#Josephine was wasted on him

[microcosme11]

This is only part of a love letter Napoleon wrote

Je ne sais pas quel sort m’attend ; mais s’il m’éloigne plus longtemps de toi, il me [devient] insupportable ; mon courage ne va pas jusque-là. Il fut un temps où je m’enorgueillissais de mon courage, et quelquefois, en jetant les yeux sur le mal que pourraient me faire les hommes, sur le sort que pourrait me réserver le destin, je fixais les malheurs les plus inouïs sans froncer le sourcil, sans me sentir étonné. Mais aujourd’hui, l’idée que ma Joséphine pourrait être mal, l’idée qu’elle pourrait être malade, et surtout la cruelle, la funeste pensée qu’elle pourrait m’aimer moins, flétrit mon âme, arrête mon sang, me rend triste, abattu, ne me laisse pas même le courage de la fureur et du désespoir… Je me disais souvent jadis : les hommes ne peuvent rien à celui qui meurt sans regret ; mais aujourd’hui, mourir sans être aimé de toi, mourir sans cette certitude, c’est le tourment de l’enfer, c’est l’image vive et frappante de l’anéantissement absolu. Il me semble que je me sens étouffer. Mon unique compagne, toi que le sort a destinée pour faire avec moi le voyage pénible de la vie, le jour où je n’aurai plus ton cœur sera celui où la nature aride sera pour moi sans chaleur et sans végétation… Je m’arrête, ma douce amie ; mon âme est triste, mon corps est fatigué, mon esprit est étourdi. Les hommes m’ennuient. Je devrais bien les détester : ils m’éloignent de mon cœur.

Je suis à Port-Maurice, près Oneille ; demain, je suis à Albenga. Les deux armées se remuent ; nous cherchons à nous tromper. Au plus habile la victoire. Je suis assez content de Beaulieu ; s’il manœuvre bien, il est plus fort que son prédécesseur. Je le battrai, j’espère, de la belle manière. Sois sans inquiétude, aime-moi comme tes yeux ; mais ce n’est pas assez : comme toi ; plus que toi, que ta pensée, ton esprit, ta vie, ton tout. Douce amie, pardonne-moi, je délire ; la nature est faible pour qui sent vivement, pour celui que tu animes. [...]

Adieu, adieu, je me couche sans toi, je dormirai sans toi, je t’en prie, laisse-moi dormir. Voilà plusieurs jours où je te serre dans mes bras, songe heureux mais, mais, ce n’est pas toi…

--------

I don’t know what fate awaits me; but if it keeps me away from you any longer, it [becomes] unbearable to me; my courage only goes so far. There was a time when I prided myself on my courage, and sometimes, casting my eyes on the harm that men could do to me, on the fate that destiny could have in store for me, I stared at the most incredible misfortunes without frowning, without feeling surprised. But today, the idea that my Joséphine could be unwell, the idea that she could be ill, and above all the cruel, fatal thought that she could love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, makes me sad, dejected, does not even leave me with the courage of fury and despair… I often used to say to myself: men can do nothing to those who die without regret; but today, to die without being loved by you, to die without this certainty, is the torment of hell, it is the vivid and striking image of absolute annihilation. I seem to be suffocating. My only companion, you whom fate has destined to make with me the painful journey of life, the day when I will no longer have your heart will be the day when arid nature will be for me without heat and without vegetation… I stop, my sweet friend; my soul is sad, my body is tired, my mind is dizzy. Men bore me. I should hate them: they take me away from my heart.

I am in Port-Maurice, near Oneille; tomorrow I'm in Albenga. The two armies move; we seek to deceive each other. The most skilful wins. I am quite happy with Beaulieu; if he maneuvers well, he is stronger than his predecessor. I will beat him, I hope, in a good way. Don't worry, love me like your eyes; but that’s not enough: like you; more than you, than your thought, your spirit, your life, your everything. Sweet friend, forgive me, I am delirious; nature is weak for those who feel keenly, for those whom you animate. [...]

Goodbye, goodbye, I'm going to bed without you, I'll sleep without you, please let me sleep. It's been several days since I held you in my arms, happy dream but, but, it's not you…

link to the entire letter on napoleonica

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Oh, there's a little pun in there somewhere," Dorian commented with a sly smile as Elizabeth happily embraced Emily back; at this rather cryptic comment, Randall's brow furrowed, and he couldn't help but echo, "Pun?"

"Ah, I'll tell you later," the young master grinned, clapping his best friend on the back as finally, mercifully, the group began to move towards trick 'r treating, much to the relief of the children, who happily ran ahead of their family to get their sweets from the other residents of the Mansion, who were more than happy to dole out treats for the youngest members of the household: Beau gave them both full-sized candy bars, Madame Leota dropped spider-shaped chocolates into their buckets, and the Hitchhikers gave them some rubbery, squishy toy bugs, with Lon immediately throwing his centipede into his sister's hair, to which Erika responded by squishing the beetle into his face.

"Oh, and don't forget your apples!" Phineas added, dropping a pair of them into the buckets, adding with an awkward chuckle, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away! And I should know...I was one..."

"Aw, c'mon, Phinny, no self-respecting little kid wants that crap in their goodie buckets!" Ezra scoffed. "Not unless you're smothering 'em in caramel and nuts or somethin'!"

"It wouldn't hurt them to combat that sweetness with something a little healthier, Ez!" Phineas objected with a shrug, as the family passed through the crypt and out into the park itself, with Lon practically vibrating with excitement as he looked out at the park, all glittering and aglow with greens, purple, and oranges, shining string lights in the shapes of pumpkins and bats, and costumed characters of the more villainous sort walking around, giving playful scares to the mortal guests, all of whom were giggling and squealing with delight over the booming, bouncy music.

[choices-binglebonkus]

I occasionally think about this (tragically incorrect) prediction I made from when ILB was still releasing, and what a wasted opportunity it was :/

It Lives Beneath Prediction

You know how Diavolos died in chapter 11 and came back in chapter 15 as a terrifying zombie horse?

Well, here’s some food for thought: Kyle Garza died in chapter 1 and was never seen again after that except in flashbacks.  PB commissioned a completely new character model for Kyle, made him a love interest, essentially made him the catalyst of MC wanting to look into the drownings in Pine Springs, and yet they only included him in one chapter.  

This makes me strongly believe they’ll bring Kyle back as a zombie similarly to how they brought back Diavolos.  Maybe Josephine will try to use Kyle to do her bidding and kill off Grandpa or Elliot and if MC’s nerve is high enough, they can get through to Kyle, and if their nerve is too low, Kyle will kill someone (maybe even MC).

Thoughts?

[vibinsane]

so, i had seen a lot of people saying that xavier only loves queen mc, but after reading his 3rd anecdote, i’d beg to differ. 

there is a quote in there where he says “no matter how many times it takes, no matter where you are… i will find you.” 

to xavier, mc is both hunter and queen. there is no difference. even if mc were to have another life, xavier will still see her as the same person, the love of his life basically. and no matter how many lives it may take, he will go through anything and everything to find her and be with her in some way.

also, his relationship from queen mc evidently carried over to hunter mc. remember in his myth where she was in a duel with xavier before he was taken away and jeremiah came up to talk to her, but when xavier returned and saw jeremiah’s arm around mc, xavier clearly was pouting and even told him basically to stay in his own lane. then we have hunter mc who jeremiah was measuring her figure in order to create an outfit to fit her fake role only for xavier to deadass spray water at him like a misbehaving dog saying that she can do it herself. 

i know damn well jeremiah had a ball in both instances, he just enjoys provoking xavier whenever possible.

his jealousy shows the same whether queen mc or hunter mc, perhaps he learned from his mistake before, but his efforts with hunter mc seems more like ‘i’ve made this mistake before, i won’t allow it to happen again’. because, if it were truly only for queen mc, then why would xavier go out of his way for hunter mc; when mc lost caleb and josephine, how she felt lonely and xavier told her about snowflakes falling on loved one’s shoulders by their passed loved ones. or even the most recent cards such as ‘romantic afternoon’ and ‘succumb’  as well as his 4* memories altogether. 

for someone who is coined as the one who only loves and cares for one version of a woman…he sure treats hunter mc a lot better than he did with queen mc. but, i still stand on this hill that xavier loves mc, no matter what version she is. also something i want to add, man is old, he’s been traveling space to and fro, he would never waste his time on someone he didn’t genuinely want to be around or simply be with.

when i say it transcends, this is legit what i mean.

to him, queen mc is right there with him, once made to be his knight, now hunting and defeating wanderers side by side.

also for @ly-pleiades because she asked to peek into my thoughts about xavier and such and i am happy to deliver what i can

[theheraldsrest]

Hey! I really really love your blog! If I may request, during downtime, how would the members of the inner circle react to find the Inquisitor drawing/sketching them?

“Companions react to Inquisitor drawing/sketching them”

After our *cough* little thing with Bull, let’s have some fluff, shall we? Thank you anon for the ask!

-Lord Lex

Cullen

“You did this? It’s certainly…it’s…how did you even…it’s amazing.”

-So surprised, no words. It makes him feel a little special that you’d choose to sketch him but also very embarrassed. In return, he tries drawing you. Might not be as good and there are a few rough sketches that were thrown in the fire, but he wanted to return the favor. 

Josephine

“Oh! Look at the detail and the softness! I wouldn’t have even thought it was me from how stunning it is!”

-Absolutely gushing over it. Josey’s always had a fascination for the arts and to be the subject of the piece from someone close to her? Adores it, even asks to keep it. She has it tucked away in one of her favorite books. Will always compliment your art even when talking to dignitaries.

Leliana

“I commend you on your artistic talent. Though, I’d ask you not to sketch me. Perhaps one of the ravens would make better practice?”

-Like Josephine, Leliana has an eye for art. She loves looking at the little details in your sketches and finds it a surprise that her face is amongst the papers. As much as she appreciates it, she’d rather her face remain a secret. She is your spy master, after all. Though, if she becomes Divine, she keeps the sketch as one of her favorite pieces of her. 

Vivienne

“Darling, as much as I’d like to say you're wasting your talents by leading the Inquisition instead of honing your skills, you are equally talented in both. Most usually fail to make me look this stunning.”

-It might not show on her face or in her words but she loves it. Several times people have been commissioned to paint her yet none come even close to your level of detail. More points if it’s of her smiling or laughing, the lines on her face as well as the wrinkle around her eyes gives her a sense of…normalcy. If she becomes Divine, she commissions you to do her portrait, no one else.

Varric

“You drew me? I think that’s gotta be one of the scariest pieces of your art I’ve ever seen! When you're done, can I keep it?”

-Though it doesn’t sound like it, he brags about it constantly. Even when he’s making fun of his slightly crooked nose or how his eyes might seem smaller than other dwarves, he’s complimenting the skill you put into the very minute details of his face. Varric will try to pay you for it even if you refuse, later trying to commission a drawing of Hawke when they come around.

Cole

“Oh, it’s me! Not really, but it’s Cole. But you’re trying to draw me…I can still remember his face, then.”

-He’ll stare at it for hours, his shoulders down. It’s been sometime since he’d been able to see his own face, forgetting that he even had a face. To see you draw that face, the real Cole, just from looking at him makes him happy. Will ask to look at it every now and then, just to make sure it’s still the same.

Solas

“I must say, you are quite talented and steady with your hands. It does allow others to see how the artist sees. You certainly make me seem…at peace.”

-From one artist to another, he gives you high compliments with very few complaints. It is unusual to see him drawn in such a way since he’s so used to seeing only the mosaics. He meant to get rid of it when he left the Inquisition, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Cassandra

“Inquisitor, though your craft is very beautiful and I admire how you can make these pieces, I must ask you not to sketch me.”

-Don’t get her wrong, she loves seeing your sketches but it’s mostly out of formality (and somewhat embarrassment) that she asks not to be your subject. If she becomes Divine, it’s one of the only pieces she prefers over the paintings. Though she does ask you, if you have the time, to draw something for her. When you give her a perfect picture of her brother and her, it’s one of the few times she truly hugs you.

The Iron Bull

“Holy shit. I’m alright when it comes to sketching, but you make it look pretty damn easy while so complicated! You even got my scars and the detail on my patch! Damn, boss!”

-Bull is used to doing quick sketches, usually of small details to make sure he could track someone or to remember something easier. Never had he really seen himself drawn so picture perfect that it completely baffles him. He looks at all the details with a smile on his face.

Dorian

“I can’t believe you managed to get my good side! In all honesty, though, this is remarkable. And not just because it’s me.”

-He had studied some art pieces before and never really found any he liked, but he has now found one of his favorite artists. Constantly asks if you’ve done any new pieces just so he can look at the heart that goes into them. Ask if you could teach him to sketch as such so that he can add better drawings to his research notes.

Sera

“What the fuck! That’s me! How the fuck! How did you do this! You even got my eyes to be lined up! How the hell did you do that?!”

-We all know Sera’s drawing style. She keeps saying the same things over and over again because she’s at a loss for words. Except for cuss words. Along with the rooftop hangouts, she insists that you two just draw together sometimes. Some of the goofiest drawings come from these times, especially one of a cartoonish Coryshit falling from a very detailed tower.

A little speech bubble near it says “Oh shit, I shat myself!”

Blackwall

“I…I’m honored to be one of your subjects. Not to blow my own horn, but this looks stunning. You really are something special, hm?”

-Blackwall has done a lot of sketching himself and finds your art a breath of fresh air. Other than looking at bits and pieces of his reflection, he usually tries to avoid seeing himself. So when he sees your drawing of him, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. You both trade sketches of each other just for fun and even sketch together.

[aheathen-conceivably]

The wooden floorboards in the hallway that connected Zelda and Antoine’s bedroom to Violette’s slowly grew more worn with time. On some nights it was Zelda’s feet that walked back and forth over them as Antoine got to spend a few moments alone with his guitar; on other’s it was Antoine’s as Zelda read a few pages of a book between her hours of work and sleep.

On that night it was Zelda’s steps that echoed down the hall. Before she even opened the door she knew that the sounds of guitar awaited her; but not even that could make her feel better, so she didn’t bother to look at Antoine as she entered the room. Instead she walked straight to the vanity and reached for the zipper between her shoulder blades. As she struggled with it Antoine spoke behind her, “Is she asleep?

His playing hadn’t stopped, because his months of practice had already made it so that he could easily speak without ever missing a note, just the way he could at the piano. Despite herself, Zelda let out a small laugh with her answer, “No. She acted like she is, but I know the second I closed the door she opened that book again.”

His voice kept coming, unbroken alongside the music when all she wanted was silence, “There are worse rules to break. I would wager a bet you were much the same with it when you were young.”

Zelda kept her eyes on her reflection as she gave up trying to unclasp her zipper, instead redirecting her fumbling hands to her earrings. She offered Antoine nothing but a terse nod in response, but the void of her silent answer was quickly filled with the vibrations of guitar strings. As her earring back refused to budge she turned away, retreating into the cold silence of their bathroom to undress alone.

When she emerged the room had grown quiet, the guitar neatly set against the opposite wall and far out of reach. Antoine was on the edge of the bed, looking at her intently. She looked back at him, wondering how she could deflect the pain that she knew he had detected. Before she could think of anything he spoke, asking her what the matter was. Her hands fluttered as she avoided his gaze,  “Nothing, it's - it's the corn. It’s not growing as well as last year, no matter how I try.”

But he wasn’t fooled, and when he said her name, it was filled with an honest imploration simply to talk to him. She started to spiral, because she knew that the moment she spoke, she would reopen the wound that they had both been trying to ignore for months. But again, he said her name, this time even calmer and softer than the first time. Another half dozen lies went through her head, but each of them seemed like a paltry waste of energy; so instead, she sat beside him.

“Zelda, I know it's not the corn. I know your face. Don’t lie to me.”

He’s here, telling him won’t jeopardize that. You know that. You know. “It’s just - it’s just in those brief moments when she opens up to me, when she’s kind and excited to be around me, I realize just how much more she likes you, how much more she likes Josephine…”

His hand immediately went for hers, a tangible guilt driving his touch that she had been fiercely trying to avoid, “Don’t say that. It's not true, you know it's not true.”

“No, no. It’s fine, it is true,” she tried to brush it off, to look at their hands and stop herself before her words went too far, “I suppose it’s only natural. I was more like my father. It just makes me wonder, makes me think if we had another, maybe they’d be more like me, maybe they’d…”

But she had already done it, and she knew it. She had shattered whatever tenuous peace they had found in their untenable solution to preventing any more disappointments. She dropped his hand and tried to move away, but his arms immediately went around her. “Zelda, we can try again. We can try all you want. I didn’t want to push you, to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, I know. I’m — I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to be disappointed anymore. If we didn’t — then I wouldn’t — then at least I would know there was no chance. I should have told you…”

With the words spoken it was easier to let him pull her closer. Immediately the guard she had so carefully constructed crumbled, “Please don’t apologize, please. You didn’t need to explain. I knew. I understood.”

Half of her was crying with relief as he pulled her back onto the bed against his chest. They had never consciously decided to cut out this part of their relationship, only drawn an inevitable link between the pain that wouldn’t stop coming and any sort of intimacy that wasn’t purely domestic and mundane. It had become a way of doing what they did best, ignoring the problem until it became a problem itself. Only then it was even harder to tell him why, because as the physical distance grew between them, so did the emotional one.

So now, both seemed to unravel together, the spoken words lifting the wall that had risen and seemed impossible to break through before. As his hand traced along her face, it became easier to speak too, “I just…I don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to plan it or time it or think about it. I just want us to go back to the way that we were when we first got here. I just want it to be about us again.”

He looped his arm around her shoulder and her entire body responded to the movement, letting go of it’s tension and relaxing into every point where their bodies met. He sensed her movement and tightened his grip, “Then we don’t have to, my love. It can be what you want it to be, okay? If it’s meant to happen, it will happen. We don’t have to worry beyond that any more than you want to.”

She reached over to take his face in both of her hands as she leaned over onto him. Then she kissed him, truly kissed him, for the first time in months. If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

The Copollogism Essays - Part 3: Lester's Reaction

This is a short scene, but a powerful one in my opinion. Let's break it down :3

“His name is—” “Don’t, Meg,” Josephine warned. “—Commodus,” Meg continued, then frowned. “Why am I not supposed to say his name?” “He pays attention to such things,” I explained. “There’s no point in letting him know we are talking about—” Meg took a deep breath and yelled, “COMMODUS, COMMODUS, COMMODUS! COMMODE CITY, COMMODIANA. COMMODE DAY, MONTH OF COMMODES! COMMODE MAN!” The great hall shook as if the Waystation itself had taken offense. Emmie blanched. Up in their roost, the griffins clucked nervously. Josephine grumbled, “You shouldn’t have done that, hon.” Leo just shrugged. “Well, if Commode Man wasn’t watching this channel before, I think he is now.” “That’s dumb,” Meg said. “Don’t treat him like he’s so powerful. My stepfather—” Her voice caught. “He—he said Commodus is the weakest of the three. We can take him.” Her words struck me in the gut like one of Artemis’s blunted arrows. (And I can assure you, those hurt.) We can take him. The name of my old friend, shouted over and over. - The Dark Prophecy

Apollo calls Commodus his old friend. And while calling your lover your "friend" is usually gay-speak for significant other, in this case...it is referring to Commodus as a friend.

Because that was what they were- before they were even lovers, Apollo and Commodus were friends. Their relationship was that of friends-to-lovers (-to-enemies), and a tragic one at that.

Something small. But something so gut-wrenching too :')

Also amazing how even Apollo's carwreck of a relationship has platonic undertones. hello fandom of the aspecs we just keep winning <3

I staggered to my feet, gagging, my tongue trying to dislodge itself from my throat. “Whoa, Apollo.” Leo rushed to my side. “You okay?” “I—” Another dry retch. I staggered toward the nearest bathroom as a vision engulfed me…bringing me back to the day I committed murder. - The Dark Prophecy

This final line that ends the chapter has always struck me. It preludes to the assassination scene, but this is actually SO FACSINATING because the next chapter has this:

I KNOW WHAT YOU are thinking. But, Apollo! You are divine! You cannot commit murder. Any death you cause is the will of the gods and entirely beyond reproach. It would be an honor if you killed me! I like the way you think, good reader. It’s true I had laid waste to whole cities with my fiery arrows. I had inflicted countless plagues upon humanity. Once Artemis and I slew a family of twelve because their mama said something bad about our mama. The nerve! - The Dark Prophecy

Wait for it.

None of that did I consider murder.

These two lines combined paint SUCH a scene. Apollo at this point is still trying to convince us, the reader, how terrible of a person he is. That's why he's so blasé about the murder of Niobe's children.

That's why he's so distraught over murdering Commodus.

He tells us, straight-laced, that this act, this one act, was unjustifiable.

That is was more unforgiveable than slaughtering thousands of people.

But that's the kicker- we know it was wrong for Niobe's children to be killed, and we know it was right for Apollo to kill Commodus.

Apollo is trying to throw us off the trail. He's trying to make it look like he's okay with child murder/mass murder, but specifically him assassinating a tyrant is unforgiveable.

(hello, therapy? yeah i have a patient for you. yeah he's a piece of work but i have faith in him and also he's babygirl so. <3)

He's trying to be such a dichotomy we don't know what to do or say or think about him.

To bad for him, for the ToA fandom is quite good at catching his tells and slight of hand ;)

You ain't fooling us Apollo, just like you didn't fool Leo and Meg the very next day ;)

[mudstoneabyss]

It's really such a waste that they haven't done anything more with Charles considering how interesting of a character they set up. Aside from being the canon "Desert Bluffs! Carlos" and therefore being connected to two of the most beloved characters in the podcast, which is obviously something that would make people interested in him, what we see of his character outside of that is compelling.

he's from outside of Night Vale and Desert Bluffs, but not from a "normal" place like Carlos and any of the other characters who we actually see something from, like Nilanjana and Kareem. He's explicitly from Cactus Park, a town we know next to nothing about but is close enough to be competing in local football matches with nv and db, and Pine Cliff, the town we know the most about outside of nv and db, and I find particularly interesting with the way Night Vale talks about ghosts. notably, both are, even without having a lot of info on them, canonically weird places. which we even indirectly see more of with Cactus Park in the Mudstone Abyss, with them sharing the experience of having certain "weird" things in both their childhoods

and that kind of adds to this almost duality Charles has, where he's both seemingly one of the most responsible and put-together characters in the show and, well, an insane freak. He's a good father who puts his son first and makes an effort to be clear and direct in communicating rather than avoiding or lying about any matter that might be unpleasant- but he's also a self-identified theocrat who is actively into some of the cult and dictator shit Kevin was doing, and it does take a special type of person to want to fuck Kevin from the moment he met him, at no point lose that desire after all the blood and gore decoration and aforementioned cult and dictator shit, and then afterwards decide that this is the guy you want to help raise your son. fascinating behavior I would love to know more about how much is because none of this is new or shocking to him. he lived in a ghost town and who knows what went on in Cactus Park

Perhaps the most interesting thing about him, though, isn't even anything i think we need to know more about, but does make me want to know more about him in general. It's the one thing that completely contrasts him from so many other characters throughout the entire podcast- which is his reaction to Kevin. He is the ONLY one we see meeting or even just seeing Kevin for the first time who isn't completely horrified and/or disgusted by him and his appearance. Relistening to the Sandstorm, I had to pause the part where Cecil says for people to "pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man" to listen to, well, Charles meeting that "vicious wretch of a man" and treating him like any other person. Like someone deserving of knowing and loving without an initial hurdle of judgment. and, again, he is the Only one we see doing this after Kevin is met with fear and bias throughout the entire rest of the podcast. Fuck, we even see some of the db citizens being afraid of him. The only other person, aside from the other db citizens like Lauren or Josephine who are used to the... everything, who maybe didn't have a negative reaction to Kevin is Carlos, but we never actually see that. And personally, I do hc that he was scared of Kevin at first. So having someone react differently- and kindly- to Kevin after years and years of no one else doing that? That alone would make me obsessed with Charles

[cafiffle]

ok it's time to be cringe on main (like I ever wasn't)

in honor of the new game finally maybe happening, here is a collection of the Dragon Age OCs I've developed over the last decade or so. only two of them were my actual video game protags and have evolved a lot from there, SEE IF YOU CAN GUESS WHO (or don't, I'm not your dad)

(L to R, top to bottom)

Sina, Keeper's First of Clan Dahlasanor and baby lesbian who had to leave her clan in search of healing for the anime wasting sickness that claimed her life in her early twenties. She was all about that good good Dalish nature magic and thought of it as a sort of healing. A gentle soul with strong convictions, she spent her last months securing the union of her (small, decimated) clan with a larger, thriving one by marrying their male First.

Cade Harimann of Starkhaven, the second son of a noble family who gave him to the Chantry at a young age. He endured Some Bullshit at the monastery, leaving him already somewhat unhinged before he served in Kirkwall prior to the Mage-Templar war. He was kicked out of the Templars "for his own good" due to his massive PTSD-induced emotional problems, and now lives in the woods with his chill elf gf who doms him when he needs it.

Teren von Skraedder*, from a po-dunk town on the border of Nevarra and Orlais, is every bit the Grey Warden stereotype: a liar, a convict, and just generally kind of an asshole. She was recruited in her early 40's as an alternative to being executed for treason against the Nevarran crown, and has settled into Wardening over the last twenty or so years. She loves her younger siblings-in-arms, even if she's mean to them, and she gets a little more deranged every time one of them gets their Calling or dies in combat while she continues to grow older.

Benedict Quintus Artemaeus is an Altus mage from Minrathous who preferred to spend his days getting high and fooling around with other rich boys, shirking his studies and the politics of his Magister mother, nearly into his twenties. He finally had to get serious when his tutor aligned with the Venatori and got them both captured by The Enemy (the canon good guys), leading to a rocky but gradual ascent from hedonistic fuckup to Sort of Competent Guy Who Cares Occasionally. he's been compared to Emperor Kuzco and that's not inaccurate ok

Josephine "Fifi" Mariette* is a regular ol elf from Val Royeaux who, after failing to make it in the city ballet/opera/ye olde whatever, made her way as a cabaret dancer and prostitute until her marriage to a human accountant, Jacques. His family never accepted her, so when he was drafted and killed in the War of the Lions, she left town to briefly join the Freemen of the Dales. Finding that she was as invisible there as anywhere else, she opted to put her status to use and become a spy for (and on) the Good Guys while working as their housekeeper.

Obeisance "Just Barrow Please" Barrow*, a farmer's son from Crestwood, went off to join the Templar Order as a means of finding adventure, leaving home, and making his extremely religious parents happy without having to take over the farm. He served in the Jainen Circle for many years without incident, but very casually deserted when the Mage-Templar war began (hit da bricks, just walk out etc). He spent some time afterward as a mercenary, and his MO is to bop around being helpful where he can while also absolutely never talking about what he used to do. it's none of your business

*if you think you know her/him from somewhere else: you do, I recycle these shitheads constantly

there have been a few more but they didn't Take in the same way, so just these for now. ok byyyeee

[miffy-junot]

Josephine Junot's love affair

As a young woman, Josephine Junot, the oldest child of Jean-Andoche and Laure Junot, entered a convent, possibly against her family's wishes. However she was not a nun but a canoness, meaning that she took no permanent vows and did not renounce her property, implying that she did not intend to stay there forever. Indeed in 1832, at the age of thirty, she returned to Paris to meet with a bishop, and then stayed with her overjoyed family instead of returning to the convent.

During Josephine's absence, Laure Junot had published her infamous memoirs and the Junot family became acquainted with many of the great writers of the time. Around 1830 the writer Honoré de Balzac, then lover of Laure Junot, introduced to the salon his friend Paul Gavarni, an illustrator. Gavarni soon became close friends with Laure and her three younger children: Napoleon, Alfred and Constance.

Josephine Junot was introduced to Paul Gavarni shortly after her return to Paris, and the two became fast friends. Gavarni became fascinated by this beautiful yet modest woman, two years his senior, and promptly developed romantic feelings for her. However Josephine retained her strong religious principles, quite contrary to Gavarni's more libertine views, and insisted that they should see each other as brother and sister, nothing more. Gavarni complied with her wishes, and even in letters with strong romantic undertones he still called her 'ma sœur'. In these letters there is no burning passion or desire for physical intimacy, but a deep admiration of the 'pure flower' of Josephine's soul.

The couple did not want to marry, each for different reasons. Gavarni did not believe marriage would suit him due to his independent spirit. Josephine was still committed to the life of a canoness, and even if she did wish for marriage, she would not marry a man unless he was a devout Christian, and Gavarni was a non-believer. Josephine felt that he was putting his good soul to waste by being an atheist, and tried to convert him - but her efforts had a rather unexpected consequence, as Gavarni wrote to her that his only religion was worship of her.

Over the course of the 1830s, their relationship, still a mix of romantic and platonic affection, went through several struggles. Napoleon Junot informed his sister that him and Gavarni often went to parties together and partook in a rather libertine lifestyle. Josephine was furious and harshly rebuked Gavarni; he fervently apologised ('forgive me, I'm on my knees, forgive me') but also defended his actions and said she was being unfair.

Josephine spent the decade oscillating between the convent and her family in Paris, committed as ever to her Catholic values. Gavarni began to feel frustrated by her serious disposition and her prioritisation of religion above all else.

While Josephine had returned to the convent for a few months, Gavarni spent a brief period of time in a debtors prison in Clichy. When he was released a letter from Laure Junot was waiting for him, demanding, out of concern for her daughter, that he either convert to Christianity and marry Josephine, or end the romantic aspect of their relationship. Gavarni chose the latter.

Although there was initially bitterness between the couple after this, they eventually reconciled as friends. On 1st December 1841, Josephine married Jaques-Louis (christened James) Amet, and in 1843 she gave birth to a daughter, Valentine Amet, who later married Comte Charles de Moüy. Upon Josephine's death in 1888, Valentine de Moüy found in her mother's bedroom a collection of letters from Paul Gavarni, available to read here.

[blakelysco-pilot]

All Of Me

From the Love Letters Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

Jo struggles with her response to Rosie's first letter but later finds help in an unlikely friend with shared common ground. It's his second letter back-to-back, however, that stacks her worry like wobbly apple crates, ready to tumble at a moment's notice.

Read part 2 Here Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist

October 1943

My Dearest Robbie, 

Today is Halloween, so it would be remiss of me not to wish you a Happy one. I know you won’t be celebrating; not that we are either, but it’s still heartwarming to see some of the littles in the neighborhood running up and down the streets looking for sweets. I’m saving a Hershey bar for when you’re back, so that we can share it like we always do. The leaves have all turned by now, and Prospect Park is a beautiful shade of golden hues. I’ve taken to walking with your sister, as it fills a small void in my days. She’s excellent company, and somehow always has some local gossip at the ready for when I need cheering up. I couldn’t help myself and told her the story of your bicycling disaster. Please don’t be too mad at me. I hope that by now, you’ve learned to ride a bike properly, and that poor Pappy hasn’t had to fish you out of any more ditches. Please thank him for me, because I don’t know what I would have done if he had not been there to rescue you.

If I know you at all, I know that you’ve been hemming and hawing over the weather over there, but the longer it rains in England, the better I feel knowing you’re on solid ground. I’m glad to know you’re able to find some respite in the Officers Club, even if it’s just some jazz records and mediocre scotch. Good company can make all the difference and it warms my heart to know you have that in your crew and fellow officers. I’m putting my bet in now on Nash and the Red Cross girl. Having someone is important, so if he finds that in her, I’m glad for them both. Tell Pappy not to be so pessimistic though, I’m sure Nash will make her very happy. 

Speaking of having someone waiting, I paid a visit to Harry Crosby’s wife, Jean. I thought she could use a friend, so we spent an afternoon in the city, having lunch and doing some shopping. It’s lonely enough moving to a new city, but with her husband overseas, I can’t imagine how she feels. I know how I feel waiting for you, and so she must feel it tenfold. With the holidays approaching, I’ve invited her to spend Thanksgiving with us. I couldn’t bear the idea of her spending it alone. She’s a darling woman, and I agree, we will have to double with her and Harry once you’re both home. 

Sweetheart, how you could ever think that I will not worry about you while you’re over there, is a mystery. I will worry, and miss you, every single day until you’re back home. I will be holding you to that date, Robbie, and am counting the days until we’re on the dance floor, together. Until then…

Forever yours, 

Jo

Reaching for the bottle of perfume on the dresser, Jo quickly spritzed a generous helping of the floral scent on the paper in her hand, to ensure it lasted the long journey, before folding it up and sliding it into its designated envelope. Carefully, and with a delicate hand, she addressed the letter to Thorpe Abbotts Airbase. She had received Rosie’s first letter earlier in the week, and had spent that time drafting multiple responses; all of which had ended up in the waste paper basket in the corner of her bedroom. She had spent three nights mulling it over, before deciding that she should clear her head, and write as if he was sitting next to her. Well, it was not so much her deciding as it was advice from Jean Crosby. If anyone had experience in writing these types of letters, it was Jean. And so, Jo had written as if Rosie was sitting next to her; as if he was leaning across the table and telling her the details of his latest adventure with enthusiasm, and she had written back with equal vigor. 

Picking up the letter, and her purse, she made her way from the bedroom, downstairs to where her mother was having coffee with Mrs. Rosenthal. Entering the kitchen, both women ceased their discussion to greet her, her mother holding out an envelope for her. 

“Josephine, this came in the mail for you.” 

Jo gently plucked the envelope from her mothers hand, smiling when she saw the handwriting on the front was none other than Rosie’s. Carefully, she slipped it into her purse to read once she was alone. 

“Another letter so quickly?” Her mother’s grin widened. “He must miss you terribly.”

“He doesn’t write to me that frequently,” Mrs. Rosenthal joked, sending a subtle wink in Jo’s direction. “But then again, he’s not in love with me.”

“Somehow, I think he’ll always love you most, Mrs. Rosenthal, and I’m quite alright with that.” Jo smiled. 

“Where are you off to?” Her mother asked, noticing that she had her purse in hand. 

“Off to post this to Robbie, and then to meet Jean Crosby for lunch.” 

“Oh, well then, travel safely, and let her know she’s welcome to come here for dinner tonight if she wants.” 

“I’ll let her know, mom,” Jo smiled, moving to bid her mother goodbye with a quick peck to the cheek, before doing the same with Mrs. Rosenthal. “Now, you two can go back to your gossip.”

“It’s not gossip, Josephine, if we’re talking about our children.” The older woman’s voice held a lilt to it as Jo exited the kitchen. 

“Then stop planning our wedding!” Jo called back with a laugh as she exited their home and made her way out into the Brooklyn sunshine.  

The fall air was chilly, but not unbearably so as she walked down the block to the Post Office, letter in hand and a prayer in her mind that it would reach Rosie safely. She knew that the post could be unreliable, and take time to reach those stationed overseas, but she hoped against all odds that maybe her letter would get to its intended recipient a little faster than all the rest. It was silly of her to think so, after all, she wasn’t the only woman in New York who was missing her sweetheart, but this was new to her. To both of them. Beginning a romance with thousands of miles between them. Some days Jo regretted not saying anything sooner, wondering if they would have had time before he shipped out. But, then she thinks to herself that they did have time; years together growing up, and learning the ways of each other inside and out, and for that she would always be thankful. 

A short cab ride later, and Jo was knocking on Jean Crosby’s front door. When the door swung open, Jean on the other side, the two women greeted each other as if they were old friends. A kinship that was shared in the dark times of war, but somehow found a ray of light to brighten their days. 

“Jo! I was starting to think you got lost!” Her friend teased. 

“No,” Jo grinned, red lips stretched into a smile. “I had to stop by the post and drop off Robbie’s letter.”

“Finally finished it, then?”

“I did. And just in time to reply to the one I got this morning.”

“Back to back?” Jean looked at her, eyebrow raised in what Jo could only describe as concern. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jean sighed, stopping mid way of pulling her white gloves on, to face Jo with a serious expression. 

“Well…”

“You don’t think…”

“The only time I get back to back letters from Bing, is when something bad is happening over there.”

“Jean…”

“If it came from him, he’s fine, honey.” she reached out, hand coming down over Jo’s in reassurance. 

“It’s in my purse,” Jo confessed. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Do you want to go sit and read it before we leave?”

“I suppose I’d feel better if I knew for sure he was alright.”

Nodding, Jean pulled off her gloves, and dropped her purse back on the credenza by the door, before guiding Jo further into the house.

Once settled in the living room, Jean began to step away, to allow Jo the privacy that a letter from your man overseas deserved, when Jo’s hand shot out to stop her. 

“Could you…?”

“Of course.” Jean smiled softly, settling into the sofa next to her, but with enough space not to read over her shoulder. 

Jo carefully opened the envelope, fingers trembling as she slid the paper from its confines. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned over the paper quickly, before releasing a shuddering breath of relief. 

“He’s alright,” her hand flew to her chest as the words escaped her. “He’s somewhere called the Flak House?”

“Never heard of that,” Jean looked confused. “What is it?”

My Dearest Jo,

Sweetheart, I can’t promise this letter will be as happy as my last one. What I can promise is that I’m alright, and spending the next week in the English countryside at a place called the Flak House. It’s a place used to help soldiers rest after rough missions. Jo, it’s been three rough ones, back to back, with what felt like no end in sight. I will spare you the details, because you shouldn’t have to read about all of the blood, and horrors, but I do sadly need to tell you that we lost Herbert Nash on the first mission. It happened so quickly, it didn’t register until I had my feet on the ground again. I broke the news to Helen, his Red Cross girl, and I pray that what I saw on her face, is something no one will ever have to see on yours. 

One day, maybe, I will give you the details of our third mission, but for now, I know I should be counting my blessings. And enjoying this time, because sweetheart, this estate truly is something, but the kind of something I would want to be enjoying with you. Together, in the warm sun, reading our favorite books, or rowing on the lake. The boys are enjoying their week of R&R, but I can’t find it in me to relax. Though, I suppose you knew that already. Nobody knows me better than you, Jo, and it’s a time like this that I wish I had you near. 

I couldn’t sleep, which is the reason for this letter, and I think a part of it is that I needed to make sure you knew I was alright. The other part of me, in some way, needed to get this all off my chest. I’m sorry for burdening you with these ugly truths. I’ll try not to do it often, and I hope that it doesn’t become a habit with every mission, that I’m left rattled to my core with fear. I can hear you telling me to take care of myself, and honey, I promise I’m trying. By the time this makes it to you back home, I will be long gone from my stay here, and back on base. I’m sorry for the short letter, darling. I promise the next one will be longer, and happier. Until then…

All of my love, always

Robbie

Jo finished reading, her stomach dropping as she turned to Jean, to confirm that the other woman had in fact, been right. 

“Jo, what is it?”

“He couldn’t say much, spared most of the details, but he said it was rough up there.”

“Is he alright?”

“Robbie’s fine,” Jo confirmed. “But, Herbert Nash, is dead.”

“Oh that poor Red Cross girl!” She gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in shock. “Didn’t they just meet?”

“They did,” Jo nodded. “I told Robbie I was rooting for the pair in the letter I just posted.”

“How could you have known?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sore over it.”

“I know you do,” Jean sympathized. The woman had enough sense to stand, and pull Jo up with her, knowing if she didn’t get them out of the house, her friend would likely spiral with worry. “Now come on, put that letter back in your purse, and let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

With a sigh, Jo nodded, and carefully put the letter back in the safety of her purse, before turning and following Jean towards the front door. For now, she could breathe easy, knowing that Rosie was safe. She knew that his mind was likely full of dark clouds, replaying events of the damage over and over, causing him grief and sadness; it brought with it a melancholy feeling that she wasn’t with him, and couldn’t be there for him to lean on. She knew he had his crew, and now, Harry Crosby, and she prayed that he had the sense to use that to his advantage. 

Jo was grateful that she had Jean. Their afternoon out kept her mind off of the letter that was burning a hole in her purse, and the man who was an ocean away, suffering the loss of a friend. They had stopped by the Automat for lunch, before taking the train uptown for some window shopping, and at Jo’s insistence, a new hat for Jean. By the time she had gotten back home, her mother was already cleaning up dinner. Her father was in the living room, the radio on while he listened to the nightly news. 

“Josephine, you missed dinner.” Her mother lamented at the sound of the front door closing behind her. 

“I’m sorry, mom,” Jo sighed, entering the kitchen and sliding into one of the empty chairs. “We got a late start on our lunch.”

Turning from her spot at the sink, Mrs. Harris surveyed her daughter, before promptly shutting the water and moving to sit across from her. 

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Jean and I just had a busy day is all.”

“Josephine, don’t lie to me.” She spoke with the authority of a mother who meant business, and Jo couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from behind her eyes. 

“Robbie’s letter,” she swiftly wiped away the first stray tear. “Oh mom, he lost one of his closest friends!”

Mrs. Harris let out a shuddering breath at Jo’s admission. The fear she had felt at the sight of her daughter's tears made her think the absolute worst for the young man who had become part of their family, and stolen her daughter’s heart. 

“Who was it?” Mrs. Harris asked. 

“Herbert Nash. He trained with Robbie in Texas, and he was killed on their first mission.”

“May his soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Harris made the sign of the cross. 

“Robbie said it was so bad, three flights, back to back. He didn’t say much else, just that it was too much blood and horror to share.”

“Jesus, that poor boy.”

Jo fished the letter from her purse, sliding it across the table to her mother, giving a small nod for her to read it. 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“Just the once.” Jo smiled slightly. 

“Well, alright then.”

Mrs. Harris pulled the paper from the envelope, and then the only sound in the room was the breathing of mother and daughter, and the muffled sound of the radio coming from the living room. The pair sat together until Jo’s mother folded the paper back up, and handed it back to her. The silence was growing thicker the longer they sat there, neither sure of what to say. When Jo’s father joined them in the kitchen, the two women seemed to snap out of their daze. 

“What’s going on in here then?”

“She’s got another letter from Robert.”

“Didn’t you just get one? Is he alright?” 

Jo nor her mother missed the recognition in Mr. Harris’ eyes. Having served in The Great War, he knew what could be in any one of the letters his daughter received, and he hoped for her sake, that none of them would make her cry the way she was now. 

“He’s fine. Lost a man during his first mission, and was sent to an estate for rest.” Her mother filled him in for her. 

“Jesus, already? Didn’t the boy just get over there?” Her father looked shocked. 

“He said it was really bad, dad.” Jo spoke up, finding her voice again. 

“Well, the best thing you can do is be there for him, even though you’re far away right now.” Her mother let her hand fall to cover hers, eyes filled with the understanding of a woman whose husband had been away once before. 

“Your mother was what kept me going during the war,” Her father agreed. “I can promise you, Robert will take your words with him up there when he’s flying.”

“Go now,” her mother ushered her out of the kitchen. “Clean yourself up and write him back. You’ll sleep better tonight knowing you got your feelings out.”

She felt heavy as she stood from her chair, her legs like lead as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, numbness encompassing her until she had the door shut securely behind her. The words blood and horror swirling around in her mind over and over, like the edges of a cyclone that showed no signs of slowing down. Is that what this was? A storm that would continue to speed up, with nothing to stop it, until the last bomb was dropped, the last round fired? She wasn’t sure, but she turned the ideas over and over, words sticking together in her head as she changed for bed, removed her makeup, until finally, she pulled out the chair at her desk to begin her reply to Rosie. 

My Dearest Robbie, 

Sweetheart, I don’t think there are enough words for me to express just how sorry I am for you after opening your last letter. To lose Nash so quickly, and in such a way. I hope that it didn’t pain you too deeply to break that news to his Red Cross sweetheart, and that she is able to find some happiness again soon. Do not apologize for the length of your last letter. Every letter from you is something I treasure, whether it’s three words, or three pages. I will always reply, so long as you’ll have me. 

I’d like to hear more about the Estate you spent the week at, if you’re willing to talk about it. It does sound like the kind of place I would love to spend time with you, though, anywhere you are, is somewhere I want to be. Maybe we can escape somewhere lush and green once you return, and spend our days under the sun, with nothing but time on our hands. Until then, yes, you were right, I do wish you’d take care of yourself. I know you will, but that sometimes it takes a bit of pushing. Don’t try and shoulder the burden all alone, Robbie. You have people who will shoulder it with you; Pappy isn’t just your co-pilot in the sky. Try and remember that. 

I’d like to try and make you smile, if only for a moment. I found our mothers gossiping at the kitchen table this afternoon as I headed out. They claim it’s not gossip if they’re talking about their children; I suspect they’re plotting as usual. Speaking of your mother, try and squeeze in an extra letter for her, if you can. She misses you, though she claims to be alright with you writing to me more than her, I know she’d appreciate an extra piece of mail and to know you’re doing well. Don’t give her too much grief for the gossip, you know she can’t help it.

I’m counting the days until you’re here again, Robbie, and we can carry on as we were meant to; together. Until that time comes, I’m sending you all of my love. 

All of me, always

Jo

Read Part 4 Here

A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!

Tag List: @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @rosiesriveter @bobparkhurst @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @rowdy-redhead @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd @basilone @at-1800-hours @justheretoreadthxxs @claireelizabeth85

[ic-napology]

My Scott's Napoleon review (short version)

Ok so I'm ready for my Scott's Napoleon review (late of course).

The beauty of its form and aesthetics can't be argued. I'm not in awe though, because it was a standard I pretended from Ridley Scott and Apple. Sadly, the content made it feel a huge waste.

What do you do with the thought, be it accurate or not, that Europe was ruined by wars because a vile man might have been frustrated by a toxic relationship? Is this idea something worth creating such an e x p e n s i v e movie about? Why so much bling?

To a Napoleonic fan, it would cause a soul-bleeding, because of how shallow and inaccurate all this is. To a non Napoleonic fan, it would be just... I don't know, depressing? Lame? It would be even if they remembered that this movie would contain a personal and artistic re-elaboration of history by a filmmaker (known for doing that all the time).

My main issue with this movie, both as a fan of Napoleon and Josephine and... as a person I guess?, is about how it deals with the "humanizing Napoleon" thing. I am ok with the intention per se. I am ok with giving a personal touch to a story. I'm not ok if that means mortifying him, without leaving any redeeming quality nor charm for balance. It wouldn't sit well with me about any character, whoever they are.

It could have meant adopting a more empathetic frame towards Napoleon's life and character. It would have given insight to qualities, vision and goals of the character too. Empathy doesn't require to justify someone's eventual horrible sides. It could work even in a movie where you mostly want to point out a villain's faults. I would dare say that if you make the viewer empathise with a villain, just before showcasing the worst of his deeds, it would be even more shocking and hard to deal with.

Best villains are the ones you could get some insight and connection with. And this movie fails to connect you with Napoleon at all. "There's nothing we can do", other than despise him.

Ridley Scott can manipulate history and mansplain all the historians he wants, he still has become a coward storyteller.

[shoshiwrites]

can i request jo/egan + 10. maraschino cherries? please and thank you!

Jo + MotA has a tag now, help. From this prompt list. Bucky Egan/WarCo OC.

She hadn’t wanted to come out tonight, but the Red Cross girls insisted.

It’s still on her desk, torn open, the package with her address on it. The brooch inside that wasn’t her name, the little pearls and swirling letters in gold plate, the pink paste stone. The note attached, longer than the last one he’d written her.

Pity was the last thing she wanted tonight, even if it felt like her chest was stuffed with cotton. So she didn’t say anything, didn’t let Helen’s gentle questions get anywhere, or Tatty’s inquisitive grin. Could she pass it off as homesickness? The three of them loved their jobs too much for that, maybe. Took too much pride in them, at least, if not loved. Love was a word she held back here, with even the loudest of parties shot through with sadness. 

She’s still wearing his class ring. The little silver thing, with enamel and gold edges. The ring that wasn’t about her, either.

“You want to try another drink, Jo?”

She’s barely touched her soda, the little maraschino cherry still floating on top, tendrils of red syrup in the weakened carbonation. They’d gotten a few jars in earlier in the week, and everyone was feeling the extra sparkle. It wasn’t a twist of lemon or an orange peel or the end of the war, but it was alright.

“Oh no, thank you. Can’t waste this one, right?” She takes a sip. 

A certain voice echoes in her head. What kind of chump doesn’t get a girl a nice ring? 

She does, she needs a drink.

On nights like these, Helen and Tatty’s chairs are soon empty — blue uniforms spinning in a room amongst olive wool and florals. 

“Hey there, Josephine.” 

She looks up at him, the dim lights behind his head. “Major Egan.”

He makes the same face he always does. “You could at least call me John.”

“Same reason I don’t dance, Major.”

He looks over his shoulder at the band, at the crowd of pairs dancing. “Why’re you here, then?”

She jerks her chin at Helen’s martini glass and the last few sips of Tatty’s sherry. “You think I had a choice?”

“Hey, don’t make fun of the nice ladies.” He half-smiles, the kind he never keeps off his face. “C’mon, dance with me.”

She wonders if Dora lives back home or somewhere in England, an ocean or a stone’s throw. Have they danced? She assumes they have.

“Song’s almost over, Josephine.”

She wonders if he can see that her eyes are a little red. At least, she feels they still are. “Is that your selling point?”

“You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

The last pretty face they ever see, right? She can’t push it away, can’t invite it in. There’s no one else here to care, no reporters who’ll moan that she only gets stories by dancing, by turning something on that your average Joe reporter can’t. 

She stands, and he looks at her like she’s made a miracle happen. 

The song does end, and he still holds out his hand. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.” Her fingers hover above his outstretched palm. The next song starts slow, like bubbles in a glass of champagne. He looks like a schoolboy when her expression asks if he did it on purpose. “I know I’m dancing with another’s betrothed,” he says, annunciating like he’s explaining the word.

She’d take the straight bottle, actually. Whiskey. Vodka. Gin.

“I— I don’t know about that,” she says. It’s everything she can do to keep her feet moving. To keep from stepping on his toes. 

Above her, she can feel his chin brush her hair. “What?” It’s possible she’s never regretted saying anything more in her life. “What happened?”

The brooch, sitting on her desk. Amongst all of her things. Her letters. Her notebook. Her cigarettes and lipstick and tins of pocket candy. Is she supposed to care this much? Is this something she’s just supposed to accept? 

“Not here,” she says. She hates how small her voice sounds. 

“You know we’ve got a jeep,” he says. “You just tell us where—” 

“I think maybe I need a drink,” she says. He’s taken her hand, holds it against his chest. 

“‘Course, what’ll you have?”

“Whatever’s back at my room.” Maybe she’ll figure out how to ask for a bottle of wine so that nobody looks at her funny. “Alone.”

He doesn’t stop holding her. She said alone. She thinks— she thinks she means it. She knows he’d—

“Alone,” he repeats. 

“Mmhm.”

The music continues around them, soapy and warm. His voice by her ear. “You want a drink before you go? Want me to tell you I owe you a dance? Make up for this one?”

You don’t owe me anything, John. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong.

But she nods, against his chest, “yes ma’am,” and lets the moment linger a second longer.

[crabs-with-sticks]

Happy Friday! How about: remembering tiny things about the other from the Trust Building prompts?

For Solas and Lavellan?

Thanks for the prompt!! Hope you enjoy :D @dadrunkwriting

Ghilara x Solas, 637 words

Ghilara was at her desk, teeth gnawing at the pencil in her hand, one problem away from snapping it in two. The words on the paper in front of her swum before her eyes, the letters morphing into an indecipherable pile of glyphs for all she could understand them. She groaned, leaning forwards, forehead against the table eyes closed, trying to pretend she was somewhere else. Somewhere calming. Somewhere outside. Somewhere without a gauntlet of paperwork to run. Her back slumped, arms hanging loosely by her sides. “I can come back if now isn’t a good time?” She shot up straight and blinked at the sight of the humble elven apostate standing in front of her desk. “Solas?! When did you get here?” He chuckled, “I did knock, so I thought you must have been out. I was only coming to drop something off for you.” She winced, “you weren’t waiting too long were you?” “Rest assured, I have only been here a few seconds. But perhaps you should take a break from your work.” “Josephine will kill me if I don’t get this done,” she groaned, head falling back onto the table. “Perhaps I can tempt you with something then.” She still had her eyes shut but heard him place something on the desk next to her head. She frowned, waiting for him to do something else. Then the smell hit her. Sweet and buttery, a twinge of spices, and the faint smell of dried fruits. She didn’t waste the time to sit up, just twisted her head to look.

“Hearth cakes!” She squealed. She went to grab at them, only just remembering herself in time. She was a grown woman last time she checked, not ten. She coughed, clearing her throat and stood, picking this basket of the cakes up with her. “Consider myself convinced Solas.” She walked over to the couch, grabbing a blanket off her bed as she went. She curled up and patted the spot next to her, holding the blanket up for the other elf to slip in beside her. He was warm against her and she pulled her knees up, leaning her back against his arm. She grinned at him. “Now, you are going to have to eat some of these soon, otherwise I will eat them all. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry though, so consider yourself warned.” “I shouldn’t worry about that Ilara, I have more than enough for us both.” She looked up, mouth stuffed with a cake already and only then noticed the basket he had placed next to them on the couch. She peered over and in and saw a veritable feast. There was a small dish of hall butter with wildflowers mixed into it- borage and chicory. Beside that was a basket filled with dried fruits from the free marches, drizzled with sticky honey. And those were only the things she could see. She looked at Solas. “What is this Solas?” Her words were puzzled, ranging onto the edges of suspicion. They were still in that strange limbo just before romance, still blushing when the other caught them looking, still thinking back on the softness of the others lips and wondering how it would compare to the material world. Did he want something? Did he expect something? He seemed to sense her thoughts. “It is- Just that you mentioned last week that you were sick of the human nobles food. How it all tasted weird. And I was just in the market today and there were a small group of Dalish who had come in to trade. I thought it might remind you of your home.” She softened. “Oh. Thank you Solas.” He inclined his head, the corners of his mouth slipping into the beginning of a smile, pink gathering on his cheeks.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 All God's people find their place, and I love you like a mountain 🎶

Sometime before noon Antoine finally rose from bed. He had donned a plain vest and then rolled up his sleeves, both for the heat and knowing that his arsenal of robes and patterned ties wouldn’t get him far on the streets of New Mexico. His fingers exaggerated each movement, heavy with the weight of his need to succeed for his family’s sake as well as his own.

As he put his hat atop his head, he knew that he couldn’t drag out the inevitable any longer. He had never felt comfortable asking for help, much less begging for a job. A skilled pianist, a business owner, a decorated war veteran; what was any of it here? He was an unskilled laborer in a foreign land, saddled with debt and nerves.

He took a shaky breath and crossed his arms, a French prayer coming to the front of his mind. Rather than fight it he kept his eyes closed and silently went through the words before signing the cross and walking out the door.

When he walked onto the porch both Giorgio and Zelda were already standing in the middle of the yard, deep in conversation as Zelda pointed to the shed and the crops. He waved at them and asked where Josephine was; with a weary shrug Giorgio called back that she was still asleep. 

Zelda gave him a knowing smile and whispered good luck, her words almost silent but clear to Antoine even across the farmyard.

He set off on foot toward town, following the directions that Giorgio had given him to the places that he heard were looking for workers. He had offered him a ride the day before, but Antoine knew that in their situation gas was a luxury not to be wasted. Besides, there was something about all of these cars and roads that he didn’t trust. 

Zelda joked that it was the city boy in him, afraid of the open road. It was her new favorite nickname and one that he was growing increasingly delighted with as her Henford roots continued to show. Even her clipped English accent, softened by her years in New Orleans and his own Creole voice, had seemingly strengthened in the days since they’d arrived. 

But perhaps she was right, the city boy wasn’t prepared for the speed at which the cars flew by his shoulder. Yet as the loud engine passed him and disappeared down the road beyond, he was left in the peaceful desert air. It felt older and stiller than anything he'd ever known, so much so that it erased the worries from his mind until he forgot the task at hand and actually began to enjoy his walk.

Yet as the days went by the comfort he drew from the surrounding desert began to dwindle. One after another, shop owners and farmers turned him away. The kinder ones gave him a new address, another place to look. They passed the buck along, scared for their own security and unwilling to take on another mouth to feed as the newspaper headlines grew more grim and the line of unemployed longer by the day.

But many simply muttered under their breath and turned away. For others, he was lucky if their insults were so subtle. Hunger and fear had left the worst of them volatile and inhospitable, desperate for a scapegoat for their frustrations in whatever form it arrived.

Get off my land, grifter. Find another place to beg, Okie. We’ve got nothing for you, you damn migrant. He was no stranger to slurs, but these were new, and they held a whole different capacity for insult, new weight and freshly perceived inadequacies for him to digest each time they were hurdled in his direction.

So day after day, week after week, he went home to Zelda as his failures mounted and hopes dwindled down to nothing. Still, their creaky iron bed grew more comfortable and the peeling wallpaper an ever soothing sight. He laid there in her welcome embrace until the word went still and the panic quieted.

Each night it became easier to recount every moment of his day, coupled as it was with his growing fear and worry. When he couldn't, he listened to Zelda speak of the new things Violette had learned, or the progress that she and Gio had made on the soil. In the quiet of the desert air one of their voices filled the void that the world had created for them, until their eyes began to grow heavy and there was nothing left to worry about until the sun rose again on a new day.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Tell us more about the “ Those who can” couples.

Who is the big spoon?

What is their favourite sleeping position?

What are their pet peeves?

What do they do to make their spouse feel better while they have a cold?

What is their favourite thing to do as a couple ?

Do they prank each other?

Their favourite thing to eat that their spouse finds disgusting

Who proposed and how?

I can’t think of anything else to ask 😆 If you have more things to add , please do! I really want to know more about them. Love you 🥰

Oh, oh this sparks such joy, I love asks like these. Even when I’m floundering over some aspects as I’ve not fully thought them out as yet. So these always delight me with giving these parts a bit more thought.

Who is the big spoon?

Gale and Maureen: oh I’d say Gale, 90% of the time. He loves holding her, winding his arms around her with hands folded and secure over her ribs, it’s just a very unified feeling for him and she fits right under his chin and she adores the feel of him pressed fully against her head to heel.

Rosie and Ida: these soft babes spoon facing each other, legs thrown over hips, arms slung around each other, forehead to forehead. Sometimes Ida ends up spooning him as she wiggles closers at night, hugging his broad back as she grew used to doing the same with Bucky in the stalag and it makes her feel more at ease than a man pressed at her back. Eventually that too, when it’s Rosie, becomes alright. But these two tend to face each other.

John Brady and Tilly Macon: no, you’ve not met them yet but they’re utterly adorable, longterm serendipitous penpals, and she’s the girl he asked to marry him one whole week stateside. Johnny’s the big spoon although this must be tempered with the admittance of his many nights per week he falls asleep with his head in her lap as she reads to him.

Bucky x Josephine: Jo 100% is the big spoon, there’s nothing more to say.

What is their favorite sleeping position

Gale & Maureen: he sleeps, like an angel, on his side, with his hands, folded beneath his head, pillow perfectly supporting his cervical spine, an orthopedist dream, meanwhile Maureen is tucked or clinging to any part of him she can get to, not unusual for her feet to be hanging off the bed so that she can burrow up into his chest, under his folded elbows 

Rosie & Ida: terrible insomniacs the both of them, usually fall asleep mid task, reading, Case files, stamp collecting, whatever it might be. I think this usually means Rosie falls asleep on his back, portfolio sliding off his chest, with Isa tucked under his arm.

John and Tilly: facing each other, clinging like twins, his chin atop her head or face in her boobs is legit their go to 

Bucky and Josephine: he conks out wherever, usually sprawled out like a spider, all over the bed, often face down on his stomach, like a madman, and Josephine, just sort of pillows her head on top of his shoulder blades, holding onto an arm

Pet peeves:

Gale and Maureen: hmm ok so if this is like a shared couple pet peeves, they get pretty annoyed at people who jump to assumptions when they know 7% of the facts. Both of them can be withering in such a scenario

Rosie and Ida: Waste. Waste of time, of energy, of sentiment, waste drives them both a little nuts and they’re not the funnest on vacation as a result

John and Tilly: the sort of people that can make the Rosenthal’s enjoy vacation, not because they themselves are such grand partiers or entertainers, they just bring a level headed peace to what could otherwise develop into a hysterics over beach chairs and hot dog condiment requirements. The Brady’s keep the small things small, and don’t sweat the little stuff. Which means they to get annoyed by people who sweat the little stuff, and being unabashed homebodies, will remove themselves from recreational hysterics

Bucky and Jo: selfishness in any form. Legit don’t have any room for that in the Egan house



What do they do to make their spouse feel better with a cold?

Gale & Maureen: hilariously, both of these babies get to an all time low level of pitiful when they’re sick. Gale will never admit it, but he will appear like he is dying -if stoically- from a small nose congestion unless he is pampered with all the stops pulled out. Which Maureen is more than happy to do for him. And the exact same goes for her.

Rosie x Ida: he’s a decent cook, particularly at nourishing soups, and he will compulsively change the sheets – moving her gently to the couch in between – in order to keep the room fresh and tidy so it’s a little less disgusting for her. She will make him take warm baths, bring him tea made to perfection and gives the best neck massagers that make him forget about anything unpleasant

Brady & Tilly: oh, they are so doting, this man would likely take off work, just tend to her, but if she insists that’s absurd then he will at the very least get up early to prepare the kettle, to bring her tissues, to have medicine and water by the bed, insists she use honey from the local farm nearby in her tea, and leaves her love notes scattered around and beneath her pillows. She makes his favorite recipes that his mama passed to her, watches his favorite shows with him, and often reads to him while running her fingers through his hair. Forces him to walk around a few times a day.

Bucky & Jo: he may not be the best caretaker, but he is an excellent listener, and he will give all his time. He is at her disposal, she just has to give the direction for what it is she needs. She, on the other hand forces him to actually take his medicines, warms up a pot of steaming water with mint in it, to make him hang his face over and breathe it in, and insists he actually lay down and actually rest -novel idea- since he feels like such trash. Only she could ever persuade him.

Do they prank each other?:

Gale x Maureen: she pranks him constantly, he does it every two years or more and yet is far more devastating at it 

Rosie x Ida: oh yes, of the competitive variety, not practical jokes so much is intellectual ones

Brady x Tilly: eh, no.

Bucky and Jo: yes, and only they find it funny

Their favorite thing to eat that the other finds disgusting:

Gale and Maureen: she eats fish eyeballs just to make him look at her like she’s lost officially lost it

Rosie and Ida: let’s just say she doesn’t assimilate to much of the Jewish tradition of cooking, ok? She tried desperately to be polite about it but at home? It’s rough. Meanwhile she grew an affinity for crawdads while living in Florida, and it makes Rosie shudder 

Brady and Tilly: his wife’s one flaw is her love of ketchup and how she tried to kiss him after imbibing it

Bucky x Jo: his wife enjoys vegetables and actually expects him to eat them, he swear cabbage gives him flashbacks 

Who proposes and how:

Gale x Maureen: not fully decided on this myself, but they have a talk in camp before his escape about being “it” for each other, that they love each other. I’m pretty sure Gale is the one to propose but it’s not a surprise sorta moment, it quite thought out and the wedding is very soon after coming home.

Rosie x Ida:: this man had to wage a field campaign to wear her down, to win her over and all the while she wanted it while also protesting that it would make them both miserable in the end yet he was having none of it. Shortly before going to Nuremberg he 100% pops the question in a well thought out but not overly produced manner, maybe a quiet dinner or over a drink while they’re working over hours in his cozy study. If she refused initially, he pops it again a few weeks later while flashing boat tickets for the both of them to go overseas and kick ass. By this point both their families are so invested in this happening, a quiet but inclusive ceremony isn’t hard to pull together in short order.

Brady and Tilly: sweet baby boy blurted it out at at the train station tey second his feet hit home soil and she gasped and said “yes yes one hundred times yes” and they got married two weeks later.

Bucky and Jo: she asked “so what are we Egan?” a month into dating and courting and after going home and talking with his mother, he bought a ring and caught Jo on her afternoon off and took her on a picnic and asked her to marry him.

Seeing as how I was SUPER long winded for all of this as is, I think I’ll chill out and not add more at this time but if you think of more, send them my way! I love these! ❤️