do you think you'll be the guy to make the queen of the angels sigh? [closed/complete]
Characters: Iseult (howlovefled) & Tristan's doppelgänger (ofmisadventure)
Date/Time: Late afternoon, 3 October 2011
Location: A Manhattan Street
Rating: O for Owie
Warnings: Tristan-ish being really mean to Iseult.
Summary: The two former lovers cross paths and cross figurative swords. It'll all end in tears~
Iseult was having a tough week. She'd not seen the other version of her again but, almost as though she was acting out against the very notion of being perceived as prudish or unfashionable, she dressed to kill every day. Short skirts and high heels and a certain swagger. There was no disguising that she was a princess-born and a queen-made.
It was a busy week, between lectures and an extra-credit course she'd been forced to do thanks to her week as a bimbo. She was striding down the street after a meeting at the modeling agency. She had a contract at the weekend to model some winter-wear and, though she didn't need the money, she rather enjoyed being the centre of attention. She wasn't looking properly where she was going, of course, being too concerned in tapping out a text message to a classmate to find out where that evening's study group was meeting.
§
Things tended to happen when one wasn't watching where they were going. And, unfortunately for Iseult, it was the wrong Tristan that would collide with her. Strong hands did catch her automatically but then were off her within seconds of assuring himself she was stable enough.
The face that usually had a smile for her held an indifferent expression for her now and he openly looked her over. "Why am I not surprised?" he commented softly, almost to himself. "My luck has never been that good."
§
Iseult blinked up at him and, naturally, had a ready smile for him (especially as she didn't quite catch the few soft words he spoke). She pushed her hair back from her face. All of these tiny flirtatious gestures and touches were entirely unstudied, at least when it came to Tristan. There was something about him that made her more readily tactile than usual and she invariably tried not to think too deeply about what it mean (because love potions from previous lives had no potency now, she was almost sure).
"Tristan, hi. I'm sorry." She shook her head and grimaced. "I really should look where I'm going."
She reached out and touched his shoulder. "It's good to see you."
§
Without even blinking or so much as taking his eyes off her face, he pushed away the hand on his shoulder. Then he proceeded to rub the spot where she had touched, seemingly to purposefully make a show of his disdain. "Save the touching for Agravaine. I'm sure he doesn't care where your hands have been but I do."
Another glance was sent over her appearance and he sneered. "On your way to meet him or is that how you usually enjoy parading yourself around? Never too worried about looking like a tart, are you?"
§
Iseult's face dropped, her smiling sliding away into nothing. Her mouth puckered into a frown and she looked up at him doubtfully, utterly taken aback. Normally, Iseult would have a sharp-tongued response but this was Tristan, the love of her life (before). He was always so polite and so chivalrous. She'd never made any secret about her relationship with Agravaine because it meant very little beyond the purely physical. Of course, she hadn't really thought about what Tristan might think.
"Tristan, I-" She looked down at herself and then back up at him. "I-"
§
"You what? You're sorry? No, that can't be it. What then? It's your life and you can openly discuss the fact you're sitting around in your underwear? That you're fucking a man while his young niece is in the next room, close enough to record how loud you are? That you can be as much of a whore as you want because your own mother's potion screwed up everything for you in your first life?"
He leaned in yet never touched her. "What would your mother think? What would Queen Iseult of Ireland think of her daughter now? How would she be able to look at you now and accept you? How could anyone?"
§
Iseult snapped her head back and, for the first time in her lives, she shrank away from Tristan. It made no sense when Tristan was always the one she wanted to run to. Oh, it was rarely a conscious desire. It was the sort of thing that she repressed as much as possible. Iseult of the twenty-first century did not want to think she was beholden to any man and, the way that Tristan was talking now, she certainly wanted nothing to do with him.
And yet her bottom lip trembled. This wasn't Tristan. Was it? As she listened to the litany of abuse (the litany of truths), she shook her head. It didn't even occur to her to remark that Agavaine's niece was a Greek deity. She was shocked into near-silence but she was still Iseult (princess, queen).
"Why are you saying these things, Tristan?" she asked, her voice surprisingly clear. She raised her chin.
§
This Tristan had the audacity to laugh when questioned and leaned away, crossing his arm as he did so. His stance was of an arrogant man, one who fully intended to chip away at Iseult's security piece by piece. "Because apparently no one else has the nerve to tell you. Or, rather, no man would want to pass up what you're offering so freely. Everyone expects it from that whore, Helen of Troy. Three husbands and she's probably still insatiable. Pity Guinevere isn't here or maybe she could give you tips on how to be so needy despite having it all. Though Elaine of Corbenic could probably tell you how to drug a man when you've become undesirable.
"And you will. You think your beauty will last forever? You think a man will look at you after you've exhausted yourself? Mark my words, you'll be used and forgotten by twenty-five if you're lucky."
§
Iseult trembled but now there was some anger in there, too. How dare Tristan talk to her like this? She clenched her jaw and crossed her arms too, unconsciously mimicking his stance. "I didn't know you were quite so vicious, Tristan," she said slowly, and her voice shook slightly, along with the rest of her. "You kept that pretty quiet."
She tossed her hair. This customary show of defiance was all she could do to keep from crumbling entirely. Tristan, this was Tristan, the man on whom she had always relied. The man she would have married. The man she loved. She had loved? She didn't know. All she knew is that she wasn't feeling much love for him right now.
§
Ever little gesture and motion was watched coolly. None of it bothered him though it certainly encouraged him to be more unkind.
"You don't know a lot about me. I wonder why?" he mused aloud, even stroking his chin. "Oh, that's right, because we never really knew one another and were forced to be together. I had no choice but to lay my hands on you, to kiss you and give you pleasure. And you...well. I'm sure you enjoyed me more than Mark. If I ever cared about you, I'd wonder what made you see something in that grunting beast Agravaine after you had me all those years ago. But I know you're just superficial, Iseult. Whether it's with men or even yourself."
§
"I saved your life," said Iseult, sharply. "On more than one occasion." She knew full well that, in saving Tristan (from Mark), she was saving herself, too, keeping their relationship secret. She looked at him with wide eyes, steadfastly ignoring the tears that threatened to spill over. "I saved your life because I thought you were a knight. I thought you were noble." Her head snapped back at the accusation of superficiality. Surely Tristan knew her better than that.
Her voice was low and fierce. "At least Agravaine doesn't pretend he's anything other than he is. No more than I do. What would Mark say if he saw you now? What would Arthur say?" A pause. A rapid blink and if a tear slid down her cheek, she continued to ignore it. "And your wife. I - how dare you?"
§
Without regard to what anyone might think if they were even bothering to watch the two (it was a selfish town), Tristan clapped for her. "Cry harder. And is that what you wanted? Acknowledgement that you did a good thing once in a while? There, now you have it. And I don't need a tart telling me about being noble and knightly. You women aren't worth the time and effort to deal with. Always causing problems, always sleeping around with other men when you have it all. Never satisfied. Is it any wonder there aren't any knights today? Your sex ruined it all. That's why I dare.
"As for my wife? I imagine that my loyal, decent and too patient wife would be pleased to hear me right now. Not that her fucking opinion matters at all. She was a lying little bitch anyway. And dear old Uncle Mark was a fool who I should have thrown over. And you know what Arthur is. A blind man who didn't even see what his whore and his best knight were up to right under his nose. Let's all be glad Guinevere never got pregnant." A gesture was made toward Iseult's abdomen. "Hell, I'm glad you didn't either. God knows whose child it would have been."
§
"His whore and his best knight," spat out Iseult, seething with anger even as the tears began to flow. It was easy to tell herself that it was rage making her cry; that her world wasn't being ripped apart by each and every one of Tristan's cruel words. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, viciously thankful that she had never had Tristan's child. Oh, there had been a time when she would have been complete, holding Tristan's baby in her arms but that was before she knew what a cruel, ugly man he really was and that thought made her cry harder.
She turned away and didn't even bother saying it could only have been yours and she almost stepped out onto the busy street in an attempt to hail down a cab.
§
He had nothing left to say to her but laughed just loud enough for her to hear as she turned away, uncaring of where she stepped or whether she could get a cab right away. This Tristan had found satisfaction in tearing her down, knowing she was leaving in pain. There was no gentle regard for her, no sense of wrong for what he'd done.
With that accomplished, he didn't stick around to watch her leave. He continued on his way, whistling a chipper little tune.
Date/Time: Late afternoon, 3 October 2011
Location: A Manhattan Street
Rating: O for Owie
Warnings: Tristan-ish being really mean to Iseult.
Summary: The two former lovers cross paths and cross figurative swords. It'll all end in tears~
Iseult was having a tough week. She'd not seen the other version of her again but, almost as though she was acting out against the very notion of being perceived as prudish or unfashionable, she dressed to kill every day. Short skirts and high heels and a certain swagger. There was no disguising that she was a princess-born and a queen-made.
It was a busy week, between lectures and an extra-credit course she'd been forced to do thanks to her week as a bimbo. She was striding down the street after a meeting at the modeling agency. She had a contract at the weekend to model some winter-wear and, though she didn't need the money, she rather enjoyed being the centre of attention. She wasn't looking properly where she was going, of course, being too concerned in tapping out a text message to a classmate to find out where that evening's study group was meeting.
§
Things tended to happen when one wasn't watching where they were going. And, unfortunately for Iseult, it was the wrong Tristan that would collide with her. Strong hands did catch her automatically but then were off her within seconds of assuring himself she was stable enough.
The face that usually had a smile for her held an indifferent expression for her now and he openly looked her over. "Why am I not surprised?" he commented softly, almost to himself. "My luck has never been that good."
§
Iseult blinked up at him and, naturally, had a ready smile for him (especially as she didn't quite catch the few soft words he spoke). She pushed her hair back from her face. All of these tiny flirtatious gestures and touches were entirely unstudied, at least when it came to Tristan. There was something about him that made her more readily tactile than usual and she invariably tried not to think too deeply about what it mean (because love potions from previous lives had no potency now, she was almost sure).
"Tristan, hi. I'm sorry." She shook her head and grimaced. "I really should look where I'm going."
She reached out and touched his shoulder. "It's good to see you."
§
Without even blinking or so much as taking his eyes off her face, he pushed away the hand on his shoulder. Then he proceeded to rub the spot where she had touched, seemingly to purposefully make a show of his disdain. "Save the touching for Agravaine. I'm sure he doesn't care where your hands have been but I do."
Another glance was sent over her appearance and he sneered. "On your way to meet him or is that how you usually enjoy parading yourself around? Never too worried about looking like a tart, are you?"
§
Iseult's face dropped, her smiling sliding away into nothing. Her mouth puckered into a frown and she looked up at him doubtfully, utterly taken aback. Normally, Iseult would have a sharp-tongued response but this was Tristan, the love of her life (before). He was always so polite and so chivalrous. She'd never made any secret about her relationship with Agravaine because it meant very little beyond the purely physical. Of course, she hadn't really thought about what Tristan might think.
"Tristan, I-" She looked down at herself and then back up at him. "I-"
§
"You what? You're sorry? No, that can't be it. What then? It's your life and you can openly discuss the fact you're sitting around in your underwear? That you're fucking a man while his young niece is in the next room, close enough to record how loud you are? That you can be as much of a whore as you want because your own mother's potion screwed up everything for you in your first life?"
He leaned in yet never touched her. "What would your mother think? What would Queen Iseult of Ireland think of her daughter now? How would she be able to look at you now and accept you? How could anyone?"
§
Iseult snapped her head back and, for the first time in her lives, she shrank away from Tristan. It made no sense when Tristan was always the one she wanted to run to. Oh, it was rarely a conscious desire. It was the sort of thing that she repressed as much as possible. Iseult of the twenty-first century did not want to think she was beholden to any man and, the way that Tristan was talking now, she certainly wanted nothing to do with him.
And yet her bottom lip trembled. This wasn't Tristan. Was it? As she listened to the litany of abuse (the litany of truths), she shook her head. It didn't even occur to her to remark that Agavaine's niece was a Greek deity. She was shocked into near-silence but she was still Iseult (princess, queen).
"Why are you saying these things, Tristan?" she asked, her voice surprisingly clear. She raised her chin.
§
This Tristan had the audacity to laugh when questioned and leaned away, crossing his arm as he did so. His stance was of an arrogant man, one who fully intended to chip away at Iseult's security piece by piece. "Because apparently no one else has the nerve to tell you. Or, rather, no man would want to pass up what you're offering so freely. Everyone expects it from that whore, Helen of Troy. Three husbands and she's probably still insatiable. Pity Guinevere isn't here or maybe she could give you tips on how to be so needy despite having it all. Though Elaine of Corbenic could probably tell you how to drug a man when you've become undesirable.
"And you will. You think your beauty will last forever? You think a man will look at you after you've exhausted yourself? Mark my words, you'll be used and forgotten by twenty-five if you're lucky."
§
Iseult trembled but now there was some anger in there, too. How dare Tristan talk to her like this? She clenched her jaw and crossed her arms too, unconsciously mimicking his stance. "I didn't know you were quite so vicious, Tristan," she said slowly, and her voice shook slightly, along with the rest of her. "You kept that pretty quiet."
She tossed her hair. This customary show of defiance was all she could do to keep from crumbling entirely. Tristan, this was Tristan, the man on whom she had always relied. The man she would have married. The man she loved. She had loved? She didn't know. All she knew is that she wasn't feeling much love for him right now.
§
Ever little gesture and motion was watched coolly. None of it bothered him though it certainly encouraged him to be more unkind.
"You don't know a lot about me. I wonder why?" he mused aloud, even stroking his chin. "Oh, that's right, because we never really knew one another and were forced to be together. I had no choice but to lay my hands on you, to kiss you and give you pleasure. And you...well. I'm sure you enjoyed me more than Mark. If I ever cared about you, I'd wonder what made you see something in that grunting beast Agravaine after you had me all those years ago. But I know you're just superficial, Iseult. Whether it's with men or even yourself."
§
"I saved your life," said Iseult, sharply. "On more than one occasion." She knew full well that, in saving Tristan (from Mark), she was saving herself, too, keeping their relationship secret. She looked at him with wide eyes, steadfastly ignoring the tears that threatened to spill over. "I saved your life because I thought you were a knight. I thought you were noble." Her head snapped back at the accusation of superficiality. Surely Tristan knew her better than that.
Her voice was low and fierce. "At least Agravaine doesn't pretend he's anything other than he is. No more than I do. What would Mark say if he saw you now? What would Arthur say?" A pause. A rapid blink and if a tear slid down her cheek, she continued to ignore it. "And your wife. I - how dare you?"
§
Without regard to what anyone might think if they were even bothering to watch the two (it was a selfish town), Tristan clapped for her. "Cry harder. And is that what you wanted? Acknowledgement that you did a good thing once in a while? There, now you have it. And I don't need a tart telling me about being noble and knightly. You women aren't worth the time and effort to deal with. Always causing problems, always sleeping around with other men when you have it all. Never satisfied. Is it any wonder there aren't any knights today? Your sex ruined it all. That's why I dare.
"As for my wife? I imagine that my loyal, decent and too patient wife would be pleased to hear me right now. Not that her fucking opinion matters at all. She was a lying little bitch anyway. And dear old Uncle Mark was a fool who I should have thrown over. And you know what Arthur is. A blind man who didn't even see what his whore and his best knight were up to right under his nose. Let's all be glad Guinevere never got pregnant." A gesture was made toward Iseult's abdomen. "Hell, I'm glad you didn't either. God knows whose child it would have been."
§
"His whore and his best knight," spat out Iseult, seething with anger even as the tears began to flow. It was easy to tell herself that it was rage making her cry; that her world wasn't being ripped apart by each and every one of Tristan's cruel words. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, viciously thankful that she had never had Tristan's child. Oh, there had been a time when she would have been complete, holding Tristan's baby in her arms but that was before she knew what a cruel, ugly man he really was and that thought made her cry harder.
She turned away and didn't even bother saying it could only have been yours and she almost stepped out onto the busy street in an attempt to hail down a cab.
§
He had nothing left to say to her but laughed just loud enough for her to hear as she turned away, uncaring of where she stepped or whether she could get a cab right away. This Tristan had found satisfaction in tearing her down, knowing she was leaving in pain. There was no gentle regard for her, no sense of wrong for what he'd done.
With that accomplished, he didn't stick around to watch her leave. He continued on his way, whistling a chipper little tune.