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faenos · 25 days ago

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MEANT TO BE

a Joseph Descamps fanfiction

DISCLAIMER: This story is a fanfiction inspired by the series 'Mixte 1963. The characters, locations, and situations have been modified or expanded, but the original work belongs to its creators. I do not own any rights to the original work, and this piece is written purely for entertainment purposes and without any intent for profit.

This is not your typical 'Joseph Descamps x Reader' story simply because I don’t like writing with 'Y/N'; I prefer to give the protagonist a proper name.

English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors or typos. I usually help myself using google translate, so iykyk.

Chapter 1 — Game of Superiority

Summary: Ophelia Montgomery is having a typical summer in Bloomsbury. She went out with her little brother for a summer walk, but as usual, he always manages to get into trouble. He plays soccer with some boys much older than him in the park, and she ends up defending him from a boy with a French accent and a cocky attitude who hurt him by hitting him straight in the face. A few days later, Ophelia receives some unpleasant news from her father.

Word Count: 5,294 words.

Warnings: Minor injury, Joseph being a pain in the ass, some sad thoughts.

📍Bloomsbury Square Garden, London. July 17th, 1963

The birds chirped among themselves, weaving light and unfamiliar melodies, as if lost in a secret symphony. Ophelia Montgomery, lost in thought, walked with a light step, absorbed in reading one of her usual novels pilfered from her mother’s private library. Beside her, her younger brother Oliver looked around with curious eyes. He had already spotted the birds responsible for the singing, perched on one of the sturdiest branches of the tree they had just passed. Now his gaze was captivated by a red butterfly that gracefully made two complete circles around his sister. Ophelia, however, was too engrossed in the adventures of the protagonist in her book to notice the butterfly’s delicate dance or its striking red color.

It had become a habit for Ophelia to take Oliver along on her walks, both out of routine and because it was her only way to escape, at least for a while, the confines of their home. Her mother, after all, would never allow her to go out alone, despite her having turned fifteen.

Still, Ophelia found comfort and joy in his company. Oliver — or Olly, as she had lovingly started calling him from the moment she first held him in her arms — was a child blessed with natural sweetness and an insatiable curiosity, which brightened every moment they spent together. His liveliness, often accompanied by an almost contagious enthusiasm, turned Ophelia's walks into unique occasions, full of laughter and unexpected discoveries. What might have seemed like a simple stroll to her became enriched with a new dimension thanks to him, filled with innocent questions, sharp observations, and small adventures that might have gone unnoticed had she been alone. Olly wasn’t just a walking companion but a bond that, with his effortless lightheartedness, reminded her of the importance of finding beauty in the simplest things.

Oliver, in fact, stood out for his innate talent for observing the world around him and his deep passion for nature. From an early age, he had shown an unquenchable curiosity about the animal kingdom, spending hours immersed in illustrated books and specialized texts that delved into the wonders of creation. His enthusiasm was contagious, and not a day went by without him sharing with anyone willing to listen—especially his sister—the fascinating facts and insights he had learned.

Every conversation with him turned into a small biology lesson, enriched by the liveliness and wonder that only a child could convey. He could recount, in incredible detail, the habits of a rare tropical bird or the life cycle of a butterfly, as if he had witnessed them firsthand. His dedication didn’t stop at theory: he often lost himself in explorations of the backyard or nearby parks, searching for traces, feathers, or insects to study and collect. This passion not only fueled his curious spirit but also enriched Ophelia’s daily life, as she ended up learning, almost without realizing it, many of the marvels Oliver eagerly shared with her.

Ophelia, on the other hand, embodied the essence of the classic "bookworm." However, it wasn’t just a scholarly attitude of always having her nose buried in books; her passion for reading had deep roots, cultivated since childhood thanks to her mother’s influence. Her mother, a university professor of classical literature, had not only passed down the fascination for literary works but had also instilled in her a love for the beauty of words and the power of stories.

Ophelia's mother was a cultured woman, driven by an inexhaustible passion for literature, to the point where books became a central element of family life. Even the names of her children, Ophelia and Oliver, were carefully chosen, inspired by characters from some of her favorite books. Whenever someone asked about the origin of those names, she would recount their stories with a touch of pride, revealing a part of her literary soul.

Ophelia had inherited not only a love for reading but also the habit of retreating into the pages of a book whenever she felt the need to escape reality. For her, books were more than mere objects: they were portals to distant worlds, fascinating ideas, and characters she somehow felt were old friends. If Oliver found his refuge in nature, Ophelia sought hers among the written lines, in the web of words that offered her both comfort and inspiration.

She struggled to admit it, but on that hot July 17th, Ophelia keenly felt the absence of her best friend and inseparable classmate, Lottie. The latter, however, was far away, visiting her maternal grandparents in Italy and wouldn’t return until the start of the new school year. The thought of an entire summer slipping by without her weighed on Ophelia more than she wanted to acknowledge.

Ophelia walked absentmindedly, clutching her book in her hands, while little Oliver told her something clever about the colors of butterflies. His words, however, faded into the void, drowned out by the murmur of the girl’s thoughts. She kept rereading the same lines of the novel, almost obsessively, in an attempt to dispel that gnawing feeling of emptiness.

With Lottie by her side, she thought, those long summer days would have felt completely different. There would have been no room for boredom or the silent melancholy that crept into her moments of solitude. Lottie wasn’t just a friend; she was a refuge, a lively and comforting presence that made every moment lighter and more memorable. Without her, summer seemed to drag on slowly, devoid of the carefree episodes and laughter she cherished so much.

"Did you hear me?" Oliver asked, tugging at her arm to get her attention. Pulled out of her thoughts, Ophelia finally looked up and closed her book, carefully placing the bookmark between its pages.

"No, sorry," she replied, shaking her head slightly to dispel her distraction. "I was lost in thought."

Her brother’s face lit up with an amused smile.

"Yeah, I noticed!" he said with a laugh, turning to face away from the path and beginning to walk backward with a mischievous air.

"Stop it," she scolded, her tone blending slight exasperation with concern. She hated it when Oliver amused himself by walking backward—a risky habit that often ended in inevitable falls. "You’ll hurt yourself, I keep telling you."

"Are you even listening to me?" he insisted, raising his voice in a faintly whining tone, waving his arms dramatically to emphasize his frustration. She looked at him with a questioning expression, not understanding where he was going with this. Oliver, exasperated, rolled his eyes theatrically.

"Can I go play with them?" he finally asked, pointing toward a group of boys engaged in a lively soccer game on an improvised field nearby. In the tall grass, the players moved with a mix of enthusiasm and strategy, alternating between goals and minor fouls no one seemed eager to contest. Ophelia watched the scene for a moment and then firmly shook her head.

"Not a chance." she replied in a decisive tone that left no room for negotiation.

"Oh, come on!" Oliver protested, grabbing her arm again and tugging harder this time. He bounced impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a nearly comical dance. The gesture brought a smile to Ophelia’s face, but she still shook her head.

"They’re much older than you." she explained, her tone patient and affectionate, almost maternal.

"But you’re older than me too!" he countered with the kind of childish logic that seemed irrefutable to him.

Ophelia laughed, shaking her head once more. "They play in a way that’s not for you."

"Oh! Please!" the little boy pleaded, tugging at her arm with more force, his tone growing more desperate. It was impossible to ignore the determination in his gaze, not to mention the sweet puppy-dog eyes he used whenever he wanted something. Finally, Ophelia gave in. She chuckled softly, resigning herself to the inevitable, and sighed.

"Fine!" she said with a nod, finally granting him permission. She immediately felt her arm released from his strong grip.

"But we’re going home in half an hour! And don’t you dare sweat too much, or Mom will start asking questions and I don’t want any problems!"

"I promise, I swear!" Oliver shouted enthusiastically while darting off toward the group of boys, who were erupting in cheers for a goal just scored by the team on the right.

Ophelia sighed, sat down on a nearby bench, and reopened her book, ready to keep an eye on her brother while trying to immerse herself in reading once again. However, the smile lingering on her lips betrayed the joy she felt at seeing Oliver so happy, even if just for one afternoon.

Oliver, meanwhile, slowed his pace as he reached one of the boys. This boy wore glasses, with a tuft of hair slightly plastered to his forehead with sweat. The older boy’s smile faded slightly as he stared at Oliver, casting him a questioning look.

"Are you lost, kid?" he asked, maintaining a mocking smirk. Oliver didn’t let himself be intimidated; in fact, he responded with a confident grin. The boy’s strange accent made him giggle—it was unusual, and Oliver thought he had never heard one like it before.

"Not at all," he replied, rocking back on his heels with a carefree air. "Can I play with you?"

The older boy, someone who enjoyed stirring up trouble and taking pleasure in making others uncomfortable, smirked even wider. His mind was already racing through the possible ways this little kid could entertain him. Not only would he get a chance to test him, but he could also have fun at his expense, along with his friends. He turned toward the others, who were already starting to grin at the idea.

"He’s asking if he can join us," the boy said, not even waiting for a response from the others. Catching the amused grins of his friends, he turned back to Oliver, slipping a hand into his pocket.

"Alright, shorty." he replied, and Oliver’s face lit up with visible excitement. "Let’s see what you can do." With that, the boy walked off toward his team, which was currently celebrating another goal.

"You’re with them," he added, pointing to the other team, who were outnumbered. "They're less than us."

Oliver nodded eagerly and ran toward the boys. He carefully watched where he was stepping, unaware that one of the players of his team had just mouthed the words, "Are you serious?" to the boy with the glasses.

He got into position and started playing with them.

From her bench, Ophelia watched Oliver’s clumsy efforts to chase the ball with an amused smile. The way he ran, full of energy and determination, reminded her of a tiny warrior fighting an invisible battle. But as always, the ball seemed to evade him with every move.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze back to her book, Pride and Prejudice, which she had borrowed from her mother’s library. The elegant prose of Jane Austen flowed across the pages, carrying her into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, who were just beginning to grapple with their misunderstandings and cold impressions of one another.

The summer heat and the distant noise of the game made it hard to concentrate entirely, but Ophelia’s fingers turned the pages naturally, as if reading were an essential part of her being. She felt a kinship with Elizabeth—more for her courage in facing pride and prejudice than for the story itself. Elizabeth’s fiery, challenging words seemed to resonate within her, inspiring Ophelia to see the world with a sharper, yet kinder, perspective.

Sometimes, she glanced at Oliver, still doggedly chasing the elusive ball, but she never truly lost her place in the story. Even the boys’ chatter failed to fully distract her.

Meanwhile, on the makeshift field, one of the older boys grinned slyly, his intentions clear. Holding the ball in one hand, he prepared to throw it. His aim was deliberate. In one swift motion, he launched the ball with considerable force, targeting Oliver’s forehead directly.

The hit landed with a dull thud. The ball smacked Oliver straight on his face, making him stumble backward in shock. Caught off guard and unsteady, he toppled onto the grass with a soft thump, his small frame hitting the ground awkwardly.

The older boy laughed mockingly as Oliver lay on the ground, rubbing his forehead in a daze. He hadn’t anticipated such a blow. Gathering himself, Oliver sat up, his confusion mingling with embarrassment.

The boy with glasses sauntered over, leaning down with a smug smirk.

"Did that hurt, kid?" he asked in a taunting tone, feigning indifference as his amusement shone through.

Oliver scrambled to his feet quickly, trying to mask the wave of humiliation washing over him. His flushed cheeks betrayed him, though. He brushed his hand over his aching forehead, determined not to show weakness.

"It’s nothing!" he replied, his voice wavering slightly as he tried to sound braver than he felt.

The older boy turned to his friends, muttering with a satisfied grin, "Look at him. The little guy just got wrecked." Then, looking back at Oliver, he raised his hands in mock innocence.

"Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to. But, you know, maybe you should watch where you’re going next time."

Laughter erupted from the other boys, their jeers cutting through the air as Oliver, his face still red and his heart pounding, tried desperately to ignore them. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, determined not to appear too vulnerable.

Ophelia, who had heard the dull thud and the laughter of the other boys, lifted her gaze from the book. The moment she spotted her brother lying on the ground, his face twisted in pain, she sprang to her feet. With speed and determination, she ran to him, gently cradling his head in a touch that contrasted with the irritation burning inside her. Concern for her little brother was immediate, but the thought that another boy had caused this stirred an instinctive reaction within her.

"A truly admirable gesture," she said firmly, her voice dripping with sarcasm, as she stared at the boy who was still laughing with his friends, as though Oliver’s pain were a joke worth bragging about. "You must feel like a real man now."

The boy looked at her, slightly taken aback by her intervention but showing no real emotion. He flicked his hair away from his forehead with a deliberate motion, clearly unused to being challenged in public. Her audacity amused him. Tilting his head to the side, he looked at her with a disdainful expression that radiated arrogance.

"Have you lost something, mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone heavy with deliberate slowness and contempt. "Or is meddling in other people’s business just a hobby of yours?"

Ophelia, if possible, doubled down. Her hands landed on her hips with determination, her posture exuding pride and fierce protectiveness for her brother. And that French accent only made her feel nauseous at that moment.

"It’s not a hobby—he's my brother," she retorted sharply. "And if you think bullying a little kid is fun, then you’re even more pathetic than you look."

The boy’s smirk stretched into an even more derisive grin. He adjusted his glasses casually, as if her sharp comment was just another minor episode in his daily showcase of superiority.

"Pathetic? Interesting. Maybe where you come from, yelling insults at strangers is the norm."

"Only when I meet people who deserve them," Ophelia shot back, folding her arms in a gesture of clear defiance. "And you’re definitely at the top of the list."

The boy paused briefly, as if weighing the force of her response, then broke into a dismissive, irreverent laugh, as if he found the entire situation absurd.

"If you’re done playing the heroine, you can go back to your brother," he said, his tone indifferent, barely masking a hint of scorn. "And maybe tell him not to get involved in grown-up games again."

Ophelia shook her head, visibly exasperated. "Grown-up? Where are they?" she quipped, her voice sharp with fiery irony. "All I see here are a bunch of idiots." With a decisive motion, she turned to Oliver, who clung nervously at her side. The smile that had lit up his face earlier was now completely gone, replaced by an expression of embarrassment and sadness.

"Come on, Olly, let's go home." she said, trying to bolster her brother but also eager to walk away from the scene that disgusted her.

As they walked away, the sound of the boy’s laughter still reached her ears. Ophelia felt an overwhelming urge to turn back, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Meanwhile, the boy watched them leave with amused interest, continuing to laugh with his friends, though a flicker of curiosity about Ophelia’s boldness glimmered in his eyes. Ophelia, however, didn’t falter and kept walking, angry and proud, despite the furious pounding of her heart at the intolerable sense of helplessness.

"I told you," she said after a while, her tone laced with mild regret but free of reproach. Her little brother walked beside her, his head hung low and silent as a fish. Ophelia sighed as she looked at him—she wasn’t truly angry. She knew Oliver wasn’t at fault. He had simply stumbled into the cruelty of someone who enjoyed causing trouble. Yet she couldn’t suppress her irritation toward that boy with his smug smirk and arrogant demeanor. How dare he pick on someone so much smaller than himself? The thought kept buzzing in her mind, fueling a simmering anger she tried not to let out on Oliver.

Oliver, meanwhile, walked in silence. His eyes no longer wandered in search of butterflies, snails, or ants on tree trunks as they usually did. All he saw now were the pebbles on the path, which he kicked absentmindedly, one after another. Ophelia immediately noticed the change—her little brother’s lively smile had vanished, swallowed by a shadow of mortification.

"Hey," she called softly, stopping and crouching down to his height. She gently placed her hands on his arms, her gesture radiating warmth and reassurance. When she spoke, her voice was a tender whisper filled with affection.

"It wasn’t your fault, Olly. Sometimes these things just happen."

Carefully, Ophelia brushed his hair aside to examine the spot where the ball had hit him. There was only a red mark for now, but soon a bump would appear. She touched it lightly, taking care not to cause him more pain.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head decisively but then, in a hesitant whisper, admitted, "A little."

Ophelia stood up and took his hand.

"Come." she said with a gentle smile, leading him toward the ice cream truck parked nearby. She pulled out some coins from her purse, preferring to use her own savings instead of her mother’s money, so she could replace them if asked. After choosing Oliver’s favorite flavor, she led him to a quieter bench, away from the field and the boy who had upset her so much.

Sitting beside her, Oliver nibbled at his ice cream with a now relaxed expression. After a few moments of silence, his voice rang out, "Sis?"

Ophelia turned to him, surprised by his suddenly tender tone.

"I love you." Oliver said, his smile timid but sincere.

Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh softly. "I love you more." she replied, leaning down to plant a light kiss on his head, carefully avoiding the bump.

Then she straightened up and added with a note of irony, "But now we need to figure out how to explain that bump to mom."

Oliver looked at her with a mischievous expression, the ice cream now reduced to a blue stain on his tongue. "I could say you did it!" he suggested, leaning forward with a playful tongue out.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, pretending to be stern. "Don’t you dare, little rascal!" she replied, shaking her head, but with a smile that betrayed her deep affection.

As her little brother laughed, Ophelia threw one last glance toward the field, where the French boy was still chatting with his friends. His arrogant laugh echoed in her ears, sharp and annoying.

She turned back to Oliver, who had resumed watching a group of pigeons pecking hungrily around, searching for crumbs. The scene brought a faint smile to Ophelia’s face as she let out an amused thought while pondering the most plausible excuse to make up.

"We could tell them you were looking for snails or ants under a tree, and distracted, you hit your forehead against a low branch?" she suggested with a slightly ironic tone, pointing to an overhanging branch nearby. Her voice was firm, but she had deliberately chosen a simple yet believable alternative, aware that a more elaborate explanation would raise suspicions.

Oliver, finally diverting his gaze from the pigeons, lifted his eyes to her and nodded, though fear still showed on his face. "Do you think she’ll get angry?" he murmured uncertainly, almost hoping his sister could ease that worry.

Ophelia leaned slightly toward him, her smile gentle and reassuring. "No, she won’t." she replied sweetly, stroking his cheek to comfort him. The gesture managed to bring out a faint smile from him, which was enough for Ophelia to feel relieved.

Though she knew the bump would still attract her mother’s attention, Ophelia was determined to protect her brother from any feelings of guilt. She sensed how fragile Oliver was in that moment, and her goal was clear: to make him believe that no matter what had happened, he would always find unconditional support in her.

—

In the following days, the small red mark on Oliver's forehead swelled, turning into a visible bump. However, their mother accepted the explanation about the tree branch without suspicion, believing it to be true. Oliver received a light scolding for his distraction, while Ophelia had to endure a long lecture on the need to watch over her brother more carefully and stop losing herself in her thoughts.

Despite a thread of frustration at the unfair scolding, Ophelia took care of Oliver with affection in those days. She spent a lot of time with him in his room, organizing games and telling him stories to make him forget the incident. Meanwhile, her mind slowly drifted further from the French-accented boy, relegating him to a vague and annoying memory.

Between a card game and a drawing session with her brother, she even found time to finish the book she had started at the park, finding in the final chapters a pleasant escape from the worries of those days.

The warm light from the chandelier illuminated the sturdy wooden table, where the dishes were arranged with almost meticulous order. The Montgomery family dining room, with its walls covered in bookshelves full of well-organized volumes and a window overlooking the flowered garden, had an intimate, family atmosphere. Ophelia, sitting across from her mother, had her face partially hidden behind the glass of sparkling water she was drinking, trying to mask her discomfort with a barely perceptible sigh. Oliver, beside her, was laughing as he recounted his misadventures with his friends, but his enthusiasm felt distant, like Ophelia wasn’t fully present.

The conversation flowed without much substance between the family members until it was her father who interrupted the delicate flow of words. Edward Montgomery set his fork on the plate and, with an elegant gesture, turned to his wife, Catherine.

"Catherine, dear," he said in a calm, almost solemn tone, "I received confirmation from our colleague in Paris: the restoration of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Jean-d’Angély has officially begun. The project will span a long period, and our role is crucial. As the lead architect, I’ve been offered the chance to temporarily move to France to supervise the work."

Ophelia finally looked up, captivated by the revelation. She hadn’t expected something so significant, let alone that it would affect her own life.

Edward continued, his voice calm and measured, but with a subtle note of determination. "We’ve discussed it at length, and after considering the opportunities, we’ve decided it would be best for us to move for a year, if not longer. It will be a unique opportunity, not just for me but for the whole family. The French culture, history, architecture... it will be an experience we can’t afford to ignore."

A cold silence fell over the table. Ophelia felt her heart race. She had no intention of leaving London, her city, her life as it was, her friends, her routine. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep calm. Her mother’s voice finally interrupted her thoughts.

"Edward, do you really think this is the right time?" Catherine asked, though her tone held a certain approval beneath the veil of concern. "Ophelia has just started her fifth year, the most important one before the final exams to access higher education, and Oliver is in the middle of primary school. Moving might disrupt everything. London is their home, it’s our home."

Edward looked at his wife with a barely perceptible smile, as if his proposal were already an unchangeable truth. "I know, Kate, but we can’t ignore the magnitude of this opportunity. In Saint-Jean-d'Angély, Ophelia will have the chance to face a different reality, to grow in an environment that stimulates her curiosity. Also, the project will require my commitment for an indefinite period. We can’t let an opportunity like this slip away."

Ophelia, hearing her father’s words, suddenly felt overwhelmed. Her fingers, still holding the glass, trembled imperceptibly. She couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving her London, of moving to a foreign country where everything would be different. Her life would change in an instant, without asking for her opinion.

With a smile that masked her frustration, Ophelia spoke, her voice barely audible but firm: "When will we move?"

Edward looked at her, but the answer seemed to come with the same naturalness with which he had announced his project. "In September, darling. Soon, so. There’s not much time."

Ophelia felt as if a huge weight had been placed on her shoulders. She looked at Oliver, who didn’t even seem to notice the gravity of the situation, too absorbed in his games and childish ideas.

"I don’t think I like the idea." Ophelia murmured, not hiding her displeasure.

Edward looked at her with an enigmatic smile, as if he had predicted her reaction. "I understand it’s not easy, but I assure you it will be a change that brings benefits for all of us. It will be an opportunity. Once you settle in, you’ll see."

Ophelia didn’t respond immediately. She looked around, observing the house she loved, the garden she knew like the back of her hand, and suddenly everything seemed distant, out of reach. A year in France, far from everything she knew. It was an idea she couldn’t process.

At that moment, her mother, who had not participated in the conversation assertively, spoke with a voice that, while trying to sound understanding, had an undertone of determination: "Ophelia, I’m sure you’ll find a way to adapt. This will be a challenge, but also an opportunity for growth."

Ophelia felt suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness, as if that proposal, that already decided future, was a step she had to take with no possibility of changing direction.

"And then," her mother continued, giving her a smile full of solidarity. "You’ll finally benefit from your French studies."

The rest of the dinner passed in a heavy silence. Her father’s words echoed in Ophelia’s mind, blending with her fears and uncertainties. On that warm summer evening, her life was already taking a turn she had never imagined.

Ophelia tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a position that would bring her comfort. The soft light from the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls of her room, a sanctuary she would soon leave forever. The thought clenched her heart, a knot of conflicting emotions that seemed impossible to untangle.

Before retreating to her room, she had stopped in Oliver’s bedroom. She found him already under the covers, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm that knew no hesitation. Talking about the move, her little brother had eagerly imagined a school full of adventures and new friends, as if the change was a promise of a whole new world to explore.

"Do you think there will be kids in France who will play soccer with me?" he had asked, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

Ophelia smiled at him, an almost instinctive gesture, trying to hide the weight on her chest. "I’m sure you’ll find them," she replied as she tucked him in. Oliver was her opposite at that moment: where she saw uncertainties, he saw possibilities.

Later, her mother came into her room to say goodnight. Catherine, with her affectionate yet resolute smile, spoke to her about the beauty of living an experience in another country, the richness she would find in meeting new schoolmates and growing in a different environment. Her words, though full of good intentions, seemed to Ophelia like a mosaic of unreachable hopes.

And yet, what really weighed on her heart was the thought of Lottie. Her best friend, with whom she had shared every secret, every dream, and every laugh, would be left behind, anchored to the life Ophelia would leave. She knew that letters and phone calls wouldn’t be enough to bridge the gap of distance. With Lottie, there were no filters, no need for explanations: a glance was enough to understand each other, a laugh to get through tough moments. Leaving her meant leaving a part of herself, a bond she feared she would never rebuild with anyone else.

Lying in the dark, Ophelia felt trapped between the duty to appear mature and the desire to scream her discontent. Her mind kept returning to her father’s words: "A unique opportunity." But an opportunity for whom? For him, surely. For Oliver, perhaps. But what about her? Where did she fit in this grand plan?

She realized that her heart was torn between the desire to please her family and the instinct to stay anchored to her life. It was as if London was a part of her, a place that had shaped her, that knew every thought and dream of hers. Leaving it meant leaving behind a part of her identity.

She pulled the covers up to her chest, holding them tightly as a solitary tear slid down her cheek. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that everything would turn out fine, the truth was she was scared. Scared of what she would find, but even more so of what she would lose.

The silence of the night deepened, and Ophelia closed her eyes, seeking refuge in the memories of days spent with Lottie, of Oliver’s laughter, of the quiet moments in the house that would soon no longer be hers. Before falling asleep, she made a silent promise to herself: no matter how difficult it might be, she would not allow this change to break who she was. London would always remain inside her, and whatever awaited her in France, she would find a way to stay true to herself.

CHAPTER TWO: Long time, no see

Author's Notes:

THE FIRST CHAPTER IS DONE. Hope you enjoyed it!

This is an introductory chapter where the characters are introduced, but it lays the foundation for the story to come.

For those wondering, JOSEPH X OLIVER will get their redemption! Maybe... later on.

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and repost if you’d like!

faenos ©

#joseph descamps #joseph descamps x reader #mixte 1963 #enemies to lovers #mixte1963 #london #france #angst #slow burn #friendship #fanfiction #faenos stories

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redfoxwritesstuff · 9 months ago

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Sunflower, Book 1, Chapter 19

Tom Hiddleston x OFC Series rated: E Chapter warnings: Flashback- I'm still blueballing you on the smut, it's just getting worse this week. The flashback is sexy but hardly crossing to rated M AN: Special gift for a reader having a bad day- Bonus chapter. This will be the last of the bonus chapters though since running two series at the same time is a bit demanding (and a self made hell). We get to learn a bit about Sally's dad! Also, Mia's baking is wholly based on my attempt to make the same for my sister on a time crunch. My centers didn't set though! I love step dad Tom. Masterlist Kofi

~~~~~<3

Mia felt silly banishing Tom to bedtime duty as she quickly whipped egg yolks and sugar. She was rushing and knew that was a recipe for disaster but she didn’t want to give herself a second to chicken out.

She hadn’t know what to expect having Tom back and so she hadn’t planned a fancy dinner or a night out. He was scheduled to be in late so it didn’t seem like it would have mattered anyway, she would have had to have been quick to get Sally back home and to sleep.

Tom showing up significantly earlier was a huge weight off her shoulders logistically. She wasn’t very good at being a wife yet, she didn’t even know how to be a girlfriend very well but she wanted to show him her gratitude.

Ray, Sally’s father, had been her last real relationship and the only things he cared about were booze, gambling or sex. If she wanted to thank him, it had to be with one of those three things if not all three.

Tom was like no man she had ever known though and she didn’t know how to show him her gratitude. The best she could come up with was to make the fanciest thing she could think of.

Would it stack up to the vase of flowers on the counter in front of her? She sure as hell hoped so. Doubt ate at her as she mixed the whipped sugar and egg yolks into the hot cream.

This was a terrible idea.

It was by far, the worst idea she had had since agreeing to stay married.

She saw that body- there was no way in hell he ate things like this. He probably would rather a bowl of fruit or something. On the other hand, she had seen the foods he had ordered when they had gone out to eat.

Again and again she went back and forth on the quality of the idea as Tom crossed the hall from the bathroom with Sally on his back. Giggles filled the apartment and god did it sound good.

As Mia was filling the two small dishes with the mixture, Tom was leaning against the wall by Sally’s bedroom door. “Having fun?” Mia called to him.

“Oddly enough, yes.” His chuckle made her smile. She couldn’t help it, it was just such a unique sound.

~~~~~<3

Mia listened to Tom’s voice reading story after story while she willed the mixt o bake faster. She had managed to get the custards out of the oven before he had finished reading the tenth story. Maybe it was the twelfth?

Who knows anymore? That little girl had Tom wrapped around her finger. Hopefully it would last. This game they were playing, this gamble on forever with a stranger could have shattering results on that little girl.

Fuck, they were being so selfish trying.

Cooling the dishes was the most high stakes gambling she had done in at least a year. Okay, maybe staying married was up there too. If she cooled the water bath too quickly, they would shatter. But she needed them cooled to finish setting.

She didn’t have an extra so she was fucked if one shattered. It felt like she had melted her fingertips off handling the little containers but she got them cooled. The centers had a little more jiggle that she would have liked but she could only hope they would finish setting in the freezer while they finished cooling.

Mia plopped them in the freezer as Tom starting Fox in Socks. She would have to tell him to limit Sally’s stories eventually so that kid would get to sleep at a decent time but for now she couldn’t bring herself to. Sally hadn’t had a father figure in her life in years and she couldn’t stop her from indulging in it at the moment.

Plus, she needed all the extra time she could to finish this stupid ass dessert.

~~~~~<3

Mia didn’t have many fancy kitchen trinkets or tools but the one thing she was rather proud of was her kitchen torch. It wasn’t the big fancy ones that burned propane like on the cooking shows but it was good enough.

Mia toasted the spoonful of sugar she put on each custard as she listened to Tom say goodnight for the fourth time. Maybe it was the sixth time?

He was so good with Sally. Someday, some woman was going to make him into a really good father.

It occurred to her that she could be that woman. If things worked out between them during this year, she could be the woman that made him a father. In a way though, hadn’t she already made him a father over night? The thought was so shocking to her that she nearly burned her finger when she forgot to turn the custard.

Finally, after over an hour bedtime routine that Mia would have accomplished in fifteen minutes, Tom closed Sally’s bedroom door behind him.

“You escaped the clutches of the small child, congratulations!” Mia cheered.

“It was a long, well fought battle but with dedication, I did come out victorious.” Tom made his way toward her, “What are you making now?”

“It’s nothing.” Mia said, setting the torch down and looking intently down at the quickly hardening sugar topped custard. “Is she asleep?”

“Out like a light. She’s a lovely little girl.”

Mia laughed, “Give it a few weeks and you’ll probably be running for the hills.”

Tom protested and Mia conceded that Sally was indeed a good kid. She was the kind of kid that made people think they could have kids as she sent him to go sit down anywhere but where she was working.

While she watched melted sugar solidify, she also watched Tom as he lounged on the couch. His long legs stretched from one end to the other and he had a book in his hand. She couldn’t see what he was reading but she knew it was something she probably wouldn’t read.

She could see the top of the book, his long feet poking over the arm of the couch and the top of his head and little else. It was a view she liked though she couldn’t explain why. He looked like he belonged there, lounging on the admittedly too small couch.

She should have just sucked it up and got a better couch form somewhere that didn’t require her own assembly.

It was almost nine at night. This time a week ago she was just starting to get really drunk. Over the last two weeks, she had tried hard to remember what had happened but all she could come up with was the bar in the resort she worked out and sitting next to a handsome man who purchased her a drink. And then another.

It seemed pretty safe to assume that man was Tom, though. It had been a wild two weeks. She had fought, argued, gave in and everything in between. This had been two weeks that had changed her life in so many ways already and it was thanks to that man reading on her couch (their couch) alone.

Tapping a spoon against the disk of sugar atop the custards, she found them solid. Crème brûlée was the only really impressive thing Mia thought she could make. It was also something she had an almost total ban on ordering at a restaurant on principle alone. It was offensively easy to make but disturbingly bad for you.

The ceramic ramekins clanked onto the small dining table. Mia stared down at them for a moment and gathered every ounce of courage she could. Tom had again and again shown a good faith effort to build a relationship with her and she had not made it easy.

This last week she had fought him on almost every effort than got upset when he got busy and distant. She needed to make an effort too. He deserved her making an effort.

If she wanted this to have any chance of becoming something real, something more, then she needed to invest in it too.

“Okay.” Mia took one last deep breath. “You can look.”

Tom sat up quickly, tossing the book he had been reading on the couch and swinging his legs to the ground. He was up and eagerly making his way to the table as if he had really just been itching for the word.

“What have you been up to?” Tom was clearly excited.

Mia picked up one of the ramekins and held it out to Tom. “Happy two week anniversary.” After a pause, she started to panic. “I don’t know if you like these. Or if you can eat them. Or, whatever. I don’t know. It’s fine if you don’t-”

“You made creme brûlée for us?” Tom was shocked. “Out of what?”

“It’s not healthy, that’s all you need to know.”

Tom laughed that laugh that was oh so unique to him. “But you just had the stuff to make creme brûlée? Just sitting around casually?”

“Do you like-”

“Of course.” Tom took a seat at the table and tapped the spoon against the glass like disk of solid sugar.

“I wasn’t sure if you could have something like that.” Stop talking. She hated how words left her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. Awkward word vomit fueled by every insecurity she had ever had.

“What do you mean?” Tom cracked the sugar top with a solid whack of his spoon.

“I just-”

Tom scooped a spoonful of custard up, being sure to grab some of the shattered sugar before glancing up at her. He watched her intently as he ate the first bite. Vanilla exploded in his mouth, carried on a current of rich custard. Delicate sugar shards gave the custard texture and carried their own caramel taste along with a touch of bitterness.The center of the custard was just slightly warm still but mercifully, Mia saw that it was set.

“Something you watched or read got into your head. I can always eat dessert, even if I can’t. I would rather put in more work than not eat a sweet. And this is delicious darling. Happy two week anniversary.”

~~~~~<3 ~~~~~<3

Tom flipped her so that she was on her back and he hovered above her. Gripping the fabric of the dress, he carelessly yanked at it as he stood up, pulling it harshly down her body.

The dress caught on her hips though. Tom hadn’t ripped it far enough down for it to slip past her waist. Tom didn’t know if the dress was designed to go on from above or if the maze of fastenings simply extended far below where he had torn but he didn’t care.

Leaning down, he placed soft kisses between her breasts and down her stomach as he grabbed fistfuls of the dress again. With a great effort, he ripped the dress further down. As soon as he had the slack to do so, he pulled the dress down her body and threw it on the ground behind him.

Her panties were plain, simple and not what one would expect to find under a wedding dress. They hadn’t stopped long enough to worry about shopping for such things.

Standing over her, he started to work his buttons free after yanking his tie down until it was hanging loose, nearly undone. She was sprawled out before him, naked breasts on full display for his hungry eyes.

He enjoyed the view. There were little scars and marks on her body showing a life well lived. She had marks where her body and grown quickly at one point. Her belly curved and swelled ever so slightly, soft and inviting to the touch.

Growing impatient, she leaned up and eagerly assisted with the buttons on his shirt. The way her breasts moved with her body was mesmerizing, distracting to him. His fingers yearned to touch them instead of the buttons of his shirt. He all but ripped the shirt off as soon as it was sagging around his body, eager to feel her flesh against his.

~~~~~~<3

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