#Duke asking him for one reason (for the love of god in French! Like the EAP story and also like 77!) to kill him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elisabeth515 · 3 years

Text

(Some) Greek Gods as Historical Figures

So some days ago I secretly logged back into Mythology and Cultures amino and I stumbled across post of casting historical figures as the gods from Greek mythology. Of course, I hated it, so I made my version of this.

Note: Of course, this is going to have quite a lot of Napoleonic figures, since I am more familiar of this period, but please do reblog this post (or tag me on another post) with the hashtag “#mythical figures as historical people” and add some more of your historical figure Greek God fancasts!

Note 2: this post is for entertaining purpose, and just me introducing some guys to y’all and I am not a historian myself and hopefully you all would still like my takes😅

1. Zeus - Louis XIV of France

First and foremost, I shall introduce the king of gods featured in Greco-Roman myths. You may ask, why don’t I cast Henry VIII of England? Well, my reason is very simple: Henry is far from accurate to Zeus in actual myths.

To be honest, Zeus has a more “absolute power” energy in it, and Louis XIV totally has rocked it (like that iconic line “l’état, c’est moi (I am the state)”). Well, Henry also has that kind of energy but everyone only remembers his six wives and the uncountable number of bloodshed (not to mention Catherine of Aragon is a much better fighter than him—got this from Horrible Histories OwO)... Anyways, Louis XVI is basically a Zeus.

2. Hera - Catherine of Aragon

This brings to Catherine of Aragon herself. She’s a total Q U E E N and if you have watched “Six” the musical you already got what I mean (like, being the wife who married to Henry the longest). There’s also the early warlike aspect in Hera (featured in Homer’s works) that Catherine has it as well (at least you know that she’s getting more victories than Henry if you have watched Horrible Histories season 6, in the episode with Rowan Atkinson playing Henry VIII (which is sad because I want Ben Willbond to play him—he iconic to the HH fandom)), making her a great casting of Hera.

Hera, in my opinion, is a very strong woman who has to take Zeus’s shit and I could totally understand why she took revenge on the girls that Zeus has slept with—but anyways, hopefully you guys would like it :3

3. Aphrodite - Pauline Bonaparte

This is half-self-explanatory, really—just look at that statue she posed as Venus, the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite.

Pauline was famed for her beauty in her time, also a big chunk of scandals from her affairs (which bugs her big brother Napoleon, a lot). Nevertheless, despite her big spending habits and a great sexual appetite, she always helped Napoleon in some surprising ways (like she sold her house in Paris to the Duke of Wellington to get the funds for Napoleon).

Just like Aphrodite herself, Pauline harnessed her beauty very well. Thus, I rest my case.

4. Apollo - Joachim Murat or Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria

(Warning: long content ahead)

Firstly, let me briefly introduce them because you guys might not know them much.

Joachim Murat was a marshal of France, also one of Napoleon’s brother-in-law, grand duke of Berg and Cleves from 1806 to 1808 and the King of Naples from 1808 to 1815. After the wars, he attempted to escape yet was caught and executed in 1815 in Pizzo, Italy (if you have read of Alexandre Dumas’s “Famous Crimes” you might know him—by the way no one has cut his head off and sent it to that big nose King Ferdinand).

For those who have watched “Elisabeth” or the “Sissi” movies, you might know Franz Joseph I of Austria already but you might not know much about himself besides being the husband of the (in)famous Empress Sisi (ie. Empress Elisabeth of Austria). He was the Emperor of the Austria from 1848 to his death in 1916—one of the longest reigning European monarchs in history. During his reign, the empire had been through a lot of change, most notably, the creation of Austria-Hungary. Nevertheless, he was also the Emperor who started World War I and he died of old age in the midst of the Great War.

For Apollo, I’m not casting musicians because this is quite overdone. I rather want to shed a light to the other arts that he represented in Greco-Roman mythology. This makes me want to draw a parallel to Joachim Murat as he was also a great sucker of classical literature. Plus, he also was known to be a flamboyant dresser (his nickname was “the Dandy King” by the way), also the designer of the uniforms of the Neapolitan army (with an excessive amount of amaranth, perhaps his favourite colour). Really, everyone just sees him as a great flamboyant himbo but in reality, he’s iconically badass in the battlefield as the First Horseman of Europe. Well, also he’s known for being extremely good with women even though his wife Caroline was fierce as hell. So, in my opinion, he fits the image of Apollo that we know.

However, you guys might feel surprised why I picked Franz Joseph for Apollo. Well, he really... was a rather mediocre ruler in my opinion, and perhaps our most memorable image of him was the senile emperor who signed the declaration of war to Serbia. Nevertheless, he was a well-liked man among his subjects, at least to some old citizens of Austria-Hungary telling future generations. Besides, culture flourished in Vienna under his reign—with notable figures like Sigmund Freud, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Erwin Schrödinger. Despite the series of unfortunate events which made the empire started to crumble, Austria-Hungary arguably has its cultural importance in Europe. Sounds like what Apollo would do if he’s a ruler, somehow.

Well, enough of his political achievements, let’s talk about his private life... which was probably the actual reason why I picked him.

Enter Duchess Elisabeth in Bavaria, the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, also known as Sisi.

On a side note, Marshal Louis-Alexandre Berthier of France, Prince of Neufchâtel and of Wargram, was Empress Sisi’s grand-uncle in-law via his marriage to Duchess Maria Elisabeth in Bavaria

Absolutely love Pia as Elisabeth in the musical so please don’t mind me using a gif from this :3 ((also, “Elisabeth” spoiler alert

Franz originally was to marry her sister Helene (nicknamed Néné), nevertheless, on the first meeting in Bad Ishl, he has fallen for the young Elisabeth, head over heels—making him defying his domineering mother, Archduchess Sophie, for the very first time. Elisabeth also liked him and did not expressed her refusal either, so they got married in St. Augustine’s Church in 29th April, 1854.

However, the marriage was not well. Sisi was not accustomed to the strict Austrian court especially Archduchess Sophie (also she was not really a fan of intimacy). Poor Franz was rather helpless in situations between his mother and his wife, and eventually, Sisi chose her freedom over her duty as Empress, traveling around the world. They two briefly went back together during the Austro-Hungarian compromise, yet she was constantly not there. Eventually, Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist named Luigi Lucheni during her stay in Geneva, Switzerland, and Franz was devastated over her death (“she will never know how much I love her”).

To Franz, he loved her so, but he really didn’t understand her needs. Even though he had countless mistresses and female companions in Vienna, he still missed his wife. I say, he was really unlucky when it comes to love. Like Apollo himself, he dated countless nymphs and humans, but a lot of his notable relationships did not have a good end. (Probably Cyrene was the most lucky one, yet she also has chosen to be left alone after mothering several children with Apollo.) For this, I picked Franz Joseph as Apollo.

5. Ares - Jean Lannes or Michel Ney

As usual, for those who don’t know much history, I shall briefly introduce my babeys these two great soldiers.

Jean Lannes was one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for being one of Napoleon’s closest friends and his fiery personality, and is considered one of the best marshals of the 1st French Empire. His finest moments including the Battle of Ratisbon in which he led his men to storm the well-guarded city with ladders (hence his nickname “ladder lord” in our very humble Napoleonic marshalate fandom :3). Sadly, he died of the wound he received in the battle of Aspern-Essling in 1809.

Michel Ney was also one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for his extreme valour (yep, he is known as the “Bravest of the Brave”). As you might know, he was one of the marshals who was in Waterloo, yet, his finest hour was during the retreat from Russia in the disasterous 1812. Sadly, he was arguably the most prominent victim of the White Terror under the second Bourbon restoration, executed in 1815 (**I am not accepting any kind of conspiracy theories of my babey survived and died in America😤).

Speaking of Ares, I have a lot of things to say (that’s my dad ;-; no jkjk). He is really not that bloodthirsty idiot who casually hates humans. Well, he’s more like a fiery dork and a man who was very faithful to his lovers, and fights very well (by the way also one of the best dads). So, the bois that come into my mind are automatically two of the most courageous marshals of France.

Lannes, if I have to get him a godly parent, it would definitely Ares. He resembled the god a lot (also I sometimes imagined Ares as a smol bean with dark hair), probably looks the most like Ares himself. He got that fiery temper, that faithfulness to his wife Louise, also being a very courageous fighter in the field—well he literally was like, “NO LEMME STORM DAT CITY *grabs ladder*”.

There you have it, my big bro our ladder lord Jean Lannes who can pull off a perfect Ares.

Ney is like a slightly introverted (and mature) version of an Ares person. You can guess his temper already through his famed auburn hair, and indeed despite his shy exterior his temper sometimes was a bit explosive, and a bit impatient (which was somehow one of his fatal flaws). He was a great fighter, known as a skilled swordsman in his youth. And you all know how brave he is in his famed epithet. Michel Ney is purely badass (and C U T E) you know (and he needs a lot of hugs because he has really been though a lot in the wars, and was a possible case of PTSD which was shown in his arguably suicidal behaviour during the battle of Waterloo). That’s why I casted him as the Greek god Ares OwO

And there you have it, my interpretations on the Greek gods via people in history. I originally would like to include more but somehow I realised that I have written too much about my picks. So, if you want to add more, reblog this post or tag me on the post you made on this topic (and please use the hashtag “mythical figures as historical people” so that I could look into your choices via the search bubble on this app🥺).

Last but not the least, I hope you all lovelies like this, also have learnt something new via my brief introductions on some historical people. Have a great day!

92 notes · View notes

omgrachwrites · 3 years

Text

The Princess and The Duke - Chapter Twelve

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Summary: As the Princess of Spain, you were always supposed to marry King James of England to make an alliance between Spain and England. When he marries a woman at his court for love, you are married off to his best friend, Sirius Black the Duke of Bedford to keep the alliance. However, the court is riddled with secrets and a rebel in the North starts to rise against the Throne. Royal AU.

Warnings: lil bit of angst, fluff, fluff and more fluff!

Words: 2554

Disclaimer: This gif doesn’t belong to me!

A/N: I was going to make this chapter filled with so much more angst but I think that you guys deserved a break! Hope you guys enjoy this one and please let me know what you think, and let me know if you would like to be tagged! I love you all! xxx

Chapter Twelve - A Knight’s Tale

The waiting was torture, though that first night had been the worst, you had fed your twins, Elena and Johnathan before putting them to bed. And, then you had crawled into your huge cold, empty bed with your heart hurting as your tears soaked your silken pillows. You couldn’t lose him, you couldn’t lose Sirius. He was the love of your life and you had never dared to hope that you would meet someone like him or be so deeply in love.

Sirius was a hero – James was going to knight him if he ever woke up – and it would be cruel indeed if God decided to take him away from you. It seemed like God showed you mercy, because the following day, Sophia woke you to tell you that Sirius was still hanging on, he was still alive. He wasn’t doing any better but thankfully his condition hadn’t got any worse. For two weeks, you spent most of the morning with him, Lily would have granted you more time but you knew that Sirius wouldn’t want you to give up your duties for him. Working kept your mind off things.

Every time you went to see him, you brought the twins with you and you tried to make the small dark room brighter with the fresh flowers that you placed on the windowsill every couple of days. Through your tears you smiled down at the handsome man that was the subject of all your deepest dreams and fantasies. Even when he was so close to death he was still so devastatingly beautiful, like a fallen angel or a hero from those silly romance novels that you liked to read.

Gently, you pushed his raven black hair from his forehead, leaning down to press your lips against his forehead. His skin was as cold as ice but you knew that the doctor did his best to keep Sirius warm.

“I have to go, my love, I can’t shirk my duties,” you let out a little watery laugh as you swallowed down the lump in your throat, “I love you so much and I’m living for the day when you’ll wake, I would do anything Sirius, please just come back to us,” you pressed your warm lips to his cold ones, they were almost blue, “I’ll be back tomorrow, darling, though it’ll be a bit later on, I’m going to help Sophia pack for France,” you stroked your fingers against his cheek as you stood up.

The doctor smiled at you but you could see the blatant sympathy in his eyes as you nestled Elena and Johnathan in your arms, “thank you so much for looking after him, I appreciate it with all my heart,” you paused as a tear slid down your cheek, “if he wakes do you think all will be well?”

“You don’t have to thank me, Duchess,” the kindly older man bowed his head as he pushed his spectacles up his nose, “I cannot be sure, there may be some temporary memory loss but he’s defied all the odds so far. Your husband is a fighter, My Lady.”

You laughed a little as you nodded in agreement, “he is indeed a fighter, he’s the strongest man that I know,” it was for that reason that you were hopeful that he’d wake up. You gave him one last loving, wistful look before looking back at the doctor, “good day to you, doctor.”

“Good day, Lady Y/N,” he bowed his head as you departed from the room and sucked in a deep breath.

Remus was outside, leaning against the wall, he stood up straight when he saw you, a smile lighting up his handsome scarred face as he glanced from you to the twins, “are you waiting to go in and see Sirius?”

Remus nodded as he ran a hand through his hair, his hazel eyes growing worried, “how is he?”

You shrugged as sadness shrouded your heart, “he’s no better but he’s no worse either,” you tried to muster a brave smile.

Remus bit his lip as he looked down at his feet, “is it true that Sophia is going to French court?” even though he was getting married this coming summer, you knew that he still loved Sophia.

You sighed sadly, they would have made a fantastic couple and you knew that they both lamented what they had lost, “maybe you should talk to her instead of me, Remus,” you softened the blow by pressing a kiss against his cheek. You offered him a soft smile before walking down the hallway.

The following day dawned with warm and sunny weather with a slight breeze. The weather was so fine that you had thrown open the doors that led to the balcony while you helped Sophia pack for France. It was a pleasant task as the chirping of birds and the sweet sound of laughing, playing children that travelled up from the grounds. You glanced at Sophia with a smile on your lips, stopping short when you saw that a shadow had fallen over her face as she unblinkingly stared at the contents of her luggage.

“Are you alright, Sophia?” you asked, placing your hand on her shoulder.

Sophia looked up at you as her face transformed with a pretty smile that reached her eyes, “I’m fine, this is exactly what I want, and I suppose that I’m just nervous.”

You smiled as you pulled your dear friend into a tight hug, “I’m going to miss you,” you would sorely miss her and you knew that she would take a piece of your heart with her. But, you also knew that she would be radiant at French court. Over Sophia’s shoulder, you saw Remus run into the room, panting and you pulled away from Sophia as you took in his delighted face.

“It’s Sirius,” he smiled and your heart felt very hopeful and heavy, “he’s awake and he’s asking for you.”

You gasped as you held a hand to your heart as the relief and happiness almost swept you off your feet. You felt giddy and lightheaded, you felt drunk. Tears sprang to your eyes, “I must get the twins,”

Sophia laughed and cupped your cheeks, “I’ll get them and follow you, go, Y/N!”

You didn’t need to be told twice as you hitched up your skirts and ran to Sirius as quickly as you could, your heart beating wildly in your chest. Sirius was sitting up in bed when you reached him, the colour hadn’t quite returned to his cheeks yet but he was still so beautiful.

A smile spread across his face as soon as he saw you, “Y/N!”

As gently as you could you threw your arms around him, not wanting to hurt him as you sobbed into his neck. Your heart burst with love as he tilted your face up so he could kiss you, his gentle thumbs wiping your tears away. You pulled back to look at your husband, “I’m so glad that you’re alive, I love you,” you clutched his linen shirt between your fingers, not wanting to let him go.

Sirius smiled as he kissed your forehead, “I love you too, my Princess, I always promised that I’d come back to you, the doctor thinks that I’ll make a full recovery, apparently I’ve defied all the odds,” he chuckled before biting his lip, “I’m so sorry that I put through so much anguish.”

You shook your head as you cupped his cheeks, pressing your forehead against his, “I’m just glad that you’re okay, it was torture without you. You’re a hero Sirius; you saved the King’s life.”

“God, you’re so beautiful,” his loving words made you giggle, already he was flirting with you, “I’ve missed that sweet sound,” he pressed a kiss to your lips and he smiled as he trailed his fingers down to your stomach, looking up at you with a frown when he realised that the swell of your stomach had reduced, “our child?” he whispered and you kissed him gently.

You turned to Sophia who was standing in the doorway, she grinned at you as you lifted the twins into your arms and thanked her, “our children came a month early, both completely healthy,” you laughed and turned back to Sirius, “meet Elena and Johnathan, I wanted to honour your squire, he was a hero,” you added.

“Johnathan would have liked that, he would have been bashful,” he smiled and gasped with joy as you placed the twins in his arms, “typical that we wait for one baby and we get two,” he laughed, his voice thick with tears as he held his children.

Your heart swelled with love as Sirius pressed tiny kisses on their little foreheads. Elena wrapped her whole tiny hand around one of his fingers as she gazed up at him with her father’s stormy grey eyes while Johnathan fussed a little. Sirius choked back a sob as he grinned down at his children, his face bright with love as he glanced up at you.

“I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here for you, I’m so proud of you,” he tilted his head so he could press a deep lingering kiss to your lips and you threaded your fingers through his hair, “they’re so beautiful, just like their mother,” he murmured against your lips.

“And, just like their father,” you added, stroking over his beautiful face.

You and Sirius grinned at each other as you held your family in your arms. For once the little room didn’t seem so dark. It was as bright as heaven.

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

Sirius blew out a nervous breath as he looked at himself in the golden looking glass. Much had happened and yet, he hardly looked any different, apart from the long scar above his ribs and the haunted look that his eyes now held. He winced as he looked down at the pink welt on his skin, it was an ugly scar but late at night, Y/N would run her fingers and then her lips across it. She told him that it was proof of his heroic actions, he didn’t believe her but he lived for those moments.

Sirius could see his beautiful wife reflection in the golden mirror as she smiled and put the twins down for their nap. He was so blessed to have not just one, but two beautiful children. Y/N looked up and met his eyes in the mirror, he smiled at her as her lips parted slightly as her eyes raked over the bare top half of his body, and it was enough to make him blush.

With a sultry gaze, she looked at him beneath her thick lashes and she sauntered into the room, wrapping her arms around him from behind. Her nails ran over his skin lightly, enough to make him shiver beneath her warm touch, “my God, you look so beautiful like this,” she purred into his ear.

Her hands came up to rest on his shoulders as she kissed the back of his neck as she held eye contact with him in the mirror. Sirius blushed and bit his lip at her words, thankful that she still wanted him, “I could just eat you up,” she nipped at the lobe of his ear teasingly.

Sirius chuckled as he turned his head so he could capture Y/N’s lips with his own, smiling into the kiss when she ran her hands down to his stomach as she snaked her tongue into his mouth. When she pulled away, she kissed the tip of his nose, “what are you thinking about, my love?”

Sirius sighed and shrugged “just nervous I guess, I wish everybody didn’t have to make such a big thing over this,” he truly felt like he didn’t deserve this.

Y/N smiled at him as she cupped his cheeks, looking at him with so much love in her eyes, “you’re a true hero Sirius, let it be recognised properly,” she pressed a lingering kiss against his lips, “now, let’s get you dressed.”

She leaned down momentarily and pressed feather light kisses against his scar, running the tip of her tongue over the ruined skin. Tears sprang to his eyes as he cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. She smiled as she leaned into his touch and gazed up at him with sparkling, adoring eyes.

“I love you so much.”

Y/N grinned as she stood up and buttoned his shirt, smoothing her hands over it, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

All too soon, it was ready for them to leave, Y/N smiled at him comfortingly as they walked down the hallway, nerves swarming around in Sirius’ stomach. Even from outside the Throne Room, Sirius could hear the buzz and the chatter of the court, he knew that James would make a spectacle out of this. When they entered, the whole court turned and stared at him, the men looked at Sirius in jealousy while the women looked at Y/N in the same way. Y/N smiled and kissed his lips before going to stand with Sophia who had postponed her trip to France to come to the ceremony. There were sweet smelling ceremonial candles burning in every corner.

Swallowing back his nerves, Sirius walked towards where James was standing, the King’s face was mostly stoic but Sirius could see the glimmer of a smile beneath his mask. With his eyes fixed on James, Sirius knelt on one knee and the King began to address the court.

“This man is a hero,” James started as he pointed at Sirius, pride in his voice, “this man saved my life, he climbed over enemy lines to pull me to safety and almost gave up his own life in the process. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here and our beloved England would be at war, he saved me and so many more people.”

Sirius took his eyes away from James and concentrated on the red velvet carpet in front of him, as James placed the flat of his sword on his shoulder.

“Do you, Sirius Black, the Duke of Bedford promise to serve your liege lord in valour and faith? Do you promise to protect the weak and defenceless, live by honour and glory and respect the honour of women?”

Sirius cleared his throat to stop his voice from shaking, “I, Sirius Black, the Duke of Bedford solemnly swear to do this.”

Sirius could hear the smile in James’ voice as he moved the sword from his left shoulder to his right, “then it is my great honour to dub thee, Sir Sirius, Knight of England and Wales. Arise Sir.”

When Sirius got to his feet, James pulled him into a hug as the court cheered and applauded. Sirius chuckled as his best friend clapped him on the shoulder, “congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he smiled at James and Lily before turning to face the court, his eyes searching. He grinned when he found his wife among the crowd; her face was bright with a smile and tears streamed down her cheeks.

He strode towards her and kissed her passionately, Y/N giggled into the kiss as the court whistled at the display, “My Lady,” he whispered against her lips.

“My Knight,” she grinned up at him.

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

@smiithys @elayneblack @amelie-black @siriuslyjanhvi @pregnant-piggy @lindatreb @mabelle-cherie @hxrgreeves @britishspidey @mads-bri @classicrocketqueen @sxtansqueen @hufflepuffzutara @missmulti @bruxa0007 @ourstarsailor @fific7 @galwithbluethoughts @2410slb @sunles @krismeunicornbaobei @theincredibledeadlyviper @deathkat657

68 notes · View notes

javisjeanjacket · 3 years

Text

My Favorite Men and Their Coffee Orders

A/N: Cass ( @mndalorians ) gave me this idea and I have really been mulling it over and I think she’s ready now! I have been a barista at local coffee shops in my city going on four years now, so I like to think I know what I’m talking about coffee wise! Descriptions of drink follows each one for my less experienced babies :)

Poe Dameron - Poe doesn't know what he likes in his coffee, he just likes it sweet. He will come up to the register and make small talk with the barista and pretend like he's really contemplating what he wants and then he will just fall back on the good ol Caramel Macchiato 🤢 God bless him

(Carmel Macchiato : Vanilla syrup, espresso shots, steamed milk, caramel drizzle on top)

Santiago Pope Garcia - Santiago on the other hand, either goes to this coffee shop every morning or has studied the menu at length before hand. His go-to drink is a large cup of medium roast coffee just black, but when it's warmer he will force himself to switch it up and get a cold brew made the exact same way.

(Drip coffee: literally what you make at home with the Mr.Coffee. The only reason to buy drip coffee at a coffee shop would be for the quality or type of bean they’re using. Requires the user to either be an old man, love that specific bean, or be a complete coffee elitist douchebag with a “refined palette” (dont get me fucking going))

Duke Leto Atredies - The Duke has no idea what he gets in his coffee, he just knows that whenever it's brought to him in the mornings it always hits his tongue just right. It’s a moment of peace before the struggle of his day to day duties. The drink has a subtle sweetness that mixes with the commanding aftertaste of a darkly roasted espresso. (His servants make him a regular latte with one packet of raw sugar stirred in at the bottom and a dash of cinnamon on top.)

(Latte: espresso shots with steamed milk on top)

Din Djarin - The galaxy's sweet baby bounty hunter has never really been exposed to anything other than straight up black coffee, so when he's showed all the different options and ways you can combine the ingredients he gets kind of overwhelmed and just shuts down. If he trusted me enough to ask me to make him something, I would make him a small Americano with a dash of cream and a swirl of chocolate syrup. Din is a sweet boy, even if he doesn't want anyone to know about it.

(Americano: espresso shots with hot water)

Javier Peña - Javi baby usually just drinks black coffee when he's at work and doesn't really have the time to discover and explore all the different ingredients and combinations. He needs his coffee fast and quick and he is a grumpy monster until he gets it down. If he asked me to make him something, I would make him a large cold brew with a dash of cream and half pumps of caramel. Javi needs the caffeine and he doesn't have the time to wait and sip something hot. He needs the goods and he needs them now goddamnit. 👀 Half pumps caramel because for as strong and calculated he makes himself out to be, he is just a sweet, weary man on the inside. Let me hug him 🥺

(Cold Brew: drip coffee that is ground coarse and brewed for at least 24 hours using cold water. Brewing this way makes the coffee more concentrated and the flavor more intense.)

Ezra (Prospect) - Ezra makes a Pour Over every morning and you can't tell me otherwise. He enjoys the sweetness that comes from the shorter pull of the beans and it is a ritual of his to measure out the beans, grind them perfectly, and use a scale to measure, and make certain that the cup of coffee he's about to drink is the best this side of the Green Moon. He would never desecrate a hard-earned Pour Over with a dollop of cream, but every now and again he will add a few squirts of honey.

(Pour Over: a very precise way to make coffee, arguably the most controlled method. Beans must be measured out and then ground special. Water must reach a certain temperature and can only be poured over the coffee filter in intervals, resulting in a 5-7 minute prep time. This method usually pulls out the lighter, fruitier notes of the bean whereas a French Press or Drip Pot will bring out the darker notes of the same bean.)

Frankie Morales - Frankie is always frazzled when he goes to coffee shops. There is so much to discover and understand about coffee and Frankie needs to be able to focus. He wants to try all the different things, but he panicked one day and got a small plain cappuccino and accidentally fell in love. He likes that it’s not overly sweet and he enjoys how the foam feels on his tongue. Sometimes he will add some brown sugar to the cappuccino after it’s made instead of requesting it that way, (We stan a thoughtful, caring boy.) but he prefers to make a standard drip pot of coffee in the mornings and be done with it.

(Cappuccino: shots of espresso with 1/4 steamed milk and 3/4 foam on top)

#let me know if you want a part two i guess?#or if you want a specific character i can try my best :')#coffee headcanons #poe dameron #santiago pope garcia #din djarin #javier pena #frankie morales #duke leto atreides #hai writes #ezra (prospect)

46 notes · View notes

pengychan · 3 years

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something.

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books.

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley.

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret.

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much.

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched.

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch.

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did.

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time.

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it.

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number.

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned.

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed.

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--”

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all. Something was off. Something was wrong.

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight.

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran.

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him.

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about.

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin.

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away.

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only.

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up.

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came.

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone.

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest.

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes.

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it.

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded.

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order.

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right.

And that something was a pair of folded wings.

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired.

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again.

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist.

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book.

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight.

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

[Back]

[Next]

#good omens #ineffable beurocracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #winging it

16 notes · View notes

minervacasterly · 4 years

Text

The caricature of Margaret Beaufort:

From pop culture POV and the POV of those influenced by it, this powerful matriarch is all of the following: Religious nut case! Bitch. She killed the princes in the tower! Old and ugly! Screw her! She and her son were the worst thing that happened to England!

And yet her son became the founder of a dynasty that reigned for more than a century and continues to fascinate us. Now on to the real Meg Beaufort. In the White Queen she is all this and that but the real Meg was no religious nut case and she certainly didn't plan the murder of the Princes and you can debate me countless times on this but there is no concrete evidence that she did! Richard had more than enough motive and opportunity to kill the Princes and oh wait before I get the Ricardians on my case, I don't hate Richard. I actually find him interesting, I wouldn't find him interesting if he was perfect. Richard had learned from his brother's mistakes but made mistakes of his own. If he produced the boys then that would've propelled them to sainthood and the last thing he wanted was a cult was already building around Henry VI. What happened with this last monarch is fascinating and you might be wondering -hey! Isn't that the guy they smothered with a pillow in the White Queen? Yeah, that's the one. Except there are so many theories abounding to his death. The first one comes from Bettini who wrote three weeks after the Lancastrian king's death that it was Edward NOT Richard who gave the order. At the time the blame was solely pinned on Edward, so let's not confuse contemporary sources with secondary. Rous and Vergil writing in the Tudor period pinned the murder on Richard and even early Ricardians say that he did it, but with one major difference -*under* Edward's orders. If this is so, one thing we can all agree, if Richard gave the order or personally took care of Henry, it was all done under his brother's command. But this backfired, soon people were attributing all sorts of miracles to this guy, he became more famous in death than he had ever been in life. Edward tried hard to suppress this cult but he couldn't and Richard did the next best thing. If you can't beat them, join 'em! He cashed in on the cult and officiated a reburial of the dead monarch and started all new kinds of celebrations for him but people still talked as they always do. Now if he had produced the dead children as he and his brother had done with the Lancastrian king, then it would've been chaos, complete and utter chaos!

Margaret Beaufort's sole aim up until the princes disappearance in the summer of 1483 was to gain back her son's lands and bring him back safely. She was forced to give him up before after the Lancaster line had been wiped out from the face of the earth by Yorkist forces, ending to some historians' view, the wars of the roses in 1471. Margaret would not see him until the aftermath of Bosworth in 1485. She had little to worry about the first years of his exile, he was with his uncle Jasper, his father's brother. They intended to sail to the French court, a court his uncle knew very well but landed in Brittany instead because of the bad weather. Brittany was not on good terms with the French and they had their fair share of enmity with the English so it served the Duke well to have two valuable English hostages, one who had a considerable (if debatable) claim to the English throne via his mother. Edward attempted to coax the old Duke into give up his charge and while the Duke never believed Edward's intentions, some of his ministers did and those who didn't just wanted to cash in on the juicy rewards. Henry was an intelligent youth who was far from the serious and mama's boy he's depicted in today's fiction. He loved to laugh, play, joke and gamble. But he was aware how valuable he was and at one point feigned sickness and took sanctuary in a church when he suspected his future voyage to England was a hoax -which it was -and that small trickery on his part saved him.

By 1480, Margaret had more than enough to worry, but she wasn't giving up on her son's legacy. With Edward's promise to marry him to his eldest daughter, Margaret continued to rely on the faith that gave comfort to so many women in this period, and Edward's promise, albeit a fake one, was something she never let go of. The accession of Richard and Anne changed all that. Always an opportunist at heart, she tried to curry favor with the new regime. Whether she agreed with it or not -we will never know but her husband was an official in Richard's government and she had more than enough reason to believe that Richard would grant her her request to bring her son back. After all he was more busy convincing everyone his brother had never been legally married to Elizabeth and securing his position. But surprise, surprise for Margaret and everyone involved. Her life was never easy, it was one obstacle after another and this was no different. The boys' disappearance changed everything and Buckingham's rebellion gave her a chance she had never considered before. Her moment to shine had come. She was no longer looking to bring her son back as a mere earl but as a king so she started plotting with the queen dowager through her Welsh doctor. After a lot of plotting and intrigue and tragedy at Richard's court, her son's shining moment came and thanks to the defection of his stepfather from Richard's camp to his side, he won. There is a famous myth that his stepfather, Thomas Stanley found the crown in a thorn bush but this is likely Tudor propaganda. Richard's treatment afterwards was one that's always given by the victor to the loser, stripped of all his clothes and shamefully paraded, he was then written as the worst monarch that ever lived.

And while I do agree there needs to be a better assessment of Richard, doing the same to Margaret and Richard is just as dumb. She was born in 1443 and a year after, John Beaufort, her father and Duke of Somerset died. Many said at the time that it was because of suicide because of his terrible leadership in France. Truth or not, Margaret was now a wealthy heiress and her wardship was widely sought after. William de la Pole, the crown's favorite tried to marry her to his son, but after he was murdered, at only nine years old Margaret was brought to court to swear that she never intended to marry his son. Later she rewrote history saying that it was because of a godly vision that told her that it was her destiny to marry Edmund Tudor and establish a great house, that she denied it. Margaret married at only 12 and Edmund Tudor, anxious to get his hands on her wealth, didn't bother to wait. He impregnated her less than a year after and she gave birth in January 1457 when she was months away from being 14, to her only offspring. The birth damaged her, she never had any children with her other spouses. She had a happy marriage with her next spouse, Henry Stafford and they celebrated their anniversary in big style every year and even housed Edward IV in their hunting lodged in one occasion. This doesn't sound like the power hungry, vindictive Margaret of TV. And that's because she wasn't! She was very learned and founded and refounded many colleges, chief among them: Christ's College which had previously been God's House and St. John's in Cambridge. Aware that only the privileged few could attend these institutions she voiced her concerns in 1479, and her attempts bore fruit when Wimborne College was established posthumously in 1509, which was later renamed Queen Elizabeth's school. She also established the Lady Margaret Beaufort Professorship of Divinity at Cambridge in 1502 and the first women's college in Oxford was named after her.

In spite of her joy of seeing her son crowned, she could not help herself. Fisher and many contemporaries described how she cried -a clear sign of a woman that doesn't care about power- and when asked why, she responded because she had lived through so many kings and princes who had been murdered and killed in battle. Who knew if her son was next or if his reign would last. She cried the same tears of grief on her grandson's joint coronation with Katherine, fearing that his reign would face the same troubles.

Margaret passed away days after in 1509, after a long life of hardship and triumph.

#history #tudors #dailytudors #margaret beaufort

42 notes · View notes

dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“...The greatest of Louis’s quarrels over episcopal nominations centered on the selection of a new archbishop of Bourges, traditionally filled by the king’s nominee. When Louis sought the post in 1141 for his chancellor Cadurc, the cleric heading his writing office, the cathedral chapter objected and rallied around their own candidate, a monk. …Pope Innocent II, a supporter of free elections of prelates, strongly backed the chapter’s choice for the archbishopric, and he consecrated their nominee. The pope wrote a condescending letter to Louis, addressing him as if he were a youth in need of completing his education, advising him against entangling himself in serious matters that did not concern him.

The stubborn young king, shaking with anger, publicly swore a solemn oath, vowing to prevent the canons’ candidate for the archbishopric from ever entering Bourges Cathedral. To bring Louis to heel, the pope took the drastic step of proclaiming an interdict on his lands, prohibiting public religious services. An unseemly love affair between Eleanor’s younger sister, Aélith, or Petronilla as she came to be called, and the count of Vermandois, conducted with the queen’s connivance, added new complications to the Bourges succession crisis precipitated by Louis VII.

By the time of the royal entourage’s return from the 1141 Toulouse expedition, Ralph de Vermandois had become romantically involved with the queen’s sister despite having a wife of many years. His wife, Eleanor of Champagne, was the niece of Theobald II, count of Blois Champagne, creating new complexity for an already awkward situation. The queen’s influence on the king is evident as this new crisis came to a head, and Louis, “incapable of resisting the insistence of Eleanor,” sanctioned her sister’s liaison, giving added grounds for his hostile relations with the count of Champagne.

When the lovers’ marriage took place, not only did the wedding infuriate the bride’s uncle, but it also brought down on Louis the Church’s wrath. The saintly abbot, Bernard of Clairvaux, always ready for combat, would thrust himself into this conflict, lending support to his friend Count Theobald; and the affair soon attracted the pope’s attention. The two, already shocked by Louis’s abandonment of his earlier submissiveness toward the Church to intervene in episcopal elections, pounced on him for his new affront to spiritual authority attacking the sanctity of Christian marriage.

Many, most likely correctly, attributed the king’s new assertiveness to his bride’s influence. Eleanor would have remembered that Bernard had been a fierce and unyielding opponent of her father. When she was a young girl, Duke William X had tangled with the holy man, and after an emotional confrontation between the two, the duke yielded completely in a humiliating defeat. Perhaps Eleanor sought to stiffen her young husband’s resolve, encouraging him to stand up to the fearsome Cistercian.

An amorous liaison between Eleanor’s sister, hardly more than fifteen, and the count of Vermandois, a rough warrior with an eye missing and old enough to be her grandfather, seems ludicrous, yet Petronilla’s desire for him appeared heart-felt. Although medieval noblemen often married much younger women, such unions were rarely the consequence of the couple’s passion, but resulted from coldly practical concerns for financial gain or cementing family alliances. In this case, the prospect of becoming the king’s brother-in-law must have heightened Ralph’s passion for Eleanor’s sister.

Possibly Louis and his counselors had dynastic reasons for supporting the lovers, for Petronilla would become heir to the duchy of Aquitaine should Eleanor die childless. In such a case, Ralph de Vermandois as Petronilla’s husband could have claimed the ducal title through her right to the succession, positioning a prominent member of the royal entourage to take control of the duchy. Louis VII and Eleanor found three compliant bishops to declare Ralph’s marriage to his first wife invalid because of her relationship to him within the degrees prohibited by Church law. Petronilla and Ralph’s marriage followed in 1142, with the queen’s presence as proof of royal approval.

Theobald of Blois Champagne, uncle of Ralph’s cast-off wife, was outraged, and he lodged an appeal with Pope Innocent II. A papal legate was despatched from Rome to preside over a council in the count’s lands that declared Ralph’s first marriage fully valid. The legate then excommunicated the newly wed couple and suspended from their episcopal functions the three prelates who had sanctioned Ralph’s separation and remarriage. Louis, already angered by the count of Champagne’s opposition in the crisis over the archbishopric of Bourges and by his refusal to contribute forces to the king’s military campaigns, launched an invasion of Champagne in the summer of 1142.

The war was fought with such fury that it resulted in a terrible and tragic massacre at the town of Vitry. When Louis’s forces broke through its defenses, looting and setting fires that soon engulfed the entire town, the people took shelter in the parish church; and soon it caught fire, burning to death several hundred trapped inside, among them many women and children. The king stood watching, horrified but helpless, from a vantage point outside the town.

The catastrophic incident at Vitry filled Louis VII with guilt, grief, and soul searching; for several days he took to his bed, refusing to eat or speak. The king, fearing that the death, destruction, and disruption of lives due to the fighting were endangering the state of his soul, returned to Paris. Nonetheless, the war in Champagne continued with Louis’s army overrunning the countryside, but with the count’s forces still in control of the county’s chief towns.

Negotiations began in 1143 with Abbot Suger, who was still occasionally called on to counsel Louis, acting on the king’s behalf and with Bernard of Clairvaux serving as his friend Theobald’s agent. A sticking point was Eleanor’s insistence that the excommunication of her sister Petronilla and her brother-in-law Ralph de Vermandois be withdrawn. The count of Champagne had to agree that he would work to secure their restoration to communion with the Church, a hopeless task, for the matter lay entirely in the pope’s hands and Innocent II was obdurate.

The pontiff refused to act unless Ralph left Petronilla and returned to his first wife and unless Louis allowed the duly elected archbishop of Bourges to take possession of his see. In one of Bernard’s letters to the French king, he reprimanded Louis for his readiness “to kick aside frivolously and hastily the good and sound advice that you receive,” and for following “I know not what devilish advice.” He asked, “From whom but the devil could this advice come under which you are acting, advice which causes burnings upon burnings, slaughter upon slaughter.”

Actually, Bernard knew that such advice came from Eleanor and her “clan” at court. Yet Louis’s own unwillingness to bend on the Bourges issue was equally an obstacle. He was adamant in his refusal to renounce his oath that he would never allow the canon’s nominee as archbishop to enter his cathedral, fearing that breaking his vow would bring down on him heavenly wrath. In the summer of 1143, resolution of the conflict appeared hopeless with Louis VII still refusing to heed the counsels of both Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux.

…The impasse ended in September 1143 with the death of Pope Innocent II. His successor as pontiff had a conciliatory character and would prove more accommodating to the French monarch. As a gesture of goodwill toward Louis VII, he removed the interdict imposed by his predecessor on the churches of the French royal domain, but took no action on the excommunication of Eleanor’s sister Petronilla and Ralph de Vermandois. Eventually Louis’s ill-considered undertakings caused him to turn once more to Abbot Suger, who was re-emerging as the chief royal counselor. Bernard of Clairvaux organized a series of meetings in the winter of 1143–44 that eventually brought the crisis to a conclusion.

One of the meetings broke off almost at once, when Louis withdrew in anger at Bernard’s words, earning him a rebuke from the outspoken abbot. Bernard attributed the king’s annoyance to “the fraud of wicked men and the idle chatter of silly people who do not know good from evil or evil from good.” Doubtless the “silly people” he had in mind included Eleanor and her circle at court. Finally, agreement was reached at a conference hosted by Suger at Saint-Denis on 22 April 1144, when many dignitaries had gathered for one of the abbey’s feast-days.

Bernard recognized that the chief obstacle to a settlement was Eleanor’s opposition to any agreement that did not confirm the validity of her sister’s marriage to Ralph, count of Vermandois. During conversations with the queen at Saint-Denis, the formidable abbot exhorted her to cease her agitation against the count of Champagne and to give better counsel to her husband. Somehow the austere monk, who regarded Eleanor as a snare of Satan, won her confidence, and she then confided to him her sorrow at her infertility and asked his aid in obtaining the gift from God of a child.

She was aware of whisperings among the courtiers about her failure to produce a child, preferably a male heir, and she knew that her continued childlessness was threatening her credit with her husband. Eleanor, at age twenty, had experienced only one pregnancy in her seven years of marriage, and it had ended in a miscarriage. The abbot of Clairvaux, confident of the queen’s power over Louis, then offered her a bargain. He asked her to do all that she could for the re-establishment of peace, and he promised, “If you do what I require of you, I also by my prayers will obtain from the Lord what you request.”

In effect, Bernard was telling Eleanor that her barren marriage was divine punishment for the royal couple’s sins of attacking the Church and making war on the count of Champagne. The queen had to admit that the situation of her sister and her paramour was hopeless, despite all her labors on their behalf; and humbled, she gave her agreement to Bernard’s advice and reported his words to her husband Louis. Peace followed, and a year later the queen gave birth to a child as promised. It was a daughter, named Marie in thanks to the Virgin Mary, not the son that Louis and his subjects so fervently desired.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Bride to a King, Queen of the French, 1137–1145.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

#eleanor of aquitaine #eleanor of aquitaine: queen of france queen of england #history #high middle ages #medieval #louis vii of france #ralph v. turner #petronilla of aquitaine

5 notes · View notes

histoireettralala · 4 years

Text

A short history of dueling in France

Dueling is a custom of fighting by arms, according to precise rules, to settle a dispute between two adversaries, one asking the other for compensation for an offense or a wrong. In Europe, it is preceded by a challenge, usually signified by a cartel. The fight takes place in front of arbitrators, now called witnesses, who ensure compliance with the rules and specific conventions fixed in advance (number of hits by bladed weapon or firearm). In a pleasure duel (to show off) the number of hits is fixed. In a duel to the death, we speak of "excessive duel".

The duel was aimed at regulating and limiting the violence caused by a conflict between two individuals. By fixing the terms for the resolution of the conflict, it obliged the opposing parties to agree through dialogue on settled upon conditions and constituted a kind of contractual criminal law, the judicial duel. Integrated in the late Middle Ages into criminal procedure by different customs, the legal duel evolved between the Hundred Years War and the Renaissance in private law contracts as parliaments refined the case law and the monarchy grew stronger. In modern times, the duel is no more than a form of bravado against ordinary law, the duel of the point of honor.

A form of dueling was observed in other societies, in particular in Japan, but it was then a practice reserved for the military. However, by imposing individual weapons of war, that is to say by prohibiting the use of fists, for example, the duel mainly concerned the nobility, trained in fencing and shooting. The gentlemen ended up condescending to indulge themselves only among themselves: "Game of hands, game of villains". The spirit which governed it thus gave more value to dignity than to life, to manner rather than to interest, and claimed the primacy of individual freedom to regulate its affairs over recourse to public justice. Defended in the past by both supporters of an aristocratic regime and by Republicans, dueling is nowadays prohibited in most countries.

The oldest known form of the duel seems to be the judicial duel practiced by the Ancient Germans, already reported by Caesar. This form has slowly evolved over the centuries to lead to the duel of honor. To settle private disputes, you can fight, the gods will decide. In 502 among the Burgundians, the Gombette law codified the custom and introduced the concept of "champion."

The Church disapproved and fought against a custom deeply rooted in European culture.

The rules were the same everywhere: there is a gesture of defiance, it is noted, the meeting takes place in a closed, delimited place, there is a search to ensure that the combatants are on equal terms, and this is done in front of witnesses and after a religious ceremony.

The defeated duelist, found guilty, was hanged.

In 805 Charlemagne introduced the use of the stick in duels. However the stick would quickly become the weapon of the commoners while the nobles fought with the sword.

The Kings of France opposed it, especially during the 13th century. Saint Louis (Louis IX) in his Great Ordinance of 1254, wanted to return in judicial matters to the evidence by witnesses. Little by little, the nobility began to consider the duel as a way to challenge royal authority, and thereby assert their independence.

Philippe le Bel (Philippe IV) officially reintroduced the judicial duel by restricting it to the most serious crimes, by imposing financial formalities, and prohibiting it in time of war. The number of duels drastically decreased.

On July 10, 1547, the famous duel in Saint-Germain-en-Laye between Guy Chabot de Jarnac and François de La Châtaigneraie brought about the end of the legal duels.

Time for the great hours of the duel of point of honor!

The latter developed following the Italian wars. People defied royal power for any reason. For the most futile reasons, they challenge and killed each other and themselves, because they had to "defend their honor." It was part of the everyday landscape.

The King of France no longer giving permission to fight, people did without it, the legal duel then taking on a new form in the 16th century, the duel of the point of honor. In the desire to brave the growing royal power, they fought for any reason, and if necessary they invented a pretext concerning their honor (private or public) when the desire came to want to simply confront another with weapons in hand . The duel became a fashion, and under the influence of the Italian masters, the sword became its almost exclusive weapon with the dagger and, sometimes, the spear. The witnesses, called "seconds", from passive actors they were at the start, took more and more part in the duels they were supposed to arbitrate. In 1652, during the duel of the Dukes of Nemours and Beaufort, there were ten people who fought together in the horse market where the meeting took place. Three people were killed and several injured.

It was a massive phenomenon; people fought in the squares of towns and villages, in the streets, especially in the woods. Some places were very famous with duelists. Where is the current Place des Vosges, a large space near the Porte Saint-Antoine was very popular with duelists.

These duels escaped justice and clerical power. The Council of Trent may excommunicate the duellists, nothing helps. In France, between 1588 and 1608, more than 10,000 gentlemen killed themselves in a duel (and that only counts the nobles!), 4,000 in the year 1607 alone according to contemporaries: it is more than the Wars of Religion.

The Kings opposed it; we can note a large number of prohibition edicts, particularly from 1599 (1599, 1602, 1613, 1617, 1623). But they were themselves part of this combative aristocracy, and showed indulgence towards the duellists (Henri IV signed many graces in such circumstances - 7000 in 19 years).

Many nobles stupidly perished in a duel and the ban became a necessity. The state assumed the " monopoly of violence" and determined to tame the nobility. But it was with Richelieu, whose brother had been killed in a duel, that the fight against the duel took a sharp turn (for a moment). Now the duel, assimilated to high treason, was to be punished with death.

On February 6, 1626, Richelieu prohibited dueling.

"Sire, it is a matter of strangling duels or strangling Your Majesty's laws."

No mercy for the duellists, it would be exile or beheading.

And on June 22, 1627 was beheaded François de Montmorency-Bouteville for fighting in broad daylight, Place Royale, against François II d'Harcourt, Marquis de Beuvron, who fled to England. The scandal of a youth killing themselves for frivolous reasons was denounced at the very heart of the Court by the great poet Malherbe whose son, himself a duelist who had received a pardon, was assassinated on July 13, 1627 for having prevented a duel.

The very severe sentence raised a wave of protest from the nobles, but the king and the cardinal did not flinch, and the execution for the example took place.

The repression continued under Louis XIV, Louis XVI .. The duels still existed (even ecclesiastics were fond of them,such as the Cardinal de Retz) they were only more discreet. In the woods, for example. There were areas of lawlessness like the Court of Miracles in Paris, where you could fight.

The Revolution abolished the royal edicts, and the duel made a powerful comeback. Except that it was now democratized: now everyone was fighting. At the fall of the Empire, demobilized officers attacked the Prussians or the legitimists. People were fighting for anything. And anywhere. In 1808, two men fought in balloons above Paris - one of the combatants was shot down and died with his witness. In 1843, two others fought with billiard balls.

In 1834 the Count of Chatauvillard published his Essay on the Duel, a true manual for the duelist.

Everyone was fighting. Debates in the Assembly often ended in a closed field with witnesses. This was the time of the cloak and daggers novels, whose authors themselves fought in duels. All the big names of the time duelled at least once.

Between 1826 and 1834 there were in France more than two hundred dead by duel.

Now for some famous duels of the XIXth century:

On May 31, 1832, Evariste Gallois, 20 years old, very brilliant and promising mathematician, just after having published his theory of ambiguity (which is still studied today), died in a duel with a lieutenant of cavalry who was more experienced than him.

On July 24, 1836, Armand Carrel died while fighting against Emile de Girardin.

A famous pistol duel took place in Saint Petersburg on January 27, 1837, and the great Russian writer Alexandre Pushkin was killed by French Lieutenant Georges d'Anthès.

During the Belle Epoque, highly regulated duels were stopped at first blood. It was a great passion.

We can find among the duelists Ledru-Rollin, Proudhon, Alexandre Dumas, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Adolphe Thiers, Léon Gambetta, Jules Ferry, Aristide Briand, Léon Blum, Georges Clemenceau (12 personal duels plus 5 as a witness for the Tiger!), Marcel Proust (yes, even him!), and the future presidents Raymond Poincaré and Paul Deschanel.

Men, you might think. Well ... not only!

Without counting the famous Julie d'Aubigny (Mademoiselle de Maupin) with her novel-like life, we can mention the famous duel which in September 1718 opposed two lovers of the Duke of Richelieu (not the Cardinal ... but a descendant of his family), the Marquise de Nesle and the Comtesse de Polignac. They fought for his love and got little for their pains, since the Duke left them both for the Regent's daughter.

The Great War will be a game-changer. It is possible that only something that big could durably affect society to the point it would give up such a long held tradition. After such devastation and the priority given to collective defense rather than individual combat, to die "for honor" suddenly seemed very absurd.

Some nostalgics continued, but the duel fell out of favor.

The last duel in France happened in 1967 between two parliamentarians, Gaston Defferre and René Ribière (because one said to the other in the middle of the Assembly: Shut up, you idiot!)

And nowadays... Some lone voices still talk about dueling.

Sources:

Wikipedia, le Duel (Article in French)

www.defense.gouv.fr

Pariszigzag, l'Histoire Insolite des duels et de leur répression

Ouest France, Edition du Soir, Pourquoi les Français ont adoré les duels ? 3 mai 2017

Infos Toulouse, Le duel: un code d'honneur historique, 9 août 2019

#history of dueling #duels in france #from the VIth to the XXth century #if you want to know more about specific duels ask me

77 notes · View notes

be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

Text

Best Friend Pact- Part 2: To Lovers

Calum attempts to drink the sadness away one night at a party, but his friend, Neveah, doesn’t let him completely. And in their stalled journey off sobriety, they make a secret pact. Black!OC

CW: Over the course of this series there are mentions of pregnancy, birth, death, and death related trauma. Please proceed with caution.

Enjoy my masterlist

Support me on kofi

_____________________________________

"You're going to want to see this," Calum calls out. Neveah's leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom, terrified to step inside. If it's another negative pregnancy test, she's going to cry. She can already feel the pressure building in her chest.

"I can't," she croaks. "I can't do this."

The toilet flushes before Calum steps out of the bathroom, arms behind his back. He wouldn't be holding negative tests, would he? What an awful trick to play on her. "You're a giant asshole," she hisses, "if those aren't positive tests, you're a giant asshole."

His lips quirk down for a second. He'd never do such a thing. She dreads this every couple of months they do this. Just to make sure though her periods are indication enough. Her eyes always fall when the plastic screen comes back with the same result. She always gives the heaviest sighs and her shoulders sit heavier on her shoulders. He would never lie to her. Not at a time like this. "So am I a little asshole if they're positive?"

"Just give me the bad news."

"Bad news, you're gonna have to officially move into my bedroom. Good news, the baby already has a room established." As the words are falling from his lips, he can feel his lips lifting in joy. He watches her groan, throwing her head back into the wall, before snapping up.

"What? Are you serious?" Her voice carries down the hallway, making Duke lift his head to the sound from the living room. "I'm pregnant?" she questions in a whisper.

Calum nods, grin widening. He holds out the capped tests. Her hands tremble. Neveah remembers this feeling, knows the nerves all too well. On their second try, she noticed a faint positive line. She was excited and rushed to Calum in the backyard. His heart nearly burst out his chest, but they had to be smart and had to be triple sure. A couple of days later, they took another test. That one was negative, much more clear that time. Tears are blurring her vision.

"Please tell me it's not another false positive," she croaks, sagging into the wall. "Please, God, I can't."

Calum shakes his head. "No, no, babe, it's not. It's not I promise." Her tears fall, shoulders shaking visibly now. Calum places the test back onto the sink counter before pulling her into a hug, whispering into her hair. "Ssh, it's okay. We'll take another one just to show you. It's a real positive, I promise."

"I'm really gonna be a mom?" Calum nods, sighing a soft yes into her ear. That phrase, yes, she is going to be a mom. The mother to his child. "And you're going to be a dad."

His breath catches in his throat. He's going to be a dad. Holy fuck, it's becoming real. This is not just a plan. It's no longer just a fantasy. It's real. His eyes start to sting. The tears are coming. His throat tightens, but god he can't stop smiling. "Thank you," he breathes. "Thank you so much. You're amazing. I can never repay you for doing this for me."

"This baby is repayment enough."

The panic sets in after going to the doctors. They are really going to have a baby. Staring down at the sonogram after the eight-week mark. They make it into the lobby of the building, the OBGYN is in a bigger center of other offices before the trembles finally overtake her. "Fuck," she whispers.

Calum squeezes her hand, pulling her to some chairs. "Deep breathe. It's gonna be okay."

As she settles down, gripping tight at the wooden armrests. "It's real. Like, I'm growing a tiny human, tiny fingers."

Calum squats in front of her legs, hands gently resting on her knees. He can see the slight tremble to her upper lip too. Soothing gently strokes up and down her cotton covered thigh, the warmth of Calum's palm are the only things that keep her semi-grounded. "Hey, it's okay. We've talked about this."

"I know. I just- fuck." Her hands gravitate towards her stomach. The tiny beep and thump from the ultrasound still ringing in her ears. They had come a long way from praying on bathroom tiles that they test would be positive. Now, they're holding onto sonograms, listening to a heartbeat. It feels way too heavy, but not really at the same time. Calum hums, rubbing still at her thigh. It's silent between them. What can he say that will ground her? Words fail him repeatedly unless he's writing them down. He stays there, deep in a squat, knees and thighs screaming at him to stand, and rubs her thigh.

"If it's a boy can we paint the room red?" Neveah asks after a couple of minutes silence. This is her baby, his baby–their baby. It's okay to be scared, she figures. If she weren't scared, that would be worse. "Nerves are good, right?"

Calum nods. "Nerves are okay. Thoughts on yellow if it's a girl?"

A smile lifts her cheeks. "I like the sound of that."

"Besides, you've waned yourself off coffee which is a miracle in and of itself. You haven't had deli meat in months. You never ate raw fish or meat, so that won't be hard. The cheese thing might be hard."

"I just love cheese. It's not a crime."

Calum chuckles, brushing his fingers over her cheek. "Never said it was. Things are going to be okay. They're going to be better than okay. I believe in you. In us."

Us. He's yet to use that term. What are they? Friends? Co-parents? Crazy? He's not sure. And either is she. There's more to worry about though, bigger issues to jump over. What they are, if anything, always slips to the back of her mind. Until now. Until us.

It's not just her having a baby. It's not just her having Calum's baby. Things are different now. He pulls her in closer now. She finally managed to leave her apartment, the lease ending two months ago and officially moved in with him. She had been staying at his place so much, her apartment was beginning to just feel like a storage unit. Both of them agreed that it would be easier if she just moved in now.

"Us," she whispers, testing the word on her tongue, tasting it as she hisses on the 's'. It's not off-putting. She tries it out one last time, "Us. That's reassuring."

Calum stands, swallowing the groan building in his chest. He's not built for that much squatting. "Let's go get something to eat. We have to figure out who's parents to tell first."

"Yours are halfway across the world, unfortunately."

He nods, threading his fingers through hers. He's started doing this more often. Calum's not too concerned about his parents being far. Ideally, he would've had kids back in Sydney, away from the stiff and plastic Valley. But when crazy opportunities present themselves, you take them. He's worried thought about her mother. She hasn't told him about the doctor's appointment again, but he hears her in the backyard sometimes a sob breaking past her lips. "We'll tell your family first," he offers. "It'll be good news, yeah?"

He keeps his gaze straight ahead, double checking that no cars are coming as they cross to the other side of the parking lot to his car. She watches him, the way he blinks rapidly. He does this when he's covering something up. "You know she's sick again."

"I didn't want to bring it up until you were ready." They stop outside the passenger door. Calum reaching to open the door, but she stops him. "I was going to take Duke out and I heard you on the phone, crying. I didn't–I didn't know what to do. I thought if I went out to comfort you, you'd think I was eavesdropping. Which I wasn't. But now it sounds stupid that I didn't. I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to be sorry, Calum. You care. I get it."

"I should've done something though."

"We don't keep crying over spilled milk. The first cry is okay. You've apologized. You don't have to keep apologizing. We can tell my parents first. They need some good news." She turns to open the door and Calum holds onto her hip gently. She turns back around.

"I'm not crying over spilled milk. But I need you to know I do care. I'm terrible at expressing that at times. But I need you to know that."

"I know, Cal. Twelve years plus years I've known you, I haven't forgotten."

The apology presses against his teeth. He wants to say I'm sorry again. He needs to say it again, but the way she looks at him, resigned but somehow understanding makes him swallow it back down. She knows her fate, rocky and hard, but that's a sad beauty in life: everyone dies. Calum opens the door for her, closing the door once she's properly inside. He climbs into the driver seat, starting the car before turning to her. "Where do you want to go?"

She furrows her brows, facing him. "What do you mean? I thought you had a meeting and I have to get back to finish that proposal."

"But before the responsibilities, do you want to go somewhere?"

"You don't have to do all that as some sort of apology. I'd just like to grab something to eat, and relax at home."

"What about the dinner on 27th?"

It's her favorite little breakfast spot. She already took the day and because of Calum's meeting, they took the first appointment of the day. Double breakfast never hurt anyone. She looks to see Calum, brown eyes a little glassy. Not from tears, not from a drink, but from sadness and guilt. "I'd like that," she smiles. "Double french toast is calling my name."

"Double french toast coming right up."

Their drive is quiet, even the radio turned down low. While at a red light, Neveah reaches over, taking Calum's hand and presses a quick kiss to the back of it and up to his knuckles. He exhales at the action, glancing between her and the light. She whispers something against his skin. He hears the faint wisping of her breath and feels her lips moving against his skin. He can't make out what she says. Is it a prayer? He thinks he catches an amen at the end, but he dares not ask. Instead, he presses down on the gas, letting her pray into his skin. He hopes they're answered.

They get seated immediately and while Calum's looking over the menu, though it's not necessary, she finally speaks. "They aren't sure if she's gonna pull this last bout. She told me she wanted to make it until the baby was born."

A lump rises in Calum's throat. The question lingers on his tongue but he can't bring himself to ask. How long? "When did you first get this news?"

"Couple months back."

All the air expels out of his lungs and passes over his lips. He only overheard last week. Weeks she's been carrying this by herself. "You know I'm always here for you."

She nods, blinking rapidly. She's not necessarily a crier, but Calum watches the way her lower lip wobbles, the way she exhales. He stands and slides into the booth next to her, sliding an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his chest. "As much as I know I'll miss her, I don't want her to suffer anymore," she cries into his chest. "But I want her to be able to see the baby. I feel awful, do I wish for her suffering or do I pray for her relief?"

Calum can't answer that. He can't even begin to understand what it would be like to know your parent is dying much sooner than anticipated. He can't say it's okay. Because it's not. It's not okay that she has to watch her mother die. It's not okay that she can't do anything about it. It's not okay. "It's gotta be tough," he soothes, hand never ceasing as he brushes it up and down. "Things will work out. It's okay to be sad."

It's so much more than okay to be sad. She has every right to be. But hearing Calum say that validates her, makes her feel human for her confliction. The waitress comes by wordlessly with two glasses of water and a stack of french toast. Calum nods over to her. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"I know her usual. What can I get you?"

His appetite left him without him even realizing. "I'm good. Thank you though." Calum does his best to soothe her, and to get her to at least have a sip or two of her water. The tears keep falling into his shirt and after a minute or two, he just lets her cry it out. Her shoulder shake against his body. Calum hums. He's had this riff in his head for a long time but hasn't actually played it on the bass yet. His chest rumbles in her ear and against her palms clenched tightly around his shirt. Her shaking stop as she listens to the husky rumble.

Calum doesn't cease his humming, afraid now. Not for her, for him. Neveah's hurting and he's just standing in the background. Slowly, she pulls away from him, sniffling just a little. Her face feels tight. She knows her eyes are puffy. Calum blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks. She grabs more napkin, gently patting at his cheeks. "We're just a mess, aren't we?" she chuckles, a little surprised that Calum hasn't pulled her hand away.

"No, we're human. Very human as unfortunate as it is sometimes."

"It is an unfortunate condition at times. But if it helps, I'd rather be human with you."

Calum pushes the plate of probably cold french toast closer to her. "Same," he returns softly. "One of the few people I can actually be human with at this point."

"It's an honor," she states quietly, splitting the stack of bread. She knows when to give him his space. She knew when to pry him open. She was there for all the rants about all the people that broke his heart. They eat in silence; Calum resting his hand on her knee, thumb rubbing through the material. It is an honor to be here with her.

"You never come by here anymore," her dad teases as they enter the house. Calum gives him a hug.

"There's no excuse," Neveah returns, sliding out of her shoes.

"But in all seriousness, is everything alright?" He knows his daughter. Something is up. As the light flickers on her face, a smile curling her lips, he knows. "Upstairs, she's upstairs," he grins.

She leads the way, Calum following directly behind her up the stairs, her dad behind Calum. The stairs creak under their weight, a soft warning that people are on the way. The bedroom door is open, her mother lying in bed with the sheets wrapped around her legs.

She knocks on the open door. "Hi, Momma." Her voice is soft as she speaks. Calum hovers near the entry. He's only seen her mother healthy. He feels like he's intruding on a much too private moment.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" The two women embrace, her mother, holding her close, kissing the top of her head. If Neveah jokes that Calum and his mother look like twins, then Neveah and her mother are on the same page. Both women have wide nostrils and a soft cupid's bow. The reddish hue of their undertones match to a 't' as well. Neveah has her father's eyes, but her mother's chin and jaw structure. The curls wrap around just the same too, though her mother's hair is cropped shorter than Neveah's.

As they pull apart, her mother waves Calum over. He hesitates, concerned for her health, but reaches down and hugs her. They talk for a little bit, Calum watching more than adding to the conversation. She reaches out after a minute, taking her mother's hand. "Good news, Momma."

They need not say much more before tears are welling in her mother's eyes, hands immediately resting on her stomach. "You're pregnant." The laugh and smile are confirmation enough. "Oh! Thank the high heavens," she cries. Calum is pulled into cuddle and mixture of tears. Her mother whispers to the both of them, "I'm not giving up. I'm going to meet this grandbaby."

A lump forms in Calum's throat. The amount of conviction in her tone makes his heart hurt a little. He knows she's going to fight hell and high water for this baby. He wants to give her any and every moment that he can.

Telling his parents is easier a few days later. As the resolution settles itself, his parents beam at him from the other side of the screen. "Good news I hope?" Joy asks.

"Well," Calum starts, glancing away to the sonogram sitting next to the laptop. "It's very good news." Neveah squeezes his hand, smiling. "We-she's pregnant."

The smile that overtakes his parents is palpable even through a screen. The laughter and cheers filter in through the speakers are loud and clear. His chest swells. He's going to be a dad, just like he wanted. "That's great!" Joy smiles. "I'm so happy for you two."

Their conversation ends about an hour later. They insist on coming to visit/stay a bit later in the pregnancy to help with the first few weeks after the baby is born. Neveah rests her head onto his shoulder. "Where do we even begin?"

He gently rests his head on top hers. "One day at a time."

Calum eyes his pack, fingers twirling around each other. He's been trying to quit. He knows it's not good for her or the baby because of secondhand smoke. But the unfortunate truth is that he's gotta leave. Neveah's only 22 weeks along. The promotional run won't be too long. He'll be back in two and a half months. She says she'll be fine. But he's worried.

What if she needs him? What if something happens? Who's going to be there for her, if he isn't? What if something serious happens with her mother in his time away? Her health is holding fairly steady- she's not getting worse, but there's been no improvement either. God, this is the worst time for him to leave. He should see if they can get it pushed back, or should've done all this earlier. Fuck, time really knows how to shit all over things.

"You've got your worried face on," she notes.

He shakes his head, pushing up from the couch and walking to the backyard. He just needs fresh air. That will help. Put him as far away from the pack as possible. He half expects her to follow immediately behind him. But it's silent besides the patter of Duke's paws. He settles into one of the seats and exhales, staring up into the blue sky. They both knew this was coming up, that the music couldn't be put on pause for too long. Hands press into his shoulders a minute or two later. Calum reaches up, guiding her around the seat into his lap.

"I'm worried about leaving you for so long," he whispers into the exposed skin of her short-sleeved shirt.

"I'm going to be okay. I promise. I have friends I can call. My dad said don't hesitate to call them." She pauses, the rest of her thought not daring to cross her lips.

"But you probably wouldn't because of your mother," Calum counters. He knows about a few of her coworkers. They're sweet. He knows they would help her out in her absence. He just doesn't want to be absent at all. Winding his arms around her stomach, he rests his palms flat against the bump. She can't fly, they have some international flights and the cutoff time is already passed for her. The urge to smoke rises again with his stress. He buries his face into her side, inhaling her scent. It's a mixture of the new detergent she's convinced him to use and her body wash.

"I don't want to leave you guys," Calum says softly.

"We're going to be alright. Me and baby girl Hood are tough."

Calum grins into her skin. He loves the sound of that. His baby, his daughter. "What if she were into football?"

"Wouldn't it just be karma if she liked art more?"

Calum rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and I wonder where she gets it from. I'm truly lost. Reckon it might be her dad as well."

With a laugh, Neveah swats at his knee. "Her momma, of course!" She looks down at Calum, a smile on her lips, eyebrow quirked. "Try that again, Hood and see what happens."

Calum laughs, hands still stroking the bump. He lives for these moments now. Them, away from all the noise. Just them. She shifts a little and Calum watches her as she watches out over the backyard. There's not much happening. It's just quiet, a soft breeze blowing over them. He wonders if this is love. Watching her when she's not even aware, smiling at her soft snores late at night when he can't sleep.

Is love worrying even when he knows he shouldn't? Is love knowing after a long day at work she will still cook for the both of them? Is love knowing that once her heart is set on something the only thing he can do is step aside because even he'll be damned if he gets in her way? Is love quiet like this moment? Did it creep up on people, building piece by piece? Is love built day in and day out, after watching her tape off wall molding, after watching her curl up with Duke for an afternoon nap, after watching her bring life to his little girl?

She said it was work and he didn't believe in it. He never had any reason to believe. What if love was quiet all along and didn't need to be believed in, and didn't need to be worked on because it was already doing all the work? Now wouldn't that be a sight, like her curling up a little in his lap? "Tired?" he asks, feeling something in his gut flip as her hair brushes over his neck. Not an urge anymore, not anticipation for relief due to nicotine. No, this is something warmer, something lighter.

She shakes her head. "Content."

"Content is good," he murmurs pressing his cheek to her curls and forehead.

They are silent for a few moments. Calum returns to his pondering. Is he falling for his best friend? Has he already fallen? Wouldn't that be just his life? To have snuck the very thing he had sworn out of his life right in under his nose, covered in the smell of shea butter, coconut, and hibiscus. Life would surely sneak it in in the sound of her laughter, her snorts too, and the coo of her voice when he's had a long day. Life would surely make sure to wrap up love in the warmth of her embrace, the bit of groveling in her voice, the ghosts of her breath tickling his chest. Life would absolutely do this to him.

"What if we're both wrong?" Calum asks.

"Wrong about what?"

"Wrong about love. Would you call me insane if I said I maybe believe in love again?"

"Being a parent does that, so no, I wouldn't call you insane."

It's not just the baby. That is a part of it for sure. For all the trouble it appears she goes through, the morning sickness that turned into all day nausea for the first few weeks, the swelling of her feet, the slow zap to her energy, the backaches, and her biggest foe, the constant bathroom trips, she doesn't complain too much. Too much being the operative words here, every now and then she'll pull the pregnancy card on Calum, usually with a teasing tone though he can see the seriousness in her eyes. More than all that, she's always been one of few people that he felt so open with immediately. It's not easy for him to be vulnerable, but with her, it's too goddamn easy.

"Have you ever wondered how you were so blind sometimes?" he whispers, suddenly terrified of the words about to leave his chest.

"The universe works silently sometimes. We don't always see it coming," she responds.

Calum exhales hard, pressing every ounce of oxygen out of lungs before inhaling deeply again. He's going to admit it. She might push away from him. She might cause a scene. But he can't keep the secret pressed in his gut anymore. "Yeah, like you don't always see how you're falling for your best friend."

She doesn't buck. She doesn't run. She keeps her head tucked under his chin. "You sure it's not because of the baby?"

He can't fault the question. "I'm very sure."

"This is going to sound strange. But don't hate me."

Here it is. She's going to shut him down like he should've done to himself long ago. "I'm pretty sure it's a two-way street. But," she pushes up. "But I've gotta know for sure. Not pretty sure, not with ninety percent conviction. I think about you at work, wonder how your day's going. But I always know you're going to come home. I know I'll be able to give you a hug when you walk through the doors. I almost always remember to grab your coffee in the morning with my tea. The other like 5 percent of the time I forget is because of pregnancy brain. We are comfortable. What happens when you go?"

"You sayin' you never missed me before?"

"No, I did. I missed my friend of course. But this is different. What will missing you this time around feels like?"

It makes sense to him. "It's easy to love someone when they are right there. When all you have to do is kick them in their sleep." A soft grin crosses his lips.

She rolls her eyes. "It was once!"

"Twice."

"Okay, twice by some measures. I said I was sorry. In my defense I was unconscious. It's not like I have perfect control over my limbs."

Calum brings his hand up, tracing the line of her jaw, up to the side of her face and down over her cheekbone. Her eyes flutter closed at the contact before she reaches up and curls her fingers around his. Both of their knuckles pressed gently against her skin. "Tell me how you miss me when I'm gone, yeah?"

Neveah nods, opening her eyes. A brilliant and rich dark brown. "I will."

Her phone rings while she's in the bathroom, the third trip in the last couple of hours. Her mother shouts from her bedroom. "It's Calum, sweetheart. I'll answer it!"

Neveah decided to visit. She needed to get out of the house. It's much too big and empty without Calum. There's no humming, no soft singing. Even though she plays music as loud as she can withstand it, just like Calum does, it's still not the same. Nothing in the same without him. It took a couple of weeks to finally reach the point. The first week, she had the doctor's appointment, meetings almost all day. She had plenty to keep her busy.

The second week was spent recovering from the week prior. She found herself reaching for that second mug, only to remember as she reached for the mini Keurig serving that there's no one to drink the coffee. She doesn't miss him with her entire being. She doesn't miss him with acute pain. She misses him with a dull ache. She's able to push it to the side. Even able to forget about it amongst the craze of her day. At night sometimes, when Duke's warmth isn't enough, she remembers it again. That doesn't happen every night.

She doesn't even miss him with worry in her gut. She just misses him, as plainly and as simple as that. Never like she did before, where she was like, he's out, enjoying the world and messaging occasionally to make sure he's head still square on his shoulders, sending memes of him to him just to be annoying. She still does this, but it's always with hesitation, always with her fingers hovering over the keys to type so much more.

As she exits the restroom, she hears her mother laughing. "Oh, she's on her way back. I'm glad you're enjoying the pictures."

Neveah takes the phone from her mother's hand, settling back into the bed next to her. They were cuddled up watching the game. Her parents watch it in separate rooms because her dad shouts, and paces in front of the TV. It drove her mother and her insane. They started migrating to another room. It's a tradition for them to be shouting to each other about the game, just from different rooms. "Hi, Calum."

"Hey. How are you?"

"Good, a little tired."

He hums. It's her usual response. "I'm excited for the picture next week." She sends an update of her bump to him, usually on Wednesday for her when she goes to the doctors, with the size of the baby. Her doctor is always happy to take those pictures.

"How was your day?" She knows he's about six, or seven hours ahead of him.

"Long." The tone is clipped. Something has happened.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His sigh crackles through the phone. That's a no. She pushes up from the bed, walking into the hallway. She can feel her mother's eyes on the back of her head. Since he doesn't want to talk, she'll take advantage of the silence. "I miss you," she breathes. "And not like before."

"That's the best thing I've heard all day," he breathes into the phone. "The best goddamn thing."

"It's not like a worry miss, it's more like I forgot you've left when I'm making my morning tea and almost make your cup of coffee in the morning. Or late at night when the bed's too big. Or when I miss playing in your hair."

The sigh he releases is so heavy. "You have no clue how much I needed to hear that."

"Were you worried?"

"No, call me crazy but I knew you felt the same. You just needed to come to that conclusion yourself."

"You're crazy," she chuckles. "But also right."

"It's not often I hear you say that."

"I can admit when I'm wrong, mister."

Calum chuckles. "You can, you can." Another bout of silence filters in around them before he speaks again. This time in a quiet tone. "Today was a little rough. In an interview, they asked about our love lives. I didn't want to talk about it. It doesn't really involve anyone else. But I guess pictures surfaced of us. I didn't know about them. I just kind of shut down when they asked what was going on. I wanted to say something. But I couldn't, everything that came to mind was rude to them or a sob story."

Her fingertips ache to hold his face. They ache to squeeze his cheeks a little to get him to huff in laughter. But she can't do that over the phone. "Maybe you don't have to say anything. I mean the truth would come out sooner or later."

"It's just we've kept quiet for so long. I'm not sure I'm ready to share it with the world."

"Then don't. Keep us to yourself."

"Is that fair to you? You can't even tell people whose child it is because of me. It's all anyone cares to know about you. You get asked so often about me and you can't say a fucking word because I'm too fucking scared."

"It's okay to be scared sometimes."

"Don't use my quote against me," he laughs. It's not a laugh saturated in amusement, but it's something. She'll take it.

"We all need the reminder." Calum knows that's the truth. They talk for a few more minutes, steering the conversation away from the stresses of the day. He's grateful to have her distraction, small stories about her day, the cute dog she saw. Calum reclines into the pillows, tears nearly falling down his face. He wants her next to him. He's grateful just to hear her voice though.

A few days later, she sends him the baby bump update picture. He calls via FaceTime later that night. Neveah reclined into pillows, Duke settled into her side. A pout rests on her face suddenly. They've gone through the exchange of their day. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"I just realized I wanted to paint my toes, but I can't reach them."

"Our little ladybug is getting in the way now?" he asks.

"Ladybug?"

Calum shrugs. "I like the sound of it. I think it's cute."

Neveah nods. Their little ladybug indeed. "But to answer your question, just a wee bit." She looks up from where her feet should be seen to the screen again. Calum's grinning. "What have you done?"

"Check your phone."

When she unlocks the phone and taps on the message thread with Calum, Neveah can see a picture of her pouting. Her laughter falls over her lips. "I look so sad. It's not even that serious. You ought to post that, clear up all the rumors."

They've been growing as the days past. Calum keeps going back and forth on whether to say anything. He'll have to very soon. He knows it. There's no way he could hide his child. He'd try to keep them from the public eye so much. But it's much harder to hide the undeniable physical proof.

"I should." He throws a glance up to her, asking if she's okay with it. It's amazing she can pick up on that even through a screen. She nods. "It's gonna be sappy. I'm warning you."

"That's fine by me."

He's silent for a moment, fingers tapping over the keys. Her phone buzzes with an alert. @calumhood has tagged you in a photo, reads the alert. Our little ladybug prevented her from painting her toenails. I'll be home soon. The end of the caption has the ladybug emoji as long as a bee one.

"Why the bee?"

"Because you're the queen."

"The Beehive is going to annihilate me."

"Honeybee, that's what I'll call you."

She opens up google. "Technically, wasp have queens too."

Calum chuckles. "I'm not calling you a wasp."

"Ants have a queen."

"I'm not callin' you an ant either. But that is an interesting fun fact."

She re-reads the post, eyes watering just a little. It's not easy for him to do that. She knows it's partially timing as well. He could've waited until the very end. He could've kept it secret for a little longer. "It's so sweet. Thank you."

Calum feels the heat rising in his face. "It's because I love you guys. The situation's unique for sure. But I love you, and my little girl. There's nothing to be scared of, not in something like love."

He's a believer. Love is kind, patient, understanding. Love is real, wrapped up in her just for him.

#calum hood #calum hood imagine #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #calum hood one-shot #5sos #best friends to lover #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer imagine #h writes #michael clifford #luke hemmings #ashton irwin

27 notes · View notes

miss-sophies-sissymaid · 4 years

Text

Over the weeks and months Sophie’s control of James continued and he remained in chastity and at her beck and call, she stayed at the flat most weekends, initially telling her parents she was sleeping at friends houses but eventually things slipped out where she was actually speaking. Sophie’s mum was very concerned that Sophie was sleeping with James, and when she asked, Sophie just laughed and promised to show her the truth.

That very Friday after school, James picked Sophie up and drove her to the apartment, Sophie was in a playful mood and teased James mercilessly, suggesting that if he was exceptionally good that weekend he might be allowed an erection, that would be a real treat, the first time it would be unlocked in almost 6 months, but on the flip side if she wasn’t happy with him it would be her 16th birthday when he next got the chance again! he resolved to do exactly as his owner demanded that weekend, he wasn’t going to let this chance slip, he couldn’t wait another 18 months for a hard on! Surely she wouldn’t do that. Would she?

You know the rules loser, soon as we’re in the flat, your male clothes come off and after you’ve fetched me a drink you can put on your daisy dukes and crop top for starters. “Yes Miss Sophie” came the obedient reply. Up the stairs he ran to try beat the lift, arriving just as the doors opened and the gorgeous teen exited, he unlocked the door and opened it so she could walk in. Quickly he followed her inside and she leaned on the door preventing him from closing. “Chop chop faggot” she ordered and he was forced to strip right there in the open doorway, potentially in view of the neighbours. Quickly he removed his outer clothes and stood at attention, hands on head, wearing just a pink thong. She slammed the door shut and he kept out of his skin, sauntering into the lounge she clicked her fingers “heel” she commanded, faggot dropped to his knees and crawled after the perfect girl.

“Fetch me a beer and some crisps then you can get dressed loser” faggot crawled to the kitchen and collected the items swiftly returning to Sophie’s feet. Handing the refreshments over, he was dismissed with a wave. He went to his box room and dressed as instructed in the cut off denim shorts which revealed the bottom of his arse cheeks and his sparkly crop top. Miss Sophie reasoned that as men like James liked outfits like these, they should wear them too! So she often had him dressed in clothes designed for teenage girls, in fact his wardrobe consisted of tonnes of these things! From daisy dukes, to yoga pants to French maid uniforms and bikinis and finally the Pervert’s dream... a proper school uniform! She often had him in this when he was being punished. She was well aware of the looks she got in hers and how men wanted to spank her bottom, so got James one to match, only his skirt was shorter, much shorter than hers!

Faggot dressed as quickly as possible and returned to Sophie’s side, hands on head at attention waiting for her to acknowledge him, he waited, just waited. She was on the phone and he knew better than to interrupt her, stood where he was he couldn’t help but hear the conversation, or at least half of it! His stomach dropped with what he heard

“You must come over and see the flat. Yes. Of course. No it’s no problem. Yes. We can have a few drinks. Of course he will. No he won’t. James can cook us something nice to eat. Yes I’m sure. Great. We’ll pick you up at 6.” Just then she put the phone down.

She turned to James and inspected her property running her hands over his smooth skin, her touch made his cock twitch “hmmmm you feel so good all smooth, aren’t you a good little faggot, a good loser for me” she teased knowing what she did to him.

“Thank you Miss Sophie” he replied

“Right loser, you heard part of that phone call, we’re having mum over tonight, she’s worried that you’re fucking me, I told her nothing was further from the truth but she needs to see for herself how we live. I want you on your best behaviour tonight, don’t you dare show me up faggot.” Sophie revealed to James “just to remind you of what might happen in going to give you a quick punishment session, just to get you in the right frame of mind” faggot trembled, he hated the punishment sessions Sophie delivered, he was a wimp and his eyes pleaded for mercy, but none was forthcoming.

“Quickly loser get changed into your school uniform I want you back here with my hairbrush, slipper and cane .... you’ve got 3 minutes.... GO” she ordered, starting the stopwatch on her iPhone 11.

He dashed to the box room and stripped out of his outfit folding it neatly. Retrieving the white knee socks he pulled them up his legs and checked that they were level, training bra next, that was white cotton with teddy bears on and the matching knickers. Next freshly ironed white blouse and blue and gold striped tie, lastly his very short navy blue pinafore dress and navy blue gym knickers. Checking himself in the mirror he looked very smart but very foolish. He took the punishment tools from the hanger on the back of his bedroom door, where they lived all the time when not in use and returned to the lounge, just as the timer beeped. Phew he thought... just in time.

“Well done faggot” Sophie praised him “ don’t you look pretty? I think I could make some good money out of that sissy body of yours” sh chuckled “you make a sexy schoolgirl I reckon there’s loads of pervs like you who’d love to cane and fuck you.... “ she left the threat hanging there. Patting her knee, “come on then girlie, let’s get this started”

“Pweese mith Sophie pweese will you take down twis naughty gwils pwanties down and spwank her bottom pweese” he lisped to her.

“Of course I will, if that’s what you really want and need” and he nodded with tears in his eyes....she dragged the knickers down and he obediently laid across her lap. She rubbed his bottom gently before unleashing a volley of hard smacks with her hand, she hit so hard! He kicked his feet she chuckled to herself. God he’s a wimp she thought.20 blows in and he was crying away! There was moisture everywhere, tears on the floor under his head and juice in her knickers. She was soaking wet! God she loved life!!

“Having fun” she asked not needing an answer “well I am” she laughed.... “5 more and I’ll have a go with the slipper.” She laid on 5 more extra hard strokes and moved on to the plimsole, laying 12 hard slaps on each cheek. He was a mess, tears streaming down his face and now snot too, he was openly blubbing and she was close to cumming.

She pushed him off her lap “fetch me another beer boy and be quick” he gingerly stood and bent to pull his knickers up “leave them where they are, we haven’t finished yet” Sophie instructed. His stomach sunk again and scurried to the fridge, oh how he wished he could rub the cold beer bottle on his red hot butt.

“Lick that mess up off the floor and then while I’m having my drink you practice your deep throating on the 10 inch black cock.... how well you do that will decide how harsh round 2 goes”

He licked the snot and tears up, showing Sophie his mouth full before swallowing the load. He fetched the cock and knelt in front of Sophie, he so wanted to make her proud, he’d spent the last week practicing at every opportunity and could nearly take the whole thing. He was determined to do it today.... Sophie had told him she expected him to take a 12 inch cock eventually, when he could do that, she would find him real cocks to suck for her.

He worked the cock in and out, worshipping the tool. He got 6,7,8 inches in and held. He forced himself down further 9 ... nearly there, he held himself down 5, 10 seconds. Up and back down all the way this time. “Hold it” she said “30 seconds 29,28,27,26” his eyes watered “20,19,18,17... good boy... keep it there” the praise spurred him on “look at me, eye contact is important when cock sucking faggot” he looked at her, she was happy, pleased with him “ 3,2,1 well done faggot” his heart leapt, she was pleased!

“After that show, i need to get you a bigger cock and you can soon start earning me some money.... you pleased me there so I’m not going to hairbrush your arse, and I’ll only give you 6 with the cane.... for now. Quick now, bend over the chair arse up legs straight”

He jumped into position and waited for her, she run her hand over his warm butt “this is hot faggot, I bet it’s quite sore isn’t it?” She said rhetorically “still it’ll be a but sorer soon! Maybe even worse by the time the nights over” she threatened. She quickly laid her first stroke on “hmmmmmmm” he cried and his legs went “keep them legs straight, I’d hate to have to start over” he resolved to stay in position for the last 5 quickly delivering the remainder one after the other. He sobbed again he hated the cane but she loved it.

“Put your toys back on the hook for now, we might need them later though, fetch my toy from the Master bedroom tuck your skirt up so I can see my handiwork and get in the corner.”

He dashed around the flat, knickers still around his ankles hanging the punishment tools up and fetching Miss Sophie’s small vibrator, he handed the device over and returned to the corner nose pressed to the wall arse on display.

The only noise in the flat was the gentle buzz of James’s owners toy and her quiet moans he could smell her juices and was pleased that somehow he had turned the beautiful girl on. She brought herself off to a mind blowing orgasm and relaxed for a few minutes, gently playing with her nipples with the toy.

She walked to the corner and rubbed her finger across his top lip, leaving her scent for him to enjoy. She scratched her nails across his welted bottom delighting in his pain.

Leaving him in place “stay” was the simple command. Returning 5 minutes later “I’m going for a shower, once you hear the water running you can leave the corner.... pick up my clothes, tidy up, then I’ve laid some clothes on your bed for you to wear”

Yes Miss Sophie he replied.

5 minutes later he heard the shower and Sophie sexy voice singing away, swiftly he got to his tasks tidying up and stripping out of his school uniform putting everything in the wash. He dressed in his outfit of 6 inch butt plug pink thong, yoga pants, training bra, belly top and black tracksuit top with pick stripes on the sleeve.

Sophie dressed in her tight jeans and crop top and surprisingly didn’t leave the bathroom a tip.

It was now time to go pick up their guest. As usual Sophie rode in the lift and faggot ran down the stairs. He opened the car door for his delightful owner and they drove to her mums house. On the way there she gave him his instructions “ when we get to mums you will open the car door for her, you will address her as mummy dearest, you will do WHATEVER I say instantly or I swear to god I’ll break the cane on your balls, do you hear me faggot” she threatened him.

Yes Miss Sophie I’ll be on my very best behaviour for you and mummy dearest, I won’t let you down Miss Sophie he promised

“Make sure you don’t or you’ll regret it” leaving the threat hanging there.

Pulling up outside the home, faggot stepped out of the car and opened the rear door, allowing mummy dearest to step inside. The drive down to the apartment was quiet and the atmosphere frosty, Sophie’s mum didn’t think that James was fucking Sophie and had thought of informing the police, it was only Sophie intervention and promise to reveal all that stopped her.

James parked the car and opened the doors for the 2 females, calling the lift and dashing up the stairs to meet it at the other end, just in time he opened the flat, allowing both ladies inside.

“Fetch me a beer and mum a glass of wine and be quick about it” Sophie instructed and he quickly obeyed, Sophie’s mum looking quizzically. They sat on the sofa and he returned with the drinks and a few nibbles on a tray holding it out for the ladies to take. Sophie said “put them down on the table there” pointing at the small coffee table “go to your room and wait for us there, we’ll be there in a while when I’ve had a chat with mum” She looked at him to answer her correctly and the words fell out of his mouth “yes Miss Sophie” he slid out of the lounge and into his box room. Stripping out of his clothes and dressing in the French maids uniform Sophie had left out for him, he took the 5p coin from his bedside table and retired to the corned, nose holding the coin, hands on head. Waiting, just waiting.

Meanwhile Sophie explained the situation to her mum, who was aghast and still didn’t cruelty believe, back in the box room the little maid could hear the girls talking, giggling, then he heard them get up for the tour of the flat.

Sophie took her mum to her master bedroom and explained that faggot was only allowed in here for cleaning duties and never to sleep in the bed, whether Sophie was here or not. Then she showed mum the guest room, where some of Sophie’s friends had stayed over... often they’d share Sophie’s bed, but it was thee just in case, finally he heard the handle lower on his bedroom door and Sophie pushed the door open, faggot remained in position perfectly still, she leg mum into the room closing the door behind. Mum spotted the punishment tools on the back of the door and faggot in the maid uniform. “What the actual fuck Sophie” .... “see I told you mum, James is my slave, he does what I tell him and I punish him.... you should have done this to dad!” The ladies sat on faggots bed, Sophie clicked her fingers, “here boy” the loser lowered his hands, collecting the coin and turned to face his owner. He bobbed a neat curtesy and minced to his betters. Sophie was pointing at her foot, so gracefully he sunk to his knees and kissed her toes, all 10 of them. Looking up Sophie was nodding and he knew what was expected “excuse me mummy dearest but it would please me greatly if you’d allow this loser to worship your feet” he begged.

Mummy thought about this then replied “okay you fucking loser, let’s see what’s this is all about” he spent the next 15 minutes lavishing love on those 30 year old feet.

“Up” commanded Sophie and faggot rose to his feet “display” she ordered, he lifted the hem of his petticoats and dress to reveal the chastity belt “see mum he can’t fuck me even if I wanted” mummy was curious about the keys whereabouts and Sophie explained, she was still unhappy about the situation, but eventually relented and agreed not to let the police know, and that the relationship could continue, but only on a few conditions. Which she’d explain later.

“Turn” commanded Sophie, and he displayed he plugged arse and well punished bottom to mummy dearest she played with the stripes causing him to jump in pain.

Sophie stood up and with her mum following left the room, she clicked again “heel boy” and the loser scampered behind his beautiful owner.

He was instructed to fetch more drinks and then shut himself in the kitchen and cook mummy dearest her favourite meal. The menu was onion bhajis, meat samosas, popadoms, chicken balti, naan bread served with rice. All freshly cooked and served by the loser. He stood at attention whilst the two ladies relaxed, chatted and ate. The meal was delicious and there was hardly any scraps left on the plates. “Make coffee, clear up and then we’ll have a fashion show missy” decided Sophie. Faggot curtsied and quickly got about its task, serving the superiors freshly ground coffee. He spoke “ excuse me mummy dearest, but how do you like your coffee?”

“I like it like my men faggot.... hot and strong!” Both females chuckling, faggot bobbed another curtesy and poured the drinks.

After washing the pots and tidying the kitchen faggot stood at attention between the ladies Sophie skid her hand up his short dress and felt his welted bottom, causing him pain and his clitty to twitch, mummy dearest noticed and did the same, flicking the front up and saw his clit dribbling precum....she caught it with her finger and offered it to his mouth, he gratefully sucked her finger clean.

“You know faggot if you will insist on dressing in such sexy clothes you’d better get used to being felt up” Sophie said, patting his bottom... “run along now and start our fashion show”

faggot spent the next hour changing from outfit to outfit showing himself off to his betters. Starting with a little girls party dress, gymnast, skater chick, lap dancer, secretary, cheerleader, tutu, air hostess, PE kit (Sophie’s old one) and finally school uniform.

Sophie’s mum had a great evening but was still very sceptical...

“Strip to just your underwear boy and you can serve as a footrest while we have a chat” mummy ordered.

He curtesied and obeyed stripping to the white cotton panties, white vest and knee length white socks, position himself in front of the sofa for the ladies feet.

They sauntered over plopping themselves down on the sofa and flopped their legs on his back. Sophie curled her left foot “kiss” she ordered and he worshipped like his life depended on it. He was turned around so he could worship mummy’s feet.

They chatted and Sophie eventually persuaded mummy to let this continue, reasoning that she could be out at the park on a weekend with her mates getting pregnant instead she was being treated like royalty and wouldn’t ever need to work! James was loaded and had his own successful business.

There were conditions of course :-

1, mummy could borrow loser for a couple of evenings a week to do her housework (and anything else she wanted)

2, mummy would supervise Sophie releasing faggots chastity belt.

3, mummy would be employed at James company.

She said there may be more in the future but that would do for now!

Sophie and James were delighted he kissed and kissed her feet slobbering all over her Sophie hugged her mum.

The weeks went by with faggot staying locked, his Male underwear long gone, mummy dearest now office manager at his security company, she’d inspect his underwear choice every morning at work, and as he was constantly leaking insisted he wore a condom over the chastity belt and a sanitary towel in his knickers... these knickers were always the cast offs of his owner Sophie or mummy dearest.

He’d spend every Monday and Thursday evenings at mummy dearests home doing the cleaning, washing, ironing etc. At work mummy would often have him run errands like taking dry cleaning, taking the car to be washed, fetching coffees etc.

That weekend it was his birthday, he’d be 34, both girls knew this but didn’t let on... Friday he picked Sophie up from school and she insisted on going to Meadowhall shopping centre for an hour or so. They entered the main mall and Sophie went to town buying herself new clothes on his credit card, him following obediently behind carrying the bags stepping forward to pay. She really enjoyed herself especially choosing bikinis and underwear asking him if he thought she’d look good in them! She bought a tiny white bikini, it was literally 3 triangles on a piece of string. How he’d love to see her in that, alas a new rule prevented him from looking above her ankles when she was dressed sexy. His cock leaked some more precum as he imagined her perfect, beautiful, tight body in it. She noticed and laughed “go change your condom” she whispered to him. He quickly returned and offered the used one to her, she took it and poured the contents into his mouth “swallow” he complied and she thrust the used rubber in his mouth, “suck it clean boy” humiliated as he was he obeyed the teen and sucked his jizz out of the rubber.

She was so hot and wet at her dominance she could hardly wait to get home and play with her pussy!

Walking in the main mall, she suddenly decided to sit down on one of the benches, “James, be a dear and tie my shoelace please” she asked, he knelt down right there in the busy mall, and retied her beautiful white trainer. “And the other one” she said sweetly, he obeyed ..... “right, I want you to place a kiss on my toe” he hesitated, he couldn’t do that in the mall could he? “I haven’t forgotten whose birthday it is this weekend, I’d have to have to cancel your gift” he gulped, knowing she was talking about his erection, that was his present from Sophie, his cage was getting unlocked. “I’d hate to postpone it for a year I was so looking forward to tonight” she teased “ I might even wear the new bikini for you” he bent and quickly pressed his lips to her right foot “that’s wasn’t much of a kiss, try harder on my left foot now” he belt again, this time she raised her right foot and pressed it on the back of his neck “stay” she commanded, a little too loud, and people turned around laughing, giggling, snapping pictures. She held him in place for what felt like an hour but in reality was no more than 15 - 20 seconds. Eventually she released him “up” she commanded and walked away, he followed behind, her skirt swishing sexily as she walked to the exit. He dashed behind in abject humiliation, carrying the 7 shopping bags, hoping to reach the door before her so he could open it.

Back in the car he began to sob in humiliation and she cuddled him, kissing him on the cheek, “awww I’m sorry baby” she said “but you’ve made me so horny in there, you’ve never made a girl as wet as that in your life before!” She put her head in his lap and nuzzled his chastised cock, “is your little clitty getting a treat tonight?” She asked sexily....

On the drive home she teased his nipples and his clitty, offering him hope for tonight, she was going to get him off, that would be his best ever birthday present! Well until the day he could sleep with her! “When we get home, you’re to sprint up the stairs with the shopping, if you beat me up in the lift you’ll get your treat, if not well you’ll have to learn to run a bit faster in the next 12 months” she was wet at the thought of denying him for another year, but no she wanted this to go to plan. They parked up and she got out walking to the lift “come and call the lift for me faggot” he called the lift and returned to the car for the shopping racing up the stairs, knowing it was nearly impossible, Sophie on the other hand had stopped on the 2nd and 4th floor so he’d win.

He stood there, red, out of breath on the doorstep waiting his owner. She ambled over standing on her tip toes to kiss his cheek, “well done pussy boy, you’ve earned your present. Open the door then strip naked before you come in MY home, take my clothes to my bedroom, unpack and hang them up .... you know the rules, kiss the bottom of and panties or trousers before they get put away, then go to your room and follow the instructions in there.”

He quickly curtsied and began to strip, she closed the door and went to the lounge, naked, he tried the door, it was locked. He rang the bell “who is it?” The sexy girl replied “please Miss Sophie it’s your faggot” .... “wont be a minute” she made him wait a couple of minutes naked there on his doorstep! Opening the door she held her hand up stopping him, “yes faggot what would you like” she asked, “please Miss Sophie, may faggot bring your clothes shopping in and put it in your wardrobe please?” He begged “okay” she said “but whenever you enter MY home you will kiss my shoes before you pass the door mat, so right there he dropped to his knees and worshipped her trainers. She ushered him in and closed the door, slapping his arse, “hurry up loser I want to get this over with”

He quickly complied with his task enjoying kissing the underwear, knowing that very soon it would be touching her delightful bottom, imagining him kissing those perfect cheeks. He was so horny at what she did to him in the shopping centre, he thought he’d blow his load right there and then.

Returning to his room, the instructions were there, cuff your legs and right hand to the bed and wait for me.... I’ll do the left hand when I get there. He knew his time was coming! 9 months without a hard on and now Sophie would be giving him the best present ever! He lay there for about 30 minutes or so whilst Sophie watched TV and chatted on the phone. She poked her head around the door “won’t be long now lover boy” she teased closing the door again. She returned a good 20 minutes later, wearing the white bikini, his eyes popped out of his head and quickly averted his eyes, “awww baby, you can look today, it’s your birthday” he stared at her amazing body my god she was hot, he was in love .... she peaked off his condom and poured the contents in his mouth “hmmm you’ve been a busy sissy, look how wet you are girlie” he swallowed the load, she swished out of the room, he stared at her arse, it was amazing, returning with a tray she placed it down on the bedside table. She pulled back the towel just enough so he couldn’t see the contents.... grabbing the ice from the bowl she dropped it onto his crotch, shrivelling the clitty down some more. “Need to get the little guy to a smaller size, before we unlock him sissy” she pulled the key from her necklace and unlocked the padlock. Standing up, she teased “well that’s you unlocked, will that do for this year faggot?”

Aww please Miss Sophie don’t leave me like that, he begged and begged her, she backed up towards him and offered her bottom to him, just out of reach... “kiss my arse loser” he strained as far as the cuffs would allow just reaching her bottom, he planted reverent kisses to it, she was really enjoying herself now. “Okay faggot, you’re 31 years old today so that means you get 31 seconds out of your cage then it’s straight back in whether you cum or not! And don’t forget next year you get another second a full 32, up until your 35th birthday but then it’s downhill from then on .... cumming is a young mans game, it’s not good for your heart so every year after you lose 7 seconds, so on your 36th birthday it’s 28 seconds 37th 21, 38th 14, 39th 7 and it’s all over with before you’re 40.” He continued to worship her behind as she explained his future “don’t worry though, you’ll be trained to cum from being fucked in the arse” she added.

She pointed at the corner of the room and he spotted the camera, “mum is supervising you, like she said she would faggot, she’s had cameras put in all over the flat to keep an eye on you”

Sophie set up the timer on her phone for 34 seconds and released the cage, his limp clitty flopped out and she held the cock loosely, “well hump my hand loser” she said she started the timer and he jumped away for a few seconds, just then Sophie received a text, she removed her hand and replied to the text, “keep humping faggot” he humped away at fresh air, no friction to get him off “it’s Jordan, she wants to know if she can come over later.... that’s okay isn’t it?” Sophie watched as he continued to thrust his cock up and down .... “beeep beeep beeeep the noise came from her phone “awww too bad sissy, you’re times up... I’d have thought you’d be able to cum in my presence in that time faggot” she teased. She iced his clitty back down, “time to get this back in its cage, well try again in another year loser” he cried and begged and begged, it wasn’t fair, she’d only touched him for 5 seconds, please could they try again without interruption. She laughed at him crying “awww my poor sissy, okay, I’ll let you have another go, but I want you to start me a trust fund up paying £2500 a month and give me 10% of your business” he agreed immediately. A high price for another 34 seconds of her hand. She played with his cock like an expert teasing him and making him cum in 33 seconds, she caught the load on a condom and made him eat it all. Quickly icing him down and refitting the belt. She uncuffed him and he followed her to the lounge, she teased his balls to make his clitty excited again.... only then did he realise, she’d used a smaller cage and fitted it with spikes. He was in agony! “Hope you like your new cage faggot, that’s what you’re wearing for the next year, until we get you a smaller one.

15 notes · View notes

sprnklersplashes · 4 years

Text

not beyond repair (20/20)

AO3. Also shout out to @vnirhaus who has been this story’s biggest cheerleader from the beginning. Thank you so much, bub.

August twentieth, 1990. Her last day at home.

All of her stuff is packed into a suitcase and cardboard box and stuffed into the back of her mom’s car, ready for to be loaded into the bus for an eight hour journey. Her closet is empty and her dressing table almost bare, only her nightstand and shelves still holding evidence that someone lived in this room. Not everything can fit in the back of her mom’s car after all. Her books are still on display and on her nightstand the framed photos and lamp sit as though she’s not going anywhere. If it wasn’t for those, you’d be forgiven for thinking no-one owned this room. The process was pretty tiring and took a lot longer than they thought it would, to the point where Veronica was just stuffing things in with no real rhyme or reason, shrugging off her mom’s warning that she’ll regret it when she has to unpack.

Her parents have been disasters this whole week. Her mom’s the worst offender by far. She hasn’t been able to enter Veronica’s room without waterworks being set off, or a long speech about how her baby girl is “all grown up” and how she doesn’t know where the time’s gone and what’s she even going to do when she’s gone. Veronica had rolled her eyes, swinging an arm around her shoulders and reminding her that there’s still that full-time job of hers to keep her busy and now that she’s gone there’ll be plenty of time for them to do everything they were too busy for. She just laughed at that. Her mom’s also been incredibly focussed on details, unsure if she has enough of this or that or if they need to make another trip to the store even though there’s not even enough room for an extra spoon in her box. Her dad’s been better, but that’s not saying much, given how he hugs her every chance he can get and lingers in her bedroom for longer than necessary, his eyes misting over before he turns and bolts.

Her parents are ridiculous. And she loves them for it.

Martha comes over for one last movie night. Well, that’s what she called it. Veronica’s not one for dramatics like that. It’s not their last, not by a long shot, even if the room is half-empty and she finds herself holding Martha’s hand tightly and pushing away all thoughts of tomorrow. It’s at least the last for a long while, and since Martha can’t sleep over thanks to her early morning start, they’re making the most of it. Across their laps is a feast bought straight from the 7-Eleven; plump and soft marshmallows, king-sized candy bars and jewel coloured candies, and next to Veronica is as many videos as they can play in the few hours they have together. It was no contest for what they’d watch first.

“Wonder what movies they’ll be showing at Duke,” Veronica wonders out loud, squeezing a marshmallow between her fingers. “Probably some old French movie from the 1940s making some point about society.”

“What makes you think that?” Martha asks. “You’re going to college Ronnie. They have fun at college. My sister says so.” Veronica hums in acknowledgement, rubbing her cheek against Martha’s hand and popping the marshmallow in her mouth. “You’ll probably be watching all those new movies that the video store won’t get until next year.”

“Yeah but they probably don’t have Princess Bride there,” she reminds her. “And this movie is a damn masterpiece.” She squeezes her shoulder warmly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I won’t even have anyone to cuddle with.”

“You better not,” she replies with faux sternness. When she looks up at Veronica, her eyes may be heavy and sad, but the lightness of her smile balances it. “I’ll share a lot of you. But not cuddling. That’s my thing.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, pressing her cheek to her shoulder as if to prove it. Outside her window, the sun sinks further down, bringing the day to its inevitable close. “You won’t miss me too much, will you?”

“Of course I will,” she replies firmly, turning her head to look at her, all wide eyes and soft cheeks and smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. That’s when the reality hits her, and oh boy does it hit hard “How could I not miss you? This is going to be my first first day since preschool without you.”

“You had to put it like that, didn’t you?” she asks. Her shoulders shake, her eyes prickling even as she laughs. “Oh my God.”

“I thought I would be the first one to cry,” Martha jokes, her voice cracking. Veronica leans over and wipes at her cheeks, her fingers coming away stained with black mascara. Martha looks over at the clock, chuckling at the time. “9:30. We made it a whole 90 minutes before losing it.”

“I’m proud of that,” she says weakly, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Come on. We’re not spending all of tonight crying.” Martha laughs and lifts over a bottle of nail varnish, insistent on doing her nails one last time before she goes. There’s a glow in Veronica’s heart as she expertly paints little daisies on her nails, her formerly insecure hands steady and careful. She tilts her head as she watches her, the years of friendship passing through her mind. She’s always said there’s nothing she’d ever change about her and she stands by that. But the way she is now compared to the start of this year, her chin up, her eyes sparkling and a smile having taken up a near-permanent residence on her face… it’s beautiful.

“I’m so glad I met you. Way back when,” she tells her, giggling a little as Martha’s cheeks go pink, despite being used to those words by now. She’ll never stop meaning them. If she didn’t have Martha, God knows who or where she’d be.

“I love you too,” she replies, squeezing her fingers gently. “Now sit still.”

There’s no doubt that she’ll meet a million and one interesting people at Duke. People from different states and even countries, people who will agree with her and talk with her and odds are she’ll get along with quite a few. She’ll have friends out there, out in the big wide world, and she’s sure she’ll like them, maybe love some. None of them will compare to Martha. None of them are going to be able to know her like she does or make her feel better with a touch of her hand. She won’t be sitting next to them in their backyard and wonder how she got so lucky to be with them. Nor will she be half asleep on their couch and wonder how she’ll survive without them. She’ll make any number of friends at college, only time will tell. But Martha’s a Martha, and those are much harder to come by.

*****

August twenty-first, 1990. Dear diary…

And it’s then that Veronica suddenly realises, she’s nearly at the end of this diary. Sitting on the hood of her mom’s car, she flips through and finds only three blank pages left. When the hell did that happen? Just three pages for her to write on, the rest covered in her handwriting (and others, she had to keep up the forging practice somehow) and the occasional doodle. With nostalgia blossoming in her chest, and a little hint of heartache, she looks back over the past year and a half of her life. The life and times of Veronica Sawyer, Volume 17. A little more exciting than other volumes, she hopes setting the tone for the next one. She finds moments she could never forget-her first day of senior year, the day she betrayed Martha, her first night with JD, prom night-and then moments she’s surprised slipped her mind-her buying JD’s birthday present, the day she found out she got into Duke, buying prom dresses. All leading up to her last night in Sherwood, Ohio. She doesn’t read over that one.

Something in the back of her mind tells her to look up and when she does, there’s a figure at the end of her street, hurrying down towards her with the weak rising sun behind him, and she closes her diary. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t have to. She knows there’s a scattering of freckles along the skin, dimples in his cheeks when he smiles, dark curls falling over his forehead, a crooked smile and strong cheekbones. And those eyes, those big dark eyes that make her heart melt even now. Sometimes sad, sometimes scared. And sometimes, a lot of the time, they’re happy, open and sparkling when he looks at her. And they’re always, always beautiful.

She pushes herself off the car and runs towards him, launching herself into his arms. She stifles a sob and presses her face into his neck, winding her arms tighter around his shoulders. He picks her up and she wraps her legs around his waist, wanting her press as much of her body as she can against him. To make a mark on every inch of his skin. He rocks her slightly as he holds her, his breath rushing through her hair and his arms tightening around her. He doesn’t chase her sadness away, nothing could do that, but he makes it feel okay. Like when she leaves, she’s not going to fall apart. He’s good like that.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” she teases. As if she’d ever doubt it. She finds his neck and presses a soft kiss to it, breathing him in. The smell of coffee and old books and fresh air. Before him, she hadn’t realised how a smell could feel like home.

“How could I deny the lady anything?” he asks her in a low voice, like he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet of her street. If people look out their windows, she thinks, what will they think when they see them, intertwined with each other, tangled together. His hands trace patterns on her back, chasing such thoughts away. The only person she wants to think about is him and the way their bodies fit together and how their hearts beat in unison against each other. She won’t think about anything other than the way he feels against her and how it makes everything feel right.

She once worried about losing him. Back then, she knew this was too good to lose and now she knows it is. Even if she knows she’s not losing him forever, part of it still feels like it is. No matter what happens in college, she’s still going to be counting down the days until she’s back with him.

God it’s going to hurt to leave this.

Eventually, he does put her down and she untangles herself from him, her arms achingly empty even though he’s right in front of her. She takes his hand, sliding her fingers between his and squeezing tightly, his hand warm, save for the coolness of his ring and made to hold hers.

“Come on,” she says, tugging him down the street, back to her mom’s car. She cranes her neck to see inside, no sign of her parents yet. He sits up on the car next to her, pulling her against him and kissing the top of her head. As he does so, she hears him sighing against her, tinged with just a little poorly-hidden sadness. She leans into his chest, pulling her legs against her chest and picking at her socks. There’s a pit forming in her stomach, one that grows bigger and deeper until she can’t ignore it, not matter how much he kisses her.

“Is it wrong that I kind of wish I wasn’t going?” she asks after a while.

“Yes,” he replies. “Absolutely. If you even think about turning this offer down I will never speak to you again.”

“Tough love approach,” she says. “I know.” She turns her head just enough to look out at the street, watching the black road slowly but steadily turning yellow with the rising sun.

“Have I told you how proud I am of you?” he asks gently, running his fingers up and down her arms.

“Only about fifty times,” she replies, a chuckle escaping her lips.

“Well here’s to making it fifty-one,” he whispers, his breath tickling her cheek. She reaches up and takes his hand, her fingers around his before pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist and pulling his arm over her body. While reason tells her it’s impossible, she wishes there could be a world where they’re always this close, hip to hip, hands together.

She closes her eyes, the silence between them pleasant and somehow worth as much as all the words he’s said to her before. There’s so much in here, secrets they’ve shared and jokes only the two of them could get. It all settles around them like falling snow and it’s comfortable. She hadn’t realised that being silent with someone could mean so much, not until him.

“I got you something,” he says eventually, his own voice thick and shaking. “A little going away present.”

“J,” she sighs as he slides off the car. He holds up a little paper bag, something she hadn’t noticed before now. “You don’t need to get me presents.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have, if it was me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes, putting on a show of being annoyed, but she runs her fingers through his hair with a resigned sigh. She could never be annoyed with him. Even if he is right. “Knew it.”

“Jerk.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out the present, biting his lip, nervous even now. That might change one day, but if it doesn’t, she’ll still find it endearing.

He presses a diary into her hands, bound in deep blue fabric with a white wolf carefully sewn onto the front, blue eyes looking out at her, secured with a silver buckle and blue strap. Along the spine is delicate silver thread, woven through the dark fabric and reminding her of a starry night sky. A thin silver bookmark hangs from pristine, carefully pressed white pages, all ready to hold her life story.

Just what she needed; she thinks with a shake of her head.

“JD… it’s beautiful,” she tells him, her bright eyes meeting his. She strokes the side of his face, her fingers curling against his cheek and his features glowing. Just a book, some people would tell her. A very generous gift, but it’s just a notebook. Nothing huge. And yet here she is, fresh tears in her eyes and her breath catching in her chest. “Thank you.”

“Here,” he whispers. With a gentle hand, he guides her hand to the buckle and undoes it, opening the book to the front. There on the inside cover, is his looped handwriting along with a drawing of a star, little lines of light shooting out from it.

“Property of Miss Veronica Sawyer,” she reads aloud, her shoulders shaking either from laughter or crying.

“Just in case you lose it,” he says. He takes in a deep breath. “And… so is this.” He takes her hand and carefully lifts it to his chest, placing it over his heart. His eyes never leave hers, even if they begin welling up as well. She can just feel his heart beating beneath her hand, confident and steady and hers. The idea excites her more than anything, him being hers. Forever, if she wants it. Her and JD for as long as she wants.

“JD… Jason,” she says in a low voice, her free hand on the back of his neck. She rubs her nose against his, their lips barely a breath apart. Her words desert her except for the most basic ones and she pulls him against her, her fingers tangling in his hair. She closes her eyes and takes his hand, their fingers intertwined. Neither one of them can guess what’s in store for them, but she’s certain that as long as she can come back to him, and him to her, then she can be okay with anything.

She could tell him all that. She could tell him that she loves him over and over again until they stop sounding like words and she could thank him and tell him that he’s made a mark on her that she couldn’t take away even if she wanted to.

Or she could show him.

Her lips are shy and gentle against his at first, bringing up memories of their first morning together, her in her underwear running to Heather and him coming with her. His hand rests on her back and the other on her waist, his grip gentle. She runs her fingers through his hair and down his cheek, her thumb stroking along his chin, her own touch feather-light.

She tilts her head, opening her mouth and deepening it, her hand curling into his jacket. He reaches up her back and toys with the ends of her hair, his hand slipping beneath and his fingers tangling in it. He gasps a little against her, his chest fluttering, and she giggles despite herself. She kisses him harder and harder again, all the while revelling in the way he tastes. Beneath everything else, beneath the passion and the love and the melancholy, there’s something that’s uniquely him, something she can’t quite explain, but she knows kissing someone else wouldn’t be the same. He’s the only one who can leave her wanting more each time he pulls away and leaves trails of goosebumps on her skin. He’s the only one who can makes her feel like there’s no ground beneath her.

“Veronica,” he whispers against her lips. He rests his forehead against hers, bumping their noses together. When she opens her eyes she sees the tear running down his cheek, and it takes him wiping at her cheeks for her to realise that she’s been crying too. There’s so much unsaid in his eyes and she hears it all.

“I know,” she says in a low voice, her hand finding its way to his heart. He touches his finger to the butterfly around her neck, the corner of his mouth turning up. She pokes the corner of his smile, hoping this moment is captured in her mind forever. When he kisses her again, there’s a lot more desperation in there and it’s feels more bitter than sweet. She leans back a little and his hand lingers on the band of her skirt, trying not to go beneath it.

“Imagine if we did it on your parent’s car,” he jokes breathlessly.

“We’ve done it in worse places,” she replies, chuckling. “Although I’m fairly certain that would get us arrested.”

“Worth it?” he asks, and she slaps his cheek playfully.

“Down boy,” she says.

“Veronica?”

“Shit.” Her mom’s voice carries over the garden fence and she jumps off the car, taking a step away from JD and hastily pulling at her clothes. Some things her mom definitely doesn’t need to know.

She catches him laughing and all she has time for is a dig in the ribs before her mom comes round sees them, her car keys dangling from her hand and her sunglasses on her head.

“Oh, Jason,” she remarks, beaming at him. “Nice to see you.”

“I just came to say goodbye to her, Mrs Sawyer,” he says, taking Veronica’s hand. Her mom’s face softens instantly, apparently forgetting their schedule.

“Well we should really get going… but you two take a few minutes. I have to check stuff in the car anyway.”

“The car is fine,” Veronica sighs, turning to JD. The pit in her stomach opens again, wider and deeper this time, threatening to suck down everything inside her. Still, she smiles up at him and it only grows bigger when he cups her face.

“Go show Duke how we do it in Ohio,” he tells her warmly, squeezing her cheeks gently. She grasps his shoulders, blinking away more tears.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she replies.

“Oh you’ll be too busy having fun,” he scoffs. “You won’t even think about me.”

“Is that a bet?” she teases, making him chuckle. She lets out an unsteady breath, her hands tightening on him. “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

“Trust me, you’ll get every detail of my boring life,” he promises, tapping her nose. Insecurity flashes in his eyes, a question he won’t ask on his lips.

“You will too,” she says anyway. “Emails. Letters. Phone calls. Everything. Starting tonight.” She looks over at her mom, seeing her glance at her watch and look at them with worry. She knows it’s time. Her head does anyway. Her heart is digging its heels in stubbornly. His gaze follows hers and, seeming to read her mind, he presses a strong kiss to her forehead.

“I love you,” she tells him, her eyes looking into his. “Jason Dean.”

“I love you too, Veronica Sawyer.” He runs his finger along the back of her hand, his touch tickling. “Ronnie.”

Somewhere in Westerberg Middle School, there’s a table in a geography classroom with their initials carved onto it. That’s where a little boy and a little girl fell in love, even if they didn’t know it yet.

She steps away from him, squeezing his hand one last time before getting into the car, still not taking her eyes off him. She waves at him through the window, her mom climbing into the driver’s seat beside her. He waves back, not stopping even after the car starts up and her mom pulls out of their street. She cranes her neck to keep looking at him, watching him get smaller until they turn a corner and he’s gone. Out of sight, never out of mind.

“Did he get you that?” her mom asks, gesturing to the book in her lap.

“Yeah,” she replies, stroking the wolf on the cover. “Going away present.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” she sighs. A tissue is pressed into her hand and she meets her mom’s eyes, sweet and sympathetic. “Bet you wish you could just put them in your pocket and take them with you, huh?”

Wouldn’t that be nice?

She turns her head and looks out the window. The sun filters through bushes and trees, creating patches of light on her legs and her face. Her mom turns on the radio, playing a song from before her time, one with a pleasant melody and sweet words. They pass the streets she knows like the back of her hand, the video store where she’s on a first name basis with the owner.

Dear diary, she writes on that first page, opposite JD’s message. There’s a huge irony in my life now. It’s not that I don’t want to leave, I do. That much hasn’t changed. I just didn’t count on how hard it was going to be to say good bye. Or how scared I’d be now. But that’s okay. If you don’t have a little sad or scared mixed in with the happy, you’re not human. And I have both, so good for me I guess.

“Be careful you don’t get carsick, hon,” her mom tells her absentmindedly. She nods, closing her diary and tapping her pen against the cover, but her thoughts don’t stop, the dust settling and buzz calming and slowing to a pace she can keep up with. She looks out at the road before her and the world in the distance, finding herself braver and calmer than she had felt this morning. And despite the pain in her chest and dried tears on her face would suggest, she’s happier too.

It’s not bad, this life she has. Sure it’s messy and unpredictable and doesn’t always work out the way she wants. Because if people love her the way they do and she can love them back, then that's more than enough for her.

#heathers the musical #jdronica #heathers fanfic #veronica sawyer #jason dean #martha dunnstock #fic: not beyond repair #im fine #im very emotionally stable rn #*screams*#check the notes on ao3 for the sappy author's note

25 notes · View notes

queerchoicesblog · 4 years

Text

The Florentine Lady

Folks, the wlw story set in the Italian Renaissance suggested by @scottishqueer for the wlw writing project continues. Time to introduce the mysterious Florentine lady, wife of a brilliant architect.

If you do happen to like this miniseries, please consider spreading the word!

Previous chapter: After The Storm

Previous series: Ancient Greece

_____________________________

A few days later, I pay a visit to my most wondrous tailor and commission him a series of accessories for both my costume and Riccardo's: we have to be impeccable! He winks at me and assures me he will do everything within his power to turn them into wonders that will catch the eye of the Duke himself. I love masquerade balls so much and I count the hours until when I will finally put my Flora costume on.

I'm smiling on my way back to the castle for my card match with my dear mother-in-law. I'm basking in my carefree happiness and in the gorgeous sun shining bright today that it takes me a moment to notice a blonde figure admiring the castle from the edge of the bridge. She doesn't take a step in? Is she scared off by the guards? What a missed chance!

"You chose the best angle to admire the Duke's castle, ma'am" I say as I approach, hoping to give her the little push she needs.

Oh, I startle her, poor thing! She looks behind her and notices me. I smile at her and she turns back towards the castle.

"So this is the best angle..."

To my surprise, she sounds skeptical. What she says next irritates me even more.

"Is this all your castle has to offer?"

A sudden realisation hits me. I laugh. But of course!

"Ah, you must be the new Florentine lady"

She turns back towards me as if I stang her with a needle.

"My fame precedes me, I see"

"Indeed it does, milady" I confirm, mocking a curtesy.

She rolls her eyes and laughs bitterly.

"It doesn't sound like good news by the way you talk to me"

"Well, it's surprisingly easy for ladies with an attitude to get a reputation" I observe with pretended nonchalance.

"Do you think I have an attitude?" she asks and she looks genuinely confused, only slightly annoyed by the implication.

"You? And who would ever say that? You've just arrived, we'll have to wait and see. Fare ye well, fair lady of Florence" I answer, walking past her to enter the castle, my home.

I'm pretty proud of my witticism: I put her in her place, I'm quite sure of that. God knows, maybe for once Maria is right: the new lady is no fun. And no fun is not the right attitude to have in Ferrara.

The day after I entertain my friends with my accidental encounter with the Florentine and we laugh of it. She certainly has guts: we're not Rome the Great nor her Florence but our Duchy is the peak of modernity. She should know: isn't her husband working with Biagio Rossetti, the genius moulding our lively city into something new, unprecedented? The most talented artists decorate our palaces and our gatherings are blessed with the finest music. We're second to no one. Not even Florence, superb arrogant Florence.

But it's getting late, time to attend the evening mass. As we head to the Cathedral, I spot Riccardo standing in the main square. I wave at him and beckon him to join us. He obliges after pressing a kiss on my lips. On our way back to the castle, we walk arm in arm a few steps ahead of my friends. He confides me that when I saw him, he had just taken his leave from the architect and his wife.

"A remarkable man, if you ask him: I'm glad Duke Alfonso didn't turn a merchant's ear to Biagio's request and invited him to join the enterprise. He's a true artist, a man already thinking in future terms, so to speak. Excellent addition to our court"

"And what about her?" I inquiry. "What do you think of the lady?"

"His wife?" he says, furrowing his brows before shrugging. "She doesn't talk much but she seems a fine lady"

"If you say so..." I giggle as we set foot on the castle's bridge.

I couldn't possibly foresee that a few days later he would ask me to show the Florentine around. The city, the churches...or invite her to join the sewing circle or "whatever gathering you women do". My first question is "why?", the second "why me?". But he's already heading to his meeting with the Duke. He just says something about being a good neighbour and introducing her to court. Before I can protest, he's out of the door.

I sigh in resignation. The idea of spending time with the architect's wife is the opposite of thrilling but I know my husband. He's as stubborn as a mule: if I refuse, he will keep asking until I eventually surrender out of exasperation. So, I grab a quibble and write a note.

The next day she's waiting for me in the garden. She picked a crimson dress that certainly was in vague in Florence but not here. It suits her, though. I put on my best practised smile and greet here. We chat a little but soon an uncomfortable silence falls so I suggest we go on our walk, lady...

"Your friends didn't even tell you my name? Nor your husband?" she asks, amused and bitter.

I'm forced to recognise that this is exactly what happened. I refrain from admitting it though.

"I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I forgot it but they must have surely-" I start but she cuts me short.

"No reason in lying to me. I just thought..." she sighs in defeat. "I just thought they did"

Then she looks at me.

"It's Cristina. My name's Cristina"

I refrain from saying it's a lovely name, fearing she would take my words as forced kindness.

"Emilia" I only say, smiling apologetically and offering her my hand to shake.

I suddenly feel uncomfortable: it's not going well and we haven't even started our walk. Thank God, the feeling eases as we wander through the streets of Ferrara. I share stories and facts, even if I'm sure Riccardo would have been a better guide. I ask her about her parentage: she tells me her mother is French, from Alsace. She's never been to France but she can speak the language properly. She has two sisters and a two brother, the oldest one lives in Spain.

"He's a diplomat, just like your husband" she explains.

As we talk, we reach the area where her husband works: I ask her if she would like to have a look even if there's still little to see. The new boulevards are shaping though. She agrees and I start a passionate speech about the exciting times we live in.

"Do you ever feel lucky to live in a time like now? I do. I mean, look at this city, at these streets: they're changing and we can't yet foresee the final result but you can tell a new...world is rising. It's here, underneath the surface and enterprises like the Addizione are bringing it to life. Enough with those narrow filthy alleys, let's have light and space and fresh air instead. Let's expand the borders of our gaze. Your husband is lucky to work firsthand in this enterprise" I note with proud excitement.

She keeps quiet though, so I continue. I don't get why she doesn't sound thrilled too.

"Even our world is broadening. You were speaking of France, Spain...what about the West Indies? Oh, lucky those who can set sails towards them! We hosted an explorer at court once, he brought back the most curious objects and even a bird with extravagant colours! He shared stories of those lands, he said it's like a terrestrial Eden, can you believe that?"

I sigh contently.

"It's exciting how so many things are changing all at once..."

"And we don't get to take part to any of it"

Her voice is somber just like the look on her face.

"Well, we can always enjoy the view and breathe in these winds of change. I'll tell you what? We'll take a walk down these new boulevards when they're done and we'll keep walking until we reach the fields outside the city. We'll pick flowers and make flower jewels out of them! God, I hope I still remember how, I haven't braided flower crowns since I was a child" I suggest, hoping my enthusiasm may be infectious.

"Sure, we can...watch all of it from afar"

Alas, it's not. Cristina doesn't look comforted nor cheered up by my words. She wanders forward and rests her hand on a raw stone at the top of a pile. The builders are working down the road and left them here. Her slender fingers gently grazed the stone as if it was a dear friend. When she speaks again, her voice is filled with such melancholy my chest tightens.

"I envy my husband, you know. There are days he hates his job but he doesn't understand how lucky he is. He has a purpose and a place in the world, this fascinating, changing world, as you say. He sits at his desk and knows he will leave a mark, his signature in the world to come. He touches this stone and knows it will be positioned right there, near that tree. He will be an actor of this modernity not a...paying spectator sitting quietly in the dark of a theatre"

She takes a pause before adding grimly:

"I have no purpose nor a place in the world. My days are empty, filled by mindless occupations that are supposed to make the passage of time more bearable. But I feel so lonely and worthless. When I die, I will walk away from this world like a...shadow. Nothing more. A shadow vanishing into the void"

"Oh, Cristina, what are you saying? What brought such sad thoughts on?" I smile weakly, walking closer.

She turns towards me and searches my eyes. I don't know what she hopes to find on my face.

"Don't you envy your husband, Emilia? He's among the advisors of the Duke, he guides him into taking decisions that shape the future of the city and the whole Duchy. He's a diplomat, he's in touch with the most prominent members of society all over the world, royalties, the Pope, nobles...he can influence history. Don't you envy him?"

I take her hands into mine and give them a squeeze.

"You are not lonely. Not as you think...I-I can be your friend. We started off on the wrong foot but let's leave it behind us, huh? It's never too late to start a friendship"

I give her an encouraging smile as she ponders my words. Then she winces, slowly retrieving her hands.

"But you don't understand me"

We walk back to the castle in complete silence. When we arrive there, I offer to have someone escorting her to her place but she shakes her head and refuses. She thanks me for showing her around and walks away before I can formulate an answer. Soon she disappears into the crowd gathering around the market nearby. I shake my head too and walk inside, but her melancholy affected me.

#wlw writing #wlw writing project #wlw miniseries #original work #lgbtqa+#italian renaissance

13 notes · View notes

bionicdragonguardian1 · 4 years

Text

Ranma 2/4

Part 3; Final: chapter 26-38

After this it’s on to good and proper timeline deliberation

These two are honest-to-God morons and I want to punch them in the face

*sigh* Ranma…

Y’know I almost had hope that this differed in the manga

Guess not

I DO NOT approve of alienation

However, getting emotional character development out of Ranma is like pulling teeth

So alienate away

Emotional Oof

THANK YOU!

*chuckles* Ryoga, you’re great

BREATHE

He’s dying don’t kill him early

FINALLY!

Ooo

didn’t see that coming

*tightly* I’m fine

okay, Ranma, you know what to do

*heaves giant ass sigh* RANMA!

*screams*

Look I know no chill, kay, shut up

RIP my shipping heart

*sighs* FUCK!

Not gonna lie, I’m Ranma

Careful, Akane might kill you

And with the way Hinako’s acting she deserves it

I’m actually with Nabiki on this one

I love how Ranma is rolling with this

Ooo that’s gonna sting

Those 3 are terrifying, honestly

Hinako, your timing is awful

STOP USING RANMA AS YOUR LANDING PAD SHAMPOO!

Ranma blubbering hurts WAY more than I thought it would

Ranma, you’re digging your own grave here

Someone call me when he learns his lesson FINALLY

*cringes* Yikes, tbh I can’t tell if she’s playing him

Ranma you shit

WHY

Why is it always Kuno?!

Oof this gonna hurt w Kuno’s understanding of Ranma’s curse

Expect all Ranma and Kuno- especially Ranko- interactions to hurt really bad

Ukyo, you’re an idiot

You too Ryoga

Honestly

Alright, that’s funny

Ukyo, you’re lucky they’re dumb

Oh God, you two are SO wrong, but I love it

Aaand what does that say about you two Akane?

Ooo I could make this really mean

It’s SO tempting

Well, that went nowhere

Poor Ranma

So many trans vibes, honestly

*screams* HOW? Who? WHY?!

Wha-wha-what?!?!

Ouch, that’s gonna sting SO bad

heheh

Ouch, that hurt surprisingly more than I thought it would

Further proof that Genma SUCKS

Just this once, gimme soft

PLEASE

Close enough…

Okay, this fight was AWESOME!!

*sigh* Why am I even surprised by Genma’s reasoning anymore?

If Ranma cries, Imma cry

Excuse me while I go scream

I literally don’t even know what to do with this

Chuck it in the fuck it bucket and move on, I guess

okay, the end was funny though

Soun, is that bird didn’t look out of it’s gourd I’d believe you

*Chucks whole birdhouse* “fair”

A+ pic of Ranma

In his defense, he can argue something else, they just won’t listen cuz Shampoo won’t go with the truth

Alright, so Shampoo is smart, but with Ranma she’s an idiot

Wouldn’t the smart idea be to send Ranma AND Akane in with all 4 objects at the start?

Ok, Shampoo Sleep-Fighting is funny

Ranma is so underwhelmed that he’s just not even caring anymore

How Kasumi the scariest one to be possessed

Alright, anything with Nabiki on the cover worries me

Holy Shit he played Nabiki

I’d be impressed if I wasn’t annoyed to hell

Let’s all be glad right now that Genma never mastered this

Where do you think he would’ve sent it?

My inclination’s the Tendos

If nothing else I’m impressed by Nabiki

Now play this man like a kazoo PLEASE

When Ranma lectures you on how you’re acting like kids, you done fucked up

I’m with Ranma

Are you sure Akane?

Cuz I’m not

Heheheheh

Thems the breaks Ranma

You deserve it

Holy Shit Ryoga, nice

Now, I understand that Pigs are your life, but you might be dead

And honestly, I don’t blame him

Okay, that one’s gonna hurt

No matter how you slice it

Morality, Ranma, I know you have it

I hate this

Ok, that was uncalled for

Ranma he’s gonna kill you

Also WTF are you thinking?!?

Oof

Wait… what?

I’m officially concerned

Ok, I actually kinda like this interlude

Akane… seriously, trust is a thing you need to learn

One would think she’d learn…

Okay, that is actually creepy

I would too Ranma, I would too

Jesus fucking Christ, you suck Happosai

LetRanmaMeetHisMomCOVID19!

Gemma you shit

Happosai, go fuck yourself

Nevermind, don’t let him meet her, this is ridiculous

“Where’s the fridge?” “Akane wanted it”

I shouldn’t’ve laughed as hard as I did

*sigh* I just want Ranma to have ONE normal parental figure in his life, is that too much to ask?!

I already hate this idea

He comes back Imma scream

Since when?

On what planet does penpal = boyfriend/girlfriend?

Ryoga, PICK ONE!

I’m getting annoyed with you Ryoga, which sucks cuz you’re one of my faves

Ryoga, how are you this gullible?

You deserved that Ranma

I would wish the fate of being Kuno’s wife on no one

Ever

Congrats Ukyo you’ve actually made me freak out

I don’t appreciate it

At all

*shudders*

Oh this is SO weird

Of y’all keep making comments like this WHY do you keep trying?!

Nevermind it’s Hiroshi and Daisuke, they’re in the know

I’m going to say it again

AKANE LEARNS TO SWIM LIKE A NORMAL PERSON!

This is why you don’t buy cheap food people

I can’t lie, I’ve been waiting for Akane to get possessed

That moment when the ghost is honestly being a bit too sensitive

Actually, he didn’t, so shut up

I could make the Hawaiian thing so Explicit

But I won’t, cuz y’know consequences and stuff

I’m not going to ask how Ashura drowned at Josenkyo

Taro, quit being a dick, you turn into a Minatour-like thing

God he’s dumb

When Crazy and Crazy wanna duke it out, Ranma’s got the right idea

Excuse me, what?!

Ooo, now you’ve made Akane mad, run

Wtf is wrong with you, Kodachi, he’s literally unconscious!

I think that was almost character development?

I can’t tell

Ranma should not look that good in a suit

Whoa, she actually like… said it

Damn

Everyone’s got 4 sec to start treating Ranma like a person

Oof, right in his pride

Akane, I need you to stop being cute for 3 sec so I can focus

Yeah, I ain’t making it dormant

Ranma, I can’t tell if this is sexism or jealousy, either way it looks ugly on you

“At least he’s scaring the cats” harsh Kasumi

Okay, so I’m 90% sure it’s just jealousy, which better but still ugh

Ranma, you can be kickass when Akane is too

Ya goddamn moron

I’m going to beat that into him

There will probs be some angst about that

Not gonna lie

Look I’m good at it

Sorry

Ranma, if you want to get MURDERED that’s the way to do it

Smooth one, idiot

Called out

You better do this right or I swear, I’ll kill you myself, Ranma

I believe that is a fail

Of epic proportions, congrats

You NEED to learn to keep your mouth shut Soun

Awww

But he’s not lying!

Ranma, just run, she’s actually pissed this time

FUCKING RUN!

Alright, Akane, NO

You’re playing into the patriarchy

Oh, right… 80’s...

I’m changing that!!

Oh My God PLEASE tell me Ranma gets deaged!! Please!

Ranma’s got more patience for assholes than I do

Jesus

Hah

He deserved that

Part of me wants to see Kasumi actually get pissed off

YES!!

I LOVE degaging plots!

Ranma, I want you to math that one out, just a little

YES!

I am LIVING for this!

There is so much wrong with that sentence Kodachi

Ok, that was a little too cruel Akane

Someone either get Mousse recognized as Legally Blind

Or someone get him glasses that work!

Either one, but PLEASE

I just got a “draw me like one of your french girls” joke from a horse

Even though the widespread joke is LITERALLY at least 30 years later than this image

OOF

Ice Cold

We’re running out of chapters for her to find out

She better have a canon way of doing it otherwise I’m gonna be really mean with it…

Bean… Gun… Plant…

Eh Seen weirder

Aww Valentine’s Day chapter!

Yes!

Poor Ranma

These two are blind to each other

Heheh

Aww

I love these dorks

Heheh oops, busted

I still just find the principal an honest annoyance

Wait… when did Ranma start wearing a school uniform?

Congrats Miss Hinako!

I just now realized that I’m going to have write someone who is ok with having a female chest

Gag me with a spoon

Bleh

I’m bad at that

I really do want to give Ranma clothes that do actually fit his female form

Ranma needs to look at the terms and conditions of good curse

Cuz this is getting creative

Uh oh

Ranma you have a brain, please use it

Hehe, she’s doing her body laundry

Oh shit

THANK YOU SOUN!

Fucking Happosai

Why are you the actual worst!

Oh shit

Goddammit Nodoka

That one was ALL on you

I expected this from Nabiki, but wtf Nodoka?!

Happosai you twisted fuck

Heheheh alright that’s funny

If nothing else Shampoo is sneaky

WHY is that the only way to undo it?!

Poor Akane she is so lost

Aw, poor Ryoga

Definitely not, Akane, but thank you for posing that question

Thank you for calling him out on his ego

This would be hilarious to see this before anyone had any bit of a clue about Ranma’s two forms

Also, Ranma, you need to keep her safe from the Kunos

*sigh* Akane, you’re wrong

Ooo, not good

And that is what no self control looks like folks

What is with that ending?

And this is what manipulation look like folks

Also, y’know, robbing someone blind

I’m assuming this is Konatsu and I love them already

I’m using they/them cuz I’m unsure of what pronouns to use

Y’know I thought the Cinderella thing was a joke, turns out I was wrong

I do not understand Konatsu’s thought process w Ukyo at all

Also, can you not knock them out?

I am forgetting the name of that one Hero from Supergirl but if my understanding Konatsu is correct I’m DEFINITELY going to do that

Yeah, that’s NOT how that’s gonna go over

Okay, can we all agree that the trick Kuno used on Ranma is HORRIBLE, right?

Wholeass mood for Ranma

Like you two need to shut up

I just want Ranma to wear a sun shirt and trunks to the beach ONCE

Ryoga… how are you so lost that you came up through the ground?

Ranma, how are you both a dick and a good friend at the same time?

Just tell me How on Earth did Akari justify the hot water for Ryoga with revealing that he’s Pchan

I’d like to think that’d be something they wouldn’t skip over

No questions, just punches a grave

Why does that grave hit back?

Honestly Nodoka almost finding is stressing me out

I could be SO angsty with the Neko-ken Fear thing

Someone tell me not to I’m that much of an asshole

So glad that she’s apparently gonna learn bc I would’ve been SO mean

God, Genma you actually suck

Oh, thank God she’s not too smart

The fact that he’s 300% ready to die is actually depressing

That was actually quite touching

If we ignore the way Ranma phrasing that is just plain wrong

Uhm… what?

C-can she do that?

I hope not

God, you two are so dumb!

Is her definition of “manly” emotionless?!

Bitch, have a heart!

Oh God make them ALL leave! ALL OF THEM!

You feel? You said “you’re leaving”

Ranma, the fact that you didn’t put that together I can’t help you Like my dad says “I can’t fix stupid”

The fact that he feels the need to run screaming from his own house…

Nabiki, WHY

I’m convinced at this point that there is something Nabiki HATES about Ranma and that’s why she’s making his life a living hell

Cuz you do realize at least ⅓ of his problems are because she told someone something that was private

I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a backhanded comment

Either way, RUDE

I can’t tell, is that Konatsu or is that Tsubasa?

Must go back and check cuz Akane’s comment about “trasvestite and a homosexual” confused me since Ranma mentioned being “the first male kunoichi”But then who HAS TO BE Tsubasa says they’re a straight guy

*sigh*

Yep, nope, that’s Konatsu

My understanding was that Konatsu was like actually trans in canon

Apparently I mixed that up

I’m making it canon

MtF Konatsu

Bisexual Konatsu

One of these days someone is going to teach people to cook before assuming they know what they’re doing

Seriously It’s not that hard

Did they seriously just try to marry an unconscious Akane to Ranma?!

What The Fuck?!

Aww, she’s cute

Ryoga has a bad sense of direction, but he’s never missed before…

Okay, that’s a little strange

Why is she hatching?

Poor Mousse

Lol, that was so sweet until Ranma was dumb

It’s still sweet, who am I kidding

“Do I look like I wear Totoro underwear” oh that’s GOLDEN

Le shit

Firstly, Genma is still and idiot

Second, how is he already in Moscow?!

Third, why do I find this hilarious

Oh fuck

YES Kick her ass Akane!

I’m confused

Ok, was heralding back to the first chapter intentional?

Why does he have the staff in the bath?

Ok, I THINK I know what’s happening here…

Oof Can you two leave?

Ok, I was DEAD wrong

Wait…

If she…

If the DROWNED AKANE Imma commit murder

Damn, if you wanna piss off Ranma that’s how you do it

I don’t know why anyone would think pissing him off is smart

Oh, thank God, she’s okay

What is with this kid?

Why is he such a pain in the ASS?!

So I know she’s not dead

Unless SEVERAL DOZEN Fanfics have lied to me

Which is entirely possible since they were all listed as AUs

Uhm… Ranma… you okay?

Good, get him out cuz he’s clearly in shock

This hurts

Okay, hate to be the one who complains that Akane’s not dead, but that doesn’t track

At all

Can I rescience this?

Please?

Am I going to be an ass about it, probably, but it’s me no one should be surprised by that in any way

“Honored and crazy guest” I mean, accurate

Alright, Shampoo you’ve got exactly 1 chance

Then I’ll maybe apologize for calling you names constantly

Oh I am gonna be such an asshole in this scene

Also extend it some

Oh, God I could be such a dick

I’ll restrain

I’ll just write one-shots instead

Mousse do the right thing

You have a Moral Compass I know that!

“Anytime THIS YEAR!” Damn the witty quips

Yeah, but you won morally

That’s what’s important

Why the Scooby-Doo line?

Go Ranma!

Ok, so that comment about Ranma basically fighting a God is NOT an overstatement

Noted

Congrats Ranma you made me Google a word

Turns out it is a word that had its height of use in the 80s

Neat

Explains why I had no clue what it meant

Someone shoot those damn chicken brains OUT OF THE SKY!

“Only rocks”, rocks Ryoga just confirmed are 3 Tons

*sigh* I’m gonna have to physics the shit out of that

Joy

I cannot tell you the amount my heart dropped when I saw a full color double spread

Jesus Christ

DAMN

You’re gonna make me cry, dammit

Aww

YAY!

Heheh poor Ranma

Chill, hun, you’re good

Aww he’s tiny!

WHAT IS WITH YOU 2?!

STOP trying to marry your kids while they’re unconscious!

I’m not crying you are!

*tightly* I’m fine

Kodachi LET IT GO

Literally everyone else too! I hate you all

Just so it’s on the record I’m pissed

Ok, so “back to the start” is definitely an oversimplification because Akane knows Ranma loves her Ranma knows she knows

Akane! Your turn!

Ooo, IDEA!

5 notes · View notes

lady-plantagenet · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3 of a Bygone Era -

A Fictionalised Account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

Points of view written so far include Anne Beauchamp, Anne Neville and George Duke of Clarence.

26 June 1465 - George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence

The ride beyond the Yorkshire Dales was more than any reasonable man could endure and George’s spirit waned with each passing of the moon. Now arrived, he was glad to be relieved of his riding habit. The summer sun looked upon him, setting his glossy green silk aglow, elevating the golden weaved threads to a glimmer and his persona to a countenance so divine, Paris himself would have payed homage had they encountered.

Now, his cousin of Warwick requested his presence for a private audience before the dinner and George despite his wishes could not feign ignorance to himself. After all the noble blood of the land has been mingled with the Rivers, he intends to woo me himself, for Isabel. He set his cup of Rumney wine on the painted table of his chamber wondering what possessed Warwick to have his wines brought from Wallachia of all places. Mayhaps he has even befriended the Impaler himself. There is not a road in christendom left unexplored by the shadows of his ambitions.

Realising it was nigh time he appeared for the audience, he made his way past the stony winding stairs of what was unofficially called the Guy de Warwick tower and across the gleaming inner court, beset with a sea of jade shards bobbing to the wind in a biddable manner, until he reached the threshold of The Maiden tower. A wry chuckle escaped George. The choice of meeting amused him nearly as much as his lodging arrangements. The thematic allusions to the ancient Neville tale of Guy of Warwick and The elusive and noble Lady Felice did not elude him. While awaiting his receipt, he wondered whether ballads still held court in Isabel’s heart.

A servant he did not recognise before beckoned him into a suffocating chamber of cream and steel where George to his surprise was faced with the Countess of Warwick sitting beside her husband, as if they were a king and queen holding court. So this is how royalty ought to look. George thought back to his brother’s court and how the new queen’s striking beauty and liveliness did not sit well with the austere and mystical nature expected of one who claimed the sacred place next to an anointed king. The Countess, however, appeared as if a part of the room as a whole, as would the queen of heaven in a nativity tableaux.

As he knelt for each of their blessings reminiscent of a bygone era of peace and childhood, he rose with a solemn smile. To his discomfort the Earl and Countess did not avail the room of its stilted atmosphere with their faces remaining taut like sheets of ice.

‘George we are honoured to be having you here again and with us for near a fortnight, truly much time has passed since you were under our guardianship and a mere lad in the courtyard sparring with play swords’ said the Earl neutrally ‘however the time has come for me to address an issue that we had near no time to discuss while at court.’

What in the heavens could he be referencing? I do not remember exchanging anything but pleasantries with him. Best keep my mouth shut and refrain from guessing or else I may be held to have had expressed my willingness to carry out something I would ne’er do.

The Earl was waiting expectantly. George could not help himself and blurted: ‘My sister Margaret is arranging a marriage between myself and Mary of Burgundy, which she hopes will result in a double alliance between our realms when her own betrothal to Charles I is underway’. Just to think! Margaret and I living in the most marvellous court in Europe and when the Duke’s recklessness resolves in death, her and I can rule the Low Countries like two kings. ‘ And so, before you ask me to wed Isabel, I tell you that I cannot regardless of what you may think you have heard me say at court.’

The Earl let out a full-throated laugh so strong that his whole body appeared to be shaking. Even the Countess stifled a chuckle behind her long ringed fingers. Half a minute went by and the Earl’s head was snapped back in roaring laughter revealing the roof of his mouth, which in this moment was opened so wide it resembled a scarlet cave.

George could not understand what was so funny.

‘George, I am not your doting nursemaid concerned with your heart or an up-jumped merchant who is trying to seduce you with sweetmeats to cajole you into a coupling with my daughter, by entrapping you into my home.’ The Earl began. Laughter still seemed to coat his voice like sugary water hiding overlying vinegar. The incredulous tone denoted an arrogance such that it arose an eyebrow even in the Earl’s wife whose reputation for haughtiness cast a shadow that outran even the borders of her own lands.

George looked at the Countess expectantly - the woman who he loved very nearly as much as his own mother. The woman who never derided him for fidgeting with his book of hours during mass, the woman who applied salve to his wounds when he would constantly fall out of bed and vouched for him that they were earned on the sparring field, in order to shield him from Rob and Thomas Parr’s cruel derision and the potential of Isabel’s incisiveness. He peared down at the forest green of his doublet sleeve in shame. Shame for holding the Countess anywhere near in affection to his own wimple-wearing mother, whose frankness and coldness, though honest, rarely elicited charm.

‘And what you are trying to say cousin is that it is I that should be beseeching you to give your Isabel in marriage to me. That I was invited here to offer myself up in exchange for an honour much above me’ George’s face was puffing up into a crimson that stood out markedly against the cold watery colours of his doublet and cape. ‘You forget that though you may have made my brother king, you did not make me a man, and judging by what a king he turned out to be and-‘

‘And what?’ The Earl prodded on

‘-and what is in fact the truth about his and my diverging lineages’ George’s voice coming out as a strangled whisper ‘we both know the truth and how the divine order has been disturbed’

The Earl nodded knowingly, satisfied that he had extracted the confession he needed from his young cousin at his expense.

‘Therefore, I would find it odd that you find it amusing that I would be in good standing to marry the future young Duchess of Burgundy’ George continued his voice gaining courage ‘You dare insinuate that your offer of Isabel would be charitable and that it is I that should haggle for this honour, when dear cousin it is you who should be humbled by such a match’.

Having confirmed his own suspicion that George personally subscribed to that old rumour, the Earl then knew how to proceed further. He was about to express his proposal in full but seemed interrupted by the Countess who shot up as if in shock. The glare from the gilded edges of her caul burned in the hot summer sun, and indignantly she said ‘You would be calling your mother a whore! The one who sacrificed her life for you after Ludlow to see you safely spirited away to the Low Countries... She would have been queen, George!’

George was at a loss for words. The scales weighing up the two factors in his head were shifting in positions like two poles of a weathervane spinning frantically in a violent storm.

‘Veritas Lux Mea, cousin’ said a solemn George crossing himself. Since I was a ninny and blurted that out, I would do well to act ashamed by it. I shall play George the hero who bears the sacrifice of his mother’s dishonour on his weary shoulders and accepts the crown despite the love he bears for his brother.

The Countess who, like most women, raised her defences upon the suggestion of a fellow women’s dishonour - not for want of defending proud Cis’ honour but her own - was now reverting to her typically restrained composure and peacefully reclaimed her seat, while the Earl let out a resounding ‘hmm’.

George who just now realised that he had been standing throughout this entire encounter, made for the other side of the chamber for a heavy oak chair. Mayhaps I should have demanded Warwick give me his seat in deference and as an apology for keeping me on my feet and knees. Instantly regretting not doing that George stopped midway and took a seat on the chair he dragged with him.

‘George’ began the Earl calmly ‘It seems our minds are ad idem, do you recall the feast where you were made Earl of Richmond and John Woodville bested you at hawking?’

George nodded from the chair across the chamber, his previous bout of anger subsiding into a tired acquiescence.

‘I recall asking you whether you thought you could do better as king. Well do you remember?’ asked the Earl.

‘I remember that too’

‘I could make you king. With you on the throne we could cleanse this country’s government of the Woodville filth, restore piety to the court and mend our ties to France. Between us, what Edward did well was all my merit. If I were to be placed beside you as counsel, we could ensure that your reign would be at least an improvement on the current state of affairs’

‘Then you would recall cousin, that I gave no answer to your question about wanting to be king.’

‘You are too modest George’ said the Earl in an a tone so sweet it was resoundingly artificial. ‘I know your brother better than you do, the years between your ages made sure of that. I can tell you hand on heart that at six and ten years he had less of his wits about him than you now do. Besides if what you said about his paternity be true, then we would make god angry by failing to act’.

‘Now now cousin, if you would put me on the throne in hopes of restoring your French alliance I regret to tell you that I would never allow it. You know very well why. Just as I, you lost a brother and father to that bitch of Anjou and the latter’s head ‘till four years past still stood severed atop the gates of York next to my own father’s’ George realised that his tone was rising in aggression at a rate he could no longer contain, much like a wild horse who after daring to descend a steep hill could no longer calm its trot, descending into a grassy grave.

To his surprise, the Earl let out a melancholic sigh leading The Countess to instinctively place both of her hands over his. The crane white of her embroidered cotton chemise fell over both their hands like a bandage and it looked as though her touch was blocking a bleeding open wound.

The Earl’s voice now lowered to a solemn murmer, so much so that even George felt his fiery temper extinguish. ‘Now George, that is precisely the reason we must mend our relations with France. Margaret is but a distant relative of the French queen and given how France consented to me joining Edward and Bona of Savoy in marriage - his very own sister-in-law -, it is clear that the Spider King is eager to forge new alliances that would suit him better. Leaving that aside, you can now see why I laughed at your suggestion of Mary of Burgundy, for what man would want to be a mere consort of a Duchess when he can be King of England? And if that is what you shall become you can now see how a marriage with the heiress of Edward’s future ally would be quite impossible’

George had been flattered by his favourite sister’s concern in suggesting that marriage, but in truth, he was loyal to that match for his sister’s sake not for some idealisation of the future Duchess who was after all, still years away from her own flowering. Her father still entertains my dastardly brother-in-law Henry of Exeter at his court and with his own Lancastrian heritage, he would be far more likely than even the French to turn to Lancaster. Besides, what would I want with an eight year old bride?

‘I would not marry with Bona of Savoy or any other French Princess. I respect your logic but I cannot be bound to a woman who shares any kinship with the she-wolf that wrecked havoc over my life since I came into this earth’ stated George.

George suspected the Earl would arrogantly state that France would not give one of its daughters to a second son like him as an indemnity - a gamble too high even for the most compulsive gambler - which Louis XI was anything but.

He instead said: ‘I know that George. It simply will not do. All you need is here in England - a wife of a family even older than the Plantagenets whose loyalties would run with yours’

‘I know what you will suggest and I would marry Isabel, cousin. But not like this. I would not be your pawn like Edward was and I will not have her imposed upon me from above as if you would be my superior, ingratiating my humble person with so lofty a marriage’ said George

‘My apologies George, if my tone and actions were conducive to you believing me haughty. It is you who is the true heir of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, you would be our king and I your counsel but nothing more - I would not have thought you to accept any different. Now Isabel I recommend unto you for more than her blood. My finest daughter has the bearing of a queen from near birth and is well-read and wise beyond her years. If I may say so at risk of betraying her secret: she took a liking to you long before a marriage has even reached our minds and if I may be so bold, I believe you have noticed that too and care for her affection more than a jot’

‘Indeed cousin, I have always remarked her beauty and despite our familiarity, she still retains an otherworldliness to her that captivates and assures me, that in her, I may find the solace needed to keep my wits about me on the road to kingship’ said George already starting to alight from his chair in order to advance towards the Earl and Countess to ritualistically perform the hand-on-knee proposal for their daughter’s hand.

After once again receiving both their blessings and being brought up by the Countess to be embraced and kissed by her painted red lips as a son-in-law, he added ‘I do not know how strong her feelings are towards me, but at this point I could imagine no one else as my bride. If there ever was a plot concocted since our infancies to bring us together you may congratulate yourselves on your successes. I may not love her yet, but I am sure I shall forthwith. But cousin, you may count on my love and your daughter’s happiness as long as she be my wife and you do not perpetually dangle her fortune in my face to humble me, nor turn her into my keeper or a spy against me. Are we understood?’

The Earl and Countess nodded at what seemed both a reasonable and achievable request.

‘Do invite her to sit with you at dinner tonight, we have arranged a banquet honouring your return and perhaps you may be the one to tell her of your marriage. I am sure she would be joyous to hear it from you.’ said the Earl while the Countess smirked discreetly.

Exhausted after passing through more emotions in an afternoon than he would have in a week, George straightened his Scarlett hose which had wrinkled from all the twitching and tensing. He sauntered off out of the chamber and through the hall leading into the bailey, convinced he held his own as much as any man could against persons as formidable as the Earl and his Countess.

After the banquet George followed Isabel at her father’s behest out into the the courtyard of Middleham castle, away from the prying Neville eyes, yet still close enough that upon a twitch of the thread they would both fall back into their palms.

Isabel who had been so charming throughout dinner was now growing shyer with each miniscule step she daintily took. Her indigo skirts flashed in a dying opulence as the Wensleydale sunset befell the land in all its summer glory, and Isabel as well, as the snowy silk of her henin now appeared a pale orange complementing the warmth of her flushed cheeks where before the wine, were of custom icely pale.

George wondered at the how the hues of those northern lands were subject to the reign of the sun, which instead of setting at this hour as it would in the south, it merely turned all around it darker and in many ways deeper.

Finding it to be a fine time to stop this treck, George beckoned Isabel to sit by him. She happily obliged but said not a word as her gaze remained transfixed on the the juniper-coloured grass below them.

‘How did you find the feast my lord of Clarence? Father knew how much you love venison and Malmsey wine so he was very glad to have procured them for your arrival’ she said courteously yet still not sparing him even a look.

‘It was more than I could hope it to be’ he smiled

‘I am glad of it, my lord’

George ever the impatient man, decided to urge the conversation forwards. He gently yet decisively reached for both her hands turning her ever so slightly towards him. ‘Isabel, it is not my lord of Clarence but George, why would you impose such formalities on our correspondance?’

To his surprise she did not flinch, but rather seemed to expect this sudden gesture of closeness. This he found passing strange. Yet through it all she still feigned a degree of wide-eyed shyness.

‘I suppose you are right... George. You and I are well-acquainted. You just seem so much changed that you appear to me a man of the court now, not the boy who used to play practical jokes on Dickon and Margaret’.

‘Ah yes, remember when I tied Richard’s bootlaces to the stirrups and when he tried to canter, the horse threw him into the lake?’.

‘I felt wicked for laughing, but in truth I laughed so hard that day, that I gave myself a stomach knot’.

‘We were always the most wicked ones, I think’.

‘Me?’ questioned Isabel, smiling and palm on chest as if shocked by such a revelation. The flirt in her is returning, I see.

‘Yes, you. Remember when you thought it would be amusing to trap a frog inside Margaret’s salve. The poor thing decomposed in there and it was months until she realised that at the bottom of her pot, lay the entrails of that poor animal’.

‘Now that I think of it, my transgressions were much more ungodly than yours. Oh George, now you have made me feel bad for the poor frog. I had nearly forgotten!’ She said warmth slipping into her tone like a hot spring over a snowy valley.

‘Yes but you were always shrewd enough not to get caught’. He added with a wistfulness at the tip of his tongue.

Read the rest on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/54573088

All Chapters included :)

#isabel neville #the white queen #george duke of clarence #anne neville #richard neville earl of warwick #wars of the roses #fanfiction #historical fiction #a bygone era #please r and r #george of clarence #warwick the kingmaker #house of york #neville

4 notes · View notes

bluboothalassophile · 4 years

Text

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

There was one thing, one really important thing, Duke had learned from having a family like the Bats: Life Was Short, So Live It Like It Was Your Last Day Every Day.

With that philosophy in mind, because while it was a grim, honest philosophy, it was the only thing which was propping him up with the courage to do this.

Duke could sit here all day and point out the reasons that he should do this, mainly he wasn’t his brothers. But a talk with Jason, last night on patrol after Jason had taken a bullet for him had changed his mind. Dick and Kori were dead. Tammy was about to be pulled off life support. And… life was short, and Duke didn’t want to die not knowing if he even really had a shot with the most amazing, beautiful, smart, funny girl he had met. He didn’t want to be like Jason, Duke didn’t want to love his best friend and never know if he even had a shot. He had asked her out this morning.

Which was what brought him to right this minute as he lifted his hand and hesitantly knocked on the door.

The dorm was grimy, used, lived in. The door, the ominous door; he’d busted in one that was bigger last night with Jason when they’d been hunting down a dangerous killer; a man who killed kids. Shaking the grim thoughts from his head he watched the door open. She smiled brightly, her hair pulled up, the many braids were elegantly pulled up in a twist, her gold clips were lovely, he thought her the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

“Hey!” she stopped out, into the hall, shutting the door. He noted her white big scarf, the lovely grey sweater, a yellow jacket, her black jeans, and the black boots. She looked like a goddess; and he could say that after having met a few goddesses. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he smiled as he offered her his arm.

“Duke?”

“I have an older brother and grandfather who’d kick my butt if I wasn’t a gentleman, a perfect gentleman,” he smiled charmingly.

“It’s archaic!” she said taking his arm.

“No, it’s manners, and my mama would insist I use them,” he corrected.

“Fine, but I’m getting the doors,” she decided.

“Nope, I promised to be a perfect gentleman,” he countered.

“Fine,” she rolled her eyes as she smiled good naturedly.

“So, where are we going on this mystery date!?” she asked with a light tone and a happy smile, her amber eyes were glinting in anticipation.

“Coffee, with some live music, I found a hole in the wall book café.” He admitted, grabbing the door before she could, and she walked through before they linked arms again. Jason had actually told him about it, but a little white lie for good coffee and good music weren’t a crime.

“Sounds lovely,” she smiled. “So… done any of the clubs sign ups or sports teams?” she asked.

“I was looking to join a club, but I just can’t see the time, and I am on a team, the Princeton Rowing Teaming,” he smirked.

“How did I not know this!?” she sputtered.

“‘Cause no one pays attention to rowing, what about you? Any clubs or sports?”

“Sports are out, because… you know,” she giggled mischievously with a delicate shrug. He laughed, Naomi McDuffie could lift a building, throw and asteroid, punch a crater in the earth, he guessed sports wouldn’t have the same thrill if it was a fight to be normal. “Instead I joined Spoon and Tiger Magazine,” she smiled happily.

“Damn, you’re busy,” he chuckled.

“Well, I figured those would be fun compared to my actual journalism courses,” she defended.

“Those must be terribly dry,” he decided in mock humor. She laughed as she leaned on him a bit.

“And what about you?”

“History and the Practice of Diplomacy and Translation and Intercultural Communication,” he answered.

“But you’re a…”

“I’m the middle child of an insanely large family, and feel that I want to make a difference, a real difference, in my personal and hero life. Also, there’s some jazz studies, cause its music my mama loved,” he smiled. “I hope to work for the State Department.”

“You want to be a politian?”she grimaced in obvious distaste.

“No, no I do not. I want to help people, actually do something to help people, and after many talks with my brothers, and family, I think working for the State Department will offer me that opportunity best,” he said. “And you?”

“I want to tell the truth, not enough people have access to the truth, I mean, there’s so much the world doesn’t know with other countries having blocks on media and what the people can and cannot hear about. America is great, because we can tell the truth, and I want to do that. I want to be an investigative reporter, and I want to help people get the truth.”

“Ah, so you want to be like Uncle C!” he smiled as they made it to their café.

“Yes, but I want to be like Lois Lane,” she smiled.

“Wise, Lois is formidable, but I can put in a word for you,” he offered.

“I…”

“Look, she’s family, of sorts, giving her your number isn’t me doing the work for you, you’ll have to prove yourself to her, this is just me introducing you to connections you might not make otherwise.”

“Alright, but no pushing it, if she says no, she says no.”

“Agreed.” As he grabbed the door and they joined the small line.

“Ooo! They have Raspberry Escargot! You HAVE to try this, it’s amazing!” she gasped stared at the pastry case.

“You’re competing with Gateau a L’Orange, but I’ll have a bite of yours if you try a bite of mine. They make it like my granmè, not even Alfie or Jay can make it this good!”

“Isn’t that a desert?”

“Aren’t all pastries?” he challenged with a wicked smile.

“No, no they are not, but I don’t even care because I’m hungry and I miss Raspberry Escargot so much I nearly cried the other night craving it and not finding it.”

“Fair,” he agreed.

They placed their order, with a brief battle of who was paying at the register. He won, but she paid the tip; they took a seat near the window.

“You said granme?” she said with a questioning look as she put her bag down.

“Granmè,” he corrected with a thick accent.

“You speak French!?” she smiled.

Dropping into his old accent with ease he smiled. “Non, non, non, cheri, mwen pale kreyòl! Kreyòl Ayisyen, ki diferan de kreyòl Lwizyana. Ak diferan de franse.”

“Whoa, I have no idea what you said, but that was the prettiest thing I have ever heard,” she blinked at him with large amber eyes. “Where’d you learn that?”

“My family is from Haiti, or was, we were refugees of Hurricane Georges back in ‘98,” he said. “I didn’t speak English until I was eight and going to school, and then it was poor. My mama tutored me. I still speak Creole, Jay’s the only other one of the family that does so I’m not out of practice. The rest of the time I speak French or Spanish with the family, David used to only speak French.”

“That’s way cooler than being an orphan from another dimension,” she decided.

He chuckled as their orders were called out. Getting up he went to get their food and drinks, picking up napkins, and utensils as he walked back, he evaded a grumpy looking customer and put their food down at the table.

“Thank you,” Naomi smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, having a gentleman isn’t bad, my last date was not a gentleman,” she said as she started in on the Raspberry Escargot.”

“Then you were wasted on a fool,” he decided as he slowly started in on the Gateau a L’Orange, he nearly moaned in delight. It tasted like old memories, good times, and just as his granmè would make it.

“If you could travel anywhere, where would it be?” Naomi prompted.

“New Orleans,” he answered without hesitation.

“Really?”

“Wi.”

“Why?”

“The music, the food, the history, the vodou.” He said. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

“Really? The voodoo?”

“No, vodou,” he corrected. “And yes, my granmè was a big believer, it’s all familiar.”

“You believe in that?”

“I don’t not believe in it,” he decided.

“Okay… why?”

“Well, my big brother’s best friend was an all-powerful, magic wielding demoness, and the JL regularly works with Zatanna and Fate, so while I do not practice or necessarily believe, I have not ruled it out as real,” he said.

“Makes sense, the world’s too weird to rule out anything.” Naomi nodded. “Here, try,” she offered him a bit of her Raspberry Escargot. Taking it, he popped it in his mouth, letting the tart sweetness wash over his taste buds. “Eh! Isn’t it good!?” she asked with a smile and a happy looked.

“Very delicious, here try,” he cut her a bite of his. She stabbed it and took it quickly. He laughed at her delighted expression.

“Dude, I… whoa,” she blinked and stared at his food.

“Pretty good, isn’t it?”

“That’s amazing!” she decided. “Okay, so weird q, but… why don’t you have the cool island accent when you speak English?”

“You mean this accent?” he asked, letting his old accent shine through.

“Yeah! It’s just… it’s warmer than a Gotham accent,” she chuckled.

“I learned English in Gotham, Gotham’s accent is hard not to pick up when you’re learning,” he chuckled.

“Cool!” she grinned broadly. He smiled, this was fun, and nice. “What about you?”

“Nothing cool other than the you know, from my dimension. I don’t even remember my birth parents. But I got lucky, I got an awesome set of parents who love me,” she decided.

“Always awesome to have a family that loves you,” he said.

“Agree,” she mused enthusiastically.

“So, other than being a journalist, what do enjoy doing.”

“Outside of studying my butt off, I like Hulu or Netflix & Chill, because those go together,” she promised. “You.”

“Same,” he chuckled.

“Oh my god! Okay, we got to compare shows!” she decided.

Thus started the great debate of the drastically different tastes in shows. Naomi was in love with This is Us , Brooklyn 99, Black Mirror, Orange is the New Black, and the Twilight Zone.

He was more along the crime shows; and firefighter shows; as it was the only thing the entire family would agree to watch without arguing. He also like the Resident, Chicago Fire, Mind Hunter, the Crown, and Supernatural.

It was about an hour later when his phone buzzed, his alarm for class.

“Oh, this has been an awesome date,” she giggled.

“I wish it didn’t have to end,” he sighed as he picked up their garbage and tossed it. Turning back to Naomi he offered her his hand, she gave him an exasperated look, but accepted it as she was hoisted to her feet, grabbing her small purse. Offering her his elbow again, she slipped her arm in his as he lead her to the door.

“We should do this again,” he said.

“We should,” she smiled.

“Dinner and a movie next time?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely,” she decided.

“Excellent,” he smiled.

“You know, I was not expecting a successful date, there’s always some calamity whenever we hang out, like in Metropolis.”

“To be fair, that was entirely Dami and Tim’s doing,” he defended.

“Oh sure, and Luthor’s baby clone had nothing to do with it,” she snorted.

“Matt is an innocent, devious baby!” he defended.

“He’s a baby!” she defended.

“He’s a member of the family, so he’s devious, it’s in our genetic code even if we are not related.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, our last kidnapper offered to pay us to take Terry and Helena back,” he defended.

“Oh God!” she laughed.

“B’s children, we’re nightmares,” he promised.

She was howling with laughter and leaning heavily on him. “This is fun, I like you Duke. I had an awesome time.”

“Me too, and the world didn’t end!” he grinned.

“So this second date…?”

“Tuesday at seven o’clock sound good?” he asked quickly.

“Sounds… are you stalking me?” she demanded.

“Never, I’m free, Tuesday.”

“Oh, good, so am I,” she smiled.

“Great, Jay told me of this Italian place and he swears it’s to die for.”

“Cool, but I’m not going to some sappy chickflick, so I’ll pick the movie we go to, so as to save you from the humiliation of taking me to something like Last Christmas,” she decided.

“Fair.”

“See you Tuesday, at seven,” she said.

“See you then,” he smiled. He caught her hand and pulled her to him, Naomi looked startled, so he moved slow, leaning over and kissing her lips lightly. She still tasted of raspberries, a small smile was on her lips when he pulled away.

“You call that a kiss Duke?”

“No, I call that a preview of a kiss, see you Tuesday,” he said as she walked into her building. Naomi paused, waved at him before she disappeared into the dorm. He waited a minute for her, then he ran like hell for his class before he could be late.

#bluboothalassophile #fanfic #one shot #duke thomas #naomi mcduffie #duke x naomi #hopes for a bastard universe #hopes for a bastard

11 notes · View notes