#1780 words

[solarangels777]

had to block someone today bc they had a wild take about how reading erotica makes u a degenerate and how erotica/smut/orwhatever isn't "real reading"

[cl0udy3]

PLEASE PLEASE DO ELLIE WITH A BREEDING KINK PLEASE I BEG YOU

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐓

ellie williams x fem!reader literally just smut and the smallest amount of fluff at the end cw: breeding kink, use of a strap on, overstimulation, strap on has synthetic cum, cum play i think, honestly i dont know what else to warn of just 18+ wc: 1780 a/n: i think this is the first request i've gotten that isn't a mutual, i love you pls enjoy :D

The first time you feel it, you gasp—because it’s hot. Not just the strap-on pressing into you, thick and pulsing, but the way Ellie’s been moving. Slow, deep. Measured. Like she’s memorizing the way you flutter around her, like she’s in no rush to be anywhere but inside you.

You’re on all fours, arms trembling, muscles already beginning to give under the weight of everything—her hands, her rhythm, her presence.

Ellie’s behind you, one palm steady against your lower back, the other curled tight around your hip like she owns it.

Like she owns you.

“You hear that?” she murmurs, voice low and honey-dark against your spine. “That slick little sound every time I fuck back in?”

You try to nod, but she gives a sharp thrust—your breath catches in your throat as your body jerks forward with a soft, broken sound.

“God, baby,” she groans, dragging her hips back just enough to leave you empty—aching—before slamming forward again. “You’re fucking dripping.”

She leans in then, chest flush against your back, warm skin to warm skin, her breath ghosting over your neck. The weight of her pins you down in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

"You wanna know the best part?" she whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, words sweet and cruel all at once. "This strap? It's not just for show tonight."

You blink, dazed. Your head lolls to the side, already swimming.

She chuckles—low, dark, mean. “It’s loaded.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re lying,” you whisper, your voice frayed, cracking at the edges.

She grinds in deeper—so deep—until your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

“Feel that?” she purrs. “That weight? That heat?”

You let out a whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

“That’s what I’m giving you, babe. Not just a fuck. Not just this—” she pulls out halfway, the sudden emptiness making you whine “—but a full load. Gonna fill you up so good.”

Your moan is helpless, muffled against the sheets, your thighs starting to shake. You’re already wrecked and she hasn’t even started yet.

Ellie kisses your shoulder—slow, claiming—before sitting back up and planting both hands firmly on your waist.

And then she really starts fucking you.

No teasing. No games.

Just hard, relentless strokes that have you seeing stars, pressing back against her like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin. Each thrust is a wave that crashes over you, your cunt so wet it’s obscene, the sound echoing off the walls every time her hips slam into you.

She’s panting now. Cursing.

“You’re takin’ it so damn well,” she mutters, almost like she’s in awe. “Fucking made for this. Bet your pussy’s already tryin’ to milk it outta me.”

You cry out—loud, wild, desperate.

She loves it.

“Gonna come in you,” she growls, voice ragged. “Fuck, I have to. You need it, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, barely coherent. Just gasps. Moans. Crooked, breathless please’s.

Her hand slips around to your front, fingers slick as they find your clit—swollen and begging for her. She rubs in tight, ruthless circles, syncing with the rhythm of her hips.

“Beg for it,” she growls. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Wanna feel it,” you sob, wrecked and trembling. “Want you to come inside me. Please, Ellie—please—I want it so bad—”

That’s all she needs.

She drives in deep, one final time, her whole body tightening like a wire.

Her hand moves to the base of the strap. Presses something.

And then you feel it.

The heat. The weight. Liquid warmth spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. It rushes deep and slow, filling you until your body can’t tell the difference between pleasure and overload.

Your whole world snaps white.

You come hard—loud and shaking—clenching around the strap as her cum pours into you, grinding your hips back like your body’s trying to hold onto every drop.

Ellie moans—low and guttural, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as she rides it out.

But she doesn’t pull out.

She stays inside.

When you collapse, it’s not graceful—it’s a full-body crumple, face-first into the sheets, limbs shaking and useless. Your breath comes in short, stuttered bursts. Everything’s wet. Your skin. The sheets. Your thighs, sticky and trembling.

Ellie follows you down without a word, still buried deep inside.

She curls around you from behind, one leg thrown over yours, strap pressing heavy between your thighs. Her chest is slick against your back, rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. You feel her heartbeat everywhere. In your spine. In the strap. In the way her arms wrap around you like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

It’s too much. Too hot. Too full.

And it’s still dripping.

She kisses the back of your neck. Soft. Barely there. Like a secret.

Her hand drifts down—lazy, possessive—settling low on your belly. Right over the fullness she’s given you. She presses gently, and your breath catches.

“Keep it in,” she whispers, lips brushing your skin. “Just like that. Let it sit.”

You twitch, overstimulated, but you don’t move. Can’t. Her weight is everywhere. Her scent, her sweat, her breath. You’re wrapped in her like a second skin.

And then—God—her hand moves between your legs again.

You jerk violently, legs kicking weakly against the sheets. “Ellie—”

She kisses your shoulder. Calms you with her mouth before she even says a word.

“One more, baby,” she murmurs. “Just one more for me. Want you messy. Want it dripping down your thighs.”

She starts moving again.

Not fast.

Not rough.

Just deep.

Slow, dragging thrusts that make your spine arch and your hands claw weakly at the bed. She’s not trying to break you. Not anymore. Now she’s claiming. Reminding. Filling every inch of you with slow, deliberate strokes.

You’re whimpering now—quiet, wet little noises. The kind that don’t come from pain or even pleasure anymore. Just surrender.

The air is thick with sweat and slick and heat, heavy with every sound your body makes for her. The strap slides in and out like it belongs there, and her cum leaks around it, warm and sticky, trailing down your thighs in thick, glistening lines.

Ellie watches it.

Stares.

Her hand moves again—down, between your legs. Her fingers dip into the mess. She moans at the feel of it.

Then she does the unthinkable.

She gathers what’s leaked out—slowly, deliberately—and pushes it back in with two thick fingers.

You scream.

It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. But it’s wrecked. Raw. A helpless, breathless noise that dies in your throat as your body locks up.

“Shhh,” Ellie soothes, lips against your ear. “Can’t waste it, baby. Need it all in you.”

You sob, trembling under her, every nerve ending lit and sparking.

“I—fuck—I can’t—”

She presses her forehead to your shoulder, her breath trembling.

“You can,” she says softly. “You already are.”

She curls her fingers inside you. Just once. Just to feel the way you flutter and twitch around her.

You moan her name, broken and soft.

And it undoes her.

She melts against your back, wraps both arms tight around you and holds you like she’s scared you’ll come apart. And maybe you are. You’re so far gone, so full and overwhelmed and loved in a way that leaves no room for shame.

“Gonna take care of you now,” she whispers, voice ragged with the weight of it all. “I got you. Just breathe.”

And you do.

You let her.

Because she’s still inside you.

Still full.

And her arms around you are the only thing holding you together.

Time gets strange after that.

You don’t know how long you lay there—half-conscious, too full and too gone to move. The only thing anchoring you is Ellie. The press of her chest against your back. Her arms wound tight around you like you're something fragile she’s terrified to break.

You’re not even sure if the strap’s still in you until you shift a little and feel the wet weight of it, thick and heavy, keeping her mess inside. You make a tiny sound—barely a whimper—and Ellie kisses the back of your neck.

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, her voice all silk and ache. “I know.”

She doesn’t rush to pull out. Doesn’t try to move you. Just lies there, wrapped around your wrecked body, fingertips tracing soft patterns across your stomach. The spot where her cum sits thick and warm, like she’s painting it in.

“You did so good,” she whispers. “Took all of me. Let me ruin you, just like that.”

You exhale shakily. Your voice is barely there when you speak.

“I feel…so full…”

Ellie hums, nuzzles into your shoulder. “That’s because you are, sweetheart. Stuffed full’a me.”

Her hand moves down again, between your thighs—but not to tease. Just to feel the mess she’s made, to swipe her fingers gently along your folds where her release is still leaking out.

You flinch, too sensitive, but she soothes you with soft kisses.

“Easy,” she murmurs. “Just checking. Want to make sure you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, even though your body still feels like melted wax.

“I got you,” she says again, like a promise. “Let me take care of you.”

Eventually, when your breathing steadies and your hands stop shaking, she shifts. Pulls out slowly, gently, her free hand stroking your hip like she’s apologizing for the loss.

The moment she’s gone, you feel the drip—hot, running down your thighs. You moan softly, squirming at the sensation.

Ellie shushes you with another kiss.

“Stay right there,” she says.

She disappears for a moment, then returns with a warm, damp cloth. You barely open your eyes as she starts to clean you up—careful, reverent. She murmurs soft nothings under her breath as she works.

“You’re such a good girl. Let me fill you up like that. Let me have you.”

She kisses your inner thigh.

“I should take a picture,” she says, voice playful but low. “Your pretty little cunt, leaking for me. Proof you’re mine.”

You whine, pressing your face into the pillow, but you don’t tell her no.

Once she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into her arms. Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to be there—her chest under your cheek, her fingers carding slowly through your hair.

“Still with me?” she asks quietly.

You hum a soft yes. You’re tired, fucked out, but safe. Held.

Ellie presses a kiss to your temple.

“Good. Just sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

You drift off wrapped in her warmth, her scent all around you, the ache between your legs a pulsing reminder of everything she gave you.

And everything you let her take.

this was kind of rushed and short and i think maybe a little bad pls no hate ily guys

[ichorai]

ménage à trois.

pairing ; lestat de lioncourt x vampire!gn!reader x louis de pointe du lac

synopsis ; “you turned him,” you said to lestat with a disapproving frown. louis was sleeping fitfully in a coffin between the two of you, skin charred and covered in dust and burns. lestat didn’t have to tell you—you put the clues together and figured out that louis had run into the morning sun without knowing what it would do to him. “you were always the selfish one, weren’t you? i could never have anything for myself.”

words ; 3.8k

themes ; angst, a bit of fluff, vampires, polyamory

warnings / includes ; super toxic throuple dynamics, blood/murder, covers the first two episodes of iwtv, reader is a writer, louis is infatuated <3 and lestat is well... lestat...

there will be a second part (claudia incoming)!

You met Lestat de Lioncourt in 1780—six years after he was turned, and three years after you. It was a wild and tumultuous affair the two of you shared. You and Lestat clashed just as much as you molded together. While he was possessive and greedy, you longed for freedom and space. Eventually, after many bloody rows, the two of you parted ways with reluctant, half-sincere promises of a distant reunion. 

Louis de Pointe du Lac was yours before he was Lestat’s, as he oft forgot. By 1908, you were a regular patron of his establishment in New Orleans—though less for the sex and more for the stories. The women there were immeasurably fascinating. With enough liquor and sweet talking, they would answer each and every burning question you had. When Louis caught wind of one of his customers bringing pencils and parchment of all things to the bedrooms, he’d confronted you about it, curious as to what you were doing to the working girls—especially when they always came out flush-faced and giggling.

“I’m a writer,” you told him with a sweet smile. Close-lipped, hiding your fangs. “I hope you don’t mind. The women here have lovely tales to tell.”

Louis returned the grin after a second to overcome his surprise. “I’m sure they do. Why here, though?”

“Your establishment has the highest rates of colored women. Not many are willing to listen to what they have to say.” You fiddled with the buttons on your jacket, and tipped your head down into a nod. “I’d best be leaving. The night is late, and the sun will greet us soon.”

“Not a morning person?” Louis asked, falling into step with you as you made your way to your convertible.

A huff of a laugh fell past your lips. “You could say that, yes.”

From then on, Louis went out of his way to greet you like clockwork. Every Wednesday and Saturday you came, bright-eyed and pencil ready. Those days, Louis watched you come by nightfall and leave before morning dawned, always making sure to exchange pleasantries. One of the nights, you asked if he had any stories to tell you—though there was little talking or writing that night. It was hard to jot down what he was telling you with his head between your thighs.

You were, by no means, a possessive vampire. You liked to keep your options open and drift from place to place. But around a year and a half later, you heard of Lestat landing in New Orleans, sucking the furniture stores and libraries dry—and setting his eyes on Louis. Your Louis.

You and Louis were not lovers, and the same would apply to your and Lestat’s relationship. You would say you were far closer to being friends with the two than lovers. Though… the prospect of love was not a far away concept to you. Not when it came to Lestat and Louis.

“You turned him,” you said to Lestat with a disapproving frown. Louis was sleeping fitfully in a coffin between the two of you, skin charred and covered in dust and burns. Lestat didn’t have to tell you—you put the clues together and figured out that Louis had run into the morning sun without knowing what it would do to him. “You were always the selfish one, weren’t you? I could never have anything for myself.”

“I’m sorry, did I spoil your little toy?” Lestat said, leering over you with a grin.

“He wasn’t a toy. He’s a friend.”

The blonde vampire’s hands reached out to caress over your face, soft and cold. “A friend that you fucked.”

“On occasion.” Your nose wrinkled. “You fucked him, too.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. It would have surprised you if Lestat hadn’t fucked Louis.

“Don’t be jealous, my darling,” he said, eyes glinting dangerously. “I’ll fuck you, as well. You need only ask. It has been a long while, no?” 

He kissed you then, tasting of sweet blood and sharp wine. As angry as you were with him, you didn’t push him away. With Lestat, it was hard to say no. That morning, you fell asleep in his coffin, limbs woven together. Come sunset, you were already gone.

It took you a few days to get around to forgiving Lestat. Louis made you softer—his inexperience to vampire life was ever so endearing to you. When you explained to Louis that you were also a vampire—one with a deep history with his maker, he stared at you with widened eyes.

“It’s no wonder I never saw you during the day,” he said, Lestat’s arm slung around his shoulder. “But why didn’t you kill any of my girls? How could you resist it?”

“Older vampires find it easier to resist temptation,” you told him with a dangerous, fanged smile. “Besides—I wanted their stories more than I wanted their blood. I can find food… elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Louis glanced between you and Lestat, the first thought vanishing from his mind just as quickly as it came. “Wait, were you two—did you… did he turn you, too?”

A bark of a laugh fell from your lips. “Oh, Louis, my dear, no. Lestat may have left hundreds and thousands of fledglings in his bloody wake but I am not one of them. My turning will be a story for another time,” you assured him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Louis smiled and nodded as if he was in a daze. To his side, Lestat looked visibly annoyed. Whether he was jealous of you or Louis, you couldn’t tell.

Sharing is caring, you greedy whore, you said to him without moving your lips. Lestat only stared at you with those icy blue eyes and huffed out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, since the fledgling has already taken a liking to you, would you like to stay?” Lestat gestured around his decorated halls. “There is more than enough room here for three coffins.”

As always, saying no to Lestat was usually not an option. 

“You could just say you’d like me here. Don’t have to be dragging Louis into it,” you told him, patting his chest with a mocking simper.

“Yes, yes, fine—I’d like you to stay, as well. I’ve missed you terribly.” Lestat moved closer to you as if he was going to kiss you, but you leaned away at the last moment and grinned at Louis.

“Louis, hon, how about we get a nice fire started and you tell me all about what mean ol’ Lestat did to you the first few hours of your turning? I love hearing about new vampire experiences. It’s been so long I can hardly remember mine.” You offered Louis your arm and gestured to the living room. The man looked to Lestat, almost as if asking for permission, but turned away just as quickly to take your arm. 

Louis, in his hunger and youth, had impulsively killed an important man in town. Lestat had already angrily berated him enough whilst tossing the body into the cremator. You were more gentle with your approach, taking Louis’ hands and goading him to wash the blood off and change into a new set of clothes that weren’t soaked with his kill.

The amusing thought that you and Lestat were raising a child and parenting together briefly crossed your mind. But then again, the two of you had both fucked Louis before and were most definitely going to again in the future, so perhaps it wasn’t the best analogy. 

“Here, put this on.” you handed Louis, stripped naked and scrubbed of the blood, a fresh button-down whilst Lestat was off cleaning up the mess Louis had made. “That was real dangerous what you did back there, you know. You���ll get detectives sniffing around and swarming you like ants to a honey pot. They don’t take kindly to black folk, neither.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging on the shirt. “I was hungry.”

“I know,” you parroted, though your tone was considerably softer. You placed your cold palm against Louis’ face and he leaned into it for a few silent moments. “Just be more careful next time, alright? Lestat and I have centuries of experience between us—you can trust us.”

Louis’ face contorted at the realization. “Sometimes I forget that this is gon’ be forever. That I won’t just wake up and you two will be gone. That I’ll be human again and my brother will still be around and my ma would still be asking me to come over to her house for dinner every Sunday.”

“Forever isn’t always a bad thing,” you said, voice soft and soothing. “It is daunting, yes, but you still live from day to day just as the mortals do. You’ll grow more comfortable in your skin with time, I promise.” You hesitated to say the next few sentences. “Lestat, as much as you admire his strength, is just as afraid as you sometimes. He’s afraid of being lonely. I confess, I have been afraid to be lonely more than once myself, but I have made peace with the fact that I will be alone sometimes. Immortal life makes it inevitable. My point is, though… you aren’t alone. Lestat is not as godly as you think he is.”

“And are you?” Louis asked.

“Do you think of me as godly?” 

One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Most of the time.”

“I’m still a person,” you reassured him. “Lost to time, perhaps, but a person nonetheless. And you are, too.”

Your words seemed to placate Louis, though only momentarily. He parted his mouth open to say more, but Lestat dramatically stormed in the room, expression still creased with anger. After decades upon decades of knowing him, you knew by now that he would get over it eventually—it wasn’t really that big of a deal. But Louis, quite shaken up by the kill and his maker furious with him, couldn’t shrug it off as easily as you. The two of them went to their respective coffins angrily. 

Hours later, whilst you were writing up drafts of your most recent discussions with a few townspeople, you heard the two of them quietly exchange words of apology and plans for the future from their coffins. You smiled down to yourself. The romance between them was strong, you knew. You wondered if you ever had the same connection with Lestat. Or even Louis. You were growing quite fond of him. And you’d always been fond of Lestat, even though he irritated you to no end. 

When Louis bought the most expensive, the biggest, and the brightest club in the district, he made sure to pay all the working girls and musicians twice what they earned before. The doors were now open to anyone, not just folks with light skin. And he even had a room especially booked for you—always decked with the finest pencils and pens and papers and books and the most heavenly chairs imaginable—Louis was a man who thought out your every need. It startled you to think that your fondness for him may be far greater than just fondness. How would Lestat feel about you falling in love with his fledgling? Louis was yours first. And before that, you and Lestat were also each other’s for a time.

With Louis still at the club entertaining guests, Lestat heard your thoughts as soon as you returned from your work—you didn’t bother hiding your mind from him, because he had ways of getting information out of you regardless. 

“I don’t mind,” he said, greeting you as you changed out of your attire into more comfortable clothes for home. He hung by the doorway for a moment before slinking closer to you, running his hands up and down your bare skin. “We can share, my love. I don’t mind—not with you. And I’m sure Louis wouldn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Rather presumptuous of you,” you replied.

“Not presumptuous if you’re thinking it,” Lestat said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then several more up your neck. “Don’t resist us. It can be the three of us together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“There’s a reason I left you in the first place,” you whispered. “You are possessive and mean when you want to be.”

Lestat tilted your face so his lips hovered just an inch over yours. “That may be true… but you’ll stay for Louis.” 

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. He knew you better than anyone undead or alive.

“I will.” 

“Good,” he said, and then kissed you as if he was going to devour you whole.

Many moons later, you walked into one of the house’s many bedrooms, about to enquire if either of the vampires had seen your notebook lying around anywhere, when you saw Louis lying on the bed, tears of red slipping down his face. Lestat dabbed the blood away with a napkin.

“What’s going on?” you asked with a concerned tone, sitting down next to him on the mattress opposite Lestat. 

“My nephew,” Louis practically spat out the words as if they had scorched his tongue. “I was so afraid I would… I could hear his heart—his tiny little heart—and I wanted to rip it out and eat it. I’m a monster.”

There was a moment of silence as you studied the young fledgling.

“If you’re a monster, what does that make me?” you whispered, leaning down to press your nose to the back of his ear. “You didn’t kill him, Louis.”

“No, but I could have.” Another bloody tear slipped down his eye and slotted against his nose bridge.

Whilst Lestat wiped his face again, he said, “You have to stop seeing them, Louis. They’ll grow fearful of you if they haven’t already.”

“No,” said Louis, voice hoarse and quiet. “I can’t do it.”

“It’s a rite of passage for all of us,” Lestat went on. “If you love your family, as I know you do, spare them all the pain that you are causing them.” Knowing Lestat’s relationship with his mother, you found his words quite ironic. Louis didn’t need to know about that right now, though. 

“My siblings spent many decades looking for me once I ‘disappeared’,” you told Louis. “It hurt to distance myself from them, but I was protecting them.”

Louis glanced up at you. Sitting with your back to the lit fireplace, there seemed to be an angelic glow framing you. “I didn’t know you have siblings.”

“Had,” you corrected. “They are long gone now, though many of their children’s children and further generations remain. They lived long and happy lives even after I left.”

“I ain’t never gonna have a family of my own, am I?” Louis lamented. “No sons, no daughters.”

It was silent for a moment when you and Lestat locked eyes. The blonde looked back down at his fledgling. “We’re your family, Louis.”

“You should just throw me in the incinerator,” said Louis. “Make another one.”

“What a waste that would be,” Lestat remarked.

You nodded. “And if he did, I would rip him apart limb from limb. You are not replaceable, Louis.”

“The both of us have been on this Earth for around two centuries and we can confidently report that you have no twin,” said Lestat. “No one as angry, as stubborn, as unaccommodating, as maddening—”

Louis frowned. “Sound like trash to me—”

“—as loving, as dedicated, as thoughtful, as imperfectly perfect as you’ve become. You’re a challenge every sunset, Saint Louis. We’d have it no other way.” Lestat waited a second before nudging you to agree with him.

“Yes,” you jumped to say, perhaps a second late. “Louis, hon, I don’t want to force you not to see your family. You’re free to tell them the truth if you’d like. Let them see you as a monster, as a murderer—because they certainly won’t see you in the same way we do. I’m just saying… letting them go may be the less painful option.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply. Though he said nothing, you knew that he knew you were right. 

“Here’s an idea… let’s take a holiday,” ventured Lestat. “What about Rome?”

“Rome sounds lovely,” you said with an excited grin. It had been a handful of decades since you last stepped in Europe. Most of your recent years had you traveling much of North and South America.

“Rome? Rome, like, Italy?” Louis said, cracking an eye open to scrutinize his lovers. 

“Would you prefer Rome, Wisconsin?” Lestat fired back, which made Louis sit up on the bed and shake his head.

“I can’t just pick up and go to Rome. I got a business to run!”

You snaked your arms around Louis from behind and pressed your nose into his neck. You could hear his thoughts of how nice you smelled and smiled against his skin. “I’m sure you have many trusted work buddies that can manage the Azalea for a few days.”

Louis and Lestat bickered some more about transporting the coffins after that, as if they were an old married couple. You only listened in amusement and kissed down Louis' jaw.

Finally, Lestat relented his plans of Rome and instead brandished tickets to another opera. 

“I can spend a few days apart from the two of you to go to Rome myself,” you said, arching your back as if you were a cat and sprawling down on the mattress to watch Louis and Lestat upside down. “I can bring back souvenirs. The Italians have the most divine oil paints—”

“Don’t go,” Louis blurted, interrupting you. “Don’t—not yet.”

For a moment, you studied him with curious eyes. His thoughts were telling you he wasn’t sure if he could handle being left on his own with Lestat without you. Codependency was a common trait amongst vampire couples, you knew this, but that didn’t mean it was at all healthy. Nonetheless, you reluctantly nodded. “Alright. I won’t leave. But we do have to get out of the country at some point—it’s important to see more than America, Louis.”

“With that, I concur,” Lestat chimed his agreement. Then, he seized both of your arms and began to drag you off the mattress until you laughed and twisted up to get onto your feet yourself. “Come, my darlings, I’ve had suits made for us.”

There was a methodology to going to the opera to keep eyes off of you. You would go in first, alone. Then Lestat, with Louis walking a pace behind him, masquerading as his valet. It was degrading, all three of you knew. But it was the early 1900s, and there was little more you could do without drawing attention from passersby. 

Though the opera was a cheap affair, you were considerably entertained until the tenor entered the stage and began to sing all the wrong notes. To your ears, which were sharp, but not suited to the intricacies of musical notes, his singing was strangely off but still fine. To Lestat, however, he was not at all amused. His jaw muscles clenched and his fingers curled and uncurled over the sheet music he had brought. One glance his way and you already knew he had made his mind on who would be that evening’s supper.

Hours later, when Lestat had taken the young singer to your hotel room, you wondered if he was planning on simply fucking some sense into him before biting into his throat. Instead, Lestat sat down by the piano and played the notes, forcing the singer to sing. He pointed out each and every flaw, tone growing harsher with each mistake. 

Louis watched the two with a nauseous stomach and an uneasy mind. You tried to pull him away to another room, tried to kiss him until he forgot about Lestat and his fixation on the poor man, but Louis’ mind was adrift.

“Louis, this is meant to be a vacation,” you reminded him, massaging your fingers over his tense shoulders.

“How can it be a vacation when he’s in the other room about to murder some guy for a note he sang offkey?” Louis asked, a tad too loudly for your preference.

“Lestat gets this way sometimes. You know this by now. He gets angry, he gets sucked in, he gets tunnel vision until something is done exactly how he wants it to be done. It doesn’t affect us, though, not really. Dinner is dinner, Louis.”

Louis crossed his arms. “You have animals for dinner most of the time. And you kill people who deserve it. Lestat, he just—that man could have a family, a whole life ahead of him!”

“The same could be said for the people I’ve killed,” you replied easily.

“No, no, it’s different!” he vehemently said. “You killed the rapists, the child-fiddlers, and even the slave-owners back when they were still around! Lestat, he—”

“I know,” you said, tone firm. “Louis, I know.”

“Do you, though?” Louis shook his head in incredulity at your nonchalance and walked back into the main room where Lestat had just struck the young tenor across his vocal cords, destroying them beyond repair. “Why do you do this, Lestat?”

The blonde licked the blood off his fingers. “Well, I like to do it. I enjoy it.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Louis. “You don’t have to humiliate him like that.”

In a burst of outrage, Lestat yelled, “Well, I don’t say that you have to enjoy it! Kill them swiftly if you have to, but do it! Embrace what you are! You are a killer, Louis!”

You walked into the room at that, brows furrowed. “Will you two stop it? All this yelling and drama—this was meant to be a vacation!”

“How can it be a vacation when we haven’t even left this damned country?” Lestat bitterly replied. “I should have gone to Italy with you and left Louis here to scavenge through corpses until he rotted away.”

“You don’t mean that,” you angrily said, volume rising. “You’ve had decades to temper your anger issues, and yet you haven’t changed a single bit!”

Lestat raised his nose in defiance, picked up the tenor (who had crumpled to the ground in a bloody heap), and swiftly carried him to the couch where he would slowly drain him of his blood. Louis took to sitting and watching the dying man’s last thoughts. A part of you wondered why, if he was so horrified by Lestat's cruelty, did he bother to stay and watch—though you didn’t stick around to ask. Instead, you retired to the bedchambers without saying goodbye to either of them. Lestat left you a chalice of the singer’s blood by your coffin as an apology of sorts, but it was left untouched. 

[sumiieon]

✦ Chiming Bell ノ MODERN! High school hcs with the Chrysos Heir because I love them so much ⸝⸝ gn reader ⸝⸝ wc: 1780 ✦ Note ; The usual grammar error and spelling mistakes warning ⸝⸝ if they come across as ooc then I apologize because I'm still not very confident in my ability of writing HSR characters haha ⸝⸝ This can be interpreted as both romantic and platonic as your liking! ⸝⸝ will probably edit out some mistakes ⸝⸝ I'm very sorry for not including Hyacine TT

♡ Phainon ⸝⸝ I feel like he's kind of a jock BUT also not a jock. Like, he's not THOSE jocks that get angry at you if you cannot catch the ball that is beaming at 1000 mph to your face. ⸝⸝ Those popular kids that are actually super nice to everyone. I feel like he doesn't judge people much and if he does dislike someone, will not rub it in their face unless they deserve to. ⸝⸝ Basically just a ray of sunshine. Definitely has Mydei as his seatmate and I just imagine Phainon walking into class greeting everyone every morning and then Mydei is just sitting there massaging his temple, wondering how he's so bright this early. ⸝⸝ While he's generally super nice, I think Phainon is also pretty mischievous though. I can already imagine him getting into some light troubles and then having to sweep the hallway as a punishment LMAO. ⸝⸝ Probably enjoys learning history and literature, he just gets super sleepy and perhaps bored in them. Decent at math but HORRIBLE at science like chemistry. Phainon comes up to Mydei as lab partner and Mydei prays the two of them don't get involved in any sorts of explosion or chemical accident /j ⸝⸝ When Phainon is pinning on you, he will 100% turn into a golden retriever. Follows you around in a non-creepy way, helps you carry stuff, probably tries tutoring you the best he could, sometimes ask to have lunch together and then drags you to the rest of his friends. ⸝⸝ Gets super shy about it and it didn't escape his friends. Also gets not bullied but teased a lot for it, when you walked past them far enough, I feel like most likely Mydei would go "holy shit is that Phainon's lover walking past by just now?!" ⸝⸝ When he announced that the two of you are dating to his friends, they would hold their pearl necklace and pretend like they're shocked (except it's so purposefully exaggerated it's hilarious wow Phainon you're so slick!) ♡ Aglaea ⸝⸝ I hc'd that the Chrysos Heir is basically akin to the Student Council in the modern world, so expect no less that Aglaea is definitely the president or at the VERY least the vice president. ⸝⸝ That one strict classmate who always looks her best and behaves the best too. Probably a class president or rep too?? Would reprimand her classmates or the other students to mind both their attire and attitude. ⸝⸝ Teacher's pet, except she's one that you can't really walk over or trample. Girl just has that aura in her for not only being smart but also beautiful?!?! (My GOAT Aglaea as always) ⸝⸝ Looks scary at first glance, but if you need her help with studying she would help say no more! That one meme that goes like "would you let me copy your homework?" "no, but I'll help you with it" ⸝⸝ This may sound pretty personal and specific but hc that she excels and enjoys public speaking. Her words and articulations are probably amazing if you get what I mean... ⸝⸝ Honestly, if she is pinning on you? Nobody would pretty much find out about it unless she personally said so. I'm sorry but Aglaea strikes off to me as the type to be super good at hiding aka slick with her feelings for someone. (Ironically for being the bearer of Mnestia's coreflame in lore lol) ⸝⸝ So when she told her friends that you two are dating, their surprise is actually real and pure. ⸝⸝ It's still noticeable though subtle tho! Aglaea will be extra mindful of you and will no doubt worry about your grades and your performance. Would help you study even if it takes time say less! ♡ Mydei

⸝⸝ Similarly to Phainon, seems like a jock but isn't too much of a jock once you get to know about him. I think it's pretty much just a first impression since he's physically well built and healthy. For someone with his looks, Mydei is a pretty quiet and calm seatmate, ones targeted by people who is just full on comical nonsense (Trailblazer for instance…. They're so stupid I love them).

⸝⸝ Seemingly messy appearance (that slightly loose collar and messily tied tie fix that rn Mydei i hate hastily tied tie and sometimes spends 5 minutes redoing it if I couldn't get it right sobs), but is actually very discipline and a pretty decent student. Also hc that he uses reading glasses.

⸝⸝ Bluddy is probably the first to arrive at class and is usually pretty punctual with a few exceptions being made. Definitely that one friend who sleeps early and wakes up early. Probably lets you copy his homework just so you can get off his ass.

⸝⸝ Excels at history, terrible at math, probably decent at chemistry??? Hear me out though, he's terrible at math and physics but he's interested in them so it's kind of a party pooper LAMFAO (self projecting). Mydei doesn't hate it, he probably just doesn't understand it.

⸝⸝ Those type of guys that people are scared of because of his appearance, but is actually good with juniors. He helps them with studying and getting the subject's concept wrapped around their head and somehow patient for a man that doesn't look like he has patience at all.

⸝⸝ When Mydei pins on you, he won't look nor act THAT much different around you. If you're a much more comical or hilarious kind of person, he endures and tolerates you more. He will offer more lending hands though; for instance, explaining things you don't understand more, willingly tutors you, sneaks gifts into your desk or locker and then softly denies it when questioned (you're not slick bro.)

⸝⸝ Mydei doesn't announce it if you two are dating, rather, his friends found out on their own by the slight flush on his face when he's around you and the way his fierce eyes seemed to simmer down a little when you're around.

♡ Castorice

⸝⸝ SUPER quiet and probably finds it hard to communicate all the time. The reason people know her is mostly because she's apart of the Student Council, but that aside, she's also super kind and nice!

⸝⸝ Hangs around Aglaea a lot and acts as her 'assistant' or similar. Also a teacher's pet except on the more mellow side and one that even the meanest of the mean doesn't have the heart to mock.

⸝⸝ She probably could be vice president.. But that's just a rough gut and because I see her as one. Also reprimands her classmates and other students to be mindful of their attire and attitude.

⸝⸝ Generally good at any subjects given, but I hc that Castorice really likes art and music classes. The atmosphere is quieter and much more peaceful that even her mind could rest a little. Definitely joins clubs like sewing club.

⸝⸝ Sometimes sleeps on recess because I see her as those super-tired looking type of people who can doze off while standing but refrains on doing so in classes. Due to this, probably picks the seat closer to the window to hide away from the lights at the center of the class.

⸝⸝ When Castorice pins on you, she will subtly get super shy around you. Sometimes stutters on her speech and is extra polite at you much to the awkwardness. Be prepared for cuteness overload!!

⸝⸝ Castorice definitely makes things for you! A small crochet plush, flower crowns, or some fake flowers that reminds her of you. Surfs into flower language to express her affection to you by making said flowers for you!

⸝⸝ Castorice would reluctantly yet shyly declares her love for you one random evening, and the rest of the Chyrsos Heir is totally NOT spying at you two from behind some bushes. ♡ Anaxa

⸝⸝ This man is canonically a professor according to the in-game lore what else do I need to say??

⸝⸝ That one smart kid who's super snarky and sarcastic. If you think Mydei is pretty sarcastic for someone, then behold Anaxagoras and his sharp yet elegant tongue that totally does not remind me of a certain doctor.

⸝⸝ He definitely no doubt enjoys subjects science related. Chemistry, physics, biology, name it. Yet nobody really dares to approach him and ask him to be their lab partner due to, again, the aura that surrounds him. You feel like you're shrinking per second you stand next to him if you don't know anything about him. Also hc that he enjoys scientific debates.

⸝⸝ He probably goes overseas to attend science olympics like a lot, and obviously comes back with victory by his side. He's probably academic rivals with Aglaea haha. I can just see them competing for the school's 1st place.

⸝⸝ Anaxa gets avoided by plenty people because of his personality, but he doesn't pay any mind nor does he care about it. After all, his only interest currently is knowledge, isn't it..?

⸝⸝ Well that's until you, who doesn't seem to be that much avoidant of him, came along to his life. Anaxa is that one person that goes deep into denial when he has feelings for someone. "NO. WDYM I HAVE FEELINGS FOR THEM. FUCK."

⸝⸝ The rest of the Chrysos Heir found out about this when one random day, Anaxa suddenly came up to Hyacine and started asking her questions related to feelings that are leaning a little bit tooooo much on the romantic side (much to his dismay and denial). Even with his denial, he found himself coming up to the pink haired girl and asking her about this… Very foreign feeling of what she described as "butterflies fluttering in his stomach" and a suspiciously big grin on her face.

⸝⸝ Like Phainon, Anaxa doesn't escape the constant teasing from the Chrysos Heir for this, mainly Aglaea. She will devilishly giggle into her fingertips and make subtle jabs at him when she talks to you; "[name], do you have just any idea how breathtaking you are?" while giving Anaxa looks to which he responded with not only a glare but a suspiciously burning pair of ear tips <3

© fleuriion ― please refrain from ; plagiarizing, ai usage, repost without credits ― positive interactions are always welcome!

[toxicanonymity]

Hii! Appreciate you using your platform to encourage action against the fascist gov in the states. I did 5 calls today to senators about the SAVE act vote, have been participating in protests across NYC monthly at minimum, and protesting at Columbia for Mahmoud Khalil as a member of the uni community there. Anon to protect my identity from Columbia.

My ficlet request is NightWalks Joel and reader smoking, boob workship, and cockwarming :)

- 🌿 fern anon

SAVE Act | 5calls | resistbot | Update - ask senators to vote no on cloture AND bill. Ty for all of your activism and good call protecting your identity. 💚💚🍃

nugs and kisses

Joel x f!reader | 1780 words | Joel masterlist

“Good girl,” he said and got the joint from the nightstand...“Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes. You playfully whined at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head...You got on your hands and knees and stretched. He bit his lip and nodded.

SUMMARY: A playful, intimate, and hot wake & bake romp. WARNINGS: I8+ weed, shotgunning, praise, unsafe p in v NOTES: night walks AU (after tired & rested ). can read alone.

You slept like a baby in his embrace. He even managed to resist waking you up for sex. He had said he couldn't promise he'd behave in the morning, but he knew you needed sleep, so he tried. His body was flush against yours, his leg over yours, with his foot resting on the bed, his heel against your ankle. 

He smelled you before fully waking. Your shampoo, or your soap, and your pheromones. Your Scent carried a whole wave of comfort and familiarity, stirring affection in his heart before he knew what or who he smelled. 

As he roused into a half-awake state, he imagined he had broken into your basement again. But after a moment, the thrum of the fan told him this was his bed. A bed where he normally slept alone.

He could get used to this, he mused for a moment, then his face heated as his thoughts became fully conscious. you shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nipple dragged against his forearm. He sharply inhaled and his hips pushed forward in a reflex, pressing his erection harder against you. 

If you weren't wearing anything, it would be a lot more difficult, but your cold nature left you in your pants and camisole whereas he had stripped. 

He took in a slow breath with his nose pressed to the nape of your neck. His hips rocked in a subtle motion he couldn't stop, aching to put it in you. But  he wanted to know how you felt first. You had been upset by the pool before he found you. He wanted to be what you needed and also inside you. 

Wake and bake, he thought to himself and after giving you a little squeeze and a light kiss on the crown of your head, he willed himself himself to roll over to his nightstand where he had some good shit.

You stirred with the loss of your comfy cocoon. You didn't fully wake up, but you turned onto your back and you looked so pretty.

The shape of your lips, the curve of your breasts.  The way your face scrunched slightly. And then it scrunched more. You rolled toward him, and he laid a hand gently on your head. “Mornin’, pumpkin.”  A little smile flashed onto your lips before your eyes  even opened.

“Baby, you've made me believe in beauty sleep. Always wake up gorgeous.” 

You turned your head slightly into the pillow with a shy smile. He asked, “How do i look?” puffing out his chest a bit with an expectant tilt of his head. His muscles looked great but a tent in the sheet was tugging at your peripheral vision. You finally glanced there and the sliver of skin you could see under the sheet made you answer, “naked” with a chuckle. 

He looked down at himself. “It's hot work bein’ your personal heater, ya know. You still cold?” 

“Not really… You did a good job.”

He took a puff of the joint and you reached for it. He held it back playfully and said, “dare ya to get naked.” 

You giggled into the pillow and then your eyes met with playful affection. “You triple dog dare me?” 

“Quadruple dog,” he replied. “Five dog.”

You said okay, and he lowered himself to be at your level and he looked from your eyes to your lips, and brought his lips millimeters away from yours before slowly releasing the smoke.

You sucked in the smoke with your eyes closed. As you held it in your mouth, he couldn't resist pressing his mouth to your upper lip, and then your cheek.

As you exhaled against the side of his face, he palmed your breast, then his thumb tugged at the camisole's strap. 

“Lemme help ya with that,” he said and reached way back to put the joint in an ashtray on his nightstand. You sat up and lifted your arms.

“Attagirl,” he said as he pulled your top off and “Mmm” when your breasts fell free. 

“Ladies,” he greeted them.  

“ladies?” you giggled.

“Hadn't named’em…” 

He tugged at your waistband and you removed the pants.

“Good girl,” He said and got the joint from the nightstand, still holding it away from you. “Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes.

You let out a playful whine at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head.

You got up on your hands and knees first, and stretched. 

He bit his lip and nodded. 

Then you made your way into sitting -  you were gonna sit next to him, but once you were up on your knees, you found yourself going straight for his lap. 

You tugged the sheet off his lap, exposing his hard cock and thighs. He raised his eyebrows, and you sucked your bottom lip with a playful glint in your eye as you straddled him. 

“Hell yeah,” he said, “that's my girl.” You hovered and looked down at his thick stiff cock and felt your breath deepen as you lowered yourself.  You descended to just the right spot, so your naked front was pressed right up against his hard-on.

“All yours,” he murmured with a little tilt of his hips as he held the joint up to your mouth.

You took a short puff then pulled your head back and he set it aside. He looked back and forth between your breasts and palmed them with the reverence some men reserve for artwork. His hand pressed against one, framing the nipple in the crook of his thumb. His other arm nudged you into moving up a few inches. He took a deep breath through his nose, then tongued the sensitive skin as his mouth covered it. 

His eyes closed and brow furrowed as he sucked and tongued at your nipple and breast. “Mmm,” he moaned, and you throbbed. His dick twitched against you. Arousal surged through your blood like a drug.

God, you needed him bad. 

He pulled himself away, and your hips rolled, grinding against his hardness as he paid attention to the other one. Then he pulled himself away with a smack and licked his bottom lip. 

“Pumpkin, I know I've said it, and I'll say it again, but from the bottom of my heart… you are so goddamn hot.”

You smiled and replied, “okay… I know you know it, but you're pretty hot yourself,” then bit your lip at the admission. 

His eyes widened with an impressed raise of his brows. “You think I'm hot?” He asked, and you would've rolled your eyes if it was just a compliment, but it was an understatement if anything.

“There's something about you,” you said. 

“She thinks I'm hot,” He gloated, and you playfully gave his muscular chest a little punch.

“Prove it, baby,” he said.  

That was all you needed to rise up on your knees again, giving clearance for his cock. Then you held it at the base and slid it through your ample slick. That was proof. Solid evidence. He took in a chest full of air, looking sexy as hell with his hair disheveled his eyes blown out with lust. Then he watched you notch his cock at your entrance, and his mouth opened as your snug, wet cunt swallowed his tip. You sank down on him, and he moaned in a haze of desire. You didn't bottom out right away on your own. When you lifted up an inch, leaving the smooth skin of his dick shiny and wet, he grabbed your ass. He pulled you down on his cock, fully seating himself all the way in your warmth. 

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he breathed. He cradled your face and pulled it toward his, kissing you deep with an inhale through his nose. Your lips fit together, and his cock twitched inside you as his tongue plunged into your mouth. His hips rocked under you at the rhythm of your kiss. You licked into his mouth, pulling a short moan out of him as he accepted your tongue, caressing it with his. 

Your hips moved, meeting his cadence. A gentle ride, more of a joystick pivot than up and down, to start. His hands possessed you as you made out.

He groped your ass, your breasts. 

He pulled you tighter, wrapped an arm tight around you, and when he broke the kiss with an urgent breath, he lifted you enough to begin fucking you from the bottom, bouncing you on his cock.  He kissed your neck, breathing audibly and moaning into your jaw, grunting against your cheek, as he fucked you, and your hips rocked together.

“God damn, you're fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed. “Th’way you ride this cock.” He thrust up and let you down, with his cock even deeper. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Yeah, lemme see ya ride it. He pulled his head back against the wall, captivated by the way you moved. You planted your hands on him, one on each pec, and rolled your hips. Keeping his cock deep inside, you tilted forward and grinded against his pubic bone, moaning at the synchronized pressure on your cunt and the nudge of his cock in your depths. 

“God damn, that's good,” he marveled. “Yeah, just like that.” 

You felt fuller with each drag of his girth through your soft walls. The fullness made your mouth fall open, then his head came off the wall. His neck began to stretch, then when you moaned again, his core flexed as he came off the wall and wrapped an arm around you. His mouth took yours again, and you gladly surrendered it to him. You kissed and fucked, sliding against each other, pressed together. With your arms around his neck, you breathed against each other's mouths. His cock throbbed, and you whimpered.

Pleasure built in your belly, in your chest, then seized your body with a shaking release that nearly had you choke on a moan. “Baby,” he moaned as your climax hugged his cock so good.  “Feel so–oh, fuck–” His body jerked as his first rope shot into you, with your thighs already trembling from your own release. He kissed you as you finished milking his cock, each warm burst in your core had him moaning a little softer into your mouth. 

When your mouths separated, your foreheads came gently together. You breathed each other's breath, and you only realized your hand was in his hair after you absent mindedly raked your fingernails over his scalp and he hummed, “Mmm.”

He planted a firm kiss on your neck, and held you until you started dozing off and he leaned back against the wall, stroking your back, softening inside you, content for you to stay like that as long as you wanted.

-

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Thank you for reading, and thank you for your activism. please consider sharing this fic if you like it <3

[agathasfamiliar]

you better make me better (pt. 1)

agatha harkness x fem!reader

it's 1780, your coven has been chosen by agatha harkness herself to walk the witches' road with her. but you've caught her eye and when things don't go exactly as planned, agatha might just make an exception to her rules.

other parts: 1 2 3 4

word count: ~1400

warnings: brief mention of blood

author's note: i've been reading so much agatha x reader that i needed to give it a shot. i intend for this to eventually be smut, hense the need for this secret blog. let me know your thoughts and send any requests pls i need ideas for practice.

This is our only chance.

The words of your fellow coven members echo in your head as you navigate clumsily through the punishing brush of the wood east of town. Each slap of a branch feels like a blade and you’re unsure if the wetness you feel on your face is from the slowly mounting storm trickling through the canopy or bloody evidence of the sharper foliage.

Your coven told you they need you for this ritual, and though it sounds far too good to be true, you trust them. For some reason. Your leader, ever the ambitious witch, spoke of a mysterious and palpably powerful woman she’d stumbled upon that told her of a place called The Witches’ Road. A place you could all finally reach your full potential as witches, something you’ve been longing for for longer than you can remember. 

You’ve always been the least naturally gifted of the group when it came to the arcane, picked on by the others for always having your nose in a book memorizing the rules of the craft rather than “letting the magic flow through you.” But you know all too well the dangers of allowing your emotions to rule your power. That’s the true reason you’d agreed to humor this meeting at the witching hour, because of the certain way your leader had phrased the proposition. 

“At the end of the road, you will find what is missing.”

There wasn’t a long enough parchment in the world to contain the list of what you were missing. What you had lost. Maybe walking this road could bring what you really need into focus. Give you some sort of much needed direction.

It’s as you continue to ponder what this missing piece may be that you reach out to steady yourself on a branch and it gives way with a noise that is more alarmed in offense and irritation than true fear. You, on the other hand, expel a gasp of true fear and stumble forward having expected to put your weight on the “branch”. 

The branch that is actually a woman’s arm, whom you failed to see, leant up against a tree in the lightless and rain-obscure space.

Before you can even register the fact that you’re falling head first into thorny undergrowth, you feel hands around your middle. They pull you back upwards and against a warm body, the owner of which lets out the slightest grunt of effort. Your back rests against the figure's front as you briefly catch your breath, your heart beat attempting to return to normal from the jolt. 

Once you’re able to consider your surroundings and settle on which way is up, you stiffen, bracing for a chiding from one of the other coven members about being more careful. You’re unsure which of your sisters it is, still unable to see even a foot in front of your face. You’re more so surprised that any one of them would deny themself the opportunity to see you fall rather than help you up.

Instead, a wry feminine cackle, foreign to your ears, breaks the silence. Whoever this is, it is not one of your coven members. And somehow that settles your nerves rather than increasing them. 

It’s as if she, this woman, leans impossibly closer to ensure her breath ghosts over your right ear and down the back of your neck in a way that sends chills down your spine. It feels so familiar that for a moment you distantly wonder if you’re in the midst of a terribly vivid dream. 

Even more confused now, and with her hands showing no sign of loosening on your waist, you turn in the arms of the strange woman that’s now holding you. You decide you ought to actually see this person before you speak.

She allows you to turn, but her grip only laxes enough for the small movement, reclining once again against the trunk of the tree. This serves to further steady you but also forces you to allow her to support your full weight.

“Careful, dear. You don’t know who could be out here in these woods.” She says mockingly, fingers digging into your corseted frame in a way that simultaneously tickles and pinches. You think from the slight smile you can see in the shadowy swirling of her expression that this is intentional. 

The way she speaks makes you feel like you’ve met before. There’s a familiarity to her banter that one might call rude if it wasn’t so enthralling. The voice, you also note, matches the cackle if any voice ever could, and the hushed melodic tone coupled with the indistinguishable features in the darkness only add to the doubts you have in regards to your own consciousness.

“Thank you for your help, I’m sorry to have-” Your sentence trails off as clouds ahead must part to allow moonlight to cast over the face of the woman, instantly wiping your memory of any intended end to your sentence.

You’re met with piercing blue eyes that you think are icy enough to freeze over hell, but instead burn into you with a fire that might rival it. Her eyes make quick work of your face and shamelessly trail down the rest of you as you realize she is also seeing you for the first time in the newly illuminated space. The pale skin of her face almost seems to glitter silver under the moonbeam and the way her wild mane of dark hair falls around her makes her one with the surrounding gnarled trees. You’re unsure where the tendrils end and the stray branches framing her visage begin. 

You suddenly think about the branches that cut your face as you made your way to this place and wonder if the locks of her hair may do the same if they were to brush over your skin. You oddly find yourself hoping they will.

Shaking yourself from the odd thought, your tongue darts out almost involuntarily to taste iron as you wet your lips. You realize the woman is no longer holding you to her, rather you’re leaning into her on your own accord, transfixed. 

You step away quickly, as if burned, almost stumbling once again into the brush but catching yourself. This earns another short laugh from her. 

“You must be Y/N.” She finally says when you stare at her dumbfounded. You half think to ask if she’s some sort of nymph or other preternatural beauty you’ve heard tales of in your books, unable to reason at the moment why anyone else would be out here at this hour. 

Luckily, something about hearing her actually say your name sobers you from the odd dream-like state this encounter has had so far. 

“How do you know that?” You ask, slightly defensive but with a softness that comes from the fact that you definitely want to hear her say your name again.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” She ignores your question playfully, stepping past you and further into the clearing behind. When you don’t immediately make a move to follow she pauses, walking back over to where you stand and looping a long fingered hand around one bicep. She pulls until you start to step, leading you forward with a theatrical amount of effort to emphasize her point. 

“Your coven sisters are a hoot.” She raises her eyebrows and rolls her eyes with an air of sarcasm that only makes you like her more. You smile apologetically, thinking about what embarrassing things they must’ve said about you to this woman.

“Come on, pretty girl. I don’t bite…” She says, though her nails do bite into your arm pointedly at the statement as you round the bend in the clearing to reveal your fellow coven members standing in a lowly torchlit circle. You try not to acknowledge the slightest disappointment you feel at the statement.

“Usually.” She adds with a wink, as if reading your mind, before reaching the circle and throwing her hands out to the group in a very performative show of arrival that brings a genuine smile to your face.

Of course this is the woman that charmed your leader into gathering you all here. You just started following her deeper into an unfamiliar forest alone after less than a “hello”, so you really can’t place blame. 

You’ve known her for less than five minutes and haven’t even gotten to ask her name yet, partially because once you finally looked into her eyes you’re pretty sure your tongue stopped working all together. However, you are unwaveringly sure you have never met anyone like her before and probably never will again.

[jweekgoji]

can u write some Yandere TFO Darkwing x Cybertronian femme reader, who is a miner but Darkwing ends up getting her pregnant and forces her to be his conjux

Yandere!Darkwing/Femme!Reader [TFO]

tw: dubcon, yandere/dark themes, unplanned pregnancy, toxic relationship, supervisor/subordinate, power imbalance, size difference, mentions of past abuse, sickness, description of trauma, hurt no comfort, no happy ending. word count: ~1780 a/n: I wanted to keep it short, but somehow it leads to this. I guess this is for 5 Darkwing fans? imo, he has good himbo potential. also writing for Elita was fun...now i wanna write some Optimus and Elita/Reader fics once i'm done with requests.

How could you let this happen?

The same question runs in your head over and over again. It seems that no matter how hard you try to forget about it, you always see that familiar face right next to yours. Dwarfing you, making you feel so small and fragile. It probably wouldn't be too far from the truth. With your smaller, weaker body, nobody would even notice if you were gone.

You should be used to it by now. Countless cycles of mining, the same routine seems somehow calming despite having no signs of progress in any near future.

Energon, sleep, energon, sleep. What kind of life is that? Was that really all you're good for? Your endless purpose until you break one day?

Primus, why did he make you suffer?

“Hey!” you hear a rough, commanding tone from your captain right behind you. “No slacking off until we finish our job! Come on, keep up!”

You blink once, then another few times, optics quickly concentrating on the wall in front of you. How long were you staring at this wall…? Doesn't matter.

Elita-One gives you a glare; she is too preoccupied with leading her group safe; of course, the mines are too dangerous, and every single wrong move could lead to a series of disasters. You usually have no problems with following her orders, but everything now is just too much. Too much stress, too many orders. You're so exhausted.

Reluctantly, you continue working on collecting energon once again. The heavy equipment makes your frame tremble from the weight; you never once struggled with it, despite the drilling machine being almost the same weight as yours. Now, every single minute feels like a challenge. Focus, focus, focus— you can't just pass out during your work! If it didn't kill you first, then Elita-One certainly would after you screwed her chances of promotion.

You shook your head, as if somehow all the thoughts about the pain—the non-stop aching shooting down your back. It makes you want to bend down and wrap your arms around yourself; maybe, just maybe, it will all go away, and you'll be back to normal.

The soft whirr of your cooling systems gets louder. The poor mechanism overworking itself to cool down your frame. You barely notice how the buzzing sound of the drills seems quieter now, changing into the ringing in your head.

The loud clank of the metal against the ground quickly catches Elita's attention. A frown etched on her faceplate, the immediate ‘...by the name of Solus Prime, what's next?’ she quietly grumbled under her breath, turning her attention to the source of that sound.

Your boss was ready to scold you again, another lecture about the importance of teamwork and how it affects the whole squad—but all the annoyance quickly changes into panic the moment she sees you. Close to falling on your own knees and forehead pressed against the wall as you lean against it.

She quickly approaches you, placing her servo on your shoulder to turn you over so you can face her. Your frame is so warm, no, too warm it's almost burning hot. Your spark beats so hard she can practically feel it under her palm. The signs of sickness are obvious, and she cursed her luck yet again that now she has to explain the situation to the supervisors.

Elita helps you to lean your frame against her own instead, holding her arm around your waist, asking countless questions about what the pit you were thinking, and starting your shift without telling her about your well-being. She's the leader of your group! She has to know everything! It doesn't help with her concerns that you barely say anything, too weak to even open your mouth.

She is so annoyed with you, at everything right now. Great, just great, now she has to— a pause. Her optics widened for a mere second. Elita-One looks down at you with a mixture of confusion and a growing shock. The beating of your spark. Twice as fast, too unusual for any cybertronian even if put under the stress. Her servo reaches to your chassis, hovering over the spot where the spark chamber is. You're sparked up.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Quiet, too quiet, perhaps. The first thing you notice before finally opening your optics. The soft light of the room makes you want to go back to recharging again. Another innocent dream will be a good place to escape the harsh reality, until the slow realization creeps into your mind.

“It wasn't my fault, how could I—” the distant sound of Elita's voice is heard outside the room you were in.

“It was your job to lead the group and make sure everything goes according to the protocols. Just like ensuring that every bot in your squad is in the right shape for work,” you don't have to check twice to understand who it would be. Darkwing.

You can hear Elita trying to defend herself again. After all, it wasn't really her fault. You never wanted to tell anyone about it. But what choices did you have? How can you explain being sparked up? By who?

Now you feel guilty. Shame. She got into trouble because of you, and knowing how hard she worked to reach her position...You're so, so sorry.

You slowly move to sit up on the berth in the...what was this place exactly? It reminds of the infirmary, but surprisingly, any medic is absent today. Ratchet? Lifeline? First Aid? Completely gone.

As the door opens, your optics meet Darkwing's own. It was always hard to understand what exactly he was thinking about when he looked at you. The visor, the battle mask, it seems like every single thing in him has a purpose to make you self-conscious. Nervous and scared. Unlike him, you never had the chance of hiding.

Once you two were alone, he's fuming. He breathes heavily, trying to suppress the anger burning inside his chassis. If you were any other miner, another speck of dirt under his pedes, he would have disciplined you without thinking twice.

But you're no ordinary miner now, are you?

“You hid this from me, on purpose,” Darkwing looks down at you, servos clenching into tight fists. “And this is how I find out about it. Do you have any idea what you just got yourself into?”

The mere idea of him being together with  some nameless miner? Ridiculous. He never planned it to develop into something more. Just a one-night stand, nothing more. He would have forgotten about it by the next day if it wasn't for something, making him think about you since then.

The perfect size, fitting in his servos just right. A tiny toy to play with and use however he wants. A cute one too; isn't this a great deal? The curves, the shape of your frame...if you had a cog, what kind of alt mode would you have? A jet like him? Maybe a car? A boat?

Any other of his fellow supervisors would have left you immediately once they found out. If any bot gets to know about it, he's screwed. Darkwing, who claims to despise every single cogless bot? And now he's having second thoughts about whether he should let you be on your own or...participate?

You lowered your head, as if in shame. There's no fight in you left, not after Darkwing personally stripped you of your dignity. Now the only thing left is a sense of responsibility over that sparkling inside you. You're not even sure if your body can take it. The slowly growing little thing takes up a good half of your energy, and with the energon portions you receive, it is hardly enough for the two. You might die from starvation if this keeps up.

Just standing next to Darkwing is a struggle. You wonder, if he even understands what he costantly puts you through, or maybe he finds some sick pleasure in it. Watching you suffer. Is that what he wants? While you live with the responsibility that he put on your shoulders, nothing ever changes for him. This is so unfair.

You will be no surprised if he drags you to the mines to continue working just to please Sentinel Prime right now.

“Can't even look at me. You miners are only good at one thing,” another taunt. His servo reaches to cup your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

The touch is gentler, not the usual roughness you started getting used to. You learned that whenever he is near you, the pain should be expected the next. That's why it's hard not to flinch every time he gets a little too close. This time, it's something different. Your optics closed, as if expecting a punch, a slap, or another bunch of degrading words?

Nothing.

Trembling in his grasp like some sort of wounded animal next to their predator. Obedient, quiet and timid, the cycles he spent to shape you into a perfect doll to play with. But you're carrying his sparkling, the part of him is soon to be born in this world. It is too late to get rid of it, even though some time ago the sound of it seemed tempting. No, even a useless doll like you deserves a second chance to prove yourself. From some faceless miner, you can grow into something more. Better. A carrier.

He can't let you go back to that place; it would be too cruel even for someone like him to let the carrier of his sparkling to continue this. The best thing is, no one would even suspect you were gone. A tragic event, one of the miner bots neglected their health until it was too late.

Sad, sobbing story, but don't worry, being stuck with your ex-supervisor is not too bad. By the all old rules, it's a shame not to claim a carrier of your sparklings as your conjunx.

“You should be grateful that I have better plans to use you, cogless,” Darkwing's hold on you tightened just for a fraction. To make sure you listen and understand his intentions. No other options but to obey. His words echo in the back of your mind.

The act of profference.

Gifting you a freedom, something you wished for and craved so deeply supposed to make you happy. If only it wasn't the same day you lose it.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

robespierre family dynamics... what were augustin and charlotte like? how did maximilien act towards them? wasnt charlotte into horse riding, and didnt her brothers discourage her from doing that? wasnt augustin known as the more goofy, lighthearted version of maximilien? oh! and why was augustin nicknamed "bonbon"?

(these are questions mixed in with random facts ive heard about the robespierre family... since you know a lot about frev, im hoping to get some more context and clarification on some of these!)

To start off with Augustin’s nickname Bonbon: Élisabeth Duplay Le Bas confirmed in a note written around 1847 that it stemmed from the fact Augustin’s middle name was Bon. Interestingly, we actually have no recorded instance of Maximilien and Charlotte using the nickname, even if it can be assumed that they did.

As for the family dynamics, pre-revolution we more or less only have two sources to rely on —  La Vie et les Crimes de Robespierre, surnommé Le Tyran: depuis sa naissance jusqu’à sa mort (1795) by Le Blond de Neuvéglise (abbé Proyart), who was an acquaintance of the family and teacher of Maximilien, and Charlotte’s Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1835). For both authors, the primary point is not necessarily to tell the full truth, but rather to denounce/rehabilitate (or if you want, vilify/glorify) Maximilien, and as a consequence, the pictures they paint are radically different from one another (and perhaps not always to be treated that literally). According to Proyart, the child Maximilien ”was tyrannically harsh towards his brother and his sisters. As he spoke little, he found it bad that they spoke more than he did, he did not grant them common sense; nothing they said was well said. He missed no opportunity of mortifying or humiliating them; he lavished on them, for the smallest of subjects, the reproaches of rudeness.” Charlotte on the other hand writes that her older brother ”loved us tenderly, and there were no caresses he did not lavish on us.” She does however subscribe to Proyart’s description in some sense, as she right before this states: ”since [the death of our parents] he saw himself, in the quality of eldest, as the head of the family, he became poised, reasonable, laborious; he spoke to us with a sort of imposing gravity; if he joined in our games, it was to direct them.”

Following what more reliable sources can tell us about the early family dynamics (see this post for a more complete timeline), we know the siblings lost their mother on July 16 1764, when Maximilien was six, Charlotte four, Henriette two and a half and Augustin one (according to Charlotte’s memoirs, he was still with a wetnurse when this happened). Shortly thereafter (unclear exactly when) their father cut contacts with his children. According to Charlotte’s memoirs, she and Henriette were then taken in by their two paternal aunts, while the two brothers got looked after by their maternal grandparents. They did however make sure that the children got to see each other every Sunday. On December 30 1768, the eight year old Charlotte was enrolled at Maison des Sœurs Manarre, “a pious foundation for poor girls” situated in modern day Belgium, which she presumably left in 1778, aged 18. On October 13 1769, eleven year old Maximilien left for the boarding school of Louis-le-Grand in Paris, from which he graduated on May 15 1781. Henriette was sent to join her sister at Maison des Sœurs Manarre on May 3 1771. She died in March 1780, it’s unclear exactly where. As for Augustin, he presumably studied at the college of Duoai until October 11 1781, when he got to overtake Maximilien’s scholarship to Louis-le-Grand. It can in other words be concluded that the siblings (with the exception of Charlotte and Henriette) didn’t see much of each other for the majority of their childhood.

From 1781 to 1789, Maximilien and Charlotte live together in Arras, first on Rue du Saumon, then on Rue Teinturiers, Rue des Jésuites and finally Rue des Rapporteurs 9. In 1787 they are joined by Augustin who has finished his studies at Louis-le-Grand. The information we have regarding the family dynamics for this period continue to be very lacking, we still more or less only have Charlotte’s memoirs and Proyart’s La Vie et les Crimes de Robespierre… to rely on. According to the former, Maximilien worked much, from six or seven in the morning to seven or eight in the evening, spending the rest of the day with his friends or family. Charlotte nevertheless also remembers that he was often rather distracted in these gatherings — ”when we played cards, or when we spoke only of insignificant things, he retired to a corner of the apartment, ensconced himself in an armchair, and gave himself up to his reflections as if he had been alone” —  something which she and the two aunts often reproached him for. She still insists that ”he was naturally gay; he knew how to be pleasant, and sometimes laughed until he cried” and that the same aunts would often tell her: “Your brother is an angel; he has all moral virtues, he is made to be the dupe and the victim of the vicious too.” Charlotte notes that she and the aunts ”spoiled [Maximilien] by a crowd of those little attentions of which women alone are capable,” but also that she often had to decide for herself what they were having for dinner, Maximilien responding he had no idea when she asked him what he wanted.

As for Augustin, Charlotte writes that he had less aptitude for study than Maximilien, and was sometimes reproached for ”his idle tastes” by his big siblings — ”we exhorted him to create some occupations for himself; sometimes our remonstrance made Augustin withdraw into himself; he put himself to his work with an ardor to lively to be durable; enclosed in his chamber he passed many days with books; but he could not long support this constraint.” Regardless, Charlotte concludes by describing the bond between the three siblings as strong — ”never had a family been as united as my two brothers and I.” An image that Proyart doesn’t exactly agree with, here is all he has to say regarding the family dynamics during the same period:

In his domestic affairs, [Maximilien] was neither less despotic nor more amiable than in his external relations. He treated with equal harshness and heaped the same reproaches on both his brother, who could deserve them, and a sister, who did not deserve them. The first was twenty-five years old, and he still addressed him with a brutal "shut up, stupid beast." At a time when his sister, although economical with her time, earned very little from the work of her fingers, he did not grant her even the necessary supplement for the most modest maintenance.

When Maximilien in 1789 set out to get elected for the Estates General, Proyart claims that Augustin helped in the campaign: ”Robespierre the younger went from village to village, seeking votes for his brother.” In an undated memorandum presumably written in March 1795, Armand Joseph Guffroy, an associate of the three siblings, claims that Charlotte also helped here, selling for her brothers the capital of her 400 livres income to help them get to Paris, and this in spite of ”the prediction of an aunt.”

In her memoirs, Charlotte claims that the siblings wrote to each other frequently during Maximilien’s time as deputy of the National Assembly: ”[Maximilien] gave me the most emphatic testimony of friendship in his letters. “You (vous) are what I love the most after the homeland,” he told me.” However, we have zero letters conserved from Maximilien to his brother and sister, as well as zero from Augustin to his sister. Both brothers did however write several letters to the family friend Antoine Buissart while away in Paris (we have a total nine from Maximilien between 1789-1792, and eighteen from Augustin 1789-1793). In said letters, they often tell Buissart to say hello from them to his wife Charlotte, but never ask about their own family… We do however have signs of Maximilien having corresponded with at least Augustin. One can be found in a letter from Maximilien to Buissart dated May 1 1790, where he mentions that he’s ”sending you a letter for my brother,” not daring to address it to him directly ”out of fear that my name would incite aristocratic hands to violate the secrecy of the letters.” The other sign is in a letter from Augustin to Maximilien dated April 10 1792 where there is to read: ”You are mistakenly complaining about the bad address I sent you.” These letters from Maximilien have then either gone missing or gotten destroyed.

Throughout 1790 we also have a total of nine letters from Augustin to Maximilien, most of them undated. These are entirely business related, and can’t really be used to say much about the dynamics between the two brothers, other than the fact Augustin was utterly loyal to his big brother. In one of the letters he complains that Maximilien is hesitant to publish a response to Briois de Beaumetz who in an open letter had accused him of having charged the people of Arras with failure to pay their taxes — ”This is an insult you are doing to your greatest friend.” He also doesn’t hide his fears of the risks Maximilien’s position puts him in: ”I tremble, my friend, when I think of the dangers that surround you. […] Farewell, I embrace you with tears in my eyes,” sentiments he repeats in a later letter, though this time with some resolve added in: ”I cannot hide my fears from you, dear brother, you will seal the cause of the people with your blood, perhaps these people will even be unfortunate enough to strike you, but I swear to avenge your death and to deserve it like you.” Augustin was also ready to give his brother political advice: in one of the letters he suggests dropping his motion for the marriage of priests, since it causes too much uproar:  ”[the motion] is well within my principles, but few people are at the same level! You would lose the esteem of the peasants if you renewed this motion. This weapon is used to harm you; people only talk about your irreligion, etc.”

As for Charlotte, we have one letter from her to Maximilien dated April 9 1790, in which she mentions a local whip-round that she and other ”patriots” have occupied themselves with, a falling out she’s had with the journalist Thérèse Merchand — ”I took the liberty of telling her what the good patriots must have thought of her journal, and what you thought of it. I reproached her for her affectation of always putting infamous notes for the people, etc.” — and which she ends by asking him to ”to send what you promised me. We are still in great trouble” and to see if he can’t find a place in Paris for her and for Augustin, ”because he will never be anything in this country.” 

That the two younger siblings were in dire straits back in Arras is also confirmed by two letters from Augustin to Maximilien from 1790. In the first one he writes that “We are in absolute destitution, remember our unfortunate household,” in the second one he reports that ”my sister has payed your rent. She has very few things left. She begs me to tell you this. I don’t know what to become, I don’t find any resources.” That Maximilien helped them out economically is confirmed by Souvernirs d’un déporté (1802) by Paul Villiers, who claimed to have served as his secretary in 1791. Villiers recalled that Maximilien at the time sent half of his fees to ”a sister he had in Arras, whom he held a lot of affection for.”

While Charlotte wouldn’t see her older brother again until 1791, Augustin went to visit him at least two times during the lifespan of the National Assembly. The first visit came in September 1789, as seen through letters from Augustin to Buissart dated September 3 and September 10. Through the second letter we learn that Augustin and Maximilien had gotten into some kind of argument prior to the latter leaving for Versailles, but that they had now made up — ”My brother has righted his wrongs against me.” Through the address given on both letters, we see that Augustin moved in with Maximilien on Rue d’Étang 16, a place he shared with three other deputies from Arras before the National Assembly moved to Paris in October 1789. It is unclear if Augustin was still with his brother when this move took place. We do know he was back in Arras by at least April 1790. In June the same year he writes to ask Maximilien to supply him with the means to go to Paris for July 14, in order to compensate for the lack of ”patriotic enjoyment” in Arras. We don’t know if he got his will through here. He was however back by his brother’s side again by September 1790, as revealed through a letter from the same month from him to Buissart. Augustin seems to have been ready to go back to Arras by the end of the year but gotten hindered by his brother, as revealed through letters from him to Buissart dated dated November(”My brother has delayed my departure, I will not announce it anymore; I will arrive, I will embrace you, everything will be forgiven.”) and December 13 (”I thought you would have received me at your home today instead of receiving my letter the day after tomorrow; but my brother did not allow me to leave and I’m staying in Paris for the week.”) Though the first letter we also learn that Charlotte would not appear to have been so fond over Augustin having left for the capital once more: ”A thousand things to my sister, she must be very cross with me, but she easily forgets, that consoles me, I will try to bring her what she wants.” Augustin nevertheless appears to have stayed in Paris until at least March 1791, as seen through a letter from him to Buissart the same month. Maximilien’s secretary Paul Villiers gave the following portrait of Augustin during the stay: ”…a miserable lawyer, without means, false, drunkard, base and villainous; he did me the honor of esteeming me and borrowing money and linen from me which he then never returned.” 

On September 30 1791 the National Assembly was closed down, and a few days later Maximilien settled for Arras for a short stay. According to number 289 of the journal La Feuille du jour (October 16 1791), Augustin, Charlotte and ”many other young ladies” traveled to Baurains to meet him, dressed in fine clothes and equipped with music and a so-called ”civic crown,” but were forced to return empty handed when no Maximilien appeared. This was something the people of Arras could not stand for, proposing that Augustin serve as substitute for his brother and be given civic honors in his place. Augustin did however manage to shut this project down with the words: ”No, I refuse, they would make fun of me almost as much as they would of my brother.” 

Recounting this episode in her memoirs forty years later, Charlotte does however claim that Maximilien had written to her about his arrival beforehand, recommending her to keep it a secret. She still writes that she and Augustin went to meet him on the way and had to return empty-handed, but that they were accompanied only by the family friend Charlotte Buissart, and were quite surprised to on their return to Arras see ”a considerable crowd; already the rumor of Robespierre’s arrival had spread in the city, whether by some indiscretion of Madame Buissart’s, whether because our servant had understood the reason for our trip to Bapaume, and had divulged it.” The next day, Charlotte, Augustin and Madame Buissart did however set out again early in the morning, and this time Maximilien eventually did appear: ”Finally, we held him in our arms, and we tasted the ineffable pleasure of seeing him again after an absence of two years.”

For Maximilien’s stay in Arras, Ghislain Morel, clerc of the priest Joseph Lebon, told the following anecdote (cited in La Terreur dans le Pas-de-Calais et dans le Nord. Histoire de Joseph Le Bon et des tribunaux révolutionnaires d'Arras et de Cambrai (1864) regarding a dinner the two brothers attended at his master’s house:

All they talked about was reforms and upheavals. The guests seemed to be preparing the plans that two years later they carried out. Robespierre the younger was a man of peace, who only asked to dine quietly; when he saw Maximilien and Lebon lose their temper, he exhausted himself in efforts to calm them down and bring them to other thoughts.

In late November 1791, Maximilien did however leave for Paris once more, to never see his hometown again. The following months we find three conserved letters from Augustin to Maximilien dated November 1791, December 14 1791 and April 10 1792, all entirely about politics, as well as a somewhat more personal one dated March 19 1792 from Augustin to Maximilien’s host Maurice Duplay:

Patriot Dupleix [sic], I learned indirectly that my brother is indisposed; I am worried; let me know about his situation as soon as possible. Send me also the cartridge that I asked my brother's friend to look for in his papers. Tell my brother that my sister is convalescing, and that I will send back Mme Witty's book in a few days. Don't waste a moment, send answers right away. My worry is at its peak. Nothing prevents me from flying to Paris. Also send me some copies of the speech on the war that your friend gave and the observations of Pethion [sic] and Robespierre. I embrace you and your family.

On September 16 1792, Augustin was elected to fill a seat in the National Convention, representing Paris. This time, Charlotte was not left behind when he once again set out for the capital. The two moved in with the Duplay family on Rue Saint-Honoré 366, where their brother had been lodging since a year back. The family, which consisted of father Maurice, mother Françoise-Éléonore, their three unmarried daughters Éléonore, Victoire and Élisabeth, son Jacques Maurice and nephew Simon, appears to have been on great terms with both of the brothers. This is what Élisabeth in her memoirs has her husband Philippe Le Bas tell her that Augustin had told him:

He praised you, told me that he had the friendship of a brother for you, that you were cheerful and good and that he liked you best of your sisters, that your good mother was excellent, that she had raised you well, as housewives, that your household was perfect and recalled the golden age, that everything there breathed virtue and a pure patriotism, that your good father was the most worthy and generous of men, that his whole life had passed in goodness. He told me that his brother was very happy to be among you, that you were a family to him, that he loved you like sisters and regarded your father and mother as his own parents.

In Histoire de Saint-Just député à la Convention nationale (1860), Ernest Hamel also publishes a testimony from Élisabeth’s son Philippe, revealing that Augustin, together with Simon and Jacques Maurice, once visited the house of saloon hostess Jeanne-Louise-Françoise de Sainte-Amaranthe, ”and this escapade was so severely criticised by Maximilien that, despite all the attraction of such a house for men, the oldest of whom was barely twenty-nine years old, they were careful not to return there.”

As can be seen above, Augustin also seems to have gone under his nickname ”Bonbon” within the Duplay family.

Charlotte on the other hand wrote in her memoirs that she got along well with Élisabeth and Victoire, but not so much with their mother and Éléonore. For the first, she writes that she ”looked constantly to put me in bad standing with my older brother and to monopolize him.” She also brings up (as she is not alone in having done) the claim that there existed marriage plans between Maximilien and Éléonore. Charlotte however, argues that only Françoise and Éléonore actually wanted this, her brother being too ”overwhelmed with work and affairs” to have time for either mistress or fiancée. She writes Maximilien ”told me twenty times that he felt nothing for Éléonore; her family’s obsessions, their importunities were more suited to make feel disgust for her than to make him love her,” and that he even told Augustin to marry her instead, to which he would have replied: “My faith, no.” 

Charlotte also insinuates Françoise was bullying her: ”If I were to report everything she did to me, I would fill a fat volume. […] [Élisabeth] often came to wipe away my tears when Madame Duplay’s indignities made me cry.” This ill treatment is however contested by the same Élisabeth, who in her memoirs instead reports that her mother ”regarded Charlotte as a daughter” and ”never refused her anything that could please her.” She does however imply that Charlotte did eventually fall out of favor with Françoise: ”At the time (April 1793), my mother liked [Charlotte] a lot, she still had nothing to complain about,” but without elaborating on why exactly…

Though Charlotte doesn’t write it outright, we might imagiene the feud between her and the Duplays was fueled by the fact she, who for the past ten years had had her own household to run, now had that role taken away from her by Madame Duplay. Another theory, that we’ll get to later, is that there was a political dimension to the feud, namely, Charlotte blaming the Duplays for Maximilien’s radicalization.

If information regarding the relationship between the three siblings and their hosts is far from lacking, it is more scarce when it comes to the dynamics between the siblings themselves at the time. But it can be observed that no general disagreements between the two brothers can be spotted as Augustin took the step from dealing with local politics as a lawyer in Arras to national politics as a deputy of the Convention in Paris, and that he in large parts seems to have kept the protective attitude towards Maximilien already seen in their correspondence. We know Augustin was moved by the open attack on his brother by the ”girondin” Louvet at the Convention on October 29 1793. Later the same day he exclaimed to the jacobins: ”I am somewhat ashamed to be speaking before you, because the brother of Robespierre should be calumniated, and he is not. […]  I heard men say that he would perish by their hands. Another one, whom I asked if he wanted to be the executioner of my brother, responded: ”He has been the executioner of a lot of others.” After this, it is possible to believe innocence will never be victorious!” And he ended by assuring them that Marat must be innocent of the charges currently directed against him as well, ”because he is persecuted by the same enemies that persecute Robespierre.” Augustin nevertheless also seems to have shared his brother’s 1, unwillingness to compromise and 2, belief that ideals are worth more than single individuals, when, five days later, after a jacobin proposed trying to reunite with the ”girondins,” he was firmly opposed and exclaimed: ”Citizens of Paris, be calm, let Maximilien Robespierre be sacrificed (cries of no! no! from the citizens in the tribunes). The loss of a man doesn’t entail the loss of liberty.” Finally, on December 31 1792, after having summarized the Convention session of the day for the jacobins, Augustin is recorded to have ”complained about attacks against his brother contained in the speech of Vergniaud.”

In Observations de Jérôme Pétion sur la lettre de Maximilien Robespierre (December 1792), Pétion insinuates Augustin getting elected to represent Paris in the National Convention must have been due to nepotism: ”your brother might be a brave and loyal citizen, I’m speaking neither for nor against him; but you must admit he wasn’t known to ten people.” Something which Maximilien hastily refuted when responding to Pétion a little while later:

As for my brother, he was known to the patriots of Paris and the Jacobins, who had witnessed his civic-mindedness; he was presented by members who, since the beginning of the revolution, have enjoyed public confidence; it was discussed solemnly and publicly, following the usage adopted by the electoral assembly; he was attacked more sharply than any other candidate; and were it true that one had counted, among the guarantors of his incorruptibility, the loyalty of his brother to the cause of the people, would one have to conclude with you that this choice was the fruit of the cabal, and that the electoral assembly, the purest that has yet existed among us, was a collection of intriguers and imbeciles?

As for Charlotte, Élisabeth Duplay writes in her memoirs that the two often visited the Convention together, where they sometimes met Augustin. On February 2 1793 the three siblings also had dinner with Rosalie Jullien, who the next day left the following portraits of them in a letter to her son. I would guess the idea of Augustin as more lighthearted than his brother has much to thank Rosalie’s description:

I was very pleased with the Robespierre family. The sister is naive and natural like your aunts, she arrived two hours before her brothers, and we had some women’s talk. I got her to speak about their domestic morals, and it is just like ours, simplicity and sincerity. Her brother had as little to do with the tenth of August as with the second of September. He is as suited to leading a party as he is to catching the moon between his teeth. He is abstract like a thinker and dry like an office man, but gentle like a lamb and gloomy like Young. I see that he does not possess our tender sensibilities, but I believe that he wants the best for mankind, more for the sake of justice than for the sake of love. Besides, you don't have to do more than look at his face to determine that never has nature given such gentle features to such a beautiful soul. Robespierre the younger is livelier, more open, an excellent patriot, but with a common mind and a contented temper which make him an unfavorable noise to the Mountain.

The siblings eventually move from Rue Saint-Honoré and into an apartment on Rue Saint-Florentin. No author has been able to identify when exactly this move took place. From what the different sources indicate, I personally think it’s most likely Charlotte and Augustin moved out before Maximilien, somewhere in the summer of 1793. Shortly thereafter, on July 19 1793, Augustin was was tasked by the Committee of Public Safety with going to the Army of Italy. Augustin set off a few days later together with fellow representative on mission Jean François Ricord. According to Charlotte’s memoirs, it was when she learned that Ricord was bringing his wife Marguerite for company that she asked Augustin if she too could join on the journey, something which the latter ”joyfully agreed to.”

Again according to Charlotte’s memoirs, up until this point ”nothing had altered the vivid harmony that reigned between us [three siblings].” Charlotte does however claim that it was during this mission a rupture took place between them that they would never recover from. The start of this episode, she writes, came when she, Augustin and the Ricords, after a while of having traveled from town to town with counter-revolutionaries constantly after them, finally settled in Nice for a longer period of time. There, Augustin and Ricord made frequent outings to different divisions while Charlotte and Marguerite occupied themselves with making shirts for the soldiers during the day and went for walks and horseback rides in the countryside in the evenings. This latter activity soon proved to be troublesome, as ”several journals paid by the aristocracy” back in Paris started accusing the two women of acting like princesses with their equestrian outings. As a consequence, Augustin vetoed further horseback rides after receiving a letter from Maximilien regarding the issue, and Charlotte promised to abstain from riding from then on (this is the horse controversy you were talking about in the ask) But not long after, while Augustin and Ricord were away, Marguerite, who according to Charlotte ”was the most frivolous and inconsiderate person in the world,” proposed the two should go on yet another ride, and Charlotte, after trying in vain to remind her of what her brothers had said, hesitantly joined her. ”During the entire ride, I was sad and had a heavy heart, because I was so affected by disobeying my brother.”

When Augustin reproached his sister for the ride three days later, Charlotte called on Marguerite to testify that it had been her idea. But Marguerite, instead of telling the truth, not only enforced the lie that it was Charlotte that had wanted the ride, but also added that she had taken her with her against her will. Charlotte was so stupified she couldn’t respond, but Augustin chose to believe in it, much to her distress — ”My brother knew I was incapable of lying. Why then did he not want to believe me?” After this incident, Augustin stopped speaking to Charlotte and started keeping a certain coldness towards her, a coldness which grew bigger everyday since Marguerite ”didn’t cease to speak ill of me to my brother and invent thousands of lies to make me lose his friendship.” Charlotte for her part cried a lot over Augustin’s behaviour when she was alone, but ”was resoluted to hide my pain and to not show it, especially to my brother.” She claims she didn’t understand what was causing his behaviour at the time, but chose not to ask for an explanation for it since ”I saw him so occupied, so burdened by work, that I couldn’t bring myself to.”

The straw that broke the camel’s back came when Marguerite a while later suggested to Charlotte that they should go to Grasse together to see a friend of hers, something Charlotte agreed to do. But hardly had they arrived when Marguerite came forward with a forged (so Charlotte writes) letter, telling Charlotte it was from Augustin and that he urged her to return to Paris as soon as possible. A shocked Charlotte obeyed and set out for the capital the following morning, ending her journey somewhere in the fall of 1793 (we don’t have a clear date as to when here either). Marguerite in her turn went on to slander Charlotte even more to Augustin, saying that the reason she had so abruptly left for Paris was because she didn’t care about him, and that Charlotte had caluminated both of them. According to Charlotte, Marguerite was seducing her brother, who for his part  ”believed it essential to his honor and duty” to respond to her advances. If there is any truth to that interpretation or if the story is actually such that Augustin and Marguerite were having a mutual love affair that Charlotte became an annoying witness to I will leave unsaid…

It is after Charlotte’s lone return to Paris that I think it’s most likely she got Maximilien to leave the Duplays and come live with her on Rue Saint-Florentin. According to her memoirs, the argument she used to persuade him was that, occupying such a high rank in politics, he ought to have a home of his own. ”Maximilien recognized the fairness of my reasons, but for a long time fought the proposal that I made to him to separate from the Duplay family, fearing to distress them. At last I succeeded.”

On December 18 1793, one day after the siege of Toulon, Augustin writes to let Maximilien know he’s coming back to Paris. We have two conflicting reports regarding his short stay in the capital. According to Charlotte’s memoirs, Augustin had swallowed all the bad things Marguerite Ricord had told him about his sister, and was therefore ”outraged” against her upon his arrival in Paris, refusing to see her during his stay and not even putting his foot in the house, choosing instead to lodge with his colleague Record (unclear to me if she means Ricord, which would be strange given the fact they were not given a leave at the same time). He did however make known to Maximilien that Charlotte had compromised him and Marguerite, and even though her older brother never spoke to her about it, ”I saw that he was unhappy with me.” Charlotte herself writes she was still completely unaware of what had caused Augustin’s change in attitude towards her, but that ”the purity of my conscience” stopped her from asking either brother for an explanation of why they were treating her like they did.

Maurice André Gaillard, who had known the siblings before the revolution, did on the other hand claim in his memoirs to have met Augustin when the latter made a stop in Melun on his way to Paris. Augustin, far from speaking ill of Charlotte, would then have told him that ”my whole family will be content to receive news from you. We often speak of you, my brother, sister and I, come and see us in Paris, public affairs shouldn’t hinder from cultivating old relationships.” Recalling a meeting he had with Charlotte five months later, Gaillard similarily has her say that both she and Maximilien got very happy when Augustin could deliver news about him, insinuating she and her younger brother were not on bad terms at all and that he, contrary to Charlotte’s memoirs’ version, stayed at same house as them during his leave.

We have one confirmed interaction between Augustin and Maximilien during the former’s brief stay in Paris, and it occurred on January 5 1794 at the jacobin club, in the middle of the flamewar between the journalists Hébert and Desmoulins. Augustin stood up to regret the quarrels infecting the club that were not there when he left on a mission five months earlier. ”I ask that Hébert, who has many reproaches to make, because it is he who is the cause of the movements in the departments, relating to worship [...] be heard in his turn. […] If Hébert has to respond to Camille, Père Duchesne  can enter the fray with the Vieux Cordelier.” This comment did however earn him a rebuke from Maximilien, who immediately after declared: ”It is easy to see that the last speaker has been absent from the Society for a long time. He has rendered great services at Toulon, but he did not sufficiently consider how dangerous it is to still fuel small passions which clash with so much violence.”

Soon thereafter Augustin left for another mission in Haute-Saône, this time accompanied by his mistress Guillodon La Saudraie (by now it can provably be seen that he appeared to have a much bigger appreciation for such activities than his brother, something I suppose it too has contributed to the image of him as the more light-hearted one). It wouldn’t be until June that he could see his family again.

Maximilien was for his part soon to return to the Duplays again. In her memoirs, Charlotte claims he moved back in with the family after Madame Duplay one day came to visit and found that he had fallen ill, whereupon she told Charlotte he would be better cared for at her house. The only period of illness in Robespierre’s last year alive that I’ve been able to identify is in February-March 1794, when he was away from public life for as much as a month, so it seems likely for this incident to have happened here. Charlotte claims that Maximilien first weakly refused to go, but when Madame Duplay ”doubled her instances or rather her obsessions,” he decided to follow her, telling Charlotte that ”they love me so, they have so much respect, so much goodness for me, that it would be ungrateful of me to push them away.” Élisabeth Duplay did for her part in a note written in her old age claim that Maximilien had in fact disliked living with his sister because her ”imperious character rendered him really unhappy.”

Charlotte was hurt by Maximilien choosing the Duplays over her. She writes she regardless of that often went to see him after he moved back, always being received in a ”disgraceful manner” by Françoise Duplay. Charlotte also often charged her domestic with bringing her brother jam and fruits that he liked. But one day Françoise sent the domestic and her jampots back with the words: ”Bring that back, I don’t want her to poison Robespierre.” (unclear if this is meant to be read literally or just as a joke about Charlotte’s cooking). Learning about this, Charlotte recalls she was ”stupifed,” but again chose not to tell Maximilien about what had happened since this would ”provoke a scene that could only be strongly disagreeable for him” and instead chose to ”devour in silence my grief and indignation.”

If Charlotte really was as reserved in front of her brothers as she portrays herself in her memoirs, she on the other hand appears to have been much more politically active in other places. In an undated letter probably from 1793 we do for example find her submitting papers to an unknown person and asking for a copy of ”the proclamation that you have given to M. La Jourdeai.” Charlotte seems to have been especially investigated in the situation in Arras, corresponding with both the Buissart couple, the daughter of a municipal officier and administrator in the army Claude-Louis Bruslé de Valsuzenay, who in a letter to her dated April 25 1794 paints a grim picture of the repression currently carried out in the city under the leadership of representative on mission Joseph Lebon: ”While we were relaying I fulfilled your errand. What has been said of your country is true; for six weeks one hundred and fifty people have been guillotined and about three thousand imprisoned.”

Charlotte also visited Convention deputy Armand Joseph Guffroy, who was also from Arras and had been an associate of all three siblings, even if, according to Élisabeth Duplay, Augustin and Maximilien ”held a great contempt for him” since at least 1793. In his work Les secrets de Joseph Lebon et de ses complices (1795) Guffroy claims there was one affair concerning Arras that Charlotte got particularily invested in. It revolved around several members of the city’s revolutionary tribunal — the president Beugniet, public prosecutor Démouliez and committee of surveillance member Gabriel Leblond — who on April 19 1794 got arrested for not having voted for death in a recent trial (these would later be joined by Leblond’s brother, as well as a couple by the name of Danten). On May 4, all of them were taken to Paris to be transferred before the Revolutionary Tribunal of the city. While Guffroy since May 7 started mailbombing Maximilien denouncing and asking him to recall Joseph Lebon and receive declarations from the imprisoned, he writes that female relatives of the accused, alongside Charlotte and the aforementioned Charlotte Buissart, tried their best to approach him in person to tell him about the situation — ”Leblond’s sister, Demeulier’s daughter, Buissart’s wife, Robespierre’s sister, to whom he was almost invisible, took every means to reach him” (this claim is also confirmed through a letter from Guffroy to the Committee of Public Safety dated June 26 1794, where he writes Robespierre surely must remember what the two Charlottes have told him on this subject.) 

Charlotte’s attempts to get her brother to listen to her might eventually have motivated her to move back in with the Duplays as well. That is at least the place Maurice André Gaillard portrays her as living at when in his memoirs recounting a meeting the two had somewhere in May 1794. During said meeting Charlotte would have again ”named with great bitterness, the prodigious number of very honest people dragged to the scaffold by Joseph Lebon,” before again raging against the Duplay family. By now, it would however appear like the relationship with Maximilien it too has much deteriorated, and Charlotte comes off as deploring of her brother’s role in ”the terror,” while nevertheless blaming all his negative changes on his host family:

When my younger brother passed through Melun, all three of us were living together; I still hoped to be able to bring back the older, to snatch him from the wretches who obsess over him and lead him to the scaffold. They felt that my brother would eventually escape them if I regained his confidence, they destroyed me entirely in his mind; today he hates the sister who served as his mother… For several months he has been living alone, and although lodged in the same house, I no longer have the power to approach him… I loved him tenderly, I still do… His excesses are the consequence of the domination under which he groans, I am sure of it, but knowing no way to break the yoke he has allowed himself to be placed under, and no longer able to bear the pain and the shame of to see my brother devote his name to general execration, I ardently desire his death as well as mine. Judge of my unhappiness!… 

When Gaillard wants to see Maximilien to speak with him of an affair regarding 60 arrested judges from Melun (an affair on which Charlotte is quick at voicing her mind as well), Charlotte even suggests not mentioning her name to him. After Gaillard is refused at the Duplays’ door, Charlotte aims even more reproaches against the family, and hopes Augustin will eventually be able to get Maximilien to move away from there:

No one can approach my brother unless he is a friend of those Duplays, with whom we are lodging; these wretches have neither intelligence nor education, explain to me their ascendancy over Maximilien. However, I do not despair of breaking the spell that holds him under their yoke; for that I am awaiting the return of my other brother, who has the right to see Maximilien. If the discovery I just made doesn't rid us of this race of vipers forever, my family is forever lost. You know what a miserable state we found ourselves in, reduced to alms, my brothers and I, if the sister of our father hadn’t taken us in. It’s strange that you didn’t often notice how much her husband’s brusqueness and formality made us pay dearly for the bread he gave us; but you must also have noticed that if indigence saddened us, it never degraded us and you always judged us incapable of containing money through a dubious action. Maximilien, who makes me so unhappy, has never given a hold, as you know, in terms of delicacy. Imagiene his fury when he learns that these miserable Duplays are using his name and his credit to get themselves the rarest goods at a low price from the merchants. So while all of Paris is forced to line up at the baker's shop every morning to get a few ounces of black, disgusting bread, the Duplays eat very good bread because the Incorruptible sits at their table: the same pretext provides them with sugar, oil, soap of the best quality, which the inhabitant of Paris would seek in vain in the best shops... How my brother's pride would be humiliated if he knew the abuse that these wretches make of his name! What would become of his popularity, even among his most ardent supporters? Certainly my brother is very proud, it is in him a capital fault; you must remember, you and I have often lamented the ridicule he made for himself by his vanity, the great number of enemies he made for himself by his disdainful and contemptuous tone, but he is not bloodthirsty. Certainly he believes he can overthrow his adversaries and his enemies by the superiority of his talent.

Charlotte then helps arrange a meeting between Gaillard and Maximilien’s Committee of Public Safety colleague and friend Georges Couthon, so that Gaillard can discuss his errand with him instead. But when Couthon, once the conversation turns hostile, makes a move to call on his guards, Charlotte throws herself on him and holds him still while telling Gaillard to escape and go wait for her. Meeting up with him again, she claims that they both were fooled by ”the profound hypocrisy” of Couthon and that Gaillard would have been executed this very day if she had not intervened. But, not convinced that Couthon will stay put, she tells Gaillard to flee Paris and not to take the ordinary route, something which he also goes ahead and does. If Maximilien found out about this incident is something the anecdote leaves unknown, but we might imagine he wasn’t super happy with his sister if he did…

While all this was going down, Augustin was still away from Paris serving as representative on mission. Aside from letters to the entire Committee of Public Safety, he also penned down seven ones only to Maximilien during this one year long period. These are all entirely related to politics, with one exception, a letter that is undated but usually gets traced to May 1794:

My sister does not have a single drop of blood that resembles ours. I have seen and learned so much about her that I regard her as our greatest enemy. She abuses our spotless reputation to lay down the law on us and threatens to take a scandalous step in order to compromise us. We must take a decisive stand against her. We must make her leave for Arras, and thus take her away from us, a woman who causes our common despair. She would like to give us the reputation of bad brothers, her calumnies spread against us aim at this goal. I would like you to see the citoyenne La Saudraie, she would give you certain information on all the masks that it is interesting to know in these circumstances. A certain Saint-Félix seems to be from the clique.

What exactly Augustin is denouncing Charlotte for here is of course hard to know for sure. At first, a connection might be drawn to him having incorrectly come to believe Charlotte had ”caluminated” him and Madame Ricord, as Charlotte would have it in her memoirs. In said memoirs, Charlotte does however not make that connection, choosing instead to not mention this letter at all, making you suspect there could be something more serious it is alluding to… Indeed, it can be established that the Saint-Félix Augustin claims to be part of Charlotte’s ”clique” in the letter was a ”hébertist” since February 19 1794 held under loose house, and whose brother had gotten executed the following month. But regardless of whether the conflict between the two be personal, political or both, the fact Augustin could denounce Charlotte in this vague of a manner and expect Maximilien to act on it might tell us a bit on how the trust and power dynamics between the three siblings looked…

Augustin’s letter may be the reason (though it’s not confirmed) Maximilien on May 14 wrote the following letter on behalf of the Committee of Public Safety, asking Joseph Lebon, the representative on mission to Arras that Charlotte according to Gaillard’s account repulsed, to make a short trip to Paris. He would however not appeared to have been affected by his sister’s feelings for him, instead telling him that the Committee of Public Safety is happy with his work:

Dear colleague, The Committee of Public Safety needs to confer with you on important objects, it does justice to the energy with which you have suppressed the enemies of the revolution, and the result of our conference will be to direct it in an even more useful way. Come as soon as possible, to return promptly to the post where you currently are.

Lebon quickly did as he was told. According to Guffroy’s Les Secretes de Joseph Lebon the following played out during his short stay in Paris:

Lebon returned to Paris for 24 hours. He spoke to the committee, to Lebas, to Saint-Just and to Robespierre. He was very diligent with the latter. His sister, worthy of the esteem of all good citizens, reproached him for his cruelty, he denied it, and under the pretext of making her an eyewitness, he brought Robespierre’s sister with him. Her brothers wanted to get rid of her: their correspondence proves it.

In an undated memorandum written after the death of the two brothers, Guffroy furthermore argues that it was Charlotte’s relationship with him that caused her fallout with them: …[The brothers] drove her out of their house because she did not think like they did, because she came to see my wife and because she saw citizens who were sincere friends of justice and truth.” A story that Charlotte’s going to somewhat subscribe to in her interrogation held July 31 1794, that we’ll get to later.

On May 17 Lebon reached Cambrai with Charlotte by his side, as announced by a letter written by Augustin Darthé two days later. From there, it didn’t take long before she was back in Arras again. If Charlotte had given her consent to be escorted back to her hometown by a man she allegedly had accused of bloodlust a few days earlier remains unknown. Gaillard for his part claims Charlotte willingly went there in order to ”collect evidence of the massacres carried out by Joseph Lebon,” but that Maximilien ”devoted mortal hatred to her” because of it.

For Charlotte’s time in Arras, we learn through a letter dated May 23 that she seems to have worked as some kind of informant for one Solon, another enemy of Le Bon, visiting the Jacobin club of the town to hear what the word on the street was. In another letter, dated June 28, Antoine Buissart informs Maximilien that since a month back, he, his wife and Charlotte have been ”injured” by a certain Carlier, administrator of the department of Pas-de-Calais — ”You know that from this time on I am a conspirator in the eyes of the famous Carlier, and my wife and your sister two intriguers.” When Charlotte eventually set out for Paris again, Guffroy claims it was caused by Lebon’s ”cutthroats” having denounced her as an aristocrat to the Jacobins. Guffroy speculates that the pretext for this was that she had visited one Payen de Neuville la Liberté, ”an estimable farmer whom Lebon had guillotined, and brother of another Payen, member of the Constituent Assembly who had served as father and friend to Robespierre (Payen was indeed one of the men Maximilien and Augustin had shared an address with at Versailles in 1789) and who Lebon also had guillotined, for not having been at his constitutional mass.” In an undated memorandum he also adds: ”without Florent Guyot, who brought [Charlotte] back to Paris, she would have been imprisoned [in Arras].” All historians mentioning this claim also dismiss it as slander, but this seemingly only on the grounds that they find Guffroy untrustworthy. Considering the two letters above, as well as the fact the execution dates for the two Payen brothers (June 21 and June 26) match up pretty well with the date Charlotte would have departed from Arras (we know through a letter from Buissart to his wife that she was back in Paris by July 1), and the fact Charlotte in her interrogation is going to claim she had almost fallen victim to the Revolutionary Tribunal, I don’t think it deserves to get entirely thrown away. If we also endorse the idea that it was Maximilien who on Augustin’s insistance got Lebon to bring their sister back to Arras, that would mean Charlotte was put in a position to be prosecuted indirectly because of her brothers.

If there is any truth to this, Charlotte does however not let any of that show in her last (and only conserved) letter to Augustin, who had come back to Paris just days before her. In her memoirs, she describes the situation between the two was the same as in December, with Augustin ”fleeing my presence” and ”telling anyone who would listen that I am unworthy of him, that I conducted myself badly with him, that I no longer deserve his esteem” while she herself was entirely clueless as to what she could have done for him to do that. On July 6 1794 Charlotte therefore sat down and authored the following letter to Augustin. She would later try to declare certain parts of it to be fabricated by her brothers’ enemies, but an encounter with the fac-simile of it proves that this is not the case:

Your (votre) aversion for me, my brother, far from diminishing, as I flattered myself, has become the most implacable hatred, to the point that the mere sight of me inspires horror to you; also, I must not hope that you will ever be calm enough to listen to me, which is why I will attempt to write to you. 

Crushed under the weight of my sorrow, incapable of connecting my thoughts, I will not undertake my apology. Yet, it would be so easy for me to demonstrate that I have never deserved in any wise to excite this fury which blinds you, but I abandon the task of my justification to time, which unveils all perfidies, all darknesses. So, when the blindfold which covers your eyes will be torn apart, if you can distinguish the voice of remorse in the disorder of your passions, if the cry of nature can make itself heard, returned from an error which is so fatal to me, do not fear that I will ever reproach you for having guarded it for so long; I will only occupy myself with the joy of having rediscovered your heart. Ah! if you could read at the bottom of mine, you would blush for having insulted it in such a cruel manner, you would see there, with the proof of my innocence, that nothing can erase the tender attachment from it which ties me to you, and that this is the only emotion to which I relate all of my affections; without complaining about your hatred, what does it matter to me that I am hated by those who are irrelevant to me and who I despise? Their memory will never come to trouble me, but being hated by my brothers, I, for whom it is a necessity to cherish them, this is the only thing which can render me as unhappy as I am. 

This passion of hatred must be atrocious, since it blinds you to the point of bringing you to slander me among my friends. Nonetheless, do not hope in your delirium to be able to make me lose the esteem of a few virtuous persons, which is the only good which remains to me, along with a pure conscience ; full of a just confidence in my virtue, I can defy you to detract it and I dare to tell you that, beside the good people who know me, you will lose your reputation rather than harming mine. 

Thus, it is important to your tranquillity that I am far away from you, it is even important, as they say, to the chose publique that I do not live in Paris! I still do not know what I have to do, but what seems the most urgent to me is to clear you of the sight of an odious object, also, as from tomorrow, you can return to your apartment without fearing to meet me there. I will leave from today unless you formally oppose it. 

My stay in Paris should not bother you, I take care not to connect my friends to my disgrace, the misfortune which persecutes me has to be contagious, and your hatred for me is too blind in order not to fall on everyone who shows interest for me. Also, I only need a few days in order to calm the disorder of my thoughts, to decide on the place of my exile, because, in the obliteration of all of my faculties, I am in no state to take a course of action.

Therefore, I leave you since you demand it, but, in spite of your injustices, my friendship for you is so indestructible that I will not retain any bitterness from the cruel treatment which you make me endure. When, [being] disillusioned sooner or later, you will come to hold the feelings for me that I deserve, when shyness does not prevent you from informing me that I have recovered your friendship and, wherever I may be, may I even be beyond the seas, if I can be useful to you in anything, know how to inform me of it and I will soon be by your side.

I send you the exact summary of the expenditures which I have made since your departure for Nice. Sorrowfully, I have learned that you have singularly degraded yourself through the manner in which you have spoken of this affaire d'intérêt. Because of this, I oblige you to observe that, in all of these expenditures, there are debts for the shoemaker, the tailor, a washtub, and powder, prior to my return from Nice, you will also observe that the money that was returned to Madame Delaporte had been lent by her to René during my stay in Nice, that the 200 livres given to René are for his wages which had not been paid to him in the last year, finally, you will also distinguish postage for letters, and if you still have any doubts after this, you can share them with me, I will elucidate them, I will give all of my remaining money to you, and it this does not match my expenditures, this can only be because I have forgotten a few items.

PS: You will observe that the polisher is not paid, nor [is] the locksmith who has made a key for your secretary.

PS: You have to think that, while leaving your apartment, I will take all necessary precautions in order to not compromise my brothers. The quarter where citoyenne Laporte lives, [to whose home] I plan to retreat temporarily, is the place of the entire republic where I can be ignored the most.

Charlotte presumably then left this letter in the apartment on Rue Saint-Florentin before moving in with her friend Madame Delaporte on 200 Rue de la Réunion. Her husband, François Louis Marie Delaporte, had at the time just been appointed judge at the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris, a position that would land him in prison for several months after thermidor. In the defence he then worked out (cited in Charlotte Robespierre et ses amis (1961)) he had the following to say regarding the Robespierre family dynamics:

I never had relations with any member of the former government, nor with Robespierre. My wife having gotten to know his sister took her into our home, when she was proscribed by him because of her feelings which were quite opposed to his. Certainly, one could not be the friend of this implacable man, when one welcomed his enemies.

According to Charlotte’s memoirs, she never saw Augustin again. She did however meet Maximilien one or two more times, but in the presence of ”several people” (she doesn’t specify which ones) making it impossible for her to speak to him about the conflict with Augustin, since, again: ”I knew both of them were entirely absorbed by the dangers threatening the public sake; I postponed every explanation.” Another person she sometimes met when walking on Champs-Élysées was her former courtier Joseph Fouché. After learning that he was Maximilien’s ”declared enemy,” Charlotte does however claim she no longer wanted to speak with him. In a letter written a few months after thermidor, she reveals that she was offered asylum at the house of Maximilien’s childhood friend Guislain Mathon, something that her brothers protested against, and it would appear like she did indeed not move in with him until after their death.

Charlotte would also appear to not have made the fight between her and her brothers’ known to her friends in Arras, as can be seen through a letter from the siblings’ step-cousin Régis Deshorties to Augustin dated July 18: “Charlotte Robespierre had promised to inform me immediately of your arrival to the capital. Not receiving a letter from her either on this subject or on any other letter of which she should have acknowledged receipt, I imagined (as several people had assured me) that you were going to come to Arras and that this was the reason for your sister's silence.” And Deshorties ended by asking Augustin to ”embrace Charlotte Robespierre and her girlfriends for me.”

If the relationship between Charlotte and her brothers had cracked down by now, Augustin’s loyalty towards Maximilien was as strong as ever. If we’re to believe the memoirs of Barère, some time after the passing of the Law of 22 Prairial on June 10, which had caused a lot of frictions within the Committee of Public Safety, Augustin entered the committee ”under pretext of giving an account of his mission to Nice; but instead of fulfilling this duty, he addressed me in a furious tone. ”You have maltreated my brother. We missed you on the 31st of May 1793, we shall not miss you on the 31st of May 1794.” He left still threatening us.” A month later, July 11, Augustin appears at the jacobins and ”complains that the lowest flatteries are used to create division between patriots: they went so far as to tell him that he was better than his brother: “But in vain,” he cries, ”would anyone want to separate me from him: as long as he is the proclaimer of morality and the terror of scoundrels, I aspire to no other glory than to share the same tomb as him!” 

According to Guffroy’s Les Secretes de Joseph Lebon, Augustin, like his sister, also set out to help the six ”persecuted patriots” from Arras. Guffroy writes that he, following Augustin’s return to Paris in June, wrote a letter to him explaining the affair. Augustin, who ”soon seemed to want to seriously help and serve them” showed the letter to his brother and later also succeeded in organizing a few meetings between Danten, Demeulier, Leblond and Maximilien. Guffroy claims to have been present at one of the meetings where it was just Augustin and the ”patriots.” Augustin would then have reproached him for ”having sought to harm his brother” with a note in his journal where he’d written he had more humanity and sensitivity than Maximilien since he was a husband and father and Maximilien was not. Finally, on July 22 or 23, Augustin brought Leblond and another one of the ”patriots” to the room of his brother, who starts a discussion with them. But Augustin soon makes the conversation revolve around other things than Arras, encouraging Leblond to ”tell my brother what it is you know about Carnot, against whom Duquesnoy has said that he’s going to bring papers and proofs on fifteen facts capable of guillotining Carnot fifteen times.” When Leblond instead starts talking about the despotism of said Duquesnoy as well as that of his brother, Maximilien gets mad and tells Augustin: ”Let’s go!” The two leave, but in the middle of the stairs Augustin turns around and tells Leblond: ”Damn beast, we should only talk about Carnot; why talk about the two Duquesnoys? My brother and the Committee of Public Safety have the biggest confidence in them… You’re lucky to be free… Duquesnoy!”

Finally, on July 27 1794, Augustin made good on his promise to share the same tomb as Maximilien from sixteen days earlier, when he with the following words asked to be included on the arrest warrant just issued against his brother by the Convention:

I am as guilty as my brother: I share his virtues; I want to share his fate. I demand an act of accusation against me also. 

The two brothers, alongside Saint-Just, Couthon and Lebas, were declared under arrest by the Convention around 1:30 PM. Around 5 PM they were taken to the Committee of General Security and served dinner, before getting seperated and taken to different prisons between 6:30 and 7 PM. Shortly before midnight they had however been reunited at the Hôtel de Ville, Augustin writing and Maximilien and Saint-Just putting their signatures on a letter urging Couthon to join them as well. Not long after midnight the building was stormed, and two o’clock in the morning a severely injured Augustin was carried into the civil committee of the section of l’Hôtel de Ville. According to the medical report, the patient managed to state the following before the pain became too much:

Proceeding to learning of the causes of the accident, the patient told us his name was [Augustin] Robespierre; that he voluntarily threw himself from one of the windows of Hôtel de Ville, to escape from the hands of the conspirators, because, having been put under a decree of accusation, he believed his death inevitable; that he never stopped doing his duty well at the Convention, like his brother; that no one can reproach him for anything; that he regards Panis as a conspirator, because he once came over to him and declared that Collot d’Herbois does not desire the good of his country in order to deceive him; Carnot appears to him to be one of the conspirators, who wants to surrender his country... 

The two brothers were eventually taken to the Conciergerie prison, before they six o'clock in the evening got driven to the scaffold. According to number 675 of Suite de journal de Perlet, released two days after the execution, Augustin was the second first to be guillotined, Maximilien the second to last. 

In her memoirs, Charlotte recalled how she on July 28 had tried to visit her brothers in the Conciergerie prison but been refused, shortly after which she too found herself arrested:

On 10 Thermidor, I ran through the streets, my mind troubled and despair in my heart; I called out, I sought my brothers. I learned that they had been taken to the Conciergerie. I ran there, I asked to see them, I asked with hands joined; I begged on my knees before the soldiers; they repulsed me, laughed at my tears, insulted me, struck me. A few persons, moved to pity, led me away. I had lost my reason. I did not know what was happening, what became of me; or rather I learned it several days later; when I returned to myself I was in prison.

How much truth there is to this account can be questioned. If there is no way to know for sure if Charlotte had attempted to see her brothers in prison, she on the other hand doesn’t appear to have ”lost her reason” more than necessary for her to take on her mother’s maiden name Carraut and for her and her hostess to leave their lodging and take cover at the house of one citiziness Béguin on rue du Four, section du Contrat Social n. 482. There, on 31 July, they were arrested alongside several other women. 

Brought before her interrogators the very same day (see this post), ”citiziness Carraut” admitted that she was ”Marie-Marguerite-Charlotte Robespierre, 28 [sic] years old, living on her income, residing with citiziness Laporte, rue de la Réunion n. 200, and this since about a month back.” When asked why she wasn’t residing with the Duplay family like her brother she responded that she had left since her brothers and Madame Duplay had asked her to, and that the latter also had ”reproached her for seeing counter-revolutionaries, among which was Guffroy, representative of the people.” As for her older brother, he ”resented her because she had the courage of letting him know the danger he ran by being sourrunded so badly,” his host family having taken on the quest to lose him. Asked about the fact her hostess’ husband was a member of the Revolutionary Tribunal, Charlotte responsed that she was unaware of it, but that ”she had known that, in the public spirit, her older brother passed for having appointed [people to] the Revolutionary Tribunal, of which she had almost been the victim.”

Finally, Charlotte was invited ”to declare if she had been aware of the infamous conspiracy that her older brother had been hatching and if she knew which were the men who frequently visited him.” Her answer was clear:

She responded that she loved her country so much that she had the courage to lament this diabolical conspiracy, that every time she had met him she had found the occasion to tell him that the men around him were trying to deceive him, that if she had suspected the infamous plot that was being hatched, she would have denounced it rather than seeing her country lost.

Charlotte ended the interrogation with implicating a man named Didier, who for a period of time served as secretary to her older brother, and who through that position had been appointed juror to the Revolutionary Tribunal.

At least three of the other women Charlotte had been arrested alongside of were they too interrogated on July 31, all three linking arms in insisting on the vulnerable position Charlotte had found herself in. Citiziness Béguin, Charlotte’s hostess at the time of her arrest, claimed that François Topino-Lebrun, juror at the Revolutionary Tribunal, had told a friend of hers to stop seeing Charlotte, ”given that Le Brun knew that all those who came to see citiziness Robespierre would be guillotined.” Like Charlotte, she claimed to know nothing about the conspiracy the two brothers were said to be involved in, ”she had however heard it said that if Robespierre came out victorious they would all be lost.” Citizinesses Girard and Canone did in their interrogation similarly reply that ”they did not know the people who habitually associated with the infamous Robespierre, that they had never seen him, that they only knew their unfortunate sister,” and that the reason they were arrested at citiziness Béguin’s house was because they had gone over there ”to congratulate [Charlotte] on the happiness she was currently enjoying when she was finally free from the infamous tyrants Robespierre who had never had another purpose but to sacrifice their sister.”

In her memoirs, Charlotte claims she remained imprisoned for a fortnight and got set free after her cellmate (a for her unknown woman) convinced her to sign a document, the content of which she didn’t read. No such document have however been found, and it might be suspected this is another attempt by Charlotte to portray herself as more loyal to her brothers than she really was… On the other hand, it seems like it would go against her goal to make her imprisonment shorter than it actually was, so that she only spent two weeks in jail is something I’m more inclined to believe. That would make Charlotte the one out of all of the women imprisoned for being related to a revolutionary I’ve been able to track so far that got out of prison by far the fastest. We might imagine she had her fallout with her brothers, as well as having contacts in the right places, much to thank for that…

Following Charlotte’s release from prison, we know through a letter dated November 18 1794 from her to her uncle that she stayed in touch with Antoine Buissart, who for his part already a few days after thermidor had hurried to abandon and denounce Maximilien and Augustin. Charlotte also appears to have kept contacts with Guffroy, whom the pamphlet Conjuration formée dès le 5 préréal [sic] par neuf représentans du peuple contre Maximilien Robespierre, pour le poignarder en plein sénat released shortly after Thermidor designated as one of nine deputies who since May 24 1794 had been planning on stabbing Maximilien to death in the middle of the Convention. This can be seen through an undated memorandum to the Committee of General Security where Guffroy can reveal that Charlotte’s health has deteriorated due to her many sorrows, that said sorrow is keeping her from making lace which she could use to make a living, that she owns nothing aside from her clothes, that her uncle has sent her some help, and that she at the moment is staying with ”one of our mutual friends.” He adds that he is ”well aware of the ingratitude and injustice of her brothers towards her, while she did everything for them in the just belief that they would not abandon her,” and ends by suggesting that the nation should ”offer her help so that she can procure furniture and a pension capable of sustaining her in the state of infirmity and languor to which grief has reduced her.” A while later, April 13 1795, we find a Committee of General Security decree signed by Guffroy and other enemies of the two brothers, proclaiming that ”wherever citoyenne Robespierre wishes to travel and retire, she deserves the confidence of good citizens and the protection of the constituted authorities, who are invited to lend her the aid and assistance that the purest and most civil good citizenship deserves and French loyalty must grant.”

The background to this is a letter dated March 14 1795 Charlotte wrote to the Committee of General Security to help her host Guislain Mathon who had come under suspicion. This is all she has to say about her dead brothers in it:

…One has assured me that citizen Mathon, commissioner of transports, has been denounced as having been a friend of my brothers, and I have no doubt that, whatever the pretext of this denunciation, I am the real cause of it for having accepted an asylum at his house since a few months back. […] I will not undertake the apology of Citizen Mathon. I will only tell you that, forced to leave my brothers, unjustly irritated against me, he had the courage to offer me an asylum with him in spite of their protests. He did not incite me into accepting it. I went to live with him when my misfortunes became greater and made me too burdensome to those who had first taken me in. 

This is the last conserved written material we have from Charlotte for over 30 years. When we find the next piece, her testament dated February 6 1828, her image of her brothers has however drastically improved, and she affirms that she has always recognized Maximilien as ”a man full of virtue” and wants to ”protest against all the letters contrary to his honor which have been attributed to me.” The story of how Charlotte following this moment reinvents herself into, as her friend Albert Laponneraye puts it in her funeral speech, ”[a woman who] shared [Maximilien’s] principles and his feelings, and had, like him, waged a fight to the death against the aristocracy,” might however be a topic for another day.

[fic--writer]

The archmage must get married

Rolan x fem!Tav, Lia, Cal.

1780 words. Humor, romance, idiots in love, SFW, Post-canon

Rolan and Tav are secretly in love with each other, but neither of them dares to make the first move. However, the circumstances are changing.

"Rolan! You have to get married!" — Lia blurted this out right at breakfast.

Rolan froze with his glass in hand, then sharply turned to his sister, staring intently at her tired, yet extremely serious face.

"I have to... what?" — he asked, not believing his ears.

"Get married! You're an archmage now. You have status, and you're in the public eye. Damn journalists found out you're single and wrote that ridiculous article, and..."

Rolan frowned and took a sip of wine.

"What article?" — he asked cautiously.

A laugh came from the other side of the table. His brother, Cal, quoted from memory:

"'The new Archmage has been named the sexiest bachelor of Baldur's Gate.'"

Rolan choked.

"Zurgan!" — he gasped, coughing. "Maybe you both could finally start reading something more respectable than tabloid trash? Just think about it! You live in a tower with one of the rarest libraries, have access to any books, and instead…"

Lia interrupted his tirade, gesturing irritably with her hands: "It's not about that! The problem is your new admirers, who are becoming more and more persistent every day! Hundreds of letters, all smelling of perfume, and often cheap ones at that... I have to manually sift through the important correspondence, and yesterday I spent an entire hour explaining to one pushy woman that you don’t see visitors without an appointment!”

She shook her head and, crossing her arms over her chest, stared at him intently:

“Rolan, you're a grown man. You have a huge tower, a position, work... It’s really time for you to settle down."

Rolan sighed in resignation:

"Fine, I'll think about it, but only if it makes you shut up."

"Think about it? As if we don’t all know who 'exactly' will be your sweet little wife," - Cal chimed in, and he and Lia both started giggling.

"What?!"

"Oh, come on," - Cal smirked. - "You're too obvious. Even if you think you're hiding it well."

"What. Do. You. Mean?" - Rolan narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping dangerously low, and why did these troglodytes always manage to get under his skin...

"What do I mean?" — Cal chuckled, making faces and mimicking his brother. — "Tav, shall I pour you some wine? Tav, want to read together? Tav, will you have dinner with us? Tav..."

"Hush you!" — Rolan barked, feeling the heat rush to his face. — "She’s my friend, not my damn girlfriend!"

Cal just smirked and shook his head.

Of course, Rolan felt a whole spectrum of emotions toward Tav. How could he not? She saved his red hide from certain death, she saved his family, she helped him become an archmage, and even saved this damned world.

And she was damned beautiful. But did he have the right to want more? To demand her — all of her, without reservation?

"Well, it's your call, but decide soon before your fans start storming the tower or slipping love potions into your food."

Lia cast a glance at his plate.

"By the way... where did that pastry come from?"

Rolan froze. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze to the dessert in his hands. The next second, he violently shoved it aside, desperately spitting out the remains.

Tav stepped into the Archmage's tower and found Lia, deeply focused as she sorted through some papers. Over the past few months, Rolan’s sister had essentially become his personal secretary, keeping order in the endless stream of work.

Tav’s attention was drawn to a tall stack of letters, many of them pink.

She frowned, grabbed one of the letters, and flipped it over in her hands. On the envelope, oh gods, there were... little hearts?! And in the recipient field, none other than Archmage Rolan was listed.

"What... is this?" — Tav asked, concern evident in her voice as she shook the letter in her hand.

"Oh, these?" Lia replied, not looking up. "Love letters. From women... and not just them. They all dream of being the companion of a man of status..."

"Oh? Ooo... Oh." — Tav could barely manage to squeeze out, her mind racing.

Almost with disgust, she shoved the letter back into the pile, her eyes darting nervously.

"Tav? Are you okay?"

"Me? Uh... yeah... no..." — she swallowed nervously. — "I think I’m a little... sick."

Lia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Tav looked the same as always, no signs of illness. Shrugging, Lia sighed and returned to her work.

Tav, not saying another word, stretched out her hand. One quick incantation — and from her finger erupted a narrow pillar of flame, instantly turning the letters into a handful of ashes.

Lia swore, jumping back:

"What the hell are you doing!?"

"Oh, that was totally an accident! I don’t know..." — Tav desperately tried to put on an innocent face.

Lia raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp with suspicion.

"Really? You don’t know? One of the most powerful sorceresses in the city ‘accidentally’ casts a spell?" — She wasn’t buying this nonsense.

“When I’m sick, I… I’m not myself!” — Tav blurted out, taking a step back.

Lia opened her mouth to respond, but just then, the door slammed open, and a stranger burst into the room.

A young woman, dressed in tight clothing that emphasized her very noticeable curves, smiled as she entered:

"Hi! I want to become the Archmage’s apprentice... I want to learn magic from him."

Tav slowly shifted her gaze to Lia.

Lia slowly shifted her gaze to Tav.

Tav narrowed her eyes, giving the young woman a thorough once-over. Before Lia had a chance to respond, Tav stepped forward and calmly said:

"Really? Then show me the simplest spells you already know. Please."

"Show you? Oh. Well, I need to get in the right mindset..." — The stranger blinked in confusion, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

There’s no magic in her at all, Tav realized, and continued:

"You know what?" — she suggested with a tight smile. — "It would be best if you wrote a letter to the Archmage."

"Really?" — The girl brightened, her eyes sparkling with hope.

"Really," Tav confirmed, barely holding back a sly smirk. — "He will definitely respond."

Satisfied, the girl nodded, apologized, and quickly hurried off.

Lia watched the girl leave, then slowly turned to Tav, her mouth slightly open, clearly about to ask a million questions.

But as soon as their eyes met, all the words got stuck in her throat. Tav's gaze clearly said: "Not a word more."

Lia sighed heavily and returned to her papers. Another day in the Archmage's tower was shaping up to be exceptionally long.

When Rolan entered the reception room, the first thing that caught his eye was the blackened scorch mark on the table.

"Zurgan! This is a red oak table! Who the hell did this?!" — He froze, then his tail flicked irritably.

"It was Tav," — Lia said flatly, not even bothering to look up from her papers.

Tav, standing off to the side, nervously cleared her throat.

Rolan blinked, finally noticing her:

"Oh, Tav? Hey... How are you? I mean... why my table?" — He ran a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. — "Alright, never mind."

The Archmage's anger noticeably subsided, and taking advantage of the moment, Lia lazily added:

"Oh, and she just kicked one of your potential apprentices out the door..."

Rolan slowly turned his head toward Tav.

Tav greeted him with a flawless, innocent smile.

Lia smirked and flipped the page of her papers.

Tav’s cheeks instantly turned crimson, and she hissed at Lia:

"Can you be quiet for just one second?!"

But it was too late.

Rolan crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her intently.

"You did what?"

Tav straightened up, trying to look confident.

"The cat at the fish stall has more magic flowing through it than that girl," — she countered. — "I just made your job easier."

"But you didn’t even let me take a look, you didn’t even tell me! Why?!"

Tav opened her mouth... and immediately realized she had no coherent explanation. She began stammering, stumbling over her words, cursing herself for not being able to just fall straight into hell right now.

Rolan, not waiting for an answer, let out a heavy sigh, grabbed her by the wrist, and decisively dragged her toward his office.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Lia alone.

She smirked, gave a satisfied hum, and walked off.

“Finally”.

"What the hell is going on, Tav?!" — Rolan stormed into the office, his voice echoing through the room. — "First you scorch my table, then you make decisions for me! Has a worm eaten your brain?"

Tav, without taking her eyes off his face, replied, trying not to let her irritation show:

"I told you, there’s no magic in that girl. She just came to show off in front of you. You wouldn’t have taught her anyway, so why waste time?"

"Really?" — His voice turned mockingly amused. — "Then why didn’t you even let me take a look? Why didn’t you let me make the decision myself? Do you think I can’t do anything right?!"

"Do you really have to talk to me like that? Did I step on your tail or something?" — Tav took a defensive stance.

Rolan froze, staring at her face… and suddenly his smirk became almost devilish:

“Wait, what? Are you jealous?”

Tav quickly turned away, pretending that something interesting was happening outside the window, but her flushed cheeks gave it all away.

“Oh, I always knew there had to be some special reason for you to save me and my family so many times…” — he continued, stepping closer — “But I never could have imagined…”

Tav had no time to answer. Driven by something inexplicable, the Archmage scooped her up in his arms, sat her down on the table almost effortlessly, and placed himself between her legs.

Tav gasped, but made no protest. On the contrary, she grabbed his collar and pulled him closer...

Cal, as usual, entered the Archmage’s office without knocking:

"Rolan, what do you want for dinner? Oh! Sorry... uh... I didn't see anything, go ahead."

He took a few steps back and slammed the door shut with a resounding thud. A moment of silence, as if he wanted to forget what he had just seen, and Cal was already on his way to his sister:

"Lia! You won’t believe it! I think we can start preparations for the wedding!"

Lia simply raised an eyebrow:

"Relax, I started a month ago."

.

.

.

Read the NSFW follow up of the fic by wonderful @kimberbohwrites

[howlett-n-morgan]

More Than Words

1. Familiar Stranger

Logan Howlett x OC!Reader

Series Summary: Having lived for over two hundred years and never having the privilege of skin to skin contact is the biggest burden imaginable, until someone comes along with the healing ability to withstand the touch of death.

Chapter Warnings: This might be a lot for the start of a series but: mild language, canon typical violence, mention of a witch trial, burning at the stake, death, mutant experimentation, and a depressive episode briefly described. Logan's claws come out lol... I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything.

Chapter Summary: Nightmares that were long forgotten come crawling back, seemingly without meaning, until everything falls into place with the arrival of a familiar stranger... and he gets nightmares, too.

Word Count: 6.5k

And now there was this Logan character. “Bulletproof, huh?” he didn’t seem skeptical, just unimpressed.  “And fireproof,” you added with a small smile, turning and going down the hall to find the next open room. It was the one besides yours, and yes, you absolutely did that on purpose. “Forgive me for being forward… but I think I know you.” “You know me? Doubtful.”

The X gene -  typically found in people with mutant family history - begins showing itself around the time of adolescence, usually blossoming in young teenagers. You remember the first time you realized there was something wrong with you. The year was 1780.

You were only thirteen, and were showing signs of something no one could put a finger on. The first instance was doing laundry with your cousin, Sarah, and dipping your hands into the water the same time that she did. Her hands started to burn, and she pulled her fingers from the basin quickly, only to find her hands were fine, and the water wasn’t even that hot. You thought that maybe it was a fluke, but then the second occurrence took place. 

You’d been playing near the lake with some of your friends on your twentieth birthday, when a bolt of lightning struck you. Your friends gathered nearby to see if you were alright, but were baffled completely to find you standing there as if nothing had happened. 

That was the day that time stopped, and you never grew older. 

These were things that told you there was a difference within you, but you never knew how lethal it actually was until it reached its full potential. You only wish you’d been given a warning. 

The day it all went for worse, and your life became hell, was actually a very sunny day. You woke up the same, got dressed the same, even went out back to milk the cow… but the second you touched her, she fell limp, collapsing to the ground. Your eyes widened in terror when you realized the lovely farm animal had lost her life in that split second, unable to move, or breath. 

You ran back inside to tell your mother, but you were not careful, because how could you have known it was your fault? How could you have known your body was capable of this?

Your mother laid a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, and you brought your hand to meet hers. She too fell instantly, and it was then that you realized. 

Your touch is death.

You clung to your mother, the last person you were able to touch, crying and wailing out. 

That was the first of your crimes, but many men made the mistake of coming into contact with you that day, and it stands to reason why you have been sentenced to death. Witchcraft being their assumption on your methods, and mass murder being the charge.

You almost believed them. Almost thought that something evil was possessing you, making you do wicked and unholy things… 

Standing tied to the stake by a man with thick leather gloves, all eyes were on you, waiting for your atonement. You saw every torch that was burning, closing your eyes and accepting the punishment. You killed your mother, and eleven men. There were enough witnesses to send you straight to your grave. You waited for the flames, and felt the heat when they finally set the fires, quickly approaching you. When your eyes opened, you could see the wall of fire over the hay bales, nearly ten feet tall and at every corner. It crawled up by you and then-

You sat up in your bed, sweat dripping from your brow, and the digital alarm clock going off in your peripheral vision. 

It’s just another dream… but you haven’t had it in years. 

You treat it like the rest, going about your morning like it never happened. You’d discuss it with Charles later, he seemed to know what your nightmares meant most of the time. He knew your mind better than most, and could enter with a single thought. 

Downstairs, the commotion was rowdy, but you went ahead through the crowded space carefully and slipped on your favorite pair of forest green gloves, buckling the cute straps on the back as you made your way to the kitchen. Ororo had just brewed some coffee, and Scott was carrying two plates towards the doorway when you entered. 

“Smells good,” you said, smiling at them both, and going for a mug from the cabinet. 

Scott stopped short, turning on his heel to ask you a question. 

“I forgot about this yesterday,” he started, looking over in your direction through his red shades. “Can you take a look at the School’s Enrollment system when you get a chance? I couldn’t add a new student and I’m not sure why.”

You nodded, pouring the coffee and giving him a look of confidence. “I’m sure I can fix it, probably just the computer again.”

“Thanks,” he smiled, going to leave again, but then remembering one more thing. “Oh, and Jean loves that book you lent her, she’s been up late reading.”

“I knew she would… if she wants anything else, my library is always open,” you replied jokingly.

He left afterwards, taking his plate of breakfast and his wonderful girlfriend’s out of the room. 

“You do too much, y’know?”

You looked at Ororo, her eyes just barely peeking over her own mug. 

“I like to keep busy,” you shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee and finally letting yourself settle into the morning. “And it’s not too much if I can help you guys.”

“You know that’s not what I mean… you’ve been looking exhausted.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I’m not being critical, I’m concerned,” she said, stepping to lean against the kitchen island so she could look at you straight on. “If there’s something going on, you can tell me.”

Yes, you could tell her. She and Jean were the closest thing you’d had to a sister in years. 

“The nightmares are back again… the last few nights have been a little rough.”

She pushed away from the counter, the look on her face reading confusion and worry. “I thought you were doing better.”

“I was,” you drank more coffee, eyebrows raised. “I don’t even know where they’re coming from. Some of these dreams I haven’t had for over fifty years. Usually they’re only about…” 

“Charlie,” she finished for you when you trailed off. You nodded, your head falling forward a bit at the mention of his name. You hadn’t dreamt of him for a while, not even good things.

“I need to visit the professor after class, he can usually tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s probably best. Those dark circles will only get worse, believe me,” she joked, gesturing to her own eyes, a bit worn with exhaustion from working late this week. 

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” you spoke with a small grin, finishing off your coffee in a big chug before rinsing the mug out in the sink. “Have a good class.”

“You, too.”

-

Looking out the window of Professor Xaiver’s office, you recalled the events of your nightmare, trying to put yourself back in the situation to see it clearly. It wasn’t easy, to relive these memories, even worse when they plagued your unconscious state… but Charles would know what it was about. He always did. 

“Tell me again, first the cow, and then your mother?” He squinted, trying to put pieces together. 

“Yes, I went out to milk the cow in the morning, like always,” you paused, the green grass outside the mansion reminding you of the pastures you lived by. “I touched betsy first, then my mother inside the house.”

All the little details should have painted a very vivid picture, but for some odd reason, nothing was coming together for Charles. He couldn’t see how this dream equated with your life as it was, and why it plagued you now. 

“I’m sorry to say it, my dear, but this may just be a regular nightmare. I cannot, from what you have told me, recognize any pattern or significance.”

“There has to be something… I haven’t had this dream in years,” you argued, unwilling to give up when you know he’s the only one who can tell you. 

He paused, closing his eyes and raking through the files of your mind to try and feel the impact of a cause… but found none. “I’m afraid the only thing I can offer is a theory. Your mind is subconsciously reminding you of your powers, what they mean. You’ve long since learned to control them, so I cannot imagine it is because of self doubt. Whatever it is, you may just have to wait and watch for more signs.”

“More signs? Like more dreams?”

“Something of that sort, yes. Until then, I’m sorry I could not help you.” He rolled his chair towards the door, following you out and into the hall. He had a meeting with Hank, and couldn’t afford to miss it. 

“It’s not your fault… I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m always annoying you with problems that don’t have anything to do with you,” you joked slightly, walking alongside him until he met his destination.”

“And I am always happy to assist you.”

“I know,” you ducked your head, stopping at the door way he entered. “But I am grateful.”

“Take that gratuity and focus it on yourself. You need to rest, you look like a raccoon.”

You chuckled, closing the door for the man, and walking down towards the kitchen again. You only needed a small pick me up before you would inevitably take a very long nap. You’d been going on a few hours of sleep each night due to the grading of homework, and the bad dreams only made the nights worse. You were somehow thankful not to wake up screaming before your alarm went off this morning. 

You headed upstairs to crash, only to find a note in your room from Jean. 

Thanks for the book, I finished it today… gonna need the next one soon. - J

A small smile spread across your face when you saw the book had already been put back on your shelf, neatly placed among the organization you normally kept it in. 

Your bookshelf spanned an entire wall, nearly becoming like a second library to the mansion for whosoever needed it. 

You didn’t necessarily love reading, but you did love knowledge, and books were one of the only ways to obtain such a tricky thing. 

Truth be told, you didn’t like a lot of learning methods, but again, you craved to know everything you could, to be not only educated but able to have a brain that could stand the tests of time. So far, it’s done a pretty decent job. Having been alive for over two hundred and thirty years came with some perks, one being, you can go to college as many times as you want, with only a different ID, and practically nothing can stop you from earning as many degrees as your heart desires. 

When Charles first met you, he knew you were a mutant, but more than that, he knew you had the aptitude of a scholar. It was no wonder you excelled in his training. If only you just attained his powers of neurological exploration, there would be no stopping you. 

You flopped backwards on the bed, looking up to your wall of diplomas and degrees. Master’s in Technological Sciences, Bachelor’s in Archival History, a silly little Associate's in Music Theory, mainly because you were feeling artistic, and lastly, the certification for practicing Law in the state of New York. You didn’t even go to law school, you’d just been bored for a while in the seventies, and the bar wasn’t that hard to pass for someone that’s been around since the first laws were written into the constitution. 

All these degrees, all these years of mastering different types of knowledge, and yet you felt completely in the dark about your own mental state. You couldn’t even figure out what your own dreams meant, or why they were back in the first place.  

You passed out cold while raking your mind for possibilities, finding none along the way.

It was a dreamless sleep this time, and for that you’d be grateful, earning some uninterrupted rest for the first time in weeks, not having to worry about waking up in a panicked sweat again. 

You were supposed to take a thirty minute cat nap… maybe an hour at most. Looking at the clock as you came to, it was 6 pm, meaning two and a half hours had come and gone, and you had missed much of the after school activities.. 

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of the sheets and running to the bathroom to become a bit more human looking. 

You'd run down the stairs to find the usual amount of commotion, but none of the adults were here, just the kids. 

“Bobby?” You asked, making him halt his walk towards the next corridor. “Do you know where everyone is?” 

“They left about a half hour ago. Something came up,” he turned to leave but stopped throwing a line over his shoulder. “Almost forgot… they left you in charge.”

“Great,” you mumbled, nodding to him in thanks for the information. 

You were fine dealing with the kids, but being the sole adult present in a room full of on edge teenagers put you under some stress. The one person in this entire mansion that could kill someone with a single touch was left responsible for the safety of these younglings? It was a bad idea to begin with, but you took a deep breath, knowing you had to until they were back. 

You only wondered what happened that they were gone so quickly, without a chance to tell you themselves. 

The only way to control a mutant child is to just not even try, so with knowing you were now heading the household until everyone returned, you decided to just go and kick back in the main entertainment room. The more authority is pushed, the more the kids would resist. So you didn’t push at all, just started a game of uno with some of the kids. 

“This isn’t that serious, just lay down a card!” John scolded the younger girl beside him, watching her shuffle through practically half the deck that she had in her hands. 

“I have them organized, I’m looking for the blues,” Kitty explained, ignoring his futile attempts at winning faster. “If I’m gonna lose, I’m gonna take my time.”

“If you had a four or any color, that would have worked, too,” you shrugged, but ultimately let her keep shuffling through until she found a card she was satisfied with. 

“Aha, reverse. And I know you just played your last blue card,” she mocked John, watching him roll his eyes and begin to draw new cards. 

You laughed and little, seeing his deck grow bigger until he found a blue one. 

“Well, that’s uno for me,” you said, laying down a blue five and waiting for it to circle back to you again. “Sorry, John.”

“Kitty I swear, change the color,” he begged, hoping there was something that could salvage the game for him. “She’s gonna win if you don’t.”

“I’d rather let her win, then we can start over,” she gestured to the large amount of cards in her hand, completely stacked with practically every color of the deck. 

“Don’t be so competitive, it’s just uno,” you laughed, trying to lighten his mood over such a silly thing. 

“It’s not just uno, you win at everything…” he trailed matter of factly, giving you a slanted look through his eyebrows. “It’s impossible.”

“I’ve been around a while longer than you have, maybe I’ve just picked up some tricks.”

“With uno?” He scoffed, finally coming to his senses and laughing a little. 

“Maybe,” you smirk, laying down your last card and going out. “But there’s another game for ya.”

“Like I said, impossible.”

You smiled, watching them throw their hands into the pile so you could reshuffle and deal again. This may or may not have been the third game in a row. And yes, you tended to be good at the other board games kept in the entertainment room’s cabinets. 

“Wanna go four for four.?” You asked, already knowing they would play with you, though you beat them every time. 

But then you could feel something in the air, a tension that was coming from outside somewhere. You wondered if it could be a possible intrusion, so you stood up and looked out the window, the sun completely down by now. 

“What’s wrong?” Kitty asked, standing up alongside you to try and figure out what you sensed. 

It was growing, more anxious, and you realized then that it wasn’t an intruder at all, because the anxious energy was radiating off of familiar presences. 

“Something happened,” you rushed to the back door, watching as the jet landed, sinking back into the earth where it usually came up from. The basketball court  closed over top of it, and you could see the trees and grass and bushes become still when the winds calmed down. “You’ll have to play this round without me.”

“What happened? Where did they go?” 

“I don’t know, let me find out. Make sure no one burns the house down, I’ll be back.”

And you rushed to the elevator, going down beneath the mansion to find the X central base. You heard the commotion as soon as you stepped off, all things pointing to the medical bay at the end of the long lit stretch. 

Your legs carried your faster than they normally would, getting you there in seconds. 

“Scott?” you called as soon as you saw him. “What’s going on?”

“Two new mutants, one in critical condition,” he began, pointing to the outline of a man on the surgical table, Jean doing her best to work on him with the help of Ororo on the side. “The other is with Charles, he’s trying to help her calm down, but she’s pretty shaken up.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“Tell the kids, make sure they don’t panic?” he offered, and you nodded. You can’t touch anyone, so it was unlikely you could aid in either of their situations currently. “Maybe leave out the part where there’s a mutant in critical condition. We still don’t even know why they were attacked.”

“Was it a human group?” You asked, eyes flitting between both corners of the med bay. The chaos was still going on, everyone’s movements were rapid, and the girl in the corner was still crying in fear. 

“No, it was them…”

“Oh,” you understood right away what he meant. Eric and his small gang of misfits that refused to coexist with the humans. They believed mutants were superior, and therefore should not have to conform to any nation’s rules or mandates. You partially understood them from a fear aspect, not wanting laws against mutants to be passed, or mistreatment of mutants for their abilities, but the way they go about it is always wrong, and harmful. They are clearly even willing to hurt other mutants to get what they want. “Are we any closer to finding them?” 

“Nope,” he sighed, scrolling through the tablet in his hands and trying to find out if the tracker he placed actually amounted to anything. He would bet not, since the signal wasn’t even coming up. “Lost ‘em in the snow…” 

“Snow?” You turned to him quickly, “where the hell did you guys go?” 

“It’s a long story, you missed it when you were napping,” he partially joked, going back to his task. “I’ll fill you in later, just go make sure the kids know we’re fine.” 

“Okay,” you nodded, turning on your heel and leaving. You didn’t run to the elevator this time, shaking off the feeling that something big was coming. You didn’t know what or why you felt it, but it was creeping up on you since you stepped off the elevator. 

-

The next morning, the entire house was buzzing with the excitement of new recruits. You’d yet to meet them, but felt their energy in and around the house, coming and going from different rooms when you started to go about your day. 

You knew that the time for introductions would come eventually, and likely when classes were over. 

Everything had been nearly the same as the day before, except Scott didn’t have a computer problem that needed solving, so you actually got done with your other work pretty quickly. You went to get the mail that Hank always just left on the entryway table, trying to sort through so you could drop it off at each person’s individual rooms. 

“Alice?” 

“Yeah?” you mumbled without turning around, hearing Jean’s voice.

“I want to introduce you to some people. These are our new guests. Rogue, and Logan.” 

You’d turned around during Jean’s introduction of the two new recruits, however short it was, like she needed to leave them with you. You understood this was a vital time for the team, and distractions weren’t welcome… but she’d only just now handed off said distraction, and boy was it one to behold. The girl was sweet looking, about fifteen if you had to guess, but the man? You look him over once and immediately you have a flash of deja vu. Dark hair, a soft grin, and pretty hazel eyes. He’s much taller than you, and you have to look up to meet his stare.

You smiled to them, giving a nod and placing your hands behind your back in the case they might want to shake one. 

“Rogue has a mutation with similar effects to yours. If she touches someone for even a few seconds, they could die.”

You furrowed your brows when looked down at the sweet girl before you. What a sad thing to share with someone. You can see her whole life ahead of her, and the things she will have to endure just as you did, and it makes you feel compassion. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, I know how hard it can be,” you told her. She smiled and nodded this time, just as you did but in return. She seemed to be a shy thing, head dipping every so often to appear smaller than she was. 

“Could you show them the open rooms? I’ve got to be back with Charles in a moment,” Jean rushed through, seemingly pressed for time. You were only all too happy to take them off her hands. 

“Of course. Let me know what happens in there, will you?” 

She nodded, squeezing your clothed shoulder before turning on her heel and heading down the corridor. 

“So you’re like me?” Rogue asked, trying to make conversation now that she knew you had something in common. 

“A bit, yeah,” you cocked your head in one direction, getting them to follow after you. “My body is made up of a few types of radioactive energy. One is regular matter, the other is anti-matter, but the third is something completely unknown to the human or mutant race.”

“How does it work?” She followed you up the stairs, and Logan did, too. He was listening, but didn’t give off the vibe that he was interested. 

“Well, the instant I touch anyone, they die. The professor was the one who finally helped me learn to control the energy, though. Now I can use it to shield myself and others from dangerous attacks.”

“Attacks… you mean like guns and stuff? Are you bulletproof?!” 

You smiled at her endless curiosity, boundless in asking questions that you barely even knew the answers to. 

“Pretty much, yeah. Bulletproof, fireproof, everything really.”

“Whoa…” she trailed, and luckily, to stop the flow of questions, you turned down the hall and opened a door to an empty room. 

“This one’s for you,” you smiled at her and let her walk through the doorway, almost immediately becoming more settled now that she had a place to stay. “Let me know if you need anything, I’m at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.”

A smile, and a small dip of your head as you closed the door allowed her to relax. 

And now there was this Logan character.

“Bulletproof, huh?” he didn’t seem skeptical, just unimpressed. 

“And fireproof,” you added with a small smile, turning and going down the hall to find the next open room. It was the one besides yours, and yes, you absolutely did that on purpose. “Forgive me for being forward… but I think I know you.”

“You know me? Doubtful.”

“No, I definitely know you,” you opened the door for him, but didn’t intend on leaving yet. You didn’t say anything in front of the girl, but the moments you turned around downstairs, you recognized him from somewhere. The downside of living for over two hundred years is that maybe you didn’t always remember people years down the line. “The question is, how did I meet you?” 

“Look, doll… I only have the last fifteen years of my memory, and all I really know is that I’m not human, and I can’t die either,” he paused, taking a step closer, but keeping a safe enough distance as to not make contact with the previously mentioned radioactive skin. “But even if I remembered before that, you’re too young to have met me.”

“Young?” you raised your eyebrows, not to mock or belittle him, but just shocked he would make such an assumption, especially knowing the school that he’s at right now. 

“Yeah, young. What are you, nineteen?” 

“Two hundred and thirty three this year,” you answered with a dull expression of normalcy. 

For a minute, he didn’t know if you were being serious, but upon searching your face for more indications, he found nothing that told him otherwise. 

“Really…” he reacted skeptical this time. “Got an ID?”

The joke was mildly entertaining, but if what he said was true, he wouldn't be able to tell you when or how you met. It was a dead end, and there were much more pressing matters downstairs.

“Let me know if you need anything. That's my door,” you pointed to the one beside his, and he nodded with a smirk. You absolutely did that on purpose. 

“Will do.” 

He didn’t bother you the rest of the evening, but you kind of wish he had… 

-

Your cell was cold and binding, your claustrophobic tendencies getting worse with every day you spent here. Your body was broken, your legs crumbling beneath you whenever you would try to stand. 

There was nothing you could do to help the pain, your energy was depleted from everything they took out of you, and you couldn’t even summon the strength to shield them if they come again. You know you'll die. The next time they come, opening your cage and dragging you through the halls in their self righteous futuristic looking uniforms. They always scoffed at your mistreatment. Mutants were the scum of the earth, and by torturing you and your kind, they thought they were doing mankind a favor. 

The sirens that suddenly blared in your ears brought about a sense of danger that hadn’t ever settled in the cell block before. Something that was foreign and unknown. This had never happened before. It was always silent as mutants were taken and used for their abilities, experiments falling over most of them. 

You thought that maybe the government had finally gotten ahold of Striker and his plans, ready to shut down the program and finish the job. Humans these days hated anything that was different from them, most of all the mutant race. 

You braced yourself, curling into the corner of the cage and closing your eyes. It would come any minute now. The blow of death while you were unable to shield yourself. 

You heard the cage squeak on its hinges, but there was no blow of death, only kind words from someone you've never met. 

“C'mon, get up… we're getting you out,” he said, pulling you from your feared bracing and making your eyes shoot open. Your arms and legs were bare in the clothes they gave you, meaning your skin was open to be touched. 

He grabbed at your arm, and you couldn’t even stop him… but he didn't fall, he continued to help you up, shouldering you out of the cell and onto your own two feet. By now the adrenaline kicked in, and you were able to walk through the pain, knowing this was your only shot to be free. 

“Who are you?” You asked in wonder. You met his eyes, and they were the most beautiful you think you've seen. Hazel, with gold in the middle. 

“Just someone that wants to help,” he said, letting you fend on your own now that he could feel your legs carrying you on their own. He went to help more, and you had to try and shake him from your mind just for the moment. There would come a time when you could ask questions, but now was for you to run. 

You caught up with one of the groups heading for the exit, and came across a few guards. You wondered if you even had your power anymore. That man, he touched you and survived. That's never happened before. Your skin is death, and no one escapes the reaper… 

You touched one of the guards with your open flesh and he instantly died upon contact. And that could only mean one thing. The mutant who was saving everyone was immune to your powers, and nobody else was. 

You have to find this man, but going back would almost mean certain doom for you, and you can't bring yourself to die yet. There's more life left to live. 

Once you escape the bunker, coming outside to a clearing, there waits a man in a wheelchair, rolling down from a hovering jet… and you know that jet. It belongs to-

“Charles?” You murmur, and within an instant, he was back in your head for the first time in over ten years. “Is it really you?”

“It's really me. I must look different than last time we met,” he smirked, handing you a pair of gloves and letting you lean on his chair to walk up the ramp. The others followed, and then the jet took off, no time to waste. “But you haven't changed at all.”

You collapsed into the seat closest to you, and then -

You sprung up from your pillows. 

This nightmare wasn't even a nightmare. It was still a memory, but not a bad one. It was something you tried to forget, but of course there was a single detail that could not be wiped from your memory if you tried. 

Logan.

He's the man that saved your life all those years ago. And more than that, he's the only person in the world you've met for over two hundred years that can touch you. 

It’s late, and when you turn to find that your clock says three in the morning, you hesitate… but things like this never happen, so your ability to wait until the sun at least rises is completely destroyed. You throw the sheets and comforter off your bed, and forget modesty in your haste. Wearing only the tiniest shorts from your dresser and the only clean shirt on hand, you made a quick trek from your room to the one next door. 

Knocking was out of the question, obviously. He’d be asleep, right?

When you barged in, he seemed to be having the same conundrum as you only a few minutes ago. His brows were furrowed, his mouth twisted in a look of something painful. Perhaps the very reason you were awoken from your slumber was to assist him with his… or maybe you were delusional and needed to go back to your room. 

“Logan?” you approached gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out for him. You wanted to calm him down if you could, he looked so scared in whatever dream he was having. 

He startled awake with lightning speed, his reactive senses making him sit straight up in bed, claws out and ready to attack. You yelped and fell off the bed, leaving a loud thunk on the ground. The amount of terror rushing through you suddenly left for the oddest reason. 

Looking down, your arm had been cut in three parallel lines. Not deep enough to severely wound you, but enough that you could feel the sting, and see the blood rising to the surface of the skin. You didn’t think you could bleed.

“Alice?” He calmed down, immediately worried over what he’d done. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” you looked up at him, a look of utter joy on your face and he had no idea why. His confusion soared even more when instead of running from him you pulled yourself back up onto his bed, leaning closer. 

“Are you… alright? What’s going on?” 

“I remembered you. Where I met you,” you explained, getting even closer and making him nervous, considering your specific mutation he’s heard so much about. You completely forgot about your arm, leaving it for later.

“Where?” 

He was eager to remember anything about his past before the blank space. He wanted badly to know where he comes from, and if you had anything to do with how he got here. He knows it’s probably a slim chance, since you had to try hard to remember him upon his arrival.

You closed the gap and reached your hand out to his arm, and he flinched away. “Are you crazy? You could kill me.”

“No, I can’t,” you told him, watching his eyes as you finally reached again and touched his skin. He didn’t drop dead, or have any other side effects for that matter, and you breathed out in relief, a smile spreading across your face.

He was again confused, and more so shocked. His features couldn’t comprehend how this was happening if what everyone said was true. You’d killed people even accidently with the brush of an elbow, so how is he still living and breathing, your hand on his forearm?

“How did you know?” He wondered, his full focus now on what you could tell him. 

“Does the name William Striker ring a bell?” You squinted, knowing it was a longshot, but hoping he might know, anyway. 

“It sounds familiar, but I don’t recall a face or a history to go with it.”

“He gave you these,” you reached for his other hand, claws still drawn from his nightmare. “And he gave me these…”

You gestured to the scars on your legs and raised your shirt slightly so he could see the ones on your torso. All healed over by now but still reasonably protruding if you stare at them too long.

“He’d held so many mutants captive, but you set us free,” you watched as his claws retracted back into his skin, and then you took his unclenched hand. “You saved my life.”

“I don’t think that was me,” he shook his head. He doesn’t remember who he was, but he knows who he is now, and it couldn’t be that far from his past self… yet you spoke of him as though he were some caped figure with an agenda for fighting bad guys. “I don’t do things like that.”

“Logan,” you huffed, unwilling to let him negate himself, especially when you’ve waited all these years to talk to him again, to give him the gratitude you felt he deserved. “I have been alive for over two hundred years. During that time I have been all over the world, met as many mutants as there are stars in the sky… and not one could touch me, until you. I know it was you who saved me.”

“I’m no hero, kid…” he shook his head, his eyes falling to the cuts on your arm, the blood getting thicker and threatening to run down the expanse of your arm and onto your shirt. 

“You were to me,” you smiled sweetly. “You saved my life that day… and so many other mutants. Scott being one of them, he just doesn’t remember.”

“I saved Scott?” he cringed, and you laughed, having gotten notes of their instant rivalry in the energy around the mansion. 

“Yes, you did… and I never got to thank you for it, so… thank you.”

He nodded, still unsure of this past exchange and how much he had to do with it. You clearly remembered being helped by him. Enough so that you were willing to bet his life on whether or not he could touch you. He feels bad, now, seeing the red begin to run down your arm, he certainly doesn’t feel like a hero, and his actions don’t show him being one, either… but he can do something about that.

“Can I help you with that?” He pointed to the bloody open wound, which had been ignored until now. 

“I’ll take care of it, it’s not too bad.”

“No, I wanna do it… I’m the one that put it there,” he sighed when he stood up from bed, going into the hall and finding the bathroom. He’d seen a first aid kit in there somewhere. 

When he comes back he looks clueless on how to even open the box. 

“It has a child lock on it, lemme see,” you reached, and he batted your hands away softly, figuring it out himself. 

“I’m not a child,” he retorted dryly, reaching into the box and finding the proper supplies. 

He did decently, you’d have to say. Started with the cleansing wipes, then moved on to the antibacterial treatment and gauze wraps. Finished it off with a good layer of medical tape, securing it with a soft movement of his hands. They looked rough, but had been nothing but gentle. 

“You do this a lot?” You asked, wondering if perhaps it might trigger a memory. 

“Not to myself, and not to anyone else I can remember.”

“Well you did a good job.”

He nodded in thanks, and you went to stand up. Going back to your room seemed like the thing to do, and you wanted to let him get back to sleep.

“You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.” His words halted you in your step, making you sit back on the bed where you’d been since arriving, minus the brief trip to the floor. “I usually don’t sleep after…”

“Nightmares?” Your soft question had him giving a small dip of his head, slightly embarrassed. “I get 'em, too. Not usually so much as lately, but I get 'em.”

And when he reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, you had no longing to go back to bed. You’d stay up the rest of the night with this man to ensure he didn’t let go of you. It was here that you decided he could touch you for a reason, and you weren’t going to let it go to waste. 

Tags: open

[ilongfor-the-arts]

Could you do a fanfic where the marquis meets the reader in a museum and they bond over their live of art

Meet Me in the Hallway

Pairing: Vincent de Gramont x fem! Reader

Warnings: VERY mild language

Summary: *in req*

Word Count: 2.3k

The Louvre has maintained a particular place in my heart for as long as I can remember. As a child, I recall visiting during tourist season. The other children darted around, driving their guardians to the brink of insanity. However, I stood in front of the immense paintings, carefully analyzing each aspect of the art. I remember visiting The Louvre as a teenager during the winter, when the immense corridors were barren. I'd find a place to sit and ponder, observing faces and objects in the quiet halls. I recall taking advantage of any occasion to talk about art with friends and family.

My friends were perplexed by my preoccupation. When I rambled on, they would nod and appear to be attentive. But I could always tell by the look on their faces that they were eager for my rant to end.

I've always been drawn to art's beauty. One bad stroke, one outburst of rage, and the finished result may be jeopardized. Art is more than just a painting or a sculpture; it is a way of life. You must be able to look beyond what the eye can see in order to produce art. You must be able to view the world in a completely unique way. You must look for a message behind the eyes rather than simply viewing things analytically. Painters paint, artists interpret.

That is what separates the good from the iconic.

I enjoyed the near silence as I wandered through The Louvre. Because it being January, the museum was nearly totally populated with a sprinkle of wandering locals. I took a tour around my favorite section, French paintings 1780-1850. The gold frames stood out against the dark burgundy walls.

The atmosphere was serene. As night fell, the hallway was illuminated exclusively by a few fluorescent lights. The sensation that washed over me was one of sheer nostalgia and amazement.

The dimness of room 700, when combined with the massive displays showcasing the complexity of the human mind, gave off an ominous vibe. There was everything and nothing at the same time.

Nothing else on the planet can make you feel this way.

I proceeded to one of the most well-known works of art in the entire museum.

Ah, one of my favorites, Liberty Leading the People. Eugene Delacoix created this work of art in the year 1830. Delacoix depicts a scene during the July Revolution of 1830, when King Charles X-

Woah.

My gaze was drawn to a man sitting on a beautiful white couch.

I tightened my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor.

He was breathtakingly beautiful.

Was he a tourist?

No way, no how. No tourist would dress up in an expensive three-piece black suit to visit the Louvre. He's got to be a local.

He was staring at the enormous painting, his mind fixed in deep thought. Many locals stopped to look at the paintings, but he seemed to be examining every face and object.

Should I introduce myself? It would be the polite thing to do as I’ve been obviously staring at him for-

“Did no one ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

My trance was broken by his velvety accent. I hid my gitters by slipping my hands into the pockets of my beige trenchcoat.

“I’m sorry,” I said smugly, “You caught my eye.”

He sneered, a slight smirk playing on the edges of his lips. He couldn't take his gaze away from the painting. I swallowed, unsure how to dispel the uneasiness. The man uncrossed his lanky legs and pushed himself up to his full height.

He's tall, Jesus.

He strolled over to the picture, decreasing the distance between himself and the work of art to a few feet. He cocked his head upwards, his gaze wandering over the magnificent painting's many intricacies. The man put his hand on his hip and pushed his jacket to the side, revealing an astonishing variety of golden buttons along his vest.

“What do you think of this one?”

He asked, motioning with his free hand towards the canvas. I followed his movements, taking in the painting I know and adore.

“It’s a beautiful piece of art.”

I said hesitantly. The man chuckled, turning his head to meet my gaze. Despite being only three feet away, I found myself completely engrossed in his captivating green eyes.

“That’s it? It’s beautiful?”

His smirk now more prevalent than before. I exhaled a shuddery breath.

“Well, it’s one of the most famous paintings in art history. I think it's wonderful how this artwork has become a universal emblem of liberty and freedom from oppressive dominance.”

The man raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“That’s excellent insight. It’s good to meet people with an appreciation for the finer things in life.”

He returned his gaze to the canvas, motioning with his fingers for me to come towards him.

“Come closer, look at this.”

I was hesitant to approach this intimidating man, but my curiosity was far too strong to ignore. So I narrowed the gap between us to a mere six inches. As I took up a place next to him, our sides nearly brushed against each other.

He raised his finger to the stunning representation of liberty.

Take note of her features, such as her straight nose, plump lips, and delicate chin. They all look like antique Greek and Roman statues. She pays homage to both Ancient Greece, the birthplace of democracy, and Roman republican culture.”

I narrowed my eyes, mentally applying his words to the painting.

“Here, look at this,” I began, pointing to the left side of the painting.

“See that guy with the pistol? He's wearing a shirt but no jacket. He belongs to the lower class. But look at the man next to him; he's wearing a top hat, jacket, and vest. He belongs to the upper class. Delacroix aimed to include all classes of people in the fight against royalist oppression.”

The man exhaled in amazement.

“How fascinating. Delacroix’s artistic vision is truly unmatched.”

“I agree. This piece is probably my favorite in the entire museum.”

The man shrugged nonchalantly.

“It is certainly impressive. But my favorite would have to be Venus de Milo.”

He shifted his head to face me, sweeping his gaze up and down my figure. I shuddered, his heated gaze making me feel like I was under scrutiny.

“However, I suppose that opinion could simply be mine because I enjoy the presence of a beautiful woman.”

Holy shit was he flirting with me?

Heat climbed onto my cheekbones. I hoped my flush wasn't too visible, as his gaze was still fixed on me. I chuckled awkwardly.

“I suppose that could certainly contribute to your fondness of the piece.”

He motioned towards the white couch.

“Here, sit, let’s talk.”

He sat closer than I had expected. Our thighs were almost touching, and the arm slung around the back of the couch was almost brushing my shoulders. Despite the color on my cheeks and my minor intimidation of the man's large stature, I felt strangely at ease. I was intrigued rather than nervous. He exuded mystery, and I had every intention of unraveling the web of secrets.

“Do you believe talent like this is given at birth, or developed as the individual grows?”

I licked my lips, carefully contemplating my next words.

“Well, I believe we are all born blank canvases, and if we find something we are exceptionally passionate about, then we can grow those specific talents.”

I swallowed, hoping he was satisfied with that reply.

“How about you?”

“Oh, I believe people with true artistic talent are born with promise. Because if we go by your logic, anyone who loves art has the potential to become the next Delacroix.”

Wow, he was certainly quite the intellectual.

“Well, allow me to elaborate. Anyone can become a mediocre artist if they try,” I began, “but yes, I agree with you, only a few are born with the promise of artistic greatness. I mean, someone like Coco Chanel could never become the next Van Gogh or Delacroix, it just isn't meant to be. That isn’t where her talents lie.”

The man's lips curved into a smile. I locked my attention on his lovely green eyes. We were closer than I had imagined. His breath was cascading across my face. I inhaled sharply. He smelt amazing, like an expensive floral fragrance. It crept into my head, confounding my already hazy thinking.

“I like you… Miss…”

“Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.”

His smile widened even more, splitting his face to reveal a stunning row of white teeth.

“What a gorgeous name... It’s fitting, a gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman.”

His accent was dripping with charm. There was no way in hell this man didn't have a significant other. He was far too enticing and attractive to be single.

“You know, plenty of people wander these halls, knowing every name of every piece. Yet they don’t contemplate the true meaning of the art.”

His eyes were drawn to Liberty Leading the People. The man’s tone became somewhat agitated as he ran his tongue along his smooth bottom lip, his eyes narrowing.

“They only think about the art, they don’t contemplate it.”

He inhaled deeply, his chest softly rising and sinking beneath the pricey cloth.

“Thinking is simple, thinking is the most simple thing in the entire universe for humankind. Anyone can think, but not everyone can contemplate.”

I concur. It was pleasant to meet a thinker who cared so deeply about the beauty of art.

“Who’s your favorite painter?”

My face broke into a genuine smile.

“Paul Cezanne.”

“And why is that, Miss. Y/N Y/L/N.”

I adored how he said my name. It rolled off his tongue effortlessly, like butter on a hot pan. I could spend the entire day sitting next to him on a couch at the Louvre, listening to him utter my name.

“Well, because his distinct color-building technique and his analytical approach to nature had a great impact on the art of Cubists, Fauves, and many generations of avant-garde artists.”

I've never encountered somebody who would listen to my raving with such enthusiasm. And there was no one who properly comprehended my words and had the knowledge to respond intelligently. Not only on the subject of art, but also on the issue of life.

“Ah!”

He exclaimed, shooting a finger towards me.

“There it is!”

His hand fell to his lap.

“You, Miss Y/N Y/L/N, do not just think, you were born with the gift of careful contemplation.”

I'd dated a few men previously, but none had ever made me feel as great as this mysterious man. And I'd only known him for about 30 minutes. My eyes lit up with wonder when I heard his voice, and I hung on to every word with excitement.

“You have a dizzying intellect.”

His velvety tone dropped to an endearing whisper. My stomach flipped.

“It is very rare I meet a woman with such beauty, not only in her appearance, but in her demeanor as well.”

His long fingers pushed a stray hair behind my ear. I nearly flinched before realizing the gesture was benign. I could still feel his contact on my cheek after he removed his fingertips. He set fire to every nerve he came into contact with.

“Will you grant me the opportunity to become your acquaintance?”

His eyes were filled with anticipation. There it was, the date I'd been looking forward to throughout the duration of this conversation.

“I would like that very much Mr…”

“Vincent de Gramont.”

I hummed in delight.

“That’s a handsome name. It’s fitting, a handsome name for a handsome man.”

I said, slightly mocking his previous remark.

Vincent chuckled.

“Oh, you are a comedian as well. I like you more and more as time goes on.”

Vincent waited for a beat of silence before rising to his full height. Being the one seated while he stood certainly flipped the script. I felt small under his demeanor as his presence was felt throughout the room. He was comfortable in his own skin, demanding control of the atmosphere like a conductor.

“My bodyguards will ensure that you have all the information necessary to find my estate.”

Bodyguards?!

He indicated to two men in gray suits who were standing with their backs against the nearest maroon wall.

Wow.

I surely hoped they wouldn’t be hanging around when I finally seized the opportunity to speak with Vincent in private.

“Wonderful.”

“My estate is beautiful if I do have to say so myself. You will enjoy it.”

I can only imagine how magnificent his house was if this was the suit he decided to wear for a chance visit to a museum.

“There is lots of space, plenty of rooms to explore and places to sit and talk for hours.”

I couldn't keep a smile from breaking my face. Who would have guessed that when I walked into the Louver today, I'd walk out with a lovely new date?

“That sounds like a dream come true. I can’t wait to see it.”

Vincent returned my grin.

“I can not wait for you to see it. You will melt.”

He extended his hand. I hesitated for a moment before realizing he wanted me to lay my palm in his. Vincent leaned down and kissed the top of my hand in an exceedingly trendy gesture.

Wow, very gentlemanly.

If my cheeks weren’t pink before, they surely were bright red now.

“Thank you for granting me the pleasure of becoming your acquaintance, I look forward to seeing you around my estate.”

After his departure, I remained seated on the couch. I was unable to move, wanting to preserve the moment for as long as possible

[takenbypeter]

Hey! Jumped on the Wonka train since yesterday and had two thumbs up! Can I request a Wonka x single mom reader where during the course of the movie they’ve built up a bit of a flirtation/relationship and he bonds with her kid (s) bc of course they love the magician with chocolate who makes their mama smile. Specifically I’m looking for like a scene towards the end of the movie or post-canon where he expresses interest in adopting her kid (or kids) and of course marriage so they can all be one real happy family together. Sorry if that description’s a lot

Beginnings of a New Dream

Willy Wonka x reader

Words: 1780

Ahhh this one is so bad 🙈 I tried with this one but honestly I hate it, Idk I think it's cause I can't relate to parent fics so I just suck at them but still I wanna thank you for requesting

“Where is he?” You said to yourself, as you turned around in search of the young child. You’ve left him alone only for one second and now, poof, he’s nowhere in sight. 

Your eyes scanned your surroundings quickly until it spotted a familiar tiny figure standing upright among the white snow and you wasted no time to catch up. 

“There you are,” you breathed out, worried tone evident in your voice, “I told you to stay put,” you reminded, before noticing the stranger who was with him. 

The unknown man was wearing a tattered overcoat, along with a worn out top hat. His outfit was very…unusual, to say the least. And he was quite handsome.

But what concerned you the most, was his outstretched hand which held a small piece of wrapped candy. 

You glanced at your son who was already chewing on what you could assume was a different piece, then back at the stranger who instantly understands how bad this looks. 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Willy Wonka and I’m a chocolatier hoping to open my own shop very soon.”

“Mommy he can do magic!” Shouted your son.

“Oh he can now, can he?”

Willy Wonka. You’ve heard that name around town a few times, but this is the first you’ve seen of the man. 

He held out a hand to which you firmly shook, “well Willy Wonka, surely you, being a stranger and all, understand why I find it odd you’re giving candy to my son, knowing how dangerous it is for children to talk to, no less take candy from a stranger.”

“Ahem,” he let out an awkward cough as he retracted his hand. “I do apologize. It wasn’t my intention to cause fret. The little guy looked lost so my only intent was to keep him safe and occupied, honest.”

You squinted slightly unsure of the man. He stood arms up and opened in an innocent manner. His eyes were big with his thick eyebrows angled upwards at the middle before curving down. He did seem to be of no harm, and he did keep your son safe. 

You let out a relaxed sigh, “it’s alright, it’s my fault anyway, I should’ve kept an eye on my son. Thank you for keeping him safe.”

Wonka’s shoulders dropped and his facial muscles relaxed at your pardon. 

You reached down holding your child close, “we’ll leave you be. Thanks again.” 

“Wait,” his voice rang out, catching you before you departed. “Would you like to try a piece?” He held out the same small piece of chocolate from earlier in his palm upwards towards you. 

You’re just about ready to decline the offer but again he speaks out, “it would really be helpful to have a mature opinion on this chocolate.”

You nodded caving in because honestly, who were you to deny free chocolate, your mind thought showing you to be just as gullible as a child. Taking the sweet treat, you pop it past your lips.

 Immediately a rich flavor overtakes your mouth and as you bite into it, a milky chocolate filling spreads around. 

It was quite good. 

“Mmm,” you nodded towards the man, “oh you are going to go far with this chocolate Mr.Wonka.”

“Thank you. Your words mean much to me,” he said genuinely, and you let out a chuckle, “you’re welcome Mr.Wonka,” you say, as you turn around, hand in hand with your son.

Willy watches you fade from view with a prominent smile on his lips, because although he knew his business would do well, with the justification of your words he felt he was on the right path. 

And honestly he hoped to meet you on this path again. 

Days passed until you met the self proclaimed chocolatier again. 

You had been traveling, hand clasped with your sons, when you spotted Mr.Wonka’s pop up store in the center of town. Initially wanting to pass the store along with the small crowd surrounding it, your plans are thwarted when your son pulls you towards it.

“It’s Mr.Wonka!” Shouted your son as he pointed towards the herd, “alright, alright we’ll just stop by.” He runs, his little feet taking him as fast as he can while dragging your body along.

“Mr.Wonka! Mr.Wonka!” Shouts your son as he rushes to the front with you following close behind. 

Willy’s eyes widened in recognition, “well hey there, little guy, back so soon?” He asks, prompting your son.

You watch, looking on as the chocolatier chats with your child. They go back and forth creating small talk, before Wonka pulls out one tiny piece of chocolate, He waves his hands around and the crowd watches as he turns one piece into two right in front of their eyes. 

“Woah, do it again!” Clapped your boy in amazement, and truthfully you felt the same way. 

He performs the trick once more and again your son laughs as Wonka gives him one of the pieces before turning to you and handing you the other piece. 

“You are surprisingly well with children.”

He shrugs, at the comment, “it helps when you have such a sweet child…who has such a pleasant mother.”

He tips his hat while all you can do is chuckle trying not to look too moved by the man’s remark. 

“Thank you Mr.Wonka.”

“Please, call me Willy,” he adds and you nod while he returns his attention to other customers.

That Willy Wonka, what a charmer he was.

The week goes by before you run into the young man again, however, this time you were alone. 

“Willy!” You announced, trying not to sound too excited when you saw the chocolatier, who was walking along the street with a young lady. (You soon learned her name to be Noodle.)

You exchange greetings while Noodle makes her exit leaving you be. 

“What are you doing all alone? Where is the little one?” He asks, glancing around. “Oh I had to run some errands today so I had a friend watch him for me.”

Willy shares a soft smile, “he really is a brilliant kid, with a brilliant mother of course.”

“You flatter me Mr.Wonka.”

“Willy,” he reminds.

“Willy,” you repeat, sharing a look together before he blinks readjusting his focus. 

“Oh!” His eyes enlarge as he reaches behind him into his battered briefcase, “I had something made for the little guy, and for, ahem, the mister back home,” he holds out a small jar of candies to which you take grateful. 

“Please, there’s nothing of the sort, just me and the kiddo.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright. It’s been that way for a while, it’s sort of the only way we know.” 

Willy shares a look with you, one unlike the look of pity most give when they hear your story, it was more of admiration? Respect? Either way, you thank him for thinking of you and as you do so, you hear a siren noise nearing before the chief of police arrives. 

He steps out of his vehicle and Willy turns to you, “I think you should go. Now. I’ll talk to you soon,” he says and you nod in understanding leaving the scene as the chief of police nears. 

That’s how your time gets spent whenever you spot the man; your son talks with him, you talk with him, Willy performs a magic trick. You try to buy some candy, Willy refuses and instead gives it to you for free and then you’re on your way. 

“Willy! Willy! Look, my tooth is missing!” Your son yelled running up to Willy. 

“Oh wow, that is outstanding! But you know what I heard?” Willy lowers himself to your son’s level, hushing his voice. 

“I heard this year, the tooth fairy started leaving candy underneath the pillows, for all the good boys and girls.”

“Really?!”

Willy looks up in your direction shooting you a quick wink. 

“Really.”

Your son turns to you with a smile from ear to ear present on his face as you nod confirming his curiosities. 

Mirroring his grin you watch on as Willy and your son continue in conversation. You’ve grown to the sight of them both, chatting and laughing. It was a very lovable sight. 

 That’s how it went, your meetings together.

And with each meeting you found yourself drawing closer and closer to the man, staying longer and longer on your visits.

The last time you saw Willy was at his opening for the factory, when everything went south. People rioted and burned his shop down and in the craziness you grabbed your son and ran putting his safety first. 

After that you didn’t hear from Willy. 

That is until today. You weren’t there when all the mess went down. When Willy and his team practically outsmarted the Chocolate Cartel, having them arrested. 

But you made sure to be there for Willy Wonka’s new opening of his shop. 

You stood in the crowd, your hand clutching your sons as the people gathered around trying the various sweets and treats. 

Walking around taking in all the beautiful colors and lights you stop at a wall full of jellybeans and gumdrops. And giving your son permission to collect some, you stand a short distance keeping an eye on him. 

“You made it,” said a voice as a figure emerged beside you. You smiled at Willy who was positioned just as you were towards the colorful wall. 

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

You watch for a moment as your son collects snacks, putting them into a bag that was provided. You were so occupied with him that you hadn't realized Willy was holding out one of his own creations for you.

“A chocolate flower for the lady.”

“It doesn’t have any yeti sweat does it?” You asked, eyebrow raised. You were lucky enough that you hadn’t managed to eat any of the poisoned chocolate last time.

“No, no yeti sweat.”

Beaming you take it and happily munch on it. 

“So this place…is it everything you’ve dreamed of.”

He glances around taking it all in. The smiles on peoples faces, the way they’re in full enjoyment, but then his gaze returns to yours, “yes it is. But it’s strange.”

You tilt your head silently, allowing him to continue his thought as he turns his attention back to your son then you again. “I think…I think I have a new dream now.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your new dream?”

Willy’s eyes lock onto yours. 

There are no words shared between you two but somehow you seem to understand what he means.

[srue-on-fire]

Your Toes Touch Mine

Pairing: Tony Stark x Bucky Barnes Words: 1780 Rating: General Audiences Prompt: #19. "Why are you cuddling me?" - "You were cold." Title: Prateek Kuhad's cold/mess prompt list 🩶 read on ao3

❄️.❤️‍🩹

Tony didn’t mean to skip dinner.

It wasn’t intentional —at least, not entirely. He just got caught up in the new repulsor calibration, and then he got an idea for a modular nanite upgrade, and then there was a minor incident with DUM-E knocking over an entire tray of micro capacitors… and, well.

Things happened.

By the time Bucky showed up, Tony was elbow-deep in circuit boards, running on coffee and pure stubbornness.

The door slid open with a soft whoosh, and Tony barely looked up before calling, “Unless you’ve got an offering of caffeine, state your business quickly and go away.”

There was no response, but footsteps crossed the room anyway —steady, deliberate, like whoever it was had no intention of listening to him.

Tony glanced up, already prepped with some snark, only to find Bucky Barnes standing there, a plate balanced in his metal hand.

Tony blinked.

“Uh.”

Bucky gave him an unimpressed look and set the plate down on the nearest workbench. “You missed dinner.”

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it again, gaze flicking between Bucky and the food.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “that’s terribly presumptuous of you.”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow.

Tony huffed. “What, you’re the meals police now?”

Bucky leaned against the workbench, clearly settling in. “Eat.”

Tony sighed, rolling his eyes very dramatically, but grabbed the plate anyway. “I am supposed to be the boss here.”

Bucky didn’t rise to the bait, just smirked a little, “You’re welcome.”

Tony muttered something under his breath about pushy super-soldiers but took a bite. He had been hungry, apparently —his body made that abundantly clear the second he actually started eating.

Bucky didn’t leave.

Which, okay, fine, Tony was getting used to it at this point. He might as well add Bucky to the list of people who hover in the workshop. Pepper did it. Rhodey did it. Happy, JARVIS, hell —even Steve sometimes. 

“You stickin’ around for a reason, or is this part of your master plan to keep me under surveillance?” Tony asked, gesturing at him with his fork.

Bucky shrugged. “Figured I’d hang back for a bit.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Bucky tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure why Tony was questioning it at all. “Why not?”

Well. That was… suspiciously reasonable.

Tony chewed, considering. Bucky didn’t look like he had some ulterior motive. He just looked— relaxed. Comfortable, even, as he leaned against the workbench, gaze flicking over the half done projects lying on the top. 

Huh. 

Tony decided to let it go.

“Fine. But if you’re gonna lurk, make yourself useful.”

“What,” Bucky smirked. “You want me to solder something for you?”

“God, no,” Tony shoved the plate aside and wiped his hands off. “You can, however, go make sure DUM-E hasn’t found another way to commit robot-assisted manslaughter.”

Bucky glanced toward the far side of the workshop, where the robot in question was idly spinning one of Tony’s wrenches like a toddler with a new toy.

“Seems harmless to me.”

“Yeah, until he decides to fling that thing at my head.”

Bucky snorted but obligingly pushed off the workbench and wandered over. DUM-E beeped at him excitedly, waving the wrench like a puppy showing off a stolen shoe. He took the wrench from its claws and replaced it with a stress ball, eyes smiling when DUM-E twirled happily. 

Tony went back to his work, dragging his focus away from the very not cute interaction with great difficulty. He occasionally glanced up to watch as Bucky inspected various pieces of tech with mild curiosity, ran his fingers over some unfinished gauntlets, and even let DUM-E nudge at his metal arm like the two of them were becoming fast friends.

Weirdly, it wasn’t bad having him here.

Tony worked better alone—always had—but Bucky’s presence wasn’t intrusive. He wasn’t trying to force conversation or help in the way people sometimes did when they hovered. He was just… there.

It was oddly nice.

After a while, Bucky tapped a knuckle against the unfinished gauntlet on the workbench. “So, what’s this one do? More firepower?”

Tony didn’t even look up. “Not everything has to be a bigger boom, Snowflake,” he tightened a screw inside the casing. “This is a modular nanite upgrade for quick-repair capabilities. Basically, if something gets busted mid-battle, the suit can patch itself up on the fly.”

Bucky whistled low. “Self-healing armor?”

“Eh, more like self-preserving. It won’t grow back missing pieces, but it’ll redistribute nanites to cover weak points,” Tony glanced at him. “Try to keep up.”

Bucky smirked. “So you’re programming it to prioritize damage control. Do the nanites reinforce structural integrity first, or are they more reactive to surface-level threats?”

Tony paused mid-adjustment, and looked up at Bucky, a little surprised and a lot chuffed. “Oh, wow, someone’s been educating themselves.”

Bucky shrugged, biting back a pleased smile, and nodded toward the circuit board Tony was working on. “So what’s stopping the nanites from overcompensating and turning your suit into an overgrown metal cocoon?”

Tony grinned, obviously excited. “Excellent question, Sergeant Barnes. And the answer is— nanite clustering thresholds. Basically, I wrote an algorithm that prevents them from going full metal blob horror on me. The suit can only deploy repairs up to a certain density before it starts reallocating nanites elsewhere.”

Bucky hummed, tapping a finger on the surface, “So it’s like a controlled tide. Push and pull.”

Tony pointed at him with his screwdriver, “Exactly. Finally, someone in this tower who speaks fluent genius.”

DUM-E beeped excitedly and waved the wrench it got hold of, again.

Tony sighed. “Not you, dummy. You still haven’t figured out lefty-loosey, righty-tighty.”

DUM-E let out an indignant whir.

Bucky smirked. “Y’know, for a guy who claims to be the smartest in the room, you built a robot that doesn’t know how to screw in a bolt.”

Tony threw up his hands. “He has personality!”

DUM-E flailed the wrench again, almost knocking over a tray of screws.

Bucky smirked. “Yeah. Real charming.”

Before Tony could defend his teenage choices, JARVIS’ voice cut through their banter.

“Sir, the Mumbai R&D team is awaiting your presence for the briefing.”

“Wait, what?” Tony snapped his head back to the table, pulling up a hologram.

“You haven’t reviewed the reports I summarized, yet, Sir,” JARVIS said, flashing a new window of the reports. “Despite my reminders.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve still got a couple of minutes, right?” Tony huffed, diving back into work. 

He didn’t notice Bucky grabbing the empty plate behind him and leaving the workshop quietly, with a small wave to DUM-E. And hours later, he trudged up to his room exhausted and sleepy, drifting off in a matter of seconds after his head hit the pillow. 

“Wha—?”

Tony’s voice was muffled against the pillow, rough with sleep and confusion. He blinked blearily at the dark room, struggling to process the warm weight pressed up against his back. His brain, which usually ran at a million miles per hour, was slow to catch up, sluggish under the weight of deep sleep and… oh.

That was definitely an arm around his waist. A heavy arm. Metal one, to be exact.

His body jolted as realization set in, and he twisted slightly, peering over his shoulder. The dim glow of the arc reactor on the nightstand illuminated the barest outline of a face, sharp jaw and soft lips, dark hair spilling over the pillow.

Bucky Barnes.

Cuddling him.

Tony’s first instinct should have been alarm. Should have been “what the hell is happening right now?”, followed by a sharp command to JARVIS.

But there was no alarm. No automated defense systems kicking in.

“Why are you cuddling me?” His voice came out rough, thick with sleep.

Bucky made a noise, somewhere between a huff and a sigh, before mumbling, "You were cold."

Tony blinked. He let his head drop back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Cold. Sure. That made sense.

Wait. Wait. What?

"That’s a terrible excuse," Tony muttered, even as he registered the undeniable warmth seeping from Bucky’s body into his own. He had been cold, he realized distantly. Now he wasn’t.

"S’not an excuse," Bucky murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep. "You were shivering."

Tony frowned. Had he been? He didn’t remember. He’d gone to sleep alone, obviously, and at some point, Bucky had crawled into bed with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Notably, JARVIS hadn’t raised any alarms when Bucky entered his room.

Tony wasn’t sure what to do with that realization.

"And your solution was to—" Tony paused, then gestured vaguely between them.

"Yeah," Bucky said simply.

Tony turned his head again, staring at him in the dim light. Bucky was watching him, eyes still half-lidded from sleep, but clear enough that Tony knew he wasn’t messing with him.

God, he was unfairly handsome. Even half-asleep and bed-rumpled, Bucky Barnes looked like he belonged on a damn magazine cover.

“You know, most people would just toss me an extra blanket,” he sighed.

“You don’t like extra blankets.”

That was… true. Tony hated them. They made him feel trapped.

Still.

“You could’ve woken me up,” he mumbled, grasping at the last threads of his skepticism.

Bucky huffed softly, like the idea was ridiculous. “You looked exhausted.”

Tony fell silent. 

He wasn’t sure when they’d reached this… thing between them. Where Bucky could slip into his bed and JARVIS didn’t even question it. Where Tony woke up warm instead of shivering, and it didn’t set off alarm bells in his brain.

Tony let his head drop back onto the pillow.

“If you’re gonna be my personal space heater,” he muttered, “you might as well commit to the role.”

Tony let out a breath and turned his face back toward the pillow, his heart hammering annoyingly fast. For a second, there was only silence. And then, Bucky shifted again, this time properly settling against him, his arm more secure around Tony’s waist.

This was… not the worst thing in the world.

Actually, it was kind of nice.

Really nice.

He let out a slow breath, and let his body relax back into Bucky’s. He should probably be questioning this. Should probably be wondering why Bucky came to his room in the first place. But the warmth was seeping into his bones now, the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing already coaxing his body back to sleep. 

If this was a thing now, he wasn’t going to complain.

❄️.❤️‍🩹

A/N: i hadn't meant for this to be this long. but i had so much fun writing it. mostly the research part lol. took me a whole day. thanks for the ask, anon!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Fashion History

to try to include in your poem/story (pt. 3/3)

Pelete Bite - a fabric created by the Kalabari Ijo peoples of the Niger Delta region by cutting threads out of imported cloth to create motifs

Pelisse - a woman’s long coat with long sleeves and a front opening, used throughout the 19th century; can also refer to men’s military jackets and women’s sleeved mantles

Peplos - a draped, outer garment made of a single piece of cloth that was worn by women in ancient Greece; loose-fitting and held up with pins at the shoulder, its top edge was folded over to create a flap and it was often worn belted

Pillow/Bobbin Lace - textile lace made by braiding and twisting thread on a pillow

Pinafore - a decorative, apron-like garment pinned to the front of dresses for both function and style

Poke Bonnet - a nineteenth-century women’s hat that featured a large brim which extended beyond the wearer’s face

Polonaise - a style of dress popular in the 1770s-80s, with a bodice cut all in one and often with the skirts looped up; it also came back into fashion during the 1870s

Pomander - a small metal ball filled with perfumed items worn in the 16th & 17th centuries to create a pleasant aroma

Poulaine - a shoe or boot with an extremely elongated, pointed toe, worn in the 14th and 15th centuries

Raffia Cloth - a type of textile woven from palm leaves and used for garments, bags and mats

Rebato - a large standing lace collar supported by wire, worn by both men and women in the late 16th and early 17th century

Robe à L’anglaise - the 18th-century robe à l’anglaise consisted of a fitted bodice cut in one piece with an overskirt that was often parted in front to reveal the petticoat

Robe à la Française - an elite 18th-century gown consisting of a decorative stomacher, petticoat, and two wide box pleats falling from shoulders to the floor

Robe en Chemise - a dress fashionable in the 1780s, constructed out of muslin with a straight cut gathered with a sash or drawstring

Robe Volante - a dress originating in 18th-century France which was pleated at the shoulder and hung loose down, worn over hoops

Roses / Rosettes - a decorative rose element usually found on shoes in the 17th century as fashion statement

Ruff - decorative removable pleated collar popular during the mid to late 16th and 17th century

Schenti - an ancient Egyptian wrap skirt worn by men

Shirtwaist - also known as waist; a woman’s blouse that resembles a man’s shirt

Skeleton Suit - late 18th & early 19th-century play wear for boys that consists of two pieces–a fitted jacket and trousers–that button together

Slashing - a decorative technique of cutting slits in the outer layer of a garment or accessory in order to expose the fabric underneath

Spanish Cape - an outer wrap often cut in a three-quarter circle originating from Spain

Spanish Farthingale - a skirt made with a series of hoops that widened toward the feet to create a triangular or conical silhouette, created in the late 15th century

Spencer Jacket - a short waist- or bust-length jacket worn in the late 18th and early 19th centuries

Stomacher - a decorated triangular-shaped panel that fills in the front opening of a women’s gown or bodice during the late 15th century to the late 18th century

Tablion - a rectangular panel, often ornamented with embroidery or jewels, attached to the front of a cloak; worn as a sign of status by Byzantine emperors and other important officials

Toga - the large draped garment of white, undyed cloth worn by Roman men as a sign of citizenship

Toga Picta - a type of toga worn by an elite few in Ancient Rome and the Byzantine Empire that was richly embroidered, patterned and dyed solid purple

Tricorne Hat - a 3-cornered hat with a standing brim, which was popular in 18th century

Tupu - a long pin used to secure a garment worn across the shoulders. It was typically worn by Andean women in South America

Vest/Waistcoat - a close-fitting inner garment, usually worn between jacket and shirt

Wampum - are shell beads strung together by American Indians to create images and patterns on accessories such as headbands and belts that can also be used as currency for trading

Wellington Boot - a popular and practical knee- or calf-length boot worn in the 19th century

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Fashion History ⚜ Word Lists

[endereies]

JUNCTION

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Contains: arguing, yelling, angst, kind of happy ending??

Requested?: no

Author's notes: i gotta stop posting and disappearing for a while, school has been a pain in my ass. thank fuck i only have a week left. I havent abandoned my matt series, i only obtained writers block instead. I promise another chapter will be out soon. ANYWAY, tumblr needs more angst so i must deliver. :)

Word Count: 1780

“Matt. You have to see where I’m coming from..” 

You had been arguing with Matt for the better part of two hours. Small fragments of pent-up opinions finally formed a full set that was being thrown back at you.  

“I don’t have that much time to throw in your face whenever you need it.” His voice was slightly raspy as he choked out words at you constantly. You weren’t sure if this was the first time he said these phrases, or the seventh. But it was getting to you. 

“You think that’s what I want. I don’t want time! I want you. But you aren’t here anymore.” Tears had brimmed and fallen your eyes long ago and now stained your cheeks with the pure begging from your tone. 

“You think this is easy? I want to be near you, but I have to film, to edit, to create. I’m so sorry I’m too busy for an extra five minutes with you.” At this point you were both exasperated. Empty. And worn out by each other. Your arms were crossed in a self-comfort stance but his were in self-defence, refusing to let up. 

“Matt. You have a schedule, but you spend so much extra time and it’s wearing us both thin! Surely you see that..” As much as you were pulling at your hair, he was pulling at your heart. Tugging on each string as his facial expressions softened. 

Neither of you wanted to stretch this out as much as you did. Several hours had gone by and you both hadn’t been able to access your points without the other interrupting. Pleading internally began, begging to speak to one other.  

Having two stubborn people force their views was always a hard situation to be in. Two passionate people always adding to a fire created something that wasn’t worn down for days. It gnawed at you both endlessly.  

After nearly two weeks of this same argument, it was hard to talk about anything new. The points kept repeating themselves as language grew vile. 

“All I see is you being needy and it’s overwhelming me so much. Don’t you see.” 

You stood stunned at his tone of voice, the words he used and the pure spite behind it all. The silence wrapped around you both, creating an instant tension that was sharp and stabbed you. Your chest felt heavy with the weight of burdening someone you care so much about. It wasn’t simple words being aimlessly thrown to stand by your choices. It was hatred that had slipped though. 

Were you really that needy. To the point that it was overbearing? Arrogant? Despotic? You didn’t know. 

You only wanted to spend time with him. The memory of an old DVD that was clutched in your hand, crashed on the floor with an open case. 

Your expression faltered quickly, lacking any patience that you had left. 

“Right..well. I’ll stay out of your way then” Even saying those words hurt you more than it should’ve because all you wanted to do was be around him. But if he felt like you had to back off, you were going to choose any option that may lead to resolving this. Neither of you wanted to back down, but neither of you also wanted to lose the other and so you caved. 

It wasn’t long after those words were muttered that you left, returning to the front room. It hurt when you saw the DVD player unloaded with the abandoned disc. You switched the box back to the normal programmes and clicked into the YouTube app. You shoved on a random commentary video that you had seen before. It was the quickest things you thought of to change your mood.  

Matt had gone in the other direction, upstairs to his own bedroom to lounge in his chair and play Fortnite. He had been obsessed with the new chapters and ever since his audience requested runs of it. He wasn’t going to turn that down as a distraction. 

- 

It had been a few hours of your YouTube series, and you were starting to get agitated. Every small argument from it made you flinch as your mind flashed back to the past two weeks between you and Matt. Call-backs of loud voices caused those remnants of hurt to spark inside your mind. That was when you had to turn it off.  

When the screen changed to black, your head did too, void of most thoughts. A strong exhale escapes your lips when you push yourself off the sofa. Your sweats slid up your legs and your shirt was a little twisted.  

Yet, the only thing that mattered to you was rest, especially once you saw how dark the sky was. You sought out the stars in the sky, but many clouds covered the brightest ones.  

Hesitation filled your body with each step towards the edge of the stairs, not as much due to the lack of energy as it was to nerves. Nerves that got worse each time you thought about passing Matt’s room. You knew you had to go there in order to get blankets, you just hoped to go unnoticed.  

In full honesty, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to make many first moves with Matt, no matter the circumstances, and this was no exception.  

It was like you were a child again, sneaking through the house when you know you should be asleep. Trouble wasn’t going to land in your lap, internally you knew that. If only your mind did.  

You were just paranoid that you’d be caught in conversation with him. Every ‘conversation’ between the pair if you had ended in some sort of a remark, if not a fight. 

Your body edged its way to the door of Matts room, and you were thankful to find his headset on. Without a stream watching. 

Curses fell from his lips as he fought off other players, and you just wanted to avoid that noise. One night. That’s all you wanted. You didn't want to be in his way again. 

A burden. 

With your arms full of a thick blanket, close to a duvet, you carried it through the door. The pillows that lined the couch, sufficed for your head as you laid them below your neck.  

This wasn’t as comfy as being in a bed, yet, knowing that Matt would soon follow seemed a bit more intimidating. The past two weeks had been hell for the both of you and with you both wearing thin, so did your patience. 

The duvet gave you some comfort against the chills of the night, but something was missing, as much as you didn’t want to admit it.  

You knew. 

- 

“UGH FUCKS SAKE” Matt threw his controller onto his desk and watched as it clattered across his things before falling to land just by your foot. He let an exasperated sigh slip past his lips while he rubbed his face. His headset had slowly become more knocked off with every movement of his neck. With a lack of care to fix it, he threw that the same way as his controller. Each games grew to be challenging to complete and get past a place of #50. 

He let the headphones fall to his neck and hang as he laid his head in his hands. The atmosphere was tense, and the air seemed colder than normal.  

With the game dimming in volume, he realised how quiet the house was. No fans were turned on, no quiet mumbling of your voice singing a song, no show in the background. 

Nothing. 

It was unlike you to not have any sound playing around the house and it made him question if you were even home. Neither choice seemed good. 

He pushed his weight away from his desk and stood up. The hours of playing were only a distraction from the argument and now it had started to seep back into his thoughts. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been such a dick today. The balance between two passionate people had shifted to hurtful words towards the other.  

In full honesty, you never overwhelmed him and now he was missing how you both felt two weeks ago. It felt cold and lacked remorse. He had fucked up.  

Once Matt collected his thoughts his body begrudgingly moved along the wooden floors. He needed to find you and talk to you.  

You heard Matt’s footsteps through the ceiling with each creaking floorboard he stepped on. The covers immediately went up to your face and you turned your body on the sofa.  

You sling an arm over your face when the light above you flicks on, your eyes used to the dark night. 

“Are you awake..?” his voice was timid, unlike the spiteful tones from a few hours ago. 

He stammers a bit before sighing heavily, not knowing how to relieve the situation. 

The shine in your eyes was barely visible against the minimal light from the moon. 

Even if you didn’t respond to him, he knew you were awake as you moved away from the bright light. 

You internally expect him to turn around and return to his own bed, but he only etched closer, examining my body. 

The light above is suddenly shielded by his shadow and the cushions around you move as he lays himself alongside you. Before you even register anything, he snakes an arm around your waist. 

Your throat tightened when he nudged his face into the crevasse of your neck. 

“Matt..?” you rotate your head and notice his exhausted expression that was etched in his eyes. Your heart clenched as he lay next to you, wondering if you were the reason for his distress or guilt. 

A quiet hum escapes his lips, vibrating against your skin. 

“I know.. can we just leave it for a night. I miss you.” 

You felt your stomach turn with one too many emotions for you to process. His words uttered a silent apology 

“Is this hurting you as much as it is me?” Matt takes in a sharp exhale once the damage of the past two weeks sits between you. Silent but deadly. 

“I mean maybe we shoul-” His lips pepper a few kisses to your cheek before silencing you with a kiss to your own lips. 

“I know..I’ve been thinking it too..but all I ask is if we can forget this for just one night.” A pause settles between us. 

“Can we just remember each other one more time?” 

You weakly sigh and turn yourself one last time to face him, your eyes slowly brimming with tears. 

“Okay, Matt. One night..” 

© ENDEREIES 2024

@melliflws @axolotllover225 @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerslover @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @sleepysturnss @jnkvivi

[oneofthosecrazycatladies]

What are your thoughts on DEI and how it’s implemented outside of the work environment, (school, every commute, etc)? I’d love to hear your opinion on it.

Well, as a disabled queer woman I might be biased here but I think giving minorities better opportunities is a good thing.

Also, as a historian, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that most of our institutions were built explicitly to discriminate against minorities of all kinds. When the Founders were discussing the constitution in the 1780s, Abigail Adams wrote to her husband, John Adams, urging him to include women (she famously said “remember the ladies”) and his response to her was basically oh you’re so funny obviously we can’t include women, don’t be ridiculous. From the 17th to the 19th centuries, numerous laws were passed explicitly to exclude free blacks from society. Don’t get me started on the way disabled people were institutionalized well into the 1980s. Or the actual ethnic cleaning of indigenous peoples.

And…I shouldn’t have to say this but apparently I do…there have never been laws (at least in the US) to oppress white men. Like, that has just never been a thing.

So the US claims to be a society built on the idea that all humans are created equal. But if you’re building your institutions to exclude 99% of people, that’s not equality. Which means, if you want the institutions to become more inclusive, you have to take action to encourage that inclusion.

If you own a store and you say okay only people with red hair can come inside my store and you set up cameras and monitors to make sure only people with red hair are coming into your store, then anyone who doesn’t have red hair just won’t even bother trying because what’s the point. But then one day, you decide, you know what, I change my mind, I want to let brunettes and blondes into my store. Except the brunettes and blondes know that you’ve previously only let in redheads so why should they bother coming to you now? So in order to get more blondes and brunettes you have to go out and find blondes and brunettes and say hey I’ll let you into my store now it’s fine.

That’s what DEI is. It’s realizing that the institutions were built to be unfair and trying to make them more fair, but also realizing that the people who have been shut out of these institutions need to be assured that they won’t be shut out anymore.

One problem that can happen when you start to free historically oppressed people is that sometimes people can over-correct and take it too far in the other direction. But the people who have over-corrected with DEI are largely in the minority.

But now, white supremacists, who just fundamentally don’t believe that any kind of diversity is ever a good thing, are trying to over-correct the over-correct and claim that DEI is somehow white oppression.

You asked my thoughts on DEI? Well, long story short, it’s hard for me to not think of it as an overall net positive. To give you a more personal example, I’m legally blind. I am not physically capable of reading a regular print paperback book like sighted people can. Does that make me stupid? No. I have a medical condition beyond my control and all I need is some special equipment and I can read all y’all under the table. I’m able to get that special equipment because of DEI initiatives.

Just because there are a few over-correcting bad apples doesn’t make the entire tree rotten.

“DEI” has become this weird buzzword, but let’s not forget that it’s actually not a word, it’s an acronym. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.

Diversity. Would you rather eat the same thing for every meal every single day for the rest of your life? Or do you like to switch it up every now and then and eat something different? Yeah? You like a little diversity in your diet?

Equity. Do you like pie? You know when someone makes a pie and they’re cutting it up to serve and everyone else gets a massive slice and you just get a little sliver. That’s not fair right! You should all get equal amounts of pie!

Inclusion. We all like chili don’t we? But chili without beans is just an abomination. You gotta include those beans or else it’s not really chili is it?

That’s my thoughts on DEI.