#rowanparis

[semperpati]

continued for thread tracker

rowanparis‌:

It was obvious Rowan didn’t belong on this side of the Seine. His hair was curlier than usual under a well-worn beanie. He’d been a complete spectacle.

The man who was dressed dashingly spoke first. Rowan grinned. The kitchen bustled behind him. Unless he was a fancy chef, somehow superior in not splashing sauces onto his expensive clothes, the man didn’t belong in this particular room either. Rowan held the door open for a waiter who didn’t think twice about either of them, oddly enough. “The bathroom is one door down, for chums.”

The curious look on his face turned into a sheepish grin. “Oh gosh, yes. You’re...” He pointed behind the younger man at the behind the scenes area where Guillaume strangely felt much more of a connection to than the glittering candelabras and champagne worth more than a month of a normal man’s salary. 

“Well I wasn’t seeking out the bathroom, really.” He slipped a hand into his pocket as he leaned against the door languidly, said champagne having totally erased all good judgement from his mind. “I hope they feed you well here. God knows we didn’t need that much food out here.”

[laspadillex-blog]

remember me w geri??

@geridurand

Octobre 1917

After wearing black every single day of the year, one almost adopts the achromatic color as their second skin — at least, that’s how Jacqueline felt since the “mysterious” passing of her beloved husband.  There wasn’t an official handbook on mourning fashion etiquette, but to play up on her “heartbroken-widow” act, Jacqueline had removed every single article of clothing that had color to it from her closet and packed them away.  It was a fucking pain in her derrière to dress herself in noir throughout the scorching heat of summer, and now that it was just breaking through crisp autumn was when she decided it was socially acceptable to begin to don color yet again.

Her deep plum dress fit snugly across the feminine contours of her bodice and stopped just at the curve of her calf, picking up slightly in the light but brisk autumn breeze. It wasn’t a drastic change, but one that did not go by unnoticed as she walked through the busy streets of the street market.  The heads of many men and women alike that recognized her as the widow to Gaston Choquette, a notable mafia man in the streets of Paris, turned to watch her slip through the crowds of the street.  She regarded the familiar faces with a polite smile, stopping in between the stands to sample the fruits and breads as she walked.  The clicking of her heels against the pavement only came to a halt when she saw a uniquely familiar face; one that she had spent years of her childhood regarding with adoration. 

That was the face of Gerald Durand. 

As a young and very sociable girl, Jacqueline had come to make many different friends in school and Mathilde Durand was one that she had held very dear to her heart.  Different than most other girls their age, Mathilde was always much more shy and modest, but always had the purest of hearts; she didn’t ache for the attention or participated in gossip, but was rather just a polite girl and a great friend.  While she may not have always been Jacqueline’s go-to-gal to sneak out and wander the streets of Paris with, she could always rely on Mathilde for sound advice and the least amount of judgment if she ever needed an outlet.

Jacqui also didn’t mind the fact that her friend had a very adorable older brother, who quickly became the heart of the young girl’s eye.  Gerald was Jacqueline’s first real crush and, looking back now, she was very grateful to him for being so oblivious of her embarrassing attempts at gaining his attention.  Though her crush on him had long gone, the sight of Gerald inspired her to put her best foot forward and break out, no longer as Madame Choquette but once again as Jacqueline Dubois.  Perhaps he’d be as oblivious to her flirting now as he was back when there were meaning behind her words, and perhaps that’d be a good thing if it turned out she had lost her touch.  

He was lingering at a nearby fruit stand, and after smoothing out the skirt of her dress and quickly primping her dark curls, she moved to approach him.  “Gerald Durand,” she said as she neared him, an amused smile hinting at the corners of her lips as he picked his head up.  “That’s a name I haven’t uttered in quite some time.  How are you?”

“I’m… Good, how are you?”  He replied, the pitch of his voice lilting upward slightly in confusion as he regarded her.  She could tell that he was initially thrown off, his brows pulling downward as his eyes, those topaz eyes that used to send her heart fluttering, studied her face.  The focus was there, and Jacqui could practically see the mental math he was doing as he tried to locate the name that matched her face.  Admittedly the last time they had seen each other, Jacqueline had looked quite different; done up in the theatrics of playing the distraught wife in the morgue, her face red as she sobbed and identified the body as her husband’s.  

This time, she was done up in the exact opposite way, oozing confidence despite her nerves that told her to wait a little longer before breaking out the “lively” wardrobe.  Her hair was freshly trimmed and styled, her lips, now turned fully upward in a smile, painted a brilliant bright red.  “I’m glad to hear it; you look well.”  Her dark, cat-like eyes dropped to fully regard him before lifting back up to his face; he did look well, just as well as he had as a young man.  He didn’t seem to have any luck with his memory still, which was beginning to throw her off—was Jacqueline not as memorable as she liked to believe she was?  In hopes of proving herself right, she threw him a bone and hoped he would catch it, “How’s Mathilde?  I haven’t seen her in ages.”  Her weight shifted from one leg to another, a mixture of her nervousness and impatience playing hand-in-hand with one another. 

At this Gerald seemed to make the connection, his brows lifting in what seemed to be surprise.  “Jacqueline Dubois, is that you?”  Those honey-colored eyes of his quickly trailed over her frame before settling on her face yet again, a smile now finding it’s way on his lips, “You look… Different.”

[pythcnidae]

@rowanparis ❝ All you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people. ❞

Tossing her head back, Carmen laughed haughtily at the very thought. “I think we’re already there, mi amor. Between the idiots who fall in love with every person they see in Le Ciel and the freaks who believe every woman on their lap only has eyes for them in L’Enfer, all we need is a clown and we have us a fine madhouse.”

Humming pensively, watching the acts rehearse in L’Enfer in the daytime was not a favourite past time of hers, but Rowan was scoping out the place again for what he promised would be a spellbinding act to introduce her next set. Her attention was easily taken away though as she leaned back on the side of the sofa, stretching like a cat before placing both legs in the man’s lap. “Won’t you please tell me what your act will be? I am technically part of it if it leads into my dance.”

[gabrieldesilva]

It all happened too fast but he caught it: the distraction, the sleight of hand, and an all too charming smile akin to a cat that just finished its bowl of cream as the hapless victim went on his merry way, unaware that he just lost his valuables. Gabriel didn’t want to bother himself with it, the man should’ve been smart enough not to entertain street performers that long, and whether it was in Barcelona or in Paris, the motive was the same.

Now it would have been fine since the victim was long gone, but the critic stood his ground; the thief had caught him staring, probably saw him witness the entire thing, and how curious was it that he too, remained standing there on the opposite side of the road. Now what?

@rowanparis