#house victoire | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anotherhumaninthisworld · 8 days

Note

Do you happen to know how often it occurred for wives of arrested deputies to share the same fate of their husbands, so either imprisoned, or condemned to death ? Do you have some examples? I'm referring to the years between 92-95. Moreover if it's not too much to ask for, could you also point out the signature of the CSP members who signed such warrants?

That’s a very interesting question, especially since no official studies seem to have been made on the subject. What I’ve found so far (and it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s way more) is:

Félicité Brissot — after the news of her husband’s arrest, Félicité, who had lived in Saint-Cloud with her three children since April 1793, traveled to Chartres. There (on an unspecified date?) she and her youngest son Anacharsis (born 1791) were arrested by the Revolutionary Committee of Saint-Cloud (the two older children had been taken in by other people) which sent her to Paris. Once arrived in the capital, Felicité was placed under surveillance in the Necker hotel, rue de Richelieu, in accordance with an order from the Committee of General Security dated August 9 1793 (she could not be placed under house arrest in her own apartment, since seals had already been placed on it). On August 11 she underwent an interrogation, and on October 13, she was sent from her house arrest (where she had still enjoyed a relative liberty) to the La Force prison. Félicité and her son were set free on February 4 1794, after six months spent under arrest. The order for her release was it too issued by the Committee of General Security, and signed by Lacoste, Vadier, Dubarran, Guffroy, Amar, Louis (du Bas-Rhin), and Voulland. Source: J.-P. Brissot mémoires (1754-1793); [suivi de] correspondance et papiers (1912) by Claude Perroud)

Suzanne Pétion — According to a footnote inserted in Lettres de madame Roland (1900), Suzanne was imprisoned in the Sainte-Pélagie prison since August 9 1793. In an undated letter written from the same prison, Madame Roland mentions that not only Suzanne, but her ten year old son Louis Étienne Jérôme is there too. I have however not been able to discover any official orders regarding Suzanne’s arrest and release, so I can’t say for exactly how long she and her son were imprisoned and who was responsible for it right now. @lanterne you wrote in this super old post that you’re waiting for a Pétion biography, did you get it? And if yes, does it perhaps say anything about Suzanne’s imprisonment in it? 😯)

Louise-Catherine-Àngélique Ricard, widow Lefebvre (Suzanne Pétion’s mother) — According to Histoire du tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris: avec le journal de ses actes (1880) by Henri Wallon, Louise was called before the parisian Revolutionary Tribunal on September 24 1793, accused “of having applauded the escape of Minister Lebrun by saying: “So much the better, we must not desire blood,” of having declared that the Brissolins and the Girondins were good republicans (“Yes,” her interlocutor replied, “once the national ax has fallen on the corpses of all of them”), for having said, when someone came to tell her that the condemned Tonduti had shouted “Long live the king” while going to execution; that everyone would have to share this feeling, and that for the public good there would have to be a king whom the “Convention and its paraphernalia ate more than the old regime”. She denied this when asked about Tonduti, limiting herself to having said: “Ah! the unfortunate.” Asked why she had made this exclamation she responded: ”through a sentiment of humanity.” She was condemned and executed the very same day.

Marie Anne Victoire Buzot — It would appear she was put under house arrest, but was able to escape from there. According to Provincial Patriot of the French Revolution: François Buzot, 1760–1794 (2015) by Bette W. Oliver, ”[Marie] had remained in Paris after her husband fled on June 2 [1793], but she was watched by a guard who had been sent to the Hôtel de Bouillon. Soon thereafter, Madame Buzot and her ”domestics” disappeared, along with all of the personal effects in the apartment. […] Madame Buzot would join her husband in Caen, but not until July 10; and no evidence remains regarding her whereabouts between the time that she left Paris in June and her arrival in Caen. At a later date, however, she wrote that she had fled, not because she feared death, but because she could not face the ”ferocious vengeance of our persecutors” who ignored the law and refused ”to listen to our justification.” I’ve unfortunately not been able to access the source used to back this though…

Marie Françoise Hébert — arrested on March 14 1794, presumably on the orders of the Committee of General Security since I can’t find any decree regarding the affair in Recueil des actes du Comité de salut public. Imprisoned in the Conciergerie until her execution on April 13 1794, so 30 days in total. See this post.

Marie Françoise Joséphine Momoro — imprisoned in the Prison de Port-libre from March 14 to May 27 1794 (2 months and 13 days), as seen through Jean-Baptiste Laboureau’s diary, cited in Mémoires sur les prisons… (1823) page 68, 72, 109.

Lucile Desmoulins — arrested on April 4 1794 according to a joint order with the signatures of Du Barran (who had also drafted it) and Voulland from the CGS and Billaud-Varennes, C-A Prieur, Carnot, Couthon, Barère and Robespierre from the CPS on it. Imprisoned in the Sainte-Pélagie prison up until April 9, when she was transferred to the Conciergerie in time for her trial to begin. Executed on April 13 1794, after nine days spent in prison. See this post.

Théresa Cabarrus — ordered arrested and put in isolation on May 22 1794, though a CPS warrant drafted by Robespierre and signed by him, Billaud-Varennes, Barère and Collot d’Herbois. Set free on July 30 (according to Madame Tallien : notre Dame de Thermidor from the last days of the French Revolution until her death as Princess de Chimay in 1835 (1913)), after two months and eight days imprisoned.

Thérèse Bouquey (Guadet’s sister-in-law) — arrested on June 17 1794 once it was revealed she and her husband for the past months had been hiding the proscribed girondins Pétion, Buzot, Barbaroux, Guadet and Salles. She, alongside her husband and father and Guadet’s father and aunt, were condemned to death and executed in Bordeaux on July 20 1794. Source: Paris révolutionnaire: Vieilles maisons, vieux papiers (1906), volume 3, chapter 15.

Marie Guadet (Guadet’s paternal aunt) — Condemned to death and executed in Bordeaux on July 20 1794, alongside her brother and his son, the Bouqueys and Xavier Dupeyrat. Source: Charlotte Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées (1872) by Charles Vatel.

Charlotte Robespierre — Arrested and interrogated on July 31 1794 (see this post). According to the article Charlotte Robespierre et ses amis (1961), no decree ordering her release appears to exist. In her memoirs (1834), Charlotte claims she was set free after a fortnight, and while the account she gives over her arrest as a whole should probably be doubted, it seems strange she would lie to make the imprisonment shorter than it really was. We know for a fact she had been set free by November 18 1794, when we find this letter from her to her uncle.

Françoise Magdeleine Fleuriet-Lescot — put under house arrest on July 28 1794, the same day as her husband’s execution. Interrogated on July 31. By August 7 1794 she had been transferred to the Carmes prison, where she the same day wrote a letter to the president of the Convention (who she asked to in turn give it to Panis) begging for her freedom. On September 5 the letter was sent to the Committee of General Security. I have been unable to discover when she was set free. Source: Papiers inédits trouvés chez Robespierre, Saint-Just, Payan, etc. supprimés ou omis par Courtois. précédés du Rapport de ce député à la Convention Nationale, volume 3, page 295-300.

Françoise Duplay — a CGS decree dated July 27 1794 orders the arrest of her, her husband and their son, and for all three to be put in isolation. The order was carried out one day later, July 28 1794, when all three were brought to the Pélagie prison. On July 29, Françoise was found hanged in her cell. See this post.

Élisabeth Le Bas Duplay — imprisoned with her infant son from July 31 to December 8 1794, 4 months and 7 days. The orders for her arrest and release were both issued by the CGS. See this post.

Sophie Auzat Duplay — She and her husband Antoine were arrested in Bruxelles on August 1 1794. By October 30 the two had been transferred to Paris, as we on that date find a letter from Sophie written from the Conciergerie prison. She was set free by a CPS decree (that I can’t find in Recueil des actes du Comité de salut public…) on November 19 1794, after 3 months and 18 days of imprisonment. When her husband got liberated is unclear. See this post.

Victoire Duplay — Arrested in Péronne by representative on mission Florent Guiot (he reveals this in a letter to the CPS dated August 4 1794). When she got set free is unknown. See this post.

Éléonore Duplay — Her arrest warrant, ordering her to be put in the Pélagie prison, was drafted by the CGS on August 6 1794. Somewhere after this date she was moved to the Port-Libré prison, and on April 21 1795, from there to the Plessis prison. She was transfered back to the Pélagie prison on May 16 1795. Finally, on July 19 1795, after as much as 11 months and 13 days in prison, Éléonore was liberated through a decree from the CGS. See this post.

Élisabeth Le Bon — arrested in Saint-Pol on August 25 1794, ”suspected of acts of oppression” and sent to Arras together with her one year old daughter Pauline. The two were locked up in ”the house of the former Providence.” On October 26, Élisabeth gave birth to her second child, Émile, while in prison. She was released from prison on October 14 1795, four days after the execution of her husband. By then, she had been imprisoned for 1 year, 1 month and 19 days. Source: Paris révolutionnaire: Vieilles maisons, vieux papiers (1906), volume 3, chapter 1.

#frev #french revolution #madame roland is of course here too but she might go in the notlikeothergirls camp in this particular instance #félicité brissot #suzanne pétion #éléonore duplay #élisabeth lebas #charlotte robespierre #théresa cabarrus #lucile desmoulins #marie françoise hébert #everyone: is held in prison from anything from two months to a whole year if not executed before then #charlotte: two weeks…#i mean i’m not surprised but…

53 notes · View notes

chilling-seavey · 4 months

Text

Even Out of View (pg10, eo31)

↳ A/N I took so much creative freedom with this request from my 1.5k celebration, straying quite far from the modern-vibes song, but once I get a WW1 idea in my head, I can't say no. (Plus shoutout to my girl @starlightiing for not only submitting this request but also helping me to broaden my writing to include different interests, such as undertones of cardiophilia iykyk lolol)

↳ Inspired By: 'Beating Heart Baby' by Head Automatica

↳ Pairings: WW1!FrenchArmy!Pierre x WW1!WarCriminal!Esteban

↳ Word Count: 1824

↳ Warnings: Active historical war setting, some minor descriptions of heart related things, military crimes and their historically accurate punishments, descriptions of execution

Pierre’s footfalls echoed through the abandoned house as he ascended the rickety staircase to the second storey. His muddy boots thudded across the creaking hardwood floors with each step, his rucksack clanking ungracefully against the walls of the narrow upstairs hallway in his rush, past lived-in rooms with their furniture and once-loved belongings coated in layers of dust and gunpowder. All he could hear was his breathing, echoing in his mind, the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood loud in his ears.

He reached the door at the end of the cramped hallway in no time, the bullet holes in the wood overlooked by him in the world that had long since numbed him to the shock of war. Thrusting it open with an unattractive creak, Pierre was met by the sight of a tiny bedroom with a lanky figure sitting on the side of a single bed that was clearly built for a small child. The juxtaposition was a cruel mirth: a reminder of where they came from and the way war ripped their childhoods out of their hands far too soon.

The commotion of Pierre’s entrance had Esteban slowly turning his head to see who entered, keeping his hands folded with his forearms resting on his knees. His face stayed stagnant, pale, even when he noticed who it was. The sight of his expression sent a chill down Pierre’s spine.

“Este-” Pierre’s dry voice caught in his throat and he cleared it quickly before rushing closer, slinging his rifle from his shoulder to let it clatter to the grimy floorboards. In one smooth motion, Pierre helped himself to the side of the small bed beside his friend, his wide blue eyes dead focused on Esteban’s stone expression.

Esteban hung his head, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Esteban, how could you?” Pierre spoke as gently as he could, resting a firm hand on his forearm. He squeezed.

“Go away.” Esteban replied firmly, although his volume was quiet.

Pierre’s concerned expression faltered for a moment, eyes jumping all over Esteban’s face before he answered, “No, why would you want me to go away? In a moment like this?”

Esteban unclasped his fingers and shoved Pierre’s hand off his arm, “I am to be shot at dawn, Pierre, I don’t particularly want to sit here with you and make small talk. I want to be alone.”

Pierre swallowed thickly at his comrade’s bluntness and he turned his body to face forward too so they were sat perfectly parallel, side by side on the little bed with blue gingham sheets. Silence rested heavily on the dust coated room and the soldiers’ shoulders. Across from them, the ripped wallpaper was tacked with a few children’s drawings – or, at least the few drawings that weren’t shot to smithereens – and many of them housed colourful scribbles of stick figure men amongst red, white, and blue. Messy juvenile printing scrawled ‘Vive la France’ and ‘Pour le drapeau! Pour la victoire!’ on the parchment above the subjects.

The nationalistic phrases written proudly by the hand of a likely now deceased French child stared tauntingly back at the two of them.

Long Live France

For the Flag! For Victory!

None of this felt like they were heading towards victory.

Pierre’s shoulders sank, glancing around the abandoned bedroom of some unnamed child. They were supposed to be fighting for the children of France, for their future, for their country, and now, with the world in peril, Esteban was now to be treated as the enemy by his own people.

Despite Esteban’s firm request to be left alone, Pierre spoke up quietly, alerting him gently as if he were a grenade about to go off, “I can’t leave you. I’m your night watch.”

Esteban looked over at him again, eyebrows furrowed, words thick with angst, “Why are you my night watch?”

“I offered…I asked the Lieutenant.” Pierre answered, “I just…I needed to see you.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking back the dampness in his eyes that came with the weight of their hellish reality. He wanted to say more to him: to say that he was worried sick about him when he didn’t return to the trenches a fortnight ago, to say that when he heard he was captured by the military police and was to be tried for desertion Pierre first felt relief, to say that after such a short lifetime together he couldn’t stomach the idea of living without him…of going back out there to the battlefields without him.

But, instead, the silence spoke enough. Esteban simply nodded once.

What else was there to say when he was to be facing his execution in less than twelve hours?

If it were anyone sent to keep an eye on him over night, he was damn glad it was Pierre.

As if that thought physically pained him, Esteban rested his elbows on his knees again and hid his face in his grimy hands. His blue uniform jacket was caked in mud until it looked almost brown and the sweat and blood of the enemy that he was drenched it flattened his midnight black hair across his forehead. Pierre didn't look much better.

Pierre just stared at him like that, wanting to ask so many questions and say so many things.

“I know you don’t want anything to do with me,” Pierre stumbled out, “but, can you let me in your arms just for tonight?”

When Esteban lifted his face from his hands, his mud-stained cheeks were streaked in tears.

He nodded.

Pierre’s heart leapt in his chest at the unexpected agreement and he hurried to shuffle off his rucksack and his utility belt to drop them to the floor before Esteban could change his mind. The tiny metal bed creaked and groaned under the two grown men as they arranged themselves in a hesitant mess of uniformed limbs.

Always the braver, bolder, more assertive of the two, Esteban cuddled up under Pierre’s arm like a weak child. Branded as a coward and a traitor to his country Esteban had just wanted a break. A break from the war, the cries of agony, the death. Here, now, in this abandoned house in the French countryside, in the country they were raised in together, they finally felt a moment of peace for the first time in a long time.

Pierre’s chest shuttered through his calming inhale as he familiarized himself with their newfound position, chest to chest with Esteban, his arms wrapped around his taller comrade. He could feel his rapid heartbeat against his own, the two of them a frantic mess of anxiety and unspoken uncertainties. In a world of darkness and fear and death, the feeling of Esteban’s heartbeat was a reminder of life, of love, of hope.

The two of them kept their eyes screwed shut as if silently willing themselves to be taken back to their childhood town on the beach where summers were joyful and the air was filled with laughter and they raced each other on their bicycles down cobblestone streets. Just like those summer days, their hearts beat firmly in steady time, rapid from exertion and the good company of familiarity.

As the sun set below the horizon to the distant sound of cannons and shells and gunfire, the two men stayed tangled together on that little blue bed. Their heartrates slowed as they held each other, finding a calming rhythm against each other beat by beat. Everything was uncertain – life was uncertain – but them always finding each other? That was always certain.

“In spite of all this, I still love all of you.” Pierre breathed into the night, trying to keep his voice from shaking with subconscious awareness of what the morning would hold, “I do…and I always will.”

Esteban’s hand tightened on the back of Pierre’s matching blue uniform jacket. His heart skipped a beat.

In the morning, they were woken by the officer in charge and two assisting men. Esteban was firmly yanked out of bed by the men of his same rank, each with a stone-like grip on his biceps as they nearly dragged him down the narrow hallway and towards the stairs. Pierre barely had a chance to grab his belongings before he was rushing after them, boots pounding down the flimsy staircase and out into the damp spring morning. It was so cold he could see his panting breath.

He wanted to call out for Esteban as the men let go of him outside of the abandoned house they had slept in that night, letting him fall clumsily to his hands and knees.

“On your feet, Private.” The commanding officer ordered, standing in front of a line of eleven soldiers all armed with their rifles.

As Esteban brought himself to his feet on trembling legs, he looked over at Pierre only a yard away. The officer followed his gaze.

With a cock of his head, the officer called out to Pierre next, “Over here, Gasly, open your rifle.”

Esteban and Pierre both looked at the officer as if he were completely out of his mind.

“Sir-” Pierre started as calmly as he could muster, trying to decline the order.

“We need a dozen men, Private, don’t make me ask again.”

If he argued, he would be put up there against the wall with him, he knew. With a curt nod to his superior, Pierre joined the lineup.

He was supplied three bullets to load into his empty rifle and he loaded it with trembling fingers before clicking his weapon back into place. His red rimmed blue eyes rose to Esteban’s figure standing in front of the stone wall of the house in which they shared their last night together. Out of everyone in that lineup, Esteban’s gaze was locked solely on Pierre.

Esteban was offered a blindfold. He declined.

On the order, the firing squad raised their rifles. Twelve rifles pointed at Esteban.

Pierre had killed a lot of men since the start of the war. He had more blood on his hands than in his body, one might argue. Killing Germans was easy. But this?

Pierre could hardly hear over the ringing in his ears, the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart enough to drown out the officer’s pitch for Esteban’s final words.

Through the deafening noise, he barely heard Esteban’s voice cutting across the misty spring dawn, words off-set from the movement of his mouth as Pierre stared at him, “I defend France with honour and glory.”

Esteban’s dark eyes never wavered from Pierre’s baby blues, staring at him right through the rifle that was pointed directly at him. He raised his hand to set over his heart, a silent reminder of the rhythm they shared so closely the night before and all those years back home. Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat.

Finally, the commanding officer gave his order, “Fire at will, gentlemen.”

Pierre shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

"You want nothing to do with me, I don't know what to do with you, Cause you don't know what you do to me. Baby is this love for real? Let me in your arms to feel The beating of your heart, baby."

#emilys 1.5k celebration!#1031 #pierresteban #pierre gasly #esteban ocon #pierre and esteban #f1 fanfic #f1 #formula 1 #pierresteban fic #ww1 #f1 au #esteban ocon imagine #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly fic #eo31 #pg10 #alpine f1

60 notes · View notes

grantmentis · 7 days

Text

Undrafted / unsigned players as of right now

With the SDHL / AuroraLiiga / Postfinance Women’s League / EWHL / other leagues either underway or soon to be underway, a lot of rosters are close to solidified with only a few spots left.

A lot of PWHL teams have made clear that they plan to not sign any / very few remaining free agents or draft picks until after training camp where they plan to have everyone remaining compete for spots. Obviously signed players and drafted players will be there, but who else? This is meant to give some light to that

This list does not include NCAA / USports players who went undrafted, mostly just due to lack of time. But feel free to add anyone notable!

Current list of rumored undrafted training camp invites.

Please note that this is not from PWHL teams officially and may not include all players invited / some may still be responding to offers

Boston Fleet -Jillian Dempsey, Klara Peslarova, Cami Kronish, Maude Poulin Labelle, Kelly-Ann Nadeau

Minnesota Frost - Claire Butorac, Brook Bryant, Lauren Bench, Charlotte Akervik

Montreal Victoire- Clair DeGeorge, Sandra Abstreiter, Gabrielle David, Alexandra Labelle,

New York Sound - Chayla Edwards, Madison Bizal, Taylor Baker, Savannah Norcross

Ottawa Charge - Taylor House

Toronto Sceptres - Rylind MacKinnon, Jessica Kondas, Lauriane Rougeau

Players on PWHL teams last year currently not affiliated with any teams / camp invites

Players with * is who I feel have the best spot at camp invites

Lindsey post

Brooke Hobson

Carley Olivier

Jade downie-landry *

Élizabeth Giguere *

Paetyn Levis *

Jill saulnier *

Alexa Gruschow

Madison packer *

Kayla Vespa

Mellissa channell *

Nikki nightengale

Abby cook

Kelly babstock

Kaleigh Fratkin *

Gigi Marvin *

Amanda pelkey *

Samantha isbell

Brooke Bryant

Sydney Brodt *

Brigitte Laganière

Ann-Sophie Bettez *

Sarah bujold *

Leah lum

Sarah Lefort. *

Brooke Stacey

Alex poznikoff

Marlène Boissonnault

Rachel mcquigge *

Samantha ridgewell *

Emma buckles

Victoria Howran

Taylor Davison

Lauren MacInnis

Samantha Davis

Rosalie Demers

Audrey-Ann Veillette *

Sam Cogan

Kaitlin willoughby

Jess jones

Fanni Garát-Gasparics *

Notable players who played in other leagues last year who are currently not affiliated with any team

Please note, I’m not saying all of these players will be PWHL invites, but as all leagues look to fill remaining spots these are names that may be on their call list. I put an * on players I think could have a shot at a camp invite for the PWHL based on a few factors including if they declared for the draft

Nicola Eisenschmid *

Laura kluge *

Shae Demale *

Tatum Amy

Emma Murén

Sarah-Ève Coutu-Godbout

Ally Johnson

Iveta Klimášová

Emily pinto

Autumn Macdougall

Sally Hoerr

Anna Purschke

Sara Krauseneck

Eleri McKay *

tanner Gates *

Yoshino Enomoto

Christine Deaudelin

Aoi Shiga

Lilla Carpenter-Boesch

Anna Kilponen

Anniina Kaitala

Ella Välikangas

#hockey #women’s hockey #PWHL

30 notes · View notes

hxuse-xf-black · 2 years

Text

Victoire: Teddy, I'm fine. The baby's fine. It's mid afternoon! I don't need a nap. Teddy, pressing an ear to Victoire's stomach: Wait- oh, what's that? Teddy: The baby says it's definitely time for a nap. Victoire, fondly: [rolling her eyes] Uh huh.

53 notes · View notes

rewritingcanon · 7 months

Text

next gen fav games:

albus: there’s two sides of him— dead by daylight (he forces scorpius to play just so he can bully the shit out of him and hear him scream on his mic when he gets jumpscared) or omori (someone check up on him maybe…)

scorpius: minecraft (he likes to be the housewife making his house look pretty whilst albus goes out and mines for their family of mushroom cows) and little misfortune (yeah he also needs a check up)

rose: sims 4 (how she deals with her god complex)

james: silent hill (says it’s because the protag is named after him but he’s actually very mentally ill and resonates with the manifestation of self-punishment)

lily: mortal kombat 11 (for the fatality, but mostly for mileena)

hugo: fortnite (bro is a toddler and likes to attend the concerts) and my singing monsters (bro was feeling… musical)

teddy: hades (local pansexual genderfluid sillyman lets himself get slain by the hot villains again) and baldurs gate 3 (for literally the same reasons except add character customisation)

victoire: cooking dash (she likes to feel stressed) and the witcher 3 (shes never played another witcher game)

lorcan: fnaf (he always thinks hes done with it and then a new game or dlc comes out) and it takes two (he forces lysander to play with him obvi)

lysander: little nightmares 2 (only game that had him shook)

fred: detroit: become human (loves story-based games and choose your own adventure) and batman: the telltale series (same reasons)

roxanne: telltale’s the walking dead (simply cant move on from any of the games except the third one)

dominique: the last of us (she’s an elitist and will yap about this game at any given chance)

louis: played doki doki literature club when he was 12 and that was it for bro (….core memories were made)

molly: resident evil 3 (she likes them all but is obsessed with jill) but also life is strange (she’s probably gay)

lucy: when asked will tell you its pathologic (which she still loves a lot and is an elitist about) but it’s secretly danganronpa (she likes feeling smart when she connects clues leave her alone)

yann: final fantasy 7 (hes obsessed with the world and its the only game he can play)

polly: amanda the adventurer (to no one’s surprise)

karl: roblox (he’s been banned on so many different servers for bullying little children and is one of the most infamous hated users in his continent)

craig: league of legends (he’s a bit of a loser) and injustice: gods among us (he needs to win the challenges and unlock the characters)

sophia: stardew valley (she wants to live in a world without conflict (she will get stressed over it anyway))

delphi: couldn’t play video games (she would’ve loved fran bow though)

alice: episode (she spends an embarrassing amount on gems)

frank: arkham knight (he’s literally batman guys) and what remains of edith finch (he has range guys)

auggie: project sekai (they need to go take a shower)

66 notes · View notes

emeritusemeritus · 7 months

Note

One for George and y/n: Easter egg hunting at the Burrow with all the Weasleys (George's siblings and their children)

Such a cute idea! 🖤

Warnings: Minor swearing, mentions of pregnancy, cute Weasley fun and fluff.

Words: 1.3k

Easter Bunny's gift.

Easter at the Burrow was always one of the things you looked forward to the most, especially now you had children of your own with George.

Ever since the first grandchild had arrived, Molly and Arthur had started a wonderful tradition of a magical Easter egg hunt on the land surrounding the house.

Your daughters were 5 and 3, both now at the age that they took the egg hunt very seriously, especially as they were essentially competing against their cousins. George had given them tips before hand, because of course he had, and you'd arrived at the Burrow with two very excited children. And a very excited husband, who had been to set up the race with Arthur earlier that morning, no doubt putting his own mischievous twist on the egg hunt.

The wonderful thing about Molly and Arthur having seven children was that as you all grew up, the number of family members inevitably doubled and then tripled, at least. Siblings, spouses, children, cousins; everyone packed in to the space you'd always loved, the heart of the family- the Burrow.

You were immediately greeted by most of the Weasley siblings and their partners, the kids all chasing each other and giggling in glee with squeals of delight echoing through the open fields. Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny, all of them stood around tables of food and drink that you knew Molly would have agonised over all morning. You couldn't see Percy or Audrey but you could see little Molly and Lucy running around with Victoire, Rose and Lily and so assumed that they were around somewhere. It was always funny to see the entire family gathered together, the sea of Red hair only broken up by a few blonde and brunette children running around.

"Rory! Poppy!" Dominique squeals in excitement, spotting your daughters and immediately falling into an excited conversation that was almost too high for adults to hear, their excited squeals and giggles so loud it almost made you wince. She pauses briefly to flash you a smile, missing her two front teeth. "Hi aunt y/n, hi unky George! Come on, Granny's got toffee!"

Now child free, George smiles at you as he takes your hand and leads you down the path towards the Burrow, greeting his family with warmth. You mingle through the crowd until you make your way inside, offering Molly some help in the kitchen.

"Oh y/n dear, you just get prettier!" She says with a wide and motherly smile, approaching you with hands outstretched as she pulls you in for a tight hug. She's all dressed up in her most vibrant colours, a glittery beret clip in her hair with the signature apron tied around her waist.

"Right, almost time!" Molly says with delight as she steps outside, giving Arthur a little nod who claps his hands together and smiles, walking off towards the back lawn.

You shoot George a little smile as you look over at your daughters, huddled together with the other cousins almost bouncing with excitement. Molly had made a ridiculous number of little eggs for the children, some with chocolate, marshmallow, toffee, everything that would keep your girls up way past their bedtime if they ate too much.

"Right Weasleys," Arthur says, taking lead of the gaggle of excitable children. "Two rules only. Number 1, share and be mindful of your cousins, we want everyone to have fun. Number 2, grab as much as you can! Ready... set.... Go!"

Just as Arthur said the words, a little firework shot up into the sky which transformed into the shape of a bunny in the sky, the words 'this way' scrawled out next to it as it moved towards the start line that Arthur had made. Your mouth opened in disbelief and turned towards your husband who was putting his wand back in his pocket with a mischievous grin. He turned to you and gave you a little wink, little butterflies erupting in your tummy at the look even after all these years.

With a resounding squeal of excitement, the children ran off, following the rabbit, each of them clutching their little baskets ready to swoop on the eggs that had been meticulously placed by their grandad. You watched and laughed as they giggled, all of them picking up little eggs and slinging them into their baskets.

Some were suspended in the air by magic, others tucked into trees and the ground as normal. George had jinxed the tree near the border to rain eggs when the kids ran under it. You laughed as you watched Hugo and Albus scream in sheer delight when they stepped under the tree and hundreds of little eggs rained down on them, dropping into their baskets. They immediately called the girls over to look at what had just happened, all fo the adults watching beginning to laugh when the girls also squealed out in delight as the eggs rained down on them.

"Y/n, can you please watch Louis whilst I go to the loo?" Fleur said from beside you, her French accept as strong at ever, holding out baby Louis, his little blanket covered body making him look like a beautiful little bundle.

"Of course I can," you say with a smile, readily accepting your youngest nephew into your arms, he was crying a little, whimpering and trying to break free from the blanket. Fleur thanked you profusely as she handed over her youngest before walking quickly back to the house.

"Ssssh, it's okay sweetheart, your mummy will be back soon," you coo, assuring little Louis as you rocked him in your arms. He was beautiful, a little patch of striking blonde hair beginning to grow on his head. You adjusted his blankets just slightly to keep his fingers in and swayed with him in your arms as you watched your daughters giggling from higher up the field. The enchanted bunny firework had started dancing around the kids, dodging them and attempting to steal their eggs making them all giggle.

When you looked down at Louis, he was asleep, his eyes closed and looking the definition of comfy, all snuggled in his warm and soft blanket.

"I'll never get over how much that suits you," you hear your husband say, appearing behind you, looking down at the baby in your arms.

"Oh yeah?" You smile, looking up at him as his arm slips onto your shoulder, his lips descending upon your hair to press a gentle kiss just above your ear.

"I think it's your best look," he pauses, "though I do like you pregnant too."

"Well... I'd say you're in luck Mr Weasley," you say with a glint in your eye, watching as his eyes light up even more than the kids collecting their chocolate once he realises what you were telling him.

"What do you think? I think a little boy would be a nice addition," you say, looking down at the sleeping little boy in your arms, imagining one of your own.

"I'll have a word with the Easter bunny," George says with a smirk, leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, both of you sharing a little moment.

"No way Hermione," you hear from the side, Ron's dead set voice drawing your attention away from George.

"Oh come on Ron!" Hermione says, getting frustrated with him. "For Hugo and Rose."

"You're not transfiguring me into a bloody rabbit!"

#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #george weasley masterlist #george weasley fluff #george weasley x reader #requests

54 notes · View notes

empirearchives · 7 months

Text

Gaudin’s description of Napoleon

Martin-Michel Gaudin was Napoleon’s Minister of Finance. He entered the world of finance at the age of 17 and achieved the highest rank a non-aristocrat could achieve in finance administration pre-Revolution (“first clerk”). During the Revolution, he was the Commissioner of the National Treasury. He left government in 1795 and resisted further governmental recruiting attempts until Napoleon (who he had never met) approached him in 1799. Gaudin describes their first meeting in his memoir:

I found a personage who was known to me only by the high reputation he had already acquired; of low stature, dressed in a gray frock coat, extremely thin, yellow complexion, eagle-eyed, with lively movements [...] he came to me with the most gracious air.

“You have,” he said, “worked in finance for a long time?”

“Twenty years, General!”

“We need your help badly, and I’m counting on it. Come on, take your oath, we’re in a hurry.”

This formality completed, he added: “The last minister of the Directory will be informed of your appointment. Meet in two hours at the ministry to take possession of it, and provide a report on our situation as soon as you can, as well as on the first measures to be taken to restore the service which is lacking everywhere. Come see me this evening at my house on rue de la Victoire (that’s what rue Chantereine was then called), we will discuss our business more fully.”

I withdrew to carry out the orders I had just received.

(Source: Gaudin, Mémoires, souvenirs, opinions et écrits du duc de Gaète, pp. 45-46)

Historian Pierre Branda on their partnership:

“Intuition, good advice or genius? Bonaparte’s choice was judicious, because Gaudin would successfully occupy this ministerial post for the entire duration of the Consulate and the Empire, including the Hundred Days. With such longevity, he was undoubtedly one of Napoleon’s most appreciated ministers. It is true that the two men were often in perfect agreement.”

(Source: Le prix de la gloire: Napoléon et l’argent, pp. 197)

62 notes · View notes

blurredcolour · 4 months

Text

In My Blood | Part Four

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

You and Curt find a lot more than shelter for the night in Langon, but as your affection for one another only grows, you cannot help but start thinking about the fact that you are also nearing the end of your journey.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Weapons, Spy Craft, Fear, Alcohol Consumption, Smoking, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5974

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

The rumble of a car engine brought your feet skidding to a halt, the scattering of gravel atop cobblestones carrying you further into the open than you intended. Curt’s hand wrapped around your wrist, hauling you back between the buildings for cover. You had been so very close, just two streets away from ‘Victoire’s’ home in Langon after creeping your way into town through ditches and alleyways. The sharp beam of a flashlight cut through the dark, ruining your night sight, making you blink furiously as you and Curt retreated further from its threatening glare.

As he pulled you around the back of the squat, brick building, pressing against you protectively, your breath hitched in your throat at the mortifyingly intense reaction his closeness evoked from your body. A shiver cascaded from the crown of your head down to the tips of your toes, leaving stiffened nipples and clenched thighs in its wake. Welding your lips shut, you forced slow, measured inhales and exhales through your nose, waiting for the sound of the car and its probing searchlight to recede, only risking a careful glance back toward the road after a good two minutes of silence. Even then, after extracting yourself from Curt’s distracting albeit shielding stance, you insisted on backtracking slightly before attempting a different approach to Victoire’s house.

Mercifully, you managed to reach her back garden with its now-empty planting beds and small shed without further encounters, knocking at the door loud enough to be heard inside but not arouse the suspicion of her neighbours. The curtain covering the small square of glass in the wooden door fluttered slightly in the darkness before the faint scraping of a chain lock being released was followed by the ‘click’ of a deadbolt. The door swung inward slowly as Victoire, a young woman not much older than yourself, appeared, swaddled in her house coat with something clenched in her hand.

As she began to step outside, forcing the pair of you to shuffle backwards out of the way, you and Curt shared a look of confusion before quickly following her in the direction of the shed. Gingerly manipulating the padlock, she carefully opened the latch and then the door for you.

“I am sorry, but the house is fully occupied.” She whispered and you nodded, clasping her hand in gratitude for any shelter she could offer, no matter how humble, before slipping into the drafty building full of empty pots and smelling of damp soil.

Taking a moment to get your bearings, you chose to slide to your suitcase beneath the potting bench before carefully moving several larger pots and gardening implements to open up enough floor space for yourself and Curt to rest for the night. The sound of the door sliding home, followed by the ‘snick’ of the padlock, made you glance back over your shoulder. The sight of Curt pulling the generous wool coat from his suitcase, the garment that you had acquired at great cost back in Beverst, barely discernable in the dark shed, made your lips curl fondly. At least he would be warm tonight. Settling onto the rough wooden floor, propped up against the wall, you swallowed your hiss at the sharp cold against your bare legs.

“Here.” Curt whispered once his suitcase was stowed next to yours, shuffling down to sit beside you, hip and shoulder pressed against yours in the limited space as he draped the coat across the pair of you.

Your eyes snapped from the dark navy fabric up to his face, inhaling sharply to find him so close, nose almost brushing his. “Curt…” You murmured softly in gratitude.

A grin of satisfaction unfurled on his features as he huddled closer to ensure you were both properly protected from the elements. There was a palpable tension between you, an electricity shimmering across your skin that made your lips part in an attempt to take in more oxygen and quell the swimming sensation in your head. Curt’s expression grew more serious, his eyes tracing along your face towards your lips, a motion like a caress that gnawed insistently at your self-control until you felt yourself lunging forward to crash your mouth against his.

A noise of surprise escaped him, only to be muffled by your lips before you felt the warmth of the coat fall away from your shoulders as his hand fought its way free to cup your cheek and pull you closer. Your lips parted with a sigh of relief, a motion which Curt quickly took advantage of, tongue swiping teasingly at the gap but never properly sliding into your mouth. Not until an indignant whimper sounded in the back of your throat, only to be rewarded by a thorough kiss that had you clinging to his shoulders until you needed to pull back to gasp for air.

You could feel the curl of his smile as he trailed his lips across your cheek to whisper, “can’t kiss a girl and not even know her first name.”

The feeling of his damp lips brushing against the curve of your ear made you shudder yet again, affection and want thrumming through your body with each beat of your racing heart. Shifting to press your lips against his ear in turn, you barely breathed your true name, a lance of fear as well as the thrill of being known rocketing through your gut. He repeated it with a soft sigh, sending your teeth sinking into your lower lip before you kissed him once more, a fierceness at hearing it tainting your actions as your hands delved into his hair, ruining the hold of the pomade he had put into it hours ago.

The heat of Curt’s palm slid down your neck across the front of your sweater to caress the swell of your breast and you hummed, arching eagerly into his touch while simultaneously growing frustrated with the awkward positions your found yourselves in. Shifting carefully, you swung your leg over his to straddle his thighs, the coat falling behind you, completely forgotten. His hands squeezed your hips warmly as you pressed a soft kiss to his lips only to pull back and begin painting kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Mapping the raised scars you could feel but not see in the darkness. After an initial huff, Curt hummed contentedly, tilting his head to offer more flesh to you as he resumed kneading your tender flesh with both hands.

Feeling your hips buck in response as you pressed a moan against his neck, he dropped one hand to your lower back, pulling your hips flush with his. The press of his hardening cock against the apex of your thighs sent your lips colliding with his once more, rocking experimentally, to your mutual pleasure – a melding of moans against your tongue. You were addicted to the way he made you feel, a woman fully alive, under your own name. Not ‘Marie,’ the fragile shell who internalized every secret and nurtured every wound.

And even though the friction of his length through his trousers against the thin barrier of your underwear made your eyes clench shut and breath shorten to harsh pants, still you wanted more. Hands sliding between your bodies, you began to work at the fly of his trousers, feeling his tongue flick at his lips, desperately trying to wet them.

“You sure?” He rasped and you eyed his silhouette a moment, swallowing roughly.

The reality of your situation was bleak, and while this was most definitely outside the bounds of propriety, the truth of it was you were either going to die or, by some miracle, make it back to England. To a world of strangers who did not, and never could, understand the truth of what you had faced. What you had endured. None of them would ever be like the man before you, would have shared the same dangers and trials. So the answer was rather easy.

“Yes.” You breathed emphatically and made quick work of freeing his cock, sealing your mouth against his neck as his blunt fingers pulled aside your underwear to slide through your slick folds.

Working together, you shifted up onto your knees to guide him into your warmth, your shaky breaths pouring into his gaping mouth as he stared up at you, brows furrowed in pleasure. Hips settling snuggly atop his, your teeth clacked against his in your desperation to smother your moan at the feeling of him seated fully inside you. Curt’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you rocked forward before you tensed your thighs to begin working your hips up and down his length, his head falling back against the tongue and groove wall, jaw slack.

Heavy sighs of your name tumbled from his lips, tone reverent and dream-like as he watched you with half-lidded eyes. Despite the fact that you remained fully clothed, to be called thus left you feeling practically laid bare before him. A pang of longing struck you, wishing you could see him better, see the flush on his cheeks. For now, the warmth of his skin beneath your hands would suffice. Was proving more than sufficient in combination with his prayerful use of your name and the fact that he was lasting far longer than the last man you had been intimate with – some pretty popinjay outside Sarah Spencer-Churchill’s debut ball who had cum within a few moments of being allowed up your gown. All told, it was a heady mixture that was making your thighs shake with the effort to drive the pair of you towards climax.

The sudden shift brought on by the bend of his knees made you gasp, planting your hands on his shoulders to avoid smacking your chin against his. You had barely stabilized yourself before his fingers curled into your hips and he began to thrust up into you insistently. A cry of sheer delight flew from lips, unfortunately only half smothered by his solicitous mouth, but thankfully it did not interrupt his exquisite rhythm, nor seem to arouse suspicion outside. Toes curling in your shoes as your nails dug into the leather of his jacket, it was not long before you were hurtling over the precipice into orgasm, clenching around him ruthlessly.

The feel of his sticky, hot release drew aftershocks of pleasure from you as you slumped against his chest, utterly spent, entire body rising and falling as his chest heaved beneath you. Curt tender kisses feathering along your temple and cheek pulled soft giggles from you, making you lift your head to press your lips against his warmly. As the flush of the afterglow slowly ebbed from your skin, the wind whistling through the gaps in the shed’s construction began to steal the warmth from your body, making you shiver yet again.

“Hold on, gorgeous, let’s get you warm.” Curt murmured softly, breathing returning to normal as he helped you rearrange your underwear before re-assembling his trousers.

Tucking you close into his chest, he gathered the coat once more, bundling the pair of you beneath it, making you hum in comfort as you burrowed your head beneath his chin. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he murmured, “sleep” and you found no desire to argue with him.

The next sensation you were aware of was the sound of the padlock rattling outside, a sure sign that Victoire had returned to summon the pair of you – hopefully for breakfast. Shafts of weak light filtered through the numerous gaps in the shed walls as you forced yourself awake, reluctantly but quickly emerging from the warm cocoon of Curt’s arms. Rain was gently but steadily pattering against the roof as you managed to settle onto the floor at his side, the pair of you presenting a quite proper sight to your host as she popped her head in.

“Come inside, there is food, and you can clean up.”

“Thank you, Victoire.” You smiled sleepily as Curt stirred beside you.

Collecting your luggage, you both followed her through the icy drizzle into her warm home that seemed devoid of all guests, only young son playing with some toys on a blanket in the kitchen where she had set out a breakfast hash of canned corned beef and potatoes.

“You spoil us.” You murmured as Curt dug in with a bright if clumsily pronounced ‘Merci,’ making you struggle against the urge to smile fondly.

“You received the worst accommodations last night, therefore you get the best breakfast.” She insisted, pouring two cups of hot coffee substitute which was bitter but warm. “Things seem busy as of late, am I right, Marie?”

Nodding as you swallowed your mouthful, you pointed down the hall as you saw Curt’s plate was empty. “Bathroom is first door on the right, you go ahead.” Turning back to Victoire you sighed heavily. “Incredibly busy, and more dangerous.” You replied in French.

She hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip from her own stained and chipped mug. “I hope you are being safe out there.”

“As much as I can.”

Her son let out a squeal of delight as he crashed one wooden car into another, drawing an exhausted smile from his mother. “At least he will never know.” She murmured, standing to ruffle his hair warmly before cleaning up from breakfast.

Curt returned from the bathroom, clothes changed and freshly shaved.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmured and took your suitcase to do the same, stripping bare to take a bath in the sink with a borrowed washcloth.

Changing the bandage on your nearly healed arm with supplies from your luggage, you then slid into a fresh outfit. Retrieving a silk scarf from the depths of your suitcase, you secured it atop your hair, both as protection against the persistent rain, and to make yourself less recognizable to anyone who might be looking for you. You certainly hoped they were still searching in Bordeaux but were not about to be unnecessarily cavalier about it. You also retrieved the last of your cash reserves from the envelope secured in the zippered portion of your suitcase, transferring it to your handbag. Things really must be coming to an end if this was all you had left.

Stepping back into the kitchen, you felt Curt’s eyes on you, assessing for a moment before he stood from where he had been entertaining Victoire’s son on his blanket. Watching curiously as he shrugged from his leather jacket, that fond smile from earlier stole its way across your face as he pulled on the wool coat – the length of it stretching to his knees and the cuffs covering his hands – before he flipped up the collar, obscuring a great deal of his face but legitimately appearing to be simply warding off the elements. In countless ways he had proven himself to be the easiest of your charges, practically a natural at sneaking his way across occupied Europe, despite your initial sense of his inability to shut his mouth. You were going to miss him.

Doing your best to ignore the way that made your stomach plummet, breath snagging on your emotions as you tried to inhale, you turned to Victoire to wish her farewell.

“Thank you again for the shelter and incredible meal.”

“My pleasure, as always, Marie. Best of luck to you both.”

“You and yours, also.” You nodded firmly, collecting your things.

Curt, as soon as he finished rolling up the overly long sleeves of his coat, did the same, nodding to your host before the pair of you headed out into the rain, shoulders hunching as a natural barrier against the wind. It was a fifteen-minute walk from Victoire’s house to Langon Station – a long building of pink brick and white stone, much more understated than the rest of the stations you had visited thus far on your journey. Damp and tired, you were unspeakably grateful that the Nazi officer on duty barely glanced at your papers, waving you onto the ticket counter where you were relieved to learn that trains were indeed running to Toulouse today.

Once again, the train in service was small, with no private compartments available. Wedging yourself side-by-side with Curt, you pinched the inside of your cheek between your teeth, doing your utmost to ignore the way it felt utterly different to have his body pressed against yours. Rather than sleeping, a glance over at him revealed that Curt was leaning against the window to watch you quietly, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Bowing your head under that love-struck gaze, you swallowed roughly, trying your very best to remain focused on the final leg of your journey for which you were responsible. With numerous stoppages, some on sidings to allow freight trains to pass, some for absolutely no clear purpose, as well as one transfer at Agen, it took nearly the entire day to reach Toulouse.

While it gave the pair of you the opportunity to thoroughly dry out, it also left each of you feeling remarkably hungry by the time you reached ‘Françoise’s’ apartment. As the door swung open, the sight of her cloud of snow-white hair, barely contained in a semblance of a style despite numerous pins, with her shadowy black cat Charbon weaving himself around her ankles, was nearly enough to make you collapse with exhaustion and relief.

“Ah, come in.” She whispered and ushered you both inside quickly, casting a glance around the hallway behind you before firmly shutting the world out with an extensive number of deadbolts and chains. “Marie, welcome. Who is your friend?”

“Curt.” He smiled, setting down his suitcase to offer his hand, which Françoise eyed a moment before shaking with an unusually strong grip for a woman in her sixties.

“You both look ready to fall asleep, go rest and I will find something to feed you.”

“Bless you, Françoise.” You murmured, leading Curt down a short hallway to point out the washroom and showing him into his room. “You can sleep here, keep the curtains closed and your voice down.”

He nodded, eyeing you a moment, but a persistent meow interrupted anything he may have been about to say.

“Yes, Charbon, you can come have a nap with me.” You smirked. “Rest well, Curt.” You turned, the cat trotting happily in your wake into the room next door, hopping up onto the bed expectantly.

You took a few moments to remove most of your clothing before slipping beneath the blankets and fell deeply asleep to the sound of an enthusiastically purring cat. Waking to a stew of beans accompanied with thick slices of a coarse bread, you and Curt devoured all that Françoise could set before you, chatting briefly over cups of tea before you all turned in for the first solid of night of sleep you had enjoyed in weeks. Charbon, of course, spent the night with Françoise who slept with her door open to give him free run of the apartment. Enjoying showers and a filling breakfast the next day, you turned to Françoise to begin planning the last and most physically demanding portion of your journey.

“I will make contact with the Ponzáns, would you be able to acquire two rucksacks for us? We will have suitcases to leave in return.”

Her black eyebrows, hand drawn with a makeup pencil, jumped nearly to her hairline. “Two.” She echoed flatly before retrieving a cigarette from a tarnished silver case. The scent of bitter German tobacco filled the air, a vivid reminder of why you had given up the habit. “Marie, you are leaving.”

It was not a question, but you nodded in answer all the same.

Her mouth twisted in displeasure, the scarlet of her lipstick interrupted by the cracks of age. MI9 liked to call her eccentric, you simply viewed her as a woman who had lived a full life and refused to let the expectations of age dictate how she ought to continue to live now.

“A great loss.” She sighed with an exhale of smoke through her nostrils, tapping the ash into a crystal ashtray, one of many that lived on every surface in her apartment. “Well, it will do no good dwelling, you and I must get to work. I am sure they will ask for a great price to ferry you, however.”

You grunted in agreement, all too certain that Pablo’s eyes would light up in an hour or so. “Hopefully it is not be the crown jewels.” You sighed and a rattling laugh burst forth from her throat.

“Might very well be, Marie.” Her hand with its dry, paper-thin skin patted at the back of yours before she leveraged herself to her feet. “Now, Curt, have you ever washed a dish?”

“No, ma’am, but I am not above trying.” He replied, wrenching his eyes from you and following the woman to the kitchen.

Collecting the dishes from the table, you set them on the counter in the small kitchen before heading to your room to collect your handbag, ensuring your knife and gun were both readily available within. Pausing in the doorway, you took a moment to enjoy the sight of Curt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in the dishpan as Françoise provided stern guidance at his side.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” You said gently, nodding as both of them turned back to you quickly.

“See you soon, dear.” Françoise nodded.

“Be safe.” Curt said firmly, eyeing you intensely, surely in a bid to communicate his desire for you to return without injury, covered in blood, or having shot someone else.

“That is the plan.” You replied reassuringly before slipping back out, pleased to find the rain had ceased.

The walk to the bookstore was remarkably pleasant, though the crisp autumn air drove your hands into your pockets to keep warm. Stepping inside, the bell chiming overhead, you nodded with a friendly smile to the man behind the counter. You did not know his name, nor he yours, but he was a friend of the Resistance. A conduit for the Françoise Line to reach the Ponzán Group to guide downed airmen across the Pyrenees. And now, hopefully not at too great a price, yourself as well.

Perusing the shelves for a time, reading the synopses of a few books before putting them back, you walked up to the counter once you were certain the store was empty.

“Good afternoon. I was wondering if you had any books on Saint Christopher?”

As you spoke, the rack of comic books on display at his elbow caught your eye, the illustration of a boxer prominent on the cover. Momentarily distracted by the thought that you should purchase a copy for Curt, you huffed inwardly at your schoolgirlish distraction, looking to the shopkeeper as he replied.

“That’s a good question. I might have a few options in the back, one moment.” He slipped out from behind the counter to lock the front door before leading you into the back room and down a set of stairs narrowed by stacks of boxes, knocking on the door before it swung inward to reveal Pablo himself.

“Well, well, if it isn’t you.” He nodded dismissively to the shopkeeper before turning back inside the rather well-appointed secret office. Shutting the door behind you, you settled into the seat opposite him as he tilted his head. “What can we do for you and your English friends, Marie?”

“Passage for two across the mountains with proper winter clothing for one and accessories for the other.” You replied cooly, showing that you were unaffected by his attempts to intimidate you.

“Boots too? What sizes are we talking about?” He tilted his head probingly.

Exhaling slowly. “I am not interested in playing games, Pablo. I need the winter clothing. The airman needs just the accessories. I believe he wears an American size 8 or 9 for his boots?”

His eyes glittered hard in the light of the candle on his desk, gaze narrowing greedily. “Run into a spot of trouble with the Vichy, Marie?” He taunted, putting on an infuriatingly poor impression of your upper-class English accent, the one you spoke with thanks to your mother’s tutelage. “Or was it the big bad Gestapo?” He sneered a little before grabbing a piece of paper, writing out a terrific sum of francs and a list of weapons before referring briefly to a leather notebook in his breast pocket before adding a set of coordinates. “Payment and drop location. We will confirm once we have been in receipt.”

“Right.” You replied tersely, tucking the slip of paper into your bag before standing. “Give Francisco my regards.”

“Oh I will, Marie.” Pablo grinned darkly, tenting his fingers as he watched you exit his office.

Climbing back up the stairs, you paused at the counter to purchase a newspaper, grabbing the comic book just as shopkeeper was about to give you the total and passed over the requisite number of francs for both. Taking a moment in the corner of the shop to slide the rather offensive list of demands into the paper, you tucked your purchases under your arm and headed next to a café where you would be able to pass along the Ponzán group’s order to a runner for the wireless operator in the area. Glancing at your watch, you confirmed it was just before noon, and tried not to smile as the young girl was seated in the back corner at her usual table.

Snagging a seat by the window, you ordered a black coffee and perused the comic book, pleased to see that it was most definitely the story of a boxer. Coffee finished, you deposited your payment on the table and made your way towards the bathroom, casually setting the folded newspaper on the girl’s table as you passed by before stepping into the single-stalled washroom. After flushing, you took a moment to tidy your appearance, taking a few breaths before opening the door and retrieving the empty and turned newspaper from the corner of her table, no other patron or staff person even glancing in your direction.

It was a tense walk back to the safety of Françoise’s apartment, being sure to take a circuitous route and triple-check that you were not being followed, before making your way up the stairs just as the woman herself was returning with the two requested packs. Drawing her keys from the pocket of her worn fur coat, she unlocked the numerous deadbolts before ushering you inside. As she locked up behind you, you bent to scoop up Charbon, going to Curt’s door to knock quietly.

“We are back.” You spoke softly through the wood.

It slowly creaked open, and he smiled in relief as he laid eyes on you. “Success?” He murmured and you nodded.

“It is arranged, we shall see if the price is a pill that can be swallowed.”

“For your luggage.” Françoise’s arm thrusted a rucksack between the pair of you, startling Curt before he took it with a nod of thanks. “You two probably need to do laundry now?”

“As always, you are correctly.” You set the cat down, ignoring his meow of protest as you took the other bag. “I can do that. This,” You held the comic out to Curt, “is for you.”

He took it with his other hand and smirked slowly. “Boxing…you remembered.”

Françoise shook her head and trundled down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve the laundry supplies, giving you no chance to discuss your gift to him as you gathered dirty clothes from both suitcases and worked with your host to scrub and rinse and wring for the rest for the day. Once the apartment was sufficiently strung with clothing hung to dry, intimates mercifully relegated to your respective rooms, there was dinner, and then a hushed game of poker at which Françoise mopped the floor with both of you.

The pattern continued thus for several days, Françoise keeping the pair of you busy with chores as you awaited news of a successful drop. Every evening, she would outdrink and outwit the both of you at cards, making you grateful you were only gambling with tokens and not real money. All communication with Curt was forced to be bland, sanitized, safe to be overheard by the English-speaking and ever-present woman whose apartment you were sheltering in. Only brief moments of intense eye contact across the round dining table, covered with its mended lace tablecloth, or a brushing of hands as you worked together in the kitchen to wash and dry the dishes, revealed there was something much more to the pair of you than simple traveling companions.

Retiring to your room after your third night of defeat at cards, you were feeling restless, thoroughly empathizing with animals held in cages against their will. Normally you would be out, walking the streets of Toulouse, scavenging, acquiring, making connections. But now, as a wanted and known person yourself, you too had to stay indoors as much as possible. You had always tried to be patient with your charges but had never truly understood how it felt to be in their shoes until now.

Turning your unsettled energy to more useful pursuits, you set the rucksack on your bed and carefully began to transfer the remnants of your suitcase into it, pausing as you came across the small tin of gun oil, cloth, and bore brush bundled inside a set of thick woollen socks. Setting it on the desk to your right, you finished your task, setting the empty suitcase by the door to turn over to Françoise before changing into your nightgown, a light summer affair without sleeves. Sliding a cardigan overtop of your bare and finally bandage-free, you retrieved your pistol and knife from your handbag settling in to clean your weapons.

Ejecting the clip from the pistol, you stripped it down before working with the bore brush to clean the barrel before applying a few drops to lubricant it. Turning, then, to the action, you ensured it too was cleaned and lubricated before you reassembled the weapon before moving onto your knife. You were nearly finished polishing the blade with a few drops of gun oil when your door suddenly swung open, making you jump to your feet.

“Easy, gorgeous.” Curt whispered, quietly closing the door behind him before turning the handle to let the latch slide home. “Just me.” He stood there clad only in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.

Releasing your knife onto the desk with an exhale of relief, you tilted your head in silent question, watching as he quickly closed the distance between you.

“Can’t stop thinking about you.” He sighed, sliding his arm around your back to pull you close as he kissed you deeply.

Your hands quickly rose to cup his cheeks warmly as you returned his kiss, hoping you convey you were suffering the same, despite your inability to speak at the moment. Guiding you backwards one step at a time, you were saved an uncomfortable collision with the wall as his free hand leaned up against it, ensuring your comfort as his mouth devoured yours. Hands sliding to cup the back of his head, you bit your lip as he began to nip and suck his way down your neck, humming against the expanse of skin exposed by your nightgown. As he encountered the set of buttons trailing down the front of your sleepwear, his fingers began to work at opening them, one by one, hand delving beneath the thin cotton to cup your right breast.

Sighing heavily in delight, you writhed against him, gnawing on your lip savagely as he circled his tongue around your nipple before sealing his mouth around the hardened bud. Curt seemed to be on some kind of personal mission to test your ability to remain quiet, well aware of that open door just down the hall, of neighbours through the adjoining walls, as he fought with the hem of your nightgown to trail his fingers up the outside of your thigh. Eyes meeting yours with lust-blown pupils as he found no underwear blocking his target, he cupped your mound as his mouth shifted to torture your left breast, forcing you to clamp a hand over your mouth as he parted your folds to apply mind-numbing pleasure to your clit.

The hand still clinging to his hair gripped hard as his middle finger slowly slid deep inside you, a sharp ‘merde’ escaping against your palm as you bucked, and he hummed happily against your sensitive flesh. The feeling of his ring finger joining the insistent thrusting, his thumb continuing its circling pressure, had your head rolling back and forth against the wall, desperately trying to swallow your sobs of pleasure or at the very least smother them against your hand.

“C’mon gorgeous, let me feel you.” He panted against your sternum, pleading once more with the addition of your name before pressing his lips against your skin hotly.

Hips bucking sharply against him, you were helpless not to oblige, clenching rhythmically around his fingers in release. Working you through it until he felt your body slacken against his, Curt then pulled his digits from you carefully, only to make a show of slowly licking them clean, your thighs pressing together quickly as your heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. The instant his mouth was free, you grasped his jaw and pulled him in for a hungry kiss. Pressing closer, he began to slide the hem of your nightgown high above your hips. Sensing his intentions, you quickly reached out to push down the waistband of his boxers, lifting one leg to wrap about his hips.

Pulling back from your lips, his eyes bore into yours as he rocked forward, driving his length home into your warmth. Eyes rolling back into your head, you clung to his shoulders but gasped as he suddenly hiked your second leg to wrap around him, pinning you against the wall with a cocky smirk before beginning to thrust in earnest. Drowning your moans in frantic kisses against his lips, you clutched and pulled at the straps of his undershirt, heels digging into cheeks of his ass. Body already sensitive, and his pelvis grinding so enthusiastically against your clit, it did not take long for you to climax once more.

A squeak flew from your lips as he quickly pulled from your body, sliding down the wall slightly as he deprived you of the sensation of his orgasm, his cum spraying across your lower abdomen instead. Though you supposed it was for the best in the end. Lowering one trembling leg and then another, you reached up to grab a clean handkerchief from its position on the drying line nearby, lips twitching fondly as he insisted on taking it from you to gently wipe your skin clean.

“Woulda come sooner…” he smirked briefly but soldiered on, “but that damn cat kept gettin’ in my way.” He finished with a huff.

“Charbon?” You giggled breathlessly, reaching up to smooth his hair which you had put into such disarray. “He is harmless…”

“What does that name mean, anyway?” He asked, crumpling the handkerchief into his fist.

“Charcoal.” You replied quietly, fingertips tracing along his cheekbones affectionately.

“I’ll turn him into charcoal if he tries to keep me away from you again…” He muttered gruffly, lips pressing against the pads of your fingers as they strayed too close to his mouth.

Your eyes widened at the threat against the cat’s life. “Curt!” You admonished half-heartedly before you pressed your face against his chest to smother your resulting laughter.

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

Read Part Five

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick #curt biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #mota smut #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #mastersoftheair #masters of the air

43 notes · View notes