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Cosmic Funnies
if i look back, i am lost
Game of Thrones Daily
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
ojovivo
★
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Fai_Ryy
@theartofmadeline
titsay
macklin celebrini has autism
Monterey Bay Aquarium
YOU ARE THE REASON
will byers stan first human second
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Noah Kahan
The Stonewall Inn
Sweet Seals For You, Always
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Bahrain
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Colombia
seen from Morocco
seen from Sweden
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye
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seen from Colombia
seen from Italy
@tidescffate
[ i haven’t abandoned my blogs, but i am on hiatus until the beginning of December because student teaching is way more stressful than i thought it would be. but i’m still down to plot and whatnot even tho i’m not writing atm. feel free to hmu for my dis. cord if you want! ]
Gérard de Villefort: You’re a murderer, Andrea.
Hermine Danglars: Andrea isn’t a murderer. And it makes him uncomfortable to hear you call him that…Gérard de Villefort: You know what else makes people uncomfortable?
Gérard de Villefort: Being murdered.
I’m not sure I can go through all the joy and the pain. Much better now to let these dreams take flight! ©
Send me ♡ + a word, and I’ll write a headcanon.
A series of unlikely reunions
i
The interrogation room is silent, except for the shallow, ragged breathing of the woman sitting in front of him. He is calm, however. His heart beats steadily into his chest and his hands, resting on the table, do not shake.
He does not love this woman. That is how he can manage to stay so detached. But she loves him, and that is her chief weakness. She is open and vulnerable, while he is cold and unattainable.
But there is no reason to be cruel, so when he speaks it is in soft and genuine tones.
“Why are you here?” Benedetto asks. “This is no place for a fine woman as you.”
“I have come to apologise,” she says, her voice shaky and thick from unspilled tears, untold secrets, and a broken heart.
“Whatever for?” he asks again, and tilts his head to the right, observes the woman and notices similarities he had never seen before. They have the same eyes, both in shape and in colour, the same lips and the same air – something he cannot grasp or give a name to, but now he knows she truly is his mother.
“For having abandoned you,” she says – her voice breaks and, for only a moment, she hides her face in her hands and sobs. She breathes deeply, while Benedetto stares at her, silent and watching, and then she talks again.
“I thought you dead,” she says, as some sort of explanation, and she looks at him, her eyes dimmed and red with sorrow.
“I know,” he answers, tranquil. “I do not hold anything against you.”
That, also, is true. He may not have any affection for Hermine Danglars – but what is the point of hating a woman whom he does not know? Again, he is not cruel – so when Hermine whispers I have always loved you, deep in my heart, he doesn’t reply You are a stranger to me. He smiles, takes her hand and that is enough for her.
ii
“How are you?” she asks, softly, and Gérard in front of her shakes his head.
He seems old, so, so old, she thinks, and yet he cannot be over fifty-five. The look in his eyes, the tiredness wearing on his limbs, his thinning hair and wrinkled hands – she sees all of this and wonders where, oh where is the man she loved such a long time – almost a lifetime – ago.
Villefort opens his hands, in a meaningless gesture, and says:
“As you can see.”
“You look –” she hesitates, changes her mind – “do you need anything? Money? Food? Letters?” she asks, as she does every time they meet.
And, like every other time, he shakes his head and then looks at her – with that expression in his eyes that sends her in an unexplained fit of anger and sorrow, the more painful because she cannot bring herself to pity him.
“I only need to find our child,” he says, with a strange feeling in his voice, and Hermine’s heart clenches hardly. “He is still under there, in that wooden box, you know?”
“He is not,” she answers softly, stifling a sob, “he is in prison. You put him there.”
“I did not,” is the harsh, pained answer. “I put him under the earth, thinking him dead, but now I know he is alive. We only need to find him, get him out. They will not let me search for him, but you can. Promise me you will.”
And, invariably, she makes the promise – and then she will keep it as well as she can, sending money and clean clothes to her son, who is rotting in prison.
“We could have been so happy,” Gérard says, his voice almost void of emotion, and Hermine flees the hospital in tears, like every other time.
iii
“I am not here to make recriminations or to accuse you,” the young man says, his hands resting on his knees.
His voice is steady and sure – deferential but not awed. He knows what he wants to say, but his is a speech that does not sound rehearsed. It comes from his heart, and Noirtier has always appreciated an earnest man.
“My father and yourself… It happened more than twenty years ago. I was barely a child, then,” he adds, and frowns. “You did rob me of a father but –” the man stops, checks himself and sighs. “Forgive me. I said no accusations.”
Noirtier blinks once, and Franz smiles curtly.
“But nor am I here to ask for forgiveness, or to admit my father’s faults. It is not fair that the children should suffer because of their parents’ sin –” and here he stops, for merely a second, and Noirtier knows he is thinking of the young Morcerf. “I am here to thank you.”
Noirtier does not stir his gaze, but he is confident enough to know that the young man in front of him can see every one of his emotions flashing through his eyes.
“I shall be honest, and quick. You have saved me – both of us, your granddaughter and me, from a loveless marriage,” he says, and this time Noirtier blinks twice. “No, please. It is true. You know it is. I have always cared for your daughter, but not as a lover or a fiancé might. As a friend, as an older brother, perhaps. But there was no love between us, and we would have brought each other no felicity. Not the kind of felicity I saw in her eyes this morning, at any rate,” he adds.
Noirtier blinks once. He is not surprised, not really, that the young man feels this way – but he surely did not expect him to act on his feelings.
“We could have been friends, in another life, perhaps,” the Baron says, a strange light in his eyes, and smiles sadly when Noirtier blinks twice. “No, you are right. I shall leave you now. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Noirtier thinks I am sorry for having broken your dream of a faultless man, I am sorry for putting you through that humiliation and sorrow, I am sorry for robbing you of the father you deserved, but he knows it will do no good. Franz d’Epinay does not need his pity, so he blinks twice – and then he is alone.
But not lonely, for Valentine dashes into the room, all smiles and flowing dress, bringing the light and the warmth of the summer with her; she kisses his cheeks and murmurs I knew he was an honourable man, I always knew.
iv
“How did you find me?” the Count asks, leaning back on his armchair, crossing his hands on his lap. “I thought I would be quite safe here in the countryside.”
“It is a rather long story,” Franz answers with a sly smile. “It all started with Morrel –”
The Count cannot refrain an involuntary movement, and he interrupts, voice hoarse and hopeful:
“Morrel? You have seen him? How is he?”
Franz stops. He stares at Monte-Cristo for a while, dumbstruck – this being the first time he has seen the usually cold, unfeeling man express anything beyond contempt and bitterness – and, suddenly, the light of realisation flickers in his mind.
“Is that why you spared them?” he asks, a lot more indignant and angry than his voice betrays. “Morrel and Valentine? Because you love them?”
The Count starts and, for but a moment, he almost seems guilty. He quickly recovers his cool, but not quickly enough for Franz not to notice the subtle changing in his posture.
“I do not know what to are talking about,” he answers, quiet and deadly – but Franz’s bottled bitterness and anger and sadness are now let loose, so he doesn’t stop talking, however menacing the Count’s eyes look.
“Let’s not pretend I believe what you said,” he bites back, unusually passionate. “Valentine –”
“Was innocent and guiltless,” the Count interrupts again, his voice icy and frighteningly cold.
“And Albert wasn’t?” Franz quips back, bitter irony deep in his voice. “Yet you caused his father’s demise. He lost everything to you.”
“What I did, I did for Haydée. I only wanted justice.”
“Justice? Or revenge?”
The Count stares at him, silent, unreadable for anyone but Franz. He is surprised, taken aback. The Baron smiles, shaking his head.
“I never forgot that night on your island,” he admits, starting to put on his gloves. “Nor the words you spoke to me.”
There is silence again, and Franz raises from his chair. Monte-Cristo is still looking at him – but then he smiles gently, almost sadly, and he says:
“I have always admired courage in men. You, Baron, are one of the bravest I ever met. We could have been friends, perhaps, in another life.”
Franz shakes his head. He wonders, dimly, why it is that all the men he could have respected the most end up, in a way or another, hurting him.
v
“I am sorry for everything that happened to you and your son,” the young girl says, and Mercédès smiles somewhat wryly.
“I know you are,” she answers, unexpectedly sweet. After all, in front of her stands the person who reduced her to having to work for her life again and the serenity in her tone surprises even herself.
“I truly am,” Haydée insists, her slightly accented voice resounding in the tiny house of the late Louis Dantès. “I did not wish to hurt you.”
“And yet you did,” Mercédès remarks, not bitter or accusing or angry, simply matter-of-factly.
“I only sought – justice. Or revenge. I do not know which. Sometimes they are inextricable,” the young Greek says, almost as an explanation, something of an apology; and yet both of them know she does not regret what she did. The girl’s eyes are swift across the room, and Mercédès stands there – proud and beautiful and strong even in her poverty and ragged clothes.
They are both similar, Haydée thinks. Both of them have known love, and then sorrow, heartbreak, and then again love and richness. Except that the woman in front of her now has nothing of the sort, except the adoration of a son who is so, so far away; and Haydée has the luxury and the comfort this woman’s husband had taken away from her, without mentioning a newfound father.
It almost feels like she has taken revenge not only on Fernand Mondego, but on Mercédès Mondego as well. It is unfair, the girl thinks, but it is too late now.
“Your son is good,” Haydée says and Mercédès’ eyes, which had grown hard and dimmed with tears, soften. “I have met him. He was kind and sweet and respectful. You must be proud of him. I am sure you are.”
“Indeed,” the woman says, smiling again. “Albert is the light of my life.”
“And I have hurt him, too.”
“You have,” is the candid answer. “Indirectly, although. But then, if we had to count all the indirect causes that have led to this moment, we would have to go back twenty-six years – in a time when you, or my son, were not even born. And none of us has time for this, do we?” she adds.
There is silence, but Haydée knows the woman hasn’t finished, so she doesn’t break it. She waits, patient, until Mercédès speaks again.
“Dear girl,” she says, “you are as innocent in this affair as my Albert is. I, however, am another story. Don’t let yourself be consumed by remorse or grief or bitterness or anger. Don’t become –” the words refuse to cross her lips, but Haydée catches some of their numerous meanings. Mercédès smiles, melancholy in her eyes, and Haydée knows she is forgiven.
v
Her husband’s tombstone only carries two names and two dates. That is all. No famous Latin quotes, no engravings, not even flowers.
Fernand Mondego
1794 - 1836
It is empty, and Mercédès feels that her heart, too, is empty.
She has felt grief and heartache far too keenly in the past few days to be able to weep, now. She knows it will all overwhelm her again soon – but she is happy, today, to be silent with only the wind sweeping around her, and her thoughts leaving her tranquil, for once.
She has brought flowers, though she is sure she shan’t leave them, just like she shan’t talk to him: no recriminations or unsaid loving words, no thank yous or damn yous, no tears or harsh, angry thoughts. Just her and the wind.
It is too soon for this to be anything but a simple visit, a reminder of the life she used to live and of the fact that she is lucky to have at least one tomb, out of the three men she loved most in her life, on which to weep.
Villefort: you’re sentenced to death. you’ll be hung.
Mercedes (from the back): HE’S ALREADY HUNG!
Edmond: your honor, uncuff me so i can high five my fiance.
@electricea --- starter call
The sight of someone distracted by their phone while walking was commonplace enough that she normally wouldn’t take much note of it. However, considering the fact that the blond was about to run into a bush she knew from personal experience was rather thorny, Mercedes’ first reaction was to reach out to him. Literally.
“Hold on!” Grabbing him by the shoulder, she hoped to stop him from moving too far towards the side of the sidewalk and colliding with the painful wall of green. “You really don’t wanna fall into those bushes. Trust me.”
3 LITTLE WORDS... || starter pack
Send me one to see how my muse reacts. Some are fluffy, some are angsty, some are smutty, some are something else entirely…
Some of these may be triggering or NSFW!
“I love you.”
“I hate you.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I guess so…”
“I guess not.”
“Love me, please.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Please, hold me.”
“Pain changes people.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“Please don’t go.”
“Look behind you.”
“Go kill yourself.”
“I can change.”
“Don’t ever change.”
“Want a hit?”
“Do you smoke?”
“Fuck me now.”
“Take my hand.”
“Lead the way.”
“Duck and cover!”
“Just go home.”
“Take me home.”
“Walk me there?”
“Everyone, shut up!”
“Just shut up.”
“Please stop it.”
“Please don’t die.”
“I need you.”
“I want you.”
“Want a hug?”
“Want a kiss?”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you lying?”
“That’s the truth.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Oh my God.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“I got it.”
“I found it.”
“Call me later.”
“Text me later.”
“Don’t call me.”
“Are you crying?”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Please don’t laugh.”
“Please don’t cry.”
“That’s a lie.”
“What’d they say?”
“What’ll it be?”
“It’s last call.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Do you promise?”
“That’s a promise.”
“Are you serious?”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I punched him.”
“I killed him.”
“I kissed him.”
“I love him.”
“I hate him.”
“I lied before.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not sorry.”
“I’ll come over.”
“Can you come?”
“Want to cuddle?”
“Maybe we should.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“You don’t say.”
“Make me come.”
“Did you come?”
“I stole it.”
“I broke it.”
“Any bones broken?”
“Are you okay?”
“Are you hurt?”
“That must’ve hurt.”
“He was lying.”
“It’s our song.”
“Can I help?”
“Help me out.”
“Please, for me?”
“Anything for you.”
“I doubt it.”
“I believe you.”
[ so before i work on things here, does... anyone know if there’s a weird ungodly version of tcomc where danglars is albert’s father? cause canon is fernand, and there are versions with dantes and villefort as his father, so im curious if there’s one were danglars got the honor of having the world’s greatest son?
or did everyone agree that danglars is the most unworthy in the whole novel? ]
aglaya shilovskaya, olga belyaeva, anastasia makeeva and valerie lanskaya as mercedes mondego in monte cristo musical
Mercedes: Where’s Albert?
Heloise: Don’t worry about Albert.
Mercedes: Oh I’m sorry, have you met me?
villefort recent google searches
is it a sin if you call your dad a traitor
is it normal for a man to yearn
how to raise a child
how to raise a child simple english wikipedia
sex
signs of homicide
Gérard de Villefort: Well, what a day that was. Absolutely packed with fun-stuffed memories. But I'm off to bed now. I can barely keep my eyes open. I'll just go to the bedroom and crash.
Héloïse de Villefort: Gérard, it's one in the afternoon.
Gérard de Villefort: Is it? Oh, Christ.
Edmond Dantès: Why are you looking at me through a fork?
Gérard de Villefort: I’m pretending that you’re in jail
Edmond Dantès: Why?
Gérard de Villefort: It’s spiritually healing
[ things have cleared up where i am and electricity has been restored! i may not reply to dms and stuff for a bit anywhere because i got a certification test coming up, but i’m back. ]
[ as i prefer to err on the side of caution, my blogs ( wcrldtcp, evitodeus, and tidescffate ) may be on a bit of a “hiatus” due to tropical storm hanna approaching my area. mostly just because all that wind and rain might take out wifi and electricity over here for lord knows how long. i’ll let y’all know when it’s all passed and shit, but in case i go silent everywhere for a few days, y’all know why ]
[ as i prefer to err on the side of caution, my blogs ( wcrldtcp, evitodeus, and tidescffate ) may be on a bit of a “hiatus” due to tropical storm hanna approaching my area. mostly just because all that wind and rain might take out wifi and electricity over here for lord knows how long. i’ll let y’all know when it’s all passed and shit, but in case i go silent everywhere for a few days, y’all know why ]
