for the rest of night she was bombarded with requests of ‘saying something in French’. She felt like an animal in a zoo and she knew that's how most people viewed her in the first place.

"Teach anymore parlor tricks to your pet Genevieve?"

Sabine would internally scowl every time she witnessed Genevieve be lavished in praise by her friends for her work. Isn't it sweet? The benevolent mistress bestowing an education to a lowly slave like herself. The Southern Belle, extending her graciousness to one of her lowliest effects.

Oh, but Sabine would find little ways to carry out her revenge especially as she grew older and was given tasks that held more responsibility. Her favorite way, "accidentally" pulling her mistress' corset too tight or "accidentally" stabbing her in the scalp with hairpins. Her yelps of pain would bring a ghost of smile to Sabine's lips which would instantly vanish if Genevieve turned around to scold her for her carelessness. And of course Sabine would offer a quick apology, telling her mistress that she didn't mean to and will be more mindful in the future. But the second Genevieve left the room, Sabine would let out a snicker only to be popped in the back of the head by Alice, the woman, who's in charge in keeping the rest of the slaves in order.

The blow was not out of malice, further from that really, it was out of love and concern. Alice had been like a mother figure to Sabine since the day she arrived on the plantation.

"One day the Mistress is not going to put up with your 'mistakes'," Alice warned, worry was evident in her eyes.

It wasn't until Sabine would turn sixteen the following year that Alice's warning would finally sink in for her. The most ironic thing about it was the fact that it didn't happen because of one of Sabine's mischievous acts, it happened because of the wandering eyes of Genevieve's husband, Aaron Martin. What's even more ironic, is that Master Martin didn't even want Sabine in the house at first, he wanted to make her a field hand. Genevieve convinced him otherwise, saying that she would be malleable and make the perfect, obedient slave since she had no attachments on their plantation.

She was wrong.

The decision to keep Sabine as a house slave would be one that Genevieve would come to regret, but only out of wounded pride. Sabine, on the other hand, longed for freedom and was desperate to escape the growing tension between Genevieve and Master Martin. She doubted that they knew how many times she fantasized about running away from the plantation. It was more than once as each day passed.

She had good reason to as well, Sabine had noticed that the mistress had been short-tempered with her as of late. And that was never more evident on one fateful day, where everything in Sabine's life seemed to further spiral out of what little control she had.

Sabine wiped down the top of the fireplace on the far wall of the parlor room, humming to herself.

"What's that song?"

Sabine stumbled in surprise of hearing Master Martin's voice, his French accent only slightly there. Pushing away from the fireplace, she tightened her grip around the rag in her hands as she stood at attention. His thin lips were curled up into a smile, a smile that Sabine was sure he thought would put her at ease, it didn't. Matter of fact, the expression had the exact opposite effect, Sabine thought his smile looked like a wound opening. Everything about the forty-five year old man unnerved her, Master Martin had a complexion that teetered between being pale and matte, short, dark brown hair sat on top of his oblong head. His long face made his humped nose prominent, but the most terrifying feature on his face was those piercing gray orbs.

It was the eyes of a predator stalking its prey.

Bowing her head in apology, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you, Master," Sabine apologized, vowing not to hum again.

"You didn't disturb me. What is that song?"

It's something that her mother would sing to her when she was younger. Sabine couldn't remember the words to the song, but she knew how the tune went, it was the only piece of her mother that she had left of her.

Shaking her head, "I don't know," Sabine lied remorselessly.

Instead of letting her get back to her work, Master Martin just continued staring at Sabine, it made her flesh crawl. His eyes traveled from her face before letting them roam down to her neck and then onto her chest. This had become increasingly normal behavior for Master Martin, each week it seemed like he managed to find her alone and just study her figure. His eyes would always linger on her breasts, and that was what made Sabine most uncomfortable in his presence.

Master Martin leaned against the door frame, "You've been filling out your dress quite nicely as of late Cecile," he commented, now looking at slim waist and then her hips as his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Sabine had to swallow down the bile she felt that might escape her mouth.

"Cecile!" Genevieve's shrill voice called from down the hall. "Cecile! Where are you, you daft girl?!" she yelled, as she stopped right beside her husband. "Aaron, dear, what are you looking-" she began, but cut herself off when she followed her husband's leering gaze. Genevieve's expression hardened and she narrowed her eyes at Sabine, pressing her lips together into a thin line. She stormed over to Sabine and came to a stop in front of her.

"Mistress I-" Sabine started, but Genevieve's hand whipped out and struck her hard across the face. Sabine's head snapped to the side and she lowered her stare to the floor, her breath uneven as she rubbed her cheek.

It was the hardest slap she had ever received.

"You stupid girl! Why are you distracting the Master?" she demanded, glowering at Sabine. "Get out of here and get back to work!" she ordered, her rising temper reflected in her face.

"Yes Mistress," Sabine replied, quickly bowing her head as tears began to well up in her eyes.

"And didn't I tell you to cover that horrid hair of yours? The sight of it is revolting!"

Genevieve had never once demanded Sabine to cover her hair, not until that day. But from that day on, Sabine wore a headscarf religiously to cover her head. Sabine figured that Genevieve's thought process probably fell along the lines of, if Sabine's hair wasn't visible then she'd become less attractive. It was a flawed logic that did nothing of the sort, much to Genevieve's and Sabine's dismay. So, for Sabine, the physical and mental abuse she received from Genevieve increased on a scale that she never experienced before.

The days of Sabine just being a pet to show off to Genevieve's friends to poke fun at her, were long gone.

Genevieve now saw Sabine as competition for Master Martin's attention. Attention that Sabine never wanted in the first place, Genevieve could keep her disgusting husband all to herself for all she cared. But of course, Genevieve would never see it Sabine's way, no, somehow Sabine's at fault for Master Martin's lustful stares.

Things only seemed to get progressively worse for Sabine as the years passed and her body continued to mature. Not only did she draw the unwanted attention from her perverted master, but she unfortunately also captured the eldest son's attention, Marc. He was almost a spitting image of his father, but was by far, worse than him. He's actually touched her in inappropriate ways, too many times for Sabine to recall. At least Master Martin just stared at her, although Sabine was sure that one day he might begin touching her as well, her worst fear was that he would flat out rape her.

Lord knows, Marc had been working his way up to it.

Sabine noticed that he had become increasingly aggressive as of late. And that frightened her to no end. She remembered one time after a dinner party she had to serve in the parlor room where the male guests were playing cards. She had just finished serving a round of drinks to Marc's table and the way he decided to thank her was to roughly squeeze her ass with a disingenuous smile. This action made the men at the table roar with laughter, but all Sabine could feel was mortification.

She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry in the corner of the small shack that she called home.

Sabine wanted to believe that the abuse she was suffering could not get any worse, she thought wrong. For, not only was she terrorized by the Martin's, but Marc's arrogant, smug college friends who often visited the plantation, partook in her torment as well. They would whisper things in her ears that no upstanding, God-fearing gentlemen would ever say to a white woman.

And for having such a supposed repulsion and violent reaction to someone of her complexion, white men sure seem to fancy negro flesh. It was confusing, yet terrifying realization. How could you hate and treat someone with so much scorn, but at the same time want to sleep with them?

Sabine's worst experience with one of Marc's friends was that he managed to corner her and forceful stick his hand up her dress, grabbing her thigh, luckily his hand wasn't able to go any higher thanks to one Alain Martin.

The only kind-hearted Martin in the family.

Alain, the curly headed and bright blue-eyed boy who always had a boyish grin on his face. He actually treated Sabine and the other slaves on the plantation like actual human beings, showing them dignity and respect, something that was completely foreign to them. Sabine wondered how the cruelty that Alain's family gleefully inflicted on the slaves didn't corrupt him and make him turn out like them. Maybe it was because Alain had actually questioned his surroundings as a child and didn't simply just accept what his mother and father told him as fact. She could recall many times Alain saying, ‘that doesn't seem right’ as a child.

And as Alain grew older, he continued to challenge his parents on the practice of slavery, prompting several arguments and debates, especially when it was dinnertime. Sabine had been a witness to quite a few of the shouting matches that would erupt at the table between Alain and Master Martin, Alain would also go at it with his older brother. Marc claimed, 'that because of the negro skull size all they were capable of was menial work and that white people were justified for enslaving them. With no one to oversee the negroes, they would hurt themselves'. This claim only enraged Alain further and Sabine as well.

Sabine had more knowledge in her pinky, than Marc's thick skull.

She pitied Alain, he had become the black sheep of the family. He attended college in the North and his views against slavery had only become stronger. He was an unapologetic abolitionist, which of course was completely the opposite of what his family believed. There would be many times that Sabine found herself listening to Alain as he vented out his frustrations about his family. She didn't mind, because that's what friends do, you let them vent.

However, it was not always like this, the bond they shared now as young adults would seem unimaginable to Sabine when she was younger.

Sabine and Alain had spent a lot of time together as children, but not because she wanted to, at first. The only reason she and Alain were in close proximity all the time, was the fact that she was tasked with fanning him while he had lessons with his tutor. Sabine resented him, they were only two years apart and yet here she was fanning him like he was some type of king. She was cold towards him (as respectfully as possible) and it went on like that for a couple of months, until Alain decided to speak to her when his tutor went inside the house.

"Pssst, Cecile, do you know how to say this word?" he asked, pointing to a word in his book.

Internally, Sabine arched a brow, she didn't know if he was asking out of genuine curiosity or to mock her.

"No sir," she answered, her grip tightening on the fan at the fact that she had to address a fellow child as 'sir'.

"You didn't even look," he argued softly, looking up at her. "Come on, I know you're smart, probably smarter than me," he added, moving the book closer to her eyes.

"Don't let the master and mistress hear that," Sabine remarked mindlessly, before freezing at what she let slip from her mouth.

Sabine expected to hear Alain run from his seat and tell his parents what she said, instead she heard giggles.

"You're funny Cecile," he commented, shaking his head.

A breath of relief left Sabine and she craned her neck, "What's the word, sir?" she asked, her eyes scanning the ink on the page.

"This one," he replied, pointing to the third word on the page.

Sabine nodded her head, "It's glaciers, sir," she said, before looking at Alain.

"Thank you Cecile," he smiled, bringing the book closer to him again.

"Your welcome sir,"

"Alain," he corrected.

"What, sir?" Sabine asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Call me Alain,"

And from that day forward, to some extent a friendship was born. The breaks in between Alain's lessons where his tutor wasn't present, were the only time that the two of them could really speak to each other. Alain did most of the talking, he told Sabine things he probably wasn't supposed to and if his mother ever found what Alain told her, Sabine was sure that Genevieve would just about faint. Sabine on the other hand, was much more reserved on what she was willing to tell Alain. She never told him anything personal, just mainly what she did each day. Sabine was afraid of telling Alain something that could somehow finds its way back to Genevieve. But, as years passed and they slowly matured, Sabine finally felt that she trusted Alain enough to tell him her real name when they were fourteen.

She hadn't heard the name Cecile since.

It was a friendship of secrecy, but that didn't mean Alain wouldn't try to protect Sabine as best he could. Alain could do it overtly, like he done with Marc's friend by yanking him away from Sabine and punching him square in the jaw. Other times, he would opt for more subtle ways that were just as effective. Remember the assault that Sabine suffered in the parlor room? Well, Alain was a witness to his older brother's molesting of her.

Alain strode over to Marc, appearing as though he was going to tell him off, which for Sabine's sake, she hoped he wasn't. It would only lead to further humiliation of her in some sort of fashion and probably Alain as well. Alain approached the table where his brother was playing cards when he suddenly tripped over his feet. Sabine watched in almost awe as the champagne flew in the air before raining down all over Marc, soaking his hair and a part of his evening jacket and dress shirt.

Marc's face turned beet red.

Sabine had to force herself to keep a neutral face, for a grin was threatening to form on her lips followed by uncontrollable laughter.

"You clumsy idiot!" Marc exclaimed, venom laced in his insult.

Alain didn't seem affected by the remark, "I'm so sorry brother," he apologized, without the faintest hint of sincerity in his eyes. "I'll go get some towels for you," he offered, before turning to look at Sabine. "Will you escort me? I would hate for my clumsiness to resort in another mess," he explained, and Sabine nodded.

"Of course sir," she stated, and led Alain out the parlor room.

Once they were in the hallway and out of view from everyone, Alain grabbed Sabine's wrist and pulled her along to the bustling sounds of the kitchen. Entering the room, Alain let go of her wrist and the two of them stared at each other before bursting out in laughter. Sabine felt tears forming in her eyes and used the back of her finger to wipe it away.

"You're going to get an earful from your mother Alain," Sabine warned, with a breathless laugh.

"I don't give a damn," Alain declared, a proud grin on his lips. "Marc deserved it," he added, nodding his head.

Sabine leaned back against the counter, "You didn't have to do that for me," she said, looking over to her friend.

"No," Alain disagreed, vigorously shaking his head. "I had to, Sabine," he corrected, his expression turning serious. "Marc assaulted you. He humiliated you," he continued, his hands bawling up into fists. "Humiliation in return, it was the least I could do," Alain explained, and Sabine ran her hand up and down his arm soothingly. "I know it won't erase what was done to you Sabine, but I had to do something," he finished, his gaze soft as he looked at her.

"It is a small victory I shall revel in for a long time," Sabine said, placing her hand on top of his shoulder. "Thank you, Alain,"

Chapter Three: Steal Away

30 notes · View notes

litniche · 4 years ago

Text

Love Will Find a Way

Ch. 9

on ao3

CW: characters use a shotgun in sports shooting

First three lines by @hauntingincorrect on Tumblr

“I have an idea.”

“A good one?

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

That’s how the day had started - Owen telling her he had an idea and before she knew it, Dani and Jamie were climbing into a rented van along with the rest of the gang. Hannah sat next to Owen, avoiding the stick shift every time Owen had to change gears. Owen made it all the more difficult, never failing to ‘accidentally’ let his hand land on Hannah’s knee rather than the knob of the gearshift. Jamie found it almost surreal to know that Hannah was ticklish, but as the normally graceful woman jerked and flailed every time, she found herself grinning and shaking her head at the pair.

Rebecca sat next to Hannah in the front, rolling her eyes at Owen and Hannah conspiratorially with anyone who met her gaze. She was a good sport, though, even when Hannah’s attempts to escape Owen’s tickling meant the woman was half on her lap at times. Jamie was glad she could join them. She needed the break from Henry's London office, having been kept so busy since Henry had decided to take a bit of a step back.

In the middle row sat Flora, Miles, and Henry. The little girl was bouncing far more than the country roads warranted. Miles and she pressed their faces to the window as the French countryside rolled by. One would think, growing up in rural England, that the sight of an odd cow here and there would not raise a fuss, but apparently the novelty of French cows was enough to afford rapt attention. Jamie, for her part, wondered briefly if French cows went ‘moo’.

In the very back sat she and Dani. The au pair was almost as bad as the children. Her energy was electric as her eyes roamed the hills and plains they passed. When they came upon a road travelling alongside a small lake, Jamie could swear Dani's eyes became heart shaped. She brought their hands, laced together, to her lips to kiss Dani’s knuckles gently as she gave a faint and fond chuckle.

“We’re here!” Owen called at last. He parked near a small cottage overlooking the lake and at the foot of a vineyard.

Dani looked at Jamie with a question mark written all over her face.

“Don’t look at me, Poppins.”

As soon as Henry opened the sliding door of the van, the children bolted for the vineyard, running through its rows with peels of laughter and ‘catch me if you cans’. Henry muttered something about getting too old for this before jogging after them. The rest of the crew followed after them.

“After you,” Jamie said to the au pair with an ornery smile.

“You’re kind of in my way,” Dani grinned at her, and she was right. She’d have a rough time exiting the van without Jamie’s cooperation.

“Guess you’ll have to get creative, then.”

Dani, as was her habit, gave Jamie a look that never ceased to make the gardener marvel at how they ever stepped foot out of a bedroom. “Creative?” she asked, letting her fingers draw a light trail up the inside of Jamie’s thigh.

Jamie slammed her thighs shut to block her path. “Christ, Dani,” she whispered, thankful there was no one else in the van any longer.

“Hmm,” Dani hummed. “Not creative enough?”

The au pair’s next strategy seemed to be taking the lobe of Jamie’s ear between her teeth. Her fingers travelled further north and slid between Jamie’s shut thighs. “Am I getting closer?”

The gardener let out an exhale in the form of a laugh. “Might be.”

“Oi!” they heard along with a sudden knock on the tinted windows. “You lot better be keeping it PG in there!” Rebecca’s voice teased.

Dani pulled away, clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” she said before she proceeded to crawl over Jamie toward the van’s door, presenting her rear directly in front of Jamie's face.

“Right,” Jamie said, clearing her throat, “We’re coming!”

***

“Un! Deux! Trois!”

BANG!

...CRASH!

“Un! Deux! Trois!”

BANG!

...CRASH!

“Whooo! Nice one!” Jamie whooped, swinging her arm in the air to cheer Dani on.

Dani grinned at having hit every single one of her clay pigeons as she readied the shotgun for another.

“She’s American. She has an unfair advantage,” Owen smirked behind her as Jamie stuck out her tongue at him before conceding a laugh.

“Shall we make it interesting?” Rebecca said, wiggling her brows. “Well done, Dani!” she called when Dani hit another.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Très bien, Madamoiselle,” their guide said to Dani as he took the gun.

“Merci,” she replied. She left Owen and Rebecca to arrange their wager as she made her way for Jamie.

Jamie encircled her arms around the au pair’s waist. “And here I thought you were frightening with just a fire poker, Poppins.”

Dani leaned into her fiancée, resting her arms over Jamie’s shoulders. “They didn’t call me Annie Oakley when I was growing up for nothing,” she commented as she leaned forward for a kiss.

“Oi, James!” Owen called.

“Yeah, mate?” Jamie quirked a brow in his direction as she turned both her and Dani, apparently refusing to part from their embrace.

“I just realized…” he said, his grin spreading slowly.

“Oh no. I know that look.” Dani said softly, brows coming together in a mock-serious expression.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed at the chef. “What is it, then? Spit it out.”

“You’re having a shotgun wedding after all.”

Dani’s jaw dropped at the audacity.

Jamie hung her head. "Asked for it, didn't I?"

****

An afternoon stroll along the lake’s beach, a rather decadent meal (with perfectly splendid tea for the kids and far too much wine for the adults) later, the brides and their friends were enjoying further libations in the living area of the small cottage.

Hannah called out “Who makes the better breakfast?”

Dani lifted her own shoe and heard chuckles from their friends gathered around them. The rules of the game they were playing was simple: when Hannah asked a question, Dani could choose between raising her own shoe to indicate herself or Jamie’s which represented her fiancée. Being back to back, the brides couldn't see each other's answers which was half the fun.

“My cooking is shite; I’ll admit it,” Jamie said grudgingly, apparently holding Dani's shoe in the air, too.

Dani smirked, sharing a knowing glance with Owen.

“Who takes up more than their share of the bed?”

Dani raised her own shoe again, feeling herself blush a little. She tended to sprawl all over the bed, her limbs spread out across Jamie and pillows alike. “Guilty,” she said, knowing which shoe Jamie was holding up without looking.

“Damn right, you are, Poppins,” Jamie said behind her, making Rebecca giggle.

“Who has better hair?” Hannah asked.

“Awwwwww,” their friends collectively cooed at them. Dani had held up Jamie’s shoe and based on everyone's reaction, Jamie had held Dani’s up. She smiled softly, feeling her cheeks go pink.

“Who talks the most?” Hannah asked next.

“Really?” Rebecca bent over in laughter. “Jamie, you had me believing you’re the quiet sort!”

“I talk!” Jamie said defensively.

“She’s right. Get her on a midnight stroll and she’ll deliver a full monologue,” Dani called out.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?” Hannah asked, interrupting their light laughter.

Dani felt butterflies in her stomach at the memory as she lifted Jamie’s shoe into the air.

Jamie placed a single moonflower in a vase on her desk in the teaching room at Bly. Flora and Miles had long gone to bed, and Jamie had stayed late while Dani worked on the following week’s lesson plans.

“I’m actually pretty in love with you, it turns out,” Jamie said, and it had taken every modicum of self control Dani possessed to take Jamie’s hand and lead her to her bedroom rather than having her way with the gardener right there in the classroom.

Owen pretended to sniffle. “Jamie, I had no idea we were so alike. Romantics, you and I,” he said.

Hannah chuckled. “I could have told you that, but I wonder about this next one: who initiated the first kiss?”

Dani’s cheeks warmed at the memory of the greenhouse on Bonfire Night last November. She held up her own shoe as it played in her mind.

Jamie was saying something about understanding. It was that understanding that made Dani do it. All her life she’d been looking for this - looking for someone who quite simply understood her. She surged forward, tired of not acting on something she’d been feeling since the moment she’d seen Jamie. To her great relief, Jamie’s understanding was in her kiss as well. She deepened it, bringing them closer together, making it harder for them both to breathe, but giving Dani much needed reassurance that she wasn’t the only one crazy about the person sitting beside her. Briefly, the gardener pulled away and asked if she was sure. And Dani was. She was more sure of this than anything she ever had been. She nodded and Jamie’s whispered ‘thank fuck’ was enough to ruin her for anyone else ever again.

***

Jamie stumbled along, held up by an arm slung over Owen’s shoulder. Dani was miraculously managing her own way despite the vast number of glasses of wine she’d imbibed. Owen gracelessly dumped Jamie onto their bed in the small cottage.

The gardener gave a small groan in protest and swatted Owen’s hand away when he started unlacing her shoes. “Mmm not th’bad, mate.”

“Sure, sure,” Owen chuckled as he wavered backward, not altogether sober himself.

Dani sat down at the foot of the bed. “It’s, um, it’s fine. I’ve got her.”

Hannah gave Dani a look that communicated quite effectively that Dani’s words gave little reassurance. “Get yourself sorted and I’ll help Jamie. Owen, I’ll be downstairs in a tick.”

Owen saluted upon his exit, making Jamie giggle.

The next few moments were a blur of shoes being tossed to the floor and clothes exchanged for pajamas. A more sober version of Dani might have been shy that Hannah was in the room, bearing witness to it all, but something in her told her there was no reason to be.

Hannah made them both drink a glass of water each before kissing both of them on their cheeks. “Goodnight, my dears. Did you have a good time?”

“Best hen do a girl could ask for,” Jamie said with a sleepy smile. “Thanks, Mum.”

Hannah tsked as Dani giggled. “No really,” Dani said, taking the woman’s hand in her own. “Thank you.”

“We all pitched in. You two mean the world to us, you know.”

Dani felt a warm glow envelop her heart and her eyes threatened to spill tears. “You mean everything to us, too, Hannah. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Hannah smiled and rose. “Get some rest,” she said before closing the door.

Jamie immediately rolled half on top of Dani. “'Member earlier? We could get creative tonight,” she giggled in Dani’s ear.

Dani felt herself smile, though her eyes were closed as she hummed softly, barely awake. She tugged on Jamie’s arm currently slung across her middle in an attempt to somehow bring her impossibly closer. She nodded and her hands began to roam, muscle memory taking over, but their roaming slowed as she began to drift.

“Shit, Poppins, you’re about to pass out.”

“Hmm?” Dani asked, jolted back to awareness. She opened her eyes and raised her chin to peer at Jamie. “No, no. I’m here.”

Jamie chortled. “It’s all right.” She kissed Dani’s sternum before laying her head there. “‘M tired, too. ‘Night, Poppins.”

“‘Night, Jamie.”

A beat passed before Dani was jolted awake by Jamie's voice once again. "Poppins?"

"Hmm? What is it?"

"Marry me?"

"Asked you that already."

"Just making sure."

"Go to bed."

"Not the boss o'me."

"Goodnight, Jay."

"Goodnight, Poppins."

Notes:

Thanks again for reading! I just didn't figure these two for a what might be considered a 'typical' bachelorette party. P.S. Every time you leave kudos or comment, Dani lays a gentle hand on Jamie's shoulder as she sleeps. So... XD

#damie #dani x jamie #dani clayton #jamie taylor #jamie clayton #thobm #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor fic #fanfiction #fanfic #thobm fic #owen sharma #hannah grose #henry wingrave #flora wingrave #miles wingrave

7 notes · View notes

whumpy-tales-and-thoughts · 4 years ago

Note

Hello oo! May I request "fainting " for the bthb please ?

Thank you for your request and support!! I hope this matches your expectations!! <3

Words: 1.639

Taglist: @mnmlover2002

TW: Illness, non con touching/ thoughts, manipulation, left out in the cold.

****

It started as sore throat, something Leo was getting used to, what with all the screaming. There was a heavy rainfall the day before, and he’d not pleased Marcus enough for him to leave him alone, so he found it funny to see whether his shouting could be louder than the rain. His whip wound hurt when he sank himself in a hot bath later that night, but he still woke up sore and in pain and he felt kind of weird, but he chose to ignore that. It had been around two months since he had been brought here. Feeling weird was routine by now.

Marcus knocked on the door, and he pretended to be asleep. He was up later than he’d thought, if Marcus had to come upstairs himself and wake him. He covered himself up before the door creaked open.

“Good morning baby,” the man’s mellow voice reached his ears, and he rolled his eyes underneath his eyelids. Leo flinched when Marcus placed his hand on his shoulder. “So, you’re awake”, he said, unamused, and pulled the blanket off of Leo’s head.

“Good morning,”, he said, his voice hoarse. “I just wanted to sleep more”.

“Too bad you don’t get to choose in here, huh”.

Leo only pressed the pillow against his ear.

“I don’t like you today, you’re too irritable”.

“I don’t like you any day”, he replied tiredly and tried to resist when Marcus grabbed him by the arm, but found he didn’t have enough strength for that.

Marcus practically pulled him to his feet, and Leo felt the need to sit down again, his vision dark with a dizzy spell. It had been a while since he’d had one of those. “You might want to buy me some iron supplements”, he said, putting on his shirt, turning his back to Marcus’ stare. He never hid that look of his, and it made Leo feel more unsafe than ever. He changed into his usual clothes as soon as humanely possible.

“Come, let’s go have breakfast”, he smiled, taking his hand and leading him down the stairs. It was unusually difficult to trot them down, even though his legs weren’t injured. His head felt heavy on his shoulders, heavier than the rest of his body. He paid it no mind once more.

Leo didn’t eat a lot of the French toast Marcus had made; his appetite was lacking. Marcus kept staring at him funny, and Leo really wasn’t up for his games today.

Marcus was annoyed. He didn’t like it when Leo was being unsocial; he thought it more as him being ungrateful, being resentful and rejecting him, his owner, his boyfriend -although in the making. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, banging his fists on the wood of the table. Leo flinched, caught off guard.

“I’ve been rough with you, I’ve hurt you, I’ve punished you and you still don’t get how you’re meant to act? What else do you want me to do, hm?” he walked towards the smaller man with loud, heavy steps, which were enough to pin him in place by now. He laughed. “Look at you. I’ve done nothing more than come near you, and you’re freezing up. You know I can hurt you. And you still choose to act like this? I feed you, I let you roam free, and all I get back is disobedience.” He reached down, grabbed Leo’s chin rather violently and smiled at him. He noticed his face was rather red. “Look at you, blushing. You’re so cute, so pretty, my sweet Leo. Don’t make me hurt you so often”.

Leo averted his eyes. He was, most definitely, scared. But he didn’t want to be hurt, not today, not tomorrow, not ever again. He grimaced on his comment. Hearing he was pretty was getting revolting and each passing day, he hated himself in the mirror more and more.

Marcus reached for the butter knife by Leo’s plate, while the younger wasn’t watching. Tilting his hand -and with that motion, Leo’s chin- towards his face, he leaned to plant a kiss to his forehead, smiling all the while. As Leo’s attention was diverted to the man, he jabbed the knife into the hand Leo had placed on the table. It was a swift motion, which earned him a quick reaction. Leo pulled his head away as he screamed and groaned in pain, using his other hand to remove the utensil.

He brought his hand close to his chest, staining his gray t-shirt with blood. His body felt extremely hot now, and he was sweating. Probably from the shock of the pain, he thought amongst other thoughts of agony. “What the hell was that for?!” he yelled, tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

“It was just to bring your attention back to me, love. See, now you’re focused only on me”.

“Yeah, you and the pain in my hand which you fucking stabbed!”

As he was getting angrier, he was also getting dizzier. His ears had begun ringing, as well. This wasn’t good, not at all. He took a deep breath, calming his inner voice, which was screaming at him to turn on his panic mode.

“Let me help you patch it up, lovely”, Marcus offered, but Leo slapped his hand away.

“I think you did enough”.

Those were not the words Marcus wanted to hear. He grabbed him by the arm, using every bit of his strength and, basically dragged him to the front door. Leo was stumbling, his legs weren’t listening to his dazed thoughts. Hit by the heavy raindrops, Marcus brought Leo to the wooden storage by the house, and tied him to the tall, wooden pole in front of its door.

“Stay here for a while, why don’t you, dear. It’ll be nice for you to reflect on your actions, once in a while.”

Leo struggled at first, he always did. But today he couldn’t bring his body to cooperate with his scrambled thoughts. He was cold and weak and scared. His hand hurt, and so did his head, and his ears were buzzing and he was dizzy and suddenly, he felt like a little child again. He felt as if someone had taken his comfort blanket away from him. He was alone, in the rain, with his only savior, a sadistic serial killer who claimed to love him. This was all horrible and horrifying, and he didn’t know why he still struggled against Marcus. He knew there was no way out; he knew he couldn’t earn anything but pain by going against him. His hands were bound behind him. He couldn’t bury his face in them, so he brought his knees near his head and settled with that, for a while, as he was crying.

He let out a shuddering sigh. He was so cold but felt so warm. It was a weird, disgusting feeling. He was shivering, though; he knew that much. He had been staring at the drifting clouds for what he thought was a few minutes now, but Marcus had come to get him, so it must have been longer than that. He unlocked his handcuffs and ordered him to get up. Leaning against the pole, Leo breathed heavily as he stood up.

“Go on in”, Marcus ordered, not even looking at him. He passed by him and the pole and was about to unlock the storage to get some things he needed, when he felt a tug on his shirt. He turned around; looking very pleased with what he saw, he smiled. “What is it, dear?”

Leo let out a breath. His face was bright red, his vision was dancing and Marcus kept going left and right in front of him, as if he was refusing to stay in one place. “Stay still”, he whispered to the man who was really, very much unmoving. “I’m not…”

He didn’t manage to finish his sentence. Swaying, he fell forward, right onto Marcus’ chest. God, he felt horrible. His eyes wouldn’t open and he didn’t have the strength or the will to get himself straight, and if Marcus wasn’t in front of him, Leo knew he’d have planted himself face first into the mud. His body had now decided on a temperature, and he was downright cold. And he felt exhausted, as if he’d been running for a day or so. He just wanted to get warm and sleep. Or disappear, whichever was easier. For now, though, he couldn’t do anything but breathe heavily into Marcus’ shirt. He hated it, sure, but he didn’t see any other alternative.

Marcus placed a hand to Leo’s forehead and let out a laugh. “My oh my, whatever am I supposed to do with you…” He picked him up and led him up to his room.

Marcus changed Leo’s clothes, and although Leo was semi-conscious, he didn’t put up a fight, and Marcus didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the situation, sliding his hands around Leo’s torso, until he remembered that, there was a time and place for everything, and today was not it. He placed the younger man on the bed, covering him up with the blankets.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and Leo only groaned in return. Marcus knew. He knew Leo had had a fever since he’d kissed his forehead a few hours before. I need you to become depended of me. Forgive me for this tease, he thought and smiled at him. “I’ll go make you some warm soup. Just stay cooped up, alright, baby?”

Leo didn’t get to eat the warm soup. He didn’t have the appetite for it but, that wasn’t the reason. As soon as Marcus left the room, he relaxed into the warmness of his bed and, although still shivering, he allowed his unconscious to take over. He needed a break from the pain, from the tiredness. He wanted out, and he was thankful to his sickness for giving him a temporary hideout.

#non con touching tw #illness tw #non con thoughts tw #leo and marcus #my writing #whump

7 notes · View notes

thehuggamugcafe · 4 years ago

Text

Day 3: Crows

Is it any surprise that once a sadistic gremlin, always a sadistic gremlin?

No? Then you, dear reader, should be well aware of what you’re getting into.

Blessings be to the marvellous Rae, for giggling with yours truly and sparking the muse to get this bad boy served.

Do enjoy, my dears!

“Are you trying to escape me?” The voice is calling to you, beckoning you closer, despite you trying your damn best to wrestle free of the hold it has on you. You struggle, you kick, you scream bloody murder, you plead for release, you beg for this presence to let you go; all your fruitless efforts earn you is a laugh, a mocking laugh but a laugh all the same, and the feeling of ghost-like hands wrapping around you. “You know I’d never allow that to happen. We’re bound, you and I.” You think you holler “no!” but, honestly, you can no longer distinguish the difference between the waking world and the land of slumber. You think you’re dreaming, but are you really? You can’t tell. Even with the feeling of the earth beneath you, the mud that is wet and heavy, staining the front of your nightclothes, and besmirching the gentle colour with a hue of brown that’s almost black, you aren’t sure. Even when your fingers, your nails claw at the damp grass, prying loose rock and bits of dirt cake to your hands, you aren’t sure. Even when sweat breaks out across your forehead and your skin crawls with the chilling sensation of gooseflesh, you aren’t sure. Even when you scream to be released and the hands, as if they find your misery to be comedy gold, simply hold onto your shaking form a bit tighter, you aren’t sure. It’s with a sting of bitterness, you note, that while they’re treating you like you’re a glass figurine, the hands—nor their owner—clearly have no intentions to let you go. “Don’t you want to spend an eternity with me?” That gets you to stop struggling, albeit momentarily. You freeze, remaining where you are; you’re as still as a statue. It’s as though roots have burst from the earth and wrapped around your wrists, your ankles, holding you prisoner. You feel no warmth radiating off of this being, a fact that doesn’t surprise you at all. Assuming he was even human once upon a time, whatever humanity he formerly possessed has surely rotted away to nothing but dust to be blown about in the wind, long before you and he crossed paths. “I wish to spend forever with you. Doesn’t that sound nice, mon amour?” You don’t—can’t—answer him. You keep your mouth shut. Your recollection of your French classes from high school is vague, but you’re positive that this presence just called you “my love”. Why is it—no, he—calling you its love? There is no sound rhyme nor reason for it to address you with faux affection; you don’t know what it is! Aside from your unwavering attention, you don’t even know what this spirit wants from you! You quietly convince yourself that if you figure out its motives, what it’s after, perhaps you’ll be granted some shred of clemency. It’s a fool’s errand to wish for something like that, you know that to be a cold and brutal fact. One you must accept, like it or not. You know there is no bigger fool at present than you. But when you’re staring into the abyss, can you help yourself for wishing for the best, even though it may be a sweet lie you tell yourself? Eventually, you stop struggling; what point is there in delaying the inevitable, after all? You’re tired, too exhausted to put up with this spirit’s head games. So you lay where you are, breathing icy air into your lungs, awaiting the end. “Aren’t you going to kill me? Get it over with already; enough of these stupid mind games!” Your heated words must surely take it—him—aback, you know they have. You aren’t sure how you know, but with how chatty it’s been, you find it hard to believe that it—he—has fallen silent, but he has. Finally, finally, he breathes a drawling hum in your ear; you shiver out of disgust, of fear. Perhaps it’s both. You don’t know; you don’t want to know. “Kill you? Why would I do that to a beautiful treasure like you?” Damn him, he sounds almost amused. Almost. But there is something else, something other than dark pleasure in his words: curiosity. Is he curious of your logic? Or is he merely playing with you once again? You wouldn’t be surprised if that is the case, as he seems to love toying with you like you’re his doll. As if to prove you right for once, and make fun of you while doing so, he chuckles. And as though he means to rub salt in a wound, your wounded ego that is, he slowly drags a finger along the curve of your jaw. “I cherish you far too much to treat you in such a brutish way. A gentleman is supposed to show proper manners to a lady, is he not?” “As if you’re a gentleman! If you were a gentleman, you’d let me go!” Is what you want to say; it’s what you should say. Fear, however, may as well have formed a fist and punched you in the gut, robbing the ability to speak from you. For now, at the very least. The poison that’s being injected into your veins, terror, is what stops you from speaking aloud; the venom running its languid course through you, fear, is what keeps your lips sealed shut. You don’t know what this spirit is capable of doing to you, even in a dream. And far be it from you to be unfortunate enough to find out what, exactly, he is able to do while you’re dreaming. At least you think you’re dreaming; rather, you hope that this is all just a horrid dream. You’ll wake up soon, you know this. You’re praying that you’ll slip from the land of slumber and wake up in reality, returning to some semblance of normalcy. You have to wake up soon, you have to! You don’t know how much longer you can take being here, in this nightmare any longer! And just like that dread begins to take over, washing over your cold logic like acid, setting your nerves on fire. What if… What if you don’t—can’t—wake up from this terrible dream? It is possible, of course, you know that. It isn’t outside the realm of likelihood that you’re stuck, trapped here forever with this… This spirit or whatever he is. The thought alone is enough to get you to start your struggling anew. It starts as barely a wiggle, shifting your legs. You feel the bits of rock digging into the skin of your thighs, digging into your knees as you kick your feet. Then your arms begin moving, attempting to wriggle them free from the masculine embrace keeping them where they are. “Let me go!” It’s a useless demand; a pointless order. You know he won’t listen to you, but even so, your words slide off of your tongue that feels as dry as desert air. Your suspicions are confirmed when instead of doing as you ask, he simply breathes a laugh. You feel it, the laugh, as a whisper of a breeze tickles the shell of your ear. “We’ve been over this already, haven’t we? I have no intentions of letting you go; not now, not ever.” Bastard. The audacity of this entity! You are not anyone’s property, certainly not his. “You’re mine, after all.” Hearing those words, in a clear and stark contradiction to your own, only makes you struggle harder. You’re acting like a feral animal, desperately seeking freedom from the cage keeping you locked away. However, for all the good your thrashing does, or for a proper lack of blessings, it only seems to amuse him. “Now, now… Where do you think you’re going?” You say nothing. Your jaw stays clamped shut, one set of teeth grinding down on the lower half; you won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You still struggle, of course you do. Anything to get as far away from this… This thing will be a blessing, as laughable as that sounds to you in the here and now. But, evidently, small miracles do seem to exist. That, or he’s curious to see what you will do. This son of a bitch is intrusive enough to let you escape, temporarily, all for his own entertainment! Regardless, you feel a wrist slipping free; half of your body is quick to follow suit. A shaky hope burns in your heart, pumping true and strong in your breast. You take in air, greedily, as you jerk away from this awful mockery of a man— Only to feel a strong hand grip your wrist in a grip that, while it is gentle to an extent, it is also iron-clad, threatening to leave bruises in their wake. A gasp slips from you even as you twist and turn, frantically trying to free yourself from this spirit’s grasp. But of course you can’t have that, not even in a dream. A laugh slithers into the cavern of your ear, mocking your escape attempt with every fibre of his being. As if that isn’t bad enough, he pulls you into a slow, gentle embrace, though you still cannot feel any temperature radiating off of this being, hot or cold. He is just simply… here. What you can feel, however, is the way the damp earth cushions your back as you’re pinned in place, hands held in place on either side of your head. Again, a second chortle hits your frightened scowl as he leans in close, so close that a few inches are all that separates his lips from yours. “You truly are a poor, wistful little fool, aren’t you? How cute.” Slowly, oh so slowly, his hold on one of your wrists loosens, much to your surprise. You watch as he holds it daintily, carefully raising it to his mouth. A phantom kiss is applied to the top of the ring you’re wearing. The ring that you bought purely on a whim, laughing off the concerns of the elderly shopkepper about it being cursed. If only you had listened… If only you had heeded the warning… The golden band shimmers gently underneath the moon’s cold glare as it peeks out from behind a veil of dark cloud, but the little blood-red ruby is what’s earned the right to have the honour, the privilege of knowing the invisible press of his lips. In hindsight, so has your second knuckle. It is naught but a whisper of nonexistent air, a tender kiss of a breeze, but you feel it even though there’s no conceivable way that you should be able to. You watch, absolutely petrified, as a smile pulls at the spirit’s face, raising his eyes to leer at you. His eyes are as black as coal. “My name is Arsène… May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, chérie?”

You awake with a jolt. More specifically, you awake with a scream dying on your lips that’s followed by a squeak of pain as you quickly, gracelessly tumble out of bed. You hit the floor of your room, hitting your hand off of the end table as your descent to the bare tiles is polished off with a low, weary groan. It takes you a few moments to realize that you’re not dreaming. It takes you twice as long, almost a full minute, before it dawns on you that you’re sitting on the floor of your room, your small and shaded sanctuary, with a throbbing hand and a mind that matches the racing of your heart. Still, the fact that you’re safe doesn’t stop you from letting your eyes dart around your bedroom, wide-eyed and wild. You leer at everything: the dark outlines of furniture and random knick-knacks; the pale glare of the moon shining in through the window, giving a silver-y gleam to the wall on your right; the clock tick-toking on your dresser, showing the time as 3 in the morning in red numbers; the small vanity shoved against the left-hand side of your room, reflecting the ghostly image of the full moon lurking in the gloomy sky. Is he here? The thought alone is enough to get your heart to flutter anew, pounding in your breast like a songbird in flight. You swallow; the gulp is thick. You feel it, the gulp, sticking at the back of your throat as it slithers down your esophagus, down to your belly and once there, it flip-flops in silent anxiety. You twist and turn in the sheets that have cocooned your legs. Your cold palms, your clammy fingers reach for the covers, pulling at them until your legs and feet have been freed of the cotton restraints. No, you think, shaking your head as you do. There’s no way he can be here; that was just a dream, wasn’t it? A bittersweet comfort, but you’ll take what you can get right now. You take in air slowly, exhaling it as carefully as you can. You aren’t in the mood to acknowledge how shaky the breath is; you don’t care enough to take note of how much you’re trembling. To calm yourself, you begin to practice your deep breathing. Slowly, as though not to disturb some godforsaken force that’s taken up residence in your home, you step away from the mangled pile of covers and quilts. You raise a hand, wiping away the icy sweat that’s gathered on your brow as you do. A breath leaves you in a winded whoosh, and you feel as though you’ve just participated in the world’s longest marathon. I’m safe here… That’s what you think as you draw closer to your bedroom door, reaching for the round knob. You grip it in your palm, in your fingers, turning it as a wave of relief washes over you. The low, droning creak of the door’s hinges goes largely ignored by you as you step out into the hallway. It has never occurred to you just how sorely welcomed light is, until right this very moment. The ghostly illumination from the light on the stairs, just outside your bathroom door that’s been left open, pours into the small restroom as you take a sharp right, stepping inside and shutting the door. I’m safe here… You take a few moments to fumble for the light switch and a fresh, stronger wave of relaxation washes over you. You blink, allowing your eyes to adjust as the light above the mirror blinks a few times before it stays on, burning brightly like lights in a dark forest. I’m safe here… The sound of the running faucet grates on your hearing like nails dragging over a chalkboard, slowly, but you ignore it as you cup cold water in your hands. The hit of icy liquid as it splashes on your face is just what you needed to wake you up, make you more alert. Your fingers, dripping with brisk water, grips the cold faucet; it squeaks as it’s shut off, the water slowing to a steady drip. I’m safe here… You reach for the small towel hanging off of the rack on your right, drying your hands before you reach for another, smaller towel. The cotton fabric is soft as you press it to your face, gently wiping away the chilled droplets that trail down your face. You lower the towel, peering into the mirror out of habit than, say, out of curiosity about how dishevelled you must look. I’m safe here— And just like that, time crawls to a full-on stop. There, as though to taunt you for fooling yourself into thinking you’re safe, he is staring back at you. You blink slowly, stupidly, eyes meeting his black leer over the edge of the fluffy cotton towel you’re holding in two, trembling fists. How is he—? You watch as his lips curl to a devilish smile as slowly, oh so slowly, lines of a hue that’s as dark as ink leak from his eyes. Perched on his left shoulder is a crow and you watch, equal parts stunned and horrified, as the small, feathered creature opens its beak, releasing a caw that goes unheard. You watch as the spirit, the being—whatever he is—raises a hand, hovering a finger close to his lips, purses them, and his mouth curves to a silent o. The gesture is silent, a laughable contrast to the static buzzing in your brain and the ringing in your ears, but the meaning behind his actions are as clear as day. “Shh.” You blink, shutting your eyes so tight that it hurts. You wait, vomit threatening to rise up from your flip-flopping belly and heart almost daring to burst out of your chest, for what seems like forever before you finally summon the courage to open your eyes. Slowly, the mirror comes into focus, and you exhale sharply as you see nothing. There is no crow silently cawing, as if it’s mourning how unfortunate you are to have caught a spirit’s attention. There is no one with eyes that are solid black; there is no malevolent being leaking inky tears staring back at you. You shake your head, dismissing the thought as you pat your face with the towel before putting it back where it belongs: on the towel rack. You breathe a hiss, raising your wrist to eye-level. Your face pales in shock when you spot light bruising, exactly where the spirit had grabbed you in the dream. In fact, you can even spot faint markings where its nails dug into your skin, gently but painfully. But that had been just a dream, a nightmare. Right? Right? The ghostly pain on your wrist, the tiny marks that mar your skin, beg to differ.

#Persona 5 #Cursed!Arsène #Reader-insert #AU #Screamtober 2020 #Collaboration

17 notes · View notes

ikesengoficss · 5 years ago

Text

tehehe i certainly can. As someone who is kinda like this, I should take my own advice I write, lol!! also, I do incorporate some French in this— my french is not very good, and I admit to using translator for some of it, if I’m not using what is said in the game. So please, if I say something wrong, whether it be spelling or m/f, please inform me!! <3

My favorite’s are Mozart, Theo and Jean. I can’t really chose one — I love that trio so much. But because Mozart was my first route (partially because the others do not have one) he has a very special place in my heart!~

I hope you enjoy!!! Please tell me your favorite!

Leonardo, Theo and St. Germain taking care of an MC who pretended to not be sick, but faints in front of them

Leonardo Da Vinci

He’s probably most likely to be convinced by your pretending. Not completely, but if you’re good at hiding it, he’ll probably believe it.

He doesn’t actually see you faint. Though you’ve been pretending to not be sick, successfully hiding that fact that as the days went on, keeping yourself upright was proving to be more and more difficult,

and your head pounded from the horrible headache, and throat throbbed, body on fire;

you let the facade you were holding crack just a little, so the moment he saw you clutching your head, he was swiftly going to the kitchen to get you water.

But he hears a thump, and Vincent happened to be in the room too was calling his name, and suddenly he feels sicks at just the sight of your crumpled body on the floor.

He’s rushing you back to his room and immediately has a doctor called. You have the flu, and he is incredibly frustrated that you tried to hide it from him,

and he’s incredibly frustrated with himself for not noticing sooner you were quite ill. However, he doesn’t let that frustration really show— he probably lets out his anger in his room, alone, kicking around the stuff on the ground.

He wants to help nurse you back to health. He’s very attentive to you, making sure you take the medicine given,

making sure you do not leave the bed. You need to rest your body, rest your mind. He may read you a story to help you fall asleep.

He loves you so much, so he won’t leave your side, even once you’ve fallen asleep, he’ll just be watching over you to make sure your condition doesn’t worsen and you’re alright.

Theodorus Van Gogh

There is really no hiding anything from Theo. It’s pretty obvious you are sick by how pale you are, the dark circles under your eyes and how croaky your voice is.

However, it’s up to you on whether you want to take care of yourself or not. If you want to continue to work, if anything, he will admire your resilience and determination to keep at your duties.

Even if deep down, he thinks its a little reckless, and even if deep down, he’s having to stop himself from flinging you over his shoulder and carrying you to bed himself.

Although, as a couple days pass and he notices just how terrible you look, he’s saying fuck it, he has to step in now.

Across the hall, he sees you and bellows, “Hondje, come here,” he commands, crooking his finger a little. Obediently, you walk towards him, but his heart drops when you suddenly sway, and he isn’t at your side fast enough to catch you before you collapse,

the sound of your head smacking against the ground seemingly echoing throughout the hall. He’s really kicking himself now.

He carries you back to his room, shushing you as you slur a bit trying to ask him what's going on; he has you tucked under the covers and dragging Arthur back to the room to look at you. He’s caressing your shoulder the entirety Arthur’s examining you.

Theo never leaves your side during your recovery as he helps to nurse you back to health. He’s incredibly grumpy and a little snide, but it’s because he cares.

“Reckless girl.”

“Don’t be so foolish next time. If you’re sick, don’t pretend to not be, that’s incredibly foolish.”

“Do you realize what it did to me when I saw you fall? I—hmph.”

You frown, weekly reaching up to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry, Theo. I really am.”

He sighs, holding your hand against his cheek, nestling into your warm touch. “No… don’t apologize. This is partially my fault, just— just please, take better care of yourself. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” he sort of mumbles that last part. lol

Comte de St. Germain

Like Theo, there is really no hiding anything — you can pretend all you want, but he knows you are sick. The only difference is he will put you to bed, and he won’t allow you to argue with him.

You are the love of his life, and in this era, a simple cold has claimed the lives of many, and there is no way he will allow sickness to take you from him. So please, do as your told and stay in bed.

However, if you were already going to pretend to not be sick, it’s no surprise, you’ll be a little stubborn and disobey him, getting out of bed.

“Don’t make me punish you, ma douce fille”

He’s about to scold you for getting out of bed but suddenly your face becomes more flushed, and your lids flicker before finally shutting,

and your body goes limp as he catches you just in time. He’s clutching you to his chest and shaking his head, his silly girl, what were you thinking, and heaves you up to bring you back to your room.

“W-what happened?”

“My dear, I’m afraid you are sicker than you realize. You collapsed out in the hall.”

You may feel a little bit embarrassed afterward, yet he assures you not to be, but just to please, please listen to him next time and stay in bed. “Please rest, ma plus chère.”

Le Comte is making sure you are as comfortable as possible. He dabs at your forehead with a cool cloth in hopes to bring down your fever. He helps you into your nightwear— if you want, he’ll let you even wear a shirt of his.

He emphasizes how important it is for you to wear socks to keep your body warm. he says if your feet are warm, your entire body will be.

He’s feeding you soup and helping you to take little sips of water to soothe your throat. He may not be able to be with you the entire time, so he’ll have someone check in on you every once in a while.

He is obviously not concerned about getting sick from you. He holds you extra tight at night, stroking your hair and pressing feather-light kisses to your (burning) forehead

~~~~~~~~

Click here to read more of my works!: Masterlist 

Click here at my Rules For Requests page to find info on requests!

Requests are currently closed!

Buy me a Ko-fi? Consider supporting me please!

Check out my other socials! Instagram | Instagram | Youtube

Tags!

@fierysins @suzi-q-uinn @spicy-porcupine @wannabe-hero1151 @leannadulce @ssooyaaa-a @theescapistqueen @loudartanimeeclipse @agustd54 @claire-maccarthy @muggzc @unstoppablelinda @kylethe7ofhearts

if you would like to be tagged, or I somehow missed you, in upcoming works, please inform so I can do so!! <3

Also, for some reason, when I try to tag people, it doesn’t always let me add their tag??? so if that has happened to you and you’re not receiving notifications, though I have you tagged, I sincerely apologize - I am looking into it. :)

Also, for some reason, I am having issues formatting on tumblr :/ does anyone else have issues with putting stuff under cuts? Because it hasn’t been letting me :(

#Ikemen Vampire #IkeVamp #Ikemen Vampire headcanon #IkeVamp Headcanon #Leonardo Da Vinci #ikevamp leonardo #Theodorus Van Gogh #IkeVamp Theo #ikevamp theodorus #comte de st germain #ikevamp comte #nothing but some nice old fluff <3

450 notes · View notes