#eight days after she sent her letter to him so she must have sent her letter on 23rd December

[free-luigi-mangione]

my heart breaks for him and his family, not only they're going through something incredibly traumatizing but they're witnessing part of the internet refer to him as a murderer, writing horrible things about him and these trash articles. i really hope they're all taking care of themselves mentally, luigi especially because he must be going through hell. i really hope he has a lot of distractions in there, otherwise he's really going to lose his mind.

imagine seeing your baby boy/brother always be a sweet little gentleman and an overall awesome human being who was always top of his class, took part in various activities and enjoyed people's company and the people also loved him to seeing him being called a killer/murderer, facing insane charges, being kept in inhumane conditions (all prisons are inhumane in usa), seeing him shackled in court on live tv and facing the death penalty and seemingly all anybody cares about (according to the media) is his pretty face and his shackled ankles and loafers without socks and fake sex tapes, it's like going straight from heaven to the deepest pits of hell where no light could ever touch

i'd be so mad that the media isn't talking about the at least half a dozen NYPD officers facing multiple charges for falsifying evidence and false prosecution against other people or that his defense lawyers have filed motions talking about how his rights were violated when he was arrested or how there's a very very real chance that the police planted false evidences on him at the time of his arrest (look at what the NYPD officers are charged with, it's a normal thing for them) or that thousands of people are wholeheartedly supporting him and donating regularly to his fund and think he's not guilty by all accounts and want him to be free

Luigi seems to be coping by writing sweet letters expressing support and sympathy to people who're sharing their woes in their letters to him 🥹

[seancekitsch]

The Sword and the Quill: Chapter Eight

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

“The Queen has requested your presence.”

Those are words you have not heard in years, you are sure. It was rare Alicent could not find you easily within the Red Keep, rarer more that you were not already in her company. During the days, you are an almost constant fixture with her and her children. The serving girl that had made herself known at your door seemed confused that she was in this position. Truthfully, you had not been to your chamber in days, and then when you did return you refused to leave. Your behavior has been erratic to say the least, and you do not blame any of the concern that rises. 

But how could you face her? How could you bear to be around Alicent Hightower after her brother had gone to visit her, after you had rejected him? You regretted the words immediately. And hours had been spent replaying the words in your mind, how they could have been said differently, or what you could have done differently. In some iterations you are polite and restrained in your acceptance of him, in others you are wild and you slap his face before pulling him in for a searing kiss. Every iteration however you will yourself to not reject him. To look at Alicent would feel oddly too similar, to look upon her face would be an estranged extension of Gwayne. You couldn’t bear it, and every attempt to leave your room begot nausea and panic. 

Now as you walk it feels almost as if a sentencing, the way men must feel being led from the dungeons. The day looms long, the sun starting to bleed red in the sky as you walk the narrow steps to Alicent’s apartments. The serving girl did not accompany you here, and each step feels heavier. Your palms sweat as you push open the heavy wooden door, and in an instant serving girls leave as if fleeing, ushering you in their place as you step through the threshold. This is the chopping block, perhaps. 

“Finally, you arrive,” Alicent’s voice is stony, cool to not betray her any emotion, “I have been asking for you since yesterday.”

You twist the rings on your fingers nervously, the room feeling entirely too hot. Couldn’t someone open a window? But no, Alicent had sent away all of her serving girls the moment you’d stepped foot into her apartments. 

“Aye, My apologies. I have been bereft of my normal sensibilities. I was attempting to remedy them without burdening you.” 

It sounds silly when you say it that way. You have been agonizing in your room, staring up at the canopy that envelops your bed and wishing you could take back some of the things you’d said in the past day. Why did you listen to your head and not your heart? Everything feels thick and heavy and yet somehow so empty that even tears are not a relief. Sleep did not come either, dreamless staring accounted for most of your night. She smiles sympathetically at you, normally that would put you at ease, but you’ve also seen the way the young Queen gazes at Princess Rhaenyra, examining and judging her former friend. 

“May I speak plainly to you, as your friend and not your Queen?”

“Of course, Alicent,” you move closer to your friend, and her hand reaches out for yours. Delicate lace covers part of her palm, half gloves sewn into the sleeves of her dress. She wraps her fingers around your palm, using her grasp to pull you closer to her, as if to tell a secret. This is it, you think, but the ghost of a smirk on her face confuses you. 

“Something is going on between you and my brother, yes?”

“I’m so sorry, I promise, I meant no harm by leaving the keep!”

Her eyes widen as your voices overlap each other, and you wrench your arm from her grasp. 

“You left?”

By the Seven, that was not what she was going to ask you about. You feel exposed, as if there is a gap in your armor. 

“Y-yes. I go to this tavern in Flea Bottom when I need to clear my thoughts. It gives me different perspective than what I see in the castle. I do not mean to alarm you. I will not go again.”

Alicent tilts her head, and reaches out again to touch you. You do not deny her, replacing your hand within hers. She squeezes your palm gently.

“Why not?”

That is not what you expected her to ask. Surely, this must mean that Gwayne… had not told her about that night. But if he did not tell her, what was his purpose of going to see his sister alone? A bad feeling settles within you, a rock sinking in a river. Whatever he spoke to her about, it was not your transgressions out of the keep. He was not running to tell on you to the queen. He was, and still is, covering for you. 

And it is as if a dam bursts, and you cannot stop speaking. 

“- And then he came in and-!”

“-But Gwayne held me and it was like-!”

Your hands speak with you, emphasizing and punctuating your words as you recount everything, everything to Alicent from the beginning. From her notes to the dancing to the tourney and that disastrous night. 

“-In all of the letters we spoke of-“

“-And I never expected Gwayne to be so sweet and lively and lovely and-!”

Alicent listens carefully through all of it, letting go of your hand when you become too animated, nodding and shrugging along as you stop to ask if she understands. 

It is only when you are out of breath that your entire story comes to a conclusion.

“- So that is why I have been hiding from you, I am so sorry, Alicent.”

She purses her lips, thinking for a long moment before she speaks. 

“So all this time, you have been writing my brother, sneaking out of the castle, and making plans without knowing it was him? Endangered yourself for mental clarity? But yet, you are not courting my brother, involved with him in anyway, nothing?”

You nod, unsure of what else to say. All of it true, all of it so confusing. 

“I am perplexed.” 

“You are not alone in that,” you remark, your mouth turning upward into an almost sneer. Alicent looks you over, and then goes to her own writing desk. She pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment, one that looks like it has been curled and gripped too tightly at the edges, well worn and well worried over.

She tilts the paper towards you, and Gwayne’s now unmistakable penmanship fills the page. He has written to her, no doubt about you. You lips part in shock, but no gasp comes. 

“You can understand my confusion at this letter coinciding with your sudden absence, but let me read some of this to you and tell me if this can clarify anything…

— I fear that there is no me without her, and that she has completed something within me I had not known to be unfinished. There is no fire as hot and no rejection so cold. I desperately desire her, to wed her for all the Seven Kingdoms to see and know that I am devoted to her above all. She is the type of woman that wars would be fought over. 

But she does not desire that, so I must recuse our earlier plans of my joining the Gold Cloaks. I will deny myself this, as I cannot cause her any strife. Oldtown will be happy to have me back, and I will be forever unfinished because of her absence. 

Keep her safe, keep her loved and happy. She deserves everything she does not want me to give her. I know you love her too, dear sister. Let my last act of love for her be this boon: that she may want for nothing, that she may be allowed travel on every royal progress. Her hearts wish is to see the world. Let her. Let her have time to explore and look and sketch and write. 

Why have you never spoken of travel to me?”

A sense of almost jealousy in her words from pouting lips is nearly missed by you as you sink into the settee beside you. He loves you. He loves you so deeply he is going to make your dreams come true even though you have spurned him, insulted him. He wants you to see the world, in spite of everything. The anger and animosity hardens into regret, and then melts away almost entirely. 

“I did not think it proper,” you say, your eyes downcast at the floor. You did not want her to think she was trapping you here the way she is, though you could never say that to her. It would break your heart if you were to make her feel bad in that way. 

“I will beg Viserys to let me bring you,” she promises, and sits down next to you on the settee, discarding the letter on the side table as she puts her arm around you. Rain begins to beat down on the window panes as you snake your arm around her back, settling into a half hug with her. You let out a half-hearted chuckle.

“I would like that,” you tell her, “And maybe if Ser Criston comes along I can sketch you seeing the sights with me.”

She hums, a smile over her lips as she leans into you. 

“You love Gwayne?” she asks, and her question is heavy. The weight of it like a stone passed between your hands, a tome with endless chapters. 

“I… I believe so.”

Alicent ponders for a moment, the smile on her lips spreading as she looks you over. From the way that her brows furrow you can see her constructing her next words carefully, as if she were to imbue a doctrine. 

“I always hoped this would happen.”

And the two of you laugh. It is a quiet, nervous laughter, a sigh of relief at the truth being laid bare and your friendship understood through it all. Alicent grasps your hand again.

“It is a shame you discovered this about yourself so late. Gwayne would have liked to court you, I think. He has many maps in his apartments that he would have let you trace,” Alicent mutters, and another line of the letter she read to you sparks in familiarity in your mind. 

“Wait!” you jump up from your spot on the settee, “He was to join the Gold Cloaks?!”

Alicent nods, confirming. You had been so caught up in the beautiful boon he had asked in your honor that you did not even process those words until now. The Gold Cloaks need a strong leader with Prince Daemon now in Pentos.

“He had requested this around the time of the tourney, though I did not know why at the time. Now I see it was to stay close to you.”

“And Daeron?”

“Was to stay in his tutelage, and Gwayne was going to request that materials be sent from Oldtown for his private education for two years and then the two of them were to go to Oldtown for the rest of his teachings.”

Your chest heaves, and suddenly your dress is too tight and the room is too stagnant. You had not known he was willing to do this, to uproot his own life. You think back to that night in Flea Bottom, you were indeed lucky he was there and you can admit that to yourself now. You were grateful for Gwayne’s presence. You are grateful for Gwayne’s presence. 

“He said he was to leave. Am I too late?”

“Not yet, they leave at dawn,” she tells you, looking out at the rain that is now pouring. 

“I must go!” You tell her, quickly scrambling to the door. 

“Wait-“ she calls, but the rest of her words fall onto deaf ears as you already race down the halls. 

You search high and low within the keep, and then the obvious answer becomes the clear one: Before the rain, it was the hour of training. He would be in the armory and surey packing away or cleaning his armor and weaponry to stow it away before he leaves in the morning. Your feet carry you down the stairs and out the door, pushing yourself into the rain and the wind as you cross the training yard which is turning to mud. 

“Gwayne!” you shout, nearly tripping over your own skirts as you bundle them up in your fist, not caring if you are creasing or ruining the fabric, “Gwayne Hightower!”

You turn quickly on your heel into the armory where Gwayne is among a few men packing away their belongings and armor. Practice blades and shields line the walls, and simple wooden benches map out pathways. You practically climb over them to get to the far side of the large room.

Gwayne Hightower looks shocked, an expression you have never seen before across his features. His lips part as his eyes go wide, his normal pretense of haughty confidence completely gone. 

“My lady, what are you doing here?”

You then realize the mess you probably look like: dress rumpled and askew from running through the castle and the rain, hair wet and out of its styling, the portrait of a drowned rat in woman form. 

“Gwayne I had to come see you right this instant, I had to find you and -“

“Lady Y/n, what is wrong?” he reaches up and swipes his thumb across your cheek. He wipes away a tear you did not know was falling. Maybe it is just the rain. 

“Is someone hurt?”

“Yes!” you hiss, angrily throwing your skirts back down, “I am! Or, I will be.”

Gwayne’s hands move uncertainly, as if restraining himself from embracing you. It pains you, the way he will not. A part of you wishes to just grab his hands and wrap them around you, but there is a chance he may have grown cold to you since kissing you goodbye. 

“You cannot leave!” you tell him, your eyes searching his face for understanding, but anger darkens his eyes.

“I do not understand you, woman! First you reject me, and now what? Do you forbid me from leaving, just as you wanted?” He all but shouts, stepping forward into your space. Even so, he looks downward, careful not to step on the hem of your skirts. His eyes search yours, as if any answer to his question lies in your face. He must think you mad, but that is the least of your worries. You must have him, or at the very least have yourself known to him before he leaves. 

“Yes! I forbid you! I forbid you to leave this fucking castle!” you exclaim, and then before you can think or regret any longer, your hands are gripping his tabard as you pull him downwards. 

Your lips crash into his, and instantly, his lips are kissing back. 

[allfearstofallto]

What would Yuri (your yandere bulter OC) do if his lady had an arranged marriege and was meeting the person she was arranged to marry with?

(Y'all make me so happy I could die!! I've been unironically imagining this scenerio for months!!!)

Yandere! Male OC x Reader

“You're much too young to be wed,” Yuri whined softly as his cold finger tips helped you latch the clip of your necklace. A beautiful, pink gem nestled in the center of the neckware drew attention to your bare collar bone, the radiant skin of your chest, and the lovely smile you had just above it. Yet another piece of jewelry your mother had sent you from her travels, she had such a taste for things you liked, despite hardly being around.

You merely scoffed at his words, rolling your eyes in the tandum. While he tied your hair up, you dusted yourself with perfumed powder, staring at yourself the entire time, “You must be insane, Yuri. I'm actually past the average marrying age.”

That much was true. Girls of your status typically married much much younger, usually right after coming of age. Even you yourself received many letters begging for a chance to meet after your debutante, which Yuri would swiftly burn in your fire place when you expressed your distate. You had things holding you back. You longed for schooling, travel, and a the freedom of being young and not tied down. Both your father and Yuri took this news excitedly and never pushed for you to get wed. They both even excitedly told you that you'd never have to leave the manor and if you so pleased, you'd be pampered for the rest of your life.

It sounded nice in theory, living off of your fathers wealth and being a bachelorette until the day you died, but many women at your tea parties were talking about their prospects, fiances, and even their husbands, and suddenly you felt as if you could no longer relate anymore. And the even more harsh realization hit you, that you were lonely. You'd sit quietly at the table, sipping your tea nervously and realizing that maybe it was time for you to begin viewing romance in a different light, not as a hindrance chaining you down, but a new beginning in life.

Your father was expectedly saddened by your announcement and Yuri…well, Yuri’s expression was hard to read. He stood silently for a bit, his lips formed in a tight line, eyebrows starting to furrow a bit behind his thick, round glasses. It was a face you'd never seen him make before, him typically preferring laid back or soft expression.

“You can't actually be serious, my lady,” Yuri forced himself to not sound more hurt than he actually was, but if you listened closely, you could hear his voice tremble, “You always said you'd stay in the manor forever.”

You glanced at yourself once over again in your full body mirror, feeling shy and almost slightly over dressed in the gown you chose. It was such a strange feeling, the way your heart was thumping in your chest, and you couldn't tell if it was excitement or nerves. You could see Yuri behind you in your reflection, a frown still formed on his lips.

“I said that when I was eight! You can't trust the words of a child,”

Yuri sighed again, pushing his snow, white hair out of his face in a sign of stress. A stress reflex that you seldom saw him do. Yuri was a man that was so calm and composed, yet today he was showing so much anxiety. And for what, you'd didn't know.

“Then what of me? This man you're meeting, he's the Duke two cities over. I am here to serve you, my lady, won't I go with you?”

“I'd hate to uproot your life, Yuri,” you began with a sad tone. You couldn't fathom the idea that he could look any sadder, yet as you spoke, his face fell even farther, “B-but mother will be home shortly! She sent a letter saying that it will only be a few more weeks, you could still stay in the manor and tend to her instead.”

Your suggestion is met with a shallow, solemn shake of his head, “You are my life, my lady. I wish to serve no one else.”

[queef-of-fortune]

Marionette (Doflamingo X Reader)

Chapter eight:

Plot: When the Straw Hat crew got separated, Kuma sent her to the kingdom of Dressrosa. Unfortunately for her, she caught the eye of none other than the king himself. Donquixote Doflamingo.

“Don’t put your fucking hands on me!” She growled at him, wiping his saliva from her neck in disgust. “Eugh, sick…”

Doflamingo chuckled at her reaction but something deep down pained him.

“Alright.”

He shrugged, opening the door like it was no big deal.

“I won’t touch you.”

His hand gripped the doorframe. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“Not until you beg me to.”

And then he left.

(Y/N) watched him leave, a disgusted look still plastered on her features as she continued to judge him. She was relieved that he left again. Hopefully this time he’d stay gone for a while. She shivered in remembrance. It was like she could still feel his lips on her neck. Feel the warmth of his breath in her ear. Smell his cologne.

She pulled the sheet off of her body completely, pushing the trays of food aside as she climbed out of the bed. She didn’t have anywhere to go. Nothing to do. No one to talk to. The room was bright with the morning sun as she paced nervously. He had been gone for an hour and she wondered where he had gone off to.

What was he planning?

She decided she’d snoop around for a little while. Maybe she’d find something that could help her get away from him. She started rooting around in his bathroom first, finding nothing interesting in there. Just things you’d expect to find in a bathroom.

Next was his closet. Again, nothing interesting. Just his flamboyant and dramatic clothing. She couldn’t help herself but to look at every piece of his ridiculous clothing. They were intriguing, eye-catching even. She had to admit, he did dress nice. He was an eccentric man, not caring what anyone thought yet everything he did, he did for attention. All attention was good attention.

Once satisfied with rummaging through his closet, she moved on to his dresser. This one was a little interesting. The first drawer was underwear, second socks, and third undershirts. The top drawer on the right side however, was full of more… Intimate items. She didn’t dare touch a thing in that one. She closed it back, stifling a laugh, afraid he might hear.

After she saw something she’d rather not see, she decided to not search the dresser any further. Next up, his nightstand. She squatted down to the nightstand on the right side of the bed, pulling the drawer open. This drawer was full of scattered papers. She rifled through them. Most of it was nonsense to her. She had no idea what any of it meant or was.

There was one piece of paper that did catch her eye. It was a letter. A letter addressed to her.

I wonder if you even know who I am. If you’ve ever heard of me before. Probably not, you’re just a girl. That’s alright though. I know we’ll meet one day. I’ll make sure of it my love.

You don’t know it yet but we’re meant to be.

I saw you in the papers again today. Another bounty increase. Another victory. You must think you're unstoppable.

It’s funny. You don’t even know I exist, and yet, I know so much about you.

I dream about the day your little crew makes it to the new world.

Until then, I’ll be patiently waiting.

She read the letter over and over again, trying to process it.

Her breath felt tight, stomach twisting as she reread the words.

Her name wasn’t written anywhere, but she knew. She knew.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the paper back into place, as if touching it too long might brand her.

Was this about her? No it couldn’t be. He was probably talking about someone else.

The sound of footsteps clicking down the hallway made her heart drop to her stomach. She hastily shoved the papers back and shoved the drawer closed, climbing back up into the bed. Her heart was racing as the footsteps stopped right outside the door. The lock clicked open before Doflamingo cracked it open slowly. Almost as if he was expecting her to throw something at him.

Once he was fully inside the room, he shut and locked the door behind him. Just like he had done every time so far. She noticed something in his hand. Draped over his forearm was a red dress. She couldn’t make out the style. A pair of black strappy heels were in his hand as well.

He was wearing his signature shit eating grin as if nothing happened earlier. She also noticed how he wasn’t wearing his silk, feathered robe anymore. He was now wearing one of his flashy outfits, pairing it with that stupid coat.

“Have you been behaving yourself little one?” He was mocking her.

She didn’t answer of course, just glaring.

“Awe, still playing shy are we?” He chuckled under his breath. “That’s alright, I’m a patient man.” He stepped closer to the bed where she sat.

Doflamingo laid the dress and shoes down on the bed next to her.

“I picked these up for you while I was out.” He said, imagining her in it.

She examined the dress, holding it up in the air to get a good look. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking and he hated it. She was always so hard to read. It drove him crazy.

“Well? Is it to your liking pajarito?” He asked impatiently.

She eyed the dress once more. Face blank.

“I like it.” Her tone was empty as well. Making him unsure if she was telling the truth or not.

Regardless, he grinned anyway, clearly pleased with her answer.

“Good,” He drawled, “Go get dressed, quickly.” Doflamingo urged.

She huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Come on, we’ve got plans.” He urged again, pulling her from the bed by her arm. His grip didn’t hurt but it certainly wasn’t gentle as he pulled.

She huffed again in irritation, glaring at him as she rubbed her wrist where he grabbed it. She snatched the dress from the bed as she stomped off towards the bathroom, her eyes never leaving him.

After a couple of minutes, she emerged. The dress was Blood-red —a color that demanded attention just like he did. The fabric had a subtle sheen, due to the material. It was a blend of silk and velvet, smooth and cool against the skin, but with a weight that hugged every curve.

The bodice was fitted with a plunging sweetheart neckline, designed to frame her collarbone and cleavage perfectly. The fabric cinched at the waist, accentuating her hourglass shape, before flowing into a soft, elegant drape over her hips.

The back was completely open, exposing the length of her back—a contrast between elegance and vulnerability. Thin, delicate straps crisscross near her shoulders, holding the fabric in place.

A high slit went up on one side, revealing just enough of her thigh with every step—something that forces her to be hyper-aware of how much she’s showing. And finally, a black lace trim that subtly lines the edges, a small detail that adds to the allure. The black heels he brought matched it well.

(Y/N) could feel his eyes boring into her, even through his lenses. Doflamingos grin became even more sinister. Now laced with desire as well. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Lust? Amusement? Something worse?

“Absolutely beautiful, pajarito.” He breathed out, as if it truly had taken his breath away.

He stared at her for a moment longer. Looking as though he’d like nothing more than to rip the gown from her body.

“Come,” He held a hand out for her, “We have to move quickly.”

She hesitated for a moment before reaching for his hand. Unfortunately, as soon as her fingers grazed his, he grabbed her wrist. Pulling her into him harshly. He scooped her off of her feet as she yelped in protest, squirming again him.

He shushed her as he tried to shove her inside his coat like he had done previously to hide her from Diamanté and Trebol.

“Just hold still—“ Doflamingo grumbled, shoving her in harder. “Can’t have you being seen just yet, pajarito. Not until the time is right.”

She soon gave up, huffing in irritation. He sighed, “Good, now stay still and be quiet.” He commanded, making his way to the door.

She was dying to know where he was taking her but she didn’t even ask. She already knew he wouldn’t tell her anyway. Maybe he was finally taking her to her death. It’d be better than being here with this psycho.

[a-romantics-guide-to-life]

⋆ ₊☽˚𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼˚☾₊ ⋆ 

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 : you and coryo had gone through hell and back, you've been together and far apart yet you could never find the courage to say how you truly feel for him. so, you wrote them into letter form, but you never sent them. and so what happens when one mr. snow finds each and every letter only to realize that it's too late?

𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 : written in letter form from the readers perspective, talks of jealousy and sad feelings, r is definitely from the capitol, self blame, kinda sorta depression, angst, deceit, suicide, coryo finally responds

𝓪/𝓷 : so here’s part three!! I’m ngl I cried writing this and I KNOW people were asking for a happy ending but I’m just gonna tell y’all now that this is angst NO/VERY LITTLE COMFORT! I just had to do it so here ya go! enjoy 😊!

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 | 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

⋆ ₊ ☽ ·˚𓍲⋆ 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓮: 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 ⋆𓍲˚· ☾ ₊ ⋆ Dear Coriolanus,

Time ticks on and on as does life; but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt and it certainly doesn't mean that pain fades away with each passing day.

I heard from Mrs.Plinth that Sejanus was killed out in the districts. It must be so saddening knowing that your young son who had his whole life ahead of him died out in the districts all by himself. 

I wonder if you saw him die, what were his last words? 

Mrs.Plinth didn’t share much only saying that it was out in the districts and that she was very grateful that you were there for him. 

Yet it also hurts knowing that you upended the trajectory of your life all for Lucy Gray. 

What could she give you that I couldn’t?

People experience pain in such different ways. I remember when you got a cut when we were climbing trees in my backyard and you were stone faced acting like you were okay when I knew you weren’t. You hate blood and you especially hate pain and I know that. 

All of us do really, I too was only eight when the war ended. We all went through the pain of hunger every single day, some even committed heinous acts to survive that will haunt them forever. 

Some cower in terror and pain yet some rise above the pain. Some use that pain and anguish as a motivator to push forward and persevere. 

Like you. 

You know me, the runt of the litter. The forgotten one. Yet not by you, I know you would never forget me. 

Just like I’ll never forget you. 

Which is why it hurts so much to know that you still chose Lucy Gray over me. It still kills me when I think about my best friend, my first and forever love, who I’ve been through so much with choose a girl he’s just met over someone who's been on your side since day one. 

What did I do wrong? Was it something I said? What could she have that I don’t?

Life has quieted down I guess, school is the same old same old, just the same boring day one after another. The Capitol just seems so dreary and dull, there is constant gloom plaguing the sky.

I like to think it’s because you’re not here. My sun, my moon illuminating the dark dark sky, shining brightly amongst the stars that have long burned out.

I really do miss you Coryo,

Yours Truly

Coriolanus,

I heard from Tigiris you’re finally on your way home.

Is Lucy Gray with you?

I wonder if she’s holding your hand at the very second, comforting you about coming back to the home you call hell. Have you told her about your life in the Capitol, I wonder?

Is she truly your home now, Coriolanus?

It seems everyone around me is finding what their lives were missing. Money, power, glory. Yet there is this hole in my heart and my life in the shape of you. 

I will never find home.

Many people say that home is where the heart is or that home is a person or idea rather than a physical place and they’re right.

Because my home will forever be you, Coriolanus.

And it rips my chest apart to know that I will never be able to go home because a pretty little bird has decided to peck her way into my home and build a fragile little nest. It hurts even more to know that you protected that nest.

Are there little birdies tweeting in that nest now?

I wonder if you have Sejanus’ stuff. You really were that boy's best friend, you know that Coriolanus?

Just like how you were my best friend. Before the war, before Celmensia, before Sejanus, before Lucy Gray.

But hey, you’re finally on the way back to the Capitol, right?

You’re finally coming back home to me.

I truly do hope I am the first one you call.

Love,

Your Darling awaiting your call

To Coriolanus Snow,

My grave has been long set for I dug it. I have made my bed now, I must lie in it.

By the time you read this I will have already been long dead. The ache in my chest drove me to it, the numbing hole that consumed my being was no longer tolerable.

My head was drowning in anger, sadness, love. All for you my dearest Coriolanus. 

I find myself writing as if there is tomorrow yet I truly do know that there won’t be a future for me. 

I’ve reread every single unsent letter I have written for you and the gaping hole in my chest grows larger with every word I read for I know deep in my soul that I will never be able to go back in time and tell myself that it’s all worth it because I’m ow that it isn’t. 

It’s ruining my life, Coriolanus, please do not think less of me for it. 

My body has been battered and bruised all my by my hand, my mind plaguing my sanity, my memories, with fields of death and despair. I find now that I find solace and comfort in the thought.

I have dropped out of school, not that anyone would have noticed. I stopped sketching too, you know. It’s just that whenever my pencil touches the page all my hand seems to be able to draw is your face. My sketchbook has been filled with sketches of your face, your eyes, you at that reaping ceremony, you when you went to visit Lucy Gray in the Capitol zoo. All you.

I cant take it anymore Coryo, my heart can’t take it anymore. 

My mind is plagued with images of your beautiful face, your smug smiles, your laughs where you hide those gorgeous hydrangea blue eyes of yours, the look on your face when I hugged you for the last time. 

I replay that moment in my head, constantly. I seemingly can’t stop thinking back on that moment and think about what I could have said or could have given you to make you stay. 

I would have done anything to have you stay, to have you be mine. 

To have you love me back. 

It’s a fickle thing, love. Fragile, yet powerful. It can make one go mad yet it can also ground you. It can drive you to murder for someone yet it can also motivate you to step in front of a bullet for someone. 

It can also motivate you to live or cause you to die.

Some find love a nessecity to live while some find it the reason for their demise. 

My dearest Coriolanus, I’m so terribly sorry. Yet I cannot help but akin love to a hardship. A pain, a pain that no matter how many dates I go on or how many men I flirt with that this pain will not go away. 

I really tried, Coryo, I really did. I tried so hard to move on, to love someone else even when I know a hole is where my heart is and you and only you hold that missing piece. 

I love you Coriolanus Snow. 

I love you Coryo. 

I love you. 

I’ve loved you every minute of every single day of every single month of every single year ever since we were young. It may have been youthful play love but it shifted as the moons do. 

I love you in every memory, every letter, and every dream that we meet. I love you in every minute and my love will forever live on in the velvety petals of pure white roses and pillowy hydrangeas. 

I’ll love you, no matter what, every day, every hour, every minute, every year, for the rest of my life.

I’ll forever love you, even when I’m no longer here.

I forgive you my love, forever and always. 

My only hope that you’ll forgive me.

My last wish is that you finally receive all those letters I wrote to you as a naive and young girl and look back that even now, I’m still me.

I’ll love you forever,

Your Dearest Darling Dead

tagging! @lonely-dreamer

thanks so much for the support and love on this series, it really does mean a lot to me and I hope to see you on the epilogue!

[tea-stained-notes]

Colin x Penelope - Divide | Chapter 8

Colin has made it: He’s a famous pop star, touring the world, adored to extremes. If only he wasn’t drowning his loneliness and anxiety in too many drinks, missing home and yet incapable of going back. But when Violet falls ill and he reluctantly returns he has to face the mess he has made - not only with his family but also the woman who might have always been the one.

Warnings: illness (cancer), death, anxiety, drug use, alcohol abuse, eventual smut

Chapter word count: ~2900

MASTERLIST

You know she beat me at darts and then she beat me at pool And then she kissed me like there was nobody else in the room - Galway Girl

That night Colin unpacks his suitcase. Carefully, he fills his old wardrobe with clothes, sets all his toiletries out in the en-suite. Even if it’s just an illusion, a fleeting sentiment — it feels like coming home. When he pats down the side pockets to see if he’s missed anything, his fingers catch on something. He reaches inside and pulls out an envelope. Recognition dawns on him. It’s an unopened letter from his mother, sent about two months after he had left England. He vaguely recalls tucking it in there, unable to read whatever she had written him. For a long time he just sits on the floor and stares at the soft curves of his old L.A. address in Violet’s handwriting, wondering if he is ready for this now. But what if she wrote something they need to talk about before she— He jumps to his feet, fishes a letter opener out of his desk and slices through the crisp paper. A deep breath to steady his shaking fingers. Then he starts reading.

My dear Colin,

I sincerely hope you are well. I have been following your career these past few weeks and it must have been an incredible whirlwind for you. I am very proud of what you have already achieved. But I hope you have supportive people around you who take care of you — maybe in ways that we failed to. I know you have had plenty of difficulties with your brothers and sisters, especially Anthony, and must have good reasons to have broken off contact with them. Still, they are hurting deeply. It pains me that you are not replying to my calls and messages either but I recognise that I, too, have been caught up in the company and all your siblings’ troubles. I should have noticed how you were slipping through our fingers, even though you had moved away for university. I should have told Anthony to be softer on you, I should have helped nurture your musical talent the same way I did with Francesca. There are a million ways in which I could and should have been a better mother to you. So I understand why you left. Why all of this has been too much and not enough. I will give you the space you need. But please know that you will always have a place here, that you can always return. We miss you more than words can say.

All my love, Mum

A tear drops onto the paper, smudging the ink, and he quickly dabs it dry with his thumb before wiping at his eyes. They fly over the few lines again and again while his chest tightens with every read. Eventually, he places it on the bed and walks out the door.

“I have finally opened your letter.” Colin sits down beside his mother, his fingers in knots. She looks pale and tired but her entire focus rests on his face. “Which one?” “The first.” He thinks back to the day he finally blocked all their numbers and told Mei to intercept any attempt from his family to get in touch. “It’s the only one I have.” “The others didn’t reach you?” “I didn’t let them.” She nods slowly. “If I had known you’ve never read them, I would have apologised on your first day back.” “Mum, that’s not—“ “You expected me to be angry when you came here. I saw it in your eyes and it broke my heart. I was never angry with you, my love. I was disappointed in myself that I hadn’t taken the time to make sure you were alright. Of course, with eight children there is always so much going on and you had always been so easy to take care of, but it was negligent and unfair and I can only ask you to please forgive me.” Both their eyes are filled with tears. “Of course I forgive you, Mum,” Colin whispers. “That’s why I came to see you, I couldn’t let you… Couldn’t let you believe that I hadn’t.” “Thank you, darling. That means more than you’ll ever know.” “And even if you were never angry… I’m deeply sorry, too.” He reaches for her hand and touches it to his lips. For a long moment they just smile at each other. “Daphne told me what happened today. I’m so glad you’ve finally opened up to them. You seem much lighter, you know.” Colin lets out a deep sigh. “It will take time for things to feel okay again. We’ve all changed. But much of what drove me away back then… It’s different now. Even before we had that talk, they checked in with me a lot more. Noticed when something was off.” “Yes, they have learned that over the years,” she says softly. “Because you weren’t here anymore.” He knits his brows in confusion. “You were always the one with the sympathetic ear, love. Whenever something troubled them, you noticed, you asked, you listened. So when you were gone they finally realised that. You taught them to be better, even in your absence.” Something wells up in Colin’s chest. Something warm that fills in the tiny fissures he had thought irreparable.

Over the next two weeks he slowly finds his way back into the family. They talk deep into the night and go on rambling walks. They have croquet matches and game nights and he is glad to find that they are as comically competitive as ever. There’s piano duets and lively dinners and meaningful hours with their mother. Colin gets to know his sisters-in-law and his nephews, quickly becoming Eddie’s new favourite. He even befriends Newton, much to Anthony’s chagrin. And the miracle worker she is, Mei has been able to fulfil his request: The tour is essentially on hold and he can breathe a little easier. These languid, hot August days fade into one another. It’s never spoken aloud but none of the siblings dare to leave Aubrey Hall for long, Violet’s numbered days always on their minds. Penelope stays as well, her entangled history with the Bridgertons and love for their mother making her just another part of the puzzle. She and Colin spend endless hours together, often with the others, sometimes alone. But never crossing the lines anymore. Whenever one of them gets a little too close, lingers a little too long, the other pulls away. They go on aimless car rides and sing along to old playlists. They watch movies from their teenage years, laughing at awkward dialogue and plot holes. They visit the castle ruins and make up stories again, improvising lines, wielding imaginary swords and wands. He reads her writing and they fall into deep discussions about everything under the sun — well, everything that isn’t Colin’s approaching departure or Alfred or the old feelings that still keep rushing to the surface. Somehow they make it work. And after years of frenzy and labouring to exhaustion they both learn to slow down again. To just be. It’s a strange time of being terribly scared and yet deeply content. Colin doesn’t dare wonder how he will leave all of it behind again.

Philip joins them at the house and Colin immediately understands why ever-independent Eloise has opened her heart to him. He matches her intellect but not obnoxiously so, treats her with infinite respect and patience, the calm counterweight that keeps her balanced when her thoughts and emotions run away with her. There’s less banter than between Kate and Anthony, less physical affection than between Benedict and Sophie. But he can sense the quiet undercurrent of deep connection between them. He has yet to meet Simon and Michaela, but from everything he’s heard they seem just as perfectly matched to his siblings as the other three. So he tries to let the joy over their happiness outweigh the envy curling in the depth of his chest. And when he is invited to accompany Eloise, Philip and Penelope on a night out, he tries more than anything to not feel like it’s a double date. Still, it is the first time Colin looks forward to going to a public place in years. His tousled hair has grown a little longer, looking nothing like his slick stage style. Light brown glasses frame his bare eyes and he is dressed in dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. There is no way anyone in a tiny country pub two villages over will recognise him. “So, what are we having?” Eloise asks as they settle into a corner. “White wine, please,” Penelope smiles. “Whatever Lager they have on tap. Do you want help, love?” Eloise briefly strokes her boyfriend’s arm. “I’m good, thanks. Col?” “Just lemon water.” Her brows shoot up in surprise. “You feeling okay?” “Yeah, I’m just…” Colin fidgets about. “You know, trying to cut back on drinking.” He feels Penelope’s eyes on him. They shine warmly when he turns to her. “Right. Good on you,” Eloise hurries to say, then goes off to fetch their drinks.

He can barely believe his luck as the next couple of hours pass. Live music from a folk trio and light chatter colour the air. No one spares him a second glance. He hasn’t felt this comfortable among strangers in ages. The four of them talk politics and academia and art, the conversation flowing easily around the table. They play darts and billiards and Colin pretends to be rustier than he is because the glow on Penelope’s face when she wins against him stokes the flames in his chest that shouldn’t be burning in the first place. Eventually, Eloise and Colin find themselves watching the other two pick out songs on the jukebox while the band takes a break. He sighs happily. “God, it’s good to be back.” Eloise examines his face for a long moment. “You’ve always been here, you know.” He looks at her, tilting his head enquiringly. “Greg still wears some of your old shirts. Ben inserts you into every family portrait, Fran plays piano arrangements of your songs. I regularly make your spinach lasagne. You’ve never really left, Col.” Her words hit him unexpectedly. She gives him a shaky smile, wiping at her eyes. Colin pulls her into his side and wraps both arms around her. “Thanks, Ellie,” he whispers. He hasn’t called her that in over a decade. But these days are about remembrance as much as about living for the moment. Eloise leans into him, her eyes back on Penelope who is laughing at something Philip says. “She seems happier than I’ve seen her in a long time,” she mumbles. “Yeah?” He tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach. “I didn’t mean to hurt you the other day,” Eloise says softly. “When I confronted you with their break. I know you care about her. Maybe even more than I ever realised.” Colin swallows as she pulls away to inspect him. “But she was broken when she overheard you at that party. Even more so when you left.” “She said you all knew. That she had feelings for me.” “It was literally impossible not to. I still can’t believe you were too thick-headed to recognise. Empathetic to a fault, except when it came to the one person who looked at you like you hung the moon or some shit.” They exchange a small grin, tinged with wistfulness. “You’re good for each other, Col. Just don’t start something if you can’t follow through. You’re not a dumb kid anymore.” Colin can’t reply because at that moment the others pull them to their feet for another round of pool. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

A little while later both Eloise and Philip start yawning. But Penelope is practically buzzing with energy, one part of her always touching Colin, wine and whisky clearly swirling in her veins as she sways to the jukebox songs she has chosen. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol, yet he feels drunk in her presence. Warm and woozy and wonderstruck. The past few weeks of almosts and maybes are sizzling around them like static. So when she begs him to stay just a little longer there is no way he could refuse. They say their goodbyes to the other two, then settle back into their nook with fresh drinks. “What did you and El talk about back here?” she asks, somehow breathless. “You looked serious.” “Nothing important. Just… old times.” He runs his fingertips through the condensation on his glass. “Well, Phil wanted to pick three Beatles songs. Three. You know I can barely make it through one.” “I bet you set him straight.” “Obviously.” His smile fades as he takes her in, all mesmerising fire and spark. Has there really ever been a time when she didn’t captivate him? “I wish you went back to red hair.” “What?” she laughs, bewildered. “Why?” “Because you’re no longer the girl who doesn’t want to be seen. You’re confident, radiant. People can’t help but notice you. And red was perfect on you.” “Oh. I… thank you.” They are both blushing but Colin can’t stop his mouth from betraying him further. “When I said all those things about Alfred… It wasn’t just about him. It was about how you shrink in his presence. How he doesn’t seem to make you feel wanted. Worthy. Loved.” He takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently. “You deserve to be seen, Pen. Just like you see everyone else.” She blinks. “That’s… that’s very kind.” They stare at each other for a long moment while the bustle of the pub becomes strangely muffled around them.

Finally, Penelope clears her throat, then shakes her head. “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe you’re actually here. I’ve been watching you on screens for years and now you’re… real.” Her eyes wander over his face. “And you have a beard and your voice is a little deeper and your eyes look like they have seen too much but you’re still…” The sentence trails off as her gaze is drawn to his mouth and suddenly he can’t breathe. Her eyes flick up to his for the fraction of a second. And then she’s kissing him. Just like that. Her lips are warm and soft against his and Colin's entire world tilts on its axis. Nothing has ever felt like this. But right when he sinks into Penelope, fully surrendering to this impossible sensation, his brain catches up and he flinches away from her. “Pen,” he says hoarsely, “we—“ “Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it? Third Son?” A group of women descend upon them out of nowhere, all dressed in matching hen do t-shirts, clearly very drunk and very unreserved. They appraise Penelope for a moment, then bombard Colin with requests for selfies and autographs on their shirts. After weeks of something resembling normalcy, of being a son and a brother and a friend, his alternate persona is poured over him like a bucket of ice water. His heart starts racing while his face automatically rearranges itself into a practised smile. How is he not even safe at a tiny pub in the middle of nowhere? He wants to apologise to Penelope but she has vanished. His stomach drops. Fuck. He cranes his neck, trying and failing to find her in one of the dim corners. “Please, no pictures,” he mumbles while he distractedly signs the fans’ tops. They take some anyway and he bites his lip in frustration. Eventually, he manages to slip away from them and rushes out the door before anyone else can accost him.

Cool night air brushes his face and arms as he frantically looks around. Penelope is nowhere to be seen. He wrestles his way into the undergrowth until he’s hidden from view, suddenly terrified that someone might follow him home. For the first time since he’s arrived he longs to be in the blacked-out backseat of a car that takes him far away from anyone treating him like an act at a freak show. But he fears even more for Penelope’s safety than his own. So he starts running, stumbling over roots and branches, his eyes scanning the road on his left. The few minutes to Aubrey Hall feel like a lifetime. When he finally arrives, panting from both the exercise and distress, Penelope is just about to punch in the code at the gate. She jumps at the sight of him, her chest heaving as well. “Christ, Pen, did you sprint the entire distance?” For a long moment she just blinks up at him. Then she abruptly turns away, enters the five digits and hurries through the gate. “I’d like to be alone, Colin.” “Pen, I’m sorry. Those women—“ “You don’t owe me an explanation. This kind of thing happens to you all the time, I get it.” “Yes, but that doesn’t—“ She wheels around and Colin nearly crashes into her. “I really need to be alone right now. Goodnight.” And with that Penelope leaves him behind in the darkness, reeling from the events of the past half hour. He can’t fathom how everything they have built over the past few weeks has fallen apart within the blink of an eye.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

CHAPTER 9

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[aladaylessecondblog]

Whore AU - Letter

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53198734/chapters/166225483

The next month or so was almost idyllic for Sadara compared to before, save for the blight storms she had to move through and lack of outsiders.

But she seemed to have a place here. The ash creatures were welcoming, and as for the Dagoth brothers--

They who had only had a chance at contact of any kind once per year could now expect an entire day's worth several times a month, and they were taking full advantage of it. The first time she returned to each of them they were...fervent, to say the least.

Vemyn had had her go about her day as if she lived at Vemynal and took her six or seven times over the period from the midday meal until late in the evening. Araynys had made half the day mocking her for selling herself out - and then spent the rest of it in aftercare and ensuring she felt like a treasure...

Despite his taste in sex he always made it worth it, in the end, as did Uthol and Voryn and all the rest.

Evil, the Temple had called them. Perhaps she had fallen under some spell - but the vast improvement in her life spoke for itself. Let them say what they would of her, she could content herself with all she'd gained.

It delighted the brothers to have someone to dedicate the day to their pleasure, however they wished to express it, and it delighted her to only have to cater to eight men instead of many.

Her trip to Kogoruhn, she'd looked forward to for some time, although she would have to do it with a number of little bruises on her neck and thighs that Voryn had left. Gilvoth joked that despite agreeing to share her he was likely doing it to show the rest of them proof that HE had been there.

"Lord Dagoth likes to mark what is his," he'd said on seeing them, "I suppose that was the result of seeing the tattoo?"

"He hasn't even seen it yet, or if he has he hasn't spoken about it." Sadara gave a slight laugh. "That's the funny part. He's just...eager to mark me, I suppose."

An understatement. The marks on her neck were surrounded by fading ones Voryn had left the second night she'd spent beside him. He'd been completely incomprehensible at the point it was nearly over, holding her and growling that she was his, his, and not being satisfied until she agreed.

It should have frightened her.

It didn't.

Perhaps it was the bit of Nerevar in her that felt safer nowhere else but there, swelled by the inklings of memory that appeared more and more the longer she stayed there at Dagoth Ur (the building). Perhaps it was just the pleasure of security.

"Tell me when you intend to show it to him, so that I may be sure to be as far away as possible."

She'd laughed and agreed with him.

The trip to Kogoruhn was only slightly unpleasant, and after getting a promise extracted to indulge Uthol afterwards, met with the smugglers that had been sent.

A few bolts of silk in varying colors (although the red one was her first choice), some more normal fabrics...and the jewelry. She'd always had an attraction to moonstone, and there were a few bits of jewelry she was pleased to be able to get. After that and a few crates of food she found one of the smugglers approaching her with a letter.

Stamped with the seal of the Tribunal Temple.

"They paid a lot to get this here."

"Huh..."

Sadara thanked the man, and as the smugglers were leaving opened and read it.

To Sadara,

I can only presume that the Dagoths are not allowing you to leave. Whatever suffering now endures can be terminated--

She heard footsteps, and looked up to see Uthol approaching.

"The Temple sent me a letter," she said, gesturing with it--figuring he'd want to see it.

"Is that so?"

She looked back to it.

Your case of corprus will only make you more vulnerable to their suggestions, and their torments. We will be able to devise a plan to retrieve you, but you must remain strong in the meantime. Your life may depend on it. Pray, and the blessed Three will preserve you.

The rest of it was along the same lines, and she burned it on the nearest torch.

"If I was going to listen to the temple, I would be a priestess and not what I am now," Sadara said. "Now...where will you have me?"

[nesiacha]

Correspondence between Gracchus Babeuf, his wife and his children (and also all the times where Marie-Anne Babeuf is mentioned)

"Warning: Sensitive souls should refrain: at one point, there will be a defamation of Gracchus brought by his political adversaries regarding cannibalism involving his daughter (completely false)."

Following the excellent question from @anotherhumaninthisworld , I will post the correspondence of Gracchus Babeuf, Marie-Anne Babeuf, and their children here, as well as all instances where Marie-Anne Babeuf is mentioned either in police reports or by her husband or another person who mentioned her (I have just found a few more mentions or letters about her).

Regarding what we know about Marie-Anne Babeuf, the theories about her, the remarks by Jean-Marc Schiappa on her , her three-week imprisonment under the Directory , the consequences of her arrest (which was done to try and force her to turn against her husband and reveal his whereabouts, as she was in constant contact with him), for more details, you can find them here:

https://www.tumblr.com/anotherhumaninthisworld/771852138839162880?source=share

About Marie-Anne Babeuf:

Gracchus Babeuf's opinion on the storming of the Bastille and the murder of Foulon. Letter he sent to his wife: https://www.tumblr.com/nesiacha/766775982269087744/gracchus-babeufs-opinion-on-the-storming-of-the?source=share

Some time after the assassination of Foulon, here is what Gracchus Babeuf, who was in an abysmal situation, writes. He is still writing to his wife. Now, the brief daily letters (in which they face political troubles and poverty): "If someone of us must suffer, I must start first. However, I hope that by tomorrow, I can get something for you. I am expecting ten écus from the sale of a small four-page brochure I made, which was printed yesterday and will be sold today... I am already almost sure of a job paying eight hundred francs, which will not occupy me more than two days a week." The brochure is an attack on Mirabeau, just as Marat attacked Mirabeau. Gracchus does the same.

September 1789 "This famous Corsican merchant an estimable young man whose life, at the age of 32, has already been marked by so many setbacks" (it seems that Babeuf is talking about Constantini mandated by Paoli)

On October 4, 1789, to his wife, Marie-Anne Babeuf: "I am used to the role of father. I feel that today, this is the first need of my existence, and that I could not live otherwise."

Paris, February 24, 1793: "...My children are crying because they have no bread! My dear friend (Marie-Anne Babeuf), try to stop them from dying, at least for a few more days." Later, Marie-Anne Babeuf pawned her modest property.

Gracchus about what he wrote to his wife in May 1793: "I have here as friends the most distinguished people in Paris: Chaumette, procurer of the Commune, Pache, mayor, Garin, municipal officer and general administrator of supplies, Robespierre, Sylvain Maréchal, editor of Les Révolutions de Paris, and many others. All these people give me the warmest welcome despite my shabby attire."

It is known that Babeuf participated in the insurrectional movement of June 2, 1793. On May 27, he wrote to his wife Marie-Anne: "Paris is once again in revolution; but don't worry about me; the sans-culottes always have the upper hand, and we hope to make a great leap forward this time toward the goal of holy equality."

In 1793 Gracchus Babeuf wrote to his wife with his usual humor, still with "fifteen francs and one hundred sols," making himself rich.

A letter from Marie-Anne Babeuf: On the 19th of Floréal in 1794: "Hello, my dear friend, I send you a shirt, a pair of stockings, a bonnet, a tie, trousers, a handkerchief, radishes, cheese." Your wife, Babeuf.

Another letter from Marie-Anne Babeuf to her husband: On June 5, 1794: "Be sure, my friend, that I will never abandon you, I will follow you everywhere."

Gracchus, who declared in Year III for women's equal participation in political clubs. By August 1794, this is how Gracchus described his wife (and his eldest son, Emile): "My wife and my son, aged 9, both as devoted and republican as their fathers and husbands, are committed to assisting me by all means. They make the same sacrifices. They are busy day and night at Guffroy, my printer's, folding, distributing, and shipping the newspaper. The house is abandoned. Two other young children (probably Camille, the son, and Sophie, their daughter, who died of malnutrition before), one only three years old, are left locked up alone during the day for a month. No more kitchen at home; we lived during the time the paper lasted on bread, grapes, and nuts."

After this, everyone knows that there will be a break with Guffroy, as Gracchus will accuse him of stealing. Later, he wrote in the 27th issue of his newspaper, "Guffroy is shamelessly stealing from me. He collects all the fruit of my labor. My first issues were printed in two editions, he sold a lot, received all the revenue, received all the subscriptions, and I never saw a penny."

In a postscript confirming the break between Guffroy and Babeuf, Guffroy mentions Marie-Anne Babeuf: "The previous issues are our joint property. However, your wife (Marie-Anne) took some despite my wish. Everything will belong to you if you pay me for the printing."

Babeuf will later write, "Guffroy, my printer, stopped the printing of number 26 yesterday, he also stopped its sale, seized about thirty thousand copies of all my issues, kicked my wife and son out, and announced that he would denounce me to the Committee of General Security."

Following this breakup, Gracchus Babeuf will turn to Marat's family, more specifically his sister Albertine Marat, as you may have seen in the post here, where she published a letter against Fréron that Gracchus Babeuf also published: https://www.tumblr.com/nesiacha/767708756031176704/i-am-so-exhausted-that-i-only-now-realize-that-i?source=share (which is not surprising, as Gracchus always deeply admired Marat despite occasionally harsh critiques of the journalist from L'Ami du Peuple).

A mention of Marie-Anne Babeuf protecting her husband Gracchus from another arrest. Here's the report: "Naftel had gone to Babeuf's home, on the Champs-Elysées, where he found the wife and children of the journalist; but his wife told him that she didn’t know where her husband was; at least that's what Naftel reported, because a month later, Naftel's colleagues in the police insinuated that not only had he not rushed to search for Babeuf, but that he might have warned him of his impending visit to the Champs-Elysées to give him time to hide." Indeed, paradoxically, if Babeuf is a victim of persecution, he has a certain popularity among certain popular groups who protect him and this includes Naftel according to Jean Marc Schiappa. Even when pursued by the police, Babeuf devised some tricks to protect himself from the police, as he described in issue 36 of Tribun du peuple, which he calls the principle of "resistance to oppression." He says that when he is stopped by the crowd, all he has to do is say his name for them to let him pass (one day I will have to make a detailed post about this).

On July 14, 1796, Babeuf is once again arrested, and this time he knows it's the end. He leaves a letter to Felix Le Peletier, his lifelong friend. He mentions his wife once again: "His will and final recommendation (…) I leave two children and a wife (Marie-Anne Babeuf must have been two months pregnant with their son Caius); and I leave them without a penny, without means of supporting themselves from now on." He wants his wife to obtain a small business so she can feed their children (this will be done as she becomes a toilet merchant, likely due to Felix Le Peletier, who was the protector of the Babeuf family, perhaps Réal or even Turreau who helped her).

He ends this letter by mentioning his wife: "When my body returns to the earth, nothing will remain of me but a large number of projects, notes, and drafts of revolutionary writings, all consistent with the vast goal, the completely philanthropic system for which I die. My wife will be able to gather them all, and one day, when the persecution subsides, when all the good men can breathe freely enough to place flowers on our grave, when people will once again consider ways to show humanity the happiness we proposed to it, you will be able to search these scraps and present to all the disciples of Equality, to those of our friends who keep our principles in their hearts; you will present, I say, for the benefit of my memory, the mixed collection of various fragments contained in all that the corrupt of today call my dreams."

When Marie-Anne Babeuf had to walk while pregnant, as I mentioned earlier, with her son Emile.

A letter from Babeuf to his wife and son, dated September 5, 1796. A letter to Marie-Anne Babeuf and Emile, dated from Vendôme, 19 Fructidor, Year IV (September 5, 1796). We reproduce the A.S. excerpts as given by the anonymous writer of the catalog: "How did you come, my good friends? Probably on foot, and you must be very tired. Are you not sick? Did you find decent lodging here? Satisfy me on all these things that worry me, while I wait for you to tell me everything, even the smallest details of your food, the day when I can enjoy the pleasure I’ve been deprived of for so long, that of embracing you, speaking to you, seeing you... That will be when we finish building a parlor... However, this indefinite delay still saddens me. It has been so long since I saw you! You deserve, on so many levels, my concern and love!... Good mother, good child, what should I not do to speed up, if possible, the moment I can hold you in my arms. I will write... to the Municipality to urge them to speed up our meeting... What could you have done with my Camille! The poor dear child! Is he the only one who could not follow his tender father... Surely he has cried for me, surely he will cry. His young soul, soaked with the sweetest sensitivity, has long known the nature of tender affections. Why is he so young, so weak? He would have accompanied me, and then you would have been in Gracchus’ terrible circumstances... I will tell you too much now... We were reasonably on the road. We spent only one night in prison, and it was in Rambouillet. We spent nothing of our own and were well treated everywhere. We are the same here. We had soup and boiled food at noon, a vegetable dish; in the evening, another good dish... a bottle of wine a day... Goodbye, my good friends."

Here is a letter of escape attempt from Babeuf to his wife: "There is only one guard in the small courtyard at the end; we must win him over, and we will take him with us to Paris. He will be received as the liberator of the friends of the people. He must come from six to eight in the evening. We will leave through the house you know. For the first signal, the liberator must whistle the victory song at noon or later that day, and in the evening, at the desired moment, he will strike the ground three times successively with the butt of his rifle. Answer me as we agreed, citoyenne." Which could explain why Gracchus was in favor of Marie-Anne Babeuf making the journey pregnant on foot when she was due to give birth soon. He was counting on her to help him with an escape plan.

When he was imprisoned for the last time, which would lead to his execution, he sent a letter to his wife. A prison letter from Babeuf (1764-1797) to his wife, written on the back of an address sheet by his wife: "To Citizen my Babeuf." "I received the linen you sent me. I also send you 4 ½ loaves of bread, a bottle of wine, and some meat. I kiss you with all my heart." He adds in a postscript: "You didn’t give me any news about the timing of my defense. Will I have it tomorrow? It would be very unfortunate if I don’t."

Another letter from Gracchus Babeuf to Marie-Anne Babeuf (I assume she is the recipient) Vendôme, 4 Pluviôse Year V.

"One must resign oneself to everything, my dear friend. There is nothing left, I hope, to fear now; we must give those who torment us some time, at least, to allow some new refinement to present itself to their inventive genius. The first constantly happy man is truly me. At the slightest sign of internal turmoil, and regardless of the silence that almost always keeps my mouth shut, the oppression that strikes the inside never escapes me. How are you? Is the liberating moment, the moment of deliverance, approaching soon? After that, my little unfortunate one, what will become of you? My soul, every day, runs and wanders through a thousand worries for you; comfort it. In the morning, in the evening, write to me. As you say, we will manage to bear these sufferings along with so many others. Tomorrow noon, you must present yourself here. I don’t think they will turn you away, unless they truly have no more entrails. After the storm comes calm, and no more Aquilon will whistle... winning men to reason, to justice, or at least to seem to have reason, we find this difficult, we are reduced to this. Will we win in the end? Will we determine this victory? With perseverance, I am by no means completely desperate. By devoting ourselves to principles, to liberty, singing... out loud and persistently all the civic virtues that [Rome and modern Paris have seen blossom, in the first degree. Tell me, was there anything other than pure motives that guided us [last night]? Could it be possible, could it even be conceivable, I said upon receiving your letter and reading it, that in this moment... as in the time of Sylla, we were reduced to waiting for the moment desired, when despotism will drag, strike... Liberator of men! ... Shall I finish? Yes... it will strike whole families, hurling, overturning, here and there... friends, wives and husbands, fathers and children. What a land. Courage, though. It is essential that you, me, and your son, all three, have it. People, your enemy can try once more, but this time it will perish. What have all its successive conquests been? It will have to, as the Picard says, fall into the ditch and its dog with it—how false is the path where its imagination strays. Pride swells it, ambition finishes blinding it. Emile plays croquet now and then, I was told; he has been seen more than six times. Why doesn't he stick to his little violin, which has such a beautiful sound? With this amusement, he can combine exercise with his little rifle; eight or ten days will make him tired of each toy. I say the opposite: if I were near him, he would work with me morning and evening, I would direct his activities. Instead, by... one flatters oneself in vain... Why think of the impossible? Let’s leave it at that. Would I depart from these ideas if I forgot my situation? This Citizen, by whom you are solicited, is undoubtedly still taking great care of you* As the description you made of it pleased me. Let us console ourselves... A friend's house is still open to us**; let us congratulate ourselves that there are even more unfortunate people to be pitied than we are. You will write to me and give me news often, as agreed. Don’t you know that nothing gives me more pleasure.

“I embrace you. G. Babeuf."

*According to Bouis, the citizen in question is the wife of the revolutionary Hésine. He was a fervent supporter of Gracchus, defending him in his journal and providing lodging for the Babeuf family during Gracchus's last trial that led to his execution. Hésine almost paid for this fervent support by being threatened with deportation (a sentence that was later overturned)."

**House of the Hésine. Hesine was fervent supporter of Gracchus who defended him in his journal and almost paid for it with his deportation."

Here is the last letter of Gracchus Babeuf to his family. He leaves Marie-Anne Babeuf with the task of keeping certain documents, including the defenses he used:

Link to last letter of Babeuf before his execution

He also mentions his wife and children to Felix Le Peletier in his last farewell letter to him:

Link to letter from Babeuf to Felix Le Peletier

Now, here are some excerpts from the correspondence of Gracchus Babeuf and his children, where he mentions them each time:

Gracchus loved his children. Once, while in prison, he woke up in tears, thinking his son was ill, for example. What is tragic is that often his children would share in these dramatic moments, such as when Emile witnessed one of his father’s many arrests and his subsequent imprisonment in Arras.

To his eldest daughter, Catherine-Sophie, born in 1783 (some would falsely accuse Marie-Anne Babeuf of being an adulterous wife and claim Gracchus was not Sophie’s father according to Jean -Marc Schiappa), he adored his daughter and had great ambitions for her. He was attentive to her and said of her, "because I was continually occupied with you." Unfortunately, the little girl was severely scalded in July 1787 on her hips due to an accident and died in November 1787, devastating her father to the point of losing his sanity (and surely her mother as well, though there is no written record of it). Gracchus would have been slandered by his political opponents, according to Jean-Marc Schiappa, who wrongly accused him of having eaten part of his deceased daughter’s heart. So, it was Robert, the next child, renamed Emile, who would take part in the French Revolution in place of this deceased older sister, although Gracchus loved all his children. It is interesting to note that Gracchus had endured a harsh upbringing from his father. He says of his unhappy childhood, since he lived in poverty, and most of his brothers and sisters died young: "Education cost my shoulders dearly," he writes, "for to teach me what they did not know, they did so very roughly, and I clearly remember the soldier-like tone and the terribly blunt gestures with which they—I will not say brutalized and repelled, but atrociously tortured my childhood." Gracchus took a gentler approach with his own children, even though he didn’t hesitate to reprimand them when they acted independently.

Here is what Gracchus wrote to his son Emile on Sunday, October 4, 1789: "I was very pleased with my son’s letter: he still remembers all the nice names we used to call each other: My ragamuffin, my little rogue, my comrade, my devilish ragamuffin, my little fellow, my friend. I speak of this as if I had left him ten years ago. Time seems so long when you're far from those you love... I have become accustomed to the role of father; I feel that today it is the primary need of my existence, and that I could not live in any other way."

Another letter on May 7, 1790, to Emile Babeuf: "Hello, my dear child, hello, my little comrade, my brother, my dear Robert, I write to you from St-Quentin, where I bought you a cane, a very nice one, you hear: oh yes, really a pretty little cane, it’s a St-Quentin cane, that one, you’ll lend it to me, won’t you? I bought it for both of us, you see. Oh! if you knew how beautiful it is, here, this is how it’s made, look: yes, that’s exactly how it is, just like that; isn’t it nice? Oh, ragamuffin, you will be so happy to walk with it, to play with it at home with your little sister, you’ll give her the cane, sometimes for a little while; oh! surely poor little one; and then always you will lend it to me too. I am well, you see [?] and you, don’t you have the smallpox? Goodbye, don’t be sick, tell your mom that I kiss her and your little sister too. I am your ragamuffin of a father."

On February 24, 1793, when Gracchus was alone in misery due to the "faux" affair involving his children: "I owe my existence to my children, to the obligation imposed on me to raise them, and to yield to the unrelenting persecution I’ve endured for so long."

Gracchus often displayed pedagogical skills for Emile Babeuf, but also humor, such as when he plagiarized Le Père Duchesne while writing to his son.

In 1795, Emile wrote to his father in prison: "It’s not the generosity of your friends that keeps us alive." It seems clear that Emile was referring to Fouché, and later, Gracchus Babeuf would write an article about him, as you can see here: Link to article excerpt. (I will delve deeper into the relationship between Fouché and Gracchus Babeuf in a subsequent post, especially when Fouché tried to corrupt Gracchus, probably on Barras' orders, during a two-hour interview in the presence of Babeuf’s ally, Antonelle. Babeuf refused to have any dealings with him thereafter, as did surely Antonelle, who saw through Fouché’s scheme. It will be interesting to explore how Barras and Fouché may have played a role in the downfall of the Conspiracy of Equals and Babeuf’s downfall as well.)

The same year, Sophie, the Babeuf couple’s daughter, left alone at home (probably due to her mother’s political clandestine activities, in addition to constantly finding food for her children and Emile, who was always making arrangements), suffered from malnutrition due to the family’s poverty. According to Jean-Marc Schiappa, she was so hungry that she ate "an entire pot of potatoes, almost suffocating herself and died on the 18th of Messidor Year III after two months of terrible convulsions." It was Emile who had to break the news to his father, which confirms my theory that Marie-Anne Babeuf continued her husband's clandestine activities (because otherwise she would have told the news to her husband in person) . Gracchus fell into deep despair. He would later write in Vendôme about this period: "Had I a cold soul incapable of being moved by the sight of public suffering, I was personally paid to curse most heartily the dreadful famine and all the miseries of Year III. Banished to the prison of Arras at the end of Year II and the beginning of Year III for my writings, in which I had most forcefully condemned the crimes of the reaction, I had left my wife and three unfortunate children without help, in the most miserable distress. From the depths of my sort of exile, I learned that these dearly loved children, objects of my tender affection, were suffering, perishing like so many others, amid the agonies of this horrific famine caused by the populicide Boissy d'Anglas. I had a seven-year-old daughter; I soon received the heartbreaking news that she had died due to the murderous reduction of two ounces of bread. When I saw my other two children in Fructidor, I found them so exhausted that they were unrecognizable to me. This scene that I saw in my own family, I saw reproduced in a hundred thousand others around it."

However, while the overall problems that Babeuf faced and the terrible trials he endured are true, the date when he allegedly saw his children again doesn’t seem accurate, as he only saw them again in Vendémiaire. Jean-Marc Schiappa hypothesizes that Babeuf deliberately reversed the dates to better connect the Conspiracy to the famine issues and downplay the political question for a better defense.

In 1797, during the Vendôme trial, this is what Gracchus Babeuf said about his son Emile and the violin: "Emile plays... why doesn't he stick to his little violin? With this pastime, he can combine exercise; eight or ten days will tire him of each toy. If I were near him, he would work with me, morning and evening, I would direct his activities."

At one point, the accusation sought to slander the Babouvists by accusing Gracchus and his comrades of attempting to restore the monarchy based on a seemingly innocent remark by Emile, who had sent two lines of admiration to his father, calling him "Gracchus I." Gracchus, angry, pointed out in court that it was Emile, 12 years old, who had written that.

In his final prison stay, Gracchus saw his children (the newborn Caius and Emile, but Camille did not make the trip) and his wife when they walked on a nearby hill. Gracchus Babeuf continued to watch over their education, providing care and advice. At one point, the parents considered having Emile join his father in prison under suitable conditions but abandoned the idea due to too many problems.

Jean-Marc Schiappa agrees with the theory that it was Emile Babeuf who gave the dagger that led his father to attempt suicide with Darthé. He presents some evidence, especially since Emile, despite his young age, was already involved in politics with his father, such as acting as a press carrier and helping relay correspondence between Drouet and his father during the time of the Conspiracy, much like his mother, Marie-Anne Babeuf, who contacted others on her husband’s behalf when he was in hiding, acting as a liaison between him and his correspondents, or helping him escape, protect him, and get him the essential items he needed. Some others suggest that it was Darthé and Babeuf who sharpened the blade during their suicide attempt.

Buonarroti and Charles Germain obtained permission to visit Darthé and Babeuf before their executions. Buonarroti said that Gracchus' final words were for his children.

Here is a part of the correspondence of Marie-Anne Babeuf, sometimes illegible, in this link: link. ( moreover this site seems to be interesting but for the moment I am beginning to discover it so I can’t said if this website is good or not)

In this link on Gracchus Babeuf and education you will find passages on his son Emile and his relationship with him (I was not able to explore everything thank you very much my computer which is constantly bugging)https://www.jstor.org/stable/41925472

P.S.: It's true that following the comment by @anotherhumaninthisworld, it is possible that Marie-Anne Babeuf, in addition to meeting (which is certain) Albertine Marat, likely Simone Evrard, Joseph Fouché, the revolutionaries of the Conspiracy of Equals (in her role as her husband’s "political right hand"), and perhaps even Maurice Duplay, Eleonore Duplay, and Elisabeth Le Bas, may have met Charlotte Robespierre during the time when she and her husband ( Gracchus) were working for Guffroy. It just goes to show how small the world was in Paris.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Alpha, Beta (& Omega)"

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1619

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, nobility/royalty au, alternate history, dom/sub elements, beta bucky, hurt/comfort, age gap, domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, wedding night, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

To read the previous parts of this series first, go to the masterlist

3. A Wedding Eve's Dinner

This Chapter: "Starting tomorrow, we will be married. You'll be my Second, a Spouse of House Rogers. My House." The firm way he says it makes Bucky's pulse flutter and Steve gives him a meaningful nod. "I’ll be your Headship, Bucky. You need to find a way to accept that.”

Bucky starts at least four letters to Steve in the following days.

The little writing desk in his room becomes littered with scratched out, wasted sheets of paper. Nothing he writes seems right, and he gives up each time after only a handful of sentences.

He can’t take Steve up on his offer to cancel, tempting as it is. Bucky’s mother and sisters won’t have anything if he backs out of the engagement now. He has to go through with it.

He spends the next eight days vacillating between feeling numb, and being extremely annoyed. Everyone flits about excitedly, acting as if this is a happy occasion instead of the desperate, rushed affair that it is. Bucky’s mother talks about the small service they’ll be having as if it’s so chic that they’re bucking the trend of the big, public wedding, but Bucky knows the truth: There simply isn’t time to invite all of society to their nuptials. Invitations of necessity have been sent by post and by telegram. There’ll be less than fifty guests.

And they have a dinner on the night before the wedding. Bucky’s family hosts (his father awkwardly absent). Steven Grant Rogers and his omega and beta fathers come over and participate in stilted conversation over the Barnes’ large mahogany dining table. Bucky sits despondently and traces the grain of the wood with a finger, thinking that it’s because of his sacrifice that his family won’t have to sell off furniture like the dining table, move out of their fine house and dismiss the household staff. The dowry that’s been decided on more than covers the Barnes’ expenses. They might have to live a bit more frugally, but not by much.

Bucky’s mother and sisters are trying to keep the conversation going over the table. Steve’s omega father talks more than his beta father. He’s a small, polite man who answers Winnie’s questions and speaks about his and his husband’s late wife with fondness. The servants bring in small courses frequently, which helps as it gives everybody a chance to keep commenting on the food rather than anything important.

But eventually the moment comes when one of Bucky’s sisters is annoying enough to say something of consequence. “Where will you honeymoon?” Becca asks, and god but Bucky could kick her. He glares at her, even as he feels his face heat at the thought of a honeymoon with Steve. Nervously, he peeks up at Steve to see what he’ll say.

Steve clears his throat, dabbing at his mouth politely with his napkin before saying, “I hadn’t considered it, I suppose.”

Bucky snorts, and Steve shoots him a little frown. “Perhaps your brother has an opinion,” he says. “Bucky?”

Bucky’s eyes widen, surprised. Steve hasn’t called him anything other than James, until now. “What?” he mumbles.

“Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go for our, um, honeymoon?” Steve looks a bit flustered at mentioning the word. “Any place you’d like to see?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.” He picks at his food. “No.”

Winnifred makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh! But Bucky, what about all the places you used to mark on that map up in your room?” She looks smilingly at Steve and his fathers and tells them, “He used to circle so many places in pen, I swear. Destroyed all the almanacs in the library doing it, too!”

Everyone laughs and Bucky grits his teeth. “It doesn’t matter, mother,” he hisses, wanting the conversation to stop. “Those were goals. It’s in the past.”

Everyone sobers at that, the air in the room growing thick with tension. Steve clears his throat and says to Bucky, “We can still travel, if you’d like. I’d love to see new places with you.”

Bucky’s eyes shoot up and he scowls. He stands from the table, the legs of his dining chair scraping against the carpet as it gets shoved back. “No,” he says. “The point was that I’d do it myself, and that’s impossible now, so no thank you.” He stalks from the room, hearing the unpleasant silence he leaves behind, before his mother starts making embarrassed apologies for his behavior.

Bucky hides in the library after that. It’s always been his father’s domain, but now with him gone, nobody really goes in there save for the servants when they clean. Bucky sits in one of the leather armchairs and tries to make out what everyone is doing in the other rooms. They finish dinner and retire to the front parlor, Bucky can tell from the muted footsteps and voices. The clink of China eventually picks back up, and he imagines that they’re having coffee, that in maybe an hour or a little less, the Rogers will leave and Bucky’s mother will hunt him down to scold him for his behavior.

Bucky huffs at the thought and considers that maybe he should sneak up to his room and lock himself in before that can happen. He’s about to do just that, when a soft knock comes at the library’s door, and then it’s swinging open. Bucky’s lips part when he sees that it’s Steve who’s coming in.

He’s alone, too. He closes the door and walks over, nodding at the armchair across from Bucky’s. “May I sit?”

Bucky looks away. “Sure.” Steve sits down. Bucky tries not to look at him, but Steve sits there for so long, not saying anything and obviously staring, that Bucky eventually has to acknowledge him. “What?” he asks rudely. “What do you want? Why did you come in here?”

Steve’s face, damn him, is calm. “I wanted to speak with you in private,” he says.

“About what?”

Steve sighs, rubbing his hands over the arms of his chair. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe about how you’re doing?”

Bucky scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you don’t seem like it,” Steve says, and his tone is firm. “You’re just as pissy as you were that morning at the hotel.”

Bucky glares at him. “Fuck off, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes go dark. “Don’t curse at me,” he says. “You can be as mad as you want but I won’t tolerate your disrespect when I haven’t done anything to you.”

Oh, that makes Bucky’s guts lurch with guilt. He tries to push the feeling away with yet more anger. “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t have to listen to you. We’re not married yet.”

“No, we’re not,” Steve says. “You haven’t decided against it, I’m assuming, since you haven’t written me.”

Bucky shakes his head the barest degree, unable to deny it. “No. I haven't.”

“Okay then. I just wanted to check. You’re right that you don’t have to listen to me right now. We’re not married yet."

"Exactly."

"But starting tomorrow, we will be. You'll be my Second, a Spouse of House Rogers, my House." The firm way he says it makes Bucky's pulse flutter oddly. Steve gives him a meaningful little nod. "I’ll be your Headship, Bucky. You need to find a way to accept that.”

Bucky wants so badly to curse Steve out for that, even though it’s just a simple fact that he’s stating. Alphas are heads of households, omegas are caretakers, and betas are … well, they’re a lot of things, but Bucky never counted on having to figure it out for himself until much, much later in life. He looks at Steve. “Why do you want to marry me?” he asks.

Until now, he hasn’t once considered it. He’s been too wrapped-up in being furious to wonder why Steve isn't chasing after some ripe young omega instead. That’s how it’s usually done, after all. Alphas take what they really want first: young and fresh omegas, out of school and ready for marriage. Betas are taken later, as an afterthought, a duty, or even just as mere formality to complete the marriage. Beta men especially, useless as they are for childbearing, are often left alone until well into their thirties. Bucky's expectations for his own life trajectory have only ever been based in that reality.

Frowning, he asks again, "Why me? Why not some omega first, huh?”

Steve seems taken-aback by the question, but he thinks about it, and then says, “I’ve never met an omega—or a beta for that matter—whom I’ve wanted to court.” He shrugs concededly. “Given, I’ve never been overly-social, always wrapped up in my work. But I’ve always wanted to get married and have a family eventually. I wasn’t actively seeking out an engagement when your mother wrote to me, but I felt moved by her letter. She spoke so warmly of you. We started a correspondence—”

“Behind my back,” Bucky interrupts.

“—and that correspondence led me to think that it would be the right thing to do, to make the offer,” Steve finishes.

“So you’re marrying me because it’s ‘the right thing to do’?” Bucky scoffs. “Stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Bucky,” Steve says firmly, his stern tone getting Bucky to pay attention. “You’re young but you’re of age. And you’re smart, and good-looking as well.” He smirks. “But from what I’ve heard, you’re well-aware of that.”

Bucky stiffens in his chair. “I don't—”

“Let's be honest," Steve interrupts. "Anyone I’d marry going forward wouldn’t be any better acquainted than you. The both of us know that these matters are usually arranged. So I’ve no objection to it, especially if we can be friends and learn to enjoy each other’s company—which your mother's letters led me to believe we might.”

Bucky squirms, embarrassed. "Has she told you about the accident, then? About me?" When Steve's gaze grows cautious and flicks to Bucky's left side, he's got his answer. "I see."

"She only told me that you were injured," Steve says softly. "I got the sense that she wanted to leave the rest for you to tell me, in your own time."

Bucky absolutely despises the tender way that Steve's looking at him, now. It pisses him off. "I have scars," he blurts, wanting to make Steve dislike him, or to at least ellicit some degree of displeasure from the man. "Bad ones. All along my side. It's really quite heinous."

"I'm sure it isn't."

"You don't know anything about me!" Bucky snaps. "Did she tell you I'm a cripple?"

Steve draws up straighter in his chair, displeased, but not in the way that Bucky was aiming for. "That's enough, Bucky," he says quietly. "You're not going to drive me away. You can still back out of this marriage, but be an adult and say something, if that's what you want." A long, fraught moment passes between them, neither one of them willing to bend. Bucky angrily averts his eyes, and hears Steve's quiet hum. "Who would you have instead, if not me?” he prods.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something nasty, or at the very least blithe, but finds that he can’t come up with an answer. He huffs, frustrated at not being able to argue the point any further. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Just … I hate that I have to do this.”

“Do you hate me?”

Bucky looks at him sharply. “I … no.” Fuck, but he wants to. “I guess not.”

Steve nods. “Then stop acting like it. I’d like to get started on the right footing with you Bucky. I’ve offered you an out and you don’t want it, so let’s both agree to try our best, okay?” He’s looking at him earnestly, which is honestly more than Bucky deserves.

Bucky feels tired and like he doesn’t know what the hell to do anymore. He wants to vent his anger, but Steve is making it damned difficult to have a convenient target. Sighing, he stands up and heads for the room's door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Steve,” he mumbles, leaving before his husband-to-be can say anything else.

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[hoursofreading]

Last week G found a parakeet - blue blue - crumpled but alive outside his workplace. Someone had dumped it when they moved out of their apartment. This is selfish and sad, but the truly sad thing was that G’s co-workers said oh yes, it’s been there for over a week. The bird had been there, hunkered under a bush by the door, for eight days and no one had done anything about it. G called a bird rescue. He texted me his frustration with the state of humanity, his co-workers in particular. The bird rescue coached him through the capture of the bird: throw a towel over it, yes that shirt will do, then cup it in hand beginning from above, with a gentleness. The poor thing couldn’t lift its head when he spoke to it, but rolled its eye. Under the towel, the bird backed into the warmth of his chest. Can I have it? I texted and he shot back are you serious? And why not bring it home, let her live in my office? She had become she, not “it”; even if I was wrong and he was a he, it was now personal, a bird hood. We could sing together in the mornings and she could help me survive the winter. Why not? We waited. The man from the bird rescue told us she died in the night. I had not once prior to this thought I ought to have a bird. I had no reason to think so. I had reason not to think so: I am a dog person; within the strict limitations in which I am able to care for anything, it must provide cuddles and deep brown eyes and follow me around. After we discussed adopting the bird and she died, we wondered if we were so moved by the parakeet’s peril should we not, perhaps, do what we can, even if we could not save this one bird? The rescue place leaned into this and sent us dozens of pictures and profiles of adoptable birds. This horrible tensioning: one cannot save all the birds, so what should one do in this human life? But perhaps we should not be concerned about the birds: there are sad humans to consider. And oceans. And neighborhoods. And trees. But perhaps, perhaps if we can save one bird and do not choose to save her, we are bad people? Ultimately, we didn’t adopt anything. The truth, flittering under these 48 hours of birdy google searches and strange conversations we’d never felt a need to have before, was that both of us were touched to the quick by the greed and selfishness and indifference of people, in lived actual ways that brought up questions about our current circumstances. And the poor parakeet, dead now, perhaps in a handkerchief, a shoebox, a Kleenex, was merely a catalyst. A symbol. A sign. I want to love, I said. Let’s go eat, he said, which is often how we love. And we were all soft and whispery as we chewed and passed the condiments. Something was there that hadn’t been there. Something cathartic - I want the adjective for something that has been cathartasized - oozed in the air. That’s one effect of catharsis: a soporific ooziness.

[rmelster]

INTROITUS: THE FAREWELL OF A DAUGHTER, 1444.

Many years later, Isabelle would recall the only occasion she had seen her mother weep. It happened a forgotten day of the year 1444, and the memory of her tears would follow her to the grave that she untimely came to rest in.

That fateful night, she was eight years of age and her heart was heavy with anguish as she restlessly laid on her bed; her beloved sister, Marie, had been wed to Jean, the young Duke of Calabria, and parted with him to his domains, leaving a void where she had once been that Isabelle felt like a grievous wound. Even at that young age, the little girl knew what it meant: Her sister would never see Bourbonnais again.

The betrothal and wedding had been result of the Duchess of Bourbon’s cunning. Seven years had passed since she had offered the hand of her firstborn daughter to the heir of the Duchess of Calabria; seven years until both the bride and the bridegroom grew to an agreeable age to be wed. Isabelle had never thought that a wedding would occur; but it did. The bride was fifteen and, dressed in a heavy dress of golden cloth and a cloak ribbed with marten, she proved the fairest of all the daughters of Bourbon; the feast, the merriment, the dances… It had all all passed like a hazy dream, until Marie had came to kiss all her siblings goodbye.

When it came time for her to bid farewell, Isabelle had pulled her sister into an embrace; her eyes were full of tears.

“Promise me that you won’t forget us.”

A sad smile curved the lips of the now Duchess of Calabria: “I promise” she had said, pinning in her hair one of the flowers of the wedding, as red as the blood of a dragon, “And hereby I make the oath that, if it is in me, my first daughter shall have your name.”

And, just as she had been by her side for years, she left.

That night, Isabelle couldn’t sleep. Dream refused to free her from the sorrows of the vigil and, after what seemed like centuries, she decided not to wait, She had slipped off the bed, light like a young bird, wrapped in her nightshirt, tiptoeing out of her bedchamber, careful not to awake her maid.

The little Isabelle found his mother in a chamber, far from her own. She wandered through the solitary halls of the castle, looking for her mother. Duchess Agnès was, together with the guards, the first in rising from bed, and the last to return to the bedchamber for the night; in light nights like those, one could see her dwelling in a empty chamber, reading her precious book of prayers, making arrangements and reading letters, or silently embroidering near the fire; she was the image of virtue and dedication, of what a duchess had to be.

She still wore the beautiful gray gown ribbed in ermine fur and embroidered in silver thread that she had worn during the ceremony, but her necklace was resting over the table, and she had made her old maid disassemble the complicated veiled headdress that she used to wear, her long, flowing auburn mane falling gloomily on her back. At her feet, a little black-wooled lap dog slept soundly. Her white hands, those hands that Marie had too, with thin and agile fingers, were eagerly embroidering a delicate piece of tapestry.

"What death doesn't take away from me, a man will do," she heard her murmur.

Her father entered the room, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers; he no longer could be considered a young man, for his black hair was now stricken with silver, and wrinkles had made their nest around his raven eyes, but he still presented himself formidable like an oak and healthy as a man younger that his years. The shadow of concern veiled his ruddy face as he inched closer to the women with whom he had shared his life.

"My lady” he said, “The hour is late, and the day has been long. Thou must return to the bedchamber.”

The duchess denied.

“The Duke of Burgundy has sent a herald to Bourbonnais today. He says that his wife is looking for girls and maidens of serving age, so that she can foster them in their court. I have to send our Isabelle; I am aware that doing so, I am giving her so many opportunities and yet...”

A long, woeful silence followed; Isabelle tiptoed closer and pressed her cheek against the wall, her heart fast with inquiry. Even though she had never met him, she knew who her noble mother alluded; Philippe, the Duke of Burgundy, who the duchess’ brother, and the master of one of the wealthiest courts in Europe; fair and wise like none other, it was no surprise that his courtiers, from the Burgundian France to the Netherlands, had given him the name le Bon, “the Good”. His duchess, Isabel de Portugal, was also very known among their subjects, for she was not only a capable lady, but a famed matchmaker; any lady that came to her court and earned her favour could expect to be married to the best eligible prospect, from counts to rich merchants, and even kings and emperors.

That was a great opportunity, indeed; but the Duchess of Bourbon looked as if grief and exhaustion were breaking her will.

"I'm exhausted, Charles” she had finally said, and Isabelle had flinched; never had she heard her mother call her father’s name, not even once, “I feel like my strength is failing. I have handed over a very young daughter, and now I hand over another, knowing that she will never be mine anymore, that once de comes to Burgundy…”

The orderly Duchess Agnès, daughter, wife and mother of dukes, who had given birth to ten children of Bourbon in twenty years, and that was with child for the eleventh time; she, who had kept the estate when the duke had sunk in sorrow after the untimely death of their beloved son Philip, who had kept her head high when the constant disagreements of her lord husband with the king had despoiled them of lands and honours that had belonged to their lineage since centuries; she, who was the pillar where the family relied, she collapsed on the duke’s arms.

Troubled, the duke had held his weeping wife between his arms, and pressed in her brow a kiss so light it would had flown with the nightly breeze.

"Here, my lady, thou must not weep" he had cooed, “If thou cannot keep your courage, then I shall give thee mine. Our Isabelle shall be in her court, and we shall visit her as often as we can; we won’t lose her, my lady. We won’t lose any.”

Before Isabelle could even stomach what she was hearing, someone grasped her arm; her maid, Bonne, looked at her with a weary face, as of she was fresh from slumber.

“What are you doing out of bed so late, petite?” she inquired in a whisper, a soft note of concern in her voice. Isabelle looked down.

“I got lost” she lied. Her Bonne seemed not to believe her, but she decided not to disturb her masters with complaints at their young daughter’s behaviour, for she read the sadness in her eyes; instead, she raised in her robust arms, and carried her back to bed.

At last, Isabelle de Bourbon rested.

@lordbettany / @catherinemybeloved / @ricardian-werewolf

[scotianostra]

December 7th 1545 saw the birth of Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.

Well maybe, it's another of those uncertain dates, or the year anyway, the date is uncertain as his parents were not together in early 1545 and a letter of March 1566, from Mary Queen of Scots, indicates Darnley was then nineteen years old. Therefore the date 1546 would seem probable

Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley was born in Temple Newsham in the West Riding of Yorkshire in 1545, the son of Matthew Stewart, Earl of Lennox and his wife Margaret (née Douglas). Brought up a Roman Catholic, he had a claim to the thrones of both England and Scotland through his parents.

Matthew had been third in line to the Scottish throne, however, following him siding with the English during the Rough Wooing.

He received a very good education, and in 1559 he was sent to the French court where his cousin Mary, Queen of Scots was Queen Consort, I can find no evidence that they had any dealings in France, although they must have met at some point, it shows you the small circle of European Royalty as James Hepburn her third husband had also been in France around the same time.

Sadly, as I posted the other day Mary's time in France was coming to an end as her husband died and she returned to the Scottish Court. Some five years later in mid-February 1565, Henry was presented to Mary at Wemyss Castle. Contemporary accounts detail Mary’s pleasure at the sight of Henry, and they were married that July in Mary’s private chapel in Holyrood. However, he was leaning towards Protestantism in his faith and did not accompany his wife to Mass after the wedding.

So what did she see in Darnley? Well Darnley was said to be very handsome. He was over 6ft tall, which would have been highly unusual for the 16th century, this would have suited Mary, as she was almost 6ft tall herself. He was seen as the 'lustiest and best proportioned man' that Mary Queen of Scots had ever seen.

After the wedding, Mary soon saw a different side to Henry, one that was disruptive at court sometimes due to drinking. Though the Scottish Parliament had consented to the couple ruling together, Mary would not give Henry the right of Crown Matrimonial, so in the event of her death, he would continue to rule solely as King. In addition to his displeasure over this, Henry also did not like the attention paid to his wife by her private secretary, David Rizzio. Mary had become pregnant, and there was little question of who the father may be.

Seven months into the pregnancy, Rizzio was knifed and killed in front of Mary, by confederates of Henry who then fled to England, though Henry protested his innocence.

What is interesting is that in a time when Protestant and Catholic figures were depicted as either heroes or villains depending on who the writer was, Darnley was universally hated. People reviled him for his arrogance, drunkenness and promiscuity. He was described by Mary's courtiers as persistently arrogant, drunken, and petulant.

Henry was murdered eight months after the birth of his son. Weeks before he had been ill with smallpox and was recuperating with his relatives. However, Mary brought him to be near her at Kirk O’ Field, a two-storey provost’s house near Holyrood. It was there his life was brought to his tragic end.

Mary was implicated in his death but there is no evidence of this, to be fair there no shortage of suspects.

Darnley was buried in the Chapel of Holyrood, the vault was raided between 1776 and 1778 and his skull stolen, two would later turn up claiming to be that f the murdered King Consort.

The pics show Darnley in his teens by an unknown artist, and Mary with Darnley in 1565.

[lamuradex]

Eight Deaths

Part 8 - Prev - All Parts - Next

Eighth Death - Peace

The trek had been short, but the destination wasn’t appealing. Artemis had walked slowly.

Castle Cambra had once been home to the Lord Cambra, the man who invented necromancy. He’d used the practice, as well as some loyal followers, to bring his own soul back from the dead.

Naraja, the God of the Dead, had not been happy.

Legend spoke that Naraja sent his legions to destroy Lord Cambra, but all had failed. In the end, Naraja himself rose from the underworld and marched on Castle Cambra in person. The god had laid waste to Cambra’s forces, destroyed all who stood in his way, and finally reached Lord Cambra himself. But he hadn’t killed him. No, the god needed to make an example of the man. As such, he separated Lord Cambra’s soul from his body, forcing him to live as a disembodied spirit, never to find true rest. In the following eons, Lord Cambra’s attempts to rectify this condition led to the castle becoming a rancorous, horrifying place, as so much dark magic, magic of pain and misery, was cast within its walls. The castle eventually became so onerous that its dark power began affecting nearby villages, at which point the queen of the region finally decided to grit her teeth and raze the place to ground, destroying Lord Cambra and his creations once and for all.

And Artemis had led the charge. He’d even performed the ritual that banished Lord Cambra.

And he couldn’t stop the memories of that twisted creature from returning as he stood before the dark ruins, the lantern in his hand. He wondered if Naraja sent the Deaths after Cambra too. Had he beaten them? Or had Naraja not bothered against a man back from the dead already.

There was a chill to the air. A weight to the silence. All that remained of the castle were a few collapsed towers, a few miserable patches of floor, and one wall which looked to have once contained the front door. Everything else was piles of bricks or just more dust. The stone was cold, even in the daylight, the cold of the tomb. Artemis refrained from touching any of it. He could already feel it, attuned to magic as he was. It entered his senses like static on his skin, but as if static had a taste, bitter like rot. Like a smell in the air, a miasma, that you fear will make you sick just by being saturated in it. The dark magic danced invisibly around him, Artemis almost willing that he could somehow close his pores to ensure it didn’t contaminate him.

Even so, he soldiered on. He’d faced worse, he was sure of it. And he had to do this.

She deserved better.

He drew his dagger and began to draw a sigil on the ground. A runic circle, letters and forms from civilisations long past, all intertwined with the insidious runes of House Cambra. They felt wrong to write, a magician putting some of themselves into every spell, even as some of the spell soaked into them. It was like being compelled to hold a weapon that had been used for murder.

Suddenly, the dread-tension in the air vanished. Artemis was hardly surprised when he looked up to a serene figure stood some yards away.

“Greetings, Artemis Sahir,” the figure said calmly, their body neither male or female, their entire form draped in a long white robe, their face veiled.

“And you must be Peace, Death of those who greet you as a friend. Death of those who know it is their time,” Artemis smirked. “You must not get much business nowadays.”

“More than you would think. People live long lives nowadays.” Peace wandered closer.

“Oh, please, do come in,” Artemis said sarcastically. “It’s not like this is a delicate spell.”

“I need you to stop this, Artemis,” the figure commanded in a light voice.

“Or what? Unless I welcome you, you’re powerless against me.”

“But I will not be the last. After me there is only one, and you do not wish to meet him”

“Bring it on,” Artemis sneered. “Except he won’t. The God of Death can walk upon the mortal world for a single day every hundred years. I know my mythology. It’s why he sent you lot. He doesn’t want to waste his precious one day on worthless little me. So how important can all this be if he won’t even rise to stop me?”

 “He will rise though, Artemis. He will come for you.”

“Why? Why can’t he just leave me and my problems alone?”

“You do not understand-”

“Oh, I understand plenty,” he snipped. “The God of the Dead is a covetous old fool who can’t let one soul go.”

“You already know why he destroyed Lord Cambra, Artemis,” Peace said sharply.

Artemis went quiet.

“Only dark magic can defy fate,” Peace continued, “But He cannot allow that to happen. Those who defy fate damage the very world, Artemis. Those who live longer than their allotted years cause cracks between this world and the next. Fate must be abided by. It must.”

“Fate is meaningless,” Artemis argued. “It’s just chance played out. And this isn’t about fate, or destiny, or any such car’zit! I’m just trying to save…” he trailed off, his voice cracking.

“To save one soul, you’d condemn yourself to Naraja’s wrath?”

“One soul… It’s never about quantity. She was amazing, but you don’t even know her name. You’re all here to kill me, to retrieve her, but not a one of you knows who she is!” He held up the lantern like a talisman. “I wonder if Naraja even knows.”

“I’m sure he does,” Peace said, a little kowtowed. “But this need not be your course. You can be together, if you wish, just not like this.”

Artemis paused. “…What?”

“This is what I offer, Artemis. Take my hand, meet your end peacefully, and you may meet her on the other side.” The form extended a hand. “You’ve lived a long life. End this madness and meet her in the land beyond. Meet with all of those you’ve lost.”

“You almost sound like Despair,” Artemis mocked. “And there’s only one person who will remember me on the other side.” He held up the lantern.

“Are you so certain?”

“Certain enough that I know I’m not done in this world yet. And do you know what? I’m done dealing with the monkeys. I want to meet the organ grinder.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m done dealing with you. If Naraja wants to stop me, really wants to stop me, then he can come up here and meet me himself. And he can take this soul from my cold, dead hands.”

“He may not kill you, Artemis,” Peace said, looking about at the ruins.

“Well, I’d like to see him try,” Artemis said defiantly. “Take that message back to your master. He comes, or I will do this.”

Peace nodded, having been stood almost like a statue. Without even a step, they faded, vanishing back into the ether.

Artemis put the lantern back in his pocket and returned to drawing his circle.

[aitchnkay]

Jiang Gunian Made A Change Part 26

She allowed herself a day to mourn. One day to cry over her father; she would mourn properly once the war was won.

And they would win. There was no alternative that was acceptable. Her brothers would live, and Wen RuoHan and his remaining son would die.

She washed her face of tears, dressed, and reported to her command tent. "Meng Yao, report."

"General," he bowed. "Lotus Pier is firmly in Jiang WanYin's control. Jiang Furen is in the infirmary; her condition is listed as 'stable', but no details of what occurred has been forwarded. Wen Xu's army is approximately five days out from the Unclean Realm. They must have received intel that Wen Chao's army was defeated as they have not moved in the last two days. We suspect that they are waiting for reinforcements from Qishan."

Yu FangSu glared at Meng Yao as he spoke. As soon as he took a breath, she interrupted. "We should move our camp to Lotus Pier. It will be more protection than what we have here, and it will free your brother to assist Nie ZongZhu."

"We are not going to Lotus Pier," Jiang YanLi stated. "We will continue as we have."

"Your esteemed mother needs you!" Yu FangSu spat. "It is your duty as her daughter to be with her in her time of grief."

"My duty?" Jiang YanLi wanted to cry again. Instead she stiffened her back, both physical and mental. "This is war. My duty is to keep my people alive."

"Your people are in Yunmeng. Not here."

Meng Yao smiled his 'I'm going to be polite because I have to' smile. "Jin Furen. Your people are in Lanling. My people are in Qinghe. And yet... we are here. Supporting General Jiang."

"General Jiang?" Jiang YanLi repeated. "Who is that?"

Yu FangSu sighed. "For some reason, the reports that came in starting yesterday, all referred to you as 'General Jiang'. "

"Not for some reason," Meng Yao snapped. "Jiang YanLi is just as much a General in this war as Nie Mingjue and Lan XiChen. She has earned the title."

"A woman General? Next will you petition for her to be Jiang ZongZhu instead of Jiang WangYin?"

"No."

"If she's capable, why not? She is the eldest."

"No," the young woman repeated. "My brother will inherit." Her hand buzzed: the new ring she wore indicating Wei WuXian had sent a letter. "Please excuse me. A'Xian sent me something."

The letter was short. 'ShiJi. Read when alone. Madame Yu's condition is not being disseminated. Even Jiang Cheng can't get the healers to tell him what's wrong. She's been seen walking, and does not have any obvious bandages on. What I do know is that she was injured in a fight with someone called Wen ZhuLiu. She tried to whip him with Zidian. He moved out of the way too quickly and he pushed her down. She screamed and was unable to stand again. His title is Core Melting Hand. Can you discretely find out if the title is because he can destroy someone's Core? He's dead. I killed him right after he hurt Madame Yu, so we can't ask him. The Wen aren't saying anything. Four buildings are fire damaged in the compound. A dozen in the town will need to be rebuilt. Twenty-three townspeople are dead. The rest followed our directions to leave. Initial count is forty-eight dead in the Sect. There are six or seven more who might yet succumb to their injuries.'

"Meng Yao... what do you know about a man called the Core Melting Hand? A'Xian killed him."

"He's dead? Good," he smiled a genuine smile. "Officially, he was Wen Chao's bodyguard. A nobody who worked his way up in the QishanWen ranks. In part it was because of his dog-like loyalty to Wen RuoHan. In part because of his little trick. As his title suggests, he did indeed have the ability to melt Cores."

Jiang YanLi kept her face still as she processed exactly what had happened to her mother. Her Core was melted? No wonder she doesn't want anyone to know what's happened to her. "It's good he's dead then. Just think of the damage he could have caused to our people.

"So." She took a deep breath, and shoved her concerns about her mother into a cabinet in her mind. She set Wei WuXian's letter over a flame and watched it burn. "We will concentrate our strike troops on Wen Xu's army. What news from the Unclean Realm."

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Thursday 2.. June 1836

9 40/..

11 55/..

no kiss A- very low I heard her crying but took no notice did not seem to awake till eight thought I we must be off kept her in bed talking gently she took two pills last and did not like her getting up merely to be starved or not knowing what to do – out from 10 ½ to breakfast at 10 55/.. Robert Mann + 3 and Frank and 2 carts carrying clay from carriage court to finish making up at the back of the farmyard – Samuel Booth helping John to set potatoes at the back of the farmyard – took Robert to the Lodge to shew him about laying the stuff cut down from the steep bank Wood + 4 began it yesterday afternoon – A- cut out night things for me, and I out at 11 ¾ – with Booth and his men at the road wall in front of the house – told him I should have 15 horse power to spare – to get me a good tenant – to get to know what I could let power for at Listerwick  – he agreed that it was worth £20 a year per horse at H-x [Halifax], it should be worth £15 here – H- thought £800 would build a good mill for 15 horse power – told him to consider about a baring at A-‘s Hipperholme quarry – then went [?] to tell Mrs. Aquilla Green I hoped the 2 new cottage tenants at Mytholm would not incommode anybody – they talk of sending their oldest little boy from home – I advised St. Bees in Cumberland – she thinks Mr. Norris will have upper brea etc. – I said I would give the worth for the Redbeck cottages and land – she to remember that and tell her husband and not let the property be given away – stood a long while talking – just peeped into the front Mytholm cottage the plasterer plastering it – met George coming for me at 2 ¼ – a minute or 2 at the wheel-race – home at 2 ½ – A- and I dressed – Mr. Musgrave came at 3 25/.. and staid ½ hour – administered the sacrament to my aunt A- myself Oddy Cookson, Rachel Sharp and George – A- and I then rechanged our dress and went out at 4 20/.. and came in at 5 ¼ told Booth to move and reset the sink in the mytholm front cottage the 1st thing in the morning and let me pay him separately and immediately for that bit of a job – then A- and I went to the meer-drift head in the walk, and then to the Conery along the sort of footpath made last week (the sod pared off and thrown close up against the hedge) along the Conery Ing hedge (between hedge and railing) – Matty not at home – came in at 4 20/.. there being a spitting of rain – wrote all the above of today – and wrote and sent this evening as follows to ‘Messrs. Hammersleys and co. Bankers London’ ‘Shibden hall Thursday 2 June 1836. Gentlemen – Being under the necessity of postponing my leaving home for the continent five or six weeks longer, I shall be much obliged to you to forward any letters you may have for me, as also, if you have received it, the small parcel  I ordered to be sent to your care by Messrs. Rogers of Sheffield – I shall also be much obliged if you will be so good as get my passport signed by the Saxon minster – I am gentlemen your obedient servant A. Lister’ had just written so far of today at 5 55/.. – had Mr. Husband a few minutes – he brought Mr. Harper’s order for £118.1.0 for Mark Hepworth for carting here from Northgate 1574 yards of soil at 1/6 per yard – and having forgot to give Booth a money-order Husband himself made out and brought Booth’s bill for the clow at the meer £17.10.7 – Mr. Harper had seen the bill and thought it very moderate – dinner at 6 ¼ – A- did her French from 8 35/.. to 9 55/.. looking over my clothes – assorting out things for the journey – then with my aunt 25 minutes till 10 30/.. fine day but dullish and an appearance of rain – a light at 1st then smartish shower from 5 ½ to 6 – I see we must get off from home as soon as we can – immediately after the rent day – A-‘s 1st rent day  11 July – can we get off on the 13th? thinking today, it would be well to steam it from Hull to Hamburg and thence post it (of course, our own carriage) to Berlin, Leipzig, Dresden, Töplitz, Carlsbad, to Vienna etc. home by Paris – on going to bed found my cousin was come gently –

[bunnycrashout]

i feel like you guys haven't heard bunny lore so here is some cause why the hell not:

discussion of se*ual topics and a tiny bit of swearing btw

so last yr I had a bf and we dated for the best part of 7 months and he was a bit odd sometimes (refused to turn on location on snap, and never said where he was going if he said he was not there for the weekend, etc) but I ignored all that cause I was so so happy to have someone actually liking me (I get asked out as a joke all the time cause I'm a bit odd) then one day while I was on holiday I messaged him asking to call cause I had not heard from him in a bit and wanted to see how he was doing! well, he told me that we should break up cause I was going too slow for him (I started crying and shaking when he tried to kiss me)(I have undiagnosed something idk)( he had also drank half a bottle of straight tequila at the time and I had to carry him down the hill after...I'm 5'3 and he's 6'4)(anyways) and that we should break up.i was heartbroken and sobbed the rest of the holiday.THEN the next day a guy from my art class who I must of spoken to like twice ever messaged me with a screenshot of my ex saying that he was high as hell (he had a wee bit of a drug habit icl) and was sad cause he had cheated on me EIGHT TIMES. for backstory on the girl (it was one grl every time) he told me she was like a sister to him, I had her on snap and talked to her almost every day cause she seemed really sweet, he had told me pretty soon after we started dating that him and her had shagged before cause she hated her boyfriend (BTW THE BOYFRIEND WAS HIS BEST FRIEND!?) and that he felt awful about doing that to his best friend. i was a bit weirded out but decided to ignore this massive red flag cause once again I was so happy that someone actually liked me. back to the main story... i was raging when I heard this cause I rlly liked this girl and she seemed so nice but even tho she knew I was dating the guy and that I'm a bit mentally not alright she went ahead and shagged him. a few weeks later just to rub it in my face THEY GOT ENGAGED.the engagement announcement was a pic of a shitty Poundland looking ring (poundland is like british dollar tree) with the caption "guess I'm better than miku" miku referring to me cause I would always yap abt her. i was so sad abt this cause wtf. anyway school started again and the stories i heard abt those two were mad (all true) the weirdest ones to name a few: she sent him nudes 3 times a day, they shagged in the back of his mums van, they shagged while she was on her period and best of all HE FINGERED HIMSELF WHILE THINKING ABT HER CAUSE HE WAS SO HRNY( he was bi and seemed to think this was a good plan?) anyway the school thought the engagement was hilarious and he got sent a bunch of congratulations cards including one that a girl in my year wrote poor BUNNY (not actually my name) on in massive letters then handed to him lmao.....anyway the whole point of telling you all this was that yk how they both cheated to get with each other...SHE CHEATED ON HIM AND THEY BROKE UP and its so funny to watch him mope around the school looking sorry for himself like SERVES U RIGHT U TWAT

sorry for spelling and stuff i just thought it was funny