#chignonesque

[maraschinocheri]

grumpyfaceurn said: whose bike is it?

No idea; Actual Montparnasse is keeping his secrets. But let's imagine instead the owner might be of interest.

Grantaire's got a lot of work to do to get that other bike in good shape, and pretty murderers lolling awkwardly all over it isn't going to make that happen any faster.

archoness said: He looks so uncomfortable, I am laughing.

YOU WOUND HIM.

DO IT AGAIN.

[volpestarks]

chignonesque replied to your post:hey tbh why you whitewashin dark skinned characters is that a Cool Thing to do like lmao??

this ask is filed under: ~~~just little people who don’t make graphics/gifsets things~~~~~~~*~~~~

The thing is that it's so easy to accidentally lighten somebody's skintone along with some gradient layer set to a particular mode... one tiny mistake with a filter. Some people here truly don't know what they're talking about when they accuse others of "whitewashing".

[rahabs]

chignonesque replied to your post:one month ‘til Inquisition and i still don’t care...

the more i see, the less interested i am. it’s amazing.

pretty much.  and naturally she's almost all i'm seeing, so i'm pretty sure my ability to care about her has hit the negatives by now.

[simpingforaymeric]

chignonesque said: "Arrogant prodigy" I AM SO HERE FOR THAT

I've wanted to do that for quite a long time but it never really worked. DA2 especially had too much of an underdog narrative to really work with that concept. I hope DA: I won't openly contradict me in this but you never know : / 

[siribear]

look behind you.

i said look behind you.

ben doesn't want to, not for anything in the world. not for the wheezing of a woman breathing just over his shoulder. not that he would be able to, with his nails digging crescent moons into the table in front of him.

deep breath in, heavy sigh out. he and the woman - the ghost - breathe in tandem. or is it him breathing, fear eking out of him in wails of cowardice and the woman is nothing but the soft tickle of air at the back of his neck and the chills down his spine?

'turn it off,' he says to kenny. 'please, make it stop talking.'

the first real words either of them have said to each other, at least since the bathroom. the bathroom and the knocking, and ben on the other side watching the door handle turn as if to open, and kenny yelling for him to knock it the fuck off.

the rustle of kenny's clothing as he moves forward to touch the radio still makes him jump.

don't touch that dial, it says. we're just getting started.

[maraschinocheri]

"Tingo" for Feuilly and Montparnasse. (This meme is great, Ginger. I don't know where you find all these. ♥)

tingo (Pascuense) the act of taking objects one desires from the house of a friend by gradually borrowing all of them

-----------------------------

Feuilly has known for some time of the room Montparnasse holds for himself, out of reach of the rest of Patron-Minette; Feuilly knows too that it is held by threat more than coin, and more than once he has visited the porter with a bit of his own little money and reassuring words. This night, however, marks the first time he’s entered the terribly small space, under the watch of that porter at first, but then left alone, to wait.

He has not seen or heard from Montparnasse for going on three weeks. It’s not the longest they have gone without speaking or meeting by any means, and while Feuilly can honestly say he is not afraid—he's certain word would’ve found him somehow if Montparnasse were in real trouble; sometimes he even thinks he too would feel the effect of any harm Montparnasse took—he is concerned. The weather is turning, and many in the city are ill; though Feuilly has no background in medicine, he has learned to look after himself, but is under no illusion that the knowledge he's conveyed on these matters to Montparnasse has been retained.

Settling into the room, he discovers that if Montparnasse cannot necessarily be trusted to remember what Feuilly has tried to pass on, there is much else of Feuilly's he has kept. The articles of clothing—few of which Montparnasse would ever wear; he and Feuilly are of different build and shockingly different tastes; certainly they do not agree on what is and is not necessary to a wardrobe—come as more of a surprise than do the books, but there are other, less obvious items that have made their way here from Feuilly’s home, and each ricochets Feuilly between bemusement and resignation, between pleasure and sudden sadness.

And there is the drawing. The bird’s outline is rough, just a little something Feuilly had sketched on the back of an old and now useless map on the last evening Montparnasse had spent in his company. Montparnasse had fallen asleep well before Feuilly that night and could not possibly have heard him at the work, but Feuilly had forgotten, too, about the little picture before morning came and both it and Montparnasse were gone. He should perhaps have known better; Montparnasse adores drawings of any kind and has since he was a child, and though he will sometimes balk at Feuilly’s affectionate murmur calling him moineau and flinch from the cry of birds above or otherwise too near him, the sketch would have been too hard to resist taking. Feuilly could not have expected the thing framed, however, flattened behind somewhat murky glass but held together by strong wood, and set carefully on a shelf near the door.

It is one of the smallest things to be found in Montparnasse’s room, but from its place of what passes for prominence, it seems the most prized.

Feuilly stands ready almost to pick the thing up when Montparnasse enters the room with no preamble, looking disheveled and pink, tired but with a familiar blush of adrenaline lighting his typically pale face. Heat surges inside Feuilly’s chest at the sight of him, and banks down only a little as Montparnasse registers his presence and it seems to bring him more relief than agitation.

“Do not be angry with your porter,” Feuilly says; he finds it better to speak plainly with Montparnasse at first, to gauge his mood and to make it clear there is no difficulty between them. “I am almost as persuasive as you, though with less in the way of—”

“Threat? But with more in your pockets.” Montparnasse takes off his hat and blows an errant curl from his forehead; Feuilly’s not seen him do such a thing since late in his childhood, and he’s both rattled and charmed by it, exactly how Montparnasse would wish him. Montparnasse lowers his voice as he moves, leaving the hat on his chair and standing before Feuilly bravely, his hands already at Feuilly’s collar, loosening his rough cravat. “You have never once tied these things properly. I will not ask how you found me; I believe instead that I conjured you here.”

“Conjured me?”

“I was elsewhere tonight, and comfortable enough,” Montparnasse tells him. “But I could not … shake you from my thoughts. I felt somehow you would be here before dawn, and made my excuses in the hopes that I would find you first. It was no pleasure to leave, but I have missed you; even if I had been wrong, I couldn’t chance it.”

“Am I meant to show jealousy or concern, Parnasse? I would like to get it right.”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow but says nothing, keeping at his work on Feuilly’s clothes while allowing him to hear the brittle echo of his unnatural response. Feuilly drops his shoulders and his old, so easily returned guard when Montparnasse eases him down to the mattress, but reaches up, his larger and tanned hands closing around Montparnasse’s wrists.

“That is new,” Feuilly says, nodding at the hat Montparnasse had left near the door. Montparnasse nods, too, humming with pleasure as he looks at it, then turns back to Feuilly.

“You may borrow it if you’d like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Admit it is marvelous, Feuilly. You might surprise someone with how it suits you, perhaps even yourself.”

“Admit you are mad.” Feuilly laughs in spite of himself, then turns Montparnasse’s hands palm-up; he had felt the scar on Montparnasse’s right hand the moment he’d touched it, and the heat of it is unnerving. “And this?”

Montparnasse looks down, then back up at Feuilly, no guile or evasion in his eyes. “A mistake. It will heal.”

“And he who gave it to you?”

“I expect he will not.” Montparnasse’s gaze is steady for a moment, then he lowers his eyes again, every part of him too tired to pretend ferocity. “I do not know, Feuilly; that was not left to me.”

Feuilly nods. “Only tell me you did not earn it in the pursuit of a hat.”

Montparnasse laughs. “No. You will be pleased to know I did not steal the hat, either. I have found something like work, though it exerts me not at all.” Feuilly’s grip on him tightens slightly, and Montparnasse scoffs. “It is not what you fear.”

“I will not ask, then.”

“Even if you did, I would not say.” Montparnasse touches his forehead to Feuilly’s and sighs. “Well. Not tonight. There is little I can keep from you.”

“Oh, I think there is much—” Feuilly's laughter is cut off by Montparnasse’s kiss, almost hesitant, almost gentle. Feuilly can taste wine and something else on his lips, but doesn’t chase after the mystery of it; when Montparnasse backs off, too tired for this as well, he simply leans back into the stiff mattress, going still when Montparnasse does, too.

“You cannot stay here,” Montparnasse tells him, quietly; it is a conclusion he’s reaching even as he speaks, and his argument for it is scattered. “I cannot offer you either the comfort or safety you have given me, you should not be here, it is not right—”

“Look around you,” Feuilly says sharply, and Montparnasse follows his narrowed eyes around the small space, at each corner’s secrets, at every item Montparnasse has brought here from Feuilly’s room. “With no certainty I would ever find this place, you have nonetheless made me quite at home.”

Montparnasse clenches his jaw, swallows hard, then breaks; Feuilly isn’t sure it will be into laughter or much worse until the sound leaves Montparnasse’s throat. In truth it is something in between, something strangled and sweet at once, and Montparnasse surrenders to it, falling to his back on the mattress. Feuilly bites back the laugh that threatens to leave him, turning to his side and settling his hand warm on Montparnasse’s stomach.

“Feather your nest how you must, moineau,” he says gently. “I have told you to take what you need from me, and if you can only do so on these terms, so be it.”

“I meant only to borrow—”

“And I mean to let you keep all of it.” He laughs again. “I warn you, you will not get much for anything, if—if after—”

Montparnasse shakes his head violently against his pillow. “Do not say it.”

“If you conjured me, Parnasse, it seems you are bound to listen to what I have to tell you.”

“Then begin with why you are here.”

Feuilly starts to speak, but the words that want release are not the truth; he waits out better, and when they come, they are easier both in speaking and hearing. “It seems enough that I have missed you as well. I will forget this place if that is what you want, but not that it has given you some measure of safety. This—work you have found. Are you well cared for?”

Montparnasse does not bother to hide his smile, or his faint shiver of pleasure. “Thus far.”

And is it enough that you will stop all other? Feuilly wants to ask, but does not. “I am happy for you.”

Montparnasse moves to his side to face Feuilly, his expression open and honest, just on the safe edge of eager. “If I conjured you, does that not mean I can keep you? That you must grant my wishes?”

“You are confusing stories,” Feuilly says. “But I am too tired now to correct you. What do you wish for, Parnasse?”

“At the moment, only sleep. And you?”

Feuilly thinks it through. There is much he wants in this world, in this life, but time is high on the list; he know what time he has is borrowed, and even with the best of intentions he cannot determine all of its use or when it might end—it will never be his to keep. Of that time, he can only spare so much for Montparnasse now, and Montparnasse knows it; whatever amount of Feuilly’s possessions Montparnasse has acquired, these things cannot—will not, in the end—make up for the lack of his presence, but perhaps they will help.

“Sleep will do,” Feuilly says at last. Montparnasse’s only response is another lazy, indulgent hum as he tucks his chin deeper into the warmth at Feuilly’s neck and shoulder. He’s asleep in moments, and Feuilly is grateful; he takes the chance he has to enjoy the feel of Montparnasse like this, to look around this little room and know that when Feuilly leaves him to his dreams in a matter of hours, Montparnasse will indeed be safe—

if perhaps no longer in possession of what is actually a rather marvelous hat.

[rahabs]

chignonesque replied to your post:yesterday my prof brought up the tv show “Reign”...

The stills were enough to make me shudder. Those ‘costumes’.

god, don't even get me started on the costumes.  when we were talking about how awful it was, i was the one who brought up the fact that everyone in that show was wearing prom dresses.  like, the fuck is this

what the hell are those things?  where are your sleeves?  what is your hair?

where are your sleeves?  why does no one have sleeves?  where are the sleeves have they been stolen is there a nefarious sleeve-stealer in the French court?

my god what matter of monstrosity is this

is that a... a tee-shirt?  thing?  my twelve-year-old sister wears those

and where are your sleeves

WHERE ARE YOUR SLEEVES

S L E E V E S

THIS IS NOT THE WEDDING OF PRINCESS DIANA.

"It had to live in the world of someone who had 100 tailors at her disposal but who also was going to get married somewhat unexpectedly."

I'm sorry, what?  I'm pretty sure you're living in a completely different world, costume designers.  And what's unexpected about Mary's wedding?  How is that at all unexpected?  She's in France for a reason.  She's not just there "because", she was engaged to Francis for over thirteen years, and came from Scotland to France when she was five years old for the sole purpose of marrying the short-lived Dauphin, who was king for little over a year before helpfully dropping dead.

YOU, PIRATE ON THE RIGHT

WHY ARE YOU EVEN IN THIS SHOW

AND YOU, ON THE LEFT, YOU SHOULD BE DROPPING DEAD

and you, front and centre, sleeves

that is what the dresses should look like.  in fact, that's an actual picture of Mary in her teens.

Catherine de' Medici, same time period.  notice the sleeves.

complain about "The Tudors" all you want, but at least the costumes in that show were gorgeous and, for the most part (barring a few of Anne's dresses that were just... what), accurate to the time period

i could go into more of the historical inaccuracies in the show itself (why is Sebastian a character why is Sebastian a character why i want to know why why do we need shitty, forced love acute angles), but i'm just going to snark and shout at the writers that this isn't fucking Pretty Little Liars, guys.  come on, even a little bit of effort would be nice.

[siribear]

(prev)

blood rushing in his ears. one foot in front of the other. hands clutched close to his chest as he follows clementine's hat as she bobs and walks around the dead. occasionally someone will whisper. will call out and the rest of them will make some groan or noise to reassure the others. not enough to draw attention of the walkers, but enough to remind the others that everyone is alive.

troy has entirely stopped screaming, by now.

and sarah's breathing has gotten louder. ben watches over clementine's head sarah's shoulders draw up around her neck. she starts falling further behind her father, and carlos turns over his shoulder and attempts to reach out to her.

a walker passes between them, and when it runs into carlos's arm, it glances at him. carlos continues walking, slower, eyes still on sarah stopped behind the walker that still hasn't moved.

help her, he mouths to ben and clementine. 'get sarah,' someone else whispers in the crowd.

clementine inches toward her, and eventually the walker continues moving. carlos turns completely around and makes his way toward his daughter, and that's where he stops.

ben jerks forward the moment the bullet hits. blood sputters out of carlos's neck like the words he tries to say as he stumbles backward. the hand he puts to his neck can't stem the flow of blood and ben can't make his legs move to help him, not even when the first walker grabs carlos's arm and sinks its teeth into his arm.

they catch each other's eye for all of one second before another walker fully pulls carlos to the ground.

sar - the last bit of life he has in him fades away to a short cry of pain and then nothing, like the man knows his daughter is watching and even in his dying throes refuses to make her worry.

god, ben's mind whirls. sarah.

the world comes alive with sound, anguished screams to his left and the sound of gunfire to his right. walkers swarming toward the fresh meal just in front of them, closing in around the three left behind.

'both of you need to run!' ben hisses to clementine, and he puts himself between the girls and the walkers at their backs. he hears clementine say something to sarah, and, soon after, a blur of blue knocks him forward as it scrambles out of the horde.

it isn't until he looks over his shoulder and sees only clementine that he realizes sarah just took off alone. ben quickly shoves away a walker that would have grabbed clementine from behind, just as she cuts down a walker in front of her.

sarita, bonnie, and kenny appear, guns and crowbar in hand.

'are you okay?' sarita asks them, just as kenny asks, 'what happened?'

in some scramble of he got shot and sarah ran off and god there was so much blood, the three of them make out what happened, but sarah is still nowhere to be seen or even heard. 'the others?' ben croaks out.

'alvin and mike are with rebecca,' bonnie says. some of the walkers continue past their new group, but bonnie never lowers her weapon. 'i think i heard luke say he was going after sarah. nick probably followed after him.'

'what about walter and jane?' clementine looks around, and ben follows suit but sees neither.

they get their answer soon after; a short cry and they're moving as quickly through the herd as they can, only to find a walker already gnawing on walter's wrist. his gun lies on the ground, but between the walker already on him and the others closing in, there's nothing he can do. bonnie raises her gun, but kenny presses forward and drives the end of the crowbar into the walker's skull.

it falls, and kenny drops to his knees with it, and that's when they see jane with her back to the whole ordeal. when she turns her head, she looks annoyed.

'you're going to get the rest of us killed,' she hisses. 'he's dead, what are you doing?' she addresses kenny and looks toward walter nursing his arm. 'just leave him.'

'shut up,' kenny growls, and though jane glares she doesn't continue.

at least, until they take a few more steps, and kenny puts himself in front of the group and the others behind him. 'at least cut off his arm if you want to save him.' she looks toward clementine and her hatchet. 'you could use that.'

clementine holds the hatchet to her chest and looks up at walter. he nods, but when clementine moves toward him, hatchet at the ready, jane stops them. 'wait, are you crazy? not here. they'll smell the blood.'

'when we get out of here, then,' sarita says, gravely, with a lilt of optimism.

the group continues, and walter presses his hand to his wrist tightly to staunch the flow of blood and thus the walkers' attraction to them. ben shies closer to the group when one walker gets too close to him, and sarita places a comforting hand on his shoulder in response.

when they finally make it out of the herd, ben takes a deep breath and chokes when he remembers who they left behind. 'we - we didn't even,' he begins, and even kenny looks back at him, 'we didn't even make sure he didn't turn. god, he could - ' he puts one hand over his good eye, and again sarita places her hand on his shoulder to guide him ' - he could be one of them right now. he could be a walker and - and... sarah.'

sarita coaxes him into even breaths, slow and steady, calming him at intervals when it seems like he might just break down again. 'sarah was yelling for her dad,' clementine says, voice uneven. 'i tried to get her to calm down and follow me but she just ran.'

'you two did what you could,' bonnie says, soothingly.

'you could have died,' jane says, but with her arms crossed and a scowl of her face, they aren't sure if she's sympathizing or accusing sarah and carlos for it.

no one comments, other than bonnie mentioning they're getting close to parker's run, and a place they can treat walter. she apologizes to ben, as if he'd be disappointed the medical supplies will be going to walter instead of him. he shakes his head.

almost appropriately, the place they end up in is in ruins, but they couldn't have reached it a moment sooner. walter already looks paler and sighs in relief when he sits on the edge of a broken fountain. ben reads the plaque just under it:

fallen, but not forsaken.

he thinks of carlos, reggie, matthew, and pete, of everyone else, and he can't agree.

'walter,' clementine says, voice small, hatchet shaking in her trembling hands, 'are you going to be okay?'

he smiles at her, and ben shudders. 'i don't need this arm, anyway,' he says lightly. he tries to shake it, but it barely moves, and ben knows he's probably already lost feeling in it. but still, walter gives her this half-smile, as if clementine is still an eleven year old that hasn't seen worse.

'we'll take it off and you'll be fine,' kenny tells him resolutely, and if words held any power anymore, walter would be healed by just that. the man's smile never falters, but he can't meet kenny's eye when he looks away from clementine.

'not in front of the kids,' he says.

bonnie waves ben and clementine over, at that. she and jane stand away from the rest of them, in one of the solid corners of the ruins. behind them is a small map of the site, and ben thinks it might be useful.

'i don't know if you can see them,' she begins, looking just over their shoulders. ben expects walkers, but when he turns he sees three figures emerge from the trees. 'i think that's rebecca with alvin and mike. and that leaves luke, sarah, and nick.' clementine and ben nod. 'look, sarah - what she saw isn't going to be easy on her. and if the three of them don't come back soon - '

'we can go get them,' jane offers easily. she stands and stares at bonnie like it's the most obvious suggestion in the world. bonnie, probably just as surprised as ben considering jane's earlier response, hesitates but ultimately agrees. someone has to go get them, after all, and bonnie is going to stay behind to help with patching walter up. 'we'll be back soon,' she says, motioning for them to follow.

'where are the others?' rebecca asks when they pass by, but ben stares at the ground. 'carlos?' she tries, small bits of hope creeping in to the question. ben's silence snuffs them out.

the last they hear is rebecca cry, 'he was supposed to be here,' before jane urges them forward.