#jessica clark | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr has a low social media market share in South America.

mishoarts · 5 months

Text

I don't have coins to fast pass tomorrow, but I still want something like this

Momma bear beat up that Karen PLEASE -

#school bus graveyard #sbg #sbg (webtoon)#sbg spoilers #school bus graveyard webtoon #aiden clark #ashlyn banner #Emma banner #Jessica Clark #Please let it happen it would be funny

214 notes · View notes

iamumbra195 · 16 days

Text

So I was reading this blog post/article about adrenaline rushes and bipolar disorder after reading @moonbiine and @stillfrownyclownlol's posts about Aiden having BPD and the author was talking about their latest adrenaline rush.

Essentially they were doing the Edge Walk at the CN Tower, in Toronto, ON. When they got down, they said the adrenaline rush was amazing and that they couldn't stop smiling afterwards. It didn't feel like hypomania and they realized for the first time that they feeling something besides pain and depression. That felt like a person.

They realized it was kinda depressing that it took hanging so high in the air and putting themself in danger to actually feel that way.

But to a little kid, feeling like that, riding that high after feeling like shit for so long? It's no wonder that Aiden became an adrenaline junkie.

Every time we see little Aiden, he looks miserable and depressed.

So maybe one day, his parents decided to take him to do something super exciting to try and cheer him up. And then he felt that rush of adrenaline, the pride of accomplishing such a dangerous task and he was hooked.

His parents were probably glad he started to smile and pick up new hobbies, even if each one seemed more dangerous than the last. So they indulged him. Let him do what he wanted as long as he was happy.

I mean, why else would he be able to do all these things when he would permission/supervision from his parents for like half since he's 15-16 years old?

Although, Red recently said that she did write him with ADHD in mind and a lot of articles said that, "People with ADHD may compulsively seek high-dopamine activities and stimuli to achieve a dopamine rush, so people with ADHD may be more likely to engage in impulsive and risky behaviours. An individual may seek any situation that incites a strong burst of dopamine in the brain.

People with ADHD may describe themselves as adrenaline lovers, never satisfied, and always seeking what is out of reach." Or something along the same lines.

Either way, him having bipolar disorder, BPD or ADHD is really cool and I'd love to see more people talking about it.

(Please forgive me if I accidentally said something potentially incorrect or offensive, I'm not claiming to be an expert on either disorders.)

#aiden clark #daniel clark #jessica clark #bipolar disorder #bpd #adhd #i thought bpd and bipolar disorder were the same thing when I wrote this SORRY #adrenaline #school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard webtoon #sbg #sbg (webtoon)#just me rambling #i love aiden

41 notes · View notes

womp-womp-waa · 10 days

Text

He was never close with his mother. He was never given the opportunity to. She was just always so busy with everything in her life and the business.

When he was younger she made an effort to be there for him. Aiden and his parents would always have movie nights together, they would take turns picking the movies (normally it was always what Aiden wanted to watch, he was a young child after all). After a while though, she stopped coming to the movie nights. Saying she had 'work' to do, said work was getting drunk with her friends.His dad carried on the tradition though. Sure, it felt lonely without his mother there to join them, but he was glad that his dad decided to stay and stick to the movie nights.

Maybe that's why Aiden feels like he can trust his dad more. Because he was there, he made an effort, he wanted a relationship with him, unlike his mother.He hoped his dad wanted a relationship, but it was harder to tell now. With his dad off on business trips along with his mother, it felt like he was distancing himself from Aiden. Maybe he was. Was Aiden just not worth loving? It seemed to be a common theme in Aiden's life, and it all started with his mother.

Deep down he knew that she didn't truly love him. Of course, she would always be kind to him whenever they talked, but it was never anything close to what he saw on shows that would be considered motherly love. But on the same TV shows he saw mother's who were worse then his, so he guesses that it's not that bad. Perhaps it never was, maybe he was just trying to make himself the center of attention. Like every stereotypical rich kids. He just wanted attention because he felt like he wasn't loved, but he's wrong. He's being harsh and cruel to his poor mother who's trying her best, but just can't love him because he's unlovable. A disgrace to the family name. A stain on white sheets, a nuisance.

That could be the only reason why his mother was like the way she was. He wasn't deserving of a mom who would take care of him when he was sick. A mom who would bake him cookies. A mom who could love him. He didn't deserve it. Maybe, just maybe, if he was better he could have a better relationship with his parents. Maybe then they wouldn't be consumed with their work all the time. Maybe then they could have some movie nights.

All he wanted to be was loved, but he didn't deserve that did he?

#school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard webtoon #aiden clark #jessica clark #daniel clark #Womp womp

23 notes · View notes

unclefungusthegoat · 1 year

Video

Talking of iconic behind the scenes videos, literally can’t tell you how much I love this one - you know, just Louis XIV, midway through declaring himself head of the French church, encouraging his court to behave in a perfectly normal manner for the 1680s.

I don’t own the video - it belongs to Canal+ and everyone who made Versailles.

#versailles #canal +#george blagden #evan williams #jessica clark #stuart bowman #catherine walker #steve cumyn #look at chevy and liselotte dancing together #*wipes away tears*#also bontemps... who knew

66 notes · View notes

modelcoutureee · 8 months

Text

#Jessica Clark

23 notes · View notes

fuckyeahcostumedramas · 10 months

Photo

Jessica Clark as Elizabeth Charlotte, Princess Palatine in Versailles (TV Series, 2015-2018).

#jessica clark #princess palatine #perioddramaedit #versailles #17th century #Madeline Fontaine

49 notes · View notes

laf-outloud · 1 year

Text

Jocelyn's IG stories

What adorable photos of Jocelyn, Jared, and Katie! (Plus the WIndy cast and crew,)

#walker: independence #Windy bts #jocelyn melero #jared padalecki #katie findlay #greg hovanessian #isa esperanza #mark sheppard #philemon chambers #lawrence kao #gino filiponi #jessica clark #mohammad shaikh #WIndy crew #WIndy 1.12 #WIndy 1.13

34 notes · View notes

queerafricans · 1 year

Text

Queer Africans of South Asian Descent

Jessica Clark (Nigeria)

Anita Obasi (Nigeria)

Denrele (Nigeria, Mauritius)

Ian Iqbal Rashid (Tanzania)

El-Farouk Khaki (Tanzania)

Kama La Mackerel (Mauritius)

#jessica clark #anita obasi #denrele #denrele edun #ian iqbal rashid #el-farouk khaki #el farouk khaki #kama la mackerel #nigeria #tanzania #mauritius

12 notes · View notes

paintandroses · 2 years

Text

Presenting my latest in this art nouveau inspired set : the wonderfully quirky Liselotte, perfectly played by Jessica Clark in Versailles.

#Versailles #Liselotte #Princess Palatine #Jessica Clark #Versailles fanart #Mucha set #Reposting because Tumblr terminated my original account

10 notes · View notes

berlinnelity · 2 years

Text

MY CHARACTERS' FACE CLAIMS:

ever since i learned what FCs were, i sided, sided and decided, to do this post. therefore, as i want to include all my characters in this, expect this post to be quite long:

— CILLIAN: Ramy Moharam Fouad.

Ramy... he has Cillian's vibe. the hollow, lean cheekbones; the dead fish eyes; the oblong, somewhat round nose; everything, everything in him reminds me of Cillian. the only think he doesn't has that Cillian does, are the green eyes and freckles. other than that, he's Cillian spat-image.

— OLIVER: Aaron Taylor-Johnson.

yesterday, i watched Anna Karenina (2012) for the second time and, when i tell you the moment i laid eyes on Aaron Taylor Johsnon's Vronsky, i had an ephipany, i am not exaggerating. EVERYTHING, even the character's mannerisms, remind me of Oliver. even the little, admittedly ridiculous mustache.

(however, i must admit that Dacre Montgomery also reminds me of Oliver. here:

he has a lot of manslut, malewhore vibes—very important traits of Oliver's character, i tell you. EDIT: i think that Dacre Montgomery reminds me even more of Oliver than Aaron Taylor-Johnson... interesting).

— CHARLIZE: Jessica Clark.

as i watched the third season of Versailles, i, again, had an epiphany. about Jessica Clark—the only thing i would change about her, so she could suit Charlize better, is the hair. you put this woman in a deep, brown, curly, long wig and bam, there's Charlize.

— OCTAVIA: Keke Palmer.

now. Octavia has had many face claims, Keke Palmer is the one that seemed to suit her the most; especially, Keke Palmer has such a glamorous, fancy feel to herself that makes me associate Octavia with her—that is the type of feeling Octavia seems to have, you see.

— ELLIOT: Dev Patel.

listen. beside this white-ass name, Elliot is, indeed, indian and was born in Deli, India. in any case, everytime i heard about Dev Patel i thought "well, he would suit some character of mine". Elliot's the one; there's nothing i would change about him to make him suit Elliot, as i would with Charlize's or Cillian's face claims, truly nothing.

— INDIRA: Indira Varma.

i was looking for a face claim for Indira for quite a while now and really, Indira Varma plays the part very well. again, as for her, there's nothing i would change to make her suit Indira; she's the spat portrait of Indira (or Franz, as she's publicly known—there's lore about that, yes).

— VINCENT: Oscar Isaac.

my justifications for this one are: first, Oscar Isaac in the movie In Secret simply exhales Vincent's energy. second... Vincent is an utterly corrupt, unhinged motherfucker; the bastard (and he is a bastard in more ways than one, trust me) is just insane in the brain—a part that Oscar Isaac should, in my head, play very well.

— ALASTAIR: Daryl McCormack.

now, this one is most likely because, by the time i was thinking on (and i say "thinking on" as oppossed to "creating" because, well; Alastair is not complete yet, i still have to do a lot more on his character, what should be his usage in the book's plot, etc) i was OBSESSED with Daryl McCormack, so... you get the reason why.

— CHRISTOPHE: Mads Mikkelsen.

(my friends, if they ever see this post, will call me a hypocrite for incluiding Mads Mikkelsen as a FC for a character. oh well) i don't quite know what to say about this one, other than i associate him with Christophe and that's all. "oh well" indeed.

FINALLY, there is, yes, another character i would like to add to this post; but he is not important to the plot anyways, and I've already reached Tumblr's limit of images.

in any case, thank you for your time. it's going to get worse.

4 notes · View notes

onlyyyariii · 2 years

Text

Robin Buckley ❤️

^^ She’s so cute, I love her so much

*******

Jessica Clark OC

How They Met

*******

More will be added as they are written. If I have ideas for story titles before I write them, I will write in the names and post the stories at a later time.

Super excited for the gl stories I’m gonna write! 😁🤍

#robin buckley #stranger things #ari’s masterlist #ari’s fic recs #oc #jessica clark

0 notes

unclefungusthegoat · 10 months

Text

Part two of Illumine, my Chevalier and Liselotte fic is here!

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sick bed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

Part One: L'obscurité

Read on AO3

Part Two: Le Rêve

Read at the AO3 link, or below!

Tags: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Opium, Fever Dreams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Vomiting, Graphic Descriptions of Corpses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Imprisonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Child Death, Animal Abuse, Restraints

Part Two: Le Rêve

A rap upon the door.

Cutting through the thin sheen of peace.

And the low, discrete murmur was unmistakable, even though the Chevalier’s ears were buried beneath the blankets. Drool wet the fabric beneath his cheek.

“I’m afraid the King insists, Your Highness-”

“Please, Bontemps, explain to His Majesty, I will not leave him.” Liselotte was clearly trying to keep her voice hushed, but it seemed Versailles was built to echo, “Monsieur Fortin says the Chevalier is at a precipitous moment in his recovery. If…” She swallowed, bracing herself, “... If the fever claims him, my husband would never forgive me if I wasn’t at his side.”

Bontemps’ weary disinterest was louder than any reply he could make.

“His Majesty understands your anxiety over this matter. Nevertheless-”

The words seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of the Chevalier’s heartbeat thudding in his head. It felt as if a troupe of horses had trampled his body, for every inch of him hurt, every limb felt useless and bruised. To turn on his side, or rearrange his nightshirt, was an ordeal akin to Sisyphus. And still, that dry mouth, longing for that taste. Still that need . That burning within.

What had she said?

"If the fever claims him."

I’m dying, he realised, as sleep claimed him once more.

I’m dying and I shall never see him again.

***

The smell of sickness bled through the stone. It was far from the first time typhoid fever had broken out within the Chateau d’If, where the men were crowded in thirty or forty to a room. Fresh inmates often brought pox and lurgy from the mainland, and there was not a soul about the rock who cared for their fate. One less Huguenot troublemaker or political upstart would not be missed.

But this fever had taken hold with the grasp of an ancient god upon the thunder. Now the dead lay face to face with the living, and the living prayed for death. The floors were fouled. The cells were stifling with decay. Death claimed every inch of the fortress, every minute of the day. So lost were the sorry bastards in the cells below, the priest couldn't read rites quickly enough, for as soon as one perished, another needed attending.

The Chevalier could hear the bodies being dragged out and thrown into the sea.

“Exile is as good as death.” He recalled Madeleine de Foix purring once, over the fate of some unfortunate social climber, “But the Chateau is surely worse. It does not do for a nobleman to be forgotten in such a place.’

Had he been forgotten?

It certainly felt so.

There had been no word sent from Versailles. No sign of release papers, or a royal pardon. He was not permitted to write or receive letters, nor to speak to the prisoners in the adjacent cells (though why he would ever want to eluded him. He was not that desperate for idle chit-chat). Payment enough had been made for a private cell, but not a penny more had been sent for further comfort, not even from his siblings, who amassed quite the fortune from their abbeys.

It seemed now though, four days into this latest bout of malady, even the guards had forsaken him, the rancid stench of an epidemic lingering in the fibres of their cloaks and tunics as they idled past on their patrols. The regular guard had not visited at all today. No meagre ration of soup had been delivered and the chamber pot remained soiled. He’d done his best with the fire, but the embers were fading fast, and he was too cold to try again.

February in Marseille might as well have been December in Siberia. There was no glass in the window to protect from the storm, and the wind bit at his cheeks and fingers. From his cell upon the top floor, he could see the Mediterranean sea lashing upon the rocks, and had there not been stone walls preventing him, the Chevalier was convinced he would have thrown himself in to be drowned.

Better that than spend one more moment pretending that he would ever go home.

He was not one to pray. His faith had faded early in his youth, and all but died when he realised that having a passion for one's own sex invariably left him damned. But now he knelt before the rotting straw mattress with the diligence of a monk, and begged for God… anyone … to heed him.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.”

He pressed his lips upon his clasped hands, tears spilling onto the white knuckles. The Latin was fumbled, forgetful, despite being endlessly repeated since he was a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the cold floor beneath him was the marble chapel of Versailles. That the scrape of flesh against the floor was the shuffle of congregants to receive communion. That warm breath would tickle the back of his neck, as Philippe - darling Philippe - approached behind him to whisper something sinful.

Goddamn it, he’d even take Bossuet’s chastisements, if it meant he was home to hear them.

Another body cast in.

And another.

And another, and another, and another, and another…

***

Now he stood beneath the moon, knee deep in cold water. There was no salt in the air, or tide pulling him adrift. Instead, the water was still and shallow, soaking his breeches in a most rude and unbecoming fashion. He could not remember how he came to be there. It seemed perhaps he had been drunk or in the throes of a tantrum, as he so often was these days.

Still, the Palace was but a distant silhouette. The shape of it cast an impossibly long shadow across the water. and though there seemed to be golden light in every window, there was no one close enough to witness him in such a state.

Had he sleepwalked?

There was talk the King wandered in his sleep. Perhaps it was catching. As Louis’s palace polluted them all, so too did his afflictions.

And yes, the Chevalier hated the outdoors - mosquitos in the summer, every opportunity to catch your death in the winter. Mud and rain and birdshit on the marble steps. But the fresh air felt freeing tonight, away from the confines of the Palace, a gilded prison by any measure. Away from seeing how Philippe’s eyes wandered; to his wife, to the weasely little poet, and if they were not to be found there, they would be upon his armour, hungry for another war.

Had they fought again?

No.

Well, probably, but not this time.

No…

Had he not been…?

He could have sworn he’d been in Marseille but a moment ago.

A memory, Philippe, nothing more…

But maybe…?

…maybe…

… Why couldn’t he remember?

He reached for the phial tucked into his coat, and found, to his delight, a droplet of laudanum left lingering at the bottom. He leaned his head back to let it dribble into his throat, the morsel pulling away all worry and care of what his prince might be up to over there in the light. At least he still had one great love, one constant, which never failed to bring him ecstasy.

Something moved around his ankles.

He nearly lost his footing. The phial dropped with a quiet plop into the depths, never to be found again, for the water was black as a crow’s feather, and he could not see his own reflection, let alone the bottom of the fountain.

It moved again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't small. He couldn’t remember the King having fish brought in, though he wouldn't put it past the man to have had his gardeners go to the ends of the earth to collect a sea beast worthy of the corners of the map.

His eyes bulged. And summoning a faint wisp of courage from within, the Chevalier moved his hand to the surface. His fingers dipped beneath. Not quite enough to risk his whole hand should the creature have teeth, but certainly a ring or two if he were not fast enough. The water was heavy, like oil, slick and slippery. It smelt sweet, like violets - the same powdery scent that greeted him upon opening his snuff box.

But there was nothing below.

Nothing but his stockinged feet.

He hissed a laugh at his foolishness. It was surely time to return to the Palace, to slip into bed beside Philippe (if his bed was not already occupied ). To let his warmth lull him to sleep.

But first - the phial.

He reached down again to retrieve it, confidence rising as the shallows fell-

- and with a surge, the water slipped from the form that broke free from the depths.

A human form.

Shoulders and a head bearing pretty brown curls, lit by that oversized moon.

Crying out, he stumbled back, but her rotting hands caught the front of his coat. He could see the bone where they'd been eaten away by some ravenous creature. Could see moss threaded through her hair. She seemed so frail in nothing but her shift, and without the haze of opium, to look upon her innocent half-naked form felt lecherous. Dirty. Almost sacrilegious. To look upon her felt unholy in every way imaginable.

It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible…

But the drowned, bloated face of Isabelle, gaped and gasped for air.

Her wide eyes searched his face.

“Is this paradise, Monsieur?”

He choked on the stench of her, on the stale breath she had not been permitted to take, now released.

“Will you kiss me, Monsieur, as you did that night? I had never kissed a man before.”

“Leave me be!” He shrieked, pulling at her fingers to release him, but she held tight. Nausea churned within his stomach as he was forced to look upon her. At the water that dribbled from her lips, at the tinges of green beneath her once rosy skin… at the love bite on her neck. Once so young and full of hope and promise, had she not been the plaything of jealousy, and led into the embrace of iniquity and desire.

His embrace.

“Will you love me, Monsieur? Am I to be your wife, now you have touched me”?

“Let me go- please-” His voice died in his throat.

“No.”

And she leant in to whisper in his ear.

“So too will you drown.”

***

Who is screaming?

Surely a madman was loose about the palace, to make such a racket as that? Perhaps this stranger, clad in black, who insisted on assaulting him? The stranger seemed mad, with his wiry hair, and instruments eerily like Marchal’s. His eyes bulged. His words were garbled.

He is here to rob me , the Chevalier realised, for the stranger clung to his limbs with unsympathetic force, and showed no sign of relenting, no matter how vigorously he thrashed. Rob me, arrest me, send me away again, away to the King, to the gallows he promised me. I learned my lesson, did I not? I learned, as I promised I’d learn, but no, my stallion, you and I both know I never learn. And now this thief is here to kill me, to rob me, to empty my coat- this fine coat that you paid for, my darling! You see what he took, bastard that he is, he knows it’ll stop the pain, it’ll all go away and I will be your mignon again, your Philippe, as you remember me, before I was sent away! She said one drop to sleep, Philippe, just a drop, Philippe, just one, it can be our secret, darling, just a drop, my darling, can’t you see it hurts -

His legs were spasming, the muscles already taut and pained from disuse. Feet, scrabbling against his captor, ruching the sheets.

And still, the godforsaken screaming .

“You must hush, sir, or I’m afraid I shall be forced to tie you down.”

***

"... She wasn’t the first, was she?"

Mignonette's face was contorted with anguished fury. With loathing . But his voice still held that exquisite softness, that vulnerable, hushed quality that held more beauty than lark song to the Chevalier. And, oh how perfect he was in his powder and rouge, laced lovingly into his favourite corset, just as he had on the day they met. How fine he looked, with his cheeks flushed and his hair wild, even if it was in service of accusation.

Mignonette’s slight body was trembling in rage.

"Are you so set against my brother? Against me?"

The Chevalier couldn't recall what he'd done, but it broke his heart to see his love so tormented.

I am always with you, he wanted to proclaim. Did I not kill for you? Did I not think of you every day I languished in prison? Have I not held you in your darkest nights, and been your companion when all the world believes us wicked? Will I not follow you into the depths of damnation, all for want of your love?

"My darling, I have no idea what you mean, the very thought of hurting you is-"

"STOP IT. STOP SEDUCING ME WITH YOUR POISONOUS WORDS!" Marching across the chamber, Mignonette’s hands began to tear at his slate grey skirts, lacerating the fine silk. He cast it away, leaving it withered upon the floor, rubbed at his face with his palm, smearing the Chevalier’s handiwork into a pink watercolour rash. He ripped the jewels from his ears, letting the lobes weep in pain. “You’re a VIPER. A snake in the garden, set upon me by those who wished to keep me insignificant! My brother! My mother!”

“Your mother adored you!” The Chevalier dared to take a step forward, arms raised as if pacifying a defensive bull, “As do I! You are my very soul, Philippe, never mind the very soul of France! Please, if I have wounded you, if I have cut you to the quick, tell me! Tell me how I might be better! How I might return to your good graces, how I might heal your pain-!”

Such flattery did not assuage Mignonette’s wrath, for his fingers moved to the petticoats, the white silk. The sound of seams snapping was akin to broken bones.

“Philippe… Philippe, stop- you love that gown-!”

“I loved YOU.” He screamed, “And you repay my love by poisoning my WIFE.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Had he not been here before, heard this before?

“...That’s absurd.”

“You deny it?” Mignonette snarled, “You command me to deny my own eyes?” He flung out an arm, scratched in his haste to undress, towards the bed.

What?

And yet suddenly he saw her, strewn amongst the bloodsoaked sheets. Liselotte, arm impaled by a too-big lancet. A shrieking lamb was tied beside her, thrashing its head in fear as its blood nourished her lifeless veins. Her eyes saw no light, her mouth agape, dribbling bile and foam, her flesh so pale it could have challenged the mist and snow. Like Henriette, bloodied spittle stained her nightgown. Viscera vomited in agony. That boisterous spirit… gone.

Her babe withering within.

The Chevalier felt sick at the sight of it.

Surely, he hadn’t-?

Mignonette’s face was now so close to his. What remained of his gown hung loosely from him, skin like alabaster beaded with sweat. His lips, plump with desire, but worried to the point of splitting. A calm had come over him, his breath heavy in his bosom. His thumb moved across the Chevalier’s cheek.

“Do you see her, my dear Chevalier?”

He knew he’d see her in his dreams for all eternity.

“She wasn’t the first, was she?”

“... What?

"You poisoned her too, didn't you?"

Somehow the Chevalier already knew the answer.

Still he asked.

"Who?”

That gentle whisper, once saved for sweet nothings between the raptures of sex.

“Henriette.”

The prince’s eyes were stormy with grief. The Chevalier shook his head, almost imperceptible, but for the man who was his world. Yet to his world, he spoke his truth, and it was not the truth he had hoped they would bear witness to. It came with a smirk. That wit, that irreverence, so often his downfall.

“I would be lying, my love, if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mignonette smiled.

That beautiful, sad smile.

That lonely, silver smile that so often was confined to the shadows.

“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? To stay by my side.”

A nod.

“Anything.”

And Mignonette gave a soft sigh.

“My brother was right about you.”

The Chevalier decided there, in the embrace of his truest love, that surely this could be no dream.

For the dagger between his ribs, twisted at that precise angle as to sever the heart, felt more real than any kiss they’d ever shared.

***

The night came once more, and he lay curled upon the bed.

Someone had stripped him of his nightshirt now, in a desperate attempt to cool him down. And he lay naked as the day he was born, modesty preserved only by a thin sheet. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruises upon his wrists and ankles. An aeon of nights with no respite from the pain, from that thirst, had left him collapsed upon her - his angel - unable to struggle, unable to die. His head, cradled in her lap. Her fingers stroked his hair, in lieu of a lullaby. Like a wounded baby deer, he whimpered, weak and shivering.

Through the open window, a harpsichord serenaded from a distant soiree.

“Where is Philippe?” He barely whispered.

He wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d asked. Philippe’s banyan robe - one of beautiful ochre and grey silk - was somehow in his grasp, had been laid out, to be crushed in his grip as a child clings to a blanket. The lavender perfume of his lover so near confused him, for how could he be here and yet not be?

No one had ever cared but Philippe.

Philippe… and her .

“He promised,” Every word, every breath was fainter, “He promised he would love me again…”

Had he the strength to look up, he would have seen her grief upon her cheeks.

“He will.” Was all she could think to say in return, “He does.”

#Versailles #monchevy #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #versailles fanfic #versailles series #evan williams #jessica clark #this one actually has several bonus characters too #please mind the tags!!!!

13 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs