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fayes-fics · 2 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 13 - С'est Lui Que Mon Cœur A Choisi

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: Teen-rated… non-graphic references to sex/sexual situations. ANGST!!!

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Beware, this has been coming; things have come to a head with the reader's family and Eloise. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Aubrey Hall, UK, October 1939

It's a dreary Friday afternoon the following week when the phone rings in the hallway.

After a brief exchange, it appears the call is for you, much to your confusion - no one knows you are here. As you tentatively pick up the receiver from the family butler, the familiar tones of Solène ring out down a crackling line.

“Mon Cherie! Have you quite lost your mind!” her opening is quite abrupt.

“And hello to you too, Solène; I have missed you,” you chuckle.

“Yes, yes…” you can almost hear her dismissive hand wave. “Why did you not yet contact your famille?”

Your stomach plunges.

“I- I forgot?” you squeak the truth.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind with Benedict; it has honestly felt detached from reality. A parallel universe. And this is you landing back on earth with a resounding bump.

“Well, please call them. I have had too many telegrams and now two phone calls,” she explains. “They are quite worried about you! I had guessed you may be chez les Bridgertons but did not want to say. I’m sure you have beaucoup news to tell them that they need to hear from you pas moi.”

“I will call them,” you promise, even as you feel a pit of dread low in your stomach.

“Please do… now, how is married life?” she teases, and after deflecting with a joke, you spend time catching up. The knot inside you loosens as you exchange pleasantries, handing the phone over to Eloise when she appears at your side, eager to reconnect with her Parisian friend.

—

“I have to call my parents,” you profess a few hours later, watching water streak in rivulets down the French doors, the lake beyond a blur, the pitter-patter sound on the roof above you.

His lips pause on your clavicle, and his hands - warm through your cool silk slip - flex around your waist, but he says nothing.

“Just to let them know I am safe. Solène called earlier; they have been trying to get hold of me,” you explain, burrowing your fingers into his hair, delicately scratching your nails over his scalp.

“What will you tell them?” his question hushed and tentative.

“That part I haven’t decided,” you confess with a sigh. “There is so much to say; I don’t know where to begin…”

“I will be there with you,” he replies emphatically, pushing up to gaze down upon you. “Whatever you decide, I will be there, in support, silent or otherwise.”

His generous sincerity makes your chest bloom, devotion evident in his words.

“Thank you,” you whisper, staring into his hazy eyes, again your confession of love on the tip of your tongue.

He cups your jaw, and you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring, which he has never once taken off in the four weeks since your marriage. “No need to thank me. You are my wife; it is what I must do.” His use of that word makes your heart leap.

“I hope it isn't only out of duty…” you can't help your insecurity from crossing your lips.

“Of course not,” he assures, eyes soft.

“Thank you, husband,” you whisper back, and something flares on his face, a change rippling over his handsome features. His fingers sink between yours, caging your hands onto the towel underneath you.

“Call me that again,” his voice taking on an odd, gravelly quality.

“H-husband?” you falter, a knit of confusion over your brow.

He growls and surges his hips roughly between your legs, igniting that fire you always feel inside for him.

Oh.

“Husband,” you repeat bolder this time, treating it like a jewel dripping on your tongue.

His lips are hot and insistent on yours, his tongue almost punishing, ravaging your mouth. Before you know it, your clothing is ripped from your body, and you are crying his name, fingers digging into flesh. His hold is possessive, almost feral in the way he takes you, swearing that you hear him grunt the word mine into your neck as you both reach completion.

—

You wait until Eloise visits a local friend the next day to make the dreaded call. It’s a Saturday lunchtime, early morning on the American East Coast, when you pluck up the courage, knowing your parents should be home then.

The handset feels heavy in your palm as you raise it and dial the operator, giving your parents' number. Benedict hovers beside you, a reassuring presence you want to lean into as each ring echoes heavily in your ear.

“Hello?”

Just the sound of your mother’s voice causes a flood of emotion through you; you slump onto the hallway bench, Benedict bobbing down to crouch before you, his expression concerned but silent, touching your knee delicately.

“Hello Mom…” it's probably barely audible.

“My love!!!!!” she exclaims, and you can hear the wash of relief in her voice, the knowledge that her child is safe after weeks of uncertainty. It makes guilt burn even harder behind your ribs. “I'm so happy to hear from you! To hear your voice! Are you safe? Please tell me you are safe!” Parental concern colouring her every word.

“Yes, Mom, I'm safe,” you begin, a tremulant quality to your voice that you are unsuccessfully trying to wish away. “It's… it's a long story, but I ended up in England with Eloise. I'm sure Uncle Robert told you all about her.”

“Indeed he did. Well, I'm so happy you escaped France! I hear an invasion could well be imminent. I was so worried! Let me call your father...” Before you can protest, she is holding the receiver away from her mouth and calling out your Dad’s name. “Oh, and Stanley will be so pleased to hear the good news!!! We must tell him right away! He has been concerned too…”

The mention of your ex-fiance's name raises bile in your throat, and you instinctively reach for Benedict. Lace your hand with his upon your knee—an anchor you need. You don't know what to say about your ex, so you don't respond, hoping your mother will move on quickly in her relief, which, thankfully, she does.

You hear your dad’s familiar voice in the background and bite your lip, nervous that both will be listening.

“So when are you coming home, darling?” She continues after giving your dad an economic explanation.

“I… I don't know that I can,” you stumble, knowing your lip is darkening under the worry of your incisor tooth.

“Whyever not? Just move up your ticket!” Your dad chimes in.

“I tried that while still in France; unfortunately, the company scammed me. I could not get a ticket to any sailings to America, so, for safety, I came to England with Eloise.”

“You got scammed!” your dad’s huff is indignant.

“Let's focus on what is important, Ron. She is safe,” your mother lectures, placating his ire as you mumble an apology.

Your downcast eyes lift to meet Benedict’s as they seem to remonstrate between themselves on the other end of the line. His mien is benevolent, his finger swiping rhythmically across the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You know he can hear the voices leaking out of the receiver jammed to your ear, if not the words, then the general tone.

“Well, I'm glad you were able to enter England with a visitor visa. I thought they had been suspended since the war was declared. Your Uncle thought he was among the last to be let in with one…” your dad comments, immediately honing in on what you have been dreading the most.

“I am not here on a tourist visa. Thanks to a wonderful member of Eloise’s family, I have been able to secure residency.” Your fingers grip Benedict hard now.

“What do you mean?” your Dad queries, sounding suspicious.

“In order to escape - which I know, Dad, is the most important thing - I had to make a rather drastic choice…” you try to emphasise the jeopardy before your confession.

“What kind of drastic choice?” he echoes your words slowly, and you can feel their suspicion down the crackling line.

“I had to get married…” your voice is so tiny you almost hope they do not hear. Benedict's other hand lands on top of yours, enveloping yours in his warmth, which makes you look at him so grateful, a glassiness to your eyes.

There is a moment of shocked silence and then an explosion of indignant words and noises, to the point that you have to pull the handset away from your ear.

It's alright, it will be alright, Benedict mouths silently, and you can't help but pitch forward and rest your forehead on his. One of his hands touches your cheek gently as you close your eyes, a tear swelling on your lashes.

“I did not plan for this, Mom, Dad,” you cut in, sitting back upright. “But it has happened, and now… I… I need time.”

“Need time for what? You get that marriage annulled right away, young lady, and get yourself back here to marry the man you are promised to!” your mother’s voice shrill and didactic. “You had better hope Stanley understands and forgives this transgression….”

Something about her choice of words lights a fire of outrage inside you. As if your life choices are not your own.

“Transgression?!” you spit back. “I was caught up in a country where war was imminent. I did what I had to to escape to safety. What would you want me to do!? Remain in a possible war zone?”

“How about not flit off to Europe on some ridiculous jaunt in the first place!” she yells back. And in that very moment, you realise how little they ever supported your trip, a plunging sense of familial support being ripped from under you. “We only agreed to this reluctantly as you were so insistent. And now look what you have done?! Possibly ruined your future by marrying god knows who instead of the man you have been due to marry since you were a child, y/n….”

“I married a wonderful man,” you defend instinctively. “He is twenty times the man Stanley could ever be!!” You practically roar, “and I do not regret a single thing. I wish to remain here. With him.” You huff, drawing ragged breaths as finally you look at Benedict again and see the desire writ large on his face. It makes you want to kiss him so much your lips tingle.

Down the phone, your parents are stunned into silence. You knew this news would upset them and how awkward this could be, your family being so intertwined with Stanley’s family, being the son of your father’s business partner. But also, you know you cannot lie and return to life there, even if things with Benedict do not work out.

“I only knew one way my life could go,” you press on, a frenzy of bubbling emotions bursting from within like hot lava. “Well, I have seen something of the world beyond Long Island, and it has things to offer me that Stanely and Long Island could never. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not that girl, and even if I were to annul this marriage, I would not wish to marry Stanley. Ever.”

By the end of your somewhat dramatic speech, you are heaving breaths and clinging to Benedict like a liferaft in a tsunami, your whole life as you knew it crumbling around you. But that fire in your belly that you are finally recognising and standing up for what you want, pursuing what you want, not what is expected of you, gives you the strength of your convictions, painful as this moment may be. That and the man kneeling before you—he is a choice you know you would make over and over again.

“Well, if that is your decision, then I am not sure what else there is to say,” your father intones icily. “Perhaps call us back when you have come to your senses….”

And with that, the line goes dead, and you collapse into Benedict’s arms, weeping bitterly.

—

Something changes after that phone call. Benedict doesn't leave your side, always seeking you out. Perhaps to check on you, somewhat deflated after the emotions had been wrung out of you, but apparently also to spend time together without intimacy. Just to be in your company. You only realise it when you are curled up reading on the sofa, and wordlessly, he takes a seat next to you, pulling your feet into his lap, opening his book with a soft smile. His hands swirl idle patterns over your ankle bone through your stockings as you both sit in quiet relaxation.

At one point, you brush his shoulder gently, almost unable to stop your need to touch him. Then he curls into you, resting on your chest. He chuckles as you rest your book on the back of his head and keep reading. There is no denying it has all the hallmarks of a couple in love, and yet you don’t comment; just accept it with a lightness inside that feels bubbling.

However, his warmth and weight soon make you drowsy; you are not sure when, but you fall asleep. You suspect he does, too, based on the rude awakening you receive shortly after.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?”

You startle awake, your book sliding off with a thump to the floor as Benedict seems to do the same, his head rising in shock.

Eloise is standing before you. Mouth hanging open, an utterly stricken and horrified look on her face.

You want to curl up and die. There is no way to deny what has transpired. Your arms are wrapped around his, his head on your breasts. There is no way this pose is anything but intimate - not one either of you might have accidentally slumped into.

“I can explain…” you being, your voice a rough croak from sleep.

But Eloise does not stay around to hear it. She storms out of the room, the door slamming so loud behind her that a row of framed photos rattles against the picture rail. You curse ruefully, kicking yourself for being so cavalier today after weeks of being so careful. The call earlier really throwing you for a loop. Benedict twists to sit up, head slumping into his hands, wiping his palms down his face with a harried expression.

“I suppose it was bound to happen eventually,” he monotones after a pause, but his knee bounces with nervous energy. “She’s going to tell Mother…” he adds, sounding defeated, almost scared.

And you know you can wait no longer to divulge it.

“Your mother already knows,” you admit quietly, pulling yourself upright to sit beside him.

He swivels with almost comedic speed, his face a picture.

“She approached me a few weeks ago,” you shrug. “I could hardly lie; I’m a terrible liar,” you remind him delicately.

“Mum knows….” his tone disbelieving, mouth agape.

“She said you, her children, are all terrible at hiding things from her,” you elucidate. “And….” You tremble as the words form on your tongue but feel powerless to stop them from spilling out, “… she said she knows when you are in love.”

Again, his head whips to you, and he looks panicked. “She said that?!?”

“Yes…” you look down at your hands wringing nervously in your lap, the ring on your left hand feeling like a weight.

“I… I…” he stumbles, seeming at odds.

And before you know it, he is on his feet, too and has swept out of the room in an apparent hurry.

As the door clicks shut behind him, a dread fills every nook and cranny of your being, suddenly terrified that everything you have come to treasure in the last few weeks has just been ripped violently from under you.

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anjaelle · 10 months

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Hello darling 💙

Would you consider writing for Count Vronsky from Anna Karenina?

Pairing: Count Alexei Vronsky x Foreign Socialite!Reader Warnings: Borderline Toxic Infatuation, Vintage Slow Burn, (almost) Infidelity Summary: A foreign born socialite/heiress visits a friend in Russia and meets a straight up demon. For @bettytaylorversion (AU where Anna doesn't go back to Vronsky and chooses to stay with Karenin.) Word Count: 2.3K a/n: I remember that Tolstoy made this character so straightforward that you can kind of play around with him as much as you like without changing much about who he is at his core. I can't be left to my own devices. That being said, I don't want purists yelling at me. So I hope everyone takes some of my choices here with a grain of salt.

--x--

Everything about Russia felt intimidating to you: the language, the size of the country, the power of its military, and the show of their aristocratic wealth. You were wealthy. But this was a different kind of wealth. You came to visit your close friend who was another socialite that you met through overlapping inner circles. It'd taken you a while to accept the invitation as you weren't sure how kindly they'd take to a foreigner.

You understood some of the language based on what your friend taught you, but you still weren't confident enough to converse in just Russian. Instead you opted for French, which seemed to work well enough. You knew your native language was a lost cause. While some people in the parlor were polite, others had no interest in speaking with you. A small number seemed interested in you and your home country. Or maybe they just noticed your Very New and Very Parisian wardrobe with your collection of gifted jewels. They decided you were important enough to talk to.

When she introduced you to Count Alexei Vronsky, an officer in the army, you felt her grip on your elbow tighten just the slightest bit. You knew about him. She told you all about his affair with the married woman from Saint Petersburg. You weren't sure how you pictured the man. She said he was handsome, but you lived in a world full of beautiful people. How much different could he be?

That was a terrible miscalculation. The minute he met you, he watched you with the intense interest of a fox stalking its prey. You felt your cheeks warm and your heart thud when he pressed his lips to your gloved knuckle. You averted your eyes when he rose from his bow, not really wanting to convey anything uncouth about the interaction.

The first time he found you alone, you were in your friend's library looking at a map pinned to the wall. He told you about every country he'd lived in, every country he'd traveled through, and which ones he'd be eager to see soon. When you pointed out your country on the map, he licked his lips and an easy smile graced his beautiful face.

"I suppose I have no choice but to come see you now." He said in his thick accent.

You realized, then, that he reminded you of angels you'd see painted on the walls of grand, gilded churches. You told him that you and your fiance would be happy to invite him to your engagement party.

"Hmm." he said, eyeing the map. "Fiancés..." he finished the statement in Russian, so you couldn't understand him.

Before you excused yourself to go find your friend, his fingertips gently grazed the back of your hand, stopping you in your tracks. "Your fiancé is incredibly lucky to have such a beautiful, clever woman."

The second time he found you alone, you'd been exploring the estate and decided to rest in the garden among the wildflowers. As you raised your face to the summer sun, he made his presence known by clearing his throat, causing you to jump to your feet in surprise.

"Good afternoon, startled rabbit." He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes at him.

"How long have you been standing there?" You warily asked, anxiously adjusting your skirts and brushing the grass from your hair. He cocked his head, studying you, "Long enough to notice that your beauty in parlor candlelight cannot compare to how alluring you are in the light of day."

It was interesting to see him dressed so casually compared to the night before. You wondered what he was still doing at your friend's estate when you knew he had a home of his own. You quickly glanced at her window to see the curtains still closed.

When you boldly asked him if he'd been watching you, something akin to amusement danced across his face, "You like the idea of that? Me watching you?"

"I have a fiancé."

He took a step closer, "That doesn't answer my question."

“You didn’t answer mine.” You countered, looking him square in the eye.

That wasn’t particularly ladylike, and you weren’t sure how anyone would react if they happened upon you and Vronsky standing so close in the garden without a chaperone.

As if reading your mind, he glanced down at your lips, then his eyes fell lower to your bodice. Your engraved gold locket rested on the top of one breast, with your fiancé’s initials glittering under the sun.

“I wasn’t watching you. I was…preoccupied.” His eyes met yours again and you felt like you’d been splashed with icy water. “Your husband—my apologies—your fiancé…he is a man of means? That necklace of yours is exquisite.”

You weren’t stupid. He didn’t care about the necklace. “That is a very inappropriate question to ask.”

“So he is not a man of means.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Who gave you that necklace?”

“Why does it trouble you to know?”

“You deserve a better one.” He murmured. You were unsure if he was still speaking about the jewelry. His fingers ghosted over the exposed skin of your forearm, "I could do that for you. If you wish." You took one large step back and glanced again at your friend’s window to find her watching you both suspiciously.

For the remainder of your stay in Russia, your friend treated you coolly. Though she was kind in private, she wasn't as warm in the company of others. Specifically, in the presence of Count Vronsky who seemed eager to appear more often during your stay and even more eager to get you alone. You reminded yourself that it was a temporary trip, and that you'd be back at your father's estate--and back in your kind fiancé's arms--in no time.

"It's truly fortunate that you're betrothed," your friend said as you gathered your belongings to meet the carriage in the courtyard, "or it'd be a shame to see your name added to the Count's incredibly long list of jilted lovers." There was an edge of bitterness to her tone, but you chose not to bring it up. Instead you marked it as an incredibly odd ending to an otherwise enjoyable trip.

A month later, you nearly fell down the stairs when your father called you down to the foyer to greet his newest client who arrived that morning from Russia. Count Alexei Vronsky bowed as you descended, but you could see the mirth dancing behind his eyes when he righted his posture behind your father's back.

"He says you spoke extensively about my craftsmanship. He felt compelled to come by the shop for his own fitting while he was visiting!" Your father exclaimed merrily, pulling you in for a kiss on the forehead, "My brilliant girl. This will do wonders for us. I knew I could count on you."

Sure, you had spoken highly of you father's tailoring and shoemaking, because as popular as your father was it never hurt to expand the reach of his influence.

That being said, you were sure Vronsky wasn't there for that conversation, and you never continued any form of contact after you departed Russia. You assumed he learned about where you lived through mutual friends. You swore under your breath when your father left you alone to get his sketches from his workshop in the east wing of the estate. Vronsky eyed you briefly, then redirected his interest to the art and artifacts decorating your home. Ever the son born of Russian ice and stoicism, he looked out of place in the warm atmosphere of the home you grew up in.

"Your country is beautiful," he said, arching a dark brow, "a bit too hot for my liking. Though, it is nice to see you in your natural element. I don't think wildflowers like you belong in the comparative cold of a Russian summer."

You felt like you were being tested, but you decided that there wasn't much he could do in the confines of your home. He was, after all, in your territory. Your shoulders relaxed and you chanced a small smile his way, "You'd be surprised to know how resilient I can be."

Surprisingly, he laughed, "I don't think I'd be surprised at all. I know you better than you think I do."

You felt like you'd regret it, but you decided to ask anyway.

"What do you mean by that?"

He began to stroll through the hall of your foyer, pausing every so often to examine a portrait or vase as you trailed behind him.

"You attended your fiancé's nameday feast a few years ago. Of course, he was not your fiancé, then. He was merely your father's apprentice and a quite talented shoemaker from my country who moved and quickly fell in love with...your country." He chuckled to himself at a joke only he seemed to know. "I remember you. I remember that you were an absolute vision in white, and you danced with everyone in the room. Though you were incredibly quiet when you weren't wrapped up in the melody of the orchestra." He glanced over at your confused expression, fighting a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, "Like I said: startled rabbit. Always quiet. Always watching. I remember the way your dress hugged the delicate slope of your shoulders, and the way your necklace caressed your neck. That may have been the first time I craved to exist within the confines of a jeweled pendant. And though I was otherwise...occupied with someone...I do remember the way you consistently laughed when he whispered things to you. A kind gesture, as he's never been that funny."

"So you know him. You were there that night." You whispered, feeling chills running up your arm.

"I was," he shrugged, stopping again at a more recent portrait of you and your father, "as was my duty as his elder brother."

You felt your heart stop in your chest and your brain short circuited. Your fiancé never told you about any siblings, let alone an elder brother. You knew your fiance's father was possibly dead, and that his mother raised him alone in Russia. Was he lying about his life? You weren't sure what was conveyed on your face, but Count Vronsky turned to address you directly.

"My father was not an honorable man. He forbade us from speaking to my half-brother or acknowledging him. Of course, Father is dead now, and God hasn't struck me down for disrespecting the wishes of a dead man. This also isn't the first time I've ever sinned." He grinned widely at you and took a step closer, though you were too shocked to move. "From the minute I saw you, I knew I had to have you. And every time I've seen you since, I regretted not stealing you away for myself."

"That doesn't make any sense..." you murmured, hiding your anxious hands behind your back, "I've never met you before. I'd know. I'd remember."

"You make your presence known at those silly little soirées the ladies have. I never stay for very long, but I've always..." he took another step closer and you realized you'd been backed against a pillar, "I've always noticed you. Dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Sometimes smoking. Does your father know you smoke?"

You glanced down the hall over his shoulder, and in a small voice that surprised you, you whispered, "I don't always do that."

"Mhmm." He reached out to run his warm, slightly calloused fingers along the chain of your necklace, stopping just before the pendant that rested in the valley of your cleavage. Your chest involuntarily heaved, and your knees felt weak, "What other bad things do you 'not always' do?"

You parted your lips to attempt something sharp, but instead you swallowed hard and said, "I'm to be married."

"But you are not married." He was so close, "Do you know how badly I've wanted to come see you since you left?" You could smell the sweet wine of your country on his tongue as he whispered lowly to you, "The thought of his hands on you made me want to abandon all of my obligations to cross the sea. Did you think of me?"

Your gaze fell to his lips, slightly stained red, and then back up into his piercing blue eyes. God, he was beautiful. He caught the action.

"You did."

"I didn't."

"Your eyes betray you, wildflower." His hand grazed your hip above your skirt, and his lips ghosted over your own, "I thought about you every night. I think about how you'd look spread out for me on those expensive sheets your father bought you. Waiting for me. And you're wearing that charming necklace my brother gave you while my tongue is deep in that sweet little--"

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Vronsky swiftly turned away from you to examine the nearest vase again, as if nothing happened. You hadn't realized that your hands were grasping your skirt in your fists and that you were squeezing your thighs together.

You realized then that it'd been so long since you were last touched.

When your father entered the hall, he shot you a curious look before handing Vronsky his latest sketches.

"Here you go, young man. Let me know if these are to your liking. We can begin as early as tomorrow afternoon."

The blond shot your father a charming smile and bowed graciously, "Thank you for taking the time to help a stranger on such short notice."

The conversation sounded like white noise in your ears as you willed your heart to slow down. Even as you composed yourself and released your skirt from your hands, you still felt out of sorts.

When he turned to you and bowed again, he rose and allowed his eyes to trail down the length of your body.

"Always a pleasure to see you again."

#count vronsky #count vronsky x reader #aaron taylor johnson #atj x reader #it's taken me sooo long to edit and re-edit this i'm so sorry #thank you for waiting #jae writes

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warwickroyals · 27 days

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Sunderland's Royal Jewel Vault (18/∞) ♛

↬ Countess Wynn's Meander Tiara

The majority of the tiaras in the Sunderlandian collection were inherited through members of King Louis V's family, mainly previous queens Matilda Mary, Anne, and Katherine. This meander tiara however represents the current Wariwcks' French heritage, as it belonged to Queen Irene's mother, Marguerite Wynn. Countess Wynn was born in 1914 as Marguerite Delphine Lucie Chevrier. She was the eldest of four children born to industrialist Phillipe Édouard Chervrier (1880 - 1950) and his El Salvadoran wife, Consuelo Romana Gomez (1892 - 1979). Margurite's family claims ancestry from both French and Spanish nobility, although the bulk of their impressive fortune was derived from Phillipe's ceramics factory in the south of France. Much of Margurite's early life was disrupted by the First World War, during which the Chevriers settled in Mexico City with Consuelo's sister. Following the war, Marguerite flourished in high Parisian society, becoming well-versed in the arts and fluent in several languages, including English and Spanish. Expected to marry into the French aristocracy, Marguerite made waves by instead marrying John Wynn (1911 - 1973), a career soldier from Sunderland whose great family had fallen on hard times following the deaths of John's three older brothers in the war. When the couple met in 1931, John was on a mindless trek across Europe, in search of a wealthy bride. Despite their differing backgrounds, Marguerite was smitten by John's optimism and good humour. The pair married a year later, with John even converting to Catholicism to appease Marguerite's parents. Their wedding was held at the Chapel of the Palace of Versailles, one of the last grand society affairs of interwar Paris. The tiara, which featured a Greek key design punctuated by a central emerald-cut yellow diamond, was among Marguarite's wedding gifts. The jewel is ambiguous in origin but is agreed to be an early twentieth-century creation, likely from Cartier. It became a useful tool in Margurite's arsenal as she erupted in Sunderland as one of the country's wealthiest society ladies. Pearlie, as she became known, was noted to be arrogant, intelligent, and ravishing. Pearlie is more "royal" than the rest of us combined. She drenches herself in jewels as if she were the ghost of the last Tsarina. — Queen Katherine, 1970

The Countess owned the tiara until 1968, when she gave it to her youngest daughter, Lady Irene, also as a wedding present. Irene's marriage to the future King Louis V was Pearlie's greatest life achievement and she became increasingly boastful. Maman Wynn, as she was called by the press and public, was known to meddle in royal affairs, especially the personal lives of her daughter and son-in-law. By the early 1980s, she was on bad terms with both. Irene was never seen wearing her mother's tiara, but she kept it in her own personal possession for almost thirty years. In 1997, Irene continued the tradition by gifting the tiara to her only daughter, Princess Jacqueline, ahead of her wedding to Lawrence Belmont. The wedding was coincidently the last public appearance of the old Countess Wynn. She died peacefully at Chester Palace the same winter. Since then, Jacqueline has worn the tiara regularly at state functions and in official portraits. It's among the princess's most cherished pieces.

The Countess Wynn wears the tiara in a portrait, circa October 1943, eight years before the birth of her youngest daughter, Queen Irene

HRH Princess Jacqueline wears the tiara while attending a gala dinner & dance in July 2026

#warwick.jewels #✨#ch: irene #ch: jacqueline #ts4 #ts4 story #ts4 royal #ts4 storytelling #ts4 edit #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 legacy #ts4 royalty #ts4 monarchy #ts4 screenshots

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victoriademedici · 9 months

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The Fife Tiara, given to Queen Victoria’s granddaughter Princess Louise on her wedding day in 1889, is today considered one of the finest works produced by celebrated Parisian jeweller Oscar Massin, and represents the very zenith of tiara design. A gift from Louise’s husband the Duke of Fife, it comprises hundreds of diamonds ranging in weight from one to ten carats, and features a spectacular row of pear shaped ‘swing set’ diamonds, which would have dazzled onlookers when worn.

#should i do more posts like this?#queen victoria #princess louise #alexander duff #duke of fife #weddings #fashion and style #royal aesthetics #british royal family #my gifs #tiaras #royal tiaras

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thedeadleafs · 4 months

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Mucha, Musee des Arts Decoratifs, 1900

Paris, France --- This exquisite Art Nouveau interior was designed by Alphonse Marie Mucha in 1900 for the Parisian jeweler, Georges Fouquet. The interior has been reconstructed in the Musee des Arts Decoratifs in Paris to preserve its beauty and artistic importance. --- Image by © Massimo Listri/CORBIS

#alphonse mucha #1900s #art #art nouveau #architecture

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justrandomfanfictionskh · 1 year

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We should Have Stayed in Gotham ch3

(Almost every Maribat fic I read has the akuma class going to Gotham. But tell me which is more likely, a class touring the city of crime, or a class touring the city of lights? So here it is, the Daminette fic that only I asked for, where Gotham goes to Paris, and the poor students have to grapple with the fact that they have competition for the most dangerous city in the world. I wonder what will happen?)

ao3 Beginning Previous

The moment Damian had learned that he had a roommate, he knew that he would have trouble sleeping. Granted, the Gotham High student, Will, was quiet and unobtrusive, so at first Damian thought that it wouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice to share a room with him (but only if he kept a knife under his pillow). However, after seeing the giant baby trying to eat the Eiffel Tower all thoughts of sleep were quickly thrown away in favor of hours upon hours of research while his roommate slept.

So it should have come as no surprise to anyone, that Damian walked up to the Louvre with bags under his eyes and a scowl to curdle milk. He sipped his hotel coffee in distaste as his peers gave him a wide berth, as they waited for their French guides. Yet despite his exhaustion, and the distance of his peers, he was able to overhear their conversations and gauge their intentions for the rest of the trip.

“You can’t be serious!” Kathryn was yelling, “After what we saw yesterday you’re not freaking out? I’m freaking out! We almost died!”

“You live three blocks away from Crime Alley!” A Gotham High student who was on the “Parisian’s are overreacting” side exclaimed. “You almost die every day!”

“Yeah,” Kathryn said, “From muggers and henchmen. You know, people I can kick in the family jewels. Not magic giant babies! I can’t kick magic giant babies! And if you had bothered too even read the survival guide, you would know that that particular akuma happens like, a lot!”

“But it doesn’t matter!” Chad cried, “I mean their hero has a magic reset button, so…”

“Ok,” Alice said sardonically, all of the "Who cares" Gothamites were now firmly on the "It's a big deal" side, “So you’re suicidal. Great.”

“I’m not—”

“Students!” Mr. Robinson, their chaperone and French teacher, called. “Our liaison class is here, so be on our best behavior!”

Damian took a swig of his coffee as they moved towards the glass pyramid in the center of the courtyard. He was tired, and he did not want to deal with whichever idiotic child they pared him up with, but he needed to know more. He had been researching all night, but he still didn’t know why the Justice League hadn’t been called in yet. And considering how many akumas had almost ended the world, he had a feeling that they should definitely know about this.

But there was one more thing that was bugging him unceasingly, Hawkmoth. His motivation was clear, he wanted a wish, but he didn’t know the reason behind that motivation. And his strategy was baffling. Just from reading the blogs, it looked like Hawkmoth’s plan was to akumatize as many different people as possible and then hope one of them would be able to defeat Ladybug and Chat Noir. It was ridiculous, idiotic, and completely ineffectual…And yet Ladybug had not been able to catch him. It made no sense. From the videos it was clear that even when Ladybug had been at her least skilled, she had always been competent and efficient. Now two years later, she had experience, training, and competent and effective team members. So why hadn’t she eliminated the threat?

His thoughts were aggravatingly interrupted when they reached the chattering group of teenagers in front of the pyramid. When they saw the Gothamites, the Parisians instantly quieted and lined up with plastered smiles, and bright, scanning eyes. It was…disturbing and pulled all of the Gothamites up short and had them frowning and scanning for any hidden dangers. It was almost comical, the line of bright, colorful Parisians facing off of the dark, scowling Gothamites. Damian just sipped his coffee and began memorizing the faces. He paused when he was the small group of people not joining the lineup.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Sabrina Raincomprix, and Chloe Bourgeois, and two other girls stood on the opposite side of the line from the teachers and little apart from their class despite the fact that two of their members were the class leaders. Marinette was sipping on a large cup, but her small welcoming smile seemed a hundred times more genuine than the toothy grins of her classmates. Sabrina was standing beside her, and she seemed to be fidgeting with excitement as she waited for the teachers to finish talking. Chloe was the only one who was not smiling, instead she was completely consumed with her phone and only huffing when her friends spoke to her. Damian couldn’t get a good idea of the other two girls, as one of them was hidden behind Marinette, and the other was…roller blading around the courtyard completely ignoring everyone.

Eventually, Mlle. Mendeliev cleared her thought as she began handing out papers to her class, with the Gotham teachers mirroring her with Damian and his peers. “Now,” she said sternly yet not harshly in English, “It has come to our attention that you all were caught up in the akuma attack yesterday. That is good, perhaps now you will take this threat seriously, and do everything in your power to avoid creating or becoming akumatized.”

“That being said,” Mlle. Bustier said quickly with a pointed look at her coworker, “We are glad none of you were harmed, and hope that it never happens again!”

“Hm,” Mendeliev said before snapping her attention to both classes commanding their attention like a general surveying their troops. “You have each been paired up according to those whom we have deemed least likely to cause akumas. French students will speak in English. English students will speak in French. Complete your work sheets by the end of the day to receive full marks. There will be no switching!”

Damian noticed her sharp eyes falling on a girl dressed in an awful shade of orange, with sausages disguised as hair framing her face. Said girl just smiled innocently, before her eyes fell on him, and he groaned. The sudden flash of predatory glee that she had eyed him with made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing to do with that girl, but he knew her type far too well. She was like his mother, desperate for power and willing to do anything to get it. At that moment Damian was the most powerful person there, and she knew it.

He prepared himself for an aggravating and unsatisfactory morning as he waited for the opportunist to corner whoever he had been partnered with him and “convince” them to switch partners despite the teacher’s mandate. Needless to say, he was surprised when the person who had extracted themselves from the mass of congregating students to find him, was not the sausage girl, but Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Her smile when she saw him was so bright and genuine, it had Damian squinting his eyes in suspicion as she moved toward him. But she maintained a respective distance and spoke formally in English as she said, “Hello, I’m Marinette. You must be Damian.”

“I am,” Damian said in perfect French straightening as he looked at his work sheet for the first time. Sure enough, Marinette’s name was right beside his at the top of the page. “Although, I should warn you that this exercise will not be very beneficial for me. As you can see, I am already quiet fluent in your language.”

Damian expected the girl to become annoyed or aggravated at his briskness, but apparently dealing with an emotional terrorist everyday gave her a higher tolerance for his behaviors than the majority of his peers. She just tilted her head with a cocked eyebrow and said in Mandarin,

“I understand. If I’m being honest, I’m in the same boat. As I am fluent in more languages than I’ll probably ever use.”

Damian raised his eyebrows in surprised, but he couldn’t help the smirk playing on his lips as he slipped into Arabic saying, “Well, that is unfortunate. But if you do not think you will use them, then why learn?”

“I plan to travel,” Marinette said in perfect Hindi. “I plan to go into fashion, and I wish to be able to reach as many people as possible. What about you? Why do you know so many languages?”

“I am expected to take over my father’s business,” Damian said in Russian. “It is an international company and possibly intergalactic if the treaty with Mars and Tameran goes through.”

“I hope it does!” Marinette said in Spanish, “I believe that intergalactic relations will improve international ones, as we will have to be united in order to effectively interact with the greater galaxy.”

“Interesting,” Damian said in Africans, “Not everyone has such an optimistic view of human nature.”

Marinette said something in Greek, and Damian winced. Her smile grew in victory as she found perhaps the only Earth language he had yet to fully master, but Damian would not be quelled. So, before she could capitalize on her victory, he switched to German and said, “Unfortunately I have yet to master Greek. It seems you have the advantage of me.”

Damian’s smirk returned as Marinette winced. But her smile remained as she said in perfect Japanese, “My German is almost non-existent. So I guess that makes us even unless…”

“I speak Japanese,” Damian said in the same language. “Perhaps this enterprise, will not be as fruitless as I thought. If you are willing to assist me in Greek, then you might even be an adequate companion.”

The moment the words left his lips, Damian knew that he had probably offended her, which would have been awful. She seemed to be the only person here who wasn’t a complete imbecile, and brushing up on his Greek was the only way this exercise wouldn’t be a waste of time. But instead Marinette just laughed bright and clear, and said,

“Adequate. That’s a new one, but I’ll take it. You know you remind me of Chloe, she doesn’t complement…well anyone.”

“Considering she is your friend; I will assume you meant the comparison to also be complementary.”

Marinette shrugged with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Why don’t you meet her first, and then you can decide if it’s a compliment?”

Damian nodded in appreciation and a little wariness before they were interrupted by a shrill voice crying, “Marinette!”

The unwavering class president wavered, which sent a shrill line of tension through Damian. He scanned the crowd for the person responsible for causing such a steadfast presence to flinch and found an overly excitable girl with round glasses running up to them with a too bright smile. Damian recognized the Gotham Academy student following her as one of the students who had retained very little of the French lessons, and could barely introduce herself in the language. This newcomer must have been under the impression that all of the Gotham students had a similar level of incompetence because she began to speak in rapid-fire French as if Damian couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

“Marinette,” the newcomer said, “You have to switch partners with Lila. She’s desperate.”

Marinette took a deep breath as if she was actively steeling herself against something unpleasant and said, “Alya, that’s not going to happen. Mlle. Mendeliev, and Sabrina spent hours on these partners so that there would be as few akumas as possible.”

“But Lila—”

“Is a liar!”

“I know! But seriously Marinette, Adrien’s right. It’s not like she does any harm saying she save Jagged’s cat. No body actually believes her. Besides she has a disease! She can’t help it!”

“Yeah!” Marinette said perhaps a little snappishly, “A disease she is doing nothing to cure, and all you're doing is enabling her!”

“What?! I am not enabling her! I am trying to help a fellow student who is suffering from a mental illness, and trying to prevent akumas! Which you used to care about. Honestly Marinette, it’s almost as if you want this conference to be ruined. I think you’ve been spending too much time with Chloe.”

“Well, at least Chloe is trying to make amends! What does Lila do whenever she causes an akuma?”

Alya shook her head in disappointment, as if Marinette was the blind one here. “She’s just trying to get her Miraculous back. That girl couldn’t be genuinely kind even if she was hit by a personality reversal akuma. Just switch partners with Lila! It will be best for the whole class.”

“But not best for me,” Damian said in French with as much sternness as he could master. He did not miss the suppressed vindictive smirk from Marinette as Alya stared at him in shock. But Damian simply tilted his chin to the interloper with as much distain he could manage. “Now what ‘illness’ does this Lila claim to have that we must cater to her every whim.”

“She’s a compulsive liar,” Marinette said hiding her satisfaction under a lecturing tone, and a gentle smile. “To quote her words exactly, ‘It’s a disease and I can’t help it. So please be kind. I don’t intentionally want to hurt anyone, but there’s something wrong with me, and I need help!’”

Damian growled in distaste. He assumed that Lila was the girl with the sausages for hair. She had obviously seen the situation in Paris and decided to use it to her advantage. Whether she actually had a mental illness or not, was clearly not the issue, because she was using it to convince her class to cater to her ever whim. “Do everything I say or else I will call a supervillain to curse us all," she was basically saying, "But don’t blame me, I’m sick and can’t help it.” It was something his mother would do and immediately put bad taste in his mouth.

“Alya,” he said giving her the full weight of his “Ice Prince” persona. He took no small amount of satisfaction from her almost fearful reaction. “I can guarantee, that if I was to be paired with this Lie-la, then I will be akumatized within five minutes of our meeting. And if you ask any of my peers, I think you will find that me being akumatized is the last thing you want. So please return to your…friend, and tell her that under no circumstances will I take any partner other than Marinette. Now leave us alone, you aren’t wanted here.”

Alya turned to the other girl with a sort of desperate pleading, but Marinette just sighed and said gently, “I’m sorry Alya. But after that speech, I think we can all agree that it’s for the best.”

Alya shook her head in disappointment, and there was nothing but pure disappointment in her voice when she said, “And to think you used to be our ‘Everyday Ladybug.’ Now…now your just selfish.” She spun and marched off before they could respond.

Damian glanced at Marinette and froze. She looked as if she had just been stabbed. The words had meant nothing to Damian, but they had clearly meant everything to her. But before Damian could offer his support, Marinette closed her eyes and began taking deep breaths. An expression of complete and total calm passed over her. It was as if every negative emotion the confrontation had caused was melting away through her figure tips.

When she opened her eyes, she turned back to Damian with her gentle smile. But there was now a new sense of exhaustion in her clear blue bell eyes that said this was not the first time her “friends” had hurt her, and it would not be the last.

In that moment, Damian came to some very important conclusions about this Marinette. One, she was strong. She lived in a city under constant siege, and she still stood tall and genuine, with a smile that breathed kindness and compassion with every laugh and word. And two, these people did not deserve her. It was obvious that they were sheep, from the way a large group of them gathered around Lila and were now pandering to her to stop her from lashing out. They had traded a kind and gentle leader, for a mountain of fool’s gold. Pretty to look at but ultimately useless. And they had done it with their eyes open. It would have been better if they had fallen for her lies.

“I’m sorry about that,” Marinette said in English with what Damian assumed was her signature cheerfulness, just as he addressed people with his signature superiority, “Things…well, let’s just say that the akumas have caused a lot of damage, not all of it physical. Make’s it hard to know how to…interact with people, and behave rationally. I hope you understand.”

Damian nodded as he said, “I can not say that I understand completely. But I can say that I know what you mean. I have some experience with liars and manipulators, and I can see how this situation could be very beneficial to them. However, if you’re classmates had any form of actual intelligence then they would not pander to that girl the way that they do. So, I cannot garner too much sympathy for them.”

A light returned to Marinette’s eyes as he said this, as if he had amused her instead of insulting the people she probably knew and trusted far more than him. “Ok, I have to keep you and Chloe apart. It’s the only way, I’m going to be able to prevent actual murder from happening!”

“Hm,” Damian said, his smirk returning. Perhaps a little brighter than he intended, but still too small to communicate any actual pleasure. “Now I must insist on meeting her. Perhaps we can cull the herd and bring some intelligence back into this city.”

Marinette laughed, and Damian thought it sounded like bells. But they were interrupted when the red haired girl on rollerblades zoomed up to them with a worried expression. “Hey Mari,” she said gently, “I saw you talking to Alya. Are you ok?”

“Yeah, thanks Alix,” Marinette said her smile brightening even more at her friend. “All good here. But where’s your partner?

"Oh, she’s over there!” Alix gestured to the side and Damian saw Kathryn leaning against a statue while she played with her phone. “I’m so glad her French is better than my English. But if you’re ok, then I’ve got to go. I promised to get her my extra blades from my dad’s office. We’re going to have so much fun!”

“I am already regretting the fact that you two were paired together,” Marinette said with a fond shake of her head. But Alix just laughed and raced off. Kathryn running beside her through what appeared to be an employee’s entrance to the Louvre.

“Her dad’s the curator,” Marinette explained. “She’s been racing through there since she was five. They’ll be fine as long as they don’t break anything important.”

Damian nodded, as the teachers called the students to order. It was time for the first activity to begin. A Louvre scavenger hunt, which will end with lunch and then a "getting to know you party" back at the school. “I hope you know you’re artifacts as well as you know languages," he said openly studying her compitence.

A playful smile spread across Marinette’s face, as if she had some great hidden secret that she was daring him to discover. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “As long as luck’s on my side, we can’t possibly fail. Our biggest competition will be Alix.”

“Because of her father?”

“Sure,” Marinette said still with that playful smile brightening her face, “Let’s go with that.”

@night-ngale @annastasha @ev-cupcake @hammalammadamdam @laydeekrayzee @itsemmylie @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks

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sgiandubh · 7 months

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Do you have any secret tips for restaurants or cafés for a trip to Paris?

Dear Paris Anon,

I am happy and amused you ask me this question. Happy, because I have been calling Paris home for six years: that means there are places where I was madly kissing a beautiful (and cruel) boy from Bastia, places where I walked at night drunk as a boiled owl with people who are still in my life, places where I regularly went shopping or having an endless coffee with friends and places I was entrusted with, like precious jewels. Amused, because to be honest, Paris is probably the last French destination I could think of for an enjoyable week-end en amoureux (I suppose you want to go as a couple?), right now: it is overpriced as hell (the Olympics are round the corner), dirty and seedy (I was shocked, last time I visited and Manu Macron, my old acquaintance of yore, spoke about parking all the homeless outside of town during the Games 'for aesthetic reasons' - the boy never had a sense of humor, trust me on this one).

I shall give you 5 restaurants and 5 cafés (oh God, why didn't you ask me about Bangkok, instead?). Many of them are on the Left Bank (all of my addresses were there, simply because the closer to the university, the better).

Five restaurants: as it happens in Rome (where the gap is truly tragic), I will try and recommend places where locals go. You will find a menu in English everywhere, but at least try the holy trinity of bonjour, l'addition (the check) et merci. All the Parisian waiters are sourer than the Politburo and insolent as highway robbers, but do not be deterred by their manners. Order away.

Le Relais de Venise - son entrecôte (271 Bd Pereire, 75017). It is not in the center. They do not take reservations. You will be met with a long line of people patiently waiting (Seinfeld style) to get in. They have a minimal set menu (which is always a very good sign: https://relaisdevenise.com/menus/set-menu.php). The waitresses are kind and dressed like 1920's maids. It will be the damn best entrecôte-frites you've ever had (their sauce is a secret). Nothing changed there since 1959. Double check opening times and plan accordingly: you will need a taxi and plenty of time ahead. Almost a bargain for its stellar performance. The London one is a sad spin off.

Le Soufflé (36 rue du Mont Thabor, 75001). An original choice, but oh so good! They only cook soufflés (not exactly a pudding, but a pudding angels must have on a daily basis). Very reasonably priced for Paris (set menus at 40 and 55 euros - https://www.lesouffle.fr/bienvenue/home/menu/). If you want to eat à la carte, I recommend le soufflé Henri IV (cheese soufflé with chicken & mushrooms sauce) : it is heaven.

La Jacobine (59-61 Rue Saint-André des Arts, 75006). You will find tourists in this one, it is always full. Service is impeccable. Do not bother with Le Procope round the corner: it used to be one of my haunts, but this is over. The best soupe à l'oignon (onion soup, notoriously hard to cook) I ever had (yes, they still add white wine!). I would also recommend the magret de canard sauce aux cèpes (duck breast with a porcini mushrooms sauce). I could not find a decent menu, but that should give you an idea - they don't have a website (https://eater.space/la-jacobine). Very reasonably priced, too - and very, very good.

Chez Julien (1, rue du Pont Louis-Philippe, 75004 Paris). This is one of my mum's favorites. It is open only in the evenings, but it is an excellent choice if you want to call it a night, because it has service continu (all night long, wow!). It is more expensive - this is, after all, the Right Bank, so expect prices to go drastically up. This is the only option serving wonderful breakfasts, so I beg you: have breakfast in town at least once, Paris hotels tend to do it on the sad and sorry side (https://www.chezjulien.paris/en/home#menu-en). Pair anything you pick with a glass of Pouilly fumé white wine (it goes with anything, it is that magically good).

Money is no object? Entice the guy to take you at (I am torn, here, to be honest) La Tour d'Argent (19 Quai de la Tournelle, 75005). It is very expensive (like VERY), but it is worth every penny (https://tourdargent.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/LTDA-SEPTEMBRE-EN.pdf). You must (it's an order!) order the canard au sang (you will find it on the menu under the entry Duckling Frédéric Delair and it is outrageously priced). But you will never have a chance to see the table show anywhere else (it is served in two times: first the fillet and then the legs and it uses a sort of Medieval contraption, to get the blood out for the sauce) - just a specialty from Normandy, you will not find in Rouen anymore. It is divine. They have been there since 1583. What are you waiting for? (for a less break the bank option, try Le Grand Véfour, near the Louvre - google it, it will take forever to explain why).

Four cafés and a salon de thé (tea parlor) : all are haunts of mine. In every single one of them something very personal happened to me. Consider yourself lucky. On a more practical side, all of them double as excellent lunch options, for a fraction of what you would spend in a restaurant. :)

Chez Carette (4 Pl. du Trocadéro, 75016, but also Place des Vosges, with a nod to C). You will have an exceptional choice of anything you could think of and the same Roaring Twenties atmosphere as in the Relais de Venise restaurant. The chocolat chaud (hot chocolate) is almost perfection (do NOT go to Angelina, on the rue de Rivoli, that is another favorite which went south and not in a good way). The best macarons you will find North of Saint Jean de Luz's Maison Adam (where the story of macarons began in earnest). This is Someone's favorite, but then he always was a Right Bank purist. Service is old school, which means supremely kind, if only a bit on the slow side: you are in France, soak it in!

Les Deux Magots (6 Pl. Saint-Germain des Prés, 75006). On the Left Bank in the publishing houses district. This is my second favorite (there is a first favorite) and you will likely find me on the heated terrace with a cigarette and a newspaper, if I were there. Service is appalling, but you should not mind, I have warned you. Reasonably priced for what and where it is. Breakfasts are mediocre, but still enjoyable and lunch/dinner menus are typical brasserie fare - you are not there for the food, you are there to cosplay Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir and act intellectual and sophisticated and have endless talks about the world's destiny (https://lesdeuxmagots.fr/en/breakfast-menu/). If nature calls, head downstairs with an air of intrinsic superiority and don't forget to pay the grumpy dame pipi (toilet lady), who will give you what you need and look at you like you are the scum of the Earth. Always makes me laugh.

Le Café de l'Epoque (2 Rue du Bouloi, 75001). On the Right Bank, at the end of one of the most beautiful passages couverts (glass-roofed passageways) of Paris. Again, you are there for the supremely dreamy atmosphere, I can only fail to describe. Look on the map for all of these passageways and then get lost in the maze of stamp shops, bookstores, taxidermists and God only knows what else you could think of (or at least add to this passageway the Galerie Vivienne). Usual brasserie/bistro fare, reasonable prices (https://cafedelepoque.fr/en/services). The lemon meringue pies are to die for.

Café Le Rostand (6 Pl. Edmond Rostand, 75006). Steps away from the Luxembourg Gardens, which I crossed every single day to go to the uni. Steps away also from the secret and sublime Medici fountain in above park (oh, the things I did there!). Surprisingly good French fare, the beef tartare is excellent (a rare thing!) and well priced (https://lerostand.fr/carte/ - use Google translate, they don't care for tourists). Service is cheeky. Round the corner, one of the most charming shops in Paris, Parapluies Simon (56 Boulevard Saint-Michel, 75006) - only umbrellas and dandy walking sticks (you can hide a whisky mini flask in one of them, I am told by Someone on the phone, but I think he is trolling us - we love that shop).

The Tea Caddy (14 Rue Saint-Julien le Pauvre, 75005). It's been there since 1928, when a certain Miss Klinklin opened it and introduced the Devon scones to France. It is my favorite favorite (https://the-tea-caddy.com/en/tea-room/) and it is perfect on a rainy day. Steps away from the Medieval church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, one of the most authentic and moving experiences of its kind in a very secular town. The Shakespeare & Co. bookstore is just round the corner. A rare gem of a place.

I could go on and on and on. Three more short tips and you will thank me for it, as alternatives to deceiving mainstream options:

The Musée de l'Orangerie instead of The Louvre. Blasphemy? Intense perfumes come in small bottles. It is breathtaking (https://www.musee-orangerie.fr/en).

Château de Rambouillet instead of Versailles (you will not be able to enjoy it AT ALL). Where else could you find Marie Antoinette's private 'milk bar' (La Laiterie de la Reine/ The Queen's Dairy), a supremely elegant affair, with milk-spouting fountains, built to encourage hygienic milk consumption as an alternative to breast-feeding (she was unable to). Trust me and plan a full day for it (https://www.chateau-rambouillet.fr/en/discover).

La Sainte-Chapelle instead of Notre Dame. I always preferred it to anything else, except perhaps Vézelay (far, far away from Paris). It will shock you, but in such a perfect way (https://www.sainte-chapelle.fr/en). Enough said: I will let you discover. Across the Seine, couple this visit with the Musée de Cluny and tell The Lady and the Unicorn I miss them (https://www.musee-moyenage.fr/en/).

I am not sorry for the length of this post. At all. I hope you will enjoy this modest, but very personal selection and perhaps you will come back and tell me if it was worth something. Bon voyage!

Notre Dame on a snowy evening, Paris 1953

#Anon

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yetanothersparrowofthedawn · 3 months

Text

The Way I Loved You

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 9k

Pairing: Jake x Reader

Genre: Angst, hurt, ex!Jake

Context: YN has some big news. Chaos ensues, as per usual.

Disclaimer: THIS IS UNEDITED, this chapter has been driving me insane and I just wanted to get it out of my drafts. Also, English isn’t my native language, so I apologize in advance for mistakes and awkward wordings to come. Also, I guess this fic could be triggering for some because it’s kind of sad and angsty.

Previous Track: Style

Chapter soundtrack: That’s the way I loved you – Taylor Swift

He is sensible and so incredible He opens up my door and I get into his car And he says, "You look beautiful tonight" And I feel perfectly fine. But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain, And It's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name. So in love that you act insane, And that's the way I loved you. Breaking down and coming undone, It's a roller coaster kind of rush. I never knew I could feel that much And that's the way I loved you.

(By the way, for every ‘Chapter Soundtrack’, basically the idea is that it’s a song that YN eventually wrote with that chapter of her life in mind)

Alright, let’s get into this.

The plane cut through the clouds, having left the US behind as YN and the band embarked on a journey together. YN couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia mixed with anticipation as the Paris skyline unfolded beneath them.

The past six months had been quite a personal success. A mosaic of regular shared experiences had broken down any residual tension that might’ve lingered between her and Jake. Their casual encounters at shows, festivals, and birthdays-alike had served as genuine moments of connection, reforging the group dynamic they had all missed.

YN’s relationship with Harry, on the other hand, had blossomed into a real spectacle that constantly adorned the front pages of tabloids. This, of course, earned her a lot of suffocating attention, but amidst the whirlwind of it all, she managed to find refuge in the simplicity of the few moments she spent with the band.

The purpose of their Parisian escapade was twofold — YN was set to attend the art exhibit opening of an old friend of hers, while the band sought out some specific piece of music equipment that Sam had simply refused to order online.

It was a perfect opportunity to blend business with pleasure.

The jet touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport and as they stepped onto the tarmac, the crisp Parisian air infused the atmosphere with a sense of adventure.

As the day unfolded, the city of lights revealed its magic. Goofing around in a place where no one paid attention to them was exactly what they’d needed. It felt just like old times.

They explored hidden corners and indulged in local delicacies until the jet lag simply became too much to bear. With tired but cheerful eyes, they returned to the hotel as the city lights began to shimmer.

__________

The lobby buzzed with the chatter of a day well-spent. YN got off the elevator on her floor, wishing the boys a good night with a smile.

As she stepped into her hotel room, her gaze wandered across the space. The muted ambiance contrasted sharply with the vibrant memories of the day.

The blinking light on the telephone caught her attention, and curiosity compelled her to check the answering machine.

With the press of a button, none other than her fiancé's voice resonated in the room, a familiar warmth despite the miles that separated them.

"Hi, love, hope you're havin' a good time with the guys. Wish I could be there with you, but I'm still in London.” She smiled softly as his words wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.

“Listen, I just wanted to let you know I just got off the phone with the jeweler,” a pause hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unspoken, “they said they're done."

YN fell back onto the bed with a huff, the mattress embracing her in its soft contours. Stretched out on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, the weight of the secret she’d been keeping pressed on her conscience.

Harry’s voice, a distant echo, continued to fill the room, “The ring should fit perfectly now."

The next day arrived, and jet lag had firmly taken hold, but YN shook off its drowsy grip to join Josh, Jake, and Danny in the hotel's dining room for some brunch.

The fatigue was evident on everyone's faces. She inquired about their plans for the day.

"Well, we have an appointment at the music store in an hour," Danny replied.

Josh scoffed, "If Sam ever decides to—"

"If Sam ever decides to what?" Sam's challenging voice cut in as he strolled over, taking a seat at their table.

"Samuel, how nice of you to join us," Jake teased.

"You know I need my beauty sleep, brother. Don't be jealous," Sam retorted. YN chuckled at the banter, enjoying the familiar dynamic.

As the conversation continued, Danny, with a raised eyebrow, steered the discussion back to the important topic, “As I was saying,” he resumed, “we have an appointment at the music store in an hour. How long do you reckon that will last?” he asked.

Sam, with his typical nonchalance, replied, “Not sure; the call was all in French. Might be ten minutes, could also be ten hours.”

The eye rolls from Josh and Jake were nearly audible, a synchronized response to their younger brother’s signature unpreparedness.

“Alright, we should probably head out right about now,” Jake declared, scanning the surroundings. He sighed in anticipation, “For all we know Sam may have gotten the address wrong as well.”

The youngest, catching wind of the ribbing, protested with a whine, “Hey now, that’s not fair,” as the group headed out through the bustling lobby.

__________

Once they stood outside the hotel, Danny turned to YN, “Are you heading to your friend’s thing?”

One of YN’s old friends was having the opening night of her new art exhibit, an event which they were all planning on attending later that evening, and YN had mentioned the possibility of going early to lend a hand.

“Yeah,” she replied absent-mindedly, “I’ll see if she needs anything.” She looked away in apprehension.

“Alright then,” Sam said, “we’ll see you later.”

As they were about to part ways, YN nervously blurted out, “Do you all need to be at that appointment thing?” She paused, turning to Josh, “I mean… the equipment is just for the players, isn’t it?”

Josh instantly scoffed, feigning an offended expression, “Well, I happen to play something called the vocals, YN, thank you very much.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” she insisted, an unusually tense expression on her face, “please?”

Sam was about to retort with a whole bunch of technical issues but Josh, catching on to his friend’s unspoken plea, quickly intervened, "Uh, you know what, guys? I think I'll stick around with YN for a bit. I can catch up with you later."

The others, slightly taken aback, glanced at each other, then at Josh and YN.

“Sure, no problem,” Danny smiled.

YN grabbed Josh and the pair strode away, arm in arm, leaving the others slightly dumbfounded.

Josh couldn't help but shoot YN a puzzled look, to which she responded with a silent gratitude that spoke volumes.

The rhythm of their footsteps echoed a subtle tension in the air. After twenty minutes, Josh, usually the easygoing one, couldn't help but enquire, "So, what was that about?"

She glanced at him, her expression a mix of urgency and hesitation. "It’s nothing, let’s keep going we’re almost there.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, “come on, there clearly is something,” he stated, crossing his arms, “and I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

She stared at him, tempted to call out his bluff, but decided against it, knowing it was only a matter of minutes anyway.

“Alright,” she sighed nervously, “I have some news.”

___________

The air hung heavy with the weight of revelation. YN's eyes, now wide with anticipation, searched Josh's face for a reaction, a sign that he had processed the bombshell she had just dropped. The silence echoed like a distant melody, the street a quiet stage for the unfolding drama.

YN finally broke through the deafening quiet. "Aren’t you going to say anything?" her voice carried a mix of vulnerability and desperation, a plea for connection.

Josh, still processing, stared into the distance as if searching for answers among the unseen horizons. The creases on his forehead deepened, and the corners of his lips twitched with unspoken thoughts. "I just—” he finally uttered, “this- it’s is a lot to take in."

"I know, I'm sorry to spring this on you like that," YN said, her words softening the room's tension. She continued, "I've been dying to tell you- or anyone for that matter, but- with the boys and other people always around, I was afraid it would turn into a big thing, and the news would get out."

Josh remained silent; his eyes still locked on some distant point.

"So..?" YN pressed on. She needed a reaction, a response, anything to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

"So..." Josh hesitated, choosing his words with measured precision, "we're not heading to your friend's exhibit, are we?" he finally inquired, his question cutting through the haze with unexpected clarity.

"Well,” YN couldn't help but let a smirk play on her lips, “remember we always said you'd have dibs on giving your- style opinion if I ever tied the knot?" she teased, the corners of her lips curling with a hint of mischief.

Josh’s eyes widened with surprise, "Hold on, what?" he exclaimed. The tempo of the conversation had, once again, caught him off guard. "Didn't you just get engaged?"

"I know, it's all going a bit fast," she admitted with an excited sigh. "But Harry and I were at this Westwood show a week ago and the bridal look was just exquisite," she paused, “one thing led to another and we just- booked an appointment.”

Josh returned to his silence; surprise still etched on his face.

"Come on, don't be mad," she implored, her tone softening. "You know you love a private fitting," she added, attempting to inject a bit of lightness into the atmosphere, to soften the edges of the unexpected news.

After a while, Josh looked up, meeting her eyes. "There’d better be a lot of champagne involved," he finally quipped.

She smirked, a sense of relief washing over her. Finally, a normal reaction from her friend. "And only the best,” she assured, “this is Paris, after all."

_____________

The boutique, nestled in the heart of the 7th arrondissement, exuded an air of exclusivity that transcended the ordinary. As YN and Josh stepped into its realm, they were greeted by the hushed whispers of luxury. The walls, adorned with mirrors, reflected the rare creations that hung elegantly on display.

An impeccably dressed man emerged to welcome them with a pronounced French accent. Every detail of his attire spoke of an innate understanding of elegance, a testament to the boutique's commitment to excellence.

It was the kind of boutique that dealt exclusively in one-of-a-kind couture looks, each piece meticulously curated through age-old relationships with some of the most illustrious maisons in the world. It housed creations that transcended mere garments; they were wearable art, destined for the most exclusive clientele.

Led by the man, Josh and YN were ushered into a private fitting room. A sanctuary of privacy, it was adorned with soft, indirect lighting and the air was filled with a faint scent of peonies.

With a polite nod, the man assured them that he would return shortly with the dress YN had come to try on. As he exited the room, Josh couldn't resist calling after him, sending a playful reminder to bring in the champagne.

The leather sofa cradled them in its plush embrace as a delicate silence lingered, both YN and Josh settling into a cocoon of thoughts.

Josh, breaking the quietude, voiced the question that hovered between them. "So, you're really engaged, then?" His words hung in the air.

“Yeah,” a wistful smile played on YN's lips at the surreal nature of her situation. "I guess I am."

"How did it happen?" Josh asked, the question laced with genuine curiosity and a hint of brotherly concern. Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the proposal.

Josh listened attentively, a complex array of emotions crossing his features. He wanted to be solely happy for her, to share in the joy of her new life, but the reality of the situation still needed time to settle.

"It's all moving so fast, isn't it?" he mused, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. YN nodded in acknowledgement.

The atmosphere shifted as Josh leaned back against the velvety cushions, his eyes fixed on a distant point. "On the bright side of things,” he suddenly stated, “Sam owes everyone twenty bucks.”

She looked at him with a confused smile, “What?”

Josh sighed, memories flashing through his eyes. “About four years ago, the guys and I made this whole wedding bet thing” he giggled, “Sam, of course, bet the first marriage among all of us would be him and Carole King,” they both laughed, “guess that’s not happening.”

“Did you bet on anyone?” YN asked playfully.

Josh nodded silently, a serious expression quietly returning to his face. “Yeah," he finally admitted, a veil of nostalgia covering his eyes. YN's smile softened, a hint of understanding in her eyes. Of course, Josh would’ve bet on her and Jake.

"Life takes unexpected turns," she gently stated as she leaned back into the sofa. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Yep,” he mirrored her words, “who would’ve thought?”

As the minutes passed, the pair found solace in the shared silence.

The man finally returned with a garment bag that made YN’s eyes sparkle in excitement. Josh, taking charge of the celebratory mood, promptly popped the bottle of champagne, the effervescent bubbles escaping with a soft hiss.

He poured the bubbly liquid into two crystal flutes, the delicate clink resonating in the air as a toast to the unfolding moment.

_____________

As YN disappeared into the changing area, Josh took a seat, sipping the effervescent liquid and allowing its crisp taste to dance on his palate.

Amid the subtle symphony of sips and the rustle of fabric, Josh suddenly heard some noise emanating from the main area of the boutique. Curiosity piqued, Josh set down his glass and ventured toward the source of the commotion.

“I don’t think this is the place, it’s all clothes in here.”

Josh closed his eyes as he recognized the all too familiar voice. Sammy. He sighed, recognizing the imminent chaos that his baby brother, in all his oblivious glory, was probably about to unleash upon the sophisticated boutique.

Josh let out an exasperated breath, mentally preparing for hurricane Sammy. As the chaos drew nearer, he glanced toward the main area.

« Puis-je vous aider? » the owner inquired, attempting to bring order to the unfolding comedy.

“Oh, um, oui, oui, oui, Bonjourrrr Monsieurrrrr, ” Sam stammered in response, « nous, uh- ouch! Daniel, my foot!” he whined.

Danny interrupted, mercifully ending the linguistic massacre, “I’m sorry, do you speak English?” The owner nodded in response. “Great, um, I don’t suppose this building is also an art gallery by any chance? We’re looking for our friends.”

“I’m afraid not. Who are your—” the manager began before being cut off.

“It’s okay,” Josh interjected, stepping out from the doorway to the fitting room with a mixture of amusement and mild irritation, “they’re mine.”

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed before turning back to the owner, “merci very much, pal,” he said, tapping the flabbergasted-looking man on the shoulder.

As Sam and Danny approached, Josh wasted no time addressing the impending chaos. "How did you even find us her—” he interrupted himself, “Danny, how many times do I have to tell you to stop tracking my phone?"

Danny, caught off guard, stammered, his ears turning red, "I don’t know what you’re talking ab—"

"I swear to G—" Josh began, frustration evident in his tone.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sammy interjected, nonchalantly dismissing the potential drama. “Weren’t you going to some gallery?”

“It’s- a long story, not really mine to tell,” Josh replied, visibly nervous, “weren’t you going to the music store?”

“Well, we did go,” Danny rolled his eyes, “only someone apparently booked an appointment for the year 2032-”

“Here we go again!” Sam groaned, throwing his arms up, in the air “I already said it was my bad, what more do you want from m-”

“Alright,” Josh sighed, his patience wearing thin, “you guys should head out, like, right now. Where’s Jake?”

“Jesus, chill out, he’s just outside, on the phone with Ma’,” Sam informed, attempting to diffuse the tension.

Danny, with his signature grin, couldn’t resist adding his two cents. "You know," he said, "if you guys wanted to go shopping, you could’ve just said so."

"That’s- not it," Josh retorted, his tone carrying a mix of irritation and urgency. "Will you please just listen to me and go before—"

“Hey!” Jake suddenly appeared from behind the other two, “Ma’ says hello,” he slowly looked up from his phone. “What are we doing here?” He took a moment to assess his surroundings, “Are we going shopping?”

“No, we were just about to leave, actually,” Josh replied nervously, his words rushing out. “Y/N will meet us later.” The air seemed to tense with an unspoken secret, the ambiance of the couture boutique now a battleground for conflicting interests.

"Is she not here?" Sam asked, glancing around the shop.

"No, she’s—" Josh began, but he was suddenly cut off by a voice from behind him.

“Alright, I’m coming out…” a voice range out.

Lord, help us all.

“…but I swear to God if you start crying, I will kick your—" YN’s figure materialized from the fitting room, and instantly froze. Her eyes widened, and her words hung in the air as she recognized the crumpling faces in front of her.

The four guys, equally dumbfounded, if not more so, slowly took in the sight of their friend wearing, what very much appeared to be a wedding gown.

Sammy was the first to break the silence, “What the—”

Fuck.

___________

"So… now you know," Josh announced, absurdly loud, attempting to divert attention, "This year’s MET Gala theme is all-things-white, I know, I know, controversial, but, uh—"

“Josh,” YN cut in. She was thankful for her friend’s futile attempt to cover for her, but it was time to be honest. She turned to the boys.

“So…” She sighed hesitantly, “I guess the cat’s out of the bag, then. I’m kind of—" she paused, the word struggling to come out, “engaged?”

“You’re joking,” Sam blurted out.

“I don’t have my ring,” she clarified, “It’s getting resized, but—”

“Are you for real?” Danny interrupted.

There was a moment of palpable silence, and then YN timidly confirmed, “Y-yeah.” She wore a shy smile, and they scanned her face for any sign of dishonesty, finding nothing but sincerity. The realization hit them like a freight train.

“When’s the due date?” Sam couldn't resist adding.

“I’m not pregnant, Sam,” she snapped back, her eyes rolling with annoyance.

“Holy shit,” Danny exclaimed, rushing towards her and spinning her around. She laughed, feeling the tension dissipate.

“Someone’s making an honest woman out of YN, that certainly wasn’t on my bingo card” Sam teased, earning a look from YN, a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Alright, come here,” he opened his arms, and she gladly stepped into the embrace. “Congrats, superstar,” he mumbled into her scalp.

YN’s eyes finally landed on the one person who had yet to say a word.

Jake stood there, completely still. His gaze remained fixed on YN, an array of emotions flickering across his face. Surprise, disbelief, and perhaps a touch of realization danced in his eyes as he took in the sight of YN in a wedding dress.

In that moment of stillness, Jake's mind raced. The news of YN's engagement hit him with an unexpected force. Despite knowing that they had both moved on, seeing his ex-girlfriend on the verge of marriage obviously stirred something within.

He watched as YN stood before him. She radiated excitement, yet looked at him with nervous doe eyes, as though seeking approval. Jake's features softened into a faint smile and he finally broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so happy for you.”

She instinctively wrapped him in a soft embrace. Taken aback, he eventually wrapped his arms around her waist. “Thank you” she mumbled against his chest, “that means the world.”

“Okay,” Sam’s voice interrupted the moment of tenderness, “now that this is out of the way, let’s talk about this” he said, motioning to the dress she was wearing with an expression of disgust.

The atmosphere lightened as the group transitioned seamlessly from the weight of the revelation to their usual playful banter. "You don't like it?" YN inquired with genuine surprise, her eyes flickering from Sam to Josh, seeking confirmation.

Josh’s mirrored expression conveyed that his baby brother may have had a point, the unison hinting at a rare consensus. YN sighed with playful resignation, a mischievous grin creeping across her face as she hatched a plan to address the situation.

"Alright,” she announced, the glint of mischief in her eyes, “you know what we have to do, then." The boys, catching on to her playful intent, mirrored her smirk in anticipation.

"Fitting Frenzy!" they chanted with a jump, as Danny and Jake shook their head with both amusement and despair. The impromptu decision dispelling any lingering tension as they embraced the whimsical spirit of the moment.

____________

The boutique transformed into a whirlwind of shades, fabrics, and laughter as said fitting frenzy ensued. Each member of the group contributed their unique flair to the impromptu dress-hunt, turning what was initially a stressful situation into a memorable experience.

"Eggshell, Daniel?" Josh's voice echoed through the boutique, a mock sense of outrage coloring his words. "Have you gone mad? Do you think our Y/N will have some barn wedding?"

Danny, unfazed, shot back with playful defiance, "Well, I'd rather have her in an eggshell gown than that horrendous bedazzled mess you suggested." Their banter echoed through the fitting rooms, punctuated by bursts of laughter that drew bewildered glances from the boutique staff.

YN, caught in the middle of the sartorial crossfire, couldn't help but chuckle at the playful antics of her friends.

Amidst the banter, Sam emerged from a changing room, strutting down the shop in a princess ballgown layered over his shirt. "You know, this is actually much more fun than what we had planned for today," he declared, twirling around.

The boutique's managing director, growing increasingly concerned with the boys' chaotic energy which clashed with the usual etiquette of his establishment, observed the spectacle with a mix of confusion and disapproval.

As the afternoon continued, YN found herself submerged in a sea of fabrics and styles. The excitement that had initially fueled the endeavor was now tinged with a hint of desperation as she tried on dress after dress, searching for the perfect one. Despite the growing frustration, she maintained a sense of fun, laughing at the playful banter of her friends.

Throughout the disorder, Jake moved around the boutique, occasionally offering suggestions but seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts. His attention wavered here and there.

“Hey how about this one?” Sam interrupted his brother’s train of thoughts holding up a dress to him, but Jake wasn’t paying attention, his gaze seemingly stuck on something. “Jake?” Sam inquired.

Breaking from his distracted reverie, Jake finally voiced his suggestion, pointing at the specific garment that had captured his attention. "No," he said definitively, "She should try this one."

The owner's enthusiasm echoed through the opulent boutique, his thick French accent lending an air of sophistication to his words. "Aaaah, I see you have the American eye, don't you? We curate very few pieces of American design, but this one," he declared, his fingers delicately grazing the luxurious fabric of the dress in contemplation, "yes, it is… quite delectable, is it not? Tom Ford, 1986. A good year."

As he held the dress with a certain reverence, Sam eagerly announced, "We'll take it," seizing the hanger from the poor man's hands and dashing toward the fitting room. "YN, look what we found!" he gleefully shouted through the boutique, the proclamation carrying a hint of mischief that made the owner flinch.

Apologizing once again for his brother's exuberance, Jake offered a sincere "Sorry about that" to the slightly rattled proprietor. The old man, despite the chaos Sam had caused, chuckled halfheartedly as he returned to the meticulous task of sorting the upscale garments.

After a pause, he turned back to Jake, his eyes holding a glint of appreciation. "If I may," he said with a knowing smile, "you have a good eye. She will look exquisite in it."

Jake nodded in acknowledgment, a sense of satisfaction warming his chest.

__________

As he headed back towards the fitting room. A chorus of oohs and aahs reached Jake’s ears.

There she was, YN, adorned in the dress he had chosen just moments ago, the sleek and elegant silk hugging her frame in a way that seemed tailor-made for her. The dress accentuated YN's beauty in a way that left him momentarily breathless.

Caught in the moment, YN looked around the room and inquired, "What do you think?" A chorus of enthusiastic responses filled the air.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Sam chimed in, eliciting a genuine smile from YN.

Turning to Josh for his opinion, YN received a heartfelt compliment that seemed to catch her off guard. "You look really beautiful," Josh admitted, his voice slightly breaking with emotion.

"Gosh, stop it,” she playfully remarked, attempting to lighten the mood, “You're going to make me cry, and I haven't even seen it."

“Well go on, then,” with a helpful hand from Danny, YN was guided onto the small platform, facing the grand mirror. Taking a deep breath, she finally looked up at her reflection, and the room held its breath in anticipation.

Her eyes began to glisten as she took in her own reflection. The dress reflected Jake’s taste for the understated, emphasizing the beauty of simplicity and allowing YN's natural grace to shine through. It was a creation of plain elegance, a sleek masterpiece crafted from immaculate porcelain silk that draped effortlessly on her frame.

A soft smile played on YN's lips as she stood there, momentarily rendered speechless by the sight before her. "It's-” she eventually said struggling to find the right words as emotions bubbled to the surface. “It’s so…"

"…you," Josh finished the sentence for her, “it’s so you.” The collective affirmation in the room conveyed a shared understanding—the dress wasn't just an exquisite garment; it seemed to be an embodiment of YN's essence, a celebration of her being.

The owner, with an air of grace, stepped forward, breaking the tender moment. He inquired, "Now, what are we thinking in terms of hair?"

"Up," Jake and Josh said in unison. Jake glanced down, slight embarrassment coloring his expression.

YN nodded with a radiant smile, "Up it is."

"Would you like to see our collection of hair accessories? Just to get an idea." the owner offered, leading to an affirmative nod from YN. A skilled stylist promptly approached, delicately crafting an elegant updo, revealing YN's delicate collarbones.

As she perused the display case of accessories, YN settled on a sophisticated white gold pin adorned a single pearl. The owner, appreciating her choice, carefully retrieved the accessory.

However, the pin slipped through the owner's fingers, hitting the floor with a delicate clink. Before anyone registered the mishap, Jake had descended to one knee. He delicately picked it up, his movements fluid and confident, as if the gesture had been rehearsed a thousand times before. The boutique seemed to hold its breath as Jake rose to his feet. Sam and Danny exchanged a knowing glance.

The clearing of Jake's throat pierced through the stillness, drawing attention from the clandestine intensity of the scene. His eyes met YN’s through the mirror, seeking permission.

A nod from her, gentle yet affirmative, signaled her consent, along with a soft flutter of her eyelashes. With a deliberate step, Jake closed the distance between them, the air charged with unspoken anticipation.

He extended his hand, gently placing the pin in her hair. In a moment suspended in time, his fingertips accidentally brushed against the nape of her neck. A feathery touch that let an electric current pass between them.

As the two stood side by side, the lavish Parisian boutique provided a glamorous backdrop to a silent interlude. YN, adorned in the white gown, and Jake beside her, found themselves momentarily immersed in the alternate reality painted in the mirrors. The soft ambient lights seemed to cast an otherworldly glow.

In that suspended moment, their reflection seemed to carry whispers of the 'what-ifs' and the divergent narratives that fate had penned for them.

As their gazes met in the mirrored picture, an unspoken understanding lingered in the air—a shared acknowledgment of a parallel universe where the threads of destiny had woven a different tapestry.

The boutique owner, sensing the shift in dynamics, played the role of an artful conductor, steering the ensemble away from treacherous territories. "Beautiful!" he exclaimed, his voice serving as a gentle reminder of the present moment. “Isn’t it?”

The spell broken, Jake and YN found themselves back in the shared reality of the Parisian boutique. The moment dissipated, leaving behind a trace of wistfulness and a shared understanding that some paths, no matter how enticing, were to remain veiled in the realm of what might have been.

In that fleeting moment, Josh and Sam exchanged another knowing look. They understood the silent undercurrents that had rippled through the room, visible only to those attuned to the intricacies of their story.

"Yeah,” echoed Jake softly, a touch of unease in his voice “Beautiful."

Suddenly, a voice breaks the contemplative atmosphere, announcing, "Hope I’m not interrupting." To everyone's surprise, the figure standing at the door is none other than that of YN’s fiancé.

Harry’s entrance cut through the atmosphere like a gentle disruption, eliciting a swift reaction from the gathered ensemble. In the blink of an eye, Jake stepped away from YN, creating a visible distance as the unexpected visitor approached.

The shift in dynamics was palpable, the subtle recalibration of postures a silent acknowledgment of unspoken boundaries.

"Oh my god,” the surprise painted across YN's face turned into sheer joy as she hopped off the platform, and sprinted towards Harry, her hand tenderly finding its place on his neck. In an impulsive burst of delight, she planted a kiss on his lips, an expression of unrestrained affection that spoke volumes to those around. “What are you doing here?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

Harry, with a casual charm, explained, "Just landed an hour ago, thought I’d surprise you." His eyes then shifted to greet the boys, who still bore the remnants of surprise on their faces. As the initial shock settled, YN, still wrapped in the delight of the moment, turned to Harry with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

"Are you coming to the opening tonight?" she asked, anticipation of his response lingering in the air.

“No, I’m flying back as soon as I’m done with my interview,” he said, “Actually, I have to run right now, I’ll make sure to send Camille flowers though, tell her congrats for me, will you?”

Camille, Jake thought reluctantly. Harry knew YN’s other friends. How come Harry already knew her other friends? How come he’d never heard of Camille before?”

“Are you sure you can’t stay just a little while longer?” she pleaded.

“Sorry, my manager’s expecting me back in London by tonight,” he said, prompting a subtle pout from YN. “Aw, come on, don’t make that face, love. Here, I have something that’ll cheer you up.” He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a small leather box and Josh cast a quick glance at his twin brother, who observed the scene. “I swung by Cartier on the way here,” Harry opened it to reveal a dazzling engagement ring. “There,” with gentle precision, he slid the ring onto YN's finger, “fits like a glove.”

"Thank you," YN smiled, her words accompanied by a tender kiss Harry planted on her hand.

“I left a little something at your hotel as well” he murmured, and she smirked sheepishly in response. She, by nature, may not have been driven by material gifts, but she knew how excited Harry always got.

“You’re the sweetest” she said softly.

“You are,” he retorted, “and would you look at you!” he exclaimed, eyes dancing with admiration as he twirled his fiancée around, reveling in the enchanting vision she presented. The moment, however, took an unexpected turn as he took a closer look at what she was wearing, “Hey, this isn’t the dress we’d talked about,” he questioned.

“Yeah, the Westwood didn’t exactly pan out,” Sam interjected, before YN could respond “that’s on us, mate.”

“Is this the one, then?” he said, gesturing to the gown she had on.

The room seemed to hold its breath as his question lingered. A wave of discomfort washed over YN. The very thought of walking down the aisle to Harry in the dress felt terribly inadequate for some reason.

“Uh, no,” she gently admitted after a pause, "I think I'll keep looking,” she shrugged. Her words prompted groans of disapproval from Sam and Danny. "It should be perfect for us," she insisted with a smile, though in truth, she was uncertain whose feelings she was trying to spare.

"Whatever feels right for you," Harry said, "I’ve got to run. It was nice seeing you all," and with one last peck on her lips, he exited the room.

Harry's departure left the boutique enveloped in a subtle sense of relief as Jake grappled with an internal turmoil that mirrored the brewing storm outside.

Irritation, disguised beneath a veneer of nonchalance, slowly began seeping through his veins.

Suppressing the inconvenient truth that lay dormant within him, Jake found himself grappling with an internal struggle between acknowledging the depth of his feelings and maintaining the carefully constructed walls he had erected around his heart.

YN silently turned back to the boys, casting a quick glance at Jake. The subtle creases of his brow, a silent acknowledgment of a storm brewing beneath the surface.

“I think we’re done for today,” she declared, as she fumbled with the ring on her finger. “We don’t want be late.”

______________

As the day melted into the evening, YN's wardrobe transitioned from the sleek ivory gowns of the boutique to a fun silver dress that shimmered with each step she took. The metallic fabric reflected the neon lights that illuminated the night, outside of the art gallery they were heading towards.

Adorning her ears were emerald earrings, thoughtful gift left by Harry at the hotel, glinting subtly as they caught the sporadic flashes of the vibrant light.

The anticipation of the evening's celebration seemed to clash with the subdued mood that had settled among the group as they approached the venue,

YN, still tense after the afternoon's emotional rollercoaster, maintained a dignified composure, though the echoes of her emotional turmoil lingered beneath the surface.

Jake, who hadn't uttered a word, let alone glanced in YN’s direction since their departure from the boutique, appeared increasingly tired as resentment simmered beneath the surface.

The vibrant energy that had characterized their friendship now hung in a delicate balance, disrupted by the unexpected currents set in motion. YN, though saddened and upset by the palpable shift in dynamics, chose to endure the silent treatment. It was true that she could have handled things with more thoughtfulness earlier.

They were welcomed into the space by the sound of music and sight of a decent crowd, a mix of art enthusiasts and socialites, swirling around the vibrant works of art.

Camille, with cheeks flushed and a self-soothed confidence fueled by a few drinks, spotted YN from across the room. "Oh my God, you're here!" she exclaimed, rushing towards her old friend with genuine excitement. She enveloped YN in a warm hug, her voice reflecting both joy and intoxication. "How have you been?" The two of them chatted for a minute.

The attention then shifted to the Greta boys, looking as handsome as ever. Camille, her eyes gleaming with mischief, greeted the boys with a seductive charm. "Well, bonsoir, gentlemen," she cooed, extending her hand with theatrical elegance, "Enchantée."

Seizing the opportunity for a flirtatious exchange, Sam pushed his brothers aside, positioning himself at the forefront. With a confident flair, he lay a delicate kiss on Camille's hand. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, prompting the others to roll their eyes.

________

As the evening unfolded within the pulsating confines of the neon-lit gallery, Jake sought refuge at the bar, carefully avoiding any contact with YN like a sailor steering clear of a storm. His deliberate avoidance, a self-imposed exile, left her feeling adrift amidst the swirling currents of tension.

Distressed by the unspoken chasm between them, YN ended up seeking solace on the terrace, where the crisp night air provided a temporary respite from the stifling atmosphere inside. Her eyes were fixed on the ring on her finger, it glistened delicately in the light, yet felt heavier than ever on her finger.

“What are you doing out here?” Danny's voice interrupted the solitude, breaking the quietude of the night. He approached YN, his breath forming visible puffs in the chilly air.

"Is that a cigarette I see in your hand?" he asked, genuine surprise coloring his words.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," YN responded with a wry smirk. She wasn’t a regular smoker, but when days were high in stress, she sometimes found comfort in the smell and taste of tobacco, a weakness from years past. She took one last drag before moving to put out the cigarette.

"No need to put it out," Danny reassured her.

"It's okay, I don't mind," YN replied, extinguishing the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. The cool night air seemed to match the tense atmosphere lingering between them. Danny, breaking the silence, finally broached the sensitive topic that loomed over the night like a specter.

"So…" he began, his words hesitant.

"So…" she echoed, her eyes teasing him.

"Marriage, huh?" Danny eventually voiced, the question lingering in the air like an uncharted path in the dark.

"Yep," she replied, a soft smile playing on her lips. Danny and YN shared a glance that conveyed an unspoken acknowledgment — a few years back, the notion of YN embracing matrimony was nothing short of an absurdity. She and Jake had broached the topic once or twice, but it simply wasn’t her style. Not at the time, at least.

As her short response hung in the cold night air, Danny's eyes held a mix of curiosity and concern. "Are you happy?" he gently probed.

"You know…?" she paused, the words carrying the weight of introspection, "I think I am." As she spoke, the echoes of her own journey reverberated through her voice.

There was a time, not too long ago, when the prospect of happiness felt elusive, hidden in the shadows of heartbreak. After Jake, she had wandered through life with difficulty. The idea of happy-ever-after had seemed like a distant dream, an illusion shattered by the echoes of what had been.

Yet, Harry had entered her life like a gentle force, a subtle breeze that whispered promises of new beginnings. It wasn't the same love, nor did it intend to be. The edges were softer, the hues more muted, but it felt right, it felt- sensible.

She had once believed that devotion could only wear the guise of what she had known with Jake, but life had a way of rewriting its own narratives.

Danny, leaning against the cold metal railing of the terrace, absorbed YN's words with a thoughtful expression. "You've come a long way," he remarked, his voice gentle, “Both of you.”

"Yeah," YN responded, her gaze momentarily drifting to the city skyline. “He hasn’t said a word to me all afternoon, though.”

Danny nodded, understanding the weight of unspoken words. "You know him, better than most. It doesn't mean he's not happy for you; he’s just never good with change."

Amid the day's tumultuous atmosphere, Danny once again stepped into his role as the voice of reason. His words carried a soothing reassurance, a balm to the unease that had settled over YN.

She sighed, the night air carrying a hint of hesitation, "I hope so.”

A gust of wind swept through, eliciting a shiver from YN.

“You should go back inside,” Danny said with a gentle nudge, “Wouldn’t want you to catch death before you make it down the aisle.”

“Yeah,” YN chuckled back, “that would not be a good look.”

_______

As YN walked back inside, her eyes locked onto Jake, who, upon meeting her gaze, promptly diverted his course, striding purposefully in the opposite direction and disappearing into the men's room. The continuous avoidance and unspoken tension had reached its breaking point, and Danny’s reasonable words seemed like no more than a distant echo.

Fuck it.

Fed up with the unspoken rift, YN briskly followed the guitarist, determined to confront the lingering unease that had shadowed them throughout the day. With each step, her resolve strengthened. The hallway echoed with the clicking of her heels, a stark contrast to the lively hum emanating from the exhibit area behind her.

The door to the men's room swung open, revealing the dimly lit space within, and YN was met with the sight of Jake standing near the row of sinks. His posture, while seemingly casual, hinted at an anticipation that sent a ripple through the charged atmosphere.

She tried to hold onto her tenacity before it inevitably slipped away. "Can we talk?" she ventured, unnecessary loudly.

A flicker of discomfort crossed Jake's downturned gaze as he replied, "This is hardly the place."

"Since when has that been a problem?" she retorted, frustration seeping into the words. Jake's silence, an unnerving response, hung between them like an unspoken challenge. "We need to talk; you've been avoiding me all day," she continued, the weight of the unsaid pressing down on the confined space. “See? You won’t even look at me.”

"Alright," Jake finally shrugged, looking up at her, "Get on with it."

Caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze, YN hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked, concern evident in the furrow of her brow and the subtle quiver in her voice.

Jake scoffed, turning away. "What do you think?" he spat, his words cutting through the air with a sharp edge.

"You said you were happy for me," she countered, a flicker of hurt in her eyes.

"Yeah, well, what the hell d'you expect me to do?” he shot back, “I wasn't exactly about to make a scene in front of everyone."

"Jake,” she sighed, her voice softening in the face of his evident frustration, “I'm sor—"

"And to find out about it like that?" he interrupted, hurt evident in his eyes. "I mean, I know we've had our ups and downs, but Jesus, I thought we still had some respect for each other."

"I'm sorry," she offered sincerely, "this— it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I wasn't—"

"Sure,” he pressed, his voice carrying a bitter edge, “and when exactly were you going to tell me, huh?"

"I— I don't know—" she stammered, her words an acknowledgment of the disarray surrounding the situation, a vulnerability laid bare.

"Were you just going to wait until paps got a shot of that huge rock you carry on your finger?" he continued, and YN wished she could sink into the ground. The rapid clenching and unclenching of Jake’s fists revealed the intensity of his emotional turmoil. "Or better yet, wait for me to see photos of your fucking honeymoon in the press—"

"Stop it, you know I'd never do that," she interjected defensively.

"Actually, I'm not sure I know anything about you right now," he retorted.

"And what's that supposed to mean, exactly?" she demanded, her voice tinged with defiance.

Jake looked at her for a moment, his own frustration simmering beneath the surface. "You're seriously going to make me say it?" he shot back.

"Well, I'm not a fucking mind-reader!" she roared.

"Come on, YN” he rolled his eyes, “Marriage? Mrs. Styles?" he mocked, his words carrying a weight of disbelief as if grappling with an inconceivable reality.

"Yeah, well, what about it?" she spat, attempting to conceal the hurt that flickered in her eyes.

"Please," he shook his head dismissively, as if challenging the very essence of the decision she'd made. “That's not you."

"And what do you know, huh?" she said, the echoes of her frustration reverberating off the restroom walls. "We haven't been together in years; what makes you think you know what I want for my life?"

"Because I know you!" he yelled, the force behind his words revealing a desperation to be understood. Silence hung in the air, a palpable tension between them before Jake pressed on, "and better than that jackass does, apparently,"

"You don't even know him!" she shot back, her defenses rising.

"See, that's the thing," he scoffed, a bitterness underlying his tone, "I don't need to know him. I know your taste in men."

Her eyes flickered with pain, a wounded expression betraying the impact of his words. "That's a low blow," she eventually said, a mix of hurt and indignation coloring her response, "even from you."

"Yeah, well, only the truth hurts, I guess," he mumbled, a bitter acknowledgment hanging in the air as he walked past her and headed towards the exit.

"So what?" she called out, the desperation evident in her voice. "Was I supposed to stay single for the rest of my life?" He turned around, his heart breaking as he met her sad eyes. She continued, "I—After everything- do I not deserve a chance?"

"No, that’s not-" an instinctive pull drawing him closer to her. His hand gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "You know all I want is for you to be happy."

"Well, I am. For maybe the first time in years, I am," she whispered, nuzzling her cheek into the palm of his hand. "Harry, he's good, he makes me feel- safe."

He felt a pang in his chest at her words. "I'm sure he does," he said sadly, his words weighted with an unspoken ache. "That— that's not the problem."

"Well, then, what is it?" she searched his eyes, desperate for understanding.

"It's just— " he hesitated, the words burning in his throat, unwilling to ever come out. His fingers delicately brushed her hair behind her ear, and his gaze lingered on the emerald earring that dangled from her lobe. "He’s-” Jake continued, his eyelids flickering, “he's got good taste."

With those words, he walked out, leaving YN behind, paralyzed, the weight of the unspoken lingering in the air.

________

YN found herself back in the exhibition area, but the vibrant artwork was a blur as her mind wrestled with her recent exchange with Jake. The odd thrill of their heated encounter served as an unsettling reminder of what she’d left behind.

She’d messed up and he’d messed up, a pattern that seemed to keep on haunting the both of them, even in friendship.

Truth was, he’d probably been right. She wouldn’t have had the guts to tell him about her engagement.

Why, though, was a question she couldn’t quite answer. Perhaps she’d enjoyed that in-between. On some level. Perhaps she’d wanted to witness his unfiltered reaction, or she’d been curious as to what might happen if she let the news come out on its own. Perhaps she’d simply been bored out of her mind.

Her songwriting had seemed to have run dry recently. The more time passed, the more she found that ‘happiness’, whatever that was, presented a ridiculously uneventful subject. After all, there would be no grand choirs to sing, no chorus could come in about two people sitting doing nothing.

Perhaps Patty had been right when she’d said YN had always needed to go to war to find material to sing. But it was a dangerous game, one she’d renounced a long time ago. Too much of her blood had been shed. She had let the sword fall to the floor, only to be replaced by the ring on her finger.

Immobilized by a sea of emotion, YN suddenly felt a comforting presence beside her. Josh's voice cut through her thoughts.

"Don't worry about him,” he offered, “he'll come around eventually. It's just a lot to process."

"I know," she replied with uncertainty, her eyes still fixed on the artwork as if seeking solace in its silent forms.

"One of you was gonna end up getting married someday," Josh continued, "you just happened to be the first. That's nothing to apologize for." His hand found hers, the silent gesture conveying a silent promise of support.

_________

The following day unfurled with an air of quiet tension. It was YN’s turn to deliberately avoid Jake as they moved through the day's activities. However, the serendipity of travel arrangements had a laid out different plans for them.

As they boarded the plane, YN's eyes darted across the cabin in search of her seat, her desire to maintain distance palpable. Yet, the universe seemed intent on weaving a narrative of its own.

There, in the vast expanse of plane seats, she had apparently been expected to sit next to none other than the very person she’d been trying to avoid.

A flicker of reluctance crossed YN's face as she hesitated near the row, contemplating her options.

Just as she decided to retreat, Jake's hand gently reached out, “YN, come on,” a silent plea evident in his touch, "please?" His words hung in the air, soft yet compelling. It seemed he had renounced his fighting mood from the day before. She relented, sinking into the seat beside him.

The hum of the plane engines served as the backdrop to a charged silence, unspoken tension echoing in the space that stretched between their bodies.

Once takeoff was done, Jake hesitated, glancing towards YN with a contemplative expression. Breaking the uneasy silence, he began, "About yesterday..."

She met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions, a silent invitation for him to continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did," Jake admitted, his voice carrying a blend of regret and vulnerability. " It's just... it all caught me off guard."

YN, too, felt the weight of remorse settling in. "I should've told you. I should've found a way to tell you before,” she looked down at her hands, “but everything happened so fast, and I-I didn't know how…"

He nodded, a mix of regret and understanding in his eyes. "Still, I was an ass.”

"I get it," YN replied softly, meeting his gaze. "It's a big change. I never intended for you to feel blindsided."

He sighed in acknowledgment, "I guess we both have a lot to process. I never expected- I mean, I didn't think it would hit me that hard."

She met his gaze, a shared understanding passing between them. "To be fair, I never expected to find myself here either," she admitted, her voice soft. "But things change, I suppose."

"Yeah," he whispered, "they do."

The tension that had gripped the air between them began to slowly dissipate as YN chose to inject a much-needed dose of levity into the confined space of the plane.

"If that makes you feel better," she remarked with a gentle smile, "I’ll make sure to have a full-on meltdown when you get married, that way we’re even."

“Deal,” Jake chuckled, a warmth spreading through him, "just make it memorable, okay? Maybe hire a choir or something."

"Oh, absolutely," she nodded with mock seriousness, "I'm thinking fireworks, synchronized swimmers, the whole shebang. It's going to be an event."

“And of course, you'll need a soundtrack.” He mused, “Maybe something like ‘I Will Survive’ or ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’?"

"Solid choices," she laughed, "but I was thinking more along the lines of Cryingby Aerosmith. Really amp it up, you know?"

"Ah, a woman of refined taste," he quipped, "I'll be sure to add it to the playlist.”

She nodded, playing along, "And a fog machine as well, for my dramatic entrance.

"Well, naturally," Jake responded, “Can't forget the fog.”

The banter continued, a familiar cadence of playful exchanges that danced on the edge of shared memories. YN, feeling a sense of relief, leaned into the easy camaraderie they had always shared.

"So," Jake eventually needled, a curious glint dancing in his eyes, "have you set a date?"

“No, not yet" she responded with a casual shrug. "But knowing us, it's probably going to be a while. We're constantly swamped with work. You know how it is.”

“Too busy to plan your special day?” he smirked, “I don’t believe it, you were already picking your dress, weren’t you?”

“Well, I do have my priorities straight,” YN laughed. “But seriously, though,” she insisted, “I swear you might end up tying the knot before I do.”

Jake chuckled in response.

__________

He would contemplate the conversation in the following weeks, assuming the wedding talk had merely been banter. The idea of YN getting married seemed like a distant future, perhaps years away.

Little did he know that merely a month later, a small, elegant envelope would arrive in the mail, bearing news that would unknowingly alter the course of their fate.

Miss YN YLN and Mr Harry Styles Request the pleasure of your company at their Wedding Save the Date

Next Track : St Jude

Series Masterlist

Hope you liked it! Once again, I am begging you all to interact and leave comments it makes me so happy to get feedback and reactions xxx

Also, this is only the beginning lol. I have a billion drafts for other chapters so stay tuned, peaceful army.

Taglist

@aintthatapity

@sinarainbows

@vanfleeter

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bitter69uk · 3 months

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“As a glamorous and sophisticated Parisian jewel thief who makes the American naif Gary Cooper her unwitting accomplice in the heisting of a pearl necklace, Dietrich was at last allowed a chance to do more than pose statuesquely. “Permitted to walk, breathe, smile and shrug as a human being instead of a canvas for the Louvre,” ran a typical review, “[she] recaptures some of the freshness of The Blue Angel … Miss Dietrich is not dependent upon stylized photography and direction but has a proper talent of her own.” Her half-smiles hint at wily subterfuge, she sings [Frederick] Hollander’s “Awake in a Dream” with wry self-mockery and thus Dietrich effectively created a modern, credible character from an array of charmingly improbable situations.”

/ From Dietrich by Donald Spoto, 1992 /

Yes! Join us on Thursday 15 February when the FREE monthly Lobotomy Room cinema club whisk you away to The Spanish Riviera for frothy romantic screwball comedy Desire (1936) in the appropriately Art Deco surroundings of Fontaine’s in Dalston! Starring Marlene Dietrich and Gary Cooper! Email [email protected] to reserve a seat! Full deets here.

#lobotomy room #marlene dietrich #gary cooper #old hollywood #golden age hollywood #classic hollywood #screwball comedy #art deco #desire

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fayes-fics · 3 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 2 - La Valse de Paris

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.7k

AuthorsNote: Chapter 2 of new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This details our reader settling into Paris and the outbreak of war. Benedict turns up next chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

Paris, September 1939

Your first few weeks in Paris are a delightful blur.

Spending late summer exploring the city - with Solène as your occasional guide and Eloise when she is not at work. You soak up every moment, from the windswept magnificence of standing atop the Eiffel Tower, your words being stolen by the wind, to the monastic silence of the Louvre on a quiet Monday morning. And everything in between - from Notre Dame's atmospheric incense-laden gothic darkness to the airy, resplendent glass dome of Galeries Lafayette that glitters like a prismatic jewel even on cloudy days.

But perhaps your favourites are the little slices of city life: sitting watching the world go by at a corner cafe, the crunch and warm, pillowy softness of the first bite of freshly baked baguette as you wander back from the boulangerie, the lingering fragrance of the rose garden at the Château de Bagatelle in Bois de Boulogne... It's all pieces of a puzzle that fill your heart in ways that make your life before now seem drab, almost in black and white, like a photograph.

You have written to Stanley once since you arrived, effusive in your praise, a homily to your new home, however temporary. While proclaiming his happiness for you, his response tempered, a touch dismissive of your wonderment. I can scarcely believe any city could truly live up to the praise you so readily heap upon Paris, my love, he wrote back. That was a week ago, and your urge to reply has been muted.

It's during an idle lunchtime by the Seine, eating a sandwich as you dangle your feet over the river wall, that you genuinely feel a local. An elderly French couple, likely visiting from the provinces, approaches you and asks you for directions to the Musée de l'Homme. Part of you aglow they think you sophisticated enough to look Parisian, and French. And you are able to help them, giving them the information in French, not fluent but sufficient that they are surprised when you confess “je suis américaine”.

In your third week, you secure the art gallery job Eloise had seen posted. An opportunity to meet many new people, primarily British and American, who share your love of art of all persuasions. You spend many a happy hour answering questions and building your knowledge of art, not just in your gallery but across the city. Part of you is wistful to study the subject in even greater depth than the books you borrow in copious quantities from the library where Eloise works.

You grow so close to Eloise so quickly that it’s as if you have known her your whole life. A sense of kinship, a near familial bond. You know, on some instinctive level, she will always be a part of your life somehow. Your evenings are often spent in lounge bars together—venues awash with art deco splendour as you listen to jazz through a cigarette haze and flirt aimlessly with a carousel of handsome men. Life seems so full of potential, a hum in your very being.

“What do you think the purpose of life is, y/n?” Eloise sighs as she flops onto your bed after returning from one such decadent night out.

“Aaaand we are done with the brandy…” you declare, taking the bottle of Martell cognac from her grip and placing it pointedly on the dresser, your high-handed point only mildly undermined by your own unsteady gait.

You collapse down next to her, the intricate ceiling rose around your light fixture swirling slightly before your very eyes.

“Love?” you hazard in answer to her question.

“Boo! Cliché!” she jeers, elbowing you good-naturedly.

“I don’t just mean romantic love,” you protest, “the love of family… friends…”

“Ah, yes, family. Endlessly large family. Don’t suppose you want an extra sibling or two, do you? I could be persuaded to let a couple go,” she squints comically.

“Depends… can I have the artist?” you jest.

“You have to stop staring at that painting; it's getting weird,” she opines with her typical bluntness, “and no, you can’t. You know he’s my favourite,” she pouts.

“I think he’s my favourite too,” you opine over a stifled yawn, any embarrassment about being called out for your unbridled admiration overridden by the sleepy state your comfortable bed lulls you into.

“If you end up being attracted to my brother, I will have to disown you, you know,” she pats your hand drowsily.

“Hmm, good thing he’s so far away…” you trail off with a lazy giggle, eyes drooping heavily.

It’s the last words you exchange before you both fall asleep on your bed.

–

Perhaps, as with all things that are too good, the idyll is temporary. It's the news you wake up to that following morning, September 4th, which throws everything into uncertainty. Solène knocks on your door early with an uncharacteristically sombre expression, wordlessly handing you the morning paper and flicking on the wireless on your mantelpiece, the fine lines on her face deeper etched, furrowed with worry.

‘La Guerre!’ the headline screams from the newspaper. And the voice on the airwaves, your ear more attuned to the language now, details how Britain and France have jointly declared war against Germany for their invasion of Poland a few days prior.

At the sound of the radio, Eloise emerges from your room, blinking and hair asunder, a little delicate from your previous night's revelry. You sip coffee at a loss for what to think or do. It’s an odd cognitive dissonance when life at once seems identical but also changed by an invisible shape - an undercurrent of fear, of the unknown, a punch to the pit of your stomach that you don’t know how to acknowledge - even as you go through the motions of your daily routine and head to work.

By the evening you are more phlegmatic about the situation. Your spirit dampened, yes, but not crushed. You feel an immense sense of privilege that conflict is not yet at your doorstep, but equally knowing being in the capital city of a nation that just declared war against a neighbouring country is not exactly safe.

You and Eloise splash out on dinner at an upscale brassiere that night, one you have both passed and commented you’d love to dine in some time. Both of you seized by the unspoken “what if”, the previous reluctance to treat yourselves entirely absent.

Talk on all the tables around you as you dine - on heavenly butter-soft steak - is about the war. What it could mean for Paris, fear of another major European conflict so soon after the last, the economic concerns - the bite of the early 30s depression just relinquishing its hostile grip on the somewhat bruised denizens.

Afterwards, you wander the cobbled streets back to your apartment, arms looped, bellies full, occasionally staring up at the starry night sky in mostly contemplative, sober silence. It’s a beautiful evening, but something in the warm breeze feels melancholic.

When you open the door to your building, Solène is waiting, rocking on her heels.

“Eloise, a telegram has come for you!” she announces, shoving a piece of paper into her hand. “And a telephone call from England earlier,” she adds, gesturing to the black rotary phone outside her place—the only one in the building.

Eloise gives you a brief glance and then opens the message. You watch her eyes ping across the text before her shoulders slump.

“My mother,” she sighs in explanation, “it appears she is summoning me back home.”

“What?!” the selfish reflex of not wanting to be left alone is the first thing flaring in you.

“It’s not fair!” she whines in a flash of child-like defiance before continuing in a more subdued tone. “She is sending my brother to come get me. She doesn’t specify which, but seeing as Anthony is a Lieutenant General in the Army and has likely been called to Churchill’s side, I'm presuming Benedict,” Eloise surmises.

Your thoughts instantly fly to that painting hanging in your apartment upstairs. A strange flutter under your ribs at the idea you could be about to meet its creator. Quickly followed by a wash of guilt that you could even focus on such a frivolous thing.

“What will I do without you?’’ You fret aloud, grasping her arm tighter.

“There was a call for you too, y/n,” Solène pipes up. “Your father wants you to exchange your return ticket for a sailing home as soon as possible,” she relays.

“But.. I just got here!” your lament as defiant as Eloise’s. A frustrating sense you are losing a fleeting opportunity you already hold so precious - like a new toy being ripped from the meaty fist of a truculent toddler.

“Mes amis, what can I say?” that trademark Gallic shrug seizing Solène’s shoulders. “While Paris is safe for now, we do not know how much longer that will hold true… it is likely best you return home. Perhaps this will be over in weeks, and you can return?”

You know your parents have paid your rent upfront for a whole year, likely similar for Eloise, your landlady not impacted financially by your leaving, merely a wish for you to enjoy your Parisian adventures.

As you unlock the door to your apartment and wander in, both of you sigh; the illumination from the Eiffel Tower that refracts upon your window pane just adds to your melancholia, a sight that before had never failed to warm your heart.

“When will your brother get here?” your inflection dull.

“Tomorrow, most likely. It only takes a couple of hours to cross the Channel, and as you know, the train ride from the coast is just a few more. I expect he’ll be waiting for me right here when I return from work,” her tone is just as flat as yours.

You want to ask if she will pack tonight, but you stop yourself, seeing the flame that usually burns so bright behind her blue eyes dimmed. Wordlessly, you draw closer and pull her into a firm hug.

“I will miss you like a sister,” she whispers into your hair, returning the embrace just as fiercely, “maybe moreso.”

You nod and band your arms tighter briefly before letting go, bone-deep exhaustion overtaking anything else you see in her mirrored stance.

The last thing that captures your eye as Eloise turns to her room is that painting of her childhood home and, strangely, how it feels closer now than ever before.

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darkchocolatecoffin · 4 months

Text

What if...Quasimodo had a Sister?

Ⅰ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇ ᴄʟᴀᴜᴅᴇ ꜰʀᴏʟʟᴏ

The City of Paris was bustling about in excitement. Schools were closed for the day, shops closed early, and all cleaning and chores were to be put aside for the day to follow (much to the children's satisfaction). Men and women of all ages accompanied the streets in multicolored garments. Some were amplified with delicate jewels and feathers while others were more modest, meaning to represent a fool or dummy. It was easy to assume that just about everyone was exhilarated by what was to come in the next hour. January Sixth was a day of celebration in Paris, a day where regulations were suspended, and people were granted the freedom to let loose.

It was a day that for once the people of Paris were not divided by their backgrounds but instead were united by the feast. The Feast of Fools was an unofficial day of celebration, but its continued success had made it a permanent fixture on the Parisian calendar, so much so that Public officials were expected to attend, much to the dismay of a certain Judge.

As you make your way through the quaint streets of Paris, you’ll be met with a shift in the air. The sweet aroma of freshly baked goods gives way to a haunting breeze that sends shivers down your spine. The Sunny embrace that once kept hold of the city is replaced by the chill of an eerie musk that hung heavy in the air. Perfectly placed within the center of this part of town was a gloomy building 'The Palace of Justice' The Gothic architecture stood out promptly creating a devastating display. This was where Judge Claude Frollo resided. A man who was known for his high value of religion, he held himself above the city for he only ever saw sin in everything and everyone, save for himself. He had no tolerance for anything but, excellence, even his own blood was not exempt from his rigorous standards. She accompanied him to the Church Sessions held in The Bell Tower, where he subjected her to his unbending moral principles.

Claudette Frollo

Claudette was often left alone in the confines of the Palace, aside from the ever-watchful guards who patrolled the grounds. Her father, Claude Frollo, would depart daily without a word of explanation, leaving Claudette to ruminate on his mysterious whereabouts. One possibility that lingered was the idea of him having a confidential lover, which, if true, would be a betrayal of everything her father—and by extension, she herself—had stood for.

It was a day like any other, a morning that began with the familiar tolling of the bell. Frollo had made his departure, leaving Claudette with the solemn task of maintaining the building's pristine condition. It was a duty that was bestowed upon her as the woman of the household, and she accepted it willingly. She never complained about the menial tasks that were required of her; the Bible had instructed her that she was to follow her father’s word.

6:1—Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do.

The front door opened allowing a dark and intimidating figure to step inside. The man's visage was stark and angular, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. His eye sockets were deeply set and shadowed with dark circles. His nose was long, and hooked at the end, with narrow, downward-turning brows over his equally sharp eyes.

"Father, How was your trip?"

As Frollo crossed the threshold, Claudette welcomed him, stepping forward to gingerly remove his hat and rest it upon a velvet silk sheet placed on a shelf.

"Fine."

Frollo spoke slowly, examining the home from where he stood. His slender fingers, decorated with intricate bands of jewel-encrusted rings, glided along the edge of a wood-furnished bookshelf, pulling them back to inspect momentarily. He finally rested his empty basket on the table as though it were the most precious object in the world. Claudette instinctively bowed her head, feeling small in his presence.

"...May I ask you something?"

Claudette spoke, breaking the tender silence. He gave her a half-sided glance acknowledging her.

"Today is January Sixth..."

"And?”

Frollo pressed

"And every year you have me stay here at the Palace while you attend...The Festival"

Getting these words out was a difficult task in itself but to see her Father already so displeased with the conversation at hand made Claudette feel unsure if she should continue, nonetheless, she pushed forward.

"Seeing as I'm no longer a child I feel that I may be able to handle going to something like this."

"Claudette."

His voice was unsmiling and grim

"I attend this-Feast of Fools every year because I am a public official. But I do not enjoy a moment of it. The sinful activities of these Gypsies are being paraded around and everyone sits there and commemorates it."

Frollo’s hand drifted towards Claudette’s face, his long fingers wrapping around her cheek and drawing her closer. Her heart raced with fearful anticipation as his gaze intensified. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to speak, but her words were caught in her throat, strangling her like a suffocating noose.

"I don't want to see you be engulfed in that."

His words seemed as though they were supposed to be charitable but they came out in such a demeaning way it was hard to differ. Ultimately Claudette chose the latter, she knew furthering the conversation would be senseless.

"Yes Sir"

Frollo clasped his hands together admiring his child. He did this often, though the gesture was rarely accompanied by words, leaving Claudette feeling uneasy. It could be the fact that Claude was fueled by the memories of his deceased wife, who he saw reflected in Claudette’s features.

"We have company arriving...I want you to look presentable, have yourself ready."

As Frollo’s words trailed off, he set off into the dark, his form disappearing into the depths of the dimly lit dungeon. Claudette didn’t hate her father, she couldn’t, but there were moments when she wished things were different, that their relationship wasn’t so strained and distant.

As Claudette gazed out the window of her bedroom, a serene sense of calm washed over her. She admired the bustling city daily, guards on patrol, children making their way to school, bakers and fishermen prepping in the early hours, the way of life going about as it was. Her isolation within her bedroom was her sanctuary.

But being alone was far from unusual for Claudette, ever since she was a little girl, she was forced to rely on herself. Her memories of her mother were nothing more than hazy recollections, making it impossible to form a clear image of her face. She had to question, how her mother, in all her grace, came to fall in love with Judge Claude Frollo? She couldn’t imagine any romantic gestures coming from him, as cold and distant as he was. Was it possible that, before her birth, he was a different man? Was she the reason for his change?

Her earliest memories with Frollo included being forced to recite Bible verses at the dining table as her father read alongside her, correcting her punctuation. It was instilled in Claudette's mind at such a young age that religion was the singular most important thing in life, and she was made to understand that any deviation, however slight, would result in her spending eternity in the fiery pits of hell. Hours spent kneeling in the church, hands clasped around her rosary, would sometimes leave Claudette's body weak and trembling, accompanied by whispers of apologies and pleas for forgiveness, The sight of her suffering caused the Archdeacon's heart to ache. Her desperate attempts at salvation never seemed to ease the guilt that gnawed at her, leaving her to lay awake in bed with her mind spiraling into ever-deepening thoughts.

Claudette's dress was a rich ebony shade, its dark and midnight hues forming a contrast to her pale skin, which bore a striking resemblance to her father's bloodless complexion. The decorative lining along the flare complimented the lace undersleeves that neatly hooked over Claudette’s middle finger. Her raven-black hair was styled into a French roll, with subtle strands falling into her face, softening her sharp features, which shared qualities with her father, including his hooked nose and vampiric skin, yet her eyes were soft and kind, her lips heart-shaped like her mother's had been.

Claudette stepped out of the sanctuary of her room, her arms naturally assumed a position of concealment, tucked away in front of her as she strode down the hall. The dark and foreboding ambiance of the building instantly took her over the moment she left her bedroom. The distant sound of voices moved her focus when she attained the end of the stairwell. Her father ascended from the dusk hallway, and behind him was a soldier. His gleaming armor, the golden hues of which illuminated the room. He was handsome.

“Claudette”

Frollo partially introduced turning to face the man

“My daughter.”

The man nodded his head acknowledging Claudette, and was swiftly followed by a warm and affectionate smile that illuminated his chiseled features. His blonde hair was neatly coiffed, with a small goatee neatly trimmed below his mouth. He had a pair of deep blue eyes that mirrored the hue of the cape that adorned his muscular build.

“It’s nice to meet you, Claudette. My name is Phoebus…means Sun God”

Phoebus tried to ease the tension he picked up on with playful banner.

“I hope we will come to get to know each other better during my time here”

Frollo marked the interaction under a dingy gaze. He sighed about to dismiss the interaction between the two but Claudette spoke.

“It’s nice to meet you too…Phoebus”

She smiled trying out his name

“I’m sure we will cross paths”

Frollo cast a gaze upon Claudette that only she was able to pick up on. She moved her gaze away and down into her folded hands while Frollo stepped past her.

“We should leave. I’d hate to arrive while they are scampering around making a mess of-”

“Are you going to the festival?”

There was silence.

Frollo turned to face Claudette his watch hard and unforgiving, as though daring her to offer any sort of explanation for her untimely interruption. Claudette realized her mistake. As she frantically searched for a suitable apology, Phoebus intervened for a rescue. Having spent enough time around her father, he could see that Frollo was a man who possessed little to no compassion for anyone other than himself. He could only imagine how he must have been as a father, with such a lack of empathy towards the world and those around him.

“We are. Will you be joining us?”

He invited

Claudette’s eyes flickered. While she desperately desired to attend, she had been shut out by her father, who offered little more than a stern refusal and an abrupt dismissal. She couldn't help but feel hopeless, for she realized that there was unlikely any chance that her father would change his mind

“You yourself are a public official no? I’m sure the people would love to see you attend with your father.”

Claudette looked at her father while he held his tongue planning out a response. If looks could murder.

“I’m sure Claudette wouldn't want to be wrapped up in such defilement. It’s not the place for a woman such as herself.”

“I think it will be a nice experience…even if it is only a one-time attendance.”

Frollo's gaze was dark. If it were just them two alone in the room surely what was to come would have gone very differently. He nodded his body forward, his hands clasped together as he delivered a deceptive smile, willing to make the concession to grant her wish to attend the festival.

“Very well…if it is the Festival you wish to attend…”

Claudette found herself both elated and appalled at this prospect, for she was all too aware of the potential repercussions that might follow. Nonetheless, she felt resolved to face any punishment that might come her way, so long as she could attain the opportunity to experience the festival. Frollo turned to depart, trailing behind him the heavy weight of ill will that he held towards Claudette at that moment.

“Come along”

Claudette locked eyes with Phoebus, grateful for how he had stepped in to aid the situation. With her father leading the way, Claudette followed, her heart was filled with a sense of warmth and excitement, knowing that she would be able to attend the festival and experience everything she had dreamed it would be.

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