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yellow-berrys · 2 years

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dote on me | sirius black x fem!reader

summary: you are completely oblivious to the way sirius black dotes on you, and think that the way you're infatuated with him is completely one-sided. but he begs to differ.

warnings: mentions of a bad childhood, mentions of smoking, drinking and illicit substances

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Sirius Black makes you nervous and he darn well knows that. He uses those consuming grey eyes of his, filled with enigmatic interest, to his advantage. He only needs to focus them on you for a considerate amount of time for you to start burning up like a wildfire. And his nose, it’s pointed and perfect, leaving you wondering just how unfair life can be. His cheekbones are high and structured, light hitting them at glorious angles. His lips are devoid of much red. They’re this cool plum colour that looks like it’s lip gloss all the time but really isn’t. His skin is framed by smooth black hair, and the layers in his haircut are so pretty it prompted every other guy in his life to get the same one. It drives you mad that he was born with this face and that hair. It’s simply unjustified.

It would be fine if he was just a pretty face. But it’s not. It’s simply unacceptable just how nice he is. Sometimes you wish he isn’t a gentleman and that all the rumours about him being a player with a million tattoos were true, because you’re envious and adoring of him.

And like anyone, he definitely has a vice. People think it’s cigarettes for him but he definitely does not smoke. And he doesn’t drink. At parties, he’s cradling a cautiously poured glass of lemonade instead. And he definitely doesn’t do drugs, because he hangs around Remus Lupin and there’s no way he would be allowed to if he did. Remus is a little sickly sometimes, and his body is very sensitive.

He likes to say his vice is chasing things he’ll never have. Like his childhood. He thinks he has regained that. Now, maybe it’s some sort of romance. All his life he’s been mooned over. People love him, mostly because he’s beautiful, and they offer him burning hot love all the time. People think he’s one for angsty, fiery passion. But Sirius thinks that fires never last, they’re too easy to disturb and taint everything with the unpleasant smell of smoke. James once did one of his stupid Women’s Weekly quizzes on him, the one with the “Tell me your favourite colour, and it’ll tell you what other people think of you, tell me your favourite animal…” questions. Sirius had laughed, thrown his head back and answered in a complete stupor. “Black, maroon if black isn’t an answer, dog…” James had asked him what his favourite body of water was and Sirius had said “A lake.”

He had spent summers of his broken youth dipping his toes into the pretty lake by his family’s home in France, escaping from the whirlwind world inside the walls of Walburga and Orion’s chateau. It didn’t make him cry more when he cried, because it would welcome the tears into the gently flowing water.

James had smiled, “Why?”

Sirius had told him, “It’s gentle, relaxing, peaceful. The one in France was so enveloping and soft. I felt safe there.”

“Chateau?”

“Yep. I used to go out there as a little boy. It was so quiet out there and it felt like heaven, so fluid and open.”

“Hm,” James had studied the words underneath, squinting his eyes, “Ooh, that’s how you feel about love. Never knew you were the romantic type, Pads.”

He had laughed.

James had asked you too. You had giggled, “Did you steal Lily’s Women’s Weekly again?”

He grumbled, “Not again.”

“I like ponds with little koi fish swimming in them.”

“Why?”

“It’s calm in a joyful way. It’s safe and there’s always rays of golden sun and it feels so delightful and promising. Lucky too, I guess. Oh! And it’s so pretty by a koi fish pond.”

James had grinned and left promptly.

Sirius thought it was strange when he had first met you. He hadn’t ever had these feelings before, and it took years for him to shove them aside and focus on his studies, friends and mischief-making. But you were affiliated with Marlene, you were always around in some way. You and him became friends and Sirius felt those feelings resurface again.

He groans into his hands as he runs it across his face.

“Why?!” he asks Lily, who is watching amusedly.

“I’m sure you can’t help it,” she says primly, “But what if you could help it?”

He looks at her inquisitively.

“What if you acted on these feelings? It isn’t half-bad of an idea. You’re grown up, Sirius, and if you still like her that means it’s real.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What if bad things happen?”

“What’s the worst that could?”

“Death.”

“You’re already halfway there,” she rolls her eyes, “Give it a shot, maybe love will make you less sad.”

“I’m not sad!”

“Whatever, start loving, Sirius.”

She picks up her Women’s Weekly magazine and starts reading. “Ooh, there’s this quiz-”

Sirius groans.

–

“Hey darling,” Sirius strides into your apartment. Good start, he thinks.

You’re sprawled on the couch, grinning as you FaceTime Marlene and Dorcas. When you see him, you look up, surprised.

“Marlene’s in Vegas,” you say, “Didn’t she tell you?”

Marlene did tell Sirius, and even offered that he come with her and Dorcas.

You flip the camera to Sirius, and even in blurry, low quality, Facetime video he’s still very handsome.

Marlene screams, “What is that monster doing in my apartment?”

You grin, “Marls, he was looking for you.”

“Actually,” Sirius tilts his head, and if you weren’t so thick you might see the smitten look in his eyes, “I’m here for you.”

You frown, “For taxes? It’s only the start of the month. Besides, the IRS will never tail you, you’re too rich for that.”

“Can’t I spend time with you, pretty girl?”

It’s flattering, but it seems too abrupt to be genuine. You brush it off with a laugh.

“Get a load of you,” you roll your eyes, “What do you need?”

“I need you,” he attempts and the confession, although seeming flirtatious and joking, brings a smile to your face.

Marlene chortles, “Guys- I-I-I-I’m…cutt-ing…ou-ou-ou-t.” She fakes it and it’s obvious, but the FaceTime ends and Sirius sits opposite you now. He’s pretty even at seven in the evening and it makes you very nervous.

You stand up, uneased, and make towards your bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh,” you gesture to an old pile of clothes, “Marlene cleaned her wardrobe out before she left, so I decided to follow suit so then we can donate them.”

“Why’re you leaving me?” he pouts.

“You want to…stay?”

You’re so puzzled and your heart is beating far too fast for your liking. It goes pitter patter like the rain outside. It’s exhausting. The feeling might be addictive, like a good old fashioned crush, but it’s always playing with you. It feels avaricious to love someone out of your league, worth more than you have ever been.

His sudden showering of affections and doting on you, you think, is because he’s lonely. He doesn’t live with James anymore. You empathise with him, but only because you think you’ll know what that feels like in a month when Dorcas and Marlene move in together. But it really isn’t. Sirius actually thinks that you deserve all the heavy-handed loving in the world, and he always has. His apprehension towards him being the person to do the loving is slowly fading away as he sees the shy smile on your face.

“If you’ll have me.”

And you turn your head around so he doesn’t see you blush, “Okay, I’ve been meaning to get a second opinion. Whenever I do this I do it with Marlene.”

You try things on by the mirror in your bedroom, instructing Sirius to look away when needed. He isn’t much of a help at all, because he thinks you look good in everything. Which is just certainly not true.

On a whim, he suggests that because he isn’t aiding you successfully, you should help him on his own closet. In the end, you wind up in his apartment.

Sirius has never boasted about what he has at all, mainly because he isn’t proud of it. By what unethical means his trust fund has come from, he doesn’t even want to know, but he’s grateful for it. You’ve only ever seen his living room, kitchen and his small powder room, and they’re lavish and capacious to no ends. Everything subtly screams wealth and luxury. His bedroom is no different. A large bed sits in the middle, framed by expensive paintings. There’s a well made ebony table in the corner, spotless and tidy. The two armchairs in the room are, whilst clearly faux-leather, intricate and of the sort of taste cultivated only by time. A copy of the original Call of the Wild sits on a table. A bookshelf is on one side of the room, grey, stretching from the floor to ceiling. You run your fingers along the spines of the book. They’re all special editions. A simple chandelier (what an oxymoron) dangles in the middle of the room, and you find the ceiling is gilded with plaster and gold. Pictures of friends and family adorn the white walls.

His walk in closet is humongous. You gasp as he opens the door. It’s double the size of your living room. The clothes are organised by colour, style and season and there’s a considerable lack of colour. In the middle sits an accessory table, with dozens of gold watches and silver necklaces. Delicate rings and bracelets all are displayed. A glass cabinet with bottles of cologne and perfume stands next to it. The only ones you can recognise is something that resembles the Ralph Lauren logo and Dior, and then again it isn’t even the one Johnny Depp uses.

He smiles sheepishly, ashamed that he has such nice things, “I did use my own money on this. Euphemia helped me fix it up.”

“It’s beautiful, Sirius,” you’re almost afraid to touch anything. You don’t think you belong in such a gorgeous world. You don’t think you deserve it.

Sirius beams at you, “Guess there’s not a difference between it and you, then.”

Your face warms. Sirius is already taking clothes off the racks, whilst you stand awkwardly. He’s chatting, talking about where the clothes came from and who gave them to him and why he likes it so much. Your shoulders relax and you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. So far he’s through all the things he deems necessary for him to live.

“And this jumper,” he holds up a pristine Ecru crewneck, offering it to you, “Is from when I went to visit Machu Picchu with James. When we left, one of the ladies we had been staying with gave us both a handmade jumper.”

You hold the fabric delicately in your hands.

“It’s alright. It’s just clothes, darling, you can do whatever you like with them.”

He’s so nice it hurts and you grin at him endearingly, “Thanks, Sirius.”

An adoring smile finds its way onto his face as he turns to pick up the next item. You put the sweater in the “KEEP” pile.

“How did this get here?” he laughs as he pulls out a bright yellow crewneck, with a little emblem etched on the side. Immediately he tugs it on, grinning as he surveys the bright colour in the mirror.

You’re blushing away because the colour suits him so well and makes him look way softer than he usually does.

He sneaks a glance at you in the mirror, and when he sees your lack of eye contact with him he frowns.

“Are you okay?” he asks you.

“Yeah. Yellow looks really nice on you, Sirius.”

“Does it?”

“Mhm. I don’t know, it makes you look…cuddly?”

He doesn’t smirk like you expect him to, but swivels around and smiles at you again. He knows he looks like he loves you. He doesn’t mind. You’re just sitting there, confused at why he’s doing this. It’s weird and sudden and it’s definitely something he would do.

Maybe this is his new favourite jumper.

He throws it in the keep pile. You tut disapprovingly and rearrange it gently. Seeing a t-shirt, he takes his own shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. You cover your eyes, not wanting to intrude on his privacy.

Sirius is midway through putting the shirt on when he laughs. “It’s okay, princess, I didn’t ask you to look away. I don’t mind. Unless you do, then I’ll change over there.”

You peek your eyes at him, and Sirius hopes that he’s not imagining your pupils blown slightly.

And you didn’t think he could get more perfect, but he is. His muscles are toned and defined, and slightly strained as he slides his shirt on. Gosh, he makes you feel inadequate. He can’t know you want him, so you grin as if you’re unaffected.

“That’s cute,” you nod.

And the process repeats. Sometimes he takes off his pants too, leaving him to just his boxers that cling onto him in an ungodly way.

“Are you done?” you ask, eyes covered tightly by your hand.

“Yeah.”

Sirius is dressed in a suit, the tenth one tonight, “Do we like this one, or the grey one?”

“I like the way this one fits, but I like the grey colour more. But I think the dull dove blue one was the best because it brings out your eyes.”

Sirius makes a mental note to get the grey one altered. He chucks away some old sleeping tees, and a bunch of band hoodies he doesn’t wear anymore. He also gets rid of one of his expensive sweaters with a cable knit and a button up shirt, a bunch of sweatpants and this hideous sweater vest that his Aunt Thelma gifted him for his 17th birthday.

He thinks maybe you might like to wear some of the things he has in his wardrobe–Euphemia picks them out with him and she represents a small portion of women. He lugs the bag of clothes to his car, and when he’s back, he sees you cross-legged on an armchair, typing on your phone.

“Sweetheart, what do I owe you?” he asks.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, “For what?”

You put your phone down on the side table.

“For helping me?”

“Nothing, Sirius, nothing at all. It’s my pleasure, really.”

“Do you want to take some of my clothes? I have more than enough.”

You look inquisitively at him, “You don’t mind?”

“‘Course not.”

You go home that night with two of his fancy jumpers, he insists, and one big button up shirt, and a bunch of other stuff he is adamant you should take too. You call Lily. Her voice comes out muffled on the other end.

“Hey Lily!

“Mhm, I’m well, how are you?

“He’s not that bad, I’m sure. You do know he took your Women’s Weekly–

“I’ve already done that quiz.

“Right, well, I don’t think Sirius is fine, in his own right.

“No! As in the sad happy fine, not the cute handsome fine.

“Well- no- I- I don’t think he’s not fine- I mean - Okay whatever. Is he alright? He keeps on acting weird.

A long pause.

“You know something, don’t you, Red?

“It’s kind of strange. I mean, he offered for me to take one of his- I don’t know, the Ermenegildo Ze-

“Yes, that! One of those jumpers.

“Are you sure? That’s what he is normally? Isn’t he usually bad-boy cool guy? Not dorky weird compliment giver?

“Alright, fine.

“Bye, love you!”

You survey the pile of clothes for any trace of a prank. Nothing. You take out one and inspect it suspiciously. Then, your intrusive thoughts get the better of you and you sniff the material carefully. It smells really nice. You chuck them in the wash just in case Sirius has popped one of his silly prank gadgets into the pockets or beneath the collar.

The next time you see him, Lily has called you to tell you she and James are going to Vegas to join Marlene and Dorcas. They’re celebrating a championship. She invites you, but you decline, not liking the idea of tailing behind the two couples and intruding on the romantic atmosphere. Sirius is all alone, and Lily tells you to ‘please go and check up on him’.

The apartment seems okay. It’s spotless like it always is, smelling of air freshener and Sirius’ cologne. It doesn’t look like Sirius is going through something rough at all. Sirius might not even be home, so you’re about to leave when you hear music coming from a secluded area of the apartment. You sneak into the corridor and the door is ajar. A beautiful black grand piano stands, Sirius sitting at it, playing the finest tune you’ve ever heard. The sounds reverberate gently through the room, and it’s divine. It’s joyful and skips on merrily. His eyes are closed and his lips are turned up. It makes you think that maybe he’s thinking of someone.

He stirs a little at the noise and you pull back. He gets up from his chair and peeks his head around the door. You’re wearing his jumper over some sweatpants. It’s so pretty on you, falling oversized.

He laughs, which brings heat to your cheeks, “Do you want to come in?”

“You’ll let me?” you gasp, “But you don’t even let Dorcas come in, and she’s a cello-ist.”

“You’re special,” he winks and you blush. You must look like a motley of colours- florid and pink. But you don’t mind, he makes everyone nervous and you’re not special, which puts you at ease.

You perch on the cushy chair as he plays a lilting song. You hum, approving, “What’s the song called?”

“Love,” he says and you agree. The song plays like what love feels like.

It’s so soft, and warm. Combined with Sirius’ lavender and honey cologne, it makes you drowsy. He notices your eyes are barely open, and instead of ending the song, continues to play the same melody over a lighter bass. When your breathing becomes steady, he quietly rises from the piano and scoops you up, knowing it can’t be comfortable to sleep in a chair. He carries you to his own room, where he tucks you into his bed. You’re murmuring unintelligible things. He leaves and continues playing, before Lily calls and he knows he should be in bed, because it’s morning in Las Vegas. Thus, he shuts his piano and drapes a soft velvet across it. He falls onto the couch and listening to Lily’s calming method to waking up, he falls asleep.

In the morning, you’re in a vaguely familiar room. The sheets are silk and the ceiling is fancier than an art gallery’s. You yawn, stretching. The clock next to you detects the motion and flashes a dim white. Of course it’s an analogue clock, reading 5:00 am. You remember shutting your eyes slowly in the piano room, the news had been playing on the TV earlier. So you had fallen asleep at seven. 10 hours, more than enough. You quickly get up and make the bed. After using his fancy skincare products and brushing your teeth with a spare toothbrush you find packaged up, you hear soft snores coming from the living room. Sirius is there, phone by his side.

You pout at how much of a gentleman he is, retrieving a blanket and carefully placing it on him. Then you prepare a smoothie, with the fourteen-million ingredients he has in his giant fridge, and leave it in there with a note. But Sirius wakes. He’s always been a light sleeper.

He leans blearily over the couch, “Sweetheart?”

“Good morning!” you chirp.

“Why do you have to be so gorgeous at five in the morning?” he slurs. You raise your eyebrows. He’s really always very flirty, and you’re used to it not being genuine by now. He sways out of bed and into the bathroom. You hear the running of a faucet, and sit down on a kitchen chair, checking your phone. Lily has blown it up.

TO: REDHEAD

REDHEAD 7:31 p.m. sooo, how is he??

REDHEAD 7:43 p.m. hellooooo babes????

REDHEAD 8:00 p.m. are u ok ??

REDHEAD 8:05 p.m. ANSWER ANSWER ANSWER

REDHEAD 9:47 p.m. I’m calling sirius

REDHEAD 10:00 p.m. omg YES GO YOU OMG

5:30 a.m. what

5:30 a.m. he was playing the piano lils and i fell asleep

REDHEAD 5:31 a.m. ok keep telling urself that <3 i mean has he ever let us sit in when we asked???

5:32 a.m. i told u he was acting strange

You grin as you see some of the videos she has sent you. One is where James and her and celebrating, him beaming like he always does. She looks madly in love with him. You screenshot and send it to your email so you can print it out later. There’s another of Marlene and Dorcas doing the spaghetti thing at a Michelin star restaurant. They look as if they’re having a wonderful time. It makes you realise that you’re craving something like that too, only not in the wild world of Vegas. You already have something like it, but it’s so one-sided and your heart can’t stand it. You wish someone would just, dote on you. And genuinely, because there’s no way Sirius Black means it.

You express these feelings to Marlene when she’s back, moving boxes and taping things up.

“I want to love someone, Marls. Who loves me back, so don’t even say Sirius.”

“He doesn’t act like that around everyone else, you know.”

“He does! Besides, what makes me so special, Marlene? He could have anyone.”

She laughs, “Oh goodness have you got a lot to learn.”

–

Marlene and Dorcas invite you to their housewarming party in their house. They say it’s perfect for a family and they want to start one whilst they’re young. It’s quite a large gathering for a housewarming party, and the inside is buzzing with excitement. You’re talking to some of their colleagues- Alice and her boyfriend Frank on the couch.

“And we’re planning a trip to Ibiza for next month,” she blinks up at him lovingly and he does the same. It makes you subtly raise your phone as if you’re getting a message and type, before quickly flashing a photo of them whilst they’re gazing into each other’s eyes.

Sirius spots you grinning away, like you want what Alice and Frank have. He sidles in next to you.

“Hey darling,” he smiles and you smile back, “Hi.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Alice asks.

“Oh of course! I thought you would already know him,” you put down your drink, “Alice, this is Sirius. Sirius, Alice. Frank, Sirius. Sirius, Frank. They’re planning a trip to Ibiza and were voted Best Couple in high school.”

They’re both intimidated by Sirius, you can tell, but Sirius smiles, “Nice to meet you Alice and Frank. How long have you been together?”

They cheesily smile at each other, “Seven years and going strong,” Alice flashes her wedding ring.

Marlene calls you over to the kitchen island, where she is mixing drinks up, “Hey darl!”

“Sup, Marls.”

“Need a drink?”

“Just pink lemonade,” you hold out your cup. A boy comes around the table, smiling at you. Marlene smirks a little.

“Y/n, this is CJ. He’s a footballer, and a damn good one.”

You grin, outstretching your hand, “Hi CJ, nice to meet you.”

He shakes it heartily, “Likewise.”

“What team do you play for?”

“Oh, just a local one,” he rubs his neck bashfully, “I’m not that good.”

CJ, whatever it stands for, is handsome, with bright green eyes and curly brown hair. He’s sweet too and has this shy air around him that’s impossibly good natured. He’s Emmeline’s to-be lover.

“Try me.”

“Liverpool,” he says meekly.

“Oh, you’re the Cruz Johnson! How’s football for a living?”

“It’s great, actually,” he chuckles, dipping his head to whisper secretly into your ear, “Though this beer is actually some recovery drink, so could be better.”

You laugh.

He grins as he takes a sip and makes a funny face, “So what do you do?”

You tell him and he nods, “Impressive indeed. How’d you meet Marls here?”

“She and I were classmates! I wore her down eventually, she used to hate friendship.”

“Oh tell me about it. I met her at the football club, where she was playing for the ladies’ team. And the first time the coach tried to congratulate her she just rolled her eyes. He was filthy.”

“Oh?” your eyes are sparkling with mischief.

“When he dislocated his cheekbone a few weeks later, she told him she could ski on them if she tried. Anyway.”

You purse your lips in amusement, “Am I allowed to laugh at that?”

“He looked like this,” Cruz makes a face and you giggle.

Sirius is watching this all with a very sour look on his face, feeling very jealous.

Cruz takes another sip of his drink, “So, who are you here with?”

You’re confused, “No one? I mean, unless you count Marlene, but she’s with Dorcas. And my friend Emmeline too.”

At the mention of Emmeline’s name, his eyes light up, “About her…”

“She’s single and she does like green eyes,” you pull him near the wily, tall Emmeline, who blushes shyly as she sees Cruz, “Besides, I think she has a thing for you. Ever since, you know, you crashed into her and spilled your coffee on her favourite shirt,” you joke.

He blushes, “Gosh, you still remember that? Will you send me the name of the shirt so I can buy her five more? I know I already replaced hers but I still feel so bad.”

“Awh. That’s very nice of you, Cruz. Here,” you hand him your phone, “What’s your number?”

Sirius is watching you, hands tense around his cup. He decides to go up to you.

“Hey darling,” he says lowly into your ear, making you jump and your cheeks heat up.

“Sirius!” you berate. Cruz is watching with a knowing smile as he hands your phone back. You quickly text him, “Okay, sent it.”

The two guys are sizing each other up. You can sense their hostility.

“Now, boys, be friendly. Cruz, do not worry, Sirius is only friends with Emmeline, and Sirius, don’t worry, Cruz won’t try to pick up Regulus.”

You feel both of them relax. Cruz grins at Sirius, “Nice to finally meet you, man.”

“You too!”

“And don’t worry, I don’t have feelings for her either.”

You’re silently eavesdropping on the conversation whilst texting Emmeline. You sneak a look at Sirius, who has an unnatural pink on his porcelain skin.

“C’mon green-eyes, aren’t I obvious about it?”

Cruz agrees, “Too much so.”

“Anyway, I’ll let you get to Emmeline, Cruz.”

He stumbles, grins at you and waves at the same time, “Thanks, mate.”

“No problems.”

You watch as he goes and makes a fool of himself in front of Emmeline, who likes it. You turn to Sirius, eyes still watching them. You’re still painstakingly lonely. Tonight you think you’ve third-wheeled at least three couples, and set up two. Even though Sirius is there, he’s just a constant reminder of what you can’t have.

Sirius can see it in your eyes. He doesn’t know how much more he needs to do. Lily wants to know though.

“Soooo, lovely,” she begins and you narrow your eyes at her.

“I swear I didn’t take your cookie cutters and destroy them whilst trying to make clay sculptures with Emmeline and Cruz,” you put your hands up. Lily raises her brows and you murmur a quiet, “Oh no.”

“My cookie cutters that you gave me?!” she yells.

“It’s fine, I’ll get you new ones.”

She sighs, “Right. Anyway, Sirius Black.”

“Sirius Black,” you say slowly.

“Mhm. Are you ever going to tell him you like him?”

“No, I don’t even like him.”

“You don’t?” Lily feigns surprise.

“Nope.”

“Is he cute?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“He doesn’t like me like that, Lils,” you scold.

“Why does he call you ‘darling’ then? He has to.”

“If he did, that would be embarrassing for him. Gosh knows he’s too good for me. If he likes me, I would question why because he could probably do better,” you shrug, “I’m confident, but not completely blind.”

“Okay. So if he liked you, you would want to date him?”

You reply meekly, “Yeah.”

“I think you should tell him, though,” Lily sighs, “Better you than anyone else doing it.”

You ponder for a moment, “True,” you sigh, “He’ll be nice about it.”

Lily squeals, “I’m planning your wedding!!!”

You knock on his apartment door, reconsidering for the last time whether you want to do it or not.

Sirius opens the door, looking confused and handsome, eyes bluer than usual.

“Hi,” you breathe.

“Gorgeous, to what do I owe this sudden visit?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

“Really?” his eyes are glistening.

“Yeah.”

“Come in then. Mind the mess, taxes.”

You hum, “Need help?”

“Actually, yeah. Should I write off…”

You sit down, distracted by the papers flying everywhere, taking a pen and starting to write. Your mission is almost forgotten after you finish helping him with his taxes, smiling satisfiedly at the hefty return he receives.

“Good,” you grin, admiring your work, “I’d say this is a successful tax file.” He swipes his tongue over his teeth, so attractively and seals the envelope, setting it down on his stack of things he needs to post.

“Package to Marlene and Dorcas, papers to…” he rambles, pacing out his thoughts, “Oh, and my portfolio. Can you check if they’re alright to send in?”

“Portfolio?”

“Oh,” he turns red, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, “Someone asked me to model for them?”

“When?” you gasp. He hands you the envelope, and you carefully pry out some photos.

“A week ago,” he murmurs, “Can you check these aren’t too…much?”

They’re glossy between your fingers and smooth, candid shots, some staged and every single one of them belongs on the cover of Vogue. It’s strange, the pictures of Sirius should be in a magazine, famed and lovely, but he’s right here. Nervously fidgeting around. He’s so tangible right now. You reach out to skim your fingers over the photos, then stretch them out to touch the skin near his lips. He’s taken aback but leans into your touch.

“I think they’re perfect,” you fold the envelope over, handing it back to him.

He’s still looking incredibly ashamed of himself.

“Why do you look so sheepish?” you laugh, “Stop that! It’s alright.” You surge to hug him, “It’s amazing, Sirius.”

Sirius hides his face in your neck, “I feel like a show-off,” he mumbles and you laugh.

“Sirius, it’s honestly alright. You’re not, far from it actually. It’s okay to have nice things.”

“I’m sorry. I’m being a wimp.”

“It’s fine, I understand. These feelings are completely normal, but that doesn’t mean they’re true. If I had a staggering net worth of a few hundred million and never told you, would you think I’m a show-off?”

He shook his head.

“Exactly,” you smile at him, “Now do you want to go to the post office? It closes in half an hour.”

He nods, “‘Kay.”

The post office man greets him with some flirting, and he sets down his stack of parcels, ignoring him to go sign some of them.

He looks over to you, “You’re his…” he studies your face, “friend?”

It makes you feel small and judged. You chew nervously on your lip, unconsciously stepping towards Sirius. You know you couldn’t possibly pass off as his girlfriend, but it’s an ugly reminder you don’t need. Sirius smiles politely, “These three are in a letter card, but can we get them to be delivered…”

After he pays, you try not to make it seem like you’re in a rush to get out. He notices, of course he does. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say to you?”

You stay quiet and Sirius does too. He drives to his apartment and sits down on his couch. You follow. He’s silent.

“He said something about us,” you break the fragile silence, “About me.”

“What?”

“Well he looked at me and then asked if I was your friend after giving me a once-over.”

Sirius shrugs, “Aren’t you?”

Your heart falls, “Well–. The thing is–, look, I’ve been meaning to tell you this, but I kind of– scratch that, I have this massive crush on you and probably more,” you wince, “Please be nice about this.”

He looks positively shocked. You can’t tell if it’s good shock or bad shock.

You grimace, “And please can we stay friends?”

“You think I’m rejecting you?” he almost scoffs, lifting you easily into his lap. He’s so close you could count the colours in his eyes. A charcoal, a light cerulean, a tinge of yellow ochre, “After all my countless advances, the gifts, even inviting you into my piano room whilst I played, I couldn’t, sweetheart,” he says softly.

“Haven’t you noticed I haven’t ever dated anyone since two years back? That I pretty much have been begging to be noticed by you these past years,” he continues, “All because I want to be yours. Because I couldn’t even think of wanting anyone else. I like you so much.”

“Hey Sirius?”

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You already did.”

You huff, “Can I kiss you?”

Before you can do anything, he’s grinning as he presses his lips to yours, smiling into the kiss. When you break apart, he's still grinning. He thinks he will be for the rest of his life.

“Whoa,” you say as you grin at him.

He hugs you tightly, “Please never say we should be friends again.”

You nod, “Never.”

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queenshelby · 10 months

Text

Forbidden Desire (Part 21)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (Female/Incestuous)

Warnings: Incest, Smut

Please comment and engage xx 😘

The following day, when you woke up, exhausted from tending to a crying child all night, it was Frances who brought you some breakfast to your room.

"Good Morning Miss Shelby," she said as, ever so gently, she laid out the food before you.

She seemed especially sensitive today, attuned to the tensions that permeated throughout the house. As she handed you a cup of tea, she offered, “If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate.”

"Thank you, Frances," you smiled without needing to take up her offer for assistance before enquiring about the whereabouts of your fiancé. "Do you know where Robert might be?" you wondered, seeing that he had risen early that day.

"I believe that he has gone hunting with Mr Shelby," Frances informed you, causing your chin to drop.

"He's gone hunting with my father?" you asked, but Frances shook her head.

"No, miss. He has gone hunting with your uncle, Thomas Shelby," she said apologetically and, immediately, you froze, stunned by the news.

"Has anyone else gone with them?" you wondered, seeing that, not only had Robert never held a rifle before, nor did you consider it wise for him to spend time alone with Tommy while Tommy was in possession of a weapon of such kind.

"No, they have left the house on their own. I believe that I heard Mr Shelby say that he wanted to get to know him a bit better now that he was marrying you," Frances elaborated, her sympathetic demeanor evident.

Feeling concerned for Robert's safety, you could feel anger rising within you. How dare Tommy take advantage of Robert's naïveté, you thought, but, before you could interrogate Frances further, there came a knock at the door.

Opening it, you discovered your father, Arthur, standing on the other side, an amused smile playing upon his lips.

"Fucking Hell, Love," he drawled, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "You cannot seriously marry this man," he laughed before shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Excuse me?" you murmured, taken aback by his demure.

"Your Uncle has gone out to the woods with him to shoot a stag and he threw up all over his own fucking suit," Arthur chuckled, referring to the fact that Robert felt somewhat sickened by the act of the hunt. "And I thought he is a fucking doctor," he then added, laughing even more.

"He is a doctor yes and, unlike you and the rest of my family, he may not enjoy the act of killing," you retorted defiantly, feeling slightly irritated by your father's mockery, just as Robert barged into the room as well.

His face pale and sweaty, he looked almost ill and, just as he approached you, you could smell the vomit on his clothes.

"Frances will have these cleaned for you," you assured him kindly, gesturing for him to sit down. Ignoring your suggestion, Robert went straight for the mirror in your suite, studying his reflection intently. Seeing his discomfort, you decided to intervene.

"Perhaps hunting isn't for you darling, and I don't blame you," you remarked carefully, but Robert was evidently upset and offended.

"Just shut up, Y/N! Please!" he snapped, his hands clenching into tight fists as if daring them to betray his fragile state. His expression clouded over with frustration and shame.

"Did you just tell me to shut up?" you demanded incredulously, surprised by his uncharacteristically harsh response.

Robert visibly crumbled under your gaze, looking genuinely repentant.

"I…I didn't mean it like that, alright? Sorry. But, Jesus Christ, Y/N. I don't belong here. I shouldn't have come here," he admitted miserably, clearly regretting his outburst. "And neither should you. You don't belong here either," he then lectured you sternly, unable to conceal his disappointment and frustration. "This place isn't suited for people like us – we aren't killers, murderers, criminals," Robert told you without knowing that you, too, had killed a man before, albeit in self-defense.

"Last night, I saw two body bags being carried out of the yards. Your uncle and father were watching on as some gypsy picked them up. You were fast asleep finally, so I did not mention it at the time. I knew you needed the rest," Robert continued, choosing his words carefully. His vulnerability was touching, making you want to reach out and comfort him. However, unsure how to approach him after his earlier outburst, you remained silent until he asked a very relevant question.

"You aren't involved in any criminal activities back in Boston, are you?" Robert prodded cautiously, attempting to reconcile the disparity between the life he knew of you and the reality of living amongst the Shelby Family.

Looking away briefly, you struggled to find the right words. While you couldn't deny that you weren't entirely innocent, it wasn't something you wished to discuss with him.

Instead, you decided to provide him with an answer which would suffice for the moment.

"My line of work is complicated," you began diplomatically, causing Robert to sigh with frustration.

"Is it alcohol or is it drugs you are bringing into Boston?" he wanted to know earnestly, his brow furrowed in concern.

Suddenly aware of the depth of trust he was seeking from you, you took a deep breath before answering honestly.

"It's only alcohol and I promise you that I will not get involved in the import of anything else. No drugs. No weapons. No prostitutes," you replied firmly, determined to give him an account that wouldn't put you in immediate danger upon returning home and, after several moments of silence, Robert cleared his throat awkwardly, changing the subject.

"When we get back to Boston, we will plan our wedding. I want you to leave this life behind. You can stay home and look after Edward. You can be a housewife, be looked after and cared for by me. I am a good man Y/N and you deserve a good man," Robert insisted passionately, his green eyes burning brightly with determination.

"We shall see, Robert," you told him just as Edward began to cry once again. You had no intention of becoming a stay-at-home mother and knew that, a life like this, as a doctor's wife, would not satisfy you.

The idea of giving up the excitement and thrill you derived from working alongside the menacing figures around you made you uneasy, yet simultaneously, you craved stability.

***

As you went on with your day at Arrow House, you and Edward spent time in the gardens before tending to the horses while Robert took solace in Tommy's vast library and Lizzie went for yet another dress fitting for her wedding.

Along with the maids and two Blinders he had employed for security, Tommy was the only other person at home and, with Robert having indulged himself in some books, this gave him the perfect opportunity to bond with his six-month old son without raising suspicions.

"May I hold him?" Tommy thus asked as you met him in the stables to show Edward the horses. There was a certain tenderness about him, an empathy that seemed completely misplaced among those present. And yet, his gentleness and compassion struck you as oddly familiar. Something stirred deep within your heart, echoing through forgotten memories, resonating beneath your skin.

"Of course. Just watch out for the horses," you cautioned lightly, handing over your son to Tommy.

Though it appeared effortless when holding Edward, the way he cradled the baby showed immense care and attention.

There was a palpable air of trepidation surrounding Tommy when he was near his son, a hint of fear mixed with uncertainty lingering within his heart.

"He is perfect," Tommy whispered reverentially, staring deeply into Edwards’ wide round eyes and tiny fingers. It was as though he was trying to memorize every aspect of his son before you would return to the US. This unspoken need reflected a level of desperation Tommy tried hard to hide, but you could sense it.

"Perhaps you could visit us in Boston one day?" you suggested tentatively, hoping to ease some of the tension building around you and, though this notion was not unappealing to you, you also recognized the potential risks associated with crossing paths with Tommy again, especially considering the circumstances that led to your departure from Birmingham in the first place.

"Yes... perhaps," Tommy agreed reluctantly, avoiding eye contact. As much as he desired a connection with his child, he feared what reuniting with you might bring.

"I should take him back inside. He needs a sleep," you eventually said softly, breaking the tension between you and Tommy.

Handing Edward back gingerly, you noted how Tommy tenderly held onto the baby, savouring every last second before parting ways.

"Good luck," he chuckled, seeing that Edward was a terrible sleeper, just like his father.

"Thank you," you smiled warmly, turning to make your way back into the house, leaving Tommy alone with the horses. Although there was still an underlying tension between you both, the fleeting interaction left you with a strange mix of emotions - sadness, nostalgia, desire. Intrigued by the unexpected affection you shared for Tommy, now more than ever, your curiosity peaked further.

Back inside, you proceeded toward the guest room in which you were staying and, just after Edward finally went down for his sleep, you sought out Frances to locate some writing paper, wanting to write to your mother who had since located to Belfast.

"Usually there is some paper inside the reading-room, on the cabinet to the left,"

she informed you helpfully, leading you to where you thought you may find what you were searching for.

When you arrived, however, you discovered that Robert had fallen asleep there and neither of you wanted to disturb him.

"Mr Shelby should have some in his office," she added tactfully, indicating that you should seek him out instead and, since you knew where he usually kept his writing supplies, you entered his office unannounced, knowing full well that he was still inside the stables.

Entering the opulent space, adorned with luxurious leather furniture and expensive Persian carpets, you approached his large mahogany desk and began rifling through its contents, finding exactly what you were looking for.

However, when you picked up a pile of elegant writing paper from one of the draws, buried beneath it you found several letters that were addressed to you.

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whencyclopedia · 2 months

Photo

Dolia: The Containers That Made Rome an Empire of Wine

The ancient Roman love for wine is well-known, but how was all that wine stored? In “Dolia,” Caroline Cheung puts dolia, the largest ceramic storage vessel made in the ancient world and capable of holding a thousand liters of wine, at the center of the ancient Roman wine trade for the first time. Best suited for scholars and students, this book explores the lifespan of dolia and the people who made, used, and paid for these massive vessels through a range of archaeological and literary evidence.

Caroline Cheung, an assistant professor of Classics at Princeton University, seeks to fill a rather large gap in the scholarship of the ancient Roman wine trade by centering the storage vessels themselves, the dolia (sing. dolium). Historically, these supermassive ceramic vessels, capable of holding well over a thousand liters each, have been understudied and overlooked. Combining various archaeological and literary evidence, Cheung argues that dolia formed the backbone for the Roman wine trade and that their development was the key factor in satisfying the Roman thirst for wine from the 2nd century BCE to the 2nd century CE. She pays particular attention to the many people involved in every step of the dolia industry and how dolia can function as a lens into the intersections of wealth, social mobility, and labor. The book focuses on three case-study sites in west-central Italy: Cosa, Pompeii, and Rome with its port Ostia.

Cheung organizes her book thematically to draw out each step in the life of a dolium. After the introduction, Chapter Two traces the development of the dolia industry from the 2nd century BCE to the height of the Roman Empire. Chapters Three to Six detail the various uses of dolia on farms and villas, as part of a complex trade system in the Mediterranean, and cities. Chapters Seven and Eight then turn to how dolia were maintained, repaired, and eventually reused and abandoned. Cheung concludes in Chapter Nine with reflections on studying dolia and their legacy today.

Cheung does a masterful job of marshaling a truly staggering amount of archaeological and literary evidence to make this book possible. From the largest dolium-tanker shipwrecks to the smallest epigraphic stamps and tax records, Cheung excels at drawing out the particular importance of each piece of evidence. Some of the most interesting moments in the book are when she slows down to focus on a specific site or detail amidst the wealth of information she provides, such as in Chapter Four, when she draws out the story of the Sestius and Piranus families as examples of how wealthy families could take advantage of different stages in a dolia-based wine trade to accrue wealth and influence. A slate of images and figures also complements her prose well, including full-color plates of many images in the book.

At times, however, Cheung seems to struggle with her two competing priorities of exploring the life of a dolium from production to abandonment and examining the ramifications of dolia on the Roman wine trade and Roman imperialism more broadly. Her prose sometimes switches quite abruptly between the two, leaving the reader to try to pull together disparate threads of the narrative. In focusing mainly on west-central Italy, with only a brief foray into southern France and Spain, Cheung’s narrative can feel quite restricted, leaving out as it does the rest of the Mediterranean world, let alone the rest of the Roman Empire. Some discussion of what we do know about dolia outside of the book's case study areas would have been worthwhile to help provide a fuller picture of the role of dolia across the Mediterranean. As the first step in synthesizing much of this material, this book is a very needed addition in illuminating the crucial role dolia played in the Roman wine trade.

Cheung is one of the few scholars working on dolia currently, and perhaps the only one synthesizing the material on such a broad level, and her mastery of the material shows in this book. In centering dolia in the narrative of the Roman wine trade, Cheung takes a completely different tact to previous studies of this topic with great results. She argues persuasively why dolia deserve to be seen front and center in future scholarship. This book demonstrates the value of studying the logistics of the Roman wine trade just as much as the Romans’ love of wine itself.

#History #RomanEmpire #Ceramics #MediterraneanSea

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 11 months

Note

Can you please give an explainer on the friendship between Robespierre and Desmoulins and what their dynamic together was like? I know they were at school together as kids but were they really as close as movies usually portray them as? Was Robespierre better friends with Saint-Just?

Bonus: What's the story behind Desmoulins using Roussaeau against Robespierre?

Merci!

That’s an interesting question considering how often their relationship, as you say, has gotten dramatized.

The good days of the relationship

Both Robespierre and Desmoulins started attending the boarding school of Louis-le-Grand at the age of eleven, the former in 1769, the latter in 1771. We don’t know when exactly they first ran into and/or got to know each other, nor exactly just how close or not they actually grew to be while at college. To me, the following two statements do however suggest that their relationship back then was at least better than ”mere acquaintances”:

Oh, my dear Robespierre! It is not long since we were sighing together over our country’s servitude, since, drawing from the same sources the sacred love of liberty and equality, amid so many professors whose lessons only taught us to detest our land, we were complaining there was no professor of cabals who would teach us to free it, when we were regretting the tribune of Rome and Athens, how far was I from thinking that the day of a constitution a thousand times more beautiful was so close to shining on us, and that you, in the tribune of the French people, would be one of the firmest ramparts of the nascent freedom! Desmoulins in number 15 of Révolutions de France et de Brabant (March 8 1790)

I knew Camille in college, he was my study companion, he was then a talented young man without mature judgement. Since then Camille has developed the most ardent love of the Republic;... one must not look only at one point in his moral life, one must take the whole of it; one must examine him as a whole. Robespierre defends Camille at the Jacobins December 14 1793 (only time he ever admitted to a college friendship with anyone at all)

Liévin-Bonaventure Proyart, who worked at the college up until 1778, would give the following description of the relationship Desmoulins and Robespierre had back then in his La vie et les crimes de Robespierre: surnommé le Tyran… (1795):

In his lower classes, and however young he had been, [Robespierre] was very rarely seen sharing the amusements and games which most please childhood. His cold and misanthropic heart never knew those outpourings of lively and frank joy, natural signs of candor and ingenuity. Of all the noisy and endlessly varied amusements which make the public recreation of a college such an animated scene, none pleased him, and he preferred dark reveries and solitary walks. If someone, at these moments, approached him, he received him with a cold gravity; and answered him at first only in monofyllables. If he took it upon himself to praise his style and his scholastic productions, Robespierre did him the favor of striking up a conversation with him. But, however little one ventured to thwart him, one instantly became the object of some harsh and virulent trait. Camille Desmoulins, who lived at the same college, and whose impetuous and untidy character did not adapt well to the philosophical arrogance of Robespierre, had from time to time grapples with him, but from then on as since, the champions did not fight on equal terms. Always more reflective than the opponent who provoked him, and more master of his moves, Robespierre, watching the moment, pounced on him with all the advantage that cold prudence has over temerity.

Fellow students Beffroy de Reigny and Stanislas Fréron would in the latter half of the 1790’s similarly make the contradiction of stating both that the young Robespierre didn’t have any friends at school and that he and Desmoulins had been college comrades (Beffroy writing that Robespierre was ”his (Desmoulins’) comrade and mine” and Fréron that Desmoulins was Robespierre’s ”childhood comrade”). Though given the time these texts were written, I think this might should be read more as these Robespierre-dislikers wanting to have the cake and eat it too (ergo they both want Robespierre to have killed his childhood friend and to have been so repulsive he had no friends at all) than as full blown evidence Camille was Robespierre’s ”only friend” at school as the latter puts it in La Terreur et la Vertu.

Finally, Marcellin Matton, when writing a short biography over Camille in 1834, stated the following regarding his college days:

It was [at Louis-le Grand] that Camille got to know Maximilien Robespierre. They differed in character, but both had this passion which always distinguishes men of genius — love for liberty and for independence. The fully republican education one gave to young people born to live under a monarchy contributed a lot to their character. Without stop and in all forms, one presented them with history of Gracchus, Brutus, Cato. Camille was always together with Robespierre and their conversation most often revolved around the constitution of the Roman Republic.

While this certainly sounds like it could just be romantizing, we do know Matton was friends with Camille’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and it it’s therefore possible it’s them (who in their turn would have gotten it from Camille) who have given him this account of a close college relationship.

It’s sometimes argued that Robespierre and Desmoulins can’t have been friends while at school since they were never in the same grade, and it therefore would have been really hard for them to socialize. And indeed, when looking over the school regulations that were in motion during their time there, that does indeed come off as quite a hard thing to do — students were to stick to their ”quarter” both in dormitories, during classes, study hall, on Sunday outings, and at table (at first I thought maybe these ”quarters” weren’t neccessarily made up of students who all came from the same grade, but this other piece seems to rule out that possibility). This leaves the thirty-minute recesses as the only places where students from different quarters would have gotten a chance to interact with one another (bc they all seemed to have recess at the same time according to the schedule…). I do however think Robespierre and Desmoulins’ own testimonies weigh heavier than this. Desmoulins would also go on to admit college friendships with other students we know for a fact can never have been in the same grade as him.

In 1774 and 1775, both Robespierre and Desmoulins’ names featured on the list of students that had been awarded annual prizes for their hard labors, which means that they, according to the regulations, got presented before the bureau of administration by the principal ”to there receive praise and rewards due to their work and the success of their studies” together.

After graduating (Robespierre in 1781, Desmoulins in 1785) the two seemingly lost sight of one another, at least we don’t have any evidence they corresponded or in other ways kept up contact. Two pieces do however show us they did not forget about each other entirely. The first is a letter dated spring 1786 Camille adressed to the aforementioned Beffroy de Reigny, who in January the same year had openly thanked his ”former study comrade Robespiere [sic]” for sending him two of his works as a gift.

It was noticed lately, as a misfortune attached to the house where we were brought up together, that none of those who had distinguished themselves there fulfilled in the world the hopes that he had first given, that you alone seem happier right now, and we rejoice in your many subscribers. Although the subscribers are your dear and beloved cousins, we can clearly see that you have not forgotten the rest of the family, nor lost sight of the mountain where we were the first to applaud you. The advantageous manner in which you have spoken of M. Robespiere [sic] has charmed us all; up to now, M. Jéhanne has missed only one opportunity to provide you with the occasion of doing him justice as well. The joy with which you gave well deserved praise to a comrade reproached me for my conduct towards you, and obliges me to retract.

In 1793, Robespierre did in his turn admit to before the revolution have read a poem (that according to Camille had been written in 1787), and felt proud once he realized who the author was:

Remember that at a time when the monarchy was best established on its foundations, Camille, a simple individual, without support, without advocate or patron, a lawyer without a cause on the fourth floor, dared to put into verse the proudest principles of the most determined Republican. Then, in the depths of my province, I learned with secret pleasure that the author was one of my college comrades.

Interestingly, Robespierre’s younger brother Augustin started studying law at Louis-le-Grand in 1784, one year before Camille graduated from said program, although neither would claim to have known the other while at college.

On May 8 1789, Desmoulins authored a letter to his father, telling him about the opening of the Estates General at Versailles three days earlier. Lamenting the fact he himself didn’t get elected for it, he writes: ”one of my comrades has been more fortunate than I, it’s de Robespierre, deputy from Arras. He has been wise enough to plead in his own province.” The fact Camille was able to recognize Robespierre eight years after their separation (and care about it enough to write it down), could be read as yet another sign their college relationship had at least mattered somewhat, especially since this letter is from before Robespierre had made any kind of name for himself politically. How exactly Camille found out Robespierre had been elected (did he recognize his face in a crowd, accidentally run into him or just see it written down somewhere?) is however unknown.

After the ceremony, Camille did however head back to Paris, while Robespierre would remain at Versailles up until October 1789. On July 23 1789, the latter writes to his friend Antoine Buissart that he has been shown the stormed Bastille after the king and the National Assembly’s brief visit to Paris following July 14, but there’s no evidence he saw Desmoulins during it, or even that he knew he had been the one inciting the storming at this point.

In the beginning of September, Camille released Discours de la Lanterne aux Parisiens, the first of his works which he mentioned Robespierre in:

I would at least congratulate M. de Robespierre for opposing with all his strength the release of the Duke of Vauguyon. M. Glaizen opposed it in an even more eloquent manner. Member of the criminal committee, he resigned immediately. This speaks of conviction. Honor to MM. Glaizen and Robespierre!

Later the same month, Camille went back to Versaille after having been invited by Mirabeau, and the day after his arrival (September 20 1789) he could write to tell his father: ”If you hear bad things said about me, console yourself with the memory of the testimony that MM. de Mirabeau, Target, M. de Robespierre, Gleizal and more than two hundred deputies gave me.” Camille stayed with Mirabeau for two weeks before returning to Paris, but there’s no proof he saw Robespierre any more times during his stay.

When Robespierre too went to Paris soon thereafter, he settled in an apartment on Rue de Saintonge, today a 45 minute walk away from Camille’s erstwhile home on Rue de Tournon 19. Despite finally living in the same city again, it’s not until March 6 1790 I’ve discovered something more concreate tying the two together. It’s a note from Desmoulins to Robespierre, found listed in Mémoires de l’Académie des sciences, agriculture, commerce, belles-lettres et arts du département de la Somme (1907) as one of many Desmoulins related text published in Journal de Vervins during the summer of 1884. Unfortunately, I can’t find this journal online anywhere, so I don’t know what the note was about.

In November 1789, Camille founded his very first journal — Révolutions de France et de Brabant — that would run until the fall of 1791. Searching for the term ”Robespierre” in the seven digitalized volumes of the journal, I find Camille talking about him around 85 times. The first time is in number 4 (released December 19 1789), where he makes sure to underline the fact that he and Robespierre had been ”college comrades”:

…If my dear college comrade, Robespierre, had said the same thing to the viscount, he wouldn’t have been able to respond like Saint Peter.

This was the first in a long series of homages Desmoulins’ journal would pay Robespierre. Throughout the years, he called him among other things ”The last of Romans and my hero” (number 41, September 6 1790), ”So pure, so inflexible, the peak of patriotism” (number 46, October 11 1790), ”the living commentary on the Declaration of Rights” (number 65, February 21 1791) and ”immutable” (number 76, May 9 1791). Desmoulins was also second in giving Robespierre the famous nickname ”the Incorruptible.” Not even Robespierre’s erstwhile boyfriend brother in arms Pétion, where Camille still admitted it was impossible to speak of one without thinking about the other (number 55, December 13 1790) got the same almost saintlike treatment. While Robespierre got praised by several journals positive to the revolution, I don’t think it would be that unfair to say Desmoulins was his cheerleader number one during at least its first few years. Several times, Robespierre also sent Camille speeches and letters of his which the latter willfully inserted into his journal (1, 2, 3).

I’ve found only one time Révolutions de France et de Brabant had something negative to say about Robespierre, and it is in number 27, released on May 31 1790, and conviently enough, the next piece of information regarding Desmoulins and Robespierre’s relationship that I know of:

I wasted my time preaching the republic. The republic and democracy are now down, and it is unfortunate for an author to shout in the desert and to write pages as worthless, as little listened to, as the motions of J. F. Maury. Since I despair of overcoming insurmountable currents, tied for six months to the bench of rowers, perhaps I would do well to regain the shore, and throw away a useless oar. I should leave Garnery, continue writing Révolutions de France et de Brabant at a discount, without attempting with my librarian, the unequal struggle of Tournon with Prudhomme. But I hear Robespierre call my discouragement corruption, and exclaim that I am sold like the others to the King's wife and to the ministerial party. I must undeceive my dear Robespierre, I must give new proofs of my incorruptibility every week, show that I am as proud a republican as he is, and that when the number of patriots, which is diminishing prodigiously every day, would be reduced to one or two citizens, it is I who would like to remain the last of the Jacobins. […] How is it that I was accused of being a sold-out journalist, and that I saw Robespierre and L... among my slanderers, when it is so difficult to find proofs of corruption against me? […] So I could not have my neck wrapped in a handkerchief and complain of esquinancia without being reproached for argyrancia as well. Ungrateful Robespierre!

A week later, June 7 1790, Robespierre authors the following letter to Desmoulins, in response to something the latter has written about him in the number of his journal released right after the one quoted above:

Monsieur, I read the following passage regarding the decree from May 22 on the right of war and peace in your (votre) latest number of Révolutions de France et de Brabant: On Saturday, May 22, the little dauphin applauded a decree Mirabeau had put forward with a good sense way beyond his young years. The people applauded too. It led back in triumph Barnave, Péthion [sic], Lameth, d'Aiguillon, Duport, and all the illustrious Jacobins; imagiening itself having just won a great victory, and these deputies had the weakness to maintain it in an error which they enjoyed. Robespierre was more frank, he said to the multitude which surrounded him and stunned them with his beating statement: ”Well! gentlemen, what are you congratulating yourself on? the decree is detestable, detestable to the last bit; let's let the brat clap his hands at his window, he knows better than us what he's doing.” I must, monsieur, point out the error in which you have been led on the fact which concerns me in this passage. I told the National Assembly my opinion on the principles and consequences of the decree which regulates the exercise of the right of peace and war; but there I stopped. I did not make the statement you cite in the Tuileries garden; I didn’t even speak to the crowd of citizens who gathered in my path as I crossed it. I believe I must disavow this fact: 1, because it is not true; 2, because, however disposed I am to always display in the National Assembly the character of frankness which should distinguish the representatives of the nation, I am not unaware that elsewhere there is a certain reserve which suits them. I hope, monsieur, that you will be good enough to make my statement public through your newspaper, especially since your magnanimous zeal for the cause of liberty will make it a law for you not to leave bad citizens the slightest of pretext to calumniate the energy of the defenders of the people. De Robespierre.

There’s certainly not much in this letter implying Robespierre is friends with Desmoulins, or even knows him as anything more than a journalist… All readers’ letters published within Révolutions de France et de Brabant up to this point have however used vouvoiement and been about as formal, so it’s possible Robespierre (who, according to his conserved correspondence, doesn’t use a particulary warm tone with anyone around this period save his arragois friend Antoine Buissart) is trying to mimick them. It’s also not impossible his tone had something to do with what Desmoulins had written about him a week earlier. Desmoulins did however not let himself become influenced by it when publishing and responding to the letter in the the next number (June 14 1790) of his journal. He even chose to adress Robespierre in tutoiment, even though Robespierre addressed him with vouvoiement, and despite having adressed every other correspondent to the journal with vouvoiement up until this point.

If I insure this errata, my dear Robespierre, it is only to show your (ton) signature to my fellow journalists, and teach them not to cripple a name that patriotism has illustrated. There is in your letter a dignity, a seanatorial gravity which wounds college friendship. You’re rightly proud of the laticlave of deputy to the National Assembly. This noble pride pleases me, and what annoys me even more is that not everyone feels their dignity as you do? But you should at least greet a former comrade with a slight nod. I love you none the less, because you are faithful to principles, even if you are not so faithful to friendship. However, why demand this retraction from me? When I would have slightly altered the truth in the anecdote I told, since this fact is honorable for you, since I doubtless said what you thought, if not your expressed words, instead of disavowing the journalists so curtly, you had to content yourself with saying like the cousin, in the charming comedy of the supposed dead man: ”Ah! Monsieur, vous brodez!” You are not one of those weak men of whom J.J Rousseau speaks, who do not want anyone to be able to repeat what they think, and who only speak the truth in their negligee or in their dressing gown, and not in the National Assembly or in the Tuileries.

According to Brissot, the incident did however end up making both college comrades rather piqued against one another. In his memoirs (1793), he wrote the following about it:

I reread this letter to Camille, which chance put before my eyes at this moment, and of which Robespierre himself had brought me a copy to print so that it would have more publicity. It is dated June 8 [sic] 1790 […] Doesn't everything in this letter, on which I can't help but dwell yet, bear the character of a vague uneasiness, of a singular timidity? I remember on this occasion Robespierre with his fears and his scruples which he could not dissimulate. Desmoulins' thoughtlessness alarmed him; he didn't know what to think of it. Was this young man paid to write such follies, and thus compromise the friends of reason and liberty? The deputy's response to the journalist was dignified, proud; it was indeed the style of a patriot. Royalism? what clumsiness! […] Before inserting this complaint in my diary, I warned Camille, whose susceptibility I knew. His answer was made, he left it to me; but I thought I was agreeable to him by publishing neither this answer nor the complaint of which it was the object. He seemed to me strongly piqued against Robespierre. Was it in this tone that a college friend had written to him? What had this rose-watered Brutus to blame, and what power was he so afraid of displeasing? However, Cassius did not want to anger Brutus. Desmoulins always sought to stick to celebrities, to Danton as to Mirabeau, to Linguet as to Robespierre; he would have sought out Marat, had that wolf been able to live with someone in society. Moreover, Robespierre's letter, like his signature, struck his mind, and his answer smelt a bit of taunting.

If the relationship got damaged, it was however not enough to stop Robespierre from saving Camille after an arrest warrant had been issued against him during the session of the National Assembly held on August 2 1790:

M. Malouet: …Is Camille Desmoulins innovative? He will justify himself. Is he guilty? I will be the accuser of him and of all those who take up his defense. Let him justify himself, if he dares. (A voice rises from the stands: ”Yes, I dare.” A part of the surprised assembly rises; the rumor spreads in the assembly that it is M. Camille Desmoulins who has spoken; the president gives the order to arrest the individual who uttered these words). N…: I ask that we deliberate beforehand on this arrest. M. Robespierre: I believe that the provisional order given by the President was indispensable; but must you confuse imprudence and inconsideration with crime? He heard himself accused of a crime against the Nation, it is difficult for a sensitive man to remain silent. It cannot be supposed that he intended to disrespect the Legislative Body. Humanity agrees with justice, pleads in its favour. I ask for his release, and that we move on to the agenda. The president annonces that M. Camille Desmoulins has escaped and can’t be arrested. The Assembly pass onto the order of the day.

Desmoulins was grateful Robespierre had stepped in, and in number 38 (August 16 1790) of his journal, he described the incident in the following way:

My dear Robespierre did not abandon me at this moment. By condemning me at first he conciliated all minds, and then brought them back with great art by developing this motion: if it is someone other than M. Desmoulins who raised his voice, this breach of assembly wheat must be punished; if it is him; it is difficult for an accused who does not feel guilty not to accept the challenge of his accuser. I ask for his release. Robespierre was applauded.

When Fréron (who we know was on friendly terms with at least Camille) described the very same incident in his journal l’Orateur du Peuple, he did refer to Robespierre as ”[Camille’s] friend” so perhaps their relationship had indeed gotten better since Robespierre’s impersonal letter…

Three numbers later (September 6 1790) Desmoulins writes about having given Robespierre a book written by abbot Jean-Joseph Rive:

O most learned and most patriotic of abbots! I read your letters, in which you always start out angry with me, and in which you end up smothering me with patriotic semens, and I gave your dear Robespierre your 700 pages in-80. But when do expect us to find the time to read your little novel?

Pierre Villiers, who in his Souvenirs d’un déporté (1802) claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary April-November 1790, wrote that the latter during this period ”thought the highest (il a fait le plus grand cas) of Camille Desmoulins. He's going too fast, Robespierre said to me, he'll break his neck; Paris wasn't made in a day, it takes more than a day to undo.”

On December 11 1790, Camille was given permission to marry Lucile Duplessis. Two weeks later, December 27, Robespierre, alongside Pétion, Brissot, Mercier, Sillery, Danton, Duport du Tertre, Barnave, Viefville des Essarts, Charles Lameth, Alexandre Lameth, Mirabeau, Andrieu and Deviefville, signed the couple’s wedding contract (1, 2). Two days after that, the wedding ceremony was held in Église Saint-Sulpice. Writing to his father about it, Camille could report that the witnesses this time had been ”Péthion [sic] and Robespierre, the elite of the National Assembly, M. de Sillery, who wanted to be there, and my two collegues Brissot de Warville and Mercier, the elite among the journalists.” The priest presiding over the ceremony was Denis Bérardier, who from 1778 to 1787 had been Camille and Robespierre’s college principal, after which he had been elected to represent the clergy at the Estates general. In the previously cited letter to his father, Camille writes that Bérardier during the ceremony held a speech that moved both him, Lucile and all of the witnesses to tears. An anonymous anecdote from 1792 similarily claims Camille began to cry out of joy during the ceremony, only this time Robespierre, instead of crying along with him, responded: ”don’t cry, you hypocrite!” It was however dismissed as apocryphal by Desmoulins’ latest biographer. After the ceremony, Camille reports that groom, bride, the witnesses and Bérardier all went over to his place to have dinner together with Lucile’s parents and sister.

A little more than a month after the wedding, Robespierre, impatient to see a speech of his printed in Révolutions de France et de Brabant, sent the following letter to Camille. This is the first time in his conserved correspondence where he doesn’t use vouvoiement, and it won’t be until February 1793 that he does so again (though I don’t have any appreciation on whether adressing someone in third-person is less formal or not):

Paris, February 14 1791 I point out to Monsieur Camille Demoulins [sic] that neither the beautiful eyes nor the fine qualities of the charming Lucile are reasons for not announcing my work on the national guard which has been given to him and of which I send him a copy if necessary. At this moment there is no object more pressing or more important than the organization of the National Guards. At least that is what the citizens of Marseilles think, of whom I am here attaching a decree relating to my speech. I beg Camille not to mislead himself and to try to also send me back the letters from Avignon and the replies which I gave him. Robespierre

Camille obliged, printing the speech a week later in number 65 (February 21 1791) of his journal. It happened to be Discours sur l’organisation des gardes nationales, in which Robespierre becomes the first person ever to use the three words ”liberté, égalité, fraternité” as a slogan. But it was Camille who in July 1790 had been the first to bring the three words together as a formula. Robespierre and Desmoulins can therefore be said to hold the shared responsibility for the invention of what today is France’s national motto.

Five days after Camille had published Robespierre’s speech, February 26, Madame Chalabre wrote to the latter that ”The patriot Camille, in his last speech, paints with a charming naturalness, a truly original precision, the character of your talents. One would think that the genius of the good and unfortunate Jean-Jacques inspired him; it is of such a delicate touch; he shed so many tears reading this passage! Good Camille, you deserve the happiness which I hope you will enjoy with your lovely companion.” A week later, March 3, Sillery writes to Camille that ”Madame de Sillery is coming to dine at my house with Pétion and Robespierre, I dare to ask your lovable and beautiful wife to too do me this honor. […] Come, my dear Camille, if you have ever found yourself in a pure and exact democracy, it will be eight o’clock on Sunday when I hope to embrace you.”

In number 79 (June 4 1791) of his journal, Camille praises the ”simplicity” of Robespierre ”going by foot from his home on rue Saintonge to the National Assembly and dining for 30 sols,” implying they are on good enough terms for him to know those details about him. A few weeks later, June 21, Paris woke up to the discovery that the royal family had disappeared from the capital during the night. In number 82 (June 27 1791) of his journal, Camille would describe in detail what he had been up to during this day:

I left [Lafayette] hoping that maybe the immense career that the King's flight had opened to his ambition had brought him back to the popular party, and arrived at the Jacobins, striving to believe in his demonstrations of friendship and patriotism, and to fill myself with this persuasion, which, despite my efforts, flowed from my mind through a thousand memories, as through a thousand outlets. The only man who has my full confidence, Robespierre, had the floor. See here a speech full of truths of which I haven’t lost a single one, and tremble: [he then transcribes a speech Robespierre holds on the flight of the royal family] How shall I express this abandon, this accent of patriotism and indignation with which he pronounced it! He was listened to with that religious attention from which we collect the last words of the dying. It was, in fact, like his testament that he came to deposit in the archives of the club. I did not hear this speech with as much composure as I report at this moment, where the arrest of the former King has changed the face of affairs. I was moved to tears in more than one place, and when this excellent citizen, in the middle of his speech, spoke of the certainty of paying with his head for the truths he had just pronounced, I cried out: we will all die before you!

Apparently no one ever taught Camille to be careful with what you wish for.

In the same number, Desmoulins also describes how, the next day, he and several others brought a woman who had information to give on the escape attempt to the Jacobin club, in the hopes that her testimony would get Robespierre to denounce Lafayette and Bailly. Once arrived, they talk to him and Buzot, who both quickly become convinced of the high credibility of the witness, but are taken aback by the measures proposed to be taken. ”We will be,” they said, ”pushed back from the tribune, referred to the research committee, and our accusation will be entered in this mortuary register of denunciations.” After a while Pétion shows up and definitely discourages Robespierre, who, according to Camille, ”at first was quite disposed to take away the reputation of Bailly and La Fayette via assault.”

The escape attempt resulted in the demonstration and shootings on Champ de Mars on July 17 1791. On the evening of the same day as these events, we find Desmoulins and Robespierre at the Jacobin Club, both speaking of what had just happened. Shortly thereafter Camille went incognito for a while, hiding out at Lucile’s parents’ country house at Bourg-la-Reine until finally resurfacing in Paris again in early September. In the meantime, Robespierre had changed address and gone to live with the Duplay family on Rue Saint-Honoré 398, today a 35 minute walk from Rue du Théâtre 1 (today Rue de l’Odeon 28) where Camille and Lucile had moved shortly after their wedding. In her old days, Élisabeth Duplay authored a list over the people who most commonly would frequent her family’s house during the revolution.

The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.

However, judging by an anecdote told by the same Élisabeth, Desmoulins’ visits went from being frequent to rare after a certain incident (that I would guess happened in 1793 considering Élisabeth still places his overall visits under the ”often” section):

One day Camille familiarly enters the Duplay house; Robespierre was absent. He starts a conversation with the youngest of the carpenter's daughters; as he retires, Camille hands her a book he had under his arm. ”Elizabeth,” he said to her, ”do me the service of holding onto this work; I will come back for it.” No sooner had Desmoulins left than the young girl curiously half-opened the book entrusted to her custody: what was her confusion, seeing paintings of revolting obscenity pass under her fingers. She blushes: the book falls. All the rest of the day Elizabeth was silent and troubled; Maximilian noticed it; drawing her aside. "What's the matter with you," he asked her, "you look so worried to me?" The young girl lowered her head, and as an answer went to fetch the book with the odious engravings which had offended her sight. Maximilien opened the volume and turned pale. "Who gave you this?" he asked in a voice shaking with anger. The girl frankly told him what had happened. "It’s fine," Robespierre went on, "don't talk about what you've just told me to anyone: I'll make it my business. Don't be sad anymore. I'll let Camille know. It is not what enters involuntarily through the eyes that defiles chastity: it is the evil thoughts that one has in the heart.” He admonished his friend severely, and from that day on, visits from Camille Desmoulins became very rare.

In a diary entry entry from June 1792, Lucile seemingly confirms the connection she and her husband had with Robespierre’s host family when she writes ”I went with C(amille) and little Duplay (most likely Élisabeth’s little brother Jacques-Maurice) to an old madwoman’s.”

On September 30 1791, the National Assembly was shut down and Robespierre left Paris for Arras, where he arrived on October 14. He was back in the capital again on November 28. A little more than two weeks later, December 16, Brissot, held his first speech in favor of going to war. As known, Robespierre opposed this, holding his first speech against the idea just two days later. Desmoulins quickly joined his side, holding a similar speech on December 25. When Robespierre held his third big speech on the subject, on January 11, Desmoulins, who listened to the reading, was enthusiastic and the next day he wrote the following letter to the ”patriots of Millau” (cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un Rêve de République):

At the moment I am still enthusiastic. This speech will be reread in all sections, in all clubs and in all patriots' houses; everywhere one will admire and especially love the author, but what would have happened had you heard him speak yourself! Those who were his college comrades, and even those who last year were his colleagues in the National Assembly, have not recognized Robespierre for some time. From a man of spirit, he became eliquent, and now he is sublime at intervals. It seems that he grows by one foot every month, as it is true that the home of talent is the heart. When, two years ago, I presented him, in my journal, as a Cato, I was far from foreseeing that he would never rise to the height of the talent of Demosthenes.

A month later, Desmoulins also aimed a blow against Brissot with the release of the pampleth Jean Pierre Brissot démasqué. While said pampleth definitely outlined who Camille considered his enemies, it also made clear who were his champions, with Robespierre, who’s name got mentioned nine times throughout, taking up the forefront:

This true patriot (Rœderer) has not forgiven me, him and his cabal, for loving Robespierre, my college friend, venerable, great in my eyes, although it has been said that there was no great man for his valet-de-chambre, nor for his college friend and the witness of his youth.

In a letter written shortly thereafter to François Suleau, another one of their former college comrades, Desmoulins claimed that ”[Robespierre] sees me as invulnurable after the proof of incorruptibility that I produced in my latest writing to Brissot.” Apropos of Desmoulins still seeing Suleau, a firm royalist, he added: ”I cannot blame my friend Robespierre when he tells me that he would run away from my house on seeing a notable from Coblentz (Suleau) enter.”

War was nevertheless declared on April 20 1792. The very same day, Camille and Fréron, who had both had to quit their journals in the aftermath of the massacre on Champ de Mars, signed a contract for creating a new one — La Tribune des Patriotes. The first number was meant to be released on May 7, but the following day, their publisher Charles Frobert Patris told Camille he had refused to print it, on the charge of it being ”a libel.” Camille reported this to the Jacobin club the very same day, and the following session Patris came forward to explain himself. Things did however not go the way he’d planned, and in a pampleth released shortly afterwards, Patris wrote the following regarding the session:

How come you (Robespierre) tolerated that the vile informer (Camille), to whom I was answering, seeing the club cover with long applause the hard truths that I was beginning to tell him, left his place to go sit down behind you, pulled you by the tailcoat and spoke to you in a low voice and with an air of intelligence! Didn't you have to feel that such intimacy would favor him, and turn to my prejudice?

Soon thereafter, La Tribune des Patriotes could finally be released. This work too was in part meant to protect and advocate for Robespierre, starting already in the first number:

O my dear Robespierre, I gave you this name (the Incorruptible) three years ago! Let people re-read my writings: at the time of my highest admiration for the Mirabeaus, the Lafayettes, the Lameths, and so many others, I always set you apart, I always placed your probity, character and soul above all; and I have seen that the public, while learning from my writings, has hitherto confirmed my judgments, six months or a year after I had made them. Since degenerate friends of truth come to the aid of the impotence of our means to defray the cost of this journal, Fréron and I will not abandon you in the breach, in the midst of a cloud of enemies. The efforts of all these false patriots relentless today - against you alone, we will divide them, by drawing on us their hatred, and by fighting at your side, not for a man, not for you, but for the cause of the people, the equality of the constitution, which has been attacked in you.

Desmoulins and Fréron had originally planned to have the journal run for at least a year, however, it failed to catch an audience and was put down already after four numbers. Robespierre’s name did however still get mentioned a total of 40 times throughout the journal, always in a positive light.

On July 6 1792, Lucile gave birth to a son who received the name Horace. The idea that Robespierre was his godfather would appear to be nothing but a myth seeing as the baptism record doesn’t mention any godparents but only two witnesses — neither of which is Robespierre but instead Laurent Lecointre and Merlin de Thionville. After the good days of the relationship were over, both Lucile and her mother would however contemplate over Robespierre having held Horace in his arms on multiple occasions, the former writing: ”You (Robespierre) who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have carassed so many times…” and the latter asking if he still remembered ”the caresses you lavished on little Horace, how you delighted to hold him upon your knee.”

Three days after his birth, Horace was sent off to a wetnurse, while Lucile soon thereafter went to her parents’ country house to rest up. Camille remained in Paris working on a speech that he delivered on July 24. A few days before it he reported to Lucile that ”I dined at Robespierre’s today and talked ever so much about Rouleau (nickname for Lucile), Rouleau, my poor Rouleau.” Lucile returned from the countryside on August 8. Four days later, after the Insurrection of August 10, Camille was made secretary by the new Minister of Justice Danton. After a week, the three went to live at Hôtel de Bourvallais, just a six minute walking distance away from the Duplay house, and where, in Lucile’s own words, ”we spent three months quite cheerfully.”

The trial of the king started around the same time Camille and Lucile returned to their original apartment. Robespierre and Camille once again fought side by side for the same goals — this time for death and against an appeal to the people. In number 2 of his journal La Defenseur de la Constitution, Robespierre inserted a speech Camille had made on the latter of these two questions.

On March 26 1793, Desmoulins and Robespierre were both elected for the so called Commission of Public Safety, alongside 23 others. The commission, consisting of both fervent montagnards and girondins, was however off to a rocky start, and already on April 6 it was put to death and replaced by the Committee of Public Safety, which neither Desmoulins nor Robespierre was on.

On May 17 1793, Desmoulins announced the release of his new pampleth l’Histoire des Brissotins to the Jacobins. We know that Robespierre had had a hand in the creation of this pampleth through a note inserted in Camille’s Lettre de Camille Desmoulins au général Dillon released a few months later:

The true origin of the rigor of the Committee towards you, would it be in a very long note, which was printed following l’Histoire des Brissotins, which Robespierre made me cut out?

The Jacobins published l’Histoire des Brissotins on May 19, and a week later, Robespierre, who for a long time had refused to do so, openly called for an insurrection against ”the corrupt deputies” of the National Convention at the Jacobins, a wish he then repeated three days later. Two days after that, the Insurrection of May 31 took place, and on June 2 the Convention voted for the arrest of 29 Girondins. I think it could be argued it was Desmoulins and Robespierre who together had delivered the principal deathblow to this ”faction.”

Nine days after the murder of Marat, July 22 1793, the Jacobin Club tasked Desmoulins, Robespierre, Lepeletier and Dufourny with writing an adress to the French people regarding it. Said adress was printed and read aloud at the club four days later, obviously deploring of the event and praising the murdered. Just one day after that, July 27, Robespierre was elected as member of the Committee of Public Safety. Camille on the other hand remained restless, and on November 1, he wrote to ”his old friend” to ask to be sent on a mission to Aisne.

I point out to our dear Robespierre that there is no impediment by law to me going to my department. Choudieu and Ricord, who are in theirs, Barras, and so many others, prove that the decree of which Billaud-Varennes spoke yesterday either does not exist or is not being executed. So I always recommend to him, as Lejeune's assistant, the historian Lucceius, reminding him of the custom of the senate of Rome, which never failed, when one of its members wanted to spend a week in Greece or Sicily, to see his father, to deliver to him, honoris curá, letters of credence, and the title of commissioner, or of legatus, which did not prevent him, on the way, from deserving well of the republic, and from gaining the vasarium. His old friend, Camille Desmoulins. To citizen Robespierre, member of the Committee of Public Safety.

As can be seen, Desmoulins adresses Robespierre in third person here, just like Robespierre had done to him two years earlier. These letters are the only examples of these two using third person that I’m aware of, almost making you suspect it was a conscious choice they made of adressing the other like that. Desmoulins did however not obtain any mission, but remained in Paris, as did Robespierre.

On December 5 1793 was released the first number of Desmoulins’ new journal Le Vieux Cordelier. According to what he wrote in said number, it was after having heard Robespierre and Danton speak at the Jacobins on December 3 that he decided to pick up his pen again — ”I leave my office and my armchair, where I had all the leisure to follow, in detail, this new system of our enemies, of which Robespierre only presented the outline, his occupations at the Committee of Public Safety not allowing him to embrace it in its entirety like me.”

Like with l’Histoire des Brissotins, Camille had let Robespierre proofread and give his approval of the number before it got sent to the publisher. He did the same thing again for the second number, released on December 9, that concerned itself with the topic of dechristianization, denouncing Anacharsis Cloots and Anaxagoras Chaumette for their role in it. These thoughts were shared by Robespierre, who had spoken for liberty of cults on both November 21 and 28 and December 5 and December 6, and would go on to get Cloots expelled from the Jacobins when the latter passed through its scrutiny test on December 12. Two days later, the turn had come to Camille to go through the very same examination. He was at first questioned on his friendship with the general Arthur Dillon and for having stated that the Girondins ”died as republicans” the day they were condemned. After Desmoulins had justified himself, stating among other things that ”a well marked fatality willed that, among the sixty [sic] people who signed my wedding contract, I only have two friends left — Danton and Robespierre. All the others have emigrated or been guillotined,” Robespierre took to the floor and, after reproaching Camille for having been on friendly terms with Mirabeau, Dillon, Lamarlière and the Lameth brothers, made sure his friend passed the test. To ensure it, he first recited from heart a long poem Camille had written in 1787, the verses of which ”struck me so hard back then, that they have been ingraved in my memory,” and then said the following:

The manner in which Camille expressed himself at a time when some great patriots of today trembled, perhaps even cringed, before the tyrant; these are character traits that must be taken into account when judging a man. It is true that no one better than he justifies the proverb of the peoples living on the banks of the Guadalquivir and the Tagus: so and so was brave on such a day. Camille, stricken with thoughts of death, constantly sees the guillotine before his eyes; he imagines that because several of his friends have perished by the last torture, the same fate awaits him. Here is the character of Desmoulins: easy to let himself be warned, he quickly believes in the signs of patriotism that he perceives; but is he undeceived? His love for public affairs makes him tear the veil; he drags in the mud the cheats he had placed under the canopy; it is thus that he treated Mirabeau, the Lameths, and the Brissotins in recent times. The Girondin faction wanted to attract Camille to their party; Sillery was charged with this role. The famous Pamela appeared before Desmoulins, accompanied with an enchanting voice the sounds of a melodious lute; Camille, insensitive to the sting, faithful to his wife, faithful to republican principles, disdained the attractions of this new Circe, of this second Herodiade. Desmoulins, the first of all, mounted at the Palais Royal on the unsteady boards of a tottering table, preached patriotism, pistol in hand; he rendered great services to the Revolution. His energetic and easy pen can still serve it usefully, but it is necessary that, more circumspect in the choice of his friends, he must break any pact with impiety, that is to say, with the aristocracy; on these conditions, I request the admission of Camille Desmoulins.

The next part in the reblog.

#robespierre #desmoulins #camille desmoulins #maximilien robespierre #frev #ask #frev friendships

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jamisonwritestf2trash · 11 months

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minific anon jumpscare! ft. dadspy :3

----------<3

Scout's used to people insulting him for not having a dad growing up. In fact, he used to insult himself for not having a father. And he insulted his father for running away. And then he started to think that maybe his father hadn't run away. He had died. And Scout decided, a dead dad is better than a dad who ran away. He didn't realize how wrong he could be.

There's only one photo of his father that he knows of. It's in his mother's locket, and she only lets Scout see it on his father's birthday.

His father was about 23 in the picture, and he has black (or dark brown, maybe?), smoothed back hair. He has piercing blue eyes, and a slight, warm smile on his face, staring at the camera. Scout was barely a year old when that photo was taken, Ma had said. It's weird to think that Scout had known his father for a little while. He just can't remember his voice.

It doesn't matter to him, anyway. He learned to survive without a father, after all. And so far, he's done a damn good job at it. Until now, at least. The stupid BLU scout had gotten an advantage on him during a physical fight, grabbing their dropped scattergun and firing into Scout's torso, blasting him backwards and off a small ledge. He'd somehow survived getting shot, but the fall had broken his ankle and likely his nose, judging by the blood starting to drip down his face from it. He'd crawled under cover to hide from BLU team. He'd heard them cap the first point, which meant that most of RED team must've retreated so Medic could heal them so they can defend the next point.

And they'd forgotten about him. Or, assumed he was dead. Or figured he was busy fighting. Groaning, Scout sits upright and starts to try and treat his injuries, but his hands are too shaky to hold the medkit right.

"Scout!" Someone's voice whisper-yells from a bush, and he looks up to see the outline of Spy in the treeline nearby. "Come quickly, there's nobody nearby. Bring that medkit."

Scout nods, and drags himself towards the treeline, where Spy puts an invis watch around his non-injured wrist and turns him invisible as well, and drags him further into the trees for more cover.

"Do you want to tell me what happened or sulk in defeat?" Spy asks, somewhat mockingly.

"BLU scout." Scout mutters, wiping his nose. "We got in a fistfight an' they got their gun and shot me."

"A miracle you're still alive. Give me that." Spy grabs the medkit and starts to treat Scout's wounds with surprising precision.

Silence falls between the two for a few minutes. Spy finishes with treating Scout's wounds, and helps him stand, slinging his arm around his shoulders and starting to walk.

"Hey, uh, Spy."

"What, Scout?" Spy looks at him, annoyed.

"...Thanks." Scout mumbles. Surprise lights in Spy's eyes for a moment before he looks away with a huff.

"But of course." Spy narrows his eyes. "Your mother would not want her son returning home in a box."

"Yeah." Scout laughs slightly. "She'd kill me again. And Miss Pauling, too, probably."

"Hm." Spy stops for a second, checking for any signs of BLU before continuing.

"Hey, Spy, do you have any family?" Scout asks. "Like, back in France?"

Spy doesn't say anything. He just stops dead in his tracks.

"Uh... Spy? I get it if ya can't answer, but... why'd you stop?" Scout asks, slightly nervous.

"I don't have family in France." Spy answers flatly.

"Oh... um, did they move to America with you?"

"No. They died in the second world war." Spy narrows his eyes. "But I did have family here. But I... left them."

"Well, why'd ya do that?" Scout frowns. Spy doesn't answer, just continues walking. Scout lets the question hang in the air, instead decided to look at Spy's face. He rarely ever was this close to Spy, as the latter usually was annoyed by Scout and avoided him, and Scout never got to study Spy's face that well. He had drawn all of the other mercs except for Spy so far.

Spy has piercing blue eyes and fairly sharp cheekbones, and his chin sticks out a little bit. His nose is pointed downward slightly.

"I feel like I've seen you before somewhere, dude." Scout breaks the silence. "You remind me of someone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Spy frowns, suddenly defensive. "We've never met until we took this job."

"I dunno. You just look familiar. Like, um, your facial features, I mean." Scout shrugs, and Spy just rolls his eyes, continuing back to the base.

RED ending up being able to defend the last point, thanks to Sniper's quick thinking and eliminating the enemy medic and making quick work of the rest of the team using his SMG.

Scout couldn't shake off the strange feeling of familiarity from Spy. He's seen that face somewhere before. But where? And why was it bothering him this much? Sighing, he rolls over on his bed and reaches for his Bonk!, only to knock something off the nightstand.

His ma's locket. She'd sent it in the mail a few months back, and he hadn't gotten it open yet. But it seems to have popped open since he dropped it on the floor accidentally. Scout grabs it and looks at the photo inside.

His blood runs cold.

There's only one way to be sure.

Running down the hall, Scout makes his way towards the room, pushing the door open as silently as possible and sneaking into the room. He reaches for it, only for Spy's hand to grab his wrist in an icy grip.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Spy snaps, pushing Scout backwards. "And how on earth did you get in without me noticing you opening the door?"

"Doesn't matter! I gotta know somethin'!" Scout holds the locket out. Spy raises his eyebrows.

"About jewerly? You'd be better off asking Miss Pauling---" Spy starts.

"The photo." Scout drops the locket in Spy's hand, and the Frenchman looks at it. And his face falls.

"Where... Where did you get this?" Spy demands.

"It's my Ma's. You look like him." Scout stares at Spy.

"Well... I suppose we do--" Spy hands the locket back. "But I can assure you that is not me."

"Prove it." Scout stares at Spy. "Take your mask off."

"What?"

"Take it off." Scout stares evenly at Spy. "Right. Now."

"I'd rather die." Spy scoffs, and motions for Scout to leave. Scout rolls his eyes before lunging at Spy, grabbing the mask and starts pulling at it. Spy lets out a shout of surprise before starting to fight back, but Scout pulls the mask off. But before he can look, Spy kicks him in the gut and stumbles away, putting a hand over his face to hide it, turning his back to Scout. Scout stands slowly, looking at the mask in his hand, and then at Spy.

"Look at me." Scout whispers. "Look at me, Spy."

"And if I don't?" Spy asks, his voice slightly muffled by his hand.

"I-- I'll burn the mask!" Scout says, surprised by his own words, but he holds true to his words, pulling the lighter Pyro had given him from his pocket, and flicks the lid off. The sound causes Spy to stiffen, and after another moment of hesitation, he lowers his hand and turns to face Scout.

He looks just like the photo, just older and a defeated look on his face.

"Are you happy now, Scout? Is this really what you wanted?" Spy asks, holding his hand out for the mask.

Scout's lower jaw trembles, and he stares in shock. Taking a step back.

"You... You fucking snake." Scout whispers. Spy blinks, surprised. "You're my father--- You fucking SNAKE!" Scout's sudden yelling surprises Spy. He doesn't say a word for a few seconds. Silence fills the void between then.

"You ain't even gonna defend yourself?" Scout scoffs. "I went.... 26 fuckin' years thinking that you were dead, but here you are... fucking alive and well, rich as ever. Was I just--- just not a good enough son for ya, is that what it is?" Scout walks closer to Spy, poking his chest. "Was Ma not good enough for ya?!"

"Your mother is a wonderful woman---" Spy starts.

"Then why'd you break her fucking heart?!" Scout yells. "Huh?! Was she not good enough for you?! Was she just another one of your stupid--- stupid little accessories that you got bored of and threw away?!"

"No--- Scout, let me explain---" Spy pushes Scout away. Scout doesn't want to listen to him. His vision goes red and he punches Spy. In the face. It's a strong enough punch that it knocks the Frenchman to the floor. Spy looks up at Scout, stunned.

"Jeremy..." Spy whispers. Scout doesn't listen. He lights the mask on fire and runs.

------------</3

part 2??? tomorrow Or today depending in my mood :)

Oooooooooh, angsty!!!! Welcome back, anon! I've also toyed around with the idea of Scout feeling not good enough.

#minificanon #tf2 #tf2 scout #tf2 spy #spydad

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paradox-complex · 2 months

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Been thinking about Dante's life In italy.

He's technically born in america sure, but gets immediately sent away from his real family and gets raised by what he'll have to consider his family: an older woman who will punish him if he makes any mistake and his husband who would yell at Matteo and beat his bloody back with a wooden ruler if he even tried to call him anything other than ‘mentor’.

He had to live a strict life and was forced to study literature instead of living his dream and fall into the world of art(which he will pursue later as his mentor finally understood that he could take advantage of his works).

Then he meets Matteo and for two years he's free from everything. Dante gets sent away from his hometown Genoa and they both study in Venice, managing to have enough money to buy a house together.

Then he gets arrested for the crime of sodomy, and his mentor is the one to save him from prison.

And then, he's back under his surveillance, until 1777 in which his mentor decides to go to France (he's a french man) and forced Dante to move away, giving him a too small boutique to start working on his paintings.

Then his mentor dies, Dante finds his letters, and his reality is completely shattered. shattered by hope.

#amrev oc #solars rambles

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fatehbaz · 4 months

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The rise of the European empires [...] required new forms of social organization, not least the exploitation of millions of people whose labor powered the growth of European expansion [...]. These workers suffered various forms of coercion ranging from outright slavery through to indentured or convict labor, as well as military conscription, land theft, and poverty. [...] [W]ide-ranging case studies [examining the period from 1600 to 1850] [...] show the variety of working conditions and environments found in the early modern period and the many ways workers found to subvert and escape from them. [...] A web of regulation and laws were constructed to control these workers [...]. This system of control was continually contested by the workers themselves [...]

---

Timothy Coates [...] focuses on three locations in the Portuguese empire and the workers who fled from them. The first was the sugar plantations of São Tomé in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The slaves who ran away to form free communities in the interior of the island were an important reason why sugar production eventually shifted to Brazil. Secondly, Coates describes working conditions in the trading posts around the Indian Ocean and the communities of runaways which formed in the Bay of Bengal. The final section focuses on convicts and sinners in Portugal itself, where many managed to escape from forced labor in salt mines.

Johan Heinsen examines convict labor in the Danish colony of Saint Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Denmark awarded the Danish West Indies and Guinea Company the right to transport prisoners to the colony in 1672. The chapter illustrates the social dynamics of the short-lived colony by recounting the story of two convicts who hatched the escape plan, recruited others to the group, including two soldiers, and planned to steal a boat and escape from the island. The plan was discovered and the two convicts sentenced to death. One was forced to execute the other in order to save his own life. The two soldiers involved were also punished but managed to talk their way out of the fate of the convicts. Detailed court records are used to show both the collective nature of the plot and the methods the authorities used to divide and defeat the detainees.

---

James F. Dator reveals how workers in seventeenth-century St. Kitts Island took advantage of conflict between France and Britain to advance their own interests and plan collective escapes. The two rival powers had divided the island between them, but workers, indigenous people, and slaves cooperated across the borders, developing their own knowledge of geography, boundaries, and imperial rivalries [...].

Nicole Ulrich writes about the distinct traditions of mass desertions that evolved in the Dutch East India Company colony in South Africa. Court records reveal that soldiers, sailors, slaves, convicts, and servants all took part in individual and collective desertion attempts. [...] Mattias von Rossum also writes about the Dutch East India Company [...]. He [...] provides an overview of labor practices of the company [...] and the methods the company used to control and punish workers [...].

---

In the early nineteenth century, a total of 73,000 British convicts were sentenced to be transported to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). There, the majority were rented out as laborers to private employers, and all were subjected to surveillance and detailed record keeping. These records allow Hamish Maxwell-Stewart and Michael Quinlan to provide a detailed statistical analysis of desertion rates in different parts of the colonial economy [...].

When Britain abolished the international slave trade, new forms of indentured labor were created in order to provide British capitalism with the labor it required. Anita Rupprecht investigates the very specific culture of resistance that developed on the island of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands between 1808 and 1828. More than 1,300 Africans were rescued from slavery and sent to Tortola, where officials had to decide how to deal with them. Many were put to work in various forms of indentured labor on the island, and this led to resistance and rebellion. Rupprecht uncovers details about these protests from the documents of a royal commission that investigated [...].

---

All text above by: Mark Dunick. "Review of Rediker, Marcus; Chakraborty, Titas; Rossum, Matthias van, eds. A Global History of Runaways: Workers, Mobility, and Capitalism 1600-1850". H-Socialisms, H-Net Reviews. April 2024. Published at: h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=58852 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

#abolition #carceral #pedagogies #ecologies #imperial #colonial #critical geographies #fugitivity #tidalectics #archipelagic thinking #indigenous

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artthatgivesmefeelings · 11 months

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Auguste Maillard (French, 1864-1944) Emília de Rovira i Preses, 1928 Arenys de Mar, Catalunya, España According to tradition, Emília Rovira died in 1892, at the age of 32, due to love sickness. It is known for certain that the young woman partied with a young Cuban, Rafael Martínez Ortiz, when he was studying in Barcelona and was often in Arenys, where he had family. But Emilia's parents, who were upper class, did not consent to the union. Rafael left for Cuba, from where he wrote her letters, which never reached the girl because the family intercepted them. Rafael Martínez made a fortune and held important political positions in Cuba. In 1926, taking advantage of a trip to Europe, he moved to Arenys, where he learned of the girl's tragic end. Moved, he had this tomb built to bury Emilia's remains, but the family also opposed it. So the tomb was empty for many years, until, in the year 2000, thanks to the interest of some residents of the village, it was possible to move it, from the family columbarium and finally the remains of the young rest in his grave. The tomb, owned by the City Council, is made of black granite and was made in Paris and bears the signature of Thoin. The bust of Emilia, made in 1928 from a cameo photograph, is the work of an outstanding French sculptor, Auguste Maillard (1864-1944), author of numerous commemorative monuments in France.

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aedesluminis · 5 months

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Prieur on the implementation of the decimal scale in the metric system

The key point, in which Prieur's proposal, aimed to reform the French metric system, differentiates itself from the others, lies in the detailed implementation of the decimal scale for all kind of measures. This is why I thought appropriate to share the following excerpt, taken directly from his work. Its content might sound obvious for many of us, but it's important to remember that, in the 18th century, the scale commonly used in France was the duodecimal one. Prieur was among the scholars of the time to have relised the great advantages that the decimal subdivision would have brought in the fields of calculation and arithmetic, by making the former more straightforward in general and the latter more accessible to everyone, especially to those, who didn't receive an education. Below, under the cut, I also added the transcribed version by Isabelle Dutailly of Prieur's measures conversion table between the standards used during the Ancien Régime in Paris and the new ones, he proposed to use. It gives a general idea about both the tremendous amount of units present just in the capital and how close Prieur's subdivision of measures is compared to our current one.

"[...]Our pied national will be divided into ten pouches, each pouche in ten lignes, each ligne in ten points or primes, so that it will be possible to write each subspecies [of measure] as decimals of the main unit. This method of division is the most proper that we can accept, since it is in accordance with the rules of our numeration and, if it were applied to all the various kind of measures, the study of arithmetic would become much easier and, as a result, more widely practiced. Someone might say that diving by twelve would be convenient when considering the 1/3, 1/4 and their submultiples: this is undeniable. It is also certain that the duodecimal scale could have been used instead of the decimal one for our numeration, but such a change would currently be impractical . On the other hand, the decimal system reveals itself to be convenient for people, who do not know how to write, since it would allow them to represent each ten through their fingers, therefore each hand would be equal to one half of ten, making the count of five parts easier. The introduction of the decimals in all the measures is beneficial in making calculation easier, in that more complex multiplications and divisions are converted to operations similar to those of whole numbers; in that the reduction of each subspecies, from one to another, happens through the simple shift of the decimal point and finally, in that it would allow to increase or decrease the precision of an operation according to our needs. In the majority of cases relative to calculations of our length measurements, there is no need for this operation to go beyond the thousandth, and often the hundredth too, of the main unit."

— Claude-Antoine Prieur, Mémoire sur la nécessité et les moyens de rendre uniformes, dans le royaume, toutes les mesures d'étendue et de pesanteur (1790), p.15-16.

Note: Emphases in italics are mine, moreover I didn't translate the units into English, because their corresponding value in said language wouldn't match with the French one, so I believed it wasn't wise.

"Table of comparison between the old units of weights and length used in the city of Paris and the new national ones, which are supposed to replace the former"

Source for the original table.Source for the transcribed version.

#claude antoine prieur #prieur de la cote d'or #claude antoine prieur duvernois #metric system #history of science #frev #my posts #prieur duvernois #my translations

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mads-weasley · 1 year

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Epiphany Pt. 8: You Are In Love

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

inspo: you are in love: taylor swift

A/N: "dj khalid...anotha one" (@peggyvan)! i also broke this chapter into two because it got so long! this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Summary: (Y/n) and Lewis enjoy their first day in the city of light, taking advantage of every moment they have away from the war.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: none. absolutely none.

MOURMELON-LE-GRAND, FRANCE: DECEMBER 10, 1944

The train’s shrill whistle echoed through the small station as (y/n) and Lewis stepped onto the bustling platform, each carrying their bag.

“Here,” Nix offered, reaching for her duffle and effortlessly throwing it over his shoulder.

“Why, thank you,” she replied, a smile playing on her lips. The memory of him helping her on D-Day with her leg bag came to the forefront of her mind, and she snickered under her breath. “You seem to have a knack for helping me with heavy loads.”

A hint of amusement danced in his eyes as Lew shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I am a strong man,” he grinned, flexing a bit playfully. “It’s in my job description, you know?”

“Oh shut up,” she exclaimed, giving his shoulder a light, teasing smack. “You’re so full of it!”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t damage the goods, sweetheart,” he quipped with a mischievous grin.

Heat spread up (y/n)’s neck at the endearment, and she turned toward the oncoming train to hide her blush. It rolled into the station with a screech, bright sparks flying from the metal tracks, painting an electric scene against the platform’s backdrop.

Amongst the metallic screeches and hissing steam, they boarded the train, finding their way through the narrow corridors in search of an unoccupied seat. As they walked down the aisle, (y/n) couldn’t help but glance at the occupants of the various compartments they passed, catching snippets of conversations in different languages, laughter, and the general hum of excitement that comes with traveling.

Finally, they found a seat near the window with two empty seats across the aisle. Lew stowed their bags overhead and took a seat by the window, inviting her to sit next to him.

“Here we are,” he said, patting the seat.

She grinned and sat down beside him, the train gently swaying as it began its journey. The landscape outside shifted from the station to the urban sprawl, and soon they were on their way. (Y/n) leaned forward in her seat to look past him and out the window at the changing scenery.

Taking notice, Nix stood up. “Let’s switch.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, taking her place. “Absolutely.”

As the train hurtled toward Paris, (y/n) sat by the window, captivated by the ever-changing beauty of the French countryside. Fields, quaint villages, and rivers passed like scenes from a dream. The beauty of the landscape was mesmerizing, and she couldn’t help but let out small exclamations of awe.

Lew sat beside her, watching her face light up with the passing scenery. Her eyes were wide with wonder and her lips formed a soft smile. He had seen many beautiful landscapes during his travels when he was younger, and even during the war, but seeing her discover this was something entirely different.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” He asked, nudging her shoulder.

Her gaze shifted to him and she laughed. “I can’t help it. It’s just…breathtaking.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes studying her face. “I know the feeling.”

Lew continued to steal glances at (y/n), marveling at how the dull lighting of the train car seemed to make her eyes shimmer.

“You know what I just thought of?” (Y/n) asked, slapping a hand over her mouth as a giggle escaped her.

Lew raised an eyebrow. ““What?”

“Contraband.”

The couple burst into fits of laughter, disrupting the other nearby passengers, but they didn’t care. They were just two kids having a good time without the worry of stray bullets or mortar rounds coming their way.

Later, as the rhythm of the train lulled them, she snuggled into her seat and ended up dozing off, her head falling to rest gently on his shoulder. Nix couldn’t help but find her peaceful expression and the gentle rise and fall of her breath adorable. He studied her, his eyes trailing down her nose to her slightly parted lips that he wanted to kiss more than anything.

An hour later, the train eased into Gare de Paris-Est, announcing their arrival with a sigh of brakes and a soft hum. Looking down at her, Lew gently shook her. “Hey, (y/n/n), wake up. We’re here.”

She blinked, slowly regaining awareness. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, helping her sit up straight. “Time flies when you’re napping.”

Stretching her arms, she looked out of the window and her eyes widened in awe as she caught her first glimpse of the famed city. The engine released a loud hiss as it slowed down, and the platform came into view. When the train finally came to a halt, she eagerly stood up.

“We’re here!” She exclaimed, looking at Nix with sparkling eyes.

Lew laughed, grabbing her bag for her. “Ready to see the City of Light?”

“Absolutely!” She replied, stepping off the train.

The platform was a busy scene of hurried travelers chattering in various languages. Even the architecture of the station was a sight to behold, each arch and ornate decoration speaking of Paris’ rich history and culture.

They stepped out of the station, and as the city revealed itself before them, it felt like stepping into a dream. The grand avenues, lined with elegant buildings and trees, seemed to stretch to infinity. (Y/n) stood still, her gaze lifted upward as she took in the life that exuded from each house, shop, and balcony. Christmas trees and decorations also filled the shop windows along the streets.

“Lew…this is amazing,” she breathed, an awestruck smile on her lips.

He smiled, watching her appreciate the city he had grown to love over his many visits. “I know. It’s truly a beauty.”

The street was alive with the vibrant colors of the Parisian cafes, the smell of freshly baked bread from nearby bakeries, and the hum of laughter from people enjoying their day. They strolled through the charming streets, soaking in the lively atmosphere as they made their way to the hotel.

Along the way, they passed a line of dress shops with window displays that were simply breathtaking. In one, (y/n) spotted a beautiful dress and couldn’t help but linger for a moment, her eyes fixed on it. She hadn’t worn a dress in years, and her heart ached to embrace her feminine side again. Lew noticed her interest and made a mental note.

When they arrived at the quaint, elegant hotel, it was nearly three in the afternoon. The hotel had an old-world charm, its outside adorned with blooming flowers and polished windows that reflected the bright sun.

Stepping inside, (y/n) was pleasantly surprised by its interior. The reception had a warm, inviting atmosphere with soft lighting and tasteful colors. There was even a large Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with silver tinsel and popcorn string.

“Bonsoir,” greeted the friendly receptionist.

“Bonsoir,” Lew replied with a friendly grin. “We have a reservation under the name Nixon.”

The receptionist flipped through a book before him, searching for the name.

“Ah, yes, Captain Nixon,” he nodded. “Welcome to our hotel. Your rooms are ready. Two singles, just across the hall from each other,” he informed them with a thick French accent as he handed each of them a key. “If you’d like one room, we’d be more than-”

“This is perfect, thank you,” Nix said, taking the keys quickly, trying to conceal his rosy cheeks at the man’s comment. Luckily, (y/n) was too engrossed with her surroundings even to notice.

As they headed toward the elevators, (y/n) looked around, impressed by the luxurious decor of the hotel. The walls were adorned with beautiful paintings that were no doubt original.

‘Dick sure knows how to vacation,’ Lew thought.

“You know,” she mentioned as they waited for the elevator. “This place is even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Lewis nodded in agreement, a pleased expression on his face. “It’s stunning. Sure gives off that classic Paris charm. I’m honestly surprised they didn’t have us staying in some dump.”

(Y/n) began to giggle as the elevator arrived. They stepped inside and ascended to their floor. Once they reached the fourth floor, Lew looked at the posted signs and guided them to their rooms.

“Here’s your room,” he said, stopping at her door.

“Thanks, Lew,” she smiled, taking the key as he dropped her bag to the floor lightly.

“Anytime. We’ll meet in the lobby in, say, an hour? So,” he checked his watch. “16:15?”

The door unlocked with a click, and she opened it. “Perfect. See you then.”

Nodding, he stepped back, a charming grin on his face.

As (y/n) closed the door and stepped into her room, bringing a hand to her chest to feel her pounding heart. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door with a sigh.

‘That smile will be the death of me,’ she thought.

An hour passed in a blink, and (y/n) freshened up before meeting Lew in the lobby. She checked her reflection in the metal of the elevator door, quickly fixing a stray hair that had fallen out of place. With a ding, the door opened, and she walked into the lobby, her eyes scanning for Lewis’ dark hair in the crowded room.

She stood in the lobby, glancing at her watch nervously: 16:20. Lew was late, and she fidgeted with her dress uniform skirt, trying not to worry. As she waited, a tall man with neatly combed sandy blonde hair approached her with a friendly smile. His icy blue eyes lacked the warmth of the soft browns she was used to.

“Hey there,” he greeted, leaning against a nearby pillar.

“Hi,” she replied with a polite smile, hoping Nix would arrive soon.

“So, you waiting for someone?” He asked, his tone a bit too suggestive.

“Yes,” she replied turning away from him, trying to make it clear she wasn’t interested.

The man persisted, undeterred. “A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be left waiting alone. How about we grab a drink while you wait?”

She hesitated, searching for a way to decline without being rude. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m expecting a friend any minute now.”

Just as (y/n) was about to subtly excuse herself, the elevator dinged, and Lew stepped out of the elevator. Their gazes met briefly and his eyes narrowed, picking up the discomfort in her expression.

“Ahh, did you make a friend?” He asked over her shoulder, standing so close she could feel his warmth through her jacket. Lew’s stare was anything but friendly as he extended his hand toward the man. “Captain Lewis Nixon.”

The man’s confidence faltered, sensing the underlying tension. “Jake Bellinger, sir.”

Lew maintained his polite demeanor but made his possessive intent clear. “Thanks for keeping her company, pal.”

Taking (y/n)’s arm gently, he led them toward the exit, leaving Jake Bellinger behind. The man looked on, realizing he had no chance, and decided it was better to retreat than face the fury of an officer. As they stepped outside, Lew breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have gotten her out of the situation.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized, attempting to lighten the mood. “I ran an errand that took longer than expected.”

“It’s okay,” (y/n) smiled. “Let’s get something to eat! I’m starving, Lew.”

He broke out in chuckles at her enthusiasm.

“Lead the way, Captain Nixon,” she teased, playfully saluting.

He grinned, offering his arm. “Of course, Corporal.”

The streets buzzed with life as they wandered through the cobblestone paths, taking in the charm of the city. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and the city lights began to flicker to life.

“I think you’d like this little café my sister loves,” Lew suggested, looking around. “It’s right around here somewhere.”

(Y/n) was already drawn to a cozy café down a street on their left. Its balcony was adorned with string lights, and the dulcet voice of Édith Piaf floated from the open door. Wordlessly, she pulled him toward it.

“This place is perfect!” (Y/n) gasped, marveling at the ordinary beauty of the small café.

“Café des Rêves Parisien,” Lew read aloud.

(Y/n)’s eyes twinkled in the soft lighting. “What does it mean?”

“The Cafe of Parisian Dreams,” he replied, his mind recognizing the café that Blanche never stopped talking about. What were the odds she randomly chose this one?

Maybe (y/n) was his Parisian dream…there was no maybe about it. She was.

Lew opened the door for her and they were hit with the comforting aroma of coffee and pastries. She found a quaint table by the window that allowed them to observe the lively street. Before she could sit down, he pulled out the chair for her like the proper gentleman he was raised to be.

Picking up the menu on the table, she read one word and laid it back down. “It’s in French,” she snickered. “What are you getting?”

“Coffee, for sure. And probably a chocolate-strawberry pastry. I think you’d like the lemon one they have.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it,” she replied. “Wait…you’ve been here before?”

Nix looked around the small restaurant, memories from his teenage years returning to him. “This is Blanche’s café.”

She leaned forward with her eyebrows raised. “No way.”

“Yep,” he smirked, sitting back in his chair. “This is it.”

(Y/n) opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by an older woman with round cheeks arriving at their table. “Bonjour,” she smiled. “Qu'est-ce que tu voudrais?”

As Lew ordered in French, (y/n)’s cheeks heated up. His French was incredibly attractive, and she caught herself staring as he flashed his charming smile at the older woman. The waitress, who seemed to be the heart and soul of the quaint café, grinned at Nixon’s almost perfect French and winked at him before heading to the counter to put in their order. He felt (y/n)’s eyes on him, her presence intoxicating, even without words. The whole atmosphere seemed infused with an unspoken understanding as if Paris itself was urging them on.

“So,” Lewis began, turning his attention back to her. “How are you liking Paris so far?

Her cheeks still held a tinge of red, but she met his gaze with a warm smile. “I love it, and we haven’t even seen much, yet.”

He grinned, feeling a sense of happiness and relief that she was enjoying herself. “I’m glad. And trust me, the pastries here are like pieces of heaven. They’re renowned for them.”

The waitress returned with their order and placed the plates before them. The fresh smell of the pastries made (y/n)’s stomach growl instantly. Lewis’s chocolate strawberry pastry was a chocolate-glazed beauty with a plump, red strawberry sitting atop. Lew picked it up and took a bite.

“This is amazing,” he mumbled with a grin.

(Y/n) laughed, taking a bite of her lemon pastry. “You think that is amazing? Try this!”

She held up the pastry, allowing him to take a bite, and his eyes widened in delight. “That is incredible.”

Between bites and sips of coffee, they continued chatting and time slipped away, lost in the joy of their conversation as laughter and shared stories filled the air. As the evening wore on, he noticed the workers starting to clean up around them and checked his watch. “It’s almost eight,” Lew spoke. “We should head back.”

He reached for his wallet to pay the bill, but the older waitress gently stopped him and spoke rapidly in French, the essence of her words registering clearly.

“It’s on the house,” he translated for (y/n), whose brow furrowed in confusion.

“Why?” She asked, her gaze shifting between him and the waitress.

He turned to the kind woman and replied in her language. “Merci beaucoup. C’est très gentil. Pourquoi?”

The waitress smiled warmly at (y/n) as she replied in French, her words going over the (y/h/c)’s head.

“Vous me rappelez moi et mon mari quand nous étions jeunes.”

‘You remind me of my husband and I when we were young.’

The waitress winked, leaning closer to him. “Il est rare de trouver quelqu'un qui vous regarde avec autant d'amour qu'elle. Dites-lui ce que vous ressentez.”

‘It's rare to find someone who looks at you with as much love as she does. Tell her how you feel.’

His heart skipped a beat. How did she…?

Oh, Paris, the city of love, indeed.

He switched back to English. “She…uh…said it’s because the Americans liberated her city.”

(Y/n) blinked, absorbing the information, her eyes widening in surprise. “That’s…incredibly generous.”

The waitress waved her off and shooed them gently towards the door, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Heart racing, Lew thanked the woman as they walked out the door into the chilly night. After being in the warm café, the cold air shocked (y/n), and a sharp shiver ran down her spine. She hugged her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that clung to her.

“Here,” Lew murmured, quickly slipping off his dress jacket and gently placing it around her shoulders.

“Better?” He asked, concern etched into his features, his eyes searching hers.

His subtle scent enveloped her, a mixture of cigarettes, whiskey, and earthy notes that she’d grown familiar with during their time together. It was a scent that brought a rush of comfort. (Y/n) nodded, a grateful smile playing on her lips.

“Thanks,” she whispered, snuggling into the welcoming collar of the jacket.

Unbeknownst to her, a bit of powdered sugar from her pastry clung to her cheek as a sweet reminder of their time at the café. Lew noticed it and couldn’t help but smile at the adorable sight.

“(Y/n),” he said gently called, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. “You’ve got a little something here.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she felt his touch. She blushed and instinctively reached up to her cheek, trying to wipe it away. “Where? Did I get it?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Let me.”

Lew pulled out a handkerchief and, with the utmost tenderness, wiped the powdered sugar from her cheek. His touch was feather-light, sending a shiver down her spine once again. His eyes never left hers, and in that moment, time seemed to slow down, the world around them fading into the background.

“Got it,” he whispered, his voice a soft caress.

(Y/n) could only nod, her heart racing. There was an intimacy in the simple gesture and she longed for more.

Breaking from his trance, Lew cleared his throat quietly, and they continued their stroll, the occasional whisper of leaves and distant city sounds creating a soothing backdrop. The atmosphere was charged with a quiet romance.

As they walked arm in arm, a sense of home grew between them. The city lights reflected in their eyes, creating a soft twinkle as they exchanged stories and jokes. Lew found himself captivated by the way her eyes sparkled under the lights, her laughter like music that he never wanted to end. He cherished these simple moments, knowing to not take them for granted.

Time seemed to slow down as they made their way to the hotel, comfortable silence filling the air around them. In the hushed ambiance of the night, as she walked beside Lewis, she could sense it, that unspoken bond, the invisible thread connecting them. It was in the loaded glances they exchanged, in the tender touches that lingered a second longer than they needed to, and in the unspoken words that danced between them.

Although (y/n) knew she loved Lewis, she didn’t truly realize the depth of her feelings toward the man, but in that silent moment, she realized that she was in love, true love. The realization was as beautiful and intricate as the city they wandered through. She was in love, truly and deeply. The realization settled in her heart, filling her with a warmth that surpassed the chilly Parisian night.

As they reached the hotel, their steps slowing, she looked at him and saw the kindness in his eyes, the way he made her laugh, and the way he cared for her. It all added up to something she couldn’t ignore any longer.

At (y/n)’s door, a sense of both reluctance and excitement filled the air.

“Thank you for today,” she said, voice soft and sincere.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, a tender smile on his face. “It’s been an amazing day.”

She hesitated, then leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, Lew.”

“Goodnight,” he whispered, his heart racing as she disappeared into her room.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Tomorrow was the day.

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wonder-worker · 2 months

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The career of Bertha, daughter of Lothar II [and Waldrada], reveals that women were not simply passive bystanders in the politics of the period. As the transmitter of legitimacy through blood, she was in fact a key player. [...] She was considered a major force in Italian politics, and her political aspirations may have extended much further than the Tuscan region or even the kingdom of Italy.

-Patricia Skinner, "Women in Medieval Italian Society, 500-1200" / Daniel G. König, "Bertha of Tuscany's Correspondence with al-Muktafī bi-llāh in the Version of Ibn al-Zubayr."

[Bertha of Lotharingia was] an ambitious and politically successful female member of the Carolingian elite. The daughter of Lothair II of Lotharingia, she was born around 860 or 865. Married before 880 to count Theobald of Lorraine, she shared her husband’s exile in Arles, where he had sought refuge with Boso, the King of Provence (r. 879–887) after the latter’s brother Hugo had attempted to conquer Lorraine. She bore him four children who were to attain influential positions in a region spanning southern France and northern Italy.

When Theobald died around 887, Bertha married the margrave Adalbert II of Tuscany (r. 885–915). Adalbert’s family had much property in Provence, carried the epithet dives and led a lavish court life in Lucca. […] Theo Kölzer described Adalbert’s policy as

“characterised by a skilful manoeuvring between the individual candidates for the royal and imperial crowns, which he played off against each other for the sake of his own advantage, always taking care that the autonomy of his margraviate and his quasi-royal position did not suffer any damage in the turmoil of the time.”

Adalbert’s policy involved reacting to the ambitions of margrave Guido II of Spoleto, his son Lambert, margrave Berengar of Ivrea, duke Arnulf of Bavaria, and King Louis of Provence, all of whom aspired to the crown of Italy between the end of the ninth and the beginning of the tenth century. Adalbert II and Bertha first sided with Guido II and his son Lambert against Berengar, thus ensuring that Guido was crowned King of Italy in 889 and emperor in 891, his son Lambert becoming royal and imperial co-regent in 891 and 892 respectively. The couple’s support for Guido and Lambert expressed itself in the fact that their two sons were christened Guido and Lambert between 891 and 894. Adalbert tried to impede Arnulf of Bavaria from interfering in Italian affairs in 894, but then turned against Lambert by cooperating with Berengar of Ivrea between 896 and 898. If we believe Liutprand of Cremona, it was around 898 that Adalbert tried to become king of Italy himself.

Around 900, Adalbert and Bertha supported the aspirations of King Louis of Provence to become emperor, possibly in the hope that Bertha’s son Hugo would thus be able to become King of Provence instead. When Hugo’s promotion failed to materialise, the couple turned against Louis, first by not impeding, then by actively supporting Berengar in his conflict with Louis. In this period, the couple already exerted enormous influence in Italy: the anti-pope Sergius III (sed. 898 and 904–911) had sought refuge with Adalbert and, according to Liutprand of Cremona, was “made pope by Adalbert” (papa per Adalbertum constituitur) in 904. In this year, the couple felt strong and independent enough to begin dating their documents according to their own regnal years. When Louis was eventually captured and blinded by Berengar in 905, he entrusted Bertha’s son Hugo—count of Vienne and Arles, duke and margrave of Provence—with the government of Provence.

[During this time, Bertha has been identified the royal woman who most likely sent a letter with an embassy in c.906 to the Caliph of Baghdad, al-Muktafi, where she described herself rather grandiosely as "queen of all the Franks". First brought to light by Muhammad Ḥamīdullāh , it has been rigorously studied and re-examined by historians. According to Daniel G. König: '...it becomes impossible to presume with Ḥamīdullāh that Bertha was a woman without political ambition who offered her hand in marriage to the caliph to escape her allegedly weak and unsuccessful husband [...] Rather, it becomes conceivable that Bertha could have developed a foreign policy strategy that looked beyond Italy and Byzantium and as far as Aġlabid North Africa. When she eventually understood that the Aġlabids were nominally subjected to the ʿAbbāsid caliphate, she looked eastwards to ʿAbbāsid Iraq. If there was a marriage proposal at all, she may have wanted to offer one of her daughters to the caliph, as François Bougard suggested [...] Bertha’s son Hugo (r. 903–947) certainly pursued a Mediterranean strategy as soon as he became king of Italy in 926. His intensive relations with Byzantium are recorded by the emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, his complex relations with the “raider colony” of Fraxinetum by Liutprand of Cremona. According to Ibn Ḥayyān (d. 468/1076), he approached the caliph ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III of Córdoba in 328/939–940 with the demand of a “security guarantee for merchants of his territory that travel back and forth between there and al- Andalus.” It does not seem far-fetched to assume that Hugo’s mother had already begun to think in the same lines of securing the Tyrrhenian Sea for Tuscany and of expanding the region’s security and economic purview.']

In 906, the year in which Bertha is said to have sent her letter to the ʿAbbāsid caliph, Louis of Provence had retired from the competition for the imperial throne, whereas Adalbert and his wife were confronted with the imperial ambitions of Berengar of Ivrea, which they opposed by blocking the Apennine pass leading him to Rome. Bertha seems to have been strongly involved in containing Berengar. That she wielded power at the side of her husband is evident from her correspondence with the archbishop of Ravenna. Germana. Gandino proposed that, in the contest with Berengar, Bertha was able and willing to present herself as a descendant of Charlemagne, as heiress of the Carolingian dynasty in Italy, and thus as a legitimate alternative candidate to the imperial throne. While this may seem unconceivable at first sight, we should consider that her husband Adalbert II did not have an equally prestigious pedigree and, by 906, had receded into the background politcally. Bertha’s quest for power also seems to have prompted contemporaries such as Liutprand of Cremona to harshly polemicize against her in particular and against women striving for power in general. Gandino believes that Berta may have even called herself “basilissa” (Βασίλισσα) in her letter to al-Muktafī bi-llāh, thus seeking imperial recognition from a foreign leader in a time, in which she—not her husband—formulated a claim to the imperial throne.

Bertha’s activities in the period after writing the letter demonstrate that she occupied an important political position in a region spanning the Provence in the west, Ivrea in the north, and Tuscany in the south. Still confronted with the imperial ambitions of Berengar when her husband died in 915, she installed her son Guido as margrave of Tuscany with herself acting as regent and married her daughter to the margrave Adalbert of Ivrea after his wife’s death. When Berengar chased Adalbert from Ivrea and arrested Bertha and Guido in Mantua between 919 and 920, she still managed to prepare the ground for her son Hugo. He was to become King of Italy in 926, shortly after Berengar’s assassination in 924 and Bertha’s death in 925."

#historicwomendaily #bertha of lotharingia #italian history #10th century #Berengar I of Italy #Adalbert II of Tuscany #my post #this is the most I've been able to find about Bertha #She does seem to have been a larger-than-life figure with grand ambitious who was daring and capable enough to carry them out #On a more tragic note:#I remember reading that her children were allied during her life but tore each other apart once she died :(

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avelera · 7 months

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I watched the first episode of Kate Winslet's "The Regime" and had a few thoughts.

First, the good:

- Really excited to see Matthias Schoenaerts (Booker in The Old Guard) in it, so that was already a huge plus.

- Kate Winslet is definitely acting her ass off.

- A lot of worldbuilding and research about dictators both historical and modern definitely went into the script. I could see snippets of many known dictator affectations, like germophobia, on display.

And now the... not exactly bad but the ???:

(Cut because we start to get into some actual spoilers)

I really don't know where the show is trying to go just yet. I can't quite tell if it's a flat out comedy in the style of Death of Stalin, as advertised, or if it's actually going for a deeper dramedy where we're supposed to feel some level of pathos for Winslet's and Schoenaerts' characters.

Basically, it feels like a fictionalization of a historical dramedy.

However, in Death of Stalin and other dramas and satires based on real historical events, we know where this is all going, to some extent. We can tell if the Bumbling Advisor's advice is, well, bumbling because we know how things are going to turn out.

Right now, in The Regime, we don't have any grounding in reality to be able to determine if the decisions being made are bad or good or simply incompetent and doomed to fail.

We've got a lot subjective view points like the various ministers and Schoenaerts' character to give their perspective on what the country should do next, but we don't have any objective birds eye view, historical knowledge, or even an actual person average person in the this fictional country to tell us what they're really thinking, unfiltered through the subjective POV of all these characters with very pronounced agendas.

In a way, I do consider that quite clever from a writing craft standpoint. I feel just as isolated and wrapped in cotton wool as Winslet's character. Which is part of why I wonder if I'm supposed to sympathize with a figure that, to my eyes, reads like Marine le Pen from a dystopian world where she actually won in France.

As an American, I can't tell whether or not the country turning away from America (who was clearly trying to take advantage, in a cobalt deal that to my ears echoed the British oil interests in Iran at the beginning of the 20th c.) is meant to be seen as a good or a bad thing. Truly. I don't mean that as saying I want or expect America to be the good guy, but I can't tell if I'm relatively anti-American compared to the creator of the show (ie, that America is just assumed to be a good guy so it's meant to be a negative harbinger of bad things to come that they turned away) or relatively pro-American (ie, that it's a show made by non-Americans so by not seeing this as a clear good thing that they reject America using terminology that echoes current Russian rhetoric) and I should be cheering on their choice to turn away.

On the one hand, this ambiguity if intentional is quite masterful! I can't quite tell if I'm supposed to see Schoenaerts as a straight-shooter who is supposed to help this rather hapless dictator maybe achieve some good, or if he's a violent MAGA-type thug who is going to get her ear and put their country down the path to atrocities. I just don't know yet, because this isn't a historical dramedy so I don't know how these events play out.

And I can't tell quite yet if that's a good or a bad thing from the writerly perspective. On the one hand, I'm personally more baffled than intrigued as to why I should care about anything going on in it so far. It's not all that funny, so I'm not entertained or amused just at the nonsense happening, because I can't tell what I'm supposed to see as nonsense and what I'm supposed to see as serious worldbuilding leading towards an actual fictional country narrative that will allow some commentary on our own global situation, or if it's just intrigue for the sake of intrigue, or if it's a character study and I shouldn't care about the actual events in the fictional country because it's the absurdity of the personalities I should be focusing on. Or if I am supposed to be laughing, what aspects I'm supposed to be laughing at.

Basically, it hasn't won my trust yet. I'm mildly intrigued, mostly because of Winslet and Schoenaerts adding complexity to what in a normal satire might just be flat comedic characters. But I can't even really tell yet if the story thinks it's a comedy or if it just has comedic elements (like, say, Succession).

Maybe I'm just basic, but I wouldn't have minded a bit more signposting and a bit less of a feeling that I'm supposed to grasp what point the story is trying to make on its own. I don't really know what the thesis is yet, because it's not based in real events, there's no objective truth for me to look at and say, "Ah, they're saying this historically terrible person was misunderstood, or bumbling, or actually heroic, or well-intentioned," etc etc. I only have their word for it and they haven't actually told me yet what their word is trying to say, y'know?

Verdict: I'll probably watch a bit more, but I am a little perplexed at present as to what the takeaway should be.

#the regime

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mischiefmanaged71 · 2 years

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A Matter of Trust

Summary: Tom Bennett is a British Intelligence spy setting sail for France. His plans take a detour when introduced to the partner in his latest assignment.

A/N: My inbox is open to comments, requests

Pairing: Tom Bennett x fem! reader. Spy AU set during WW2, forced proximity, rivals to lovers

Tom Bennett Masterlist

Danger was a constant fellow in the line of work he was in. Trading secrets and listening in on conversations was a headliner for the role, among other unsettling tasks that arrived with the problems at hand.

Foot soldiers were said to be the key asset to victories in war times. Many would suggest the work behind the scenes is of far greater advantage. The individuals within the war rooms, the ears listening and meddling with plots.

Tom had worked his way into one of the most divisive lines of work of the current times, in that-- being caught by the wrong sort could end mortally. The current state of England was left in the hands of its government, Generals and officials working to ensure the country’s security. Tom's role in all of this was to aid their allies in relations, including espionage and security. Right now, he was awaiting a meeting with the handler of his current mission in France.

He arrived at the front of the antique store as instructed.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” the attendee asked, meeting his eyes.

“Yes, but I always carry an umbrella.” Tom replied, watching as the man tipped his head and escorted him to the backroom.

The door shut behind him, revealing a private room. The green wallpaper and dark mahogany furniture made for an alluring aesthetic. A round table was situated in the centre, dim lights from the overhanging chandeliers illuminating the room. The company looked up at his arrival, halting their conversation.

An older man sat at the table, and a woman sat opposite him. Another person sat to the side at a study desk, although they were mainly concealed by the shadows of which the lights could not reach.

“Welcome to France, Mr Bennett.” the man stated, twirling a pen in his hand.

He nodded, “You must be the handler."

“You may call me Perseus. This is Andromeda, my associate. We prefer to keep this as anonymous as possible on our end.”

Tom nodded his head in greeting, turning to address the second part of interest. “My superior informed me of another.”

“Ah, yes.” Perseus turned to the back of the room, “That would be your part, Madame.”

Heels clicked against the flooring, the woman approaching until she was in the light and Tom had to pause. Her sharp features and beauty stunned his senses for a moment as he caught himself staring at the woman.

The woman introduced herself, extending a hand outward. He glanced down before accepting it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Her accent was unidentifiable. It could’ve been a mixture of a local British accent, or perhaps with a hint of something closer to Western Europe. Tom couldn’t tell, but he knew she certainly spoke more than English.

“The pleasure is mine.” Tom fixed his stare on her, a smirk lining his lips. They now stood with but a foot between them, allowing her to glean upon his features in the warm light of the room.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” she whispered, crossing her arms.

He met her unimpressed gaze, noting the slight tug at her lips. “Is it working?”

“Probably not in the way you intended.”

“This mission is of most importance for us all. We have gathered intelligence of potential alliances between Allied officials and ambassadors with German contacts.” she informed them. “You’re here to investigate and report back your findings.”

She was quick and curt with her responses, lighting a fire in Tom’s vigour as he found himself turning away from the discussion to hear more. The woman, Andromeda, brought their attention back.

“Easy enough.” Tom said.

“This must be done with the uttermost discretion. Its expected of you.” Perseus remarked. “The both of you.”

“Both?” Tom asked, glancing down at the woman. She wore an unbothered look with her arms crossed.

“You’ll be working alongside Ms Y/L/N. She has the most expertise with relations and German history. Your skills will ensure the both of you get out of this intact.”

“I work alone.”

A scoff sounded from his side. “Now, you don’t.”

“Having another person is a liability-”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You can hardly make that assumption.”

“Fine.” he stated, his hands slipping into his pockets. “But, I can say I don’t need distractions.”

“I could say the same about you, Bennett. Has anyone tell you you’re loud and opinionated?” she snided.

“You’ve heard me, then.” he retorted.

“How is your French? Or German?” she rebutted, “You can’t expect to get through this with only speaking English?”

“Believe me, I won’t need to use words to get answers.”

Andromeda’s voice intercepted the next rebuttal. “You both need to work together on this civilly, alright?”

“We understand it may not be convenient for anyone, but ensuring your compliance is necessary. Both of your superiors assured you were the best for the job, and we need that for this to work.”

A silence fell on the room as they glanced from Perseus to each other. Y/N sighed, relenting and allowing her annoyance to dissipate.

“As long as he cooperates.” she waved a hand, shrugging her shoulders indifferently.

Tom swallowed the tension in his throat, “Great.”

Perseus nodded, satisfied while Andromeda wringed her hands anxiously.

A hand reached up to pat his shoulder, “You’ll get used to it.”

“What?”

“Disappointment.” her voice teased.

***

Almost two weeks had passed since the beginning of their partnership. They slowly grew on each other with time, considering how much of it was spent together...in close quarters. The company assigned them under the cover of a couple spending their getaway together in France. The first night, they were shipped off to a hotel in the city- an extravagent hotel to suit the cover, including all of the appropriate clothes for the guise.

Although, there was the initial issue of the singular bed. It was a king size, large enough for her to spread out and still not touch him, but it was the principal--the idea of sharing close proximity to him. Specifically, this man. The one with the smirk, the flirtatious remarks, and the constant teasing. She had to catch herself on multiple occasions from reacting as she blushed under his gaze. There was something different about Tom Bennett that caused this visceral reaction in her. It was both aggravating and exhilarating at the same time.

Much of the job they had was watching and waiting for things to develop. That evening, they had a meeting to intercept. However, it quickly turned into a gun fight when they were spotted. Learning to work with someone also meant learning of their tells and traits. The pair were swift in retaliating with their defensive training kicking in.

Tom had been preoccupied with gunfire from the front to notice the approaching gunman at his side. Although Y/N had. She shoved him to the side, ducking below cover, not before she was hit by the bullet. She hadn’t initially noticed the wound until a moment passed. Then the pain rang through, and she was grasping her shoulder between painful gasps.

Confusion had laced Tom’s being as he ducked next to Y/N, unaware of her wound until he heard her groan. A fury had lit in his eyes as he darted to the assailants surrounding them, curses laced from his tongue.

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.” he repeated, placing pressure on her shoulder. She nodded and blinked tiredly, feeling dizzy from the blood loss.

His objective was to get them out of there. To get her to safety. The mission wasn’t more important than her life, so he made a path for them. His eyes locked onto the gas tank behind the group, firing without delay. The explosion rocked the ground, flames licking the ground and providing the exact distraction they needed to escape.

Far from the scene, Tom held her close to his side as they made their way back to the private hotel room. Arriving at the lobby, she stopped him with a hand grasping his shirt. “Wait.”

”What are you doing?” Tom brushed her elbow.

“I need to hide the blood. We can't blow our cover." She pulled her jacket closed and tucked herself back into his side.

They managed all the way through the lobby until they reached the elevator where they could breathe. Y/N shut her eyes, feeling her blood pressure dropping with the haze in her mind.

Tom watched her pallor grow worse over time, applying pressure over her hand to ease the pain from the blood. “You’re gonna be fine. Stay with me."

She sighed, trusting him to get her there as he swung their door open. He led her through the room slowly,

“I need to sit down.” she exhaled, feeling spots dance in her vision. He held her up without trouble, carefully moving her to the bed. Feeling the comfort of the mattress beneath her hands, she allowed herself to fall against the headboard.

“Don’t go to sleep.” he met her eyes, instructing her to follow his order. “You need to stay awake.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise...anything.” she breathed, watching as his tall figure wandered to grab the first aid kit.

“And you’ve done this before?” she murmured as he sat on the bed, next to her legs.

“A few times. On my myself.”

The sound of him unwrapping the packaging reached her ears as her eyes fell closed. A hand brushed her face, urging her back to wakefulness.

“Keep your eyes open, alright?” he spoke softly, “On me.”

Her heart picked up at that as she nodded compliantly. Y/N’s breaths came out shuddery as she felt the aching pain with each movement. She moved forward slightly, allowing Tom to remove the soaked button down shirt. All that remained was her singlet as he pushed it to the side, getting a clear view of the fresh wound. He checked for an exit wound, confirming the bullet wasn’t present before continuing.

Tom’s face was strained with focus, but she could tell there was anger behind his demeanour. “Are you angry with me?”

Tom glanced at her, moving back to her shoulder. “No.”

“Something’s wrong.” she retorted, “You’re quiet.”

“I’m focused. Unless you want crooked stitches and an ugly scar.” he quickly replied.

She softened up as Tom gently cleaned the wound. “You’re actually good at this.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” he raised his eyebrows, a slight ease in his face. A comfortable silence filled the space before he spoke again.

“You shouldn’t have gotten in the way.”

“I pushed you out of the way of a bullet.” she countered.

“And you got hurt.” Tom stated, holding her gaze with an unwavering stare. “And you expect me to just be okay with it?” he hummed in question.

Y/N blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. “I saved your life. It’s worth it then.”

“And the pain? Is that worth it?” his blue eyes bearing into her own.

“This is-this will pass.” she tilted her head, relaxing against the pillow as his hands wandered away. A haze rushed through her mind as it was just them there together. He sighed, unsure of what to make of this woman and her effect on him. She felt the adrenaline wearing off and the tiredness seeping in.

“Don’t do that.”, she grasped his hand.

“What?”, he tiredly asked.

“Don’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault.” she shook her head.

“I’m supposed to protect you--Us.” he corrected.

“I know you would’ve done the same for me. It wasn’t a question in my mind. I just did it.”

“Why?” he whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

She paused, her heart skipping a beat as he seemingly grew closer. His words brushing against her cheeks, Tom leaning over her. “We’re supposed to look out for each other. Aren’t we?”

“I don’t know a lot of people who’d take a bullet for me.” he admitted.

“You should invest in some new friends.” she chided, feeling slightly better.

“I think I’ll stick around with you for a bit.” he replied, rising a chuckle from the woman. The mood settled until Y/N found herself absorbed in studying Tom’s features. She flickered from his slightly tussled hair to the faint smudge of oil on his neck she hadn’t noticed before. For a moment, she was sure he was leaning in, his eyes glancing down to her lips just as she had done. All of a sudden, he had stopped and feigned to brush the hair from her neck.

“Rest now. You’ll need it.”

And he rose from the bed, leaving her to recover from her wound and the confusion laced in her mind at his perplexing actions.

***

Tom waited for her in the living room as she got dressed, fiddling with his fingers aimlessly. He paused when the door opened, but suddenly Tom felt he should’ve been sat as he froze up. Y/N wore an extravagant emerald ballgown, crossing the room unaware of his stunned expression.

“I’m ready now.”

Her hair was styled down, working along with the dress to conceal her shoulder.

“Yeah.” Tom nodded, shifting on his feet. “Shall we?”

The entire ride in the taxi was silent until they reached the venue and he opened the door for her. She smiled gratefully, accepting the hand. It was a fair walk between there and the entrance to the Mansion.

The latest target was Lord Dupont, a suspected Nazi sympathiser sharing intelligence with the German military. It was imperative that the pair found evidence of the association to report back to their superiors. Tonight would be one of the most definitive of the mission after almost four weeks.

“Scout for Lord Dupont. Note anyone who he speaks to.” she recited their instructions.

“Got it.” he agreed, stepping up to the ballroom where the majority of the chatter and music came from. It was a grand room with high ceilings and chandeliers illuminating the space. Servers peaked through the sea of ballgowns and dancing couples.

“I didn’t know there’d be dancing.”

Y/N turned to him, “It’s a Ball. Why wouldn’t there be dancing?”

“Well, I haven’t been to my share as you probably have, princess.”

“You’ll follow my lead, then.” she mused, slipping her hand into his as they melded into the crowd. Her hands found placement on his shoulder, Tom placing his hand at her waist. He was unsettled for once as he flitted to glance at his feet. “One. Two. Three...”

They circled around, eventually finding a rhythm amongst the other dancers. “Where’d you learn all this?”

“Etiquette?” she asked, receiving a nod from him. “Where I grew up, these kind of parties were frequent.”

He met her eyes, “Where was that?”

She huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head up at him. “You can’t figure that out, can you?”

“I’ve tried.” he admitted.

“I’ll leave that for another time. Focus on your foot placement, now.”

They moved in a smooth rhythm for a few more minutes, entangled in each other’s hold. He had grown more confident with each stride, falling to stare into her eyes. His blue orbs evoked this intensity and emotion that she found herself falling into.

“I can’t concentrate, when you look at me like that.” she whispered as they danced around the room.

“Maybe you should be concentrating on me instead.” His words reached her ears and she felt a shiver run along her exposed skin. She found herself drifting closer, enamoured with tracing the features of his face and falling to his lips--

Y/N blinked from the daze, her breath hitting his chest as she looked over his shoulder.

“He’s talking to the Ambassador now.” she traced the men from across the room while they continued to dance. She swallowed, feeling Tom’s hand tighten at her waist.

“I can’t tell what’s going on from here, but I suspect it can’t be anything good.” Y/N continued before sensing Tom’s silence.

She met his gaze again, noting how he stared at her. Entranced and lost in his thoughts. Her heart raced into her throat at the way in which he studied her carefully. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Bennett?”

He blinked at her, “I heard you.”

Tom slid his hand to her back as he ushered them off the dance floor. His hand found her’s, guiding her down a lonely corridor under the pretence of a private moment with his love.

They wandered the corridor, glancing around the large entry hall and the parallel staircases. The pair moved stealthily through the mansion, making their way to the second floor. “What now?” Tom glanced between the many doors on the level, glancing upward to the floors above.

“Well, we’ve got to start somewhere.” she shrugged, “From my knowledge, his private office probably wouldn’t be on the second floor to which any guests could find themselves.”

He fell silent, allowing her to tug him up another level as they continued to look around. After what was probably ten minutes, they found what appeared to be the Lord’s private study with the library attached and the plethora of expensive attachments. The decorative weaponry and swords were privy to this deduction all the same.

They split up, riffling through the papers on the desk, any books or maps spread out for evidence of the supposed plans. It had drawn to an uncomfortable silence as she drew her gaze to watch Tom. His side profile was clear to her in the low light of the moon, the strong lines of his face and the curve of his lips.

He was certainly one of the most beautiful men she had seen. His voice and words had more of an effect on her than she had wanted to admit, favouring to save her dignity over the rush that came over her. The stutter in her heart at the suit he wore was another indication of these feelings, not to mention the swell in her chest each time he laid those gorgeous blue eyes on her. The way in which he glossed his eyes over her with care, taking in her features--taking in her. It was consuming.

He turned his head, wandering to her and Y/N shook herself from the daze. “Anything?”

She shook her head, “Nothing yet.” placing the book back into its place. She wandered over to his side, glancing at the map on the wall before doing a double take. “I don’t believe its what we think.”

“What are you thinking?”

Her fingers traced the pins on the wall. “If I was trying to win a war, I would break down my enemies one at a time. Weaken their defences and they are easier for the taking.” she glanced up at Tom, returning to the desk. He followed and watched as she pulled out the drawers, before one of them halted under her grip. She jimmied the drawer again and Tom raised a hand, situating himself in her place. His hands moved fluidly, using a pair of scissors to jimmy the lock and the drawer gave. Y/N wore an impressed look before they rummaged through the contents. A file that they scattered on the desk. Tom’s tall frame stood over her, his body heat sending rushes against her body. Her heart sped up at the images, the series of monstrous weaponry and tanks able to barrage an entire house. According to the documents, Germany had enormous numbers and more coming.

“If they get in, they can run through France’s defences and take the city.” fear evident in her whispered voice.

“We’ve got to get these to Britain.”

She nodded, accepting the papers from him and rolling them up. His eyebrows raised, wondering where she was going to put them when she raised her skirt and deposited the papers in the slip of her leg garter. At least there was one use for it. Tom thought his heart would implode as they slipped from the room. They kept close, not expecting much else except to slip out when footsteps thumped closer to their spot.

Her hand gripped Tom’s, bringing his blue eyes to her fearful ones. “We need to warn the French government first. They have no idea what’s waiting for them.”

“Alright. Once we get out of here, we go to the State Assembly.”

She turned to him wide eyed until he pushed her down an empty corridor and against the wall. Tom pressed himself close to her, his warm breath brushing against her face. “What are you doing?” she exhaled breathily, the feeling of his touch tentative on her skin.

“Improvising.” he hushed her, pressing his lips to her’s. It was intoxicating and all consuming, the effects of his touch. His lips were more soft than she imagined, melding impossibly perfect to suit her’s. She breathed him in, a shuddery wave filtering over her mind as she lost all sense of logic. Everything was overwhelming. The feeling of the hand clenching her waist, or the one brushing the hair from her neck as he caressed it gently. His nose pressed into her cheek and . She cupped the side of his face with her left hand, tracing the sharp line of his jaw until she could tug on the back of his hair at the base of his neck.

The footsteps passed by and they were none the wiser to the pair’s presence. When they broke apart, she felt her chest rise and fall with shuddery breaths as she finally remembered to breathe. It was something she had noticed to be evident more often when in Tom’s presence. He had that effect on her from the moment they met, it was just something she refused to accept.

Her eyelids fell shut as Tom’s traced her jawline delicately. His eyes bore more than she was expecting, something darker as they read more grey than blue.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“What?” his voice teased.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Tom.” she whispered, eyes tracing his lips up to his eyes.

“It’s Tom, now is it?” he chuckled, and she chased the sound.

“We should probably leave before we get caught.”

Tom’s lips turned upward as if he wanted to continue, but fell at the importance of their mission. He nodded, lacing their hands as he pulled them to safety. The better part of a few days had changed his life significantly and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go back.

Even with the impending danger of it all, he wouldn’t trade this for any of it. If he had stayed behind in England, he’d be sent off to fight some place else anyway. At least here he had some control over where he went. Here, he had found her and something had taken over. Some part of him understood, he had fallen from the moment he laid eyes on her.

Trust was a matter of devotion and care that he had trouble with all his life. Vulnerability wasn’t a token he was familiar with as he held his heart close to his chest. In a matter of days, this woman had worn down at least part of his defences, but time would tell how far it could go.