Isn't it confusing, what first love does to a man?
Story where Alexine is Soldier Boy's first love and rekindle after many years apart.
[UNGOING]
[Warnings; smut, angst, torture, mention of torture, trauma, physical abuse, mental abuse, verbal abuse...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
November 1941
The streets of Lyon in 1941 were a mix of beauty and decay. Elegant buildings with wrought-iron balconies lined the narrow, winding streets, their facades scarred by years of neglect and the impact of war. The cobblestone streets were uneven, making walking a careful endeavor. The air was heavy with the smell of coal smoke and the faint, lingering scent of fresh bread from the few bakeries that managed to stay open. Market stalls, once vibrant and bustling with activity, now stood half-empty, their goods meager and overpriced. The once-bustling Rue des Marronniers was now filled with the uneasy silence of a city under occupation, punctuated by the occasional bark of a German soldier's command and the distant rumble of trucks.
At night, the city took on a different character. Shadows lengthened and merged, creating a landscape of hidden corners and secretive movements. The curfew imposed by the occupying forces left the streets deserted, save for the patrolling soldiers and the few brave souls who risked venturing out. The dim light from the streetlamps cast an eerie glow, highlighting the cracks in the buildings and the faces of those who dared to peek out from behind their curtains.
Despite the hardships, Lyon's resilience shone through. Small acts of defiance, such as the graffiti scrawled on walls and the whispered conversations in hidden rooms, hinted at an undercurrent of resistance. The city's spirit, though battered, remained unbroken, a quiet but powerful testament to its inhabitants' determination to survive and, one day, reclaim their freedom.
Alexine was like many girls in France right now, taking care of their loved ones. Her father, a handicapped war veteran from World War I, was unable to fend for himself. His leg had been amputated to the hip, leaving him in a wheelchair that was so rusty Alexine had to grease it every morning.
Most French men had gone to war for Germany, but he could not.
Her father was so beautiful. He always had his hair back, nice bushy eyebrows he'd rarely furrow. He had thin lips and the gaze of an eagle. He was strong built with squared shoulders, and his arms were strong and ripped with muscles to counter his thin leg.
Their flat, a small two-room apartment in a dilapidated building, was on the third floor. The living room was modestly furnished, with an old, threadbare couch where Gerard spent most of his time. A small wooden table with two mismatched chairs stood near the window, overlooking the bustling Rue des Marronniers. The wallpaper, once a vibrant floral pattern, had faded and peeled in several places, exposing the plaster beneath. A single, bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim glow that barely reached the corners of the room. The kitchen was scarcely more than a narrow alcove, with a rickety stove, a chipped sink, and shelves that sagged under the weight of their meager provisions.
"I heard this thing..." Alexine said. She was a brown-haired girl with big doe eyes, as pure and innocent as a child could still be at that age. Although the war had taken a toll in Lyon, and many neighbors were turning on each other, she forced herself to smile.
