#versailles fanfic it is

[unclefungusthegoat]

I maaaaay be 5500 words deep into my Versailles S4 fanfic now... script formatted, with accompanying visuals and fancast new characters. In my heart, I'd want to write 10 'episodes', and I've got SO MANY ideas written down, but this one has taken me months already. Let's just see how I go hahahaha

[svtoose]

Palace Rendezvous ft. Joshua Hong

pairing: joshua x fm!reader

word count: 1.2k

F : pretty fluffy

warnings: palace au, reader is a worker, kissing

summary: you and josh are two staff members at the palace. how will you keep your relationship a secret?

a/n : i made a banner hehe. ps. I'm sorry if u read this before I proofread bc gosh what was wrong w me!!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"We're going to get caught, Shua." You whisper into his ear. He continues to kiss your neck, moving his lips freely among your skin.

"Please, baby. I can't risk it." You plead. He finally releases you from his arms and frowns at you. You and Joshua both work at the king and queen's palace, but are forced to date in secret cause of a 'no dating' policy for the palace staff.

"I have a dress to sew, and you have a prince to tend to. Don't let the prince find out his right hand man is violating a rule." You whisper against his lips in a teasing fashion. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Before he lifts his lashes, you sneakily slip out of his grip and start speed-walking down the dimly lit hallway.

"This isn't over, Y/N," you hear him threaten as you giggle, continuing on your path to your quarters, where there is a garment waiting for you to complete.

With quick steps, trudge to the basement, fearing your boss's dismay at your tardiness.

"That's two in a row, Miss Y/N," your boss says after you enter the premises. Her eyebrows are raised, and a subtle smirk sits on her lips. It's almost as if she knew what you were doing just a few minutes ago.

"I apologize. I'll be extra early tomorrow." You speak guiltily, avoiding eye contact.

As you scurry toward your workplace, her next words make you stop at your place. "It's a boy, I presume. He must be the reason you're always late."

'Oh, no. This could be the end' you think to yourself. Is it that obvious? Well, you can't really admit it to your boss. Both you and Josh could get fired and sent home. Worse yet, you guys could be injured in front of all the staff to "set an example."

"No Miss. I just lost track of time while getting ready," you reply to your boss, hoping she believes your lies.

"Sure, you did. Just get to work."

You nod your head and quickly walk to your station, continuing to pin the hem of a dress you're working on. The gown is sheer pink, with an intricately embroidered bodice and a tulle skirt. It's absolutely perfect for the 16-year-old princess. It's definitely one of your more extravagant pieces.

Your hands steadily prick needles into the ragged hem of the dress as your boss walks around, critiquing and admiring your and the rest of the girls' work.

She finishes her rounds and takes a seat beside your isolated workspace as you mentally prepare yourself to be berated some more. Your boss was a kind woman in her fifties, but she did not appreciate any misconduct. Nobody ever wanted to be on her bad side.

"Exquisite Miss Y/N. Very elegant. I'm sure the princess will be delighted. Do you plan on adding straps?"

"Thank you. Yes, I do. I could also leave it strapless, but I know the princess prefers the support."

"Perfect then." She's about to leave before she pauses and looks at you.

"Miss Y/N. I know you know there are rules about personal affairs in the palace.

"I'm not having any personal affairs." You cut her off, lying through your teeth. You are usually not this abrupt, but the anxiety of her finding out about your relationship is surely terrifying.

"A chance to finish, Miss?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

"You're a terrible liar, you know. As I was saying, I know there's a boy. I know you're scared right now that I might get you in trouble. But I'm not looking to ruin your life. As long as it doesn't interfere with the quality of your work, which it obviously hasn't, then there's nothing to report. Even if the queen were to find out, she's a complete sucker for a good love story. She would be more than glad to turn a blind eye. And as for the king, he barely notices the staff. I'd be surprised if he knew my name. All I ask is that you come on time so you don't raise any suspicions among the rest of the staff. Does that sound reasonable?"

Do you hear her right? You and Shua won't have to worry about it anymore.

"It sounds far better than reasonable. Thank you so much. I promise I won't let you down, and I'll be on time from now on."

"Alright then. I'm glad this could be resolved. Get back to work. The dress is due in a few hours." She winked at you and walked away to her own station.

'I've got to tell Josh the news!' you think to yourself.

Though you are quite distracted for the duration of the work day, you successfully complete the dress, straps, and all. You quickly hang the completed garment on a rack and speed your way to your room, where you hope to freshen up for your date with Joshua.

You remove your hair tie, allowing your locks to lay freely, before you swipe a sheer shade of rouge over your lips. 'He's going to be so happy.'

You take steady steps toward the rooftop, where you know Josh will be awaiting you, imagining the smile that will adorn his face after you share your news with him.

After a few seconds, a beautiful scene reveals itself. Your dear boyfriend stands against the railing, admiring the acres of green that are accompanied by the sunset.

"Shua?" You call out with a peaceful smile on your lips.

He perks up, turning around to walk toward you with open arms. No matter how many times you see him in his uniform, it never fails to take your breath away; the suit is just tailored so perfectly to his frame.

"C'mere, sweetheart." He calls you in for a warm embrace, while you just cannot wipe the smile off your face.

"What's got you so happy?" He asks, releasing you from the hug. You grab his hand and walk back to the railing, pulling him behind you. While his arms enclose you as you both stare out into the sunset, you begin to reveal the news.

"I was late to work today... and..." He lays his chin on your shoulder, leaving sweet pecks on your neck.

"Well, my boss had an inkling that I was with a boy and told me that... it was okay. She wouldn't tell anyone we were together as long as I came on time." You feel his kisses pause as he lifts his head.

"Does that mean..."

"Yes, Josh. We don't have to fear for our lives anymore. We can be together."

"Oh, baby, that's so great." His arms tighten around you as you turn around to hold his face in your hands. The happiness in the atmosphere is blooming as your lips inch up toward each other in a deep kiss.

"I'm so happy, Josh."

"Me too, Y/N." You turn back around and continue to admire the nature that surrounds the palace. You can just feel it in your bones that life is about to get better.

[reneedenoailles]

The Lonely Fall of a Royal Mistress: a Most Lamentable Tragedie.

pairing: louis x renée (victoire, calculation + official mistress path) fandom: vying for versailles length: 5148 words. (or so) genre: angst, tragedy, a bit of horror. tw: misogyny, physical violence, murder, VERY negative talk of pregnancy, overall very depressing ending. also louis's an unfaithful cunt (unshockingly) & françois enables his behavior

warning: this is kind of a sequel to they behead valets, don't they ? so while not necessary i would suggest reading that first. also massive vfv spoilers all throughout the fic

🎵: return to versailles - joshua kyan aalampour

Versailles, 1677. 10 years after Season 3.

Looking outside the window, Victoire sighed.

Versailles was beautiful, as it always was, and so was the King, but… the sun shining was not enough for her. Summer at Versailles was always beautiful, but it was also, strangely enough, the time where she felt the saddest - even as a child, she was not much of a sunflower, and more of a winter rose.

Summer at Versailles had been her main source of entertainment, but of course, that was all before 1667. The year Queen Maria Theresa died, and Victoire entered a morganatic marriage with the King. Publicly, of course, she was still the Official Mistress, but almost no one believed that.

Victoire herself believed she would be happy with this position, but to her dismay, it only isolated her from the court more. Sure, she had an almost stainless reputation… But at what cost ?

She could tell the way the other courtiers looked at her. The lecherous looks men gave her as they fantasized about what kind of services she could perform for the King, or the hypocritical looks the women threw her way, as if they wouldn't abandon their children's cribs to hop into the King's bed if they had the chance to do so.

Her friends barely told her anything. She could not attend their parties, and when they showed up at hers, they made a show of exchanging with the hostess as little as possible. This position that she has been longing for so long felt… ostracizing. Like she had moved from the heart of the court to its edge. As if she had become a bystander in her own reign.

"Mademoiselle?"

She turned - seeing her maid walk in, as she understood. It was time to dress for the day. After being assisted with putting on a silver gown, she wordlessly handed the maid a small purse of money and dismissed her. She moved to the basin, putting water on her face - immediately jumping back at what she saw.

A woman in the mirror was staring at her. Silver dress, hair left loose on one shoulder… But it was not Victoire. No. It was none other than Louise, staring at her in the mirror with a smile. Her first reflex was to grab her hairbrush and scream, throwing it at the mirror. She was haunted by these sorts of "visions" since her "wedding" with Louis.

As she stepped back, she looked briefly at the shattered remains of her mirror, hastily taking off her dress, almost tearing it to shreds, as if she were desperate to get it off her skin, and undoing her hair, sitting on her bed, arms wrapped around her body.

After a while of staying like this, she waited until she calmed down, taking a more… respectable pose before ringing a bell to call her maid back in.

"I would like for you to bring a new dress." She ordered, not even looking at her maid as her head turned in her direction, her voice getting sharper. "You should think twice about what kind of garments would flatter your mistress. Another mistake of this kind and I will make sure you're removed." The young maid meekly nodded, quickly walking out, and back in, to help her mistress put on a illustrious golden gown. And yet, in Victoire's eyes - that gold was nothing if not rotten. Bloody. Empty.

The maid's movements were fast, as if the slightest wrong move could risk angering the Official Mistress, and thus make her leave Versailles forever. Victoire had developped a reputation for cruelty -mildly induced by her own paranoia, and her lack of… companionship, one could say.

Walking out, Victoire painted her usual smile over her face, trying to shadow her thoughts - adjusting her hat. What a sunny day it was today. Down the Grand Canal, as the party of the day was going on - as usual, of course. Her black eyes tried to pierce through the crowd, but to no avail. No sign of her Louis. As appropriate, she joined her retinue, up until…

"Is something wrong, my dear?"

She asked one of her ladies in waiting, who seemed only halfway focused on the ongoing conversation and instead, seemed more preoccupied with what was happening behind the Duchess, biting her lip in fear. She then looked into her mistress's eyes, looked back into the direction where her eyes had been oriented, and silently nodded to Victoire towards where she had been looking.

And that's when she turned around, and saw them. Louis - on a float, with… This new ingenue, named Angélique. She had arrived to court some months ago, and he already had spent some time with her at her formal introduction, or on other occasions. She always felt suspicious, and blamed it on merely his courtesy, but now… They were together. On a float. That could not be his mere mirthfulness causing him to naturally be courteous to young women. It was more than that.

Victoire felt herself silently burn with anger, noticing everyone else's eyes on her, trying to see what she would make of this. She was usually calm, calculated, and always had some courtly sentence to win over a situation. Yet now, all she did was step forward. And as they walked down from the float, she could see the way he looked at her.

He had a very familiar kind of smile. That winning smile, the smile he has whenever he's 'hunting'. As soon as she saw that smile, Victoire felt herself burn, marching towards the float and slapping that ingenue right in the face, causing an almost unanimous gasp across the court, her black eyes giving Louis a glare, as if she were telling him he was next.

The King, however, was not happy about this, wrapping his arm around this newcomer.

"Mademoiselle de Noailles, your behavior is unacceptable."

Was all he said, but it was more than enough.

But she could not cry. No. She was not Louise - she was better than that ! She was! And yet when she looked around, all she could see were…

Smiles. Cruel ones. As if the whole court was silently wishing for her to be put in her place so publicly by the King.

She curtsied.

She humiliated herself like this, by accepting the King's will. What she vowed to never do - stoop so low to her own values - and yet, here she is. Curtsying before a man unfaithful to her, curtsying before a court of vipers, hoping for her downfall. Curtsying before her old friends whose goals collided with her ambitions.

"Yes, my Liege." She spoke, voice almost muted due to her anger, backing away with three curtsies before she turned around, shoving aside one of her ladies-in-waiting so she could go back inside.

Locking the door to her chambers, she angrily sat down on her bed, letting some tears come out - this wasn't the first time this happened, either.

Versailles, 1672. Five years earlier.

After a masquerade, Victoire felt like taking a stroll down the Grotto of Thetys, smiling to herself as she wondered if she would find her beloved waiting for her there - at their little spot, one could call it. But what she saw was beyond anything she had imagined.

Louis was there, yes, but… He was not alone. He had someone with him.

A woman with whom he seemed to already be very close, kissing her neck as his hands travelled up her skirts, lifting her legs to wrap them around his waist.

"HOW DARE YOU ?!"

Victoire was suddenly overcome by this atrociously green feeling known as jealousy, so… unsophisticated, unmirthful, and yet, so painfully human that it hurt her. Louis moved away his mistress to protect her as Victoire ripped away his mask, almost threatening to do the same to his face.

"Mademoiselle de Noailles, your behavior is unbecoming."

He spoke sternly, as if she were a child who was misbehaving at the dinner table. But she could not take this, screaming at him before she pushed her face in his chest, beating with her fists helplessly, crying. She felt humiliated. He had managed to make her break her promise - that no man would ever reduce her to this weak state.

He did not bother holding her, though. He stood still, looking down at her with disappointment, hiding his shock. She had always been so calculated with everything she did, pushing raw emotion away as much as she could.

She continued to cry against his chest, looking up at him as her hands stopped their fighting.

"Go." Was all he said to her. Not even bothering to look at her with the slightest affection or understanding - looking at her sternly.

Just like he looked at Louise.

Versailles, 1677. Present day.

A bright laugh suddenly broke out.

"Can't there be more than two people in a marriage?" A voice rang out suddenly, accompanied by a cold hand placed upon her shoulder. She suddenly moved away, turning around as her eyes squinted in shock.

A ghastly, pale Maria Theresa smiled at her eerily. But it was not a sympathetic smile - not at all, it was a mocking smile. The kind of smile the courtiers threw Victoire behind her back.

"And what exactly did you expect would happen ?" She asked, whispering - and yet, that whisper sounded almost like screaming to Victoire's ears. She laughed, before continuing.

"He was not faithful to me, nor to Louise. Did you… Did you truly think he would be faithful to you of all people?" She grinned even more, before laughing again. She was mocking her. "Victoire - you are so naive ! And I thought you were smart."

The Mistress turned away from her. She did not want to answer, but... That was the start of her issues with Louis. Her innocent eyes going to prying ones, seeing any woman approaching him as a possible threat, whether they would be ladies of the court, maids, or even actresses who occasionally came by Versailles.

In a way, she had been naive. Too naive. Childish, even. Thinking that she of all people could keep a man such as the King within her reach.

Once she turned around again, Maria had disappeared already, which led to Victoire letting out a long breath, moving to look at herself in the shattered remains of the mirror installed in her room, to make sure the Official Mistress could admire herself for as long as she wanted. How ironic this was, looking at herself in a broken mirror.

Her gentle, yet firm hands ran down her down to her stomach. In her 12 year long reign as Official Mistress, she had not given the King an heir. Unlike… others. But the mere thought of having to birth a child -- it repulsed her, it was an atrocious idea. Why was she cursed with this… duty?

But her position had not just cursed her to such bodily functions. It gave her a place in history. What would people think of her? The Royal… Whore ? One of Louis XIV's women? The extravagant woman who was sent away after asking for too much? No.

No. NO. She refused to be remembered as this - as the woman who got what she deserved after expecting an unfaithful King to stay by her side. She was not some crying Louise, or some gossiping Montespan. She was better than that !

She let out a huff, moving away from her reflection as doubts began to cloud her mind. As she looked out the window - she could see old scenes from years ago play out right there. And that's when she saw him. François - which was quite odd, he was never a truly present figure at court, so for him to show up, that means… The King must have needed advice. But what kind of advice would he need that he could not ask his beloved wife for ?

Her thoughts began to rush faster than they usually did, as she watched François walk through Versailles - considering his relationship with Louis, he was most likely to not tell her anything. So, she took matters into her own hands, and slipped into a secret passage, waiting for the best friends to meet in the King's bedroom.

The conversation was fluid, chatting about usual court affairs - Victoire was about to leave, until the conversation began to spin towards Louis's love life. Her ears felt hot as she heard what the men were saying about her…

"I married her, François. In a secret ceremony."

"It can be annuled." He suggested, the mere thought filling Victoire with a burning rage. Annuled ? "It can't be proven you married her, after all." Proven ? Was that all that mattered when it came down to marriage ? Some silly documents ? Not the love between two people ?

"François, I must… I must find a way to send her away. Perhaps she can go to a nunnery, like Louise…"

That is when Victoire, in shock, stepped back until she felt the wooden wall of the secret passage against her backside. Getting her breath under control, she went back to spying on the two.

"Any pretext is good. Adultery, witchcraft, infertility - what good is she, if she cannot give Christian France a political heir ?" François asked, which made Victoire recoil in disgust. Was this all she was good for ? What her womb could birth? Comparing her to some… farm animal, whose goal is to breed lambs to the slaughter? Versailles - how animal-like it all was.

"You are right, my friend. Besides…" This sudden suspense caused her to hold her breath - as if she hadn't heard the worst yet, as if there was worse coming. And it came out.

"Angélique… She is pregnant." He revealed. Victoire could not stand it anymore, rushing back to her room and angrily knocking everything she could over, falling to her knees and sobbing. Is this all she deserved ? Being thrown away for her lack of a natural sense of motherhood ? For her occasionally egregious temper ? For influencing the King's decisions ?

These men - what right did they have over her bodily autonomy? Who did they think they were ? She was not a pin-box - or a doll for them to control, to tell her what to wear, how to move… And she was sick of them acting as if she were.

It was drastic, but she had to do it. She refused to let herself be sent away, be paraded for this court of snakes like Cleopatra would have been, had the asp not bitten her breast. A green - no, black bitterness ran through her, stopping in her throat, as if she were ready to throw up black blood, picturing how she was going to put an end to her lover's life.

She felt sorry for him. But she, the Duchess of Marly, would not take this disrespect - this humiliation.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, she slipped them inside of her dress's pocket - sewing pockets into her dresses is a habit she never lost, after all, even though the one who taught her that was gone - and made her way through the secret passages, her mind furiously spinning. Part of her was still unable to grasp the current events, after all - he had been everything to her. Her beloved, her Lord, her one and only. The Sun in court, and the Sun in her heart, too. Louis held the whole of France in his palm, and along with it, he held Victoire's heart.

But his once gentle palm turned into an iron grip, and crushed said heart as it bled for him. And Victoire couldn't forgive this. She couldn't live with herself. Can you imagine ? What would history books say of her ? She cried like a second Louise as she went to the nunnery ? She knew better, she knew her worth...

Her feet made their way to Louis's room, silently entering the room from a secret door - hearing certain... sounds, very, very familiar ones. Painfully familiar ones - his voice, his groans, his quick chuckles as he felt the skin of his beloved. It hurt her to hear him, each step she took made a piece of her heart break. But she could not afford being weak now - it was about her survival. She was, after all, a de Noailles. Survival ran in their blood, even though her uncle paid the price for his attempts at surviving. And she knew that they would not both make it out alive. It was going to be either her, or Louis.

One step. Two. Three. Hand slowly moving to take the scissors out of her pocket, mouth moving into a scowl as she felt her head burning with so many emotions at once - rage, jealousy, disappointment, shame, guilt, sadness. All those instances, all those circumstances that pushed her to do this.

And that's when she lost all control.

As her lover and his other mistress kissed, Victoire felt sick. How could he do this ? To her ? What had she done to deserve this ? She raised her arm and rushed, but before she realized, her target had changed. Somehow, Angélique had taken notice of her, and as an attempt to shield the king, she had shoved him.

And she paid the price. As she was striking, Victoire lowered her arm, which ended right in Angélique's stomach. Her brows furrowed, staring right at where she struck before she wordlessly moved her blade across the other's stomach, striking one specific part.

Her womb. The one thing she had that Victoire could not give the King, the thing that led his eyes away from her. In a rage-filled movement, she struck the blonde woman's womb again, and again, and again. As if she wished to destroy not only her, but also any parasite living in her stomach. She sadistically destroyed it, mad with jealousy, before pulling the scissors out.

The other woman fell dead onto the ground, and as Victoire was about to strike the King next - she suddenly saw something that stopped her dead in her tracks.

On the ground, instead of the woman she stabbed... She saw something horrifying.

It was a dead, stabbed version of... herself. Her face was pale, her black eyes rolled back as blood poured out of her mouth, and of her womb, making Victoire back away as she put her hand over her mouth and dropped her bloody weapon, the red fluid on her hands staining her once cold, impassive face.

Looking back up at reality, she saw a hand with red nails on Louis's shoulder. It was a woman with black curls running down her shoulders, in a red and white costume, blood on her neck as her red lips curled into a mocking smile. Madame de Montespan, or at least, what remained of her ghost, opened her mouth, laughing... Laughing at Victoire.

The laughter intensified, as she saw Maria Theresa again, kneeling above the corpse... which was Victoire's. She instinctively checked her stomach, but she didn't seem to have been stabbed... The Duchess raised her head again, only to feel surrounded. Louise had joined in the laughter, which was unbearable. She was losing her mind. She was going insane - putting her hands over her ears after throwing her knife away, blood getting in her hair and on her head.

The man looked horrified, taking one step at his beloved's dead body. In his brown eyes were so many emotions - pain, hurt, anguish, hopelessness and yet, fury. Anger. Rage. He couldn't even recognize the woman who stood in front of him, his own wife.

"How..." He spoke, stepping closer, maintaining his composure as King, as much as he wanted to mourn his lover.

"How could you ?"

How could she ? How could SHE ? How could HE ?! He was going to send her away without a care, ready to annul their marriage, kissing all those memories between them goodbye ! She had no choice. His... His willingness to behave as if she were the sole villain made her sick, taking one step closer to him. As she raised her voice, those ghosts disappeared, as if regaining her sanity for one moment.

"How could I ?" She repeated, as if to confirm what she was hearing, unable to believe he was saying this to her. "You.. How could YOU ?!" She screamed, feeling her control slip away from between her fingers again, but knowing it was too late to care.

"You MADE me do this ! You and your wandering eyes !" She spoke, feeling herself become closer and closer to sobbing. "You were going to send me to a nunnery ! You have NO right to do this !"

Louis stood still, face dropping once he realized she had heard his conversation with François. "My pearl.." He spoke, hoping she would hear reason - his reason, at least - but she did not.

"Your pearl ? Your pearl whose marriage you were going to ANNUL ? Your pearl who you abandoned for.. this ?! Your pearl.. Ha !" She couldn't even stop herself from laughing, the irony not lost on her.

"Your pearl..." She laughed, aware of how demented she looked in his eyes right now, laughing at this entire scene. The corpse laid there, this entire scene reminding Victoire of a theatre stage. She had stabbed a young woman, in cold blood, for a man who she now realizes never truly loved her. How ridiculous this all was - how insane she looked.

"So did you ever love me ?" She asked, a part of her knowing the answer already. "I did. I.. I do." He responded, although that last part was much more quiet than the start of the answer.

He loved what she was. What she could be. The roles she could play, the masks she could wear. She was a passing fancy that he once enjoyed, and that he now tired of.

"..I'm sorry, Victoire." He spoke, calling for his guards to take her away. She briefly looked at the window, before she was finally taken away. She had not resisted - it would have been futile. What could she do, anyway ?

Women are caught all the time. She was no expection.

---

Versailles, 1668. Nine years earlier.

"Victoire... My sanctuary of answers, my Helen of Troy, my sweet pearl of heaven. You have been with me for four years now, and you have supported me in my every endeavor. My love..."

He spoke, as she looked at him, breathless, wearing a golden wedding gown that the King selected just for her, holding his hands as he wore his silver suit.

"Will you be Madame de France, next to the King of France ? Will you rule the heart of the world with me ?"

"I will." She spoke, tears running down her face of happiness once he kissed her, celebrating their marriage by themselves. No one else had been invited, besides a priest, and her maids.

"I cannot imagine of a time where I would tire of you." He spoke, smiling at her.

"Long may I reign with you by my side." He whispered to her, before adding ;

"I appreciate you, and I always will."

----

La Bastille, 1677. Present day.

Getting thrown into this oh so familiar prison was not as scary as it should be for her. She couldn't feel anything, anything at all. Perhaps it was due to the unlawful nature her everyday actions so casually took, maybe she thought she could escape any kind of consequence as she was held up so high in society.

She remembered how scared she used to be, back when she was a young, capable thief, how terrified she was of ending like Marielle, behind bars, for the petty act of stealing bread or pawning jewelry. Yet, now that she in prison for something much, much worse, she...

She couldn't bring herself to feel anything. As if it was all a bad dream that would go away soon. She didn't even hear the guard, or de Montlezun's son talking to her, she wasn't even looking at them. She was lost, memories flashing before her eyes.

The day went by all by itself. Her last day alive - she could barely even believe it. But it was set, and nothing could change it. Soon, the sun set, reminding her of how close the end of her life was. And sooner than later, she fell asleep.

Victoire opened her eyes to a… strange scene. It was dark, she was in the woods. And that is when she realized she could not move. Raising her head, her eyes squinted a few times, making out the shape of 3 women wearing black, dancing around her, their faces covered by veils.

She struggled a bit more - coming to the conclusion that her hands were tied to what ressembled a stake. Her head raised to look at the night sky, which she expected to be lit by stars. Instead, to her astonishment, it was pitch black. She felt the cold air blow onto her exposed shoulders, noticing she was wearing her prisoner garb, long black hair loose.

The mysterious women's laughter got quieter, her attention now taken by footsteps approaching. An equally mysterious woman made her way to her, clearly dressed better than the others, holding a crown. Two of the women took away her veil, and Victoire almost choked upon seeing who it was.

That very same ghastly version of Maria Theresa, black blood dripping from between her lips as she seemed to hand Victoire the crown. The woman inclined her head, despite not wanting to do that, as if her body was actively working against her.

As soon as the crown was on her head, it began to feel heavy - as if it were crushing her from above, feeling… blood drip down her head. She frantically looked around, trying to say something - anything - and yet, nothing came out of her mouth. She was reduced to silence, as the women revealed themselves.

Louise. Françoise-Athénaïs. Bonne. All of them were however distorted versions of their real life counterparts - Françoise-Athénaïs's head was swaying from one side to another, and Bonne's skin was scarred from the hellish fate she suffered, on Victoire's order.

Oh so suddenly, a strange smell rose up to her nose - blood running down her clothes as she looked down, seeing flames rise at her feet. Looking up, she realized that all of the women held torches - which they weren't holding one second ago. Before she could assess that thought, screams came out of her throat, screaming as the fire rose, the flames of Hell taking her back within their own, while a pair of male hands wrapped around her neck from behind, a deep, velvety laugh ringing in her ears.

And that is when she woke up.

Alone.

She wasn't dead, of course, but the events leading up to that nightmare were all real - as if they could be otherwise. No, that would have been too easy. A very long nightmare she had after dancing with the King, during her first night at Versailles, back in 1665.

No. That would be an easy way out - a salvation, for her. Salvation comes for no one. Not even for Victoire de Noailles.

Outside of her jail cell in the Bastille, Victoire could hear faint sounds of people flirtatiously laughing, sharing wisdom and witty remarks, bathing in conversation. Were they faint sounds coming from the court of Versailles ? Were they all in her head ? Was this the crowd coming to watch that very same head fall off, after they had spent so much time wishing, praying, impatiently waiting for her downfall ?

She got up and turned around her cell, pacing in a circular motion, looking around. Time passed. Once she got tired, she let herself sink to the ground, back against the wall. And she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And kept waiting.

No one had come. No one had tried to visit her - to speak to her, to at least wish her good luck, or even tell her to go to Hell one last time. No one had come.

Why would they? She was a poisoner, an attempted regicide, a witch, a lowly, deranged, wicked woman. After a while, Victoire began to feel her vision getting blurry. Blurry with tears - marks of sadness running down her face as she finally screamed, hoping that someone would hear her.

But no one did.

She was raw - stripped of everything besides her emotions, letting them out as she threw herself at the bars in a desperate attempt to… She didn't even know anymore. All she could do was cry, and scream at everything.

Scream at Alexandre, who brought her into this snake den and left her to her own means as he tried to steal her influence and take credit for all she's done. Alexandre, who she framed as a poisoner, and barely felt regret about, as he would have done the same if it meant rising in popularity in the eyes of his beloved King.

Scream at Louis, who caused her to do this, with his wicked, wandering eyes. He never loved her. He loved her masks, who she could pretend to be at his demand. Who she always pretented to be - the actress with a neverending part. The queen with a paper crown and a painted smile. Damn him. Damn all of tthem !

And she screamed. At the world, who condemned her father, her mother, herself. At this so-called "merciful" God, who doomed her, and her entire lineage, to horrid lives made of deception, pain and ruin. To this God, who gave her everything, only to strip her of it at the last minute. To this God, who punished her, and yet, did not touch Louis at all, as if He Himself had been afraid of the Sun King. Perhaps He simply enjoyed feeding this mortal's delusions that he was God on Earth, and was simply tormenting Victoire as He tormented the women of His entourage.

She mused on that thought. God and Louis being quite similar, but for different reasons that one might think. But those sudden, fleeting musings only brought a smile to her face for a few seconds. They did not stop the tears from running down.

Her red-rimmed eyes could not stop themselves, finally feeling free, in this sinister, drastic, and desperate self-expression of her emotions. She screamed, as she imagined all she could have done, had she never gotten close to him. Finally, all masks were removed, all skin was shed, now she lay in her prison garb, bare for anyone to see - if they were to see her.

Perhaps her loneliness brought her comfort. She doesn't know if she could bear the sight of anyone to see her like this. When did she lose herself ? As she was in her final moments, she seemed to find herself again, and it felt like the rest of her was laughing at her, or pitying her.

All she could do was wait.

No one had visited. And no one ever would.

Until she heard the door unlock, and her name be called to face the crowd outside.

[angelasscribbles]

What Once Was

Fandom: Vying for Versailles (Romance Club)

Rating: Teen

Warnings: none

Summary: Renee married someone else. But what happens when Alexandre comes back into her life?

“Madame, you have a visitor.”

Renée looked up from her writing desk curiously. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. “Who is it, Beatrice?”

Beatrice had served Renee since she had first set foot in Versailles all those years ago. She had risen from lady’s maid to maîtresse d'hôtel. Her duties now involved overseeing all the other household servants at Chateau de Marly.

“It’s Monsieur Bontemps, Madame.”

The door to the study swung wide as the mistress of house backed away, revealing Alexandre, his fingers twisting nervously at the hat clasped in his hands.

Renee rose from her desk with surprised delight and swept across the room to greet him with a hug. “Alexandre! This is a pleasant surprise! Wait….” She drew back with a worried crease across her brow, “Is all well? The king—”

“The king is fine, Madame.”

Her good mood faltered as her eyes tracked his face noting the agitation in his stance. Very little rattled the king’s spymaster. “Then why are you here?”

“I was hoping we could have a private conversation.” His eyes darted around the room. “May I come in?”

“Certainly, but I think we would be more comfortable in the small sitting room.” She stepped out of the study and led him down the hallway to the smallest of the sitting rooms. It was cozy, plush, and private.

She gave Beatrice instructions to send a maid in with tea service then she shut the door. Turning back to him, she crossed her arms and studied him closely.

He was fidgety, clearly wound up about something, which was completely out of character for him. She couldn’t help the smile that crawled across her face as she took in his agitation. “Do I still make you nervous, Alexandre?”

“You do have a way of knocking my equilibrium off balance, Madame.” He gave her a small smile.

The affection and heat in his gaze sent butterflies exploding through her stomach. “That is good to know, Monsieur.”

He arched an eyebrow skeptically, “You think me indifferent to you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I could never be indifferent to you.” The pure, undisguised longing on his face sent shivers cascading down her spine.

There was a brief lull in their conversation as the tea was served. Renee watched the maid retreat as she stirred her tea. With her eyes focused on the cup in her hand, she softly said, “You should have stayed.”

“Renee…I couldn’t stay in close proximity to you knowing I could never touch you again.”

She glanced up at him and her tone was sharp as she told him, “Those were the choices you made.”

He sighed as he carefully sat his cup on the table. It was the same argument they’d had before he had left for Geneva to serve the king’s interest in Switzerland. “You didn’t choose me.”

“I did. I simply didn’t choose only you,” she reminded him. “And it’s not like you were ever going to marry me anyway.”

“A spymaster—”

“I know. Believe me, I remember all your excuses.”

“They weren’t excuses.”

“Weren’t they?”

He didn’t answer. He had told her that they could never be a couple. He hadn’t had a noble title back then and his work made it almost impossible to conduct a love affair. But when she had accepted a proposal from the Prince du Sang, it had felt like a knife plunged into his heart.

He drew in a deep breath and decided to tell her the truth. “There’s something you don’t know, Renee. I did approach Louis about a possible match. The king had been offering to ennoble me for years. I thought, maybe…”

Renee jerked in surprise, nearly spilling her tea in the process, “What?”

“My request was rejected out of hand and when Philippe got down on one knee in front of the entire court a mere day later, I understood why.”

Louis loved him like a brother. But Philippe was his brother. And he had probably asked first. The prince was a better match for her anyway. He knew that.

Renee quickly sat her cup down and tried to quell the shaking in her hands. “Alexandre…why didn’t you tell me?”

“After witnessing firsthand your pure joy at accepting another man’s proposal? What would have been the point?” He had, instead, determined to keep his distance from her.

And yet when their paths crossed, he had found that he still could not resist her. “Do you remember that night in Paris, right before your wedding?”

Madame de France, princess, duchess, and marquise did not blush easily, but her cheeks colored at the reminder. “Of course I do. But why are you bringing that up? Why are you bringing any of it up now?”

“Pardon?”

“Why discuss these things now? After all this time?”

“Ah, yes.” And here was the reason for his visit. “Do you remember when you told me that you would recognize me anywhere?”

“Yes. And you said the same. What does that have to do with why you’re here?”

“Only that I by chance saw you last time I was in Paris on the king’s business. I only saw your profile as you climbed into your carriage, but I knew it was you.”

“And you didn’t think to say hello?”

“I started to but then I saw your son.”

“Louis-Philippe?”

“Yes. One of the servants handed him up into the carriage to you and I got a clear view of his face, Renee.”

Her heart stopped. “And?”

“And he favors neither the prince nor a certain count that you are overly fond of.”

She ignored his reference to Armand as her heart started to thump even harder. She knew exactly who the child favored but she wasn’t going to make this easy on him. Her hands and her voice were steady as she looked him directly in the eye. “What are you asking me, Alexandre?”

“Is he….is he mine?”

She jumped up from her seat and stalked across the room to stare out the window. After a long pause, she replied, “You are not a father in the way that Philippe is. You do not tuck him into bed at night nor ease his fears when the thunder booms. He does not know you.”

He stood and followed her across the room, resting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

Without turning to look at him, she whispered, “Yes, he was conceived that night in Paris.”

Alexandre’s world tilted on its axis. He had known, of course, the moment he had seen the child’s face. But to have confirmation…. He dropped his hand and stepped away from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Anger flared through her as she spun to face him and flung his own words back at him. “What would have been the point? You ran away from me fast enough the moment you didn’t like my choices.”

“But a child, Renee!”

“By the time I knew I was with child, I was already married! What would you have had me do? Put it in a letter so your enemies could use it against us both? You well know how easy it is to intercept correspondence.”

He nodded in acquiescence. He could not fault her logic. “And the Prince du Sang... does he….”

“Philippe knows. He does not care.”

“I find that hard to believe, Madame.”

“Did you think we were cuckolding him every time we were together?”

“Well…”

“I told you, before he even proposed, what our arrangement was!”

“Yes, but I—”

“You what? You thought I was lying?” She stepped closer. So close she could smell the vanilla and cardamom scent that always clung to him. So close that she could feel the heat radiating from him, sense the tension in his body, “I may lie to everyone else in service to my king and my country, but I have never lied to you nor him! I do not lie to the people that I love.”

Alexandre froze, shock, pleasure, and disbelief coursing through him at her words. She loved him?

Oblivious to his reaction to her unintentional confession, she plowed on. “And your assertation that I would have divided loyalties was preposterous! My loyalty to my husband would never put me at cross purposes with you, Alexandre and you know it! Philippe loves his brother and is loyal to him. Furthermore, I do not tell him everything that I know or that I do. He understands and respects the need for discretion when it comes to my duties as a spymaster! He would never ask me to betray—”

“Alright! Alright!” He held both hands up in surrender with a bemused chuckle.

“It’s not funny, Alexandre!” She stood in the middle of the room, just inches from him, cheeks red and chest heaving with emotion.

He was struck nearly speechless by her beauty. She was even more breathtaking when she was angry. How was that possible? He took an involuntary step toward her.

She froze, her eyes trained on him, but she didn’t back away.

He took another step toward her, this one purposeful.

They stood, unmoving, staring into each other’s eyes; two hearts pounding in anticipation. He lifted a hand and reached out for her just as the sitting room door banged open.

“There you are, my love! I—oh! I didn’t realize we had company.” The prince stopped short, causing the chevalier who had been hot on his heels to collide into his backside.

Alexandre jerked his hand back and stepped away awkwardly. “My prince! I…” he executed a low bow. “So lovely to see you again.”

Philippe’s eyes took in the valet’s flushed and guilty expression and then his wife’s stoic demeanor. Renee had not backed away when he entered the room. She had stood her ground. Her ire was evident and he smothered a smile. He understood everything. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Alexandre, but let’s not pretend you came here for me.”

“I….” For the first time in his life, Alexandre was struck completely speechless.

Renee finally moved, closing the distance to greet her husband with a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. She murmured in his ear, “He knows about Louie.”

“Hm,” he hugged her back, but his gaze was trained on his brother’s spymaster.

Renee moved around her husband to greet the chevalier with the same hug and kiss she had just given her husband. “How was grouse hunting?”

“As usual, we didn’t find a single grouse but at least we didn’t end up drunk in a fountain again.” The chevalier laughed at his own joke as he returned her hug. Not a day passed that he didn’t count his blessings.

There had been a time when the king had been adamant that Philippe make a political marriage, likely to some English noblewoman who would expect fidelity from him. He would forever be grateful that Louis had allowed the prince to marry Renee and that Renee had never blinked at the relationship between the two men. Now he practically lived at Chateau de Marly and was both a godfather and cherished uncle to their son. They functioned very well as a threesome and while his whole heart belonged to the prince, he wasn’t completely indifferent to Renee.

He also liked the life they had built together very much so he glared suspiciously at the intruder. “Why are you here, Monsieur Bontemps?”

Finally recovering, Alexander stiffly replied, “I had some…business to discuss with the duchess.”

Renee snorted. “Business? Is that what this is, Alexandre?”

He flushed scarlet which caused the other two men in the room to laugh.

The prince spoke first. “Let’s drop the pretense, shall we? Renee and I have no secrets from each other nor do I keep secrets from the chevalier. His discretion is not in question. You may speak freely. Everyone in this room knows that Louis is your son. So why are you really here?”

“Do you wish to challenge me to a duel, Monsieur?” Alexandre asked carefully.

Philippe looked at him askance. “Why would I do that?”

Alexandre shook his head slowly. “Most men in your position would.” It was dawning on him that Renee had been telling the full truth of the matter. Philippe showed no signs of rage or jealousy.

Of course, it was an open secret at court that his affair with the chevalier never ended, but for most men indulging their own desires did not mean they were tolerant of their wives doing the same.

Philippe’s face broke into a wide smile. “When have you ever known me to be like most men? Come now, stay for dinner and we can discuss everything.”

“As tempting as that sounds…I have some urgent business matters I must attend to tonight. However….”

“Yes?”

“With your leave, I would like to visit the child. As a family friend, of course. I would never disclose the true nature of our relationship to him.”

“You want a relationship with our son?” Renee asked so quietly he almost missed it.

Turning to face her with beseeching eyes he answered her. “If it pleases you, then yes.”

Renee closed her eyes briefly as she fought against the onslaught of conflicting emotions that collided inside her at the thought. When she opened them again, she blinked up at him. “I think I would like that very much.”

Profound relief swirled through him at her answer. He had not known what to expect when he knocked on her door, but things had gone better than he could have imagined. Turning his attention back to Philippe, he asked, “And this is alright with you?”

“It is. You’ll find Louie is a capricious and wild little hellion who delights in his friendships with children and adults alike. I think he’ll be good for you.”

Alexandre barked out a surprised laugh. “He’ll be good for me?”

“Yes….” Philippe drawled out with a mischievous grin. “I think you need to loosen up and he’s just the person to help you do it.”

The king’s valet turned to go but an idea had taken root in his mind and he could not let it go. Turning back he asked, “And your wife?”

“What about her?”

“May I have permission to resume our….friendship?”

“Oh, he wants to court your wife!” The chevalier chortled out loud.

“Monsieur,” Philippe shook his head. “You disappoint me. I thought you understood. You do not need my permission. You need hers.”

Alexandre turned slowly, his heart thudding in his chest. “Madame. I would be most grateful if you would agree to indulge me in a conversation soon. I think we have many things to discuss.”

“For how long?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How long will these discussions go on? When do you leave again?”

He nodded in understanding. “Given today's revelations, and assuming you will continue to welcome me as a visitor in your home, I will start making the preparations to return to my house in Paris immediately and permanently.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then she nodded. “I would like you to get to know our son and I would be open to you and I having a conversation about where we go from there.”

He couldn’t help the smile that crawled across his face. He left the chateau with a spring in his step.

The truth was, he had not been happy since he’d left court shortly after her wedding. He hadn’t thought he could share her, open relationship with her husband or not. But an even larger concern had been his fear of openly loving her, thereby making her a target for his enemies, which were many.

He would never be comfortable being physically affectionate with her in front of others, he was more private than that, but if there was still a relationship to be had with her, there couldn’t be a more perfect cover than her marriage. No one ever had to know what she meant to him, or that he had a child. They could therefore never be used against him.

The thought of rekindling what they once had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time….happiness.

It was entirely possible that things had worked out for him after all.

[agattthaa]

Loyalty

Paring: Maria Theresa/Renée De Noailles

Word count: 1.542

Rating: T

(Mentions of murder)

Summary: Renée's loyalty laid with Maria Theresa and with no one else

Tagging: @rc-catalog

-I fear I don't understand what you mean, Monsieur.

-What is there to not understand, Mademoiselle? I just pointed out that Madame Scarron's death was very sudden. She was a young woman, healthy… Her death was very sudden indeed..

-It was indeed a fatality, Monsieur Le Roi. What I fail to understand is why did you call only me and Alexander to talk about Madame Scarron's early death.

The King paced around the room, sometimes, stopping to look to either Alexander, who stood on the side of his throne or to look at Renée, who stood in front of it. He was restless ever since the news of the death came out. It was clear to everyone to see that he craved for her, and now he looked more like a child who was denied a toy than he really wanted.

Meanwhile, Alexander stood perfectly still, his eyes never leaving the woman's face. She could feel him analyzing every single thing she said, the way she standed and even the way she looked at the King. She could feel the judgment and untrust in the air, and it only got worse when the doors of the throne room bursted open.

Maria Theresa walked in the room as if the entire castle was her own, and she looked ethereal. She was completely left out of any political affair and to Renée it was clear that she had no intention of changing that, especially after her own husband declared war against her country. Yet, there she was. Standing like an immovable object between Renée and the King, like an entire wall, whose only objective was to keep Renée safe.

She hadn’t even looked at her lover, only stopping in front of her and staring at the king with a look of absolute defiance. She had never looked so beautiful.

Four guards stood on the open door looking between the queen's back and the king's perplexed face.

-Your majesty. I apologize. I know that you ordered no one to disturb you, but her majesty…

-There is no problem. Let us be.

His annoyance was even more clear. He was upset before, got more upset when his wife invaded the room, and now that she stood before Renée with a completely defensive stance, he was furious.

-I believed we already had an agreement about Mademoiselle De Noailles's stand as my… company, Monsieur Le Roi.

The King let out some air though his nose, and it was amusing to see how close he was to losing his composure.

-Mademoiselle De Noailles is not here because she is your mistress, Madam. She is here as my subject. We are simply talking about the abnormality of Madame Scarron's death. And you know what amuses me the most? I can not think of anyone in this palace that had any reason to wish death on such a righteous woman such as Madame Scarron besides you, Maria Theresa.

The queen's stance only shifted when the woman behind her was called by mistress, but besides that she was perfectly still, even though she perfectly understood what her husband was implying.

-That I am aware, Madame Scarron's death was the result of a poor heart, and that it was the royal physician the one that made her obituary. -The queen rightfully pointed out. -Besides, do you really believe that I would kill someone? And that if I did I would tell it to my Renée knowing about her loyalty to you?

-That is the funny thing, Madame. I don't believe you killed Madame Scarron. I believe Mademoiselle De Noailles did.

And it was clear that the queen was more than capable of dealing with state affairs, because even after her husband accused the woman that slept next to her every single day of murder, she kept perfectly still. Not a single emotion showed on her bright eyes.

-That makes no sense at all, Monsieur Le Roi. You just said that no one in this castle had anything against Madame Scarron, and now you accuse a woman that has shown nothing but loyalty to you of such a vile act.

The air in the room became thicker once the king started laughing. The situation only became more absurd. Renée just wanted to grab Maria Theresa by the hand and run to their bedroom and hide under their covers, but she knew she couldn't, so she simply touched the skirt of the older woman.

-And that is the biggest misconception one could have, Madame. Mademoiselle De Noailles has not been loyal to me or to the French throne. She is loyal to you and only to you, Maria Theresa. Or do you think that all the servants of the crown went almost insane when our son disappeared? Do you think they all stayed awake till the sunrise searching for him in the woods or that just anyone would invade a house unarmed not knowing how many enemies were there just to retrieve your son? Do you think loyal subjects of the crown storm out of the room just because someone offended you after not even excusing themselves from their king? Mademoiselle De Noailles is a very good subject to the crown and very worried about the future of France when your feelings are not in the opposite direction, Madame. She was even the strongest objector against the war simply because it was against your country.

All of them stayed in absolute silence during the entire monologue. Because, besides Maria Theresa, they all knew that the King was right. From day one, when Renée was still simply a spy under Alexander's control, she refused to do anything that could hurt her queen. Even when Alexander demanded her to sleep with an old man in exchange for information, her first thought was how that would be a betrayal to Maria Theresa. Not her feelings had become the second most important thing, but first it came Maria Theresa's. Perhaps that was what being in love was.

And she didn't appreciate having her feelings exposed like that, especially not in front of her coworker and by their boss, who happened to be her lover's husband. But she knew it was the truth, she knew they all knew it, and perhaps it was time that Maria Theresa knew that already. That Renée's loyalty did not belong to any ruler or any country, but only to Maria Thereso's soft eyes and sweet soul.

-So let me ask you only this once, Mademoiselle De Noailles. Did you murder Madame Scarron?

The king broke the deadly silence with the question he had wanted to ask ever since he received the news. He could ignore all the other defects that he knew that Renée had. She was a very competent servant, so he really could. He could ignore the fact that she had the opportunity to declare that her loyalty belonged to him, but that she didn't. That her silence was her way of agreeing with everything that he had said. He could ignore everything if she really didn't take away from him what he wanted so much.

-I did not murder Madame Scarron.

Was the only thing she answered. The king stayed silent, staring at her for at least five entire minutes before turning to Alexander, the question clear in his eyes. The valet simply shook his head, his eyes fixated on Renée.

-I don't see any lie on her, Monsieur.

The man's words clearly were more important than the king's own opinion, because as soon as the valet said then, the king simply threw himself on his throne, waving his hand to the side as a clear order for everyone to leave him alone. Renée didn't waste a second, taking Maria Theresa's hand on her and walking to the queen's bedroom. To their bedroom.

If Maria Theresa was shocked or impressed by anything said in the throne room, she didn't say. Only lacing her fingers with her lover's and squeezing her hand.

And in silence they stayed while they undressed and silent they stayed while they climbed their bed, facing each other. Renée raised her hand to Maria Theresa's face and the woman leaned in her touch, just as it had always been.

-Did you kill her?

There wasn't any judgment or fear in Maria Theresa's eyes. She looked at Renée with care and love just as she always did.

That love was worth anything. Renée would stay all nights awake and go deep into any woods or climb into any mountain or enemies houses to make sure that Maria Theresa would still look at her precisely like that in the morning. So she took her hand from Maria's face, covering them both with their thick blanket and saying a very audible “No”.

But under their covers, she wrote a very big “Yes” on the queen's skin.

No one should dare to offend Maria Theresa with such insolence and indifference, and Renée would make sure that no one else would for as long as she lived.

Maria Theresa simply nodded. The love still visible in her eyes and her care for Renée still palpable in her touch, so they simply hugged each other close and drifted. Both dreaming of the same tomorrow.

[badwolfrose34]

GitF Fix It Expansion(requesting ideas and advice)

I have recently learned that Moffat didn’t just bastardize Ten and Rose. He insulted Madame de Pompadour. Based on historical descriptions of her she was a “physically cold woman.” There’s more details but ultimately, she likely would not have appreciated being portrayed as a sex symbol.

Anyway, this led me to start working on a version of my nightmare fix it fic where the Doctor takes Rose to see what the real Madame de Pompadour is like. I welcome any input on details people might like to read in this expanded version. Only thing I’m dead set on doing is having the villain be a time agent with a fetish for Madame de Pompadour. I also want to use the sexist details in the GitF script as dialogue for him.

Other than that, I’m open ideas for the expanded version of my fic! I’ll link the one shot version for reference. I’ll the one shot as the first chapter of the expanded story. I will leave the one shot up as is for people who wish to headcanon the nightmare aspect but not the story where they visit 18th Century France the next day.

[vera-dauriac]

Hi hi Vera! 💜 For the fic ask game, any or all of the below!

🍥 What's your favorite fic you've written?

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both?

And my own question (which you totally don't have to answer!), which is:

🥙 Do have any big or small parts of any already published fics that you'd like to go back and change/expound upon/turn in a different direction?

My best!

🍥 What's your favorite fic you've written?

This is a hard one, not because I love all my fics, but because there are two I’m especially fond of that I think are really well written. Considering, I’ve posted (checks AO3) 84 (!) fics, I’m going to allow myself two.

My favorite one shot is definitely my first Athelar (Vikings) fic, Weaving.

My favorite multi-chapter fic is my my longest Louis/Philippe (Versailles) fic, A Slow Eclipse.

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both?

I have received sooooo many lovely comments over the years, and somehow I’ve managed to ensnared a few loyal readers, and I have to call out 3 of them.

@loveel-who I’m pretty sure is the only person who has read everything I’ve written, and she’s so wonderful about leaving comments. Even if it’s a fandom she doesn’t know, I give her some quick background and maybe a gif, and she dives in and loves it. She’s the best and always tells me my smut hot.

@automaticdreamlandkid doesn’t just leaves comments. She leaves these giant walls of text screaming about every single thing she likes in the fic, and every one of these comments makes me giddy.

@storyskein has often been my enabler and someone who has kindly helped me with fics, even when it’s not her fandom. But she also left what might be my favorite comment ever, and I’m not sure if it made me cry, but I get a little choked up when I think about it. Her comment on Weaving said, “for all the amazing smut on this site, erotic joy is actually really rare, and you captured it.”

🥙 Do have any big or small parts of any already published fics that you'd like to go back and change/expound upon/turn in a different direction?

When I first started posting fic, I absolutely did NOT know what I was doing. For a long time, I toyed with going back to my original Athamis (The Musketeers) series The Debts We Make, and rather than being a slightly disjointed series, I wanted to make it a proper multi-chapter fic that was more novel-shaped than the slightly random thing it is. I never did, but part of me still thinks it would be an interesting exercise.

Thanks so much for asking! Others can feel free to drop me asks from this list.

[aylen-san]

Music for the King

The morning sunlight, softly filtering through the tall, ornamented windows of Versailles, spilled across the polished marble floors like liquid gold. The sun slowly rose over the manicured palace gardens, where neatly trimmed hedges and fountains created the illusion of an orderly paradise. For Daeron, once a singer of the starry nights of Doriath, this place was something entirely different: grandeur, but of another kind—lacking the magic of nature and closely tied to human ambition. He walked down this corridor like along a strange alley of memories that did not belong to him, his ears catching the distant rustling of silk and velvet, the faint whispers of courtiers murmuring in the shadows of the arches.

Daeron was dressed in the latest court fashion: his luxurious coat of dark blue velvet, embroidered with silver and adorned with lace, seemed to glow in the morning light, and the gilded buttons, set with small diamonds, gleamed on his chest. The lace delicately embraced his wrists and collar, emphasizing the elegance and slenderness of his figure. The soles of his shoes quietly clicked on the marble floor, the sound echoing through the perfectly symmetrical halls lined with massive mirrors that reflected all the brilliance of the court.

His keen sense of smell caught the sweet scent of lilies and roses, mixed with the musky notes of amber and spices that emanated from the women in towering wigs and tightly laced corsets. In this strange world of mortal fragrances and colors, Daeron felt alien, as if the very air here was different—heavier, more saturated than in the forests of his homeland. Every step, every glance from the courtiers, who stole furtive looks at him, felt foreign to him, yet at the same time, intrigued him.

Versailles, with its multitude of mirrors, seemed to him a paradox. These mortals, so ephemeral, so fleeting, surrounded themselves with reflections and symbols of eternity. Gilded statues, marble columns, and halls bathed in light—all of this screamed of vanity, of a desire for immortality through material splendor. But what could compare to the songs sung under the light of the Silmarils? Nothing here breathed the kind of timelessness that Daeron knew.

Pausing for a moment before an enormous mirror set in a golden frame adorned with vine motifs, he gazed at his reflection. His face, young and fair as all elves, appeared still and serene against the backdrop of this bustling world. The powder that they had made him apply could not hide the faint glow of his skin, a mark of one born in older, more distant ages. His eyes, deep and dark like the night sky over Beleriand, looked back at him with a hint of irony and melancholy. How far he was from those whom they called rich and powerful here, though it seemed that all this brilliance was meant only for them.

Behind him, footsteps echoed, and soon a footman appeared in the doorway, clad in an elegant livery of red velvet embroidered with gold. His movement was precise, rehearsed, as if every step contained centuries of tradition, of servitude and obedience.

“His Majesty awaits you, Monsieur Daeron,” he announced, bowing respectfully.

The elf gave a barely perceptible nod, allowing himself a quiet smile. Louis XIV, the Sun King, wished to hear his music.

[rc-catalog]

🖊️: fanfiction; 🖼️: moodboard; 🎨: art/edit; 🧵: web weaving; 👥: character profile

Rating: General, Teen, Mature, Explicit

HEAVEN'S SECRET

Lucifer by @dutifullynuttywitch |🖼️| G

HEAVEN'S SECRET: REQUIEM

Self-Preservation by @nepthys-merenset |🖊️| Lane x Dmitry | TW: violence, original character death, minor character death, blood | E

Anna's Effect by @agattthaa |🖊️| Lane x Anna | T

Your Love is Sunlight by @cherryflalovered |🖊️| Lane x Cain | TW: blood, gore mentions | T

A Lesson In Kindness by @nepthys-merenset |🖊️| Lane x Cain | T

Unwanted Thoughts by @zumitry |🖊️| Lane x Dmitry | TW: angst, mentions of anxiety, parental trauma, mentions of insecurities | T

Just Doing Laundry With You by @agattthaa |🖊️| Lane x Anna | TW: mentions of absent parents | T

KALI: FLAME OF SAMSARA

Covered In You by @notmissinginaction |🖊️| Deviya Sharma x Ram Doobay | T

Deviya Sharma by @webanglikethat |🖼️| G

The Fire Swallows All: Devi by @mikaelsrose |🖼️| G

Ram and Devi by @webanglikethat |🖼️| G

PSI

The Ash Scattered Over a Field by @joeymerenset |🖊️| Lou Reed x Ivo Martin | TW: death, neck breaking, nightmares, strong language, smoking | M

VYING FOR VERSAILLES

Loyalty by @agattthaa |🖊️| Renée de Noailles x Maria Theresa | TW: mentions of murder | T

VFV by @liykaii |🖼️| G

ARCANUM

Mary by @mikaelsrose |🖼️| G

Arcanum Season 2 by @liykaii |🖼️| G

THE ONE VOL. 2

Joel x Kiana by @liykaii |🖼️| G

THE DESERT ROSE

Bright Bugs by @zealouscanonindeer |🖊️| Noor Al-Aziz x Adil Badawi | G

[gothic-thriller-dawn]

Why has no one made a series set in 17th century France about Vampires living in the the court of Louis XIV? Like the series Versailles; but it’s vampires.

The costumes, the scenery, the cast, it would be perfect. Members of the court mysteriously found dead within the palace, all blood drained from them, horrifying tales of creatures of darkness haunting the streets of Paris at nightfall…..trying to keep the secret of what they are from being discovered….

Why is this not a thing?!

(Well, I wrote (still writing it) a story based on this idea.)

[readerofthebooks]

Hi! So I’ve been thinking, that I’m going to start writing on here, I’m happy to write any genre ( fluff, angst, smut, etc) and just ask about the fandom, I’ll do most if I’m aware of them, I am willing to watch some films if they’re really wanted, however Star Wars is a no cuz I fall asleep :)

Btw, I will not write: non con, underage sex, pedophilia, gore, horror ( cuz I literally am scared of everything ), racism, homophobia, transphobia, fat phobia or anything like that . I can’t think of anything else, so just use your heads, if it’s wrong, don’t ask cuz you’ll be blocked ( ALSO I DONT WRITE OMEGA VERSE OR FURRY STUFF cuz I personally don’t like it)

[unclefungusthegoat]

Now complete! Thank you for all your support, it’s been wonderful! You can read the finished fic at the link above, or the final chapter under the link below!

Please see AO3 for tags/trigger warnings.

ILLUMINE

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sickbed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

My take on the Chevalier’s opium withdrawal, and the birth of his friendship with Liselotte. Post S2/Pre S3.

Part One:  L’obscurité

Part Two: Le Rêve

Part Three: L’aurore (below)

Part Three: L’aurore

When he finally awoke, a gentle mist diluted the morning sun. It was an empathetic light, stirring him gradually with a wispy caress. The sheets beneath him felt clean and laundered, and the sweet scent of petals perfumed the air, carried to him on a soft breeze that peeked past the curtains. No doubt hiding the residual stench of death that he knew came from him.

But still, air filled his lungs. He could hear the birdsong.

And the pain had gone.

The Chevalier pulled himself up onto his elbows, feeling the muscles tremble weakly. The room was empty. No sign of the wiry haired surgeon, or ghosts foul and fair, or even a maid, arms laden with linen. Had it all been a nightmare? A terrible, agonising dream that had at last reached its end? Would Philippe come thundering through the door, like Zeus with epicene splendour, to linger at his Ganymede’s side? Would they once again be young and brazen, as they had been before the wars? Before the laudanum, the spy, the arrests? Before they had seen each other at their very worst?

He feared not.

He feared they would never quite be the same again.

But someone had placed a vase of fresh flowers within the room. The source of that perfume, that ambrosia of the air. Next to the window, upon a vanity, all green stems and thin leaves, with dainty clusters of pale yellow petals. At their heart, a flush of orange, vibrant and defiant. And the very sight of such beauty brought his spirit soaring, for those delicate, fragile flowers were imbued with a meaning, with a love far deeper than any he had ever known.

"Good morning."

The sound of her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Liselotte had appeared at the door, once again dressed in the silks and jewels of her standing. Like the Chevalier, she often chose blue, though she had more of a taste for periwinkle than the Prussian blues he usually opted for. Her hair was curled into her signature tight ringlets, and her cheeks were rouged a little… but the Chevalier could see the dark circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes… and the looser fit of the bodice over her belly.

“Good morning.” He summoned in reply.

Over she marched, to lay a hand upon his brow, and he noted she seemed pleased with the result. Taking her seat beside the bed again, she watched him bring himself up to an almost seated position against the pillows. The effort of it made him gasp for breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“... less than rambunctious.” He groaned.

She nodded.

"Well, that’s an improvement on ‘one foot in the grave’, at least.”

He was intrigued by the way her knee was bouncing anxiously beneath her skirts. He didn’t believe her to be the shy type, but then he supposed they’d never actually spoken when he was sober (and his reputation preceded him, after all). Not once could he recall sweeping into her bedroom, or watching her dance the courante upon an evening, without a dash of… it… to help him endure. A strain within his temples flared if he thought upon it too greatly, for some of the memories were lost altogether.

Be thankful that is all that is lost.

In that warm, maternal tone, she was continuing, and he reminded himself to listen: “Your fever broke last night, so I've sent for some breakfast. You ought to try and eat something. You've lost more than a little weight."

His eyes made their way back to the mignonette laden vase.

Wondering .

“It’s good to see you properly awake. I’m sure you’re desperate to get out of this room, but Monsieur Fortin insists you stay in bed for one more day. Instead, I thought a walk tomorrow would do you good, and today, you could teach me to cheat at Meslé, and then we could both learn to play Cribbage . It’s English, so it’s bound to be dreadful. If you’d care to join me?”

“The flowers…”

A wry smile.

“Yes. I thought they'd cheer you up.”

He didn’t know what to say. What could you say to such a gesture? Mercifully, it was not long before footman descended to break the silence, with a silver serving dish of broth, fresh brioche (somehow still warm, despite the arduous route from the kitchens to Philippe’s rooms), orange slices, grapes, pastries decorated with strawberries and creme, and a decanter of drinking chocolate.

He watched as she carefully curated a small plate for him. His stomach complained loudly and he cringed at the sound of it, as if that were the greatest humiliation he'd endured over the long days he'd spent here. The dish was laid upon his lap, before she approached the feast herself. And it was then the Chevalier noticed his nightshirt was clean. Someone had changed him into a fresh one since he was last almost-conscious.

I owe her my life, he realised.

She was already tucking heartily into a pastry, licking creme from her fingers and humming in satisfaction. Quite unlike them all, he thought, and it made him smile. How tiring Versailles could be. How lonely, and how perilous. And here she was, with her woollen gowns and quaint matching hats, and the eating habits of a provincial innkeeper… and he could finally see why Philippe was so taken with her.

She was a maverick.

Just like us.

"You… you look nice today." The Chevalier murmured into his food. “That colour… it suits you.”

“I should hope so. You chose it.” She reminded him.

“Did I?” He feigned ignorance, “Well, I suppose someone had to rescue you from looking as if you herd goats.”

She laughed.

“Between you and Philippe, it could be argued that’s all I do.” She popped a grape in her mouth, and chewed through her words. Eating for two already, the Chevalier surmised , as her plate boasted a sumptuous spread thus far, and became more spectacular by the word.  “You should know I wrote to him this morning, to tell him you’re through the worst of it. Hopefully it should reach him before he crosses the Dutch border. Ease his mind before battle.”

Battle. So Philippe truly was gone… and here he was, left at the mercy of the scandal-hungry predators that stalked the halls of Versailles, without his prince to shield him.

He’d often been told that pride was a sin, and it could not be denied he’d made a drunken fool of himself frequently since returning from Rome… but sometimes, such questions were a matter of self - preservation.

He cleared his throat.

“Does everyone know? Of my… immoderation?”

“Why? Are you hoping for a scandalous account in the gazette?” She grimaced at the look of bleary horror that crossed his face, as the sarcasm passed him by. “Sorry, that was in poor humour. No, I thought it best to keep it quiet. The King knows, of course. He and the Queen made rather a point of how they disapproved of my attending you.”

The Chevalier scoffed.

“I am sure Louis would prefer it if I didn’t recover. He considers me a nuisance, no matter how noble my intentions.”

“Perhaps. But I think he was pleasantly surprised you were keeping your promise to him.”

That Louis harboured anything resembling respect towards him was beyond belief. Laughable, really, and not even a generous stipend, or rooms in the east wing, would change that.

“Well…” He sighed, “Sobriety and truth are some of my more recent acquisitions. That and a new hatred for poetry.”

At last satisfied with her quarry, Liselotte returned to her bedside perch, laden plate in hand. He noticed her footsteps were soft and silent upon the parquet, where she wasn’t wearing shoes, and couldn’t help but feel foolish. Here he sat, so abashed, like a servant waiting to be scolded. Feeling like a stranger in the rooms he had long called home, while she… she, who he had once considered an interloper, had made herself so at home.

Here they sat, like soldiers at a fireside on the eve of war, ignoring the truth of why they both came to be there.

“Eat,” She urged when she saw he’d made no move on his breakfast, “Even just a little bit.”

Tentatively, he selected an orange segment, and nibbled at the corner. The sweet juice burst upon his tongue, sensationally tangy, offering to bring life back into his ailing body. And yet… What good did it do? That glorious, vibrant citrus, dragging him back to his life of gluttony and wantonness. What good would it do, without… without the final wrong being righted? Without a fresh start? Without this chapter, blotted with tears and bitter disdain, being torn from the manuscript and replaced with something new?

He swallowed the segment, and watched her a moment longer. Chewing on choux pastry. Pale, from many nights playing sentry at his sickbed. Slowly swelling with Philippe’s child.

Best to pull the splinter out before it festers any further.

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Liselotte snorted.

“Since when did you feel the need to ask permission -?”

“Please…” His eyes grasped at her, begging her to listen, “... allow me the courtesy.”

She frowned. Casting a look over her shoulder, searching for intruders or interrupters, (perhaps a persistent Monsieur Fortin, or an ever inconvenient Bontemps), she set aside her plate in trepidation. Then nodded, unsure.

“Alright.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

Say it, Philippe.

Be brave. For once.

“I feel I must… explain myself. Apologise. Although,” He grimaced a shy smile, “now that I have begun, I’m not sure I know how to…”

She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his thoughts. The fog of sickness was still lingering, but as Philippe’s battalion would wade through the grime and detritus of war, so too would he find the words to justify his misdeeds. He hoped he would not mumble, would lend precision to his words, though so far his voice remained weak from days of disuse, and his hands, twisting at the bedsheets, threatened to expose his rising sense of discomfort.

The silence dragged, excruciatingly inarticulate, until…

“Him.” Liselotte offered, “Tell me about him.”

Yes.

Yes, he could talk about Philippe for hours.

Forever, if he could.

“Yes, I… I suppose he was the start… Is. Is the start. Philippe is… he is the light by which I walk." The Chevalier said, and the words, like the sunrise over the horizon’s brow, soon kept emerging, "He is my… dearest friend, my love, my keeper… my king. And we are entwined. Not only by choice, but by the world. They can’t ever pass judgement on Philippe for his deviancy,” He laughed ruefully, “... but I am quite the suitable whipping boy. A man of my unique position, must be on my guard in everything I do… because if I am guilty, he is suspected, and if he is suspected, I must be guilty. If I am disgraced, he is undermined. If I am ashamed that the world thinks me a heretic and a whore, I am ashamed of him too. Since I was fifteen, I have played my part openly, without restraint and without shame. We have both lived in spite of those who would destroy us.”

The shadow of the moment, of the past week, of the months, the years, of intrigue and treason and poison and death, drifted over him again, and his nerves wavered.

“But I am hardly perfect. Far from it. And in my imperfection… I have come to devoutly understand the fatal difference between us.”

“... Which is?”

“Is it not obvious?”

She gave no sign of predetermining his thoughts, simply waited for the answer. And as he did, he could not hold back the resentment . The festering bitterness.

“I am not a fils de France, Your Highness. My brother is not the king. We may pretend we are equals but we are not. I am…" He swallowed heavily, "I am beneath Philippe, and reminded of it constantly. If we overstep the mark, as we are wont to do, it is I alone who is punished. If Louis and Philippe are at odds, I am the conduit for retaliation. If I fall, from favour or from grace, I fall alone. And he…"

His voice betrayed far more emotion than he had intended, a dangerous crack threatening to surface.

"And he… will replace me. As easily as replacing an old handkerchief.”

He had never said it aloud before, not even to Philippe. And oh, how it hurt more than any laudanum ever could. That most crushing fear, that lingered like a tumour at the very heart of them. He tried to carry on, breath heaving in his bosom, “This past year, I have fallen further than I dared imagine. I made a mistake that should have cost me my head. I betrayed him, I admit it. But I was forgiven. Allowed home, for a second chance. And instead of our happily ever after, there was…”

The words failed him.

“Me.” Liselotte answered.

“Yes. You.”

He couldn’t read her, her face carefully arranged to give nothing away, like every noble lady who learned to keep secrets and opinions buried deep. Had he upset her? Given away too much? Was his every word poisoning her against him, as he had so feared?

“You must understand,” Desperation crept onto his lips, “Your predecessor and I were not friends… to put it mildly. We were like magpies, fighting over the same shiny coin. Neither inclined to share. I wanted Philippe. Henriette wanted them both. She’d been unable to marry Louis, and becoming the duchesse d’Orleans was the consolation prize. But still she took to Louis’s bed, and to Armand de Gramont's, who had Philippe’s affection before I… and then wondered why her husband couldn’t stand to touch her. All the while knowing who he is. Knowing his heart. She couldn’t bear to see him happy, when she wasn’t. We tormented one another over it, she and I. We forced each other to live in fear. And in the end, she was dead…”

A fleeting thought of the bloodstain, still ingrained into the wooden floor, inches from them. No amount of scuffed servants’ knees or soap could remove that lasting trace of the dying princess, who in her hour of need, had fled from her husband’s side and sought comfort in the chambers of the king.

“... and I should have been so lucky.”

“Philippe told me you’d been imprisoned.” Liselotte replied, reverent as a church mouse, and the fading dreams of the Chateau came flickering back.

“Yes. It seems sweet little Minette had begged the king more than once to lock me away, and he felt compelled to honour her final wish.” His face flushed, and he hoped the shine of the strawberries upon his lap would prove a convincing excuse. “I spent a month as her guest in a fortress off the coast of Marseille. Far worse than the sound of being quartered, it seems, is that of typhoid taking hold of men packed twenty to a cell. Far worse still… of giving up hope. Of finding comfort in… in….”

He gestured lamely at himself, at the result of it all.

Liselotte stared at him.

“Philippe… I would never do that to you.”

He wanted to laugh at her, in spite and petty disdain. He wanted to tear at her naivety with his nails, as if he were a ravenous wolf upon a hen. The old Philippe de Lorraine, the evil spirit of the Palais-Royal, surely would have.

But in those simple words, in honesty and promise, came a baptism. An absolution. A freedom unlike any he had known. And his whispered admission, shaking as those petals on those gifted flowers, was as true of heart as the princess who sat before him.

“I know.”

Outside the window, and in the passages beyond, Versailles was stirring. They were both long accustomed to the soft patter of servants’ slippers within the walls. But now a growing sense of haste impressed upon the air in the room, as if at any moment, the splendour that concealed them would fold open like origami and their confidence would be exposed before the entire court. He turned his body to face her.

“It has taken me to the very brink of death to admit it... but I confess I allowed envy to get the better of me. I allowed my fear to blind me.”

“You were protecting yourself-”

“I was making everything worse. I assumed you would be her. That we would be at each other’s throats for the rest of time. But I see now, I have been unfair to you. I owe you my life. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There.

Fumbled. Inelegant.

But true.

She sat forward in her seat, the silk of her dress rustling in the silence. And, as she had done through so many restless nights, she took his still trembling hand. Warming it with patience and understanding. And it was not… offensive. Rather… grounding. As if she were a rope, tethering him to the mast in the midst of a careening shipwreck.

"Apology accepted."

Relief cast off from every inch of him, shucked off like a brocade cloak sodden with rain. He raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. Returning a gentle squeeze to her hand in a silent declaration of gratitude.

"You must think me pathetic. Wretched, and troublesome, and a fool.”

"I thought no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. You’ve been far too kind to me, Your Highness, when I have not deserved it.”

“Liselotte.” She corrected firmly, “My friends call me Liselotte.”

He wiped at his sodden cheeks, and a laugh awash with scepticism escaped him.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

"I told you. I'm not here to be your enemy. I’m not here to drive you apart."

The kindly embrace of the mignonette flowers, the flowers she had gifted, came over on the breeze once more, and he imagined his face, buried in that ebony hair. Kissing those porcelain lips, tasting the wax that tinted them rouge. He prayed for a miracle, that he would know such a paradise again. It seemed Liselotte felt it too. Saw his thoughts. For a whisper of a smile appeared as she watched him bear his heart.

“I saw straight through you, you know.” His eyes were closed, but he felt her wedding ring, cold against his skin, as she ruminated. “The ambitious maitre-en-titre… attached by every part but the heart. I saw they’d all fallen for an elaborate charade. That beneath it all, you love him. More than anything.”

“That does not excuse my behaviour.”

“Maybe not, but it certainly explains it. Besides,” She chuckled, “Your heart wasn’t really in it, was it? I heard far worse back in Heidelberg.”

“Clearly I am losing my touch.”

“No, I don’t think so. I was very much warned of the Chevalier de Lorraine upon my betrothal. Even Louis thought to give some friendly advice on the subject, once I arrived.”

He couldn't help the triumphant grin that crept onto his lips.

“Did he use scoundrel, hellion, or reprobate?”

“All three. And you’ve certainly lived up to it…” Her eyes widened in recollection, “If one has a… a, what was it? Oh yes, a predilection for making assumptions.”

A faint memory, hazy words in a feverish dream.

“Assumptions”?

“Yes. On how welcoming your husband’s sweetheart should be to his new wife, so soon after being finally rid of the last.”

The sorrow and the fear had all but passed now, and they revelled in mirth like old friends.

“Ah, the years may pass, but we are yet to outgrow our youth.” The Chevalier sang, and finally felt that all was well. It was odd to have spoken so openly to her. Yet somehow he felt a trust he couldn't recall feeling since… well, since Philippe. She was now resettling his breakfast into his grip, and he was quite sure he wouldn’t be permitted to speak anymore without making an effort at it. Brioche seemed the safest option. It smelled heavenly - buttery, with a hint of brandy - and felt like clouds under his fingertips.

They ate in comfortable companionship, as conversation turned to lighter matters.

“I loved him the moment I saw him, you know.” He mused, breaking the brioche in two, “France’s neglected little princess, with flowers in his hair. I had to be patient, of course, but I knew I would do anything to have him. To keep him. After all, I have very little of my own. I’m the third of six children, a second born son, just like Philippe. Every year that passes, my homeland is amalgamated further into France. My brother inherited most of what my father left behind, and what little I was bequeathed, I squandered on gambling and clothes and wine.”

“Isn’t that what all middle children do?” She teased in return.

“Alas, no. I was destined for the army… or the cloth, if you can imagine that.” He felt stronger now, and took another healthy bite of brioche as he spoke, “My mother didn’t know what to do with me. Reluctant to take my place in the world, with a loose tongue, no fear of God, and a taste for fucking other boys. It is easy to forget here, Your High… Liselotte, but were Philippe and I not born as we were, the church would have put us to death by now.”

She winced at the thought, but he shrugged it away.

"There’s no point in dwelling on it. The only thing you have to worry about, my dear, is how they will judge you. For this.” He gestured to the air between them.

“‘The church?”

“ Always. But no, the vultures in the salon."

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s my ‘funny German ways ’ talking, but I couldn’t care less about what the salon thinks of me.” She licked chocolate from her lips, “And neither should you. Although I’m sure it would interest you to know that most assumed your absence at court is respite after your heroics.”

His body ached at the memory of the act - the recoil of the pistol, shuddering through his muscles. The adrenaline, pounding through his veins, at the sight of Philippe’s glassy eyes and bloodied face. Young Sophie, weeping over the dead man, as if he were more than a fetid, plague ridden rodent, to be stamped out at the earliest opportunity. And what a fine shot it had been. A moving target, from thirty feet, fueled by enough laudanum to render most men unconscious. People should write songs and sonnets of it.

“Suppose it makes a pleasant change.” He cast his hair back, cavalier in his pride, “To be the hero of the hour…” He paused, “What did they say?”

“Hmmm, courageous, dashing, who’d have thought it-”

“No, no, not them. Those ploucs at Heidelberg. About you.”

“Oh, endless comments about my plainness. How marriageable I was, that I was a wild child and should have been a boy. I heard pretty much everything imaginable, sometimes even to my face. But to them, I would now say ‘Ende gut, alles gut’.”

He hummed in agreement, and with a knowing smile, she continued, “Ah. Du sprichst Deutsch?"

A commonality he had hoped to conceal. “Ja,” He admitted, with a reluctant sigh, “Ein bisschen.”

“Yes, I thought you might. From adjacent kingdoms to adjacent bedrooms. Philippe tells me you speak Italian too.”

"Less than impressively. Still, needs must, when you are cast adrift so far from home.” Never had he been so achingly lonely. Not being permitted home on pain of death, felt quite different to separation by women or war. But yet now, sitting here in the company, and care, of her, it was Philippe he pitied. He wondered not who was sharing his bed… but who was holding him through the nightmares. Through the terrors of war. Who rubbed his feet, and washed the dirt and sweat from his brow? Who, if not his Chevalier, or this woman, full of grace and kindness beyond measure?

The sunlight illuminated the room, their bedroom, and the two unlikely friends, daubed and dappled in golden hues, as if it were the Sistine Chapel.

“We promised we’d take care of each other, didn’t we?” He asked.

Her hand instinctively moved to her belly.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“If you hadn’t been here, I fear I would have been quite alone.”

He saw her freeze. For an agonising moment, he thought he had misjudged. That she might finally abandon her cruel game, and make for the door. Let in the world, with their hawkish habits, to peer at and laugh at how foolish he was, that he believed Madame would show decency to him. And the vicious cycle would again be in motion, and would not rest until they both lay in the cold earth, devoured by the worms and creatures of the dark.

Instead, she moved, and laid a soft kiss upon his forehead.

A surge of exhaustion overwhelmed him, as he felt her lips upon his skin, his eyes closing as he drank in the sensation of her tender touch. It was more than a kiss. It was a seal, stronger than any wax or steel lock. An acknowledgement of a singular shared purpose - a devotion, to one man, whom they could love and serve and protect in equal measure… in kindness and trust absolute.

"Right," She said after a moment , pulling away, "Come on… Meslé."

She produced a set of playing cards seemingly from nowhere, intricately hand-painted with wild flora and foliage, all vermilion and emerald and verdigris. The Chevalier yawned, as he watched her shuffle.

"Very well, mein Engel, but I warn you, I am quite the dab hand.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. I know you have some tricks up your sleeve. Teach me your ways.”

She dealt him two cards upon the bedsheet, and opened the purse of counters to sit beside it. He examined his odds. Considered his strategy. Perhaps I should play the gentleman and let the lady win?

“You take the first turn, Philippe.”

Ah. A necessary correction to be made… before I show her how a master plays.

“Please call me Lorraine, my dear, else you will find yourself in knots…” He cooed, “And not the silk kind our mutual friend can be persuaded into on occasion.”

She smirked at him, then at her own hand, and he had the happiest feeling she wasn’t such a novice after all.

"Lorraine it is, then."

[yume-fanfare]

about 1/6 into the rose of versailles, im not enough of a francophile for thisss

[randofanficrecs]

Today's random fanfiction is from the L'Échange des princesses | The Royal Exchange (2017) fandom. Rien à voir. by AngelicaR2

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 336 Fandom: 18th Century CE RPF, L’Échange des princesses | The Royal Exchange (2017) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mme de Ventadour & Marie Anne Victoire d'Espagne Characters: Mme de Ventadour, Marie Anne Victoire d'Espagne, Louis XV de France, Louise-Élisabeth d'Orléans Additional Tags: Spain, Versailles - Freeform, 18th Century, Drabble, Hope, Travel, differences Language: Français Summary: [L’Échange des princesses] : Drabble. “Marie Anne Victoire n'a rien à voir avec Louise-Elizabeth, et Mme de Ventadour espère sincèrement que cela ne va pas changer.”

[derpylittlenico]

As someone who has been told they can talk an ears off a donkey (...affectionate?)

Those fools.

Who is the real captive, here. Not me.

the spn drama could take a whole year to explain in the least so i’m good

[lightningbreath]

I HATE ganlink and ganzel, but, mostly, I HATE Ganondorf.

I swear, how can there be people who ship a demon who always seeks to FUCK WITH THE LIVES OF THE KINGDOM AND THE PROTAGONISTS and say that "" oh, but he's a victim "", "" oh, it's Hylia's fault""" , "" ain, but look carefully """.

Look, nothing!!! I swear, every time I see fanarts or fanfics or the number of people who support this with the shitty excuse of """ oh, Link/Zelda will show what's good about him"" (that's when it's not a romanticization of rape or abusive relationship). And you know what's the worst, it's the fact that Nintendo's shit makes him ""physically attractive"" since it seems like if you're physically attractive you can do whatever the fuck you want and people not only will forgive you, as he will glorify you.

My God, Ganondorf isn't even a gray villain, with layers, NO!!! He's just the typical shit villain who wants to dominate and kill just because he likes (and no, neither do I). come with Ganondorf from WW, because that was ridiculous, "" oh, I just wanted a better place, I just wanted the wind"" and then he tries to invade a Kingdom that isn't his and condemns the gerudo and Hyrule, he he's just a selfish spoiled brat who tried to play the victim).

And I'm not even going to talk about Ghirahim's ship with Link here because it's ridiculous and disgusting, ""haha, let's ship Link with the guys who screwed up his life for active and passive because GAY SEX, haha""". I hate sidlink and malink, but at least the stories and fanarts are cute, the relationships are healthy and, most importantly, MALON AND SÍDON NEVER TRIED TO FUCK LINK'S LIFE!!!!

I like fanarts that place Ganondorf, Zelda and Link as "unlikely friends" or with Zelda and Link destroying or mocking Ganondorf but that's it, if you want to do a story where he finds the Light, do it. BUT DON'T INVOLVE LINK AND ZELDA IN THIS, THEY HAVE NO RESPONSIBILITY OR DUTY IN """RESCUING GANONDORF"""!!!

All games say that Ganondorf is only king because he is the ''''chosen one''''. If there's anyone who enjoys the '''divine monarchy''' it's this son of a bitch. Another thing, seriously, just because there is a conflict in Gaza (it seems to ignore what Hamas does to its own people) and because he is dark-skinned, he cannot be a villain? Please, it would be a problem if all Gerudos were portrayed as villains.

It makes me sick to see how a part of the fandom always wants to find a way to make Ganondorf a '''gray villain''' when they aren't crying and kicking because Nintendo doesn't justify all his actions as a '''poor thing and as Hyrule is the great hidden evil'''.

And the stupidest thing is why these people ask this, since it seems like they can't ask for more '''complexity''' from Ganondorf without talking about his shitty race, I'll bet my house that if Ganondorf were a white man, clearly heterosexual, no one would say anything about him being a cartoonish villain.

The mistakes of the royal family of Hyrule have never been hidden, some even come to light (the history of the Yiga, the Civil War in Oot), but it seems that these people would only keep quiet if Ganondorf decimated all the Hylians. , because Hylians are evil and how dare you insinuate that a dark-skinned man from the Middle East is a shitty person and a tyrant who uses his people as instruments and blah, blah, blah.

''''Ain, but Ganondorf from Wind Waker'''', the truth is that little happened to him. That little speech of his is the same one in which Hitler told the Jews in the concentration camps that ''''Germany was destroyed by the First War and the Treaty of Versailles was destroying his people and that he only had the noble reason to empower the Germans. and that he only wanted the good of his people.'

Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, that's basically Ganondorf's speech.

And finally: Zelda has imperialist propaganda. Well, what's the problem? It's incredible how foreigners deify the Republic because of course, the only shit is the monarchy.

The monarchy in Latin countries was going well, with its ups and downs like every system of government and then BOOM, France, USA and England start to interfere in the politics of other countries to plunge them into wars and make it '''' democratic republics'''' completely dependent on them, a great plan, and now, the Latinos want to exchange American imperialism for Chinese, remaining slaves but changing owners. I would love imperialism like Zelda's, the races have a lot of autonomy of their own and even in the cruelest moment of the Hylian monarchy, they still managed to be self-sustainable. Ganondorf has always been a tyrant, who put his people in misery to use them as justification for his actions.

You complain about Rauru and the Hylian monarchy, but Ganondorf never wanted what was best for the Gerudo, he never wanted to live in peace with other races, he wanted to INVADE lands that weren't his (it was always implied that Hylians existed before). the Gerudo) if you have someone who is an imperialist who takes advantage of the "divine right of monarchy" that being is Ganondorf. I am very happy when I see the Gerudo prosper without the thorn in the side that is Ganondorf, I am completely in favor of that the '''gerudo men''' no longer exist and they are the incredible Amazonian tribe that they always were.

That's it, I've had this installed in my heart since I joined this fandom and finally, I'm at peace.