#prismatic night

[rwbyvein]

RWBY Shipping - Blake Belladonna

Yang Xiao Long (V1-5 or fan fiction)

Jaune Arc

Ilia Amitola

Velvet Scarlatina

[aetherprism]

concerning my parents since 2014

[whirlwindflux]

I'm-

Prism: 🎶 Too sexy for my suit 🎶

[prismatic-skies]

[prismatic-tac]

Some old art I've been trying (and failing) to find time to color. I was consumed with the idea of Reala's sharp teeth vs a tender touch and my hand took it from there. I still do really wanna color it at some point though.

[euphorictruths]

Metamorphosis 1: Singed In Flight, Metamorphosis 2: Prismatic Night, Metamorphosis 3: Forget-Me-Not, Metamorphosis 4: Crying Constellations- Andrea Guzzetta

[yllamse]

Hakairedi, the goddess of destruction and judgement.

[erudit0]

theres something inexpliably alluring about the night

[thepossumpunks]

squeezing in some practice with some new brushes before i start a big isometric map project

[shotmrmiller]

Low Key keep thinking abt study abroad college student who takes one of Johnny's sisters place. Like he comes home from deployment and his sisters, mom, and just a stranger is welcoming him home.

(Better if he brought Ghost with him, because he definitely promised Ghost everyone would love him, and now there's a stranger in place, which throws all those promises he made right out the window).

But like the college student is pretty and nice. Gets his mom flowers, helps sisters with makeup, hair, boys etc. So everyone (mostly his sisters) in the family is just eagle eyeing him and telling him off if he tries anything.

His sisters know exactly what Johnny's like. In his youth, he drooled after anything with a pulse, and with those dazzling good looks, he was rarely denied.

But that was back when he was young and dumb, he's a grown man now— even has a doting boyfriend.

So then, why is it that he can't take his eyes off of you? You're nothing special, frankly. He's seen better, had better.

Even so, he can't stop looking at how comely you look in his mam's cooking apron— a pink, frilly bow atrocity— as you shuffle around in the kitchen, helping out with dinner.

Or the way your skin has an ethereal glow to it when under the bright, golden sun as you water the garden— the fine spray of droplets reflecting a prismatic rainbow. Iris sat on the tip of his tongue.

What had been the nail in his metaphorical coffin was how you interacted with his Simon. Unafraid of his height or his surly demeanor. He had introduced himself to you as 'Ghost' with a too firm handshake for your delicate-looking arms, but to his surprise, your grip had been just as solid.

"Like a rock," Simon had noted.

And of course, Simon is too observant. Eyes of a hawk, drinking up minutiae in a matter of seconds. In the late hours of the night, when everyone's gone to bed, Simon's pushing his back against the wall.

He makes quick work of Johnny's jeans, smart fingers undoing the front like it's second nature, and pops open the tiny bottle of lube on the nightstand.

"Seen the way you look at 'er, Johnny."

His protests turn to ash in his tongue when Simon's oil-slick hand fists his length.

"No use lyin' to me. You should know better." A thumb brushes on the delicate skin of his frenulum, a whimper stuck in the back of his throat.

"'S'alrigh'. I think she's pretty as a peach, too."

Oh.

[aetherprism]

“quick” colored sketch of springtrap

[whirlwindflux]

if you had to pick one your OCs to dress up as for nightmare night, which one would you pick?

Code: I’ve noticed he’s been quite the popular dude!

[prismatic-tac]

“You look tired, Reala. Are you sure you’re alright?” NiGHTS asked softly, carefully cupping his cheek. It was a bit clammy.

        Reala took a deep breath, not quite able or wanting to meet his eyes.

        On a whim, he took gentle hold of NiGHTS' hand instead and nuzzled into his palm.

        “Do I, now?” Reala sighed against NiGHTS’ wrist.

        NiGHTS could feel the hardness of his sharp teeth but they were harmlessly bared as he leaned further into the touch and reached up to hold onto his forearm with his other hand. NiGHTS had never seen him so forward with physical touch before in his life, let alone so vulnerable... Dare he say desperate. But for what, exactly, or why, he couldn’t be sure. Reala was staring so hard it looked as if he was trying to figure it out, himself. Maybe he really was tired... Which was saying something for a Nightmaren.

        NiGHTS’ heart skipped a beat when their gazes suddenly locked, the pale splendor of the full moon behind the black and red jester only amplifying the luminous blue of Reala’s eyes.

        The next thing he knew, Reala’s teeth slid away from his skin when he leaned forward to cross the short distance and their lips met.

        Soft, steady, but steep, the kiss made NiGHTS feel like he was suddenly flying but still sensed the ground beneath his feet. Fingers intertwined while the stars flared into a spectrum of new colors before his own eyes, ignited by the prodding stroke of Reala’s tongue against his bottom lip.

        His lips are soft, NiGHTS thought, bewildered and bewitched all at once.

        His lips are softer than I expected, Reala thought in turn. Anything else he could say stayed firmly in his head. So he didn’t say anything else, simply smirking at the size of the other Nightmaren’s pupils.

        “How considerate of you to say,” Reala murmured huskily against his lips. It reminded NiGHTS that he'd asked him something mere moments ago, though blinked blindly before he actually could. “But I think you must be daydreaming.”

        Lithe fingertips ghosted along NiGHTS’ jaw as he pulled his hand back from where he’d left it behind his head, toying briefly with the seam of the purple jester hat before he turned to leave.

        “Uh-huh,” NiGHTS breathed dumbly in his wake.

        Maybe he would take a nap after all, Reala mused to himself as he heaved a heavy breath and flew off, letting the breeze do most of the work while he focused on staying conscious long enough to find a place to collapse unseen. Best to make sure he wasn’t daydreaming, himself. What a scandal that would be.

~~~

Part of the main fic I felt like sharing, connected to this piece of art I did that actually inspired the blurb above.

[turnertopia]

can you write a Alex x fem reader where the two meet when they’re young and then they become best friends. After a concert they go out for drinks and are dancing together at a bar (A little drunk) and it gets a little spicy and then they leave for a hotel or something and you can make it smut or not 🫣🫣 ❤️❤️

much loveeeee

thank u for the request, hope this was okay for u ! if any of this is cringe don't tell me i'd rather be blissfully unaware and ignorant :3

tipsy

pairing: am!alex turner x fem!reader

summary: long desired tipsy sex w a cocky am al teehee

warnings: no use of y/n, not proofread, small plot, smut (mdni), mentions of alcohol and drugs, p in v sex, unprotected sex, switch!alex, hickeys/lovebites, bit of nipple play, handjob kinda, use of unscientific terms (cock, pussy, etc.)

words: 1.6k

note: wrote this in the middle of the night please this is horrid i'm so embarrassed omg

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧

the post-concert glow is evident in alex's blown pupils as you both share a pricey bottle of wine at his favourite bar. sharing the adreneline as well as a drink, the man offers his hand.

"used to love this song, didn't you, love?" his tipsy giggling makes you grin as you listen in to the music playing from the bar's speakers. dizzee rascal, 'dance wiv me', both you and a 2008 alex had countless laughs and dances to this song in the past, this occasion no different. "come and dance with me!" he grinned stupidly. alex clumsily drags you over to the dance floor, grabbing your hands and lacing your fingers between his ringed ones in order to not lose you amongst the crowd of drunks.

he twirls you around with a lazy grin, moving one hand onto your waist. you feel it, a subtle blush growing your cheeks, going unnoticed by alex due to the rapid flash of the prismatic lights. you're both getting very close to each other. your eyes lock together a few times. the song fades out and he pulls you close, leaning into your ear so you can hear him over the blast of the speakers.

"we should go." he says. "gettin' late, you get weirdos in here when it's too late. i'll book a hotel for the night, yeah?" his hand squeezes your waist. "alright." you reply, letting him lead you to the exit.

you're all giggles as you exit the pub, gaining odd looks from the people smoking outside. both yourself and alex are falling over each other on the way to the hotel only a street away. you're still holding hands, too.

alex makes a fool of himself while speaking to the receptionist with his slurring and tipsy snickering. getting into the lift, you can't seem to keep your hands off each other. your hands combing through his now tangled hair, remembering how he had been so precise when gelling it before the concert. you grin. his hands are groping at your waist, hesitant to go any further yet in fear of making you uncomfortable despite his cocky attitude this evening. how gentlemanly.

the ding of the lift snaps the two out of your little lovebird daze, stumbling over to your room. before he can get the key in the door, you give into the temptation and slam him a little roughly against it, greedily pressing your lips against his. he doesn't hesitate for a second, kissing back like he was getting paid to do it. "fuckin' hell." he hisses, his hands aren't as shy now, boldly grabbing your ass while the other stays firmly planted on your waist. you tug his hair, and he lets out a breathy moan and gives you perfect access to slip your tongue into his mouth. he groans, breaking your little makeout to speak.

"let me open the door." he breathes, fumbling with the key curtly. you tease him, slipping your hands up the back of his shirt and dragging your nails down his back. you could have sworn you heard him growl. he finally opens it, the door swinging open with such force it slams into the wall behind it. you're quick to shut it behind you, alex's hands hooking under your thighs to pick you up, re-attatching his lips to yours.

he finds the nearest bedroom, tossing you onto the bed and kissing you more. shoes get kicked off, and he reaches for the zipper of your dress. "please can i take this off? i need to see you." he groans, his cheeks painted in a pretty pink blush. "go on." you purred, and he almost tore the dress off your body. he moaned softly at the sight of you in your underwear. "fuck, shit, fuck, wanted this for so long.." he hissed, kissing and biting your neck, leaving behind marks and little bruises of his love. "take it slow then, al." you murmured, your cheeks also covered in a matching rosy blush.

his rings are cold against your flushed skin, making you shudder. his kisses travel down to your cleavage, unclasping your bra with a hasty motion. he exhales slowly, one ringed hand kneading the flesh of your breast. he takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue snugly over it.

closing his eyes, his other hand palms it's way down your body, cupping your mound through your panties. your helpless squirming was met with a smirk and a firm hand pinning you onto the bed by your waist. he grazed his fingers over your slit through the lace material, only rewarding you with feather-light touches.

"please, alex." you mewled, he relished in the way you spoke so desperately. "please what?" his grin widened. you huffed, turning your head to press into the pillow. "no, love, you have a voice. use it. what do you need?" he coaxed, the pad of his thumb toying with the delicate bow that adorned your underwear.

"...please touch me." you mumbled, that rosy blush making your face hot as it saturated your skin. his lips curled with satisfaction this time. "that's a good girl, hm? very good." his praise reverberated through your ears, a feeling of gratification filling your senses at those very few words.

he dragged your panties down at such a frustrating and deliberate pace, a soft whine escaping your lips after being choked back for so long. "shh.. s'okay, we're getting there now, aren't we, hun?" he cooed at you amorously, but also contradicting himself with that condescending undertone.

he groaned with admiration at your dripping pussy, wasting no time in gathering the slick on his fingers. after waiting so long for any sort of contact with your aching core, the grazing and prodding of his fingers was more than enough stimulant, making you moan out with an arched back.

he was basking in your encouraging moans and mewls, only spurring him on. the strain in his jeans was only getting tighter. you caught sight of the aching bulge, testing the waters by pressing the heel of your foot against it. alex choked on his breath, the steadiness of it instead growing shallow.

"doll." he croaked, hissing as you began grinding your heel against the ever-tightening fabric. his grin was wiped off, replaced with a line, his lips firmly pressed together in order to conceal his sounds. however, your lips were curled into that cocky smirk that usually adorned his pouty lips.

how easy it was to shift the dynamic.

you finally started on his clothes, hungrily pulling the muscle-fit t-shirt off his toned figure and attaching your lips to his neck, sucking and biting. he grips your waist, tilting his head back and finally letting out some noises. you straddle his lap, completely bare, sitting on his thigh as your wetness drips onto the denim.

you move at an achingly slow pace, teasing him just like he did to you. you grip his crotch, his cock is heavy beneath the layers. you unzipped his jeans, watching how the tent in his boxers protruded deliciously. both of you helped push the material down his thighs and legs, leaving him in his underwear.

"please, baby. please." the begging just rolled off his tongue. your grin was cruel, knowing how easily you could deprive him of the pleasure he sought after. but that could wait for another time, now you knew how he could be teased effortlessly and turned into a mess. but now you were both too desperate and pent-up to tease any further.

you released his thick, aching length from the thin fabric. it almost slapped his tummy with how hard he was. and over what? a few kisses and touches? how he was aching, only for you.

when you sat back on his thigh, now both completely bare, he groaned. you looked up at his big brown eyes. pupils blown from lust and need. kissing him gently as you wrapped a hand around his cock, he moaned into your swollen lips.

pumping him slowly, his cock grew wet and twitchy quickly, coated in layers of pre-cum and spit. you let go after a short while, straddling his thickness with your lips still connected, fingers intertwined with one another's.

you sunk down on him, earning a contented sigh from each of you. you bit his lip at the stretch, groaning alongside him. his hands gripped your hips now, guiding you.

"fuuuck... fucking -- that's it." he hissed, eyes rolling back. "so tight." he looked down at the sight of him disappearing into you. was he in heaven?

"al, s'too big." you tugged at his hair, clenching around him. "gonna split me open." you whined.

he chuckled lowly, guiding your hips so you were bouncing on him at a faster pace. "got you, sweet girl. feels s'good darlin'. you were slamming down on him, a squelching noise coming from between the two of you. his toned abdomen pressed against you, sweat sticking to the both of you.

both of you were close. you could each tell, the way he twitched inside of you and the way you spasmed around him.

"lovey, i'm almost there." he gritted. "cum with me, baby. i've got you, jus' let go puppet." and you did. you convulsing around him brought him to his climax, releasing hot spurts of his seed deep inside of you. he whimpered with you, holding you close as you caught your breath. he kissed your forehead, sliding out with a grunt.

you looked at each other for a moment before giggling quietly. "we'll talk in the mornin', kay?" he whispered with a stupid smile. you nodded softly, the drowsiness hitting you after the few drinks and what you just did.

"g'night, love." he kissed your head, pulling the covers over your waist with an arm around you.

:3

[tangibletechnomancy]

Doing It Wrong On Purpose: Episode 1 - The Un-Ship

Today's experiment: What happens if I prompt for something, and then negative prompt all the main keywords, plus various synonyms and related words?

The answer: Some gloriously weird stuff.

For example, let's look at a negative cat:

Positive prompt: A cat on a windowsill during a storm

Negative prompt: Cat, feline, felidae, kitty, kitten, animal, pet, windowsill, window, glass, pane, house, storm, rain, water, lightning, thunder, clouds, torrent, downpour, snow, blizzard, wind, windy

Interesting! Let's get a little more fantasy with it and try for an anti-deer:

Positive prompt: A deer in a peaceful flowery meadow, crystals, midnight, fantasy, colorful

Negative prompt: Deer, cervidae, animal, elk, moose, stag, doe, fawn, reindeer, antelope, cervid, antlers, flowers, night, dark, trees, foliage, bloom, stars, night, tranquil, fantastic, vibrant, cool, magic, blue, moon, sky, crystal, stone, statue, topiary, floral, blossom

Between these two experiments, including a few dozen other generations that remain unposted, one thing I can say for sure is that for living subjects, it's a great way to get the kind of anatomical wonk that older models are (in)famous for - and it makes sense why, the model is trying to make something that looks like a certain subject...but once it starts to look too much like it, well, shit, we told it NOT to do that! Break something up! Given that I love that kind of wonk, I think I've found a useful tool for myself.

One more living subject, and let's get even more abstract with our direction here:

Positive prompt: mind horse

Negative prompt: horse, equine, colt, filly, mare, stallion, bronco, pony, mind, brain, thought, essence, psyche, intelligence, consciousness, imagination, dream, soul, visualization, intellect, wit, cognizance

Now let's try something that isn't alive. One thing I love AI for is surreal settings and landscapes - lets try one now!

Positive prompt: A magic palace garden made of crystal and gold

Negative prompt: Palace, magic, crystal, gold, fantasy, castle, estate, stronghold, temple, garden, flowers, plants, blossoms, bloom, blooms, trees, grass, stems, foliage, leaves, greenery, branches, bush, bushes, hedge, hedges, metal, luxury, stone, glass, brass, rose, polished, jewel, prism, courtyard

I then tried to see if, learning from the animal subjects, I could make it more likely to return one of my favorite "mistakes" - making it impossible to discern the point where a water area ends and a sky area begins. I wasn't immediately successful, but I came up with some results I found pleasing regardless-

Positive prompt: Secret hideout in a cave behind a waterfall in the foggy forest on a floating sky island in fluffy clouds

Negative prompt: hideout, camp, campsite, home, abode, house, dwelling, rest, shelter, waterfall, water, cave, grotto, forest, woods, woodland, trees, fountain, cascade, pond, stream, lake, river, brook, puddle, creek, pool, beach, ocean, sea, cloud, clouds, sky, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus, fog, storm, rain, sunshower, falls

It seems that with landscapes it's got a much clearer and more specific "idea" of what a [SUBJECT] without [SUBJECT] looks like; it's more inclined to invent very specific, very consistent unasked for related elements. With the animals, I was tweaking the weight on the positive prompt to avoid getting straightforwardly just what I had positive (and negative) prompted, but with landscapes, I just get... almost something else entirely.

So how about inanimate objects? Let's try a ship, perhaps?

Positive prompt: A huge sailing ship with brilliant prismatic crystal sails on a stormy, turbulent sea of sunset clouds

Negative prompt: ship, boat, sailboat, sailing ship, pirate ship, galleon, ketch, schooner, sloop, cutter, sail, sea, ocean, storm, wind, rain, water, waves, cloudy, clouds, fog, sunset, dusk, dawn, sunrise, twilight, evening

...okay, I'm in love with the un-ship. It truly does manage to consistently give me results that look like, yet entirely unlike, a ship. It is everything I love about AI as a medium. More than that, it is my friend.

At lower positive prompt weights, they only get even more beautifully chaotic.

I want to live on one of these (in an alternate universe where they're geometrically possible and structurally sound, that is).

Failing that, I will be featuring them a lot from now on.

All images generated using Simple Stable, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

[fayes-fics]

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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