LOG; i'm not as sure as i seem; TRISTAN + ISOBEL
backdated to last week, before war's end. tristan/isobel, in isobel's bathroom. not as dirty as you think.
Isobel was getting impatient. She'd been waiting by the toilet for fifteen minutes now, for Tristan to show up -- it had become an odd tradition of theirs, one she'd never actually acknowledged as tradition but found herself waiting for nonetheless. It went something like this: Tristan popped out of the toilet at twenty minutes past ten, when she heard the familiar splashing she went over and tried to flush him back down and close the lid on him. Eventually he either passed out or she either caved in, and they would talk a little, Tristan half-in half-out of the toilet, Isobel sopping in toilet water.
"Fucking toiletrat," she muttered.
Tristan bobbed around in the English Channel, whose surface he had rocketed to several moments ago. It was much too large and foggy to be Isobel's toilet. Too much sea weed.
"God damn," he gurgled. "Wrong turn..."
Reverting once more to his aqueous form, he swirled back into the underground and spent the next quarter of an hour zooming through London's sewage pipes like the deranged puddle of toilet water he was.
I'm going 300 kmph, he thought to himself, as the familiar scent of Isobel's septic tank washed through him. I'm the motherfucking prancing horse.
Feeling too bamf to slow down, Tristan belched out of the toilet and onto the floor of Isobel's bathroom in a stinking heap. Quickly, he doused himself in expensive cologne and swallowed several breath mints. Isobel deserved pleasant scents.
"My darling," he croaked, falling to one knee. "Have you waited for very long? Let me kiss your hand."
Isobel staggered back, overwhelmed by the pungent odor of sewer and cologne. "I was not waiting," she managed, trying not to inhale.
Grabbing a towel, she dabbed at Tristan's hair (or more like scrubbed it) to stop it from dripping so much. Then she took the stack of towels she'd prepared and dropped them into Tristan's hands.
It didn't cross her mind that having towels ready obviously meant she'd been expecting him.
Tristan shuddered pleasurably as Isobel's towel ruffled his hair. Such an intimate feeling. "Not waiting? But you always have towels ready for me... or perhaps you simply like towels. When we are married, we will have a glorious linen closet for you, how does that sound?"
With several awkward, squelchy movement, Tristan got to his feet and sat down on the toilet seat. If any of Isobel's terrifying family members were to enter, the situation would appear innocent, as though Isobel was simply keeping Tristan company as he went poop. Their passionate romance would remain veiled, secretive, mysterious. Sensual.
"So... what now, darling?"
"Or you could simply use the bathroom as your bedroom so I won't have to fetch the towels," she retorted.
....
"And who said anything about marriage?" She made a face, noting Tristan's hair looked oddly green in the bad lighting of the bathroom. There was rust along the walls and paint was cracking and peeling rather noticeably. The mirror was broken in one corner and there was a crater in the wall from where she'd bumped her head once. Isobel was still a little embarrassed about the condition of her home but never brought it up, speaking of it would only make it more noticeable, she thought.
Tristan had thought the bathroom was rather yucky at first, but over time, it's state of dilapidation became endearing. During math class he made elaborate charts detailing the beautification of Isobel's living situation-- lace curtains for her rickety bed, scented candles to place on the rim of the bathtub... cousin Damon's boyfriend Ambrosius had given him some helpful advice regarding flower arrangements. For the moment, Tristan had to be content to wipe his handkerchief over moldy surfaces while Isobel wasn't looking.
"I... I never said a thing about marriage," said Tristan quickly, and decided to change the subject. "Hey... have you ever played truth or dare?"
I'm so smooth, he thought, smiling tenderly at Isobel. I'm Chuck Bass.
"What?" He was changing the subject... whatever, she didn't want to talk about marriage. Isobel didn't even plan on getting married. Marriage was gross and ended in failure most of the time. "No, I haven't. Why?"
Why is he making that face again? He looks like a baby that's just passed gas.
"It's fun," said Tristan, leaving the toilet for a more comfortable seat in the bathtub. "You ask me, truth or dare? If I say truth, I have to honestly answer any question you ask. If I say dare, I have to do whatever you dare me to do."
Although Isobel was currently thinking about Tristan in relation to a farting baby, Tristan mistook the look on her face for one of subconscious attraction. Isobel didn't hate him... she couldn't. She would dare him to kiss her, and it would be wonderful.
"So go on, truth or dare me. Or shall I ask you first?"
"Alright, I will. I dare you to swirl into the English channel and bring back a baby shark."
Tristan turned pale, utterly shocked. "But Isobel..." he protested, rolling out of the bathtub to kneel chivalrously near the waste basket. "That's not... romantic..."
He ran a hand through his hair and barely even noticed when it came free tangled in a strip of seaweed. "I pick truth, anyway. I don't pick dare, so you may ask me anything."
Ask me how much I love you, he thought, staring passionately at her hard, dangerous head.
"I didn't know this was supposed to be a romantic game," she said, genuinely missing the point.
Feeling a bit frustrated, Tristan decided it was time to fast forward to his kiss with Isobel.
"Here's a rule that I forgot about. When one player forgets that truth or dare is meant to be very romantic, they must forfeit their turn to the other player. So now it's my turn. Truth or dare?"
"Wait, that sounds a bit off." Isobel paused in thought, eyes narrowed suspiciously, wondering if Tristan would actually get a baby shark for her if she were more persuasive about it. "That's not a rule!"
Tristan fidgeted. Turned red. This wasn't going as planned. Kiss her and then dive into the toilet, said the voice of Chuck Bass in his head. Panicked, Tristan brushed Chuck away.
What finally came out was-- "Listen love, I just wanted to dare you to..." KISS ME.. "..arm wrestle.. with me.."
"Oh." Isobel shrugged. "Why didn't you just say so from the start? You're acting more strangely than usual."
It was typical of Tristan to be overly enthusiastic and excitable but this was a little more erratic than usual. At least before he was just consistently obnoxious in the same way, but tonight he was.. just being weird. Isobel couldn't really place what it was, exactly.
Tristan felt different as well. Being a part of a seemingly apocalyptic scenario involving gates and violence made him feel just as cool and important as he had expected, but far more nervous than he ever would have believed. Nervous for Isobel, and for her house which might just crumble if someone kicked it too hard, and for... for Isobel. What if they died before they ever kissed?
"Absobloodylootely unacceptable," he muttered inaudibly. Then, "Alright... let's use the sink as our surface. Let's do this."
Tristan rolled up his sleeve, flexed his average, rather pale arms, and waited for Isobel to take his hand so the arm wrestling match could begin.
Isobel rolled up the sleeve of her rather large, pathetic looking sweater (a hand-me-down of her brother's) and took it, ready to go. Living with a bunch of boys had made her quite good, though she still appeared to be a skinny little thing.
"Are you ready?"
Isobel's hand was small and adorable. Tristan masked his blush with an arrogant smile.
"Of course. On three now-- one, two- three!"
Thinking that he should make Isobel feel secure with his manly physical strength, Tristan put all his strength into winning. It just... didn't seem to be working...
Wat... said the voice in his head. Dear god wat...
It was a good thing that he hadn't planned on letting her win, because she would have been annoyed with being treated as some delicate pansy. Face set in a determined grimace, she pushed as hard as she could, and after a short deadlock in which both had been fairly even, she forced his arm down triumphantly with a grunt.
Something in Tristan's bicep withered and died, but he ignored it, staring at Isobel.
That was sexy, said Chuck Bass. Really sexy. Tristan ignored him too.
Against the backdrop of her horrible bathroom, illuminated by the too bright fluorescent lamp, Tristan thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. There was no one like Isobel.
"I... well." Tristan leaned forward slowly, giving Isobel plenty of time to punch him in the jaw if she didn't want this. But maybe she did? "A... kiss for the winner?"
She gave him a withering stare, but didn't punch him. Instead, after mulling over it for the entirety of four seconds, she leaned forward and kissed him very quickly on the cheek.
"How about a shark?"
Dazed like a man in the heat of battle, Tristan kissed Isobel just as quickly on her mouth. Fast, suave, done.
Gangsta, said Chuck.
"I will have the shark for you by morning," said Tristan, teetering backwards towards the toilet, his fingertips already turning to liquid. A quick exit was best in this scenario. "A baby shark for my darling... him name Hopkin baby shark..."
And then he was gone, swirling off to the English Channel at 300 km/hr.
Isobel was getting impatient. She'd been waiting by the toilet for fifteen minutes now, for Tristan to show up -- it had become an odd tradition of theirs, one she'd never actually acknowledged as tradition but found herself waiting for nonetheless. It went something like this: Tristan popped out of the toilet at twenty minutes past ten, when she heard the familiar splashing she went over and tried to flush him back down and close the lid on him. Eventually he either passed out or she either caved in, and they would talk a little, Tristan half-in half-out of the toilet, Isobel sopping in toilet water.
"Fucking toiletrat," she muttered.
Tristan bobbed around in the English Channel, whose surface he had rocketed to several moments ago. It was much too large and foggy to be Isobel's toilet. Too much sea weed.
"God damn," he gurgled. "Wrong turn..."
Reverting once more to his aqueous form, he swirled back into the underground and spent the next quarter of an hour zooming through London's sewage pipes like the deranged puddle of toilet water he was.
I'm going 300 kmph, he thought to himself, as the familiar scent of Isobel's septic tank washed through him. I'm the motherfucking prancing horse.
Feeling too bamf to slow down, Tristan belched out of the toilet and onto the floor of Isobel's bathroom in a stinking heap. Quickly, he doused himself in expensive cologne and swallowed several breath mints. Isobel deserved pleasant scents.
"My darling," he croaked, falling to one knee. "Have you waited for very long? Let me kiss your hand."
Isobel staggered back, overwhelmed by the pungent odor of sewer and cologne. "I was not waiting," she managed, trying not to inhale.
Grabbing a towel, she dabbed at Tristan's hair (or more like scrubbed it) to stop it from dripping so much. Then she took the stack of towels she'd prepared and dropped them into Tristan's hands.
It didn't cross her mind that having towels ready obviously meant she'd been expecting him.
Tristan shuddered pleasurably as Isobel's towel ruffled his hair. Such an intimate feeling. "Not waiting? But you always have towels ready for me... or perhaps you simply like towels. When we are married, we will have a glorious linen closet for you, how does that sound?"
With several awkward, squelchy movement, Tristan got to his feet and sat down on the toilet seat. If any of Isobel's terrifying family members were to enter, the situation would appear innocent, as though Isobel was simply keeping Tristan company as he went poop. Their passionate romance would remain veiled, secretive, mysterious. Sensual.
"So... what now, darling?"
"Or you could simply use the bathroom as your bedroom so I won't have to fetch the towels," she retorted.
....
"And who said anything about marriage?" She made a face, noting Tristan's hair looked oddly green in the bad lighting of the bathroom. There was rust along the walls and paint was cracking and peeling rather noticeably. The mirror was broken in one corner and there was a crater in the wall from where she'd bumped her head once. Isobel was still a little embarrassed about the condition of her home but never brought it up, speaking of it would only make it more noticeable, she thought.
Tristan had thought the bathroom was rather yucky at first, but over time, it's state of dilapidation became endearing. During math class he made elaborate charts detailing the beautification of Isobel's living situation-- lace curtains for her rickety bed, scented candles to place on the rim of the bathtub... cousin Damon's boyfriend Ambrosius had given him some helpful advice regarding flower arrangements. For the moment, Tristan had to be content to wipe his handkerchief over moldy surfaces while Isobel wasn't looking.
"I... I never said a thing about marriage," said Tristan quickly, and decided to change the subject. "Hey... have you ever played truth or dare?"
I'm so smooth, he thought, smiling tenderly at Isobel. I'm Chuck Bass.
"What?" He was changing the subject... whatever, she didn't want to talk about marriage. Isobel didn't even plan on getting married. Marriage was gross and ended in failure most of the time. "No, I haven't. Why?"
Why is he making that face again? He looks like a baby that's just passed gas.
"It's fun," said Tristan, leaving the toilet for a more comfortable seat in the bathtub. "You ask me, truth or dare? If I say truth, I have to honestly answer any question you ask. If I say dare, I have to do whatever you dare me to do."
Although Isobel was currently thinking about Tristan in relation to a farting baby, Tristan mistook the look on her face for one of subconscious attraction. Isobel didn't hate him... she couldn't. She would dare him to kiss her, and it would be wonderful.
"So go on, truth or dare me. Or shall I ask you first?"
"Alright, I will. I dare you to swirl into the English channel and bring back a baby shark."
Tristan turned pale, utterly shocked. "But Isobel..." he protested, rolling out of the bathtub to kneel chivalrously near the waste basket. "That's not... romantic..."
He ran a hand through his hair and barely even noticed when it came free tangled in a strip of seaweed. "I pick truth, anyway. I don't pick dare, so you may ask me anything."
Ask me how much I love you, he thought, staring passionately at her hard, dangerous head.
"I didn't know this was supposed to be a romantic game," she said, genuinely missing the point.
Feeling a bit frustrated, Tristan decided it was time to fast forward to his kiss with Isobel.
"Here's a rule that I forgot about. When one player forgets that truth or dare is meant to be very romantic, they must forfeit their turn to the other player. So now it's my turn. Truth or dare?"
"Wait, that sounds a bit off." Isobel paused in thought, eyes narrowed suspiciously, wondering if Tristan would actually get a baby shark for her if she were more persuasive about it. "That's not a rule!"
Tristan fidgeted. Turned red. This wasn't going as planned. Kiss her and then dive into the toilet, said the voice of Chuck Bass in his head. Panicked, Tristan brushed Chuck away.
What finally came out was-- "Listen love, I just wanted to dare you to..." KISS ME.. "..arm wrestle.. with me.."
"Oh." Isobel shrugged. "Why didn't you just say so from the start? You're acting more strangely than usual."
It was typical of Tristan to be overly enthusiastic and excitable but this was a little more erratic than usual. At least before he was just consistently obnoxious in the same way, but tonight he was.. just being weird. Isobel couldn't really place what it was, exactly.
Tristan felt different as well. Being a part of a seemingly apocalyptic scenario involving gates and violence made him feel just as cool and important as he had expected, but far more nervous than he ever would have believed. Nervous for Isobel, and for her house which might just crumble if someone kicked it too hard, and for... for Isobel. What if they died before they ever kissed?
"Absobloodylootely unacceptable," he muttered inaudibly. Then, "Alright... let's use the sink as our surface. Let's do this."
Tristan rolled up his sleeve, flexed his average, rather pale arms, and waited for Isobel to take his hand so the arm wrestling match could begin.
Isobel rolled up the sleeve of her rather large, pathetic looking sweater (a hand-me-down of her brother's) and took it, ready to go. Living with a bunch of boys had made her quite good, though she still appeared to be a skinny little thing.
"Are you ready?"
Isobel's hand was small and adorable. Tristan masked his blush with an arrogant smile.
"Of course. On three now-- one, two- three!"
Thinking that he should make Isobel feel secure with his manly physical strength, Tristan put all his strength into winning. It just... didn't seem to be working...
Wat... said the voice in his head. Dear god wat...
It was a good thing that he hadn't planned on letting her win, because she would have been annoyed with being treated as some delicate pansy. Face set in a determined grimace, she pushed as hard as she could, and after a short deadlock in which both had been fairly even, she forced his arm down triumphantly with a grunt.
Something in Tristan's bicep withered and died, but he ignored it, staring at Isobel.
That was sexy, said Chuck Bass. Really sexy. Tristan ignored him too.
Against the backdrop of her horrible bathroom, illuminated by the too bright fluorescent lamp, Tristan thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. There was no one like Isobel.
"I... well." Tristan leaned forward slowly, giving Isobel plenty of time to punch him in the jaw if she didn't want this. But maybe she did? "A... kiss for the winner?"
She gave him a withering stare, but didn't punch him. Instead, after mulling over it for the entirety of four seconds, she leaned forward and kissed him very quickly on the cheek.
"How about a shark?"
Dazed like a man in the heat of battle, Tristan kissed Isobel just as quickly on her mouth. Fast, suave, done.
Gangsta, said Chuck.
"I will have the shark for you by morning," said Tristan, teetering backwards towards the toilet, his fingertips already turning to liquid. A quick exit was best in this scenario. "A baby shark for my darling... him name Hopkin baby shark..."
And then he was gone, swirling off to the English Channel at 300 km/hr.