mousselette

what do you mean they didn't have flamin' hot cheetos in 19th century france

[sue-me-wright]

I want someone to cosplay Theo in his suit and then make a cardboard cutout of his hat and tape it to their forehead.

[mousselette]

i am interested in theo’s route because i want to pet king, but i’m not sure i’ll be able to stomach it if there’s no option for me to thwack theo with a flyswatter every time he calls mc “hjonde” or gets too domineering 

[mousselette]

Jeanpoleon, "spending the seasons with you". Feel free to pick whatever season you want to write about!

Yeah, absolutely! I had fun with this. These two are really cute :)

Pairing: Jeanpoleon 

Warnings: none (some implied anxiety/depression, but nothing explicit)

Words: 265

The morning was crisp and cool, and his clothes, damp from morning dew, pressed flush against his back. 

Jean had never been fond of autumn. Monsieur Vincent loved to put its colors on canvas, and the count happily returned from the market with armfuls of apple and pear jams, and even Mozart spoke of the dying insects with a twinkle in his eyes, but he couldn’t find it in himself to share in their enthusiasm. 

For him -- farmer, shepherd, peasant -- autumn was a time for preparation. Curing meats, insulating cracks the walls, chopping firewood. The anxious calm before the storm. Sitting around in the mansion had always been difficult for him, but this time of year was unbearable in its own unique way. 

He went outside to breathe. To escape for a while. To get an ounce of relief. 

Word got around. Here, it always did. 

Napoleon found him in the forest. Their first morning, he’d cracked a few jokes about how rare it was to see him out-of-doors and then teasingly asked if he’d been taking care of himself in his usual way (with the undercurrent of concern that neither of them addressed, because it was easier to leave some things unsaid). 

There were never any words after that. Jean was fine with it. Based on what Sebastian had told him (in empty hallways, and always in hushed tones), he knew Napoleon understood, and that was enough. 

The morning was crisp and cool, and his clothes were damp against his back, but there was warmth at his side. And that was enough. 

[mousselette]

napoleon: i know you might not be comfortable with it, and that's fine, but you'd probably have an easier time learning to cook without the eyepatch on

jean, cracking an egg straight onto the floor: i have no idea what you're talking about

[mousselette]

my favorite headcanon is that jean, who died a 19-year-old french peasant in the 15th century........ has no idea what cherie really is. napoleon dragged him to the zoo like 2 months before mc showed up and by that time everyone else had pets and he saw lil' cherie and went "i want this strange house cat" and (after napoleon - proud eagle-owner who thinks this is all perfectly good and normal - orchestrated a prison break to steal his boyfriend a cute new pet) nobody had the heart to say "um jean that's a tiger cub" because it's jean d'arc. who's going to be the one to crush the 19-year-old martyr's dreams? would YOU want to break that news to him? of course not. jean keeps cherie, and everyone else keeps their mouths shut.

[mousselette]

a gentle obstruction

first post on this blog. this fic is on ao3, but i kinda want to be more active on here, writing wise, esp. as it looks like the queer part of this fandom is becoming more active. i wish to contribute to that. hello :)

pairing: vincent x arthur (vinart)

words: 664

warnings: allusions to alcoholism and mental illness, mentions of drinking. this is not a particularly cheery fic haha

The light filtering out into the hallway was dim, but it still felt garish. Something pulsed behind his eyes. Arthur squinted into it.

“Oh, good,” Vincent said. “You’re back.”

Keep reading

[mousselette]

hello ikevamp fandom

i’m new here, and i figured i’d try to start things off by taking some writing requests (i’d prefer not to write anything too risqué, but could be persuaded if a request catches my fancy ahaha). would y’all rather i reblogged a prompts list, or would you be fine sending stuff in without one of those? lmk!

nice to meet everyone :)

[cousindyke]

[yesterdaysprint]

The Topeka State Journal, Kansas, May 23, 1896

[yesterdaysprint]

Los Angeles Herald, California, September 15, 1895

[yesterdaysprint]

Sunday News, Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, April 30, 1899

[yesterdaysprint]

Picture Magazine, England, 1893

[fashionsfromhistory]

Dress

c.1890s

Museo de Historia Mexicana

[didoofcarthage]

L’Oeillet (Carnation) and Le Lys (Lily) by Alphonse Mucha

1897

courtesy of Kyle Geib on Flickr x x

[didoofcarthage]

Morning Awakening, Daybreak, Evening Rêverie, and Nocturnal Slumber by Alphonse Mucha

1899

courtesy of Kyle Geib on Flickr x x x x 

[mousselette]

a gentle obstruction

first post on this blog. this fic is on ao3, but i kinda want to be more active on here, writing wise, esp. as it looks like the queer part of this fandom is becoming more active. i wish to contribute to that. hello :)

pairing: vincent x arthur (vinart)

words: 664

warnings: allusions to alcoholism and mental illness, mentions of drinking. this is not a particularly cheery fic haha

The light filtering out into the hallway was dim, but it still felt garish. Something pulsed behind his eyes. Arthur squinted into it.

“Oh, good,” Vincent said. “You’re back.”

He thought he’d been quiet enough -- the residents here hadn’t been ones to sleep their nights away even during their living lives -- but apparently not. And had he detected… concern in Vincent’s voice? Damn it all. “Not worried about me, were you Vincent?”

A pause. His stomach was churning. The whiskey’s fault. Certainly.

“Maybe a little.”

His voice was warm and soft, like it always was. Arthur leaned against the wall, partially to appear nonchalant and partially for the support, and cracked a smile.

“There’s no reason for that, old chap.” Had it been anyone but Vincent, he would have cracked a joke at their expense, but Vincent… could be a bit dense at times. “Your darling brother accompanies me, you know.” He paused. “And you’re always welcome to join us.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

He’d offered more for courtesy’s sake than anything else. Arthur’s shoulders relaxed.

“I mean… well, I meant to say… I’d like to join you and Theo, but…” Vincent stammered, obviously fumbling for words. “I don’t do well at bars.”

“Why, Vincent, you sell yourself short!” he exclaimed. “There isn’t a bar in this city that wouldn’t be brightened by your presence.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” Vincent said. He was biting his lip, tugging at the ends of his shirt. “But in any case… I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You worry too much,” Arthur said, grinning. “And about a failure of an author like me! That pretty little head of yours has--”

“You aren’t a failure.”

Vincent’s words cut through his. Arthur stared at him. Vincent didn’t often make eye contact, but as silence settled in the hallway like a suffocating blanket, it struck him how much his piercing gaze resembled Theo’s.

What remained of his smile was heavy on his face. “You’re very kind to say that, Vincent.”

“I think I’m right to say it.”

“About a man that was never able to branch beyond his funny little detective stories?” Arthur asked. He was being a bit mean, and being a bit mean to Vincent felt terrible, but he didn’t need or want his pity. He just wanted to go to bed, for Christ’s sake. “Really, Vincent, there’s no need for you to say that.”

Vincent shifted on his feet. “But I didn’t just say it. I meant it.”

Arthur was, for once, at a loss for words. He wet his lips. “Again, you’re very kind.”

He didn’t want to be here anymore. His room was just down the hallway and to the left. Arthur took a few staggering steps, muttering a half-hearted “good-night” to Vincent as he walked past. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

A hand touched his shoulder, lightly but still firm.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “I’m not very good with words.”

Arthur didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I… I’ve read your stories, and I like them, and I know from Sebastian that other people liked them, too.”

“They were popular, weren’t they?” Arthur replied, his voice hoarse.

“Very.”

“And that was the problem, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was--”

“Arthur.” Vincent cut him off. “Writing is hard. Creating is hard. Living is hard. And even so… you were able to make something that people loved. I think… well, can you really call yourself a failure after you accomplished all of that?”

Arthur ground his teeth. Inhaled. Steeled himself. “It wasn’t enough,” he finally said. “Not for me.”

Vincent squeezed his shoulder. “I think you should be kinder to yourself.”

“No, I--”

“I’m proud of you.”

There was a tension behind his eyes that he hadn’t felt in years.

He blinked it away.

“Good-night, Vincent.”

Arthur broke free and retreated down the hall. Blood pounded heavy in his ears, and bile laid heavy in his throat, and guilt fell heavy in his heart.