#paris chimneys

[faroukmarduk]

[meriol-lehmann]

boulevard du temple, paris

[thebroken--soul]

It’s official. I will meet Kenneth Choi & Aisha Hinds in May 2025 at a convention in Paris 😌

[emmaklee]

what’s the collective noun for chimneys? anyway, there they are, in Paris

ph Julian W / flickr

[ultralowoxygen]

PF4-060-28A by David Swift Via Flickr: Architecture of Paris France-35mm Nikon FM2,CineStill 400D.

[ulyssephoto]

[bemyguesttt]

Paris Paris 88 -  Architecture- 2022

Follow me to discover Paris!

Store: https://society6.com/advart

[thequeenofsastiel]

I find it interesting that Louis was a smoker in New Orleans, Paris, and San Francisco, but we never once saw him smoke in Dubai. So why did he stop? What changed? It's not like Armand would be pressuring him to quit smoking; Armand was a chimney in Paris. Though we never saw Armand smoke in Dubai either. Did they quit together? Why? It's not like they're going to get cancer from it. I genuinely want input here.

[yallthemwitches]

Traditionalists

For Day 24 of @jilytoberfest 🎶Then I know everything is gonna be fine, Because you are mine🎶 -You Shine from Carrie - The Musical

“And what room is this?” James' face goes dreamy, tilting his head against the wood of the frame. “The baby’s room I reckon.” Lily turns fast on her heels. “Baby? Whose baby?” James blinks. “Ours.” He straightens up, getting a glint in his eye. “Oh wait, sorry—you want traditional order of events: engagement then marriage then house then baby. Did I get that correct?”

AO3 link Here

“SURPRISE!”

He uncovers her eyes. Lily stares at a small gated walkway that leads up to a modest looking cottage. A small billow of smoke wafts from the thatched chimney.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s ours.” His smile is infectious, every part of his face alight with glee. 

Lily looks back at the house. The garden out front looks recently tilled, little sprouts of infant seedlings popping out from the wet earth. 

“You bought us a house?” Her mouth is set in an o formation, eyes darting to each window and wooden beam.

“Well not bought—mum and dad said we could have it if we were willing to fix it up a bit. It’s been in the family for ages as you can probably tell by the ‘Beedle and the Bard’ feel of it.”

He isn’t wrong to call it a place out of a fairytale. Even down to the front porch, there is a hint of domestication and whimsy that her cement brick of a family home back in Cokeworth could never achieve. 

“James, it's lovely but— we aren’t even engaged.”

She rips her eyes away from the building, turning to watch his brow furrow before something clicks in his brain and his lips curl into an impish smile.

“Didn’t peg you for such a traditionalist, Evans. Would it make you feel better if I got on one knee right now?”

Lily sputters, cheeks burning. He has been doing this more and more lately, suggesting the idea of marriage. Eventually she had to tell him to stop after the fourth or fifth time he would crouch down on one knee in front of her and linger here just long enough to make her heart soar before straightening back up with the excuse of an itchy ankle or dropping a quill. 

“That’s not what I’m saying. It's just—we just graduated and you have only just met mum and dad—I hardly think that they would accept me bunking with my boyfriend so soon.”

“‘Bunking’ is it?” He quips, “Sure hope then they don’t find out how much ‘bunking’ we did back at school.”

She gives him a pointed glare and he concedes, reaching out to give her chin a little squeeze. 

“At least come see it first before you completely shoot it down—I did a lot of work already but it needs a feminine touch before it will be perfect.”

He takes her hand and swings open the gate to lead her down the walk. Closer to the garden beds, she can see little wooden signs popping out from the dirt. In James’ unmistakable scrawl are written the words: Lavender, Rosemary, Vervain, Wolfsbane.

“So this is the garden—mum said it’s good luck to plant the first two but otherwise I figured you’d want a healthy supply of potions ingredients.”

He doesn’t let her linger, pulling her up onto the porch and pulling back the heavy set door. Inside, the main room is full of light from the large windows. Bookshelves are already lined with a mixture of muggle and wizarding titles—many of which look like duplicates of the ones she keeps at home. Between books are slanted photographs of times gone by: her and him mid embrace after his Quidditch Cup win; Lily and Remus sitting in the forest near the Potter Mansion, rat crawling on her head as a stag nuzzles at her neck, a dog’s tongue slides up the side of the camera; a muggle photo she took of Sirius and James in Paris, both in mid guffaw as they are flanked by cancan dancers.

Her eyes scan away to a glinting object in the corner. A brand new TV set sits on its stand with a betamax player at its feet. A copy of Harold and Maude sits atop.

“I always wanted a TV,” James chirps, noticing her staring at the muggle invention. 

“Is that right? You planning on becoming one of those blokes who would ignore their naked wife just to watch a match?”

James looks aghast. “Merlin no Lils! I’ll just shag you from behind so we both can watch–” 

She pretends to scoff in disgust and he grabs her around the belly, calloused fingers wiggling until she is in tears from laughing.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I even expected,” she says, now with a cramp in her stomach. 

“Might I remind you that you brought up the ‘naked wife’ bit–” He puts emphasis on the last word, squeezing her hand tighter. 

“You’re Impossible,” she mutters, taking his hand to yank him into what looks like the hallway. 

He has decorated the hall with posters and art that mirror their shared Heads’ office back at school: a various smattering of film titles mixed with art pieces. He takes the lead, opening the doors one by one and letting her peer in. The rooms are less put together than the main living space, but the idea is there: a guest room (“In case Remus needs a place—the laws around Werewolves have been strangling these past couple years”), a room with a work desk and various bits and bobs (“a shared laboratory if you will—”), and a master bedroom. 

At the very end of the hall, the final room opens up to a small but bright space that is completely bare save for a coat of pastel red on the walls. Lily walks in and turns around, cocking a brow at her boyfriend who leans in the doorframe.

“And what room is this?”

James' face goes dreamy, tilting his head against the wood of the frame.

“The baby’s room I reckon.”

Lily turns fast on her heels.

“Baby? Whose baby?”

James blinks. “Ours.” He straightens up, getting a glint in his eye.

“Oh wait, sorry—you want traditional order of events: engagement then marriage then house then baby. Did I get that correct?”

Lily turns back to the room. The sunlight pours onto the floor casting little phantoms of the leaves. 

“James—it's lovely. It really is…but what about—” her voice fractures. The house is everything she ever dreamed of—a real life with him, built and filled with the express intention of happiness. She’s only just learned of it and it’s already hard to let go. 

“We’ve committed to the Order. Will be at war and Merlin knows we might have to go into hiding if things go south. It’s a beautiful thought but we just can’t afford to dream like—”

“Rubbish.” He cuts her off, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “That’s what he wants us to do. We can’t just stop living because there’s a war out there.”

“Nothing is a sure thing anymore, James.”

James takes a step forward. Eyes bright and pleading. 

“We are a sure thing. And all of this,” he gestures around the room, “Can be too. We can’t let them take it away from us.”

She feels the tears rimming her eyes. She can picture it so well: James tinkering on a new invention in the side room, Remus and Sirius dropping by, touting a case of beer and wild stories that they will tell in great hyperbolic zeal, a baby—a beautiful little child whose hands are smaller than a snitch, gargling with peals of laughter as James lifts him up, up into the air and spins.

“Ok—yeah, alright.” She wipes her nose, giving a small hesitant chuckle to dispel the reservations that still harbor at the shores of her vision. “Let’s do it.”

James crosses the small distance between them, picking her up and spinning her until she lets out a laugh that feels oddly reminiscent of their imaginary child. He sets her down and pushes her into him, his hot breath on her head like a warming aura. 

“I love you,” she murmurs into him. “Let’s be a family.”

He kisses her head, his smile infecting her from the head down. “Woah, Evans. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says in mock reserve, “I mean, we aren’t even engaged yet.”

[bekolxeram]

I swear this is the last time I bring up that air tanker in 2x14 voluntarily. The bottom line is, if you believe Tommy did fly that plane, that makes him not even superhero level cool, but Jonny Kim level cool. If you believe he didn't, then he's just as cool, always knowing a guy from all walks of line, ready to help out with whatever resource on hand the second Chimney says the word. At the end of the day, he saved the 118 and a bunch of civilians either way, and he did it again in S7 flying to that cruise ship. He'll always be our cool heroic pilot no matter what.

With that being said, I have some thoughts about the CAL FIRE line from the news reporter in that episode. If you're not interested, please read no further. And if you don't want to see this kind of posts at all but still want to read my other content, please block the tag #aviation realism.

I know Bobby said "217 incoming" when he saw that C-130, only the news reporter mentioned it was with CAL FIRE. That's why I suspect the CAL FIRE line was shoved in after the actual scenes were filmed, because they realized or someone explained to them how impractical and dangerous for an urban fire department to own a giant air tanker and just dump tons of water all over the city.

I saw the same technique utilized for the tsunami arc in S3. Anyone who has taken geography in high school can tell that in reality, there is no megathrust fault capable of generating Indian Ocean 2004 or Japan 2011 scale tsunami off the coast of SoCal. So where did the tsunami come from? In 3x02, before Sue asks Maddie to "triage" the dispatchers, you can hear once again a news reporter saying the tsunami is triggered by an earthquake off the coast of Alaska. This takes the fictional tsunami scenario from having zero basis in real life, to possible in extreme cases and greatly exaggerated for dramatic effect.

I thank whatever divine intervention or persistent technical advisor that made the CAL FIRE line possible.

2x14 was first aired on April 15, 2019. What you might not remember or realize is that something notable happened across the Atlantic on the very same day: the Notre-Dame fire. The entire world watched the cathedral burned for hours while over 400 firefighters all over Paris tried to contain the flame. A certain f...... former US president then suggested on Twitter that "perhaps flying water tankers could be used to put it out."

The French immediately responded by pointing out that dumping large amount of water from an aircraft at low altitude could "weaken the structure of Notre-Dame and result in collateral damage to the buildings in the vicinity." A retired FDNY battalion chief also told the media that water bombing would likely make the situation more dangerous, as civilians on the street might be hit if you miss the target.

The entire internet was clowning on that stable genius for such an innovative idea all afternoon. Imagine if 2x14 aired later that evening with not even a smaller single engine one, but a large 4 engine airtanker somehow belonging to the LAFD, that would come off extra stupid, even meme inspiring. But with the CAL FIRE line, they could at least claim that it was the extreme and rare circumstances requiring additional assistance from other agencies in the area, and it was not part of 911-verse LAFD's normal operation.

If the writers had done their homework beforehand and the CAL FIRE thing was always part of the script, good for them. If it was indeed shoved into the scene last minute, then they should thank their lucky stars.

I can already imagine the headache Bobby is going to have working on Hotshots as a consultant.

[swayziiwriter]

Embrace | Kylian Mbappé

summary: Kylian’s return from international duty meant that he was not only home but all yours until the league continued, and you were going to make the most of it.

WARNING: 18+, sexual content

NOTE: imagine the cold nights in Paris spent in bed with Kylian

You cuddled nearer to Kylian He was like a natural heater when it was cold outside. Missing the manner in which his body felt against yours as he had been abroad for international duty. The fragrance of vanilla from your shower perfumed the room and the chimney brought warmth and the sensitive breaking of consuming wood. So there you were with a leg thrown over his hip and your head on his chest while his arm folded over your midsection. Bringing a soft hand you ran your fingers down his broad chest, soaking in his presence.

"Bébé” baby he said lowly. You didn't reply however rather kissed his lips. Kylian pushed hair from your face as you kissed along his smooth skin. Kylian brought his hands over to your butt and pulled you up to kiss better while kneading the tissue. As you slung your leg over his hips, your tongues intertwined. “Missed me huh?” Kylian teased in a soft voice as you snacked along his ears and your hands meandered down his body. You nipped at the muscle in his neck sure to leave a mark. “Missed you so badly” you responded.

You pulled your shirt off your head and Kylian twisted down to kiss between your shoulder bones. You could feel his hardness press against your butt as he groveled your neck prior to tracking down your lips. Pushing your silky pants down your butt and thighs. One hand arrived at down to knead your ass while the other established close to your head, confining you in.

Kylain scoured his now uncovered cock against your butt before running his hand up between your legs to play with your pussy. He grabbed your hip with one hand and pulled your ass up a little. Kylian shifted his elbow and his arm moved under your upper chest to nearly embrace you with his one arm as his other fingered you. You let out soft moans while driving your ass into his hand. "Kylian” you relaxed. “I need more.”

He gestured against your skin prior to moving to supplant his fingers with his member. Kylian held your hip while pushing in. You panted and rested your head up against his arm embracing you. Kylian began a soft yet agonizing speed, pulling moans from you with the drag of his cock. You pushed your hips back to meet his thrusts, encouraging his movements. You were becoming restless and cried while putting in to push back more effort to get more contact.

“Faster please” you managed to breathe out, panting heavily. Kylian immediately pushed with greater force and depth than before. You inhaled harshly as he drilled into you. The sound of skin on skin and raspy moans occupied the room. You brought a hand to cup his head as Kylian kissed and nipped at your neck. He was just about falling apart at the manner in which he embraced you and squeezed against you.

“Don’t stop, so good” you whimpered, snatching his arm as you felt yourself drawing near. You pressed your lips to his forearm before cumming around his cock as you heard yourself moan much louder than you intended. You bit at his skin to hold back from shouting out. Kylian pierced your high with a rough thrust. Before finishing on your ass, he jerked himself a few times as you felt the warm liquid coat you.

You laughed softly, turning around to be face to face with him. “I missed you baby” you spoke, leaving hazily kisses upon his toned chest. “I can tell” he said , earning a playful groan from you as you let your hand connect with his chest. Shifting your body to be over his Kylian mirrored your actions with a smile. Bringing your body down to connect your lips once again, smiling into the deep kiss.

[faroukmarduk]

[mostmagical]

Chapters 1/1 (1,396 words) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Emo Adrien Agreste/Emo Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Summary:

Spoilers for ML Paris Special. . . After meeting an alternate version of himself, Adrien decides to take the first steps towards making a new friend.

Takes place immediately after Paris Special!

Read on Ao3 or under the cut!!

.

She was holding his hand.

She was holding his hand.

After so long of being at each others’ throats, of feeling lost and lonely, the warmth of her hand in his felt like a dream. Like being pulled out of the ocean after so long drowning. Even after passing through the portal into their own world, she held on, and Adrien had trouble focussing on anything else around him. Hesperia was saying something, talking about their next moves to take down the Supreme, but the words simply passed through one ear and out the other as all he could do was stare down at where their hands were connected.

Why… Why hadn’t she let go?

His heart pounded in his chest, faster than he could ever remember it beating before. The pretty bakery girl was holding his hand, like she wanted to, as if he was more than just a stranger on the street to her. And, well, he supposed he was, considering they had been working together for months, albeit without liking each other or knowing one another at all. It was all new sensations and feelings, rushing through his body in a way that made his head swirl.

“...but we can reconvene later,” Hesperia said, on the tailend of some conversation that Adrien had missed entirely. “I think we could all use a little rest.”

Toxinelle— No, Ladybug stuck out her other hand, shaking with Hesperia as the fingers in the hand she held with Adrien’s squeezed just ever so slightly. Maybe that had been in his imagination though. “I agree,” she said. “I hope we can continue to work well together to take down the Supreme.”

“The feeling is mutual, Ladybug,” Hesperia replied. “And you, Griffe– uh…”

Adrien smiled. “I’m still working on it.”

Hesperia smiled back. “I wish you good luck figuring that out.” The butterfly hero folded his hands behind his back, regarding the both of them over his glasses. “I’d offer to show you both out, but I think you’ll find it’s the same way you came in the first time,” he supplied, a lilting tune to his voice.

Ladybug smiled wryly. “Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “We’ll be going now! Good bye!”

She slipped her fingers from his hand, Adrien already feeling colder, to sling her yoyo through the exit.

“See ya!” he bid to Hesperia before following right after her. She headed towards the bakery– now he knew why— and Adrien couldn’t stop himself from following along. So what if his house was in the opposite direction. He wanted to spend just a few more minutes with her, if he could manage it.

She dropped down onto the bakery roof, quietly releasing her transformation and leaving behind Marinette, the bakery girl.

Adrien’s heart skipped a beat again at the sight of her.

He dodged behind the chimney stack on the end of her rooftop, suddenly nervous. He wasn’t sure how she would react to him being there. Everything was so new and their relationship was so… He wasn’t sure what. It was different.

“I saw you following me, fleabag,” she said, startling him. “No use hiding.”

Lithely, he jumped from his spot, landing in a crouch in front of her. He looked up at her through his bangs, watching her expression for that same old disdain he was used to. There was none.

“What is it?” she asked.

Adrien straightened, searching for the right words in his head. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he wanted at all. All he knew was that he had been drawn to her, like a thread he had to chase. Other Adrien’s words rang through his head, and sudden clarity filled his being.

He wanted to make friends.

He couldn’t miss his chance.

An excited grin twitching on his lips, he let his transformation fall to match her, putting them both on equal footing. Keeping things neutral had always worked for the two of them in the past.

Marinette raised her eyebrow at him, and suddenly he was struck by how big and blue her eyes were. He had never seen them up so close before. She was so pretty.

“Well, I was thinking,” he said nervously, all his earlier bravado draining out of him now that she was looking at him with those eyes, “since I don’t have any friends, and you don’t have any friends—that I know of!” He glanced at her face, worrying he might find a glare, but instead she continued to just look at him with wide eyes. He cleared his throat, pushing through the rest of his request as he scratched at his cheek. “Maybe, if you want, we could be friends? With each other?”

Her mouth twitched into a small smile. Adrien had never seen her smile before. He found that it suited her quite nicely. His heart did a funny little flip in his chest.

“Okay.”

His jaw dropped. “I– uh– Okay?” he sputtered.

Her smile spread wider. “Yeah.”

“Even though I’m a rich jerk?”

“I guess I can let that go,” she teased. “This time.”

Unbridled happiness— is this what that other Adrien felt? All she did was say ‘okay’ and it was as though the heavens had opened. He was warm, starting in his chest and spreading from the inside out, a euphoria he had never felt before.

“Besides,” she continued, giving a small shrug of her shoulders, “I think you’ve grown on me a little in all this time.”

The delight only grew. “You mean, I’ve cat your attention?”

She shook her head, a frown on her face, but the corners twitched again, as if she was trying to hide a smile. “And you’re going to lose it if you keep up with your awful puns.”

“My claw-ful puns?”

“Watch it, whiskers,” she said, but, for once, there was no bite to her tone.

“Aw,” he cooed, loving the way her nose scrunched up at the sound. “You don’t mean that, buggy.”

“‘Buggy’?” she questioned. “What happened to ‘cockroach’?”

“Well, I’m not going to call my friend a cockroach, now am I?” he said. “Why? You don’t like it? I can workshop some more names.”

She laughed, and, wow, what a wonderful sound that was. “Maybe after you figure out your new name.”

“No, no, no.” He wagged a finger. “This is important.” He proceeded to stalk around her, acting as though he was appraising her like an art piece with a hand to his chin. Actually, he supposed, she was an art piece, not that he’d ever told her. Maybe he should. “What about…” he drawled, lengthening his vowels, “Scarab?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No.”

He hummed. “Buginette.”

A scoff.

“Spotify.”

“You’re joking.”

Her deadpan told him all he needed to know. Adrien stopped his stalking, once again standing in front of her. It had to be personal, something to tell her how much she meant to him, how happy he was to finally have someone he could call a friend in his life. Something to connect them. An idea lit up his brain.

“My lady.”

He could be wrong, but he thought she might have stuttered a breath. A dusting of pink settled on her cheeks. Oh! Oh, that was a good reaction, wasn’t it?

“You like that?” he asked. “My lady?”

She swallowed, eyes cast away from his face and down on his shoes. Her arms crossed over her chest. “I suppose that might be acceptable.”

He smiled. “My lady,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue as if they were always meant to. He bowed dramatically, smiling when he heard her soft chuckle. “I’m glad we could settle this.”

She snorted. “If you’re supposed to be a prince, we have some work to do.”

“Maybe not a prince, but I’ll happily be your knight.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

His smile was practically bursting at the seams, stretching his cheeks wide enough for a dull ache to settle in. “I’ll let you enjoy your day. Until next time, my lady.” He called his transformation back, readying himself to head home.

“Until next time, Adrien,” she replied, another soft smile gracing her features.

He leapt from her roof, darting away as his heart beat a staccato against his ribcage. Next time he saw her, he would be seeing his new friend.

A friend.

[capspotatoes]

Theories by myself and @rellyyroo

Reblog for larger sample size

*this exact wig:

[literary-motif]

Prologue

In which plans are made upon your return to London. ~4,300 words

Overview // Author's Note

The city had barely changed since you had been here last. The streets were almost black with soot from the chimneys of homes and factories, and the dark clouds rolling over London felt more like omens of bad luck than the product of its booming economic success. Nothing had changed at all.

You walked up the steps to the place you had not called home for years, pushing open the sturdy wooden door only to hesitate in the entrance hall.

It was deserted.

The fading sunlight was kept out by the fastened shutters, allowing only a fraction of the warm orange to stream in through the cracks in the old wood. The welcoming atmosphere of the house you remembered so vividly was only a far echo now, unrecognizable as you looked around the empty room, letting your bag fall to the ground with a loud thump that echoed uncomfortably. 

Where was everyone?

You had expected to find several people scurrying around as they always did. Your mother was so obsessed with keeping up appearances. She would strut through the house and bark a string of nonsensical orders at the poor servants she had requested follow her every step.

Her vanity was laughable, and you had used to joke that in her deluded fantasy, she was pretending to be Queen Victoria herself with her court of ladies. 

The vase with freshly cut flowers had been a particular point of pride for her, and she always requested the most expensive ones to be bought only to flaunt your family’s wealth. She required the dark blue curtains of the windows to be fastened with a specific knot she had glimpsed once in the queen’s palace.

The floor had to be spotlessly shining at all times, even after your father returned from mingling with his friends and enticing them with his lofty plans of investments, dragging the soot and dirt from the London streets into the house and dirtying the tiles that had been scrubbed on aching knees for the better part of the day. 

You looked down at your shoes, scoffing at the immediate feeling of regret crashing over you.

It had been too long since you had been here last, but not long enough all the same. The memories and sentiments the house and the city dragged up in you were better kept buried. 

Leaving the bag by the door, you walked into the entrance hall, taking a closer look around. The flowers on the coffee table at the foot of the stairs were wilted, filling the air with a stifling odor. You turned towards one of the windows, opening it wide and pushing aside the shutters. 

It disturbed the dust on the curtains. The particles floated around the room, catching the gentle yellow light of the setting sun and making you wonder just how long it had been since someone had cleaned.

You turned your gaze towards the dark city outside, the smog rising in the far distance where the heart of the country’s economic success lay. Your jaw clenched. Even in the golden rays of the setting sun, London could not hide its bleakness and the dirt it was overflowing with.

You longed for the countryside. You long for the confines of your studio in Paris, far away from this life of exploitative riches and the screaming poverty outside your front door. It made you itch to leave as soon as possible, the reminder of why you left almost painfully burning in your chest. 

The quiet greeting you, as you faced the house again, was not peaceful, but it felt like evidence that perhaps some things had changed since you had been here last — almost five years to the very date. You cursed quietly, pushing away the melancholy that had snuck up on you. 

“Theodore?” you called into the silence, expressing some of your annoyance at being called away from your new life abroad. “I’m home,” you muttered in disdain, waiting for your brother to appear and tell you what ‘urgent matter’ had him insisting on your presence in London. You felt it had something to do with the darkness in the entrance hall and the dust on the curtains.

A heavy door shut somewhere overhead, and you looked up in time to see familiar golden curls poking over the banister as he approached it hastily. His face twisted into a dazzling smile when he saw you. “Da Vinci!” he called, almost tripping over himself as he took the stairs two at a time. 

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, catching him as he nearly fell down the last few steps. He pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you against his chest as you buried your head in his shoulder and breathed in his familiar scent. “I’m so glad to see you,” you said, your voice muffled. 

You had missed him dearly. Despite your many invitations, he had continuously declined to visit you in Paris, citing his alleged responsibilities at home or his engagement to his soon-to-be wife as an excuse.

It felt good holding him in your arms again after so long. Faintly, you could hear the elevated flutter of his heart beating quickly. You chuckled, happy to see him as well. The longer you stayed in the embrace, the more you noticed the restlessness he seemed to exude. 

Theodore was trembling faintly in your arms, his hands roaming your back as if he could not bring himself to stay still. He seemed nervous, almost afraid. You lifted your head, drawing back to look at him properly. 

The dark circles under his eyes looked like he had not slept these past days. His usually so expressive eyes were dulled, the excitement and energy within them dimmed with exhaustion you had never seen on him before. 

“Theodore,” you began in concern, but he shook his head with a twist of his lips that you could only guess was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he said with conviction, not reassuring you in the slightest. 

He was a terrible liar, and with the evidence visible on his face, you did not know why he bothered at all. Still, you did not push. “What is the matter with ‘needing me urgently’?” you asked instead. Raising your hands to gesture to the bleak room you stood in, you could not hide your confusion. “What is going on?”

Theodore averted his gaze, clearing his throat before inhaling shakily. His lips twisted into a tight smile again, and he nodded nervously. The silence stretched on as you waited for him to explain. 

“Yes,” he said eventually, running a hand through his hair and looking around the room to ensure nobody was lurking in the desolate emptiness, “my letter must have come as a surprise. I would have explained more— I wanted to, but the matter is sensitive. You see, I—” 

He shook his head quickly as if to disperse unpleasant thoughts and closed his eyes to take a deep breath. When he reopened them, he was calmer, and his eyes softened as he looked at you. 

“I know you would have rather stayed in Paris,” he said, taking your hands and giving you a sad smile. It expressed both his gratitude and guilt at seeing you in London. “I’m sorry to drag you back. How— How have you been?”

You looked at him for a long moment. 

Paris had not been what you imagined. No matter where you went, your dissatisfaction with the world around you never vanished. You found solace in your art, losing yourself to the brushstrokes and colors on the canvas until the deeply seated longing inside you was quenched to an extent, only to find it returning with a vengeance when you resurfaced from drowning yourself in beauty and the picturesque. 

Misery was an old friend, one that never wavered from your side, no matter how successful you became or how admired your artworks were. You had stopped looking for fulfillment or contentment long ago until it felt like misery herself was leaning over your shoulder, taking your wrist and guiding the brush across the canvas. 

Happiness was never sufficient to create a meaningful work or seep into a life and suffocate the devouring longing for more. You had found that melancholy, sorrow, and misery were. 

“Well, brother,” you said. To your surprise, you meant it. “And you?”

He chuckled tiredly, releasing your hands to lead you towards the stairs. “Mostly well, until last week,” he said, his tone souring. “It is why I—” He stopped abruptly. You bumped into his back with a huff. “Where have you been?”

You looked past his shoulder to see a figure standing on the landing, staring down Theodore with dark eyes and an even darker scowl. “In the garden,” she said dismissively, and your eyes widened as you realized that the woman clad in the deepest possible shade of black was your sister.

“Lizzie?” you asked incredulously, earning only a nod in greeting.

Her straight black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. It was disheveled as if she had run her hands through it repeatedly, and you blinked away the memory of her excitedly thrusting ribbons into your hands, pleading with you to braid it. 

You could hardly reconcile the image of the bright and adventurous young woman you had kept in your mind all this time with her dark and brooding self you now saw before you.

She had changed so much since you had left her behind on that porch with tears in her eyes, begging you not to go. It had been so long since she had replied to your letters.

“Why do you look like you came from a seance?” you blurted out, at a loss of what else to say.

Her mouth twitched into a minuscule smile. “You have been gone for too long, Picasso,” she said, the barest hint of amusement seeping into her monotonous voice as she looked you up and down. “Seances are on Thursdays. Welcome to London.”

“Elisabeth!” your brother said sternly, raising his index finger in warning. It did not have the desired effect. Elisabeth snorted at his attempt to scold her. “I better not find any residue of your activities in the garden again. You know how frowned upon—” 

“I know, Theodore,” she interrupted him, sauntering towards the library nonchalantly and leaving you both standing at the top of the stairs. “I cleaned up. Believe me, I’m the last of your worries right now.” It sounded more like an ominous warning than a reassurance. She disappeared behind the door. The lock snapped into place, the sound echoing loudly in the empty hall.

Theodore sighed. “She spends too much time with these books,” he said, shaking his head. He gestured towards the study, opening the door for you. 

It had not changed much from how you remembered it. One wall was taken up by an enormous bookshelf, nearly overflowing with thick volumes. The dark wood of the desk before the window had lost some of its shine, and the papers thrown haphazardly on its surface were in a disarray that your father would have despised. 

“Have you taken over the study?” you asked, sitting in the armchair opposite the settee and nodding towards the desk. 

He gulped, his hands suddenly unsteady as he passed you the tea. 

“Theodore?”

The sound of the fragile porcelain pieces scratching against each other made you frown. You eyed his shaking hands, wondering what you had said to upset him this much. 

He quickly set the cup on the table between you before he spilled his tea. “Not by choice,” he whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the tea. “I asked you to come back because I need your help. Our parents—” he hesitated, gaze flickering up to meet yours before anxiously darting across the room. “They are gone.”

“Gone?” you asked, not understanding the gravity of the situation. “Gone where?”

Theodore threw up his hands in frustration, leaping from his chair to pace around restlessly. “Just gone!” he exclaimed, wincing at his volume and looking around anxiously. This was driving him up the walls, turning him into a nervous wreck. “They left with— they left. I don’t know why. I don’t know where.”

You set down your tea, taking in this piece of news. Despite their brutish dominance over the household, both your parents were very mindful of the family’s standing in society. It was unheard of for them to disappear without a word. It would lead your reputation to ruin.

“What happened?” you asked. This made no sense at all.

“I have no idea,” Theodore said, sinking back into the settee and burying his face in his hands. “They just left.” 

He straightened a moment later, clearing his throat and retrieving his tea. You saw the shift in him, the facade he put up to appear in control of a situation that overwhelmed him completely. 

The neverending game of pretend he played was brought on by his misguided sense of duty. To his eyes, being the oldest meant carrying all the responsibilities, shielding you and your sister as much as possible to take care of things himself. He wanted to be perfect. He needed to meet the expectations your parents pushed onto him relentlessly to earn his place and justify the life he had. 

Theodore was always scrambling to obey, never stepping out of line for fear of falling from grace — and seeing him now slowly crumble and cave under the pressure thrust upon him made your heart ache.

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, indeed.

You leaned back, closing your eyes and wishing for a moment you had chosen to remain in selfish and blissful ignorance in the city of your dreams, with paint staining your fingers and indulging in the pleasure of being the second-born to its fullest extent.

“Does it matter why?” Elisabeth asked from the doorway, making both you and Theodore jump. Neither of you had noticed her walk up, her footsteps as quiet as a ghost’s. “They were never pleasant to have around, and we are better off without them. Theodore can manage the estate on his own. You have your life in Paris. What are we worrying about?”

You turned to look at her, holding her impassive gaze as you wondered when she had gotten so frigid. “They are our parents,” you said. While a part of you resented them, you still wondered what had become of them and why they had suddenly decided to disappear without a trace. It was hard to imagine that Elisabeth did not care about them at all.

She scoffed, flopping down next to your brother on the settee. Leaning forward, she stared at you intently as if trying to catch you out in a lie. She had gotten cold. You suppressed a shudder. Was this resentment she harbored towards you the reason she stopped replying to your letters?

“Oh please,” she said, an unfamiliar fire burning in her eyes that made you wonder if you were wrong about your assumption of her again. 

Perhaps she really did not care. 

“Mother threatened to disown you in as many words every time you talked, or have you forgotten that? ‘Stop wasting your time with frivolous things!’ or whatever it was she spewed when she caught you painting. You might as well have died when you left. It would not have made a difference to them. What’s there to miss?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, knowing she was right. The harsh look in their eyes when you said goodbye that day and the sneer of your father — “Don’t bother returning” — was a memory you had tried to bury long ago. 

Their disappearance was peculiar nonetheless. You tried to think up reasons that could have led them to finally snap, inspiring them to turn their back on their comfortable lives in London. Was it the longing for something exciting? Was it the haunting feeling of the city’s long nights? 

Did their circles of friends not entertain them enough anymore? Did they grow sick of your brother’s desperation in tryingto please their unattainable expectations? Could they no longer stand the sight of your sister’s dark eyes glaring at them when she returned from speaking with the dead?

Had they decided to abandon your siblings to live selfishly somewhere far away where nobody knew them, and they were free to do as they pleased under the secure protection of their anonymity?

Had they picked up a canvas on their way to call themselves artists?

The parallels made you sick. You averted your gaze, ashamed at the understanding that a part of you had for them.

“That’s not the issue,” Theodore said, running his hand through his hair. His golden locks were in disarray, and he rubbed his temples tiredly as if to ward off a headache. “I couldn't care less about where they went. Elisabeth is right. There is nothing to miss. The problem is how it makes us look. It would jeopardize our standing if word got out that they just left. It is unheard of!”

You nodded, swallowing your guilt to focus on the problem at hand. “We need an excuse for their absence,” you said, picking up your tea to take a sip. You needed to think up a plausible reason.

“And one for their deaths,” Elisabeth added, deep in thought. Her nonchalance about never seeing them again had you in awe. 

You had made your peace with not having them in your life anymore when you left. There was only so much of a relationship you could maintain with people who seemed to despise every day you spent pursuing your dream. They had not bothered to reply to your letters — you doubted they read them at all — but you knew throughout your absence that they were well in London. Your brother had written occasionally, keeping you in the loop of family happenings that you acknowledged but did not particularly care about. 

It was enough to know they lived in safety, far away from you. This novelty of being uncertain if they were even still alive felt different. You hated not knowing what had happened.

“Simple,” Theodore said, taking a sip of his tea. He nodded to himself, reviewing the story he had constructed in his mind and making sure it made sense.

You raised your eyebrow. Elisabeth scoffed, waiting for him to continue. Nothing about this seemed easy in the slightest.

“They embarked on a trip to Greece. Mother always wanted to go. They visited Athens. They insisted on visiting Crete and got killed in one of the uprisings. We tell everyone they decided to travel on a whim — or because of father’s deteriorating health. He had been complaining of an ache in his bones, yes, Elisabeth? — and apologize profusely for them not saying their proper goodbyes.”

Elisabeth laughed at that, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms. “That is so absurd it might actually work,” she said in amusement. 

“On some later date, we will feign to receive a letter from local authorities informing us of their deaths. We will act shocked, lower their coffins into the ground symbolically,” Theodore continued, waving his hand in the air as if burying his parents was nothing but an inconvenience, “and save face in society as the poor orphans who are lucky enough to be endowed with estate, land, and property. That will be the end of this, and we can continue as if nothing happened.”

“Good thing Picasso’s return will keep the drawing rooms gossiping and marveling for at least a week,” your sister said, satisfied with the plan. “Nobody will think to question it.”

You stared at the rich brown of the coffee table, trying to find any fatal flaw in the made-up story. “What if they come back?” you muttered. “As far as we know, they are not dead. They could come back.”

A tense silence passed between you.

Theodore looked to the ground, opening his mouth to speak. Elisabeth beat him to it. “We kill them,” she said monotonously, her face devoid of any emotion other than fierce determination. You choked on your tea. She was deadly serious. 

He blanched. “That— that will not be necessary,” he stuttered. “They are gone for good, trust me.”

“How do you—?” 

“Just trust me, Elisabeth!” he snapped. 

She raised her hands in mock surrender, glancing at him as if she suspected something. 

“Apologies, I— It’s a lot right now,” he sighed, setting down his cup of tea. He winced, hissing in pain and touching his forehead. “I’m fine,” he said when he caught your concerned stare and rose from his seat. “We are invited to the Alderton’s soiree in approximately” — he pulled out his silver pocket watch — “twenty minutes. I suggest we get ready.”

Elisabeth hummed, making a show of dusting off her dress as she rose as well. “As much as you know I love soirees, brother,” she said sarcastically, earning a low groan from Theodore, “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. You two have fun making the Lords and Ladies” — she bowed mockingly — “believe our little story. I have a prior engagement this evening.”

“What could possibly be more important than saving us from ruin?” he asked pointedly, silently resigned to going without her. The last time she had accepted such an invitation must have been years ago.

“Things beyond your comprehension,” she said darkly, her eyes glistening with passion. “Also,” she added, disappearing behind the door to retreat to the library, “I am waiting for a delivery. Good luck.” 

Theodore sighed, gripping the back of the settee and allowing himself a moment to breathe. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against his hands.

You placed a hand on his back, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Since when has she been like that?” you asked. 

He raised his head slowly, glancing over his shoulder to look at you. “Later,” he said tiredly, straightening again. “We should not be late. I will call for the carriage.”

It was only when you were sitting on the barely comfortable cushions of the carriage that brought you ever closer to the Alderton’s estate, that you realized there was still dried paint under your fingernails. 

It was the light blue you had used for the sky on the canvas half-finished and now surely gathering dust in your studio. 

“Elisabeth has taken to the occult lately,” Theodore said, smoothing down his black vest and trying to fix his crooked bowtie. 

You batted his hands away, loosening the knot and retying it neatly. “So she said. What was that about seances?”

He sighed, shrugging. “I have no idea, honestly,” he said, breaking into a fond smile as you brushed a bit of dust from his tailcoat. “Thank you.” He tilted his head to look out impatiently before glancing at his pocket watch. He nodded, satisfied that you would arrive on time. “She told me something about a failed ritual during dinner a few days ago. I did not dare inquire further, but it devastated her. She locked herself in the library for days after that.”

“I see,” you said hesitatingly. Your confusion at your sister's peculiar interest was overshadowed by concern for her.

What was she trying to summon? Why did it mean so much to her? 

Theodore winced again, his expression twisting into one of pain. 

“How is your headache?” you asked, wishing you could do something to relieve his pain.

Your fingers twitched. You wanted to run them through his hair soothingly like you used to. He had always been susceptible to headaches when the stress crashed over him like a wave, pulling him under until he drowned in it.

“We can turn around. Or drop me off,” you said, “I will take care of tonight. You should rest, Theo.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, giving you a small smile. “I can manage, don’t worry. I've had worse.”

You searched his gaze but chose not to argue. “Alright,” you sighed. Leaning back, you waited for the estate to come into view. “What has society been like recently? Is there any news I should mind?”

“Well,” Theodore said, trying to be cheerful, “Lady Bingley recently took a liking to theater, and she won’t shut up once she starts talking about the stage. Lady Fairhurst has taken a lover in Piccadilly, much to her wife’s indifference. Still, she gets irrationally defensive when the street is mentioned, including its shops. It’s quite funny, but her aggressive defense turns the conversation very draining. Lord Houghton is as obnoxious as ever. He made investments in China and is urginganyone who will listen to do the same.”

“I heard the Qing Dynasty has become unstable,” you mused, brushing down your clothes as the light of the manor came into view. “The Chinese population has grown tired of Western meddling, I have been told. It seems only a matter of time until they fight back. The missionaries are especially unpopular.”

“Do not tell him that,” your brother chuckled. 

The carriage came to a halt in front of the manor. His hand shot out, hovering over the door handle. 

“Remember our plan,” he added, looking at you one last time with a smile that almost seemed genuine, “and don’t let all the praise for your art go to your head.”

Annotations // I. The Symposium

[ulyssephoto]