𝕃𝕖 ℙ𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕥 𝕁𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏
𝓖𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓾𝓶𝓮 𝓡𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓽 & 𝓔𝓵𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮
𝙼𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚘𝚢.
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@elodiecelestine
𝕃𝕖 ℙ𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕥 𝕁𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏
𝓖𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓾𝓶𝓮 𝓡𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓽 & 𝓔𝓵𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮
𝙼𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚘𝚢.
Roman Holiday (1953) dir. William Wyler
@elodiecelestine
(…) I watch the flowers and smile…
Fernando Pessoa, from The Keeper Of Sheep in “Pessoa: Poems Of Fernando” [translated and edited by Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown] (via adrasteiax)
i made a in-depthish greek godly parent quiz so reblog and tag with ur results
semperpati:
closed starter for @elodiecelestine
Though there was something in him that was irked by the way Elodie presented herself night after night for the affections of men around him, he refused to allow himself to show it when he was around her. He found himself visiting the Moulin a little less than he had in the past, and when he did he would only stay for one or two drinks to watch her dance before retiring for the evening and leaving his keys out for her should she want to join him - and most nights, she did.
That morning he awoke to begin making a simple breakfast and coffee for them when she came down and told him she was to take that day off to spend some time with him. And without much contemplation he offered to take her for a trip in his new car (the result with a little sponsor from Bhari and Gabriel since they had ‘accidentally’ crashed his last one). At her questioning, he shook his head, for it to remain a surprise. They finished their breakfasts with haste and Elodie returned to the Moulin to ready herself for the day.
He drove to her outside the burlesque club, tooting the horn to signal his arrival as he lit a cigarette, waiting for her to come down.
The more it pulls her away from the things she is really interested in, the more she seems to dread her time at the Moulin Rouge. Glittering lights and flashing costumes that used to be the most beautiful thing in the world to her hold little appeal now, compared to the light shining in through the drapes and casting dancing shadows on the face of the man she loved. Leaving him was ever the difficult task, as she pressed a kiss into his skin before heading on to the same old boring Moulin -- even if she knew she was to see him later on.
As quickly as she could manage, she had gotten herself ready for their day out, at least as best she could without any knowledge of where they would be off to. Impatiently she waited, perched at the window until she heard the car horn in the street and made her trek down the stairs and out the front door without even so much as a goodbye to the hoard of jealous dancers that were working away on the same old boring rehearsal pieces that had been hashed out what seemed like hundreds of times.
“Bonjour, stranger. Come to take me away? I must warn you... my boyfriend, Monsieur Rousset, would be rather unhappy if he knew you were pulling me away from work.”
Humphrey Bogart & Ingrid Bergman, “Casablanca” (Michael Curtiz, 1942).
98% moondust 2% cute
arturodemarin:
When Arturo de Marí spoke of love, real love, his eyes were not his own. Instead they were the eyes of someone tapped in the prison of cynicism and well-constructed illusions. When Arturo spoke of love, it was the only time he allowed his softer side to return again.
Elodie’s touch is a foreign thing. “Yes, perhaps,” he replied to her invitation. The chances of the night washing away whatever these aches and pains he felt by morning were good, and while he would happily accept the young woman’s proposal now, the same could not be said for a new day when walls had a chance to rebuild.
It had taken years for him to rid most symptoms of Ophelia from his system. She was a virus, an invisible illness. Of course just when he was in the clear those waves would come to flood his mind once more. Tired eyes bore into Elodie, who wore Ophelia’s features like a thin veil, until he could stand to face another ghost no longer and looked to his hand in hers instead.
“That is a nice way to think of it.” The cynic in him was laughing on the inside. All he could do is remember, but rather than dwell on that fact, his eyes found the sleeping Frenchman in her lap once more. “And with him, have you learned any lessons?”
Of all the things her mother had ever given her, each and every lesson she had ever been taught by the woman she once idolized, by far the most important had been to see the good in the world. A bruise gracing the curvature of her orbital bone was a sunset, when all of the colors melt from blue to pink to orange into a deep, hazy purple. A fist-shaped hole in the wall of their living room was a new place to hang a painting. A heart broken by a woman who only ever learned how to leave was a reason to learn how to stay. All Elodie could hope was that perhaps, in some way or another, he could use the ache lingering in intercostal spaces was a learning experience.
“I have learned that just because love burns brightly does not always mean it will turn to ruin.” Or had she? There had been whispers here and there across town about the man in her lap and some gorgeous gambler... but that was neither here nor there. The smile she had forced onto her face moments ago seemed to dig into her cheeks, tear at her lips. She imagined herself looking an awful lot like her mother used to look, wearing a smile as if it was war-paint. “I have learned that we are deserving of love even when we don’t feel like it. That real love makes your head spin in the best of ways.”
She gives Arturo’s hand a squeeze, using her opposite hand to press to his cheek. Had there been any more people there with them, or had she chosen not to drink that third glass of wine, she is not so certain that she would be saying any of this.
“Sometimes, heartache is a good thing. It means that you still have a heart that can ache, and that is something good. Valuable.” She nods, the smile dropping from her face as her tone becomes gradually more serious as she speaks. “If it did not hurt, at least a little bit, what would become of us then?”
Not another moment falls between them before she instinctively wraps him into a hug. “Don’t say perhaps. Don’t be a stranger. I won’t let you.”
How could you NOT fall in love with the glow of the moon and stars, the warmth of the sun, the ancient life within the trees, and the sweet melodies of the winds?
valentinesegretti:
@elodiecelestine ⫸ closed.
Valentine’s eyes watched as the radiant little woman moved about the room full of people, taking notice of the way heads turned to her direction as she passed. Come to me, come to me, he thought as smoke trailed from his cigarette to the ceiling in a slow dance, as if he could will her near. He was no stranger to her. He made certain of that.
“C'è una Luna in mezzo al mare…madre devo sposare…” he sang low and sweet the moment she was close enough to hear, hoping to grab her attention. “Bella Luna, when will you run away with me?” he mused, stepping closer to the living constellation.
He seemed harmless enough. Pleasant, even, compared to horror stories she had heard whispered from the mouths of seasoned courtesans, drawing straws to see who would be stuck with Monsieur Gerald or fils de pute Timothee. She supposed she should be grateful for him, in that way. His pretty words and the way his eyes seemed to fall only on her while she performed was encouraging, magical in the way she had always hoped to feel upon her promotion to the status of a courtesan. Still, though, something felt ever-so-slightly off.
“Oh, Monsieur Segretti!” She chirps, happily turning on the balls of her feet to greet him, rising to her tip toes and setting a hand on each of his broad shoulders. A smile pulls on her lips, one that she has rehearsed countless times in the mirror, reserved for occasions such as these. “Run away with you? Why, I couldn’t, dear. You know that,” she teases, glancing down at her feet with a shake of her head. “I thought you liked to see me dance on stage? We couldn’t possibly leave.”
La La Land (2016) dir. Damien Chazelle
✨ Fairy Princess ✨✨
source: @okayysophia
augiustus:
Augustin accepts to stay without much resistance and he watches as she busies herself in the kitchen, like a little bee making some honey for her queen. But in this occasion it’s the queen who is obviously preparing a feast for her king, and it makes him smile with ease, to know that Guillaume has found such a rare pearl to fill his once too empty life.
It’s only when she jumps on the counter that he finishes the glass of water and hands it back to her, still reflecting on the idea of staying here, where it smells like home and a good dinner awaits him. He snorts at her comment and takes hold of the chair in front of him, reminiscing nostalgic memories with a light smile. “I see you’ve never heard of his former cooking skills then. He used to scare everyone whenever he stepped into a kitchen and proposed his services, and he once made everyone sick with a plate of lasagnas.” After Simone, the ghost of Emillienne greets his mind, since it had been for their third marriage anniversary that Guillaume had cooked the most, and he has to clear his throat to compose himself.
But then, her request to not leave sends a wave of relief in his body, as if her validation is what he needed for his bad thoughts to spread away, and he resides himself to spend the evening here, as he had planned. He nods his thanks while seating at the kitchen table, resting his elbow on the hard surface to cup his chin and massage his temple.
“Just give me the cognac hidden under the sink please.” The point is not to get drunk, he reminds himself to exude confidence in his request, since he would hate for Elodie to think of him as a toper. He just needs something strong to freshen himself up. “Did you spend the whole day cooking then?” He asks even though the answer is obvious, but he wants her to feel proud of her dedication for Guillaume.
He likes to do the same with his friend, when they go shopping and his friend buys her perfume or a piece of clothing. He’ll just ask Guillaume why he thinks it would fit Elodie and it will only take a second for him to get started on an endless rant about her beautiful ankles or laugh or anything else. They are so full of love for each other that he finds it absurdly mind-blowing, yet still uplifting.
She has never hated herself or her age as much as she has so recently. It was so difficult to be so young, left out of all the joyous nostalgia and reminiscing that the people around her got to partake in. Her youth was so bothersome, and as much as she tried to forget about it, how could she when everyone around her looked back so fondly on good old days and memories that she had not had the chance to make, yet? It seemed to be another thing to punish herself for, as she squares her shoulders and straightens her posture in an attempt to make herself look older, more elegant.
“He hasn’t told me about that, but I think you would be surprised now.” She shrugs, a hint of a smile creeping onto her face as she recalls a sunny morning just a few days ago. All rosy cheeks and hair still messy from the night before, wide white smiles on both their faces. “He makes a pretty good breakfast, these days.” Then again, maybe it was the company itself she was more impressed with.
The cognac under the sink. She nods in agreement and goes to grab it, rifling through bottles of various things before she finds what she thinks is the cognac in question. “This?” She questions, raising it up and examining it before passing it off to him. Judging by the dark rings under his eyes, she need not really bother with glasses. As he begins to speak again, she goes to work to find plates and silverware to set the table for the three of them.
“Not all day, but a good bit of it.” She shrugs as she retrieves three plates and three bowls. “I spent a while just reading this morning. I had a day off, so I tried to make the most of it.” Days free of rehearsals and performances were as rare hen’s teeth, and she’d had the loveliest start to her day before Guillaume had headed off to work that the rest of her day was destined to be wonderful as well.
“What about you? Please, tell me all about your day. I’d love to hear about it.”
malmurd:
His name breathed from her mouth sang as if carried by sweet, spring breeze. He instantly breaks, his stiff shoulders collapsing into her hold. It is the first time, in a very long time, that he has not been able to contain the smile that has crept onto his face, that he has beamed; that he has laughed. He responds to her, his arms looping loosely around her middle and his face burying into the crook of her neck. “Little butterfly,” he speaks with a slight whimper as he’s awash with the memory of how he so easily softened in her presence. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s been too long.”
It’s been what feels like a lifetime since he apologised to anyone, and he realises then just how sorry he is. He left her behind, and he should never had done that. He failed her. And now, to be meeting in such bittersweet circumstance. He can’t bare it. He lets her go, pushes her back and holds her by the shoulders, scanning up and down with eyes that are so used to being filled with ice, but are now filled with warmth, fear, and love. “Elodie, little one, there are no words I can say. I am lost,” he swallows, letting her go and moving his hands to wring on his lap. “Sixteen years…” he shakes his head and coldly laughs. “I left you for sixteen years.”
She never blamed him for leaving, never held a grudge against him for going after the life she knew he deserved. (At least, that was what she liked to imagine he had done.) In her childhood, she used to spend afternoons daydreaming in the gardens, pretending that her best playmate was there with her to slay imaginary dragons and have splashing fights in the stream. She had always wondered what had become of him, if he was happy, if he was safe. Even on the darkest of nights, listening to her parents shouting outside of her bedroom door, listening to blows landing against walls and bones alike, she was never angry at him for going onto what she imagined were bigger and better things.
“Don’t be sorry.” She shakes her head, taking his face in her hands. He looked different now, much different, but she imagined she looked quite different as well -- especially now, all dressed up like a sparkling porcelain doll. She had never been angry, but she had been lonely. “You aren’t lost, frère,” she smiles, “you are here, you are safe, you are with me.” It had been a long sixteen years, a difficult sixteen years, but it didn’t really matter. It only meant that there would be plenty now for them to talk about.
“So make it up to me. Don’t go away again.”