#I GASPED AFTER DRAWING THEIR STANLEY ON THAT MEME ONE

[chillisreal]

M an

this is my more refined and solid narrator design, i might paint him later lol

also some miscellaneous doodles, my bois be soft, but narrators still a smug ass sometimes <3

sad stanley :(

and a surprise show of the player

ft @doodlingbot 's stanley in these ones!

also some narrator

[jclifou]

♥ one for jacques? ♥ and one for henri?

i lost the meme but i know it was asking for kisses

Jacques’ got long so I put a cut in there arbitrarily; Henri’s is below that.

@jcligarcon

                                                     JACQUES

It was hardly rare to find Jacques so absorbed in something that he missed Stanley’s entrance, but it delighted Stanley each time. Jacques was a man of singular focus; given enough time to truly engage with something, he could be comfortably lost to the world for hours on end. A veritable scholar, whose various pursuits–from whittling and singing to reading and writing–never failed to intrigue Stanley; for all his reserve, Jacques was a man of quiet passion, and the ink stains on his fingers he took such great pains to hide from the rest of village was all the proof in the world of that.

Stanley slid gentle hands over Jacques’ shoulders, resting his lips for a moment on the top of his head before speaking. “And what have you there?”

“Only some old letters,” Jacques replied, but with such a curious reserve of emotion that Stanley could not help but frown. Jacques glanced up; saw this; corrected his mistake with a small smile and one hand set over his lover’s squeezing it lightly. “I haven’t read them in some years.”

“But they upset you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then why read them?”

Jacques laughed at that, taking command of the hand in his grasp and kissing it tenderly. “Because, ma moitié, they were written by my sisters–and I haven’t heard from them since the war.”

Stanley hummed, uncertain–feeling misplaced by this news–but Jacques kept his grip on his hand, now rubbing his thumb over Stanley’s knuckles, now pressing it almost sadly against his mouth, exhaling on it, contemplative. “How many sisters did–do you have?”

“You’re curious today,” Jacques replied, pulling away; but a small smile graced his lips. He was pleased. “Three: Adelaide, Robine, and Cecelia. All fine young women, I’m sure.”

“And you wrote often?”

“All the time–until I volunteered to fight. I never heard back from them when I wrote to tell them I was going to war; the last I heard from them, Adelaide had just been married.”

“So it was good news, at least,” Stanley said, leaning back carefully to balance himself against the table–to watch Jacques’ face as they spoke.

“It was news, but not all good. Adelaide wrote me after the ceremony and told me everything in great detail; Robine was the one who took it upon herself to inform me I was not yet forgiven by our father and would not be invited.” Dutiful Robine, good and sweet Robine, whose memories of her brother must have been oh, so distant….

Jacques must have looked very lost in memory indeed, for Stanley took his face in both hands and turned him back to face him, leaning forward impulsively and kissing him deeply, sweetly, slowly.

“–Stanley?”

“Shhhhh. I don’t like you so melancholy. Stand; come with me. I want to take away your sorrow….”There was no arguing with Stanley when he took it upon himself to speak so softly in his commanding tones.

                                                        HENRI

“I have a feeling you say that to all the boys,” Henri replied flippantly, smiling broadly down on the page he had been engrossed in drawing on. Doubtless Jacques and Stanley had forgotten, even, that they were yet in the shared living space; they were very easily involved so wholly in one another as to forget the rest of the world existed when hemmed in on all sides by the familiar walls of their home. Stanley startled back with a gasp more theatrical than genuine in nature (at least in Henri’s opinion), swinging out to look at him.

“Henri, I’m offended!”

“Because I’ve found out the truth,” Henri teased, looking up at last with a crooked, triumphant grin, “or because you wanted to string us along a little further on your old lines?”

“Non, neither.” And now there was an air of dangerous flirtation to the room as Stanley stalked towards him, the charcoal between Henri’s fingers feeling oddly fragile and liable to break. Jacques only looked on, caught between amusement and…something else, something too often present in this house. “Because you would think I would do something like that! Especially with you two.” Stanley’s fingers caught a lock of Henri’s hair between them curling it in once, his gaze seemingly transfixed by that sight as he stood entirely too near Henri.

It was hardly a fair thing, that. Stanley was a far more practiced seducer than he pretended to be. “You are…very charming, monsieur,” he breathed, struggling himself to disengage from the sight of his hair wrapped between Stanley’s long fingers. “Almost unfairly so. I…hardly have the eloquence to defend myself.”

“So you submit?” Henri’s eyes moved back to Stanley’s face; he was already staring, smiling and triumphant, unexpectedly beautiful. (Always unexpectedly beautiful.)

“Oui. To you, always.”

Stanley laid his hand on Henri’s cheek, hair still twined between his fingers, as he bent down to reward the answer with a kiss that left Henri spinning, his heart racing and his head hazy.

Jacques, from across the room, cleared his throat some. “Shall we move this to the bedroom?”

Stanley laughed, a bit unsteady on his feet himself. “Oui, I think so.”