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mar3ggiata · 3 months

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professional help, c2. 'The urgency.'

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs, eating disorders, depression.

song to listen to when reading this: The Chain, Fleetwood Mac.

abstract: this is Jude, this is a little bit of information about me since you care so much, I don't even know you… anyway yes, I really like being mysterious, what you gonna do about it, punch me in the face? I'm not even real, grow the fuck up. see ya.

Sometimes, she just fucking hated her life. She supposed it was normal like that, it happened to everyone to absolutely fucking despise their lives, no? She wakes at the same hour everyday, does her makeup. Not too much, not too little to show she was sleep deprived and got high last night. Her identity was concealed under eyeliner and blush. She looks like a doll. She likes her makeup, she's quite good at it. She plays with her hairstyles, sometimes a bun, sometimes braids, sometimes loose with a headband, depending on the mood. She walks her dog and cleans his poop. Jinx, a 5 month old Belgian Malinois she adopted when she moved. She found him at a shelter for abused puppies, he was the last one to get adopted. She decided to take him, she planned to move to the countryside soon anyways. Gaining his trust was one of her biggest accomplishments, now the dog had a bit of an attachment issue, but they were working on getting better together. She drives to work with the same 4 playlists playing in her car. Old rock, Frank Ocean, some Italian songs here and there.

She always comes in dressed in dark colours, dark red, dark blue or black. She has 10 male patients and 8 female soldiers. Some of them are combat medics, some snipers. Demolition experts. She works 'till lunch time, eats alone, sometimes skips lunch just to make her body feel something and indulge in disordered eating, then goes outside to smoke and comes back in. After the afternoon sessions, she sometimes has groups together for some group therapy. Then she usually goes home and smokes weed while she cooks her dinner, she acts like she's in MasterChef, puts on music and pours herself a glass of wine 'Quando sei qui con me' she sings to her dog, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi'. Jinx doesn't even know Italian. Two times a week, she teaches ballet at a local dance school. 13 year old is not old enough to be on point shoes. It's her favourite time of the week though. She gets to finally have control of a situation, she gets some respect. 13 year olds, a fucking nightmare… She gets to tell them what to do and correct their arms, their feet, their posture and they listen! They do, and they like her, they say thank you Alba, see you next week! They learn her choreographies, they follow her lead when she explains a new variation. They even like the songs she chooses for warm up. Mostly Abba.

Alba is not her real name, but they don't know that. A gift from Laswell, when she started working for her. A sparkly new identity, English ID and nice documents that prove she's an English citizen, born in Southampton. She's not. Kept a little bit of Italian in the fake name. She hasn't been in Italy in close to five years. She went on vacation alone in Tuscany once, just to feel her country again for a second. She is not in contact with her family, last message from her sister was three years ago, it went 'I hope you're alive.' Her mother taught her violence. To be in power. To be beautiful and kind. To never ever trust someone who wouldn't give their life for you. Her mother taught her loyalty, respect. She used to never cry as a child. She loved to know stuff, to read about planets. She would kill lizards in the backyard with her little brother, who died young. She saw her first gun at 13. Now, her name is not Alba and it sure isn't Jude. Or Judy, as some patients call her. They know it's a callsign, a code name, everyone has one, especially in the task forces. Hers is Jude. 'Jude looks like an angel, but her words have thorns'. That's what Billy Lunette had to say about her. Billy had been her favourite patient for the whole of 2021. He had PTSD, he had night terrors and was in a mental hospital for schizophrenia symptoms for a while. He wouldn't take his medication, he would smoke, he was a mess. He listened to her though. She was the only one who visited him in the hospital. She showed him he could trust her and he completely lost himself in her. He would call her at 3 in the morning, drop by her office too many times per day, developed a bit of a codependency, but she was able to help him through his pain. He would do research about the treatments, the medicine, cognitive behavioural therapy. Billy was happy now. He was grateful to have had her and she was grateful that Billy had been a great patient. Big challenge. Billy was her biggest accomplishment, and proof of the fact she wasn't completely useless in the army.

She didn't work for the entirety of 2022. She had an accident with one of the patients, classified information. She survived, but man was it hard to live after that day... Spent time with her dog, visited a friend in San Francisco, taught ballet. Price and Laswell felt so guilty they continued to pay her even if she wasn't working. Why she decided to come back she really didn't know. She thinks the truth is she likes helping people, makes her feel good. She likes the crazy stories and that she had a reputation at the base, she was starting to be respected. She craved that. And it really started to bore her, the routine. Until Arash. Seeing Arash so frighted and tense was new, he was a calm and polite gentlemen. She saw an invisible string tying his story and his damned pilgrimage book to the mission she knew had failed in the Middle East. Now, it was a little bit of a stretch. So she did her little research, put her Sherlock hat on, lit a cigarette and started digging.

She had fun, until things really started clocking. He was missing his doctor appointments on purpose on specific dates, to go do what? Call someone? She couldn't steal his phone. Send letters? She tried the post office but found out nothing. The bank really did give her his statements, which was pure luck. He had set his personal security questions as his birthday and his mother's name, which she knew, because he told her. She knew everything about him, even his social security number. Arash really trusted her and she had an incredible memory for unnecessary details. Also, he left his wallet on the couch in her office countless times, it’s not that she looked, it was just there and she remembered. When she saw him stressed and fidgety she knew he was hiding something. She kept a straight face, 'Arash, we can really talk about whatever you want, you know' and he would interrupt her 'You don't understand. The urgency!', he continued to say. She really didn't want to tell Price herself, she would have preferred for Laswell to do it. She took extra time in the morning to get ready that day. She was going in a separate area she knew very little about, and nobody knew who she was. Sometimes people mistook her for someone's wife, or daughter. She chose her outfit accordingly, she wanted to seem professional. She wore a sports bra. There was nothing to look at anyways. She didn't put on lipstick, not even the nude one. She was used to being underestimated, and being looked down at. She was also used to raising her voice and presenting herself as stoic and cold. She knew perfectly how to be violence. She noticed a familiar face once she opened the door of the briefing room. A familiar face mask. The skull guy, she had seen him before. Was he the guy…

She could't get distracted. Her little mission went smoothly. She always knew Price liked her and feared her at the same time, and when it came to his little soldier boys, she really didn't care what they thought. The guy from the day of her accident even spoke to her. Poor thing. She was really amused no one told him about the reason why she didn't want to go home alone. He did really good that night, she remembers him well. He didn't try to speak too much, he sounded gentle. A gentle giant. Unfortunately for him, no one was gonna tell him about that day. When she left the room, she went straight home. She doubted someone would ever contact her again about the situation, they would handle it themselves, and probably very badly. She was driving to her ballet lesson, still thinking they all looked so confused by her words. They were probably gonna do a stupid interrogation, or rather do nothing and wait for the next mission to be a shit show. Imbecilli.

'Alright girls, one more time please!' At least she had her little ballerinas to cheer her up. She had them warm up, she usually did the warm up routine with them. She walked between the four rows of kids at the barre, delivering her corrections. Jennifer usually had stiff hands, and she was tense in her shoulders. Kyla had a beautiful turnout but she often confused her arms positions. The jetes routine, they always forgot that one. 'It's three in front and switch… guys I'm not gonna repeat myself'. She thought she sounded rude sometimes, but 13 year old American girls were a nightmare to work with. Last month, she even had to deal with poor Gemma being bullied in the changing rooms. 'I'm gonna say this just once, three in the front, switch to the back.' she liked demonstrating, felt like she was taking lessons herself. 'Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-da. And we're gonna hold here' she lifted herself on her toes and attached her right pointed foot to her knee. She let go of the barre, holding her balance on one foot. 'Passè.' she said. The girls groaned. 'The more you complain the more I'm gonna make you stay like this girls. We're gonna do one minute.' She went to the side of the room, to play the music 'From the top.'

notes: translation of the song: 'Quando sei qui con me' when you're with me, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi', this room doesn't have walls no more, it has trees.

notes: Alba means something specific!

translation: imbecilli, means imbeciles.

notes: let me know what you think !! <3

love, mare.

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006

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burningvelvet · 7 months

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Let me tell you about John “Foul-Weather Jack” Byron, Captain James Cook, a doctor named James Lind, and also a different doctor named James Lind, and how they all knew each other, helped to cure scurvy, and inadvertently helped to inspire Mary Shelley's novel Frankenstein (1818) and Bram Stoker's Dracula (1897) -- a long-winded history ramble

John Byron next to a first edition copy of Frankenstein.

John joined the Royal Navy at 14 and by the ripe old age of 17 had proved himself by surviving a deadly shipwreck off the coast of Chile. The voyage was part of George Anson's famous circumnavigation of the globe done to seize Spanish ships. Only 188 men of the original 1,854 crew members survived; several, including Byron, were taken as prisoners by the Spanish. Recollections of the voyage were sensationalized and it was depicted in stories like William Cowper’s poem The Castaway. John Byron published his own successful memoir, The Narrative of the Honourable John Byron (1768).

The novel's full title deserves attention for it's 18th century pre-Byronic melodrama: "The Narrative of the Honourable John Byron (Commodore in a Late Expedition Around the World) Containing an Account of the Great Distresses suffered by Himself and his Companions on the Coast of Patagonia from the Year 1740, till their Arrival in England, 1746. With a Description of St. Jago de Chili, and the Manners and Customs of the Inhabitants. Also a Relation of the Loss of the Wager Man of War, one of Admiral Anson's Squadron." I can only imagine that had his grandson Lord Byron's memoirs been published instead of burned, their title would have borrowed from his grandfather's by including something similar to "Containing an Account of the Great Distresses suffered by Himself . . ." but I digress.

I do not digress. The beginning of his preface opens with this gem (I've swapped the 18th-century "long s" for a regular one):

"But here I must say, I have been dubious of the partiality of my friends; and, as I think, justly fearful lest the world in general, who may perhaps find compassion and indulgence for a protracted tale of distress, may not give the same allowance to a luxurious imagination triumphing in a change of fortune, and sudden transition from the most dismal to the gayest scenes in the universe, and thereby indulging an egotism equally offensive to the envious and censorious."

Which brings to mind Francis Cohen's criticism of Lord Byron's Don Juan: “Lord B. should have been grave & gay by turns; grave in one page & gay in the next; grave in one line, & gay in the next. And not grave & gay in the same page, or in the same stanza, or in the same line… we are never drenched & scorched at the same instant whilst standing in one spot" (letter to John Murray, 16 July, 1819). And (not the most entertaining part, but to keep things brief) part of Byron's retort: "I will answer [Cohen] who objects to the quick succession of fun and gravity — as if in that case the gravity did not (in intention at least) heighten the fun. His metaphor is that ‘we are never scorched and drenched at the same time!' Blessings on his experience!" (letter to John Murray, 12 August, 1819).

John went on to be considered one of the greatest naval commanders of his era, commanding several ships as captain during the Seven Years’ War and beating the French as leader in the Battle of Restigouche. He later set the record for fastest global circumnavigation at the time while commodore, became a notable explorer, became a commander at multiple Royal Navy stations, and was appointed Governor of Newfoundland in Canada for three years. According to Wikipedia, “his actions nearly caused a war between Great Britain and Spain.”

It seems like he basically just did whatever the hell he wanted. We can see that the apple really doesn't fall too far from the tree. Everyone in the Byron family was kind of crazy. See: psychologist Kay Jamison's Touched By Fire, a novel on the mental illness of famous writers, half of which is focused on Lord Byron (as it should be) and includes an extensive psychological analysis of his whole family tree, which in a short summary brings me back to my previous point: everyone in the Byron family was kind of crazy.

John's health declined after sustaining storm-induced injuries and an unsuccessful attack against the French at the Battle of Grenada. He died at 62 with six living children. His grandson, the poet Lord Byron, borrowed inspiration from John's life and the shipwreck descriptions in his memoir while he was writing the shipwreck sequence in his magnum opus Don Juan.

In an epistle to his half-sister (Epistle to Augusta) Byron mentions their grandfather thus:

"A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past / Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; / Revers'd for him our grandsire's fate of yore— / He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. / If my inheritance of storms hath been / In other elements, and on the rocks / Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, / I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, / The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen / My errors with defensive paradox; / I have been cunning in mine overthrow, / The careful pilot of my proper woe."

On to the Scottish doctor James Lind! He's important because he developed the theory that citrus fruits treated scurvy, and in attempting to prove so he conducted the world's first ever official clinical trial. In his tests, he used the survivors from this famous shipwreck. This likely included Byron himself, being one of the few survivors and having reported the healing effects of citrus in restoring men who were on the verge of death. Needless to say, the discoveries and implications of Lind's clinical trial had an unprecedented impact on the fields of nutrition and medicine, and all of history, particularly in the Caribbean. In 1753 he published his Treatise on Scurvy.

Lind's theories on scurvy influenced the famous Captain James Cook, who implemented these ideas and proved their efficiency by how few men he lost to scurvy compared with every other Captain at the time. When Cook circumnavigated the world on his first voyage, no one died of scurvy. This didn't help with malaria and dysentery, which nearly wiped out his whole crew at one point on a journey to Indonesia. Aside from Anson's shipwreck, Cook's voyages were the other major instance of what I would call "social experiments at sea, or, fuck around and find out: scurvy edition" which led to the development of scurvy research.

As an aside, there is a famous town in Australia named Byron Bay. That town was named by Captain Cook in 1770 as a tribute to John Byron. Cook was sailing around on the HMS Endeavour doing even crazier colonial shit, and he likewise died as the result of his sea travels. He was killed in a scuffle on Hawaiʻi Island which transpired after he had casually tried to kidnap King Kalaniʻōpuʻu-a-Kaiamamao in broad daylight, planning to ransom him out of revenge for the theft of one of his boats, although Cook himself had stolen their sacred wood first after they had been so nice to him. This is what I've gathered from reading a bit about the confusing affair, but the main point is that Cook got what was coming to him. The Journals of Captain Cook were published to major success, contributing to the history of English travel narratives. But Cook is a pretty well-known historical figure so I can't go into his chaotic life any more than this, lest I be writing forever.

Lord Byron in an Albanian oufit he bought while traveling for 2 years, & Captain Cook thinking about navigation. The backgrounds make them look part of the same painting, no?

Back to the Linds: interestingly enough, the scurvy-studying physician James Lind had a younger cousin who was also a physician named James Lind, as well as a scientist/philosopher/teacher. While teaching at Eton, this Lind became a tutor and mentor of a young Percy Bysshe Shelley, and had such an impact on him that Shelley refers to Lind in several of his works. Shelley especially enjoyed Lind’s experiments regarding galvanism - the study of bringing things to life with electricity. It is widely believed by scholars that Shelley’s conversations and rememberances about Lind at Lord Byron's Villa Diodati were some of the primary inspiration for Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein (1818).

For further reading on Shelley's Lind: The real Doctor Frankenstein? by Christopher Goulding via Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine. Lind's Wikipedia page has a section devoted to Frankenstein.

Percy Shelley described his Lind:

". . . exactly what an old man ought to be. Free, calm-spirited, full of benevolence, and even of youthful ardor: his eye seemed to burn with supernatural spirit beneath his brow, shaded by his venerable white locks, he was tall, vigorous, and healthy in his body; tempered, as it had ever been, by his amiable mind. I owe to that man far, ah! far more than I owe to my father: he loved me, and I shall never forget our long talks, where he breathed the spirit of the kindest tolerance and the purest wisdom . . ."

A tie-in to vampire literature: Lind is also thought to be an influence on Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), which was influenced by (Lord Byron’s doctor) John Polidori’s novel The Vampyre, the first ever vampire novel, which was inspired by Lord Byron’s short vampire story Augustus Darvell, which was written at the same time as Frankenstein during their infamous ghost story competition at Villa Diodati. Augustus Darvell was inspired by Byron's travels through Eastern Europe, and was likely in part inspired by (another famous Romantic poet) Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s gothic poem Christabel, which Byron terrified Percy Shelley with after reading it aloud at the Villa Diodati, and which Byron loved so much that he helped Coleridge publish it through his own publisher. Christabel began in 1797 but wasn't published until 1816 for this reason.

To continue on vampires: Byron's enemy, the famous poet Robert Southey (who Byron roasted in Don Juan, among other works, and basically cancelled him as a result) also wrote a poem called Thalaba the Destroyer (1801) which is sometimes considered to be the first true depiction of a vampire in English literature. He also wrote it while traveling. Shelley (and Keats) both loved this poem, and so it also *could have* inspired some of the conversation at the Villa Diodati if Shelley had related the vampire theme to Christabel or Darvell. Southey is also the first English writer to write on Haitian zombi folklore, which would later become the zombie of modern horror. Southey was also reportedly in love with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, the mother of Mary Shelley and philosopher who wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), one of the most influential proto-feminist texts.

I relate these connections to demonstrate how small the literary world was at the time; so small that all the writers pretty much knew each other. In 1801, the English population was about 11 million, and in 1899 had grown to around 37 million due to industrialization (source: Black, Joseph, et al. "British Literature: A Historical Overview." The Broadview Anthology of British Literature, Broadview Press, vol. B, 2010, p. 70).

That's nearly the current population of London alone, but around 75% of that 11 million English population in 1801 was rural, whereas at the end of the century the national population was about 75% urban (source: same as prior), again due to industrialization. London in the early 19c was much less populated than today, and the amount of people who were educated or even merely literate was also much smaller than today. So really, it makes sense that all of the artists/writers/scientists/aristocrats knew each other. But it's still insane to see examples of how small the world really is and always has been.

The front-facing portrait is of Scurvy Lind, the shadow portrait is of Galvanism Lind.

The Shelleys: the King and Queen of Romanticism.

Southey, Coleridge, Polidori, Stoker: some early Kings of Vampirism (as represented in popular British literature).

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amphibious-thing · 3 months

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Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England: Roast Beef, English Nationalism, Effeminacy and Epilepsy (ft. Lord Hervey)

While today if asked what the national dish of England is some might say bangers and mash, Yorkshire pudding or chicken tikka masala in the 18th century the answer was roast beef.

It was roast beef that was the star of the patriotic 18th century song The Roast Beef of Old England. Originally written by Henry Fielding for his play The Grub-Steet Opera (1731) and then reused in Don Quixote in England (1734) the more popular version was written by Richard Leveridge who set it to a catchier tune and added five new stanzas:

When mighty roast Beef was the Englishman's Food, It ennobled our Veins, and enriched our Blood; Our Soldiers were brave, and our Courtiers were good. Oh the roast Beef of old England, and old English roast Beef. But since we have learn'd from all-conquering France, To eat their Ragouts, as well as to dance, We are fed up with nothing, but vain Complaisance. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Our Fathers, of old, were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open House, with good Chear all Day long, Which made their plump Tenants rejoice in this Song. Oh the roast Beef, &c. But now we are dwindled, to what shall I name, A sneaking poor Race, half begotten-and tame, Who sully those Honours, that once shone in Fame. Oh the roast Beef, &c. When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the Throne, E're Coffee, or Tea, and such Slip-Slops were known, The World was in Terror, if e'er she but frown. Oh the roast Beef, &c. In those Days, if Fleets did presume on the Main, They seldom, or never, return'd back again, As witness, the vaunting Armada of Spain. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Oh then they had Stomachs to eat, and to fight, And when Wrongs were a cooking, to do themselves right; But now we're a-I could, but good Night. Oh the roast Beef, &c.

Leveridge's version espouses the masculine qualities roast beef making Englishmen "brave", "robust," and "strong". Fielding's version from Don Quixote in England contrasts this English masculinity with the non-roast beef eating "effeminate Italy, France, and Spain". (Edgar V. Roberts, Henry Fielding and Richard Leveridge: Authorship of "The Roast Beef of Old England")

[Politeness, print, after 1780, published by Hannah Humphrey, after John Nixon (1779), via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

A common element of English nationalist propaganda was to contrast the masculine beef eating Englishman with the effeminate frogs legs eating Frenchman. The satirical print Politeness compares the masculine John Bull to a stereotypical effeminate Frenchman. John Bull is depicted as a plainly dressed man, holding a pint of beer, with a Bulldog at his feet and a cut of beef hanging behind him. The Frenchman in contrast is depicted as foppishly dressed, holding a snuff-box, with an Italian Greyhound at his feet and a bundle of Frogs hanging behind him. John Bull says "You be D_m'd". The Frenchman responds "Vous ete une Bete". The caption narrates:

With Porter Roast Beef & Plumb Pudding well cram'd, Jack English declares that Monsr may be D------d. The Soup Meagre Frenchman such Language dont suit, So he Grins Indignation & calls him a Brute.

In 18th century English print culture the butcher became somewhat of a stock figure representing English masculinity. There was a series of prints in which a masculine butcher is depicted assaulting a fop. Often with bystanders cheering him on. Some of these prints identified the fop as a Frenchman (such as The Frenchman in London by John Collet and The Frenchman at Market by Adam Smith) but others either don't identify nationality or indicate that the fop is English.

[The Beaux Disaster, print, c. 1747, via The Wellcome Collection.]

The Beaux Disaster depicts the aftermath of an altercation between a butcher and a fop. The butcher has hung the fop up by the back of his breeches on a hook next to cuts of meet. A crowd of passersby point and laugh at the fop, enjoying his misfortune. The caption narrates:

Ye smarts whose merit lies in dress, Take warning by a beaux distress. Whose pigmy size, & ill-tun'd rage Ventured with butchers to engage. But they unus'd affronts to brook Have hung poor Fribble on a hook, While foul disgrace! expos'd in air, The butchers shout and ladies stare. Satyr so strong, ye fops must strike you How can ye think ye fair will like you, Women of sense, in men despise The anticks, they in monkeys prize.

[Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge, print, c. 1773, published by Carington Bowles, via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge depicts a butcher cutting off a macaroni's queue. Fashionable men in the late 1760s and 1770s would wear elaborate hairstyles sometimes with hair tied back into a 'club'. This hairstyle is a common element of macaroni satire (for a more flattering rendering of the style see George Simon Harcourt by Daniel Gardner). The caption narrates:

A Spruce Maccaroni whose Hair and whose Clothes, Were the envy of Fops, and the Patterns of Beaus; Looked with Scorn on a Butcher; in passing the Street, And turnd up his Nose, at the sight of the Meat. Says the Butcher you Pig, if you'd eat such as that, You'd credit your Country, and grow plump and fat. Greasy Brute cry's the Fop! then the Butcher enrag'd, Snatch'd a Knife, & to punish the Coxcomb engag'd: Then seizing poor Mac, who began to look pale, He docked his Fools noddle, and cut of his Tail: Now Now cry'd the Butcher the People may stare. At a Skull without Brains, & a Head without Hair.

The macaroni was often portrayed as a traitor to English culture not only for his love of french fashion but also his love of Italian pasta. The fabled 'macaroni club' was a reference to Almack's Assembly Rooms at 50 Pall Mall. (see Pretty Gentleman by Peter McNeil p52-55) The Macaroni and Theatrical Magazine (Oct 1772) explains that the origin of the word macaroni comes from:

a compound dish made of vermicelli and other pastes, which unknown in England until then, was imported by our Connoscenti in eating, as an improvement to their subscription at Almack's. In time, the subscribers to those dinners became to be distinguished by the title MACARONIES, and, as the meeting was composed of the younger and gayer part of our nobility and gentry, who, at the same time that they gave into the luxuries of eating, went equally into the extravagancies of dress; the word Macaroni then changed its meaning to that of a person who exceeded the ordinary bounds of fashion; and is now partly used as a term of reproach to all ranks of people, indifferently, who fell into this absurdity.

(Cited in Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum edited by Frederic George Stephens and Edward Hawkins, vol.4, p.826)

Foppishly dressed men were blamed not only for the popularisation of pasta in England but also the growing disfavour for roast beef. A letter written to The Connoisseur in 1767 complains:

By Jove it is a shame, a burning shame, to see the honour of England, the glory of our nation, the greatest pillar of like, ROAST BEEF, utterly banished from our tables. This evil, like many others, has been growing upon us by degrees. It was begun by wickedly placing the Beef upon a side-table, and screening it by a parcel of queue-tail'd fellows in laced waistcoats.

(Volume 1, Edition 5)

With both his dress and diet the fop had betrayed English masculinity for French and Italian effeminacy.

Passed down by Lady Louisa Stuart* as an example of the "extreme to which Lord Hervey carried his effeminate nicety", when "asked at dinner whether he would have some beef, he answered, "Beef?— Oh, no!— Faugh! Don't you know I never eat beef, nor horse, nor any of those things?" Stuart was somewhat skeptical of this story wondering "Could any mortal have said this in earnest?"

*anonymously. Stuart wrote the introductory anecdotes included in the 1837 edition of The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

While it's anyone's guess as to whether Hervey said these exact words it is true that he didn't eat beef. Not because he "courted" effeminacy with the "affected and almost finical nicety in his habits and tastes" as John Heneage Jesse suggests (in Memoirs of the Court of England from the Revolution in 1688 to the Death of George the Second) but for his health.

Lord Hailes explained:

Lord Hervey, having felt some attacks of the epilepsy, entered upon and persisted in a very strict regimen, and thus stopt the progress and prevented the effects of that dreadful disease. His daily food was a small quantity of asses milk and a flour biscuit : once a-week he indulged himself with eating an apple : he used emetics daily.

(The Opinions of Sarah Duchess-Dowager of Marlborough edited by Lord Hailes, p43)

Lord Hervey's doctor George Cheyne believed that "a total Milk, and Vegetable Diet, as absolutely necessary for the total Cure of the Epilepsy". (The English Malady, p254)

In An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey explains that he followed such a diet for three years on Cheyne's prescription eating "neither flesh, fish, nor eggs" but living "entirely upon herbs, roots, pulse, grains, fruits, legumes". (p969) However after three years he reintroduced white meet. He explains his diet in a letter to Cheyne, written on the 9th of December 1732:

To let you know that I continue one of your most pious votaries, and to tell you the method I am in. In the first place, I never take wine nor malt drink, or any liquid but water and milk-tea ; in the next, I eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, and tenderest, nine times in ten nothing but chicken, and never more than the quantity of a small one at a meal. I seldom eat any supper, but if any, nothing absolutely but bread and water ; two days in the week I eat no flesh ; my breakfast is dry biscuit not sweet, and green tea ; I have left off butter as bilious ; I eat no salt, nor any sauce but bread sauce. I take a Scotch pill once a week, and thirty grains of Indian root when my stomach is loaded, my head giddy, and my appetite gone. I have not bragged of the persecutions I suffer in this cause ; but the attacks made upon me by ignorance, impertinence, and gluttony are innumerable and incredible.

Intriguingly in An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey focuses more attention on colic than epilepsy, dismissing his seizures as rare, but admits he had "two this year". This leads to the impression that his diet was prescribed to treat colic rather than epilepsy and Cheyne did prescribe a milk and vegetable diet in cases of "extreme Nervous Cholicts". (p167) Perhaps it was prescribed to treat both. But why downplay epilepsy in an account of his own illness?

While some enlightenment doctors approached epilepsy with a more scientific approach, superstitions still remained. Some believed epilepsy was a form of lunacy that was controlled by the moon (the word lunatick coming from luna). In An Historical Essay on the State of Physick in the Old and New Testament Dr. Jonathan Harle claimed that "people in this distemper are most afflicted at full or change of the moon." (p124)

Many believed epilepsy was caused by possession and this belief was supported by the bible. Mark 9:17-27, Matthew 17:14-18 and Luke 9:37-43 tell the story of a man who brings his possessed son to Jesus who "rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the child". The boy's symptoms resemble those of an epileptic seizure and these bible verses are cited by Dr. Jonathan Harle as "an exact description of one that is an epileptick (had the falling sickness) or lunatick". (p124) Harle claimed that was "a truth as plain as words can make it" that some people with epilepsy were "possess'd by the devil". (p22)

Epilepsy was also believed to be caused by sexual depravity. The popular anti-masturbation pamphlet Onania: or, the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution claimed masturbation caused epilepsy (p23). Onanism: or, a treatise upon the disorders produced by masturbation, or, The dangerous effects of secret and excessive venery claimed that a 14-year-old boy "died of convulsions, and of a kind of epilepsy, the origin of which was solely masturbation". (p19)

With the stigma surrounding epilepsy its no wonder that Hervey kept his seizures secret only telling a select few. One of the people he trusted with this secret was his lover Stephen Fox. Hervey describes having a seizure while at court and keeping it hidden from the Royal Family in a letter to Fox written on the 7th of December 1731:

I have been so very much out of order since I writ last, that going into the Drawing Room before the King, I was taken with one of those disorders with the odious name, that you know happen'd to me once at Lincoln's Inn Fields play-house. I had just warning enough to catch hold of somebody (God knows who) in one side of the lane made for the King to pass through, and stopped till he was gone by. I recovered my senses enough immediately to say, when people came up to me asking what was the matter, that it was a cramp took me suddenly in my leg, and (that cramp excepted) that I was as well as ever I was in my life. I was far from it ; for I saw everything in a mist, was so giddy I could hardly walk, which I said was owing to my cramp not quite gone off. To avoid giving suspicion I stayed and talked with people about ten minutes, and then (the Duke of Grafton being there to light the King) came down to my lodgings, where * * * I am now far from well, but better, and prodigiously pleased, since I was to feel this disorder, that I contrived to do it à l'insu de tout le monde. Mr. Churchill was close by me when it happened, and takes it all for a cramp. The King, Queen, &c. inquired about my cramp this morning, and laughed at it ; I joined in the laugh, said how foolish an accident it was, and so it has passed off ; nobody but Lady Hervey (from whom it was impossible to conceal what followed) knows anything of it.

#not sure how to tag this?#food history #lord hervey

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scarasun · 2 years

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it's the little things that count.

[ || how they show their love for you. || ]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ ZHONGLI

— pays lots of attention to the foods you like and dislike. makes an effort to actually budget his money so he could take you out to dinner once in a while. holds your bags for you when the both of you go shopping together and won't ever complain about if you're putting too much pressure on him (he is an ex-archon after all). scribbles stanzas of love poems he has learnt over the years on sticky notes, and leaves them all over the house for you to find.

୨୧┈┈୨୧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ SCARAMOUCHE

— rests his head in your lap while he deals with paperwork. comfortable with you addressing him by his real name. let's you be the big spoon (doesn't tolerate your teasing though). let's you cut his hair. more open about how he feels than usual. scared of hurting your feelings (believe it or not), so he tends to sugarcoat his opinions. let's you drag him everywhere when the two of you go shopping (he secretly enjoys it).

୨୧┈┈୨୧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ CHILDE

— lots and lots of physical touch - seriously can't go without hugging/kissing you for a few minutes. carries you in his arms bridal style around the house. sweeps you up in his arms when he gets home from a rough day at work. gives you dorky pet names. trusts you immensely with his siblings. takes more time off work to spend with you. talks about your future together.

୨୧┈┈୨୧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ DILUC

— cooks for you. gives you his coat when you're cold. gets flustered around you pretty often (even if you've been together a while). showers you with hugs from behind. tries to spend less time on his dark knight hero duties so that he could be with you at night. gives you bouquets of flowers on random occasions. let's you braid his hair.

#zhongli x reader #scaramouche x reader #childe x reader #diluc x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfic #zhongli x gn!reader #scaramouche x gn!reader #childe x gn!reader #diluc x gn!reader #genshin scenarios

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followcb · 7 months

Text

Inner Poet

designer of refined lines

stories seasoned with sublime

stanzas a la plancha

seared with a squeeze of lime

grilled like a filet of prime

so juicy and bloody inside

it requires a strong fork

and an extra sharp knife

to cut through

the toughest syllables

like so many times

in an artist's life

down means; down on our luck

our lives seem to suck

but we cannot help

that we still give a fuck

still like to cook with fire

with passion and desire

the greatest recipe

perfect words to season

every mistake

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

©️ @followcb ☆ November 13, 2023

#poetry #followcb #spilled ink #creative writing #great poets #poets on tumblr #poem #twcpoetry #simple truths #new poets society #poetryportal #poeticstories

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i-fondued · 2 years

Text

Kinktober 2022 | Ghost - Confessions and Chambers

Terzo can’t help but whisk his favorite sister of sin from the dining hall to his private rooms to give her and exclusive tour… Pairing: Papa Emeritus III / Terzo x Sister of Sin Rating: Explicit Warnings: SMUT, fluff!Terzo, surprisingly vanilla sex tbh A/N: SURPRISE! These two may actually end up as semi regulars like Copia and his Sister of Sin. What was going to be really perverse breeding kink Terzo ended up being fluffy instead ahahaha still gonna write the breeding kink eventually tho…

AO3 LINK CAN BE FOUND HERE

“Sister, you haven’t eaten any dinner.”

I tore my gaze away from the head table where Terzo had been making faces at me while ignoring his brothers who were clearly bickering, my cheeks flushing as I looked back at the sister who spoke to me. She smiled at me, gesturing to my plate where I had been pushing my food around.

“Oh, sorry. It’s just been a long day is all!” I joked, picking at the pasta on my plate. “Besides I think I’m just partial to my own cooking.”

“I know I am, Sorella.” A voice purred from behind me, a shiver running down my spine.

“Papa!” The sister next to me exclaimed, a twinkle in her eyes. “Good evening, Sir.”

“Evening, Sorellas.” Terzo smiled brightly while leaning with his hand on the back of my chair. His fingertips brushed softly against my shoulder and I had to fight the urge to squirm. “I trust I will see you all at massa nera on Sunday, Si?”

“Yes of course, Papa.” Another sister perked up, a blush on her cheeks as he flashed her another bright smile.

“Bene, excuse me Sisters. But I have a task for our friend here, you mind if I borrow her?” He chuckled, hand resting warmly on my shoulder.

“Of course not Papa, please.” I had to hold back my eye roll at the overeager sisters, all practically giddy under the attention of our Papa. I had gotten so used to his theatrics, it didn’t even occur to me that I used to be just like them.

Terzo, ever the gentleman, held his hand out for me to take. His silk gloved hand was warm in my own bare one, his fingers twitched slightly as he had to stop himself from tangling our fingers together. More of the tables near us were now looking at us, curious whispers being passed back and forth, and I couldn’t help but shy away from them and closer to Terzo. I never liked being the center of attention if I was being honest with myself but Terzo had always been there to steady me. He tucked my arm into the crux of his own as he escorted me from the dining room.

We had moved down the hallways in a comfortable silence, the sound of our shoes on the marble floor echoing down the hall. When we took a turn down a corridor I’d never gone to before I looked up at Terzo quizzically.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I have not brought you before, Sorella.” He smiled, tugging me past many sets of double doors before pausing and looking down the hallway. Once he checked that the coast was clear he pushed open the doors, slipping us inside before he shut them quickly. “This is mia stanza, my personal quarters.”

I took my time to look around the space, a large and welcoming sitting room where we had entered. A set of plush couches sat in front of a roaring fireplace, warm and inviting looking from where I stood. Behind there was an ornately carved set of bookshelves bracketing an open doorway, the shelves filled with his personal books, photos and trinkets from Terzo’s tours. Through the doorway I could see his bed was situated against the back wall. Even from here the bed looked big enough to comfortably sleep a family of four and I had to bite my cheek before I laughed at the audacity of such a bed for just him.

“It’s much nicer than mine,” I said as I couldn’t help but picture my tiny box of a room on the other side of the abbey, little more than a desk, bed and small wardrobe taking up space in there. “It’s a bit more…utilitarian.”

“You stay here then.” Terzo said mischievously, as he scooped me up into his arms, and stalked towards the bed. “Plenty of room for you, Sorella.”

“Terzo put me down!” I cried, trying to keep my laughter from spilling out as I remembered where I was. “What if someone catches me here?”

He tossed me on the bed gently, a small wicked gleam to his eyes as he crawled over to me. He slotted himself between my legs, which happily welcomed him, resting his weight on his elbows as he leaned in to whisper in my ear.

“Let them dare to challenge their Papa.” He purred, a shiver running down my spine. He pressed a soft kiss to my lips before resting his head on my chest.

Terzo’s weight on top of me was a comfort as we soaked up each other’s company, the fire in the other room casting shadow as the flames cracked happily in the grate. His right hand caressed at my side rhythmically, a soothing feeling as my eyes grew heavy. My own fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair, I felt the man practically purring under my ministrations and I smiled sleepily, a warm sort of pleasure spreading in my chest.

“Bella?” Terzo’s voice was soft as I felt him lift his head from my chest. I turned to look down at him, my breath drew sharp at the sight of him. The light from the other room illuminating him from behind with what looked like a golden halo behind his head.

“Yes Papa?” I whispered, taken aback at the look of the man in my arms. His hand came up to cup my cheek tenderly, a warm look crossed his mismatched gaze.

“No Papa here, in these rooms, only Terzo.” He mumbled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to my lips. My eyes fluttered close, heart thrumming in my chest.

“Terzo…” I sighed as his lips pressed against mine again. My hand cupped his cheeks, my pinky curling against his sharp jawline.

“Amore.” He mumbled against my lips, his teeth nibbling at my bottom lip. I gasped, fingers slipping into his hair and pulling him to me.

He slipped up my body, pressing firmly against me as he pinned me to the mattress. I whimpered as his hand pulled the habit from my head and tossed it to the side, my hair spilling against the pillows. My heart swelled in my chest, a warm and sticky feeling spilling from my chest to my belly. Terzo pulled back slightly, our breaths mingling, and I took advantage of his distraction.

I pushed on his shoulder and his side with my leg, he wordlessly understood what I needed and flipped us over. He was now leaning back against the headboard and I was tucked in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. I rolled my hips forwards slightly and he groaned, head leaning forward to rest against my chest.

My eyes closed and I sighed contentedly as I watched him pull his gloves off, tossing them on the bedside table, before his mismatched eyes locked with mine as I started to unbutton my robes. As skin was exposed, Terso leaned forward and pressed soft kisses and nipped at my sensitive skin. His hand pressed firmly against my lower back, holding me against him as I squirmed against his lips and tongue. Finally I had undone all the buttons and pulled back to pull the dress over my head and tossed it on the floor.

“Satana, Sorella…” Terzo hissed as he surged forward, his lips pressing against mine possessively. “Tu mi appartieni…”

I felt him suck my bottom lip into his mouth, nibbling it before pressing soft loving kisses. His tongue slipped into my mouth as I gasped, his wet muscle teasing and coaxing my own to meet his. I couldn’t help but rock my hips as I sought out any relief of friction, a groan slipped from my lips as I felt him bite my lip and moan my name. I could feel Terzo’s cock underneath me as he bucked up against my soaked underwear. His warm calloused hands ran up my back, swift fingers unhooking my bra and slipping the straps down my arms. I tossed the thing to the side, arching my back to press my breasts into Terzo’s hands.

“I want you…” I whimpered as my hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to kiss me again. This time I was the needy one, my teeth digging sharply into his bottom lip. “Please Terzo.”

“Soon, presto dolce ragazza…” Terzo chuckled as he pulled away to press soft kisses into my neck, the spot he knew drove me wild. “Vogilo assaporarti, I want to take my time…”

I rocked my hips against him again as he nipped and sucked love bites into my skin, teeth digging into my collarbones, before I felt him take my nipple into his hot mouth. I cried out, pressing against him as he teased me and felt the little bud pebble against his tongue. I felt the heat bundling in my belly, my core practically dripping in his lap. I needed to feel more of him, I wanted to touch his skin, I had to be able to leave my own mark.

Frantically I pulled away, tugging at his overcoat as my fingers stumbled over the buttons. I felt Terzo’s rumbling laughter as he pulled his lips from my breast and helped me to unbutton his coat. I slipped it from his shoulders, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his shoulder before sucking his skin sharply and digging my teeth in. He hissed, jumbled words of English and Italian slipping from his lips as I lapped at my love bite with a wicked gleam in my eyes.

“Sorella…” He groaned, head leaning back against the pillows and looking up at me. His fingers tangled in my hair at the base of my neck. “Bellissima…”

He pulled me to him again, kissing me as I reached between us to run my hands down his broad shoulders. His skin was soft and warm beneath my fingertips and I could feel goosebumps running across his skin as a shudder sputtered through him. I dragged my hands down his chest, nails raking through his light chest hair. I followed the trail down his taut stomach, the muscles below the pads of my fingers contracting as I passed. Terzo groaned as my fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers. I felt his cock twitch against my inner thigh as I teased him, fingertips sliding softly against his skin as he writhed beneath me.

“Mia caro…per favore…” He begged, reaching between us to undo his belt and trousers. I smiled warmly at him, sitting up slightly as Terzo slid the fabric separating us down his legs. “I cannot wait any longer.”

Ever the sneaky little shit, he pushed my panties aside and ran his bare fingers against my dripping wet slit. I gasped, rolling my hips against the friction, and his eyes bore into mine. The glow of the fire making his one white iris light up hauntingly.

“It seems, amore, that I am not alone in my lust.” He teased, lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he leaned forward to pull my panties down entirely. “You are so wet for me…”

His skilled fingers teased my opening, my cunt clenching almost painfully at the emptiness and I groaned low as my forehead came to rest on his bare shoulder. He chucked at me, his free hand stroking himself absentmindedly. Terzo’s hand left the throbbing apex between my thighs and I almost sobbed till I watched him slip his fingers between his painted lips, sucking off my wetness from them. A whimper left my lips before I could stop it.

I moved without thinking, swatting his hand away from his cock, before positioning him against my wet heat. Slowly I sank down on his length, feeling every inch as he buried deep inside me. Terzo’s hands gripped my waist, helping me as I lifted myself and rocked my hips. My head fell backwards, hands settling on his thighs as I slowly began to ride his cock. Little breathy moans slipped past my lips while groaned and unintelligible Italian came from Terzo as we explored each other’s bodies slowly.

I was so used to our quick encounters in the kitchens or abandoned storage closets, I’d never even seen Terzo fully naked before. Heat flushed my face and pooled in my belly as he praised me, his hips beginning to rock up to meet me as I rode him. His fingers brushed against the bottoms of my breasts as his fingers teased my nipples, I arched my back towards him as he sat up and nipped at my chest.

“Terzo…” I panted as my thighs began to burn with my movements. The heat in my belly growing hot, the coil of my orgasam turning ever so slowly. He looked up at me, awe in his mismatched eyes, as he smiled at me. One hand was steadily gripping my hip, helping me roll against his thrusts, the other came up to cup my cheek. I leaned into his touch, a knot forming in my throat.

“Mia bella ragazza,” He purred while pulling me down to his lips. “Ti amo, I love you…”

“I-I love you too, Terzo.” I moaned, my hips stuttering against him as I lost my pace. Ever the observant one, Terzo took advantage of my distraction and rolled us over.

He was on top now, pulling my leg to curl around his waist as he began pounding into me. I cried out, my hands coming to curl around his biceps as he placed his hands on either side of my head. I ran my hands down his chest, committing the sight of him naked and looming above me as he fucked me wildly to memory. I felt myself edging towards my orgasam, my pants coming faster and harder as Terzo bottomed out inside of me.

“Terzo…I’m so close.” I whimpered as he leaned back, slipping his fingers to touch my swollen clit. I felt the walls of my cunt flutter as my orgasam surged.

“Sborra per me amore,” He groaned, hips losing their rhythm slightly at my confession as he slung one of my legs over his arms to be able to hit deeper inside me. “Come for me.”

I felt my eyes roll in the back of my head as my orgasam slammed into me, my back arching sharply as my hands reached out to pull Terzo down to me. I kissed him, our mouths swallowing the sounds I couldn’t help making, and I felt him chase his own bliss. A few more sharp swirled thrusts and I felt his cock twitch inside me as he came, filling me up inside. He hissed a string of mixed italian as he rocked slowly inside me, riding out our afterglow before he let out a breathy laugh.

Terzo collapsed on top of me, our bodies slick with sweat as we took our time to catch our breath. I felt Terzo’s arms slip under me as he hugged me tightly. I smiled with a flush to my cheeks as I absentmindedly brushed his hair back from his face. His Papa paints, normally neat and tidy, were smeared all over his face. Some spots more grey than black or white, especially around his lips.

“Stay tonight, mio amato…” He rolled onto his side as he spoke, pulling me under the covers with him. “Do not leave me alone in this big bed…”

“You drive a hard bargain, how could I ever want to stay in your lovely massive bed.” I teased him, tangling my legs with his as he pulled me against him, nuzzling his face against the top of my head.

“No tease, bella.” He mumbled, his hands brushing up and down my back as he spoke. I leaned into his touch, eyes slipping closed sleepily, and smiled before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Terzo?” I spoke while suddenly feeling shy, a deep flush blossoming on my cheeks.

“Si, Sorella?”

“D-did you mean what you said?”

“What I say?” He asked, clearly confused. I opened my eyes to see him looking at me, his brow furrowed. “Che cosa?”

“T-that you loved me…” I trailed off. My eyes were unable to meet his as he sighed, his fingers tilting my chin to try and catch my gaze.

“Bella…mi amore. You do not believe this?”

I shook my head, unable to speak with the lump in my throat. Terzo smiled softly, his fingers coming to run through my hair and tangle at the base of my neck. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to my crumpled brow.

“Sorella…Si. It is true. I love you, I am very fond of you too.” He chucked, brushing the tears that spilled from my eyes with his thumb. “Please do not cry, bella.”

“I love you too, Terzo.” I held back a laugh at the look of concern on his face, smothering his face with little kisses. “It’s happy tears.”

“Ah, I understand.” He smiled, the look on his face telling me he didn’t quite understand but that he didn’t want to hurt my feelings like he was already worried he had. “Come, Sorella. Sleep.”

I closed my eyes as he rolled onto his back while pulling me with him; I rested my head on his chest and felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat in my ear. My eyelids were heavy, feeling like they were being pulled closed by magnets, and before I knew it I was fast asleep.

#Ghost #the band ghost #ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus x reader #terzo emeritus #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #fanfiction #my writing

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presidenthades · 5 months

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Once again, I am doing a series of my behind-the-scenes thoughts for The Golds while I do light edits for formatting, typos, and continuity. Here’s Chapter 9!

For this chapter’s title, I went with the final stanza of “The Song of the Seven” when the lyrics talk about all the gods, because the chapter ends with Jace and Aegon arriving for the anointment ceremony.

I kinda feel sorry for Jace and Aegon discovering the true hardships of parenthood (night feedings! Sleep deficit!), but they also have a castle full of servants to do all the chores. Raising a baby is hard, but at least they don’t have to worry about laundry or cooking. Can’t blame Jace for delegating diaper changes, though.

I have no idea how long a dragon’s gestation period is supposed to be. No reason it can’t be comparable to a human’s? They’re fictional anyway 😛. But I wanted Vermax’s gestation to align with Jace’s pregnancy to highlight that dragon/rider bond, since the show has cuts of Syrax reacting during Rhaenyra’s labor in Episode 10.

There’s a fandom theory that dragons seem to thrive more roaming freely on Dragonstone than chained in the Dragonpit. But one disadvantage of the Dragonmont is the Cannibal, who I imagine is quick to hint down new eggs and hatchlings. So when a claimed dragon is expected to lay eggs, I think the Dragonkeepers are very alert about when it happens. It might be harder to keep tabs on unclaimed dragons like Silverwing, who probably do their own thing without a rider to keep tabs on them. But otherwise the Dragonkeepers are trying their best to save the eggs from getting eaten.

There’s also probably a narrow window after Vermax lays eggs when she goes away to hunt or something, and that’s when humans are able to get the eggs. Otherwise Vermax might not be so happy about them taking her eggs, and Jace is in no shape to go up the mountain and tell her to calm down.

There’s some debate whether Sunfyre was a cradle egg or a dragon that Aegon claimed as a kid. The strong bond makes me want to say cradle egg, but Sunfyre seems a lot larger than most dragons his age if so, and there are lines in F&B which indicate that Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond might not have even received cradle eggs. There might not have been eggs available when the genre born, or maybe Viserys chose not to give them eggs because he was showing favor to Rhaenyra’s line. Daeron is the youngest so he’s a special case because of the timing; there might have been more eggs when he was born, or, in the book (where Daeron and Jacaerys are of similar ages), Viserys may have felt obligated to offer an egg to Daeron since he gave eggs to Rhaenyra’s kids.

I’m leaning toward Aegon claiming Sunfyre (who could have been a young dragon in the Dragonpit). In that case, it’s extra important to Aegon that he gets an egg for his son, especially if you go with the headcanon that Viserys deliberately didn’t give Aegon an egg. By personally choosing an egg and placing it in the cradle, this is another way Aegon can demonstrate his love and approval to his own son, which Viserys didn’t show to Aegon.

In the last chapter’s commentary, I mentioned that I made Aegon minimally affected by the glass candle since he’s not inclined toward magic. But Joff is very interested in magic and has actually used the candle, so it has a much greater effect on her. Kinda like how the One Ring in LOTR affects different people differently.

I think we can all agree that generally, it’s an asshole move to a) purposely create sudden loud noises around a newborn and b) shove a woman who just gave birth. Joff is not entirely herself and she shows remorse, so she gets some sympathy. At the same time, I think it’s clear why Aegon is so angry. From his perspective, Jace is bleeding on the floor and screaming for Joff to stop whatever she’s doing, and he catches Joff with her hands literally in the cradle. He believes he came just in time to stop something terrible from happening, and who knows what would’ve happened if Joff hadn’t snapped out of it? So Aegon is not going to immediately forgive Joff for hurting Jace/almost hurting the baby. And if it were anyone else (not Jace’s sister, not the person who just saved Jace and Cheeseball), he probably wouldn’t have forgiven them at all.

As for Jace, despite her own fear and pain, her first instinct is to try to protect Joff by lying for her, because that’s her sister and Aegon is pretty pissed. As usual, Jace sets her own needs and comfort aside in favor of her loved ones. But now Jace has a helpless baby to think about. She might still put her sisters above herself, but Cheeseball comes before her sisters now.

I allude to the glass candle in the Handbook, first when Daeron blabs about getting Joff something from Oldtown in Chapter 7, then in the final scene of the fic when Daemon catches the two of them examining the candle. The Citadel doesn’t officially acknowledge the existence of the candles (although it seems to be an open secret in Oldtown), so Daeron must’ve been very sneaky and creative to be able to “borrow” it.

“Joff won’t like it” is one of Daeron’s mantras when he decides what to do or not to do. He’s probably going to have to grow out of this eventually 😅.

“Joff is going to have to do a lot of things she doesn’t like. That’s life.” Aegon learned this life lesson a while ago, but he truly absorbs and embodies it in Chapter 10 when he steps into the game.

Vermax laid three eggs. The mysterious wet nurse said Aegon and his wife would have three children 🧐.

Jace dresses Cheeseball in Targaryen red knits for his first day of being paraded around the family!

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are basically the fairy godmothers from Sleeping Beauty. They’re even color-coded the same!

It’s revealed in Chapter 10 that Helaena has no interest in pregnancy/childbirth, but that doesn’t mean she’s opposed to children entirely. She just doesn’t want to carry them. Hence her and Rhaena’s little chat about Garmund, who would hypothetically be the medieval equivalent of a sperm donor while Rhaena and Helaena raise any kids. It’s also why they picked Daemion Velaryon as Helaena’s potential husband in the Handbook; Daemion is implied to be gay and he has no holdings to bequeath, so his wife doesn’t need to have kids, compared to, say, Kermit Tully.

It’s OK Baela, your gift to Cheeseball was your midwifery skills.

Aegon hovers a lot over Cheeseball right now because the birth was a very fraught experience, and the Joff incident didn’t help his nerves. Also he’s just in the “newborn dad” phase. When Cheeseball gets older and is a bit less fragile, I think Aegon will let Cheeseball run around and get in age-appropriate trouble.

Cheeseball is literally one day old but I couldn’t resist infusing some personality into him. He enjoys feminine attention, likes boobs, and instinctively thinks Aemond is kinda weird. Definitely Aegon’s son 😂.

Luce was about to say her kids are gonna be named after historical figures, because Aemond’s a history nerd 😢.

Aemond is trying to be cool and pretend he isn’t super interested in the baby, but this man spent a small fortune on that Valyrian steel dagger 😭.

“Aemma” is the magic word when it comes to Viserys. Although he shipped Luce and Aemond at the end of the Handbook, he’s putting on his king hat and doing what he thinks is necessary (but also Elenda invoked Aemma). Viserys wants to be a peacemaker (although he fails miserably in canon), and he wants people to like him (can't remember which episode, but he asks Lyonel or Otto if they think he'll be remembered as a good king). Breaking up Luce and Aemond is a price he's willing to pay. He doesn't care about Aemond's feelings, and while he does care about Luce's feelings, he doesn't think a young girl's romantic affections are worth destabilizing the Crown. And since there isn't any official arrangement between her and Aemond, Viserys thinks there isn't much shame for her in being jilted, since there's no betrothal to be jilted.

Borros Baratheon is gunning hard for power and a royal marriage. In F&B, he seizes every opportunity to advantageously betroth his daughters, and he tells his wife to name their unborn son Aegon after Aegon II. The Baratheons also claim Targ blood through Orys, a more recent infusion of Valyrian blood through Queen Alyssa, and kinship to Rhaenys (and Jace and her sisters by extension). If any great lord thinks he "deserves" a royal marriage, it has to be this guy.

In F&B, Elenda seems like a cunning woman who balances the desires of her daughters with the welfare of House Baratheon as a whole (considering how she dealt with Cassandra's marriage in the book). She is grieving for Floris, but she has three other living daughters to think about, and she's too smart/ambitious to let this opportunity slip by despite her grief.

Aegon has a very cynical view of Viserys, but honestly he's pretty close to the truth IMO. I always side-eye the show writers/actors when they say Viserys is a good person just trying his best because…uh…I don't think so 😅. There are already tons of blogs and opinions out there explaining why Viserys is kinda terrible so I won't parrot them. But ultimately, it seems Viserys is driven primarily by the prophecy (his desperation for a son, then him believing the PTWP will come from Rhaenyra's line) and by guilt about Aemma. So that taints my opinion of his love and affection for Rhaenyra, and her children in turn. Rhaenyra's kids are more important than Alicent's kids, but they aren't the most important thing either.

Aegon is also kinda right about hiding the info from Jace during the pregnancy. She probably would have stressed herself even more if she knew the truth, and that wouldn't be good for her health or the baby's. So the temporary information diet was probably the best call Aegon could have made in that situation.

When Rhaenyra arrives, she's frowning at Aegon who's freaking out in the corridor. He stays there like that until Alicent makes him get lunch for Jace.

Joff feels very guilty about last night, so she decides to remove herself from the situation out of fear of a repeat.

Even though Rhaenyra generally has a good relationship with her daughters, no mother-daughter relationship is perfect. Jace and Rhaenyra have pretty different personalities, and arguably different values, but Jace is a people-pleaser and Rhaenyra is on the chill side for a Westerosi mom, so they get along most of the time. But when they clash, they really clash (like that argument in Chapter 6 of the Handbook that Daemon slept through, about Jace's elopement to Aegon).

Jace thinking that she would throw herself off a tower if she'd been presented with her baby torn up is a reference to Helaena and Maelor

I honestly don't think Rhaenyra has really forgiven Viserys for Aemma's death. She just moved on, because what other choice was there? He's her father and the king.

Rhaenyra really didn't like Aegon growing up (for reasons already included in past commentaries), but she was more neutral about Aemond. There isn't the same baggage about Aegon claiming everyone's attention/replacing her, and Aemond was much better behaved. And I think Luce was spoiled more while Jace was the responsible one making sacrifices and doing her duty, so there is different treatment in that regard.

I was going to elaborate more in earlier drafts before I rewrote some subplots, but Alicent had perinatal depression during her pregnancy with Daeron. It got bad enough that even Viserys noticed, and after the maesters advised a respite from court might help, he decided this meant sending Alicent to Oldtown for the rest of the pregnancy—without her three older children 🙃. That’s why Alicent was away in Oldtown, and that’s why she can empathize with Jace’s current mess of emotions. If I ever write that Alicent & Rhaenyra POV fic of the kids’ childhood, this subplot is definitely going in there.

Rhaenyra ultimately resigned herself to Jace/Aegon for the sake of her child’s happiness, and Alicent did the same re: Luce/Aemond. Parallels!

“All your children will be precious to you, but it is your firstborn who changes you the most.” Of course Alicent is thinking about Aegon when she says that. She might not always like him very much, but that doesn’t make it any less true, and she loves him anyway. She just isn’t great at showing it, and she has hurt him physically and emotionally, and that’s left its mark on Aegon.

Just like in Chapter 5, Jace and Aegon reconcile quickly because they don’t like being at odds with each other. Again, Jace is a people-pleaser, and Aegon is a Jace-pleaser, which helps a lot when they need to be honest with each other about their mistakes.

Aegon’s joke about commissioning a giant gold statue for Joff is a reference to Aegon in F&B wanting to commission giant gold statues for his brothers.

Aemond 100% cares what other people think about him. He supposedly wears the eyepatch so his sapphire eye doesn’t scare ladies at court (even though it’s gorgeous??), and he gets triggered by Maris’s purported taunt about his balls in F&B. He has a lot of internal motivation to excel, but I think he wants external validation that he’s good enough (see: his whole “‘tis I who studies” speech). So even though he’s impulsive enough to suggest eloping (the Storm’s End chase was one big impulse in the show, the roast pig triggers him into making the Strong boys toast), he would care a lot about the gossip and his reputation afterward. And TBH Aemond is not a very emotionally stable guy, so I can totally see him lashing out against an easy target who doesn’t deserve it—like Luce. But hey, that’s what a character growth arc is for!

The Faith is supposed to be based on Catholicism, so I figured they have an in-world equivalent of a baptism. The religious lore is different so instead of water, they use oils; we see Aegon being anointed by oils during his coronation in Episode 9. And seven is THE lucky number in the Faith/Westeros, so babies are usually anointed at seven weeks old.

Typical Viserys forgot that Jace might have some trauma related to the Grand Sept 🙃.

At this rate the Dragonpit is going to become a symbol of Jace and Aegon’s marriage. And it’s a nice blend of Targaryen power as well as a nod of respect to the Faith. Jace is very conscious of the importance of the Faith’s support and the need to assimilate into Westerosi culture while retaining icons of Targaryen superiority.

“You’re thinking like a statesman.” Jace is right though, Aegon could be good at it if he tried…

Cheeseball was born on the small side since he came early (and stress during pregnancy can lead to smaller babies too), but he is definitely a chonker now.

A commenter once suggested that Aegon might have a lactation kink and now I can’t get it out of my head

Deep down Jace knows that Baela had feelings for her, but Jace tries not to think about it/pretends she doesn’t know. Jace prefers her sisterly relationship with Baela, and acknowledging non-platonic feelings would affect that. Also, Baela has more or less moved on (most likely?), so Jace thinks there’s no point acknowledging it anyway.

Is Aegon being extra when he uses dracarys on a dirty diaper? Probably yeah, but what else is he going to do with it?

I like to think the Garden girls are part of the crowd waving gold flags when they fly back to KL.

Aegon says he hates playing politics, but he puts on a show without thinking about it. He even gives the crowd a Lion King moment when he holds up the baby.

#my writing #meta #house of the dragon meta #hotd meta #fanfic meta #aegon ii targaryen #female jacaerys velaryon #the golds

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xxsycamore · 10 months

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II. Il cielo in una stanza

Do all pureblood vampires live in remote houses up the hill? The change of scenery is a good distraction from the heavy weight of the luggage, but Napoleon still finds himself asking that question, making a comparison with Comte's mansion.

The similarities end there, as the house enters the pair's field of vision at last. Aged but unmistakably well-preserved with love and care, all earthy and at peace with the landscape from its stone walls adorned with little windows there and there to the clay tiles of the roof varying in shades of red and brown. A great place to spend a week or two, or a whole lifetime.

After a warm welcome at the door, Napoleon and MC find Signor Carullo's family amidst lunch preparations and join them without a second thought. One by one, the whole family comes together, hushed introductions crossing with spoken cooking instructions and hands extended for a shake crossing with ones passing ingredients and utensils around. MC turns her head in disbelief as yet another group of three enters the dining room, calming down only upon discovering they're just friends visiting for lunch...

So far she counted three daughters and six sons of various ages, but it might be her vision doubling as a result of the chaos and...hunger. Napoleon got caught in the introductions and met the family with the imaginary little bear responsible for the rumbles coming from MC's tummy, much to the little ones' amusement. And MC met Napoleon with her elbow. Her Italian might not be good, but living with him for so long, she has a good idea of the words leaving his lips even if they mend the shapes of the familiar French she's used to.

Napoleon speaks so fast that he's asked to repeat again a little too often, or maybe his dialect plays a role in this. She's not so sure, but seeing him enthusiastic to use his mother tongue fills her with warmth she was unprepared for.

Signora Maria is a woman well into her 40s, warm and friendly and seemingly laughing at everything Napoleon laughs at as well. MC recalls the secret Napoleon shared with her: her husband, being a pureblood, never turned her. Watching him seated close to his wife, MC is mesmerized by a sudden realization: him, granted eternal youth, is trying almost to match his wife's age with his appearance, sporting a well-groomed Mutton chops mustache that is old-fashioned even in this age.

After the delicious meal, MC changes her mind about not needing a nap. Of course. Discovering that the house indeed can get quiet enough for the sea waves' sound to enter through the window, the shared room becomes more and more appealing for that anticipated shut-eye. It could be those same waves' fault that MC's dreams are filled with blue, so much blue; a dream where she stands in that very room, but the sky has spilled through the ceiling, or maybe there is no ceiling at all. Or maybe it's all the blue inside Napoleon's eyes.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire napoleon #ikevamp napoleon #napoleon birthday celebration 2023 #napoleon birthday celebration

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informalcrybaby · 1 year

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Clever Girl (Harwin Strong x OC)

Summary: Lyra Castellan is a noblewoman who doesn’t quite fit in. After escaping a party one night, she meets Ser Harwin in the darkness of the forest. The two share a special moment together.

A/N: This is my first time posting on Tumblr, like ever, so please be kind if you can and if you can’t I’ll probably go and cry in my closet for a little bit. I hope to make this into a series if anyone is interested in it. Enjoy!

Lyra had never enjoyed feasts or parties if she was being honest. The pure excess of food, drink and gossip being consumed always soured her stomach. Gluttony, it seemed, turned her off or merely it was the simple fact that there were starving people sheer meters from those who turned their noses up at less desirable cuts of meat. So, when forced to attend such affairs, she preferred to slip out after introductions and pleasantries were finished. Most of the time, as her father and brothers fell deeper into their cups, she went unnoticed. However, on that night, there was someone watching.

She hadn’t noticed the dark-haired man’s heavy gaze as she slipped through the opening of the gathering tent. Having been too focused on timing her eldest brother, Raeken, and his heavy lidded sips from his overflowing goblet, to notice that mere seconds after her departure, he made his exit.

Crisp night air nipped her exposed arms and kissed her chapped lips in greeting, welcoming her to the edge of the dense forest lining the grounds. In the shadows casted by the cooks’ fires, Lyra sought her solace against a large softwood tree. It wasn’t silent, as jeering and muttered chattering still flitted about, but it was quiet enough that the gnawing in her chest began to ease.

Smiling softly against the darkness, Lyra slipped a wine skin from its hiding place in her heavy skirts. Before taking a heavy sip, she offered her silent gratitude to her favorite maid and her insistency on secret pockets in most of her garments. As she swallowed another sip, a bard began strumming softly, drowning out all background noise. His song was a sad one, a crooning for a lost lover that she had heard before. She hummed gently at first, taking special care to follow the lilt in his voice until she was singing along with him.

As the bard piped out his final stanza, a branch snapped loudly near Lyra, pulling her from their secret duet. Faster than she imagined herself capable of, she pulled the intricate clip holding her fiery locks in a mazelike updo and spun to face the attacker of her peace.

The tip of the small dagger sat just underneath the chin of a man she had only ever seen in passing and heard referred to in the ladies’ stories of gallantry. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes at first, but her gaze slipped slowly down his curly dark locks, then his nose that bore a faded scar at the bridge and finally lips that looked too soft for a man of such a brutal reputation. She only met his piercing blue eyes after he spoke.

“I mean you no harm my lady.” His deep baritone rumbled through her and had she had her wits about her, she would have blamed her shiver on the cold. He held his palms up as a signal of surrender, but he made no move to disarm her.

“You intend for me to believe that there is nothing to fear about a man called “Break Bones”?” The hand, holding the dagger didn’t waver as she spoke, but she hoped he saw the glimmer of playfulness in her emerald eyes. She knew he meant her no harm. He could have removed her weapon from her possession at any point, but she couldn’t help but to goad him just a little.

“A moniker is only as powerful as those who breathe life into it,” He chuckled lightly, the corners of his plump lips turning up slightly, “Shall I call you “Cut Throat” then, my lady?”

She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her. His jesting felt comforting and warm. Very much unlike the sneaky formal perversions of most of the noble men who had crossed her path over the years. She only wavered playfully for moment before securing the dagger back into its gold encrusted sheath.

“I quite like the sound of that actually,” Lyra retorted, leaning down to retrieve the wineskin from the ground, “But for formality’s sake, call me Lyra.” She raised the wine to her lips and took a sip to steady her nerves before offering it to her false assailant. He took it gratefully, tipping his head back and sipping generously before offering it back to her.

“Lyra.” He said her name slowly, like he was tasting every contour of every sound of her name. How could such a large, intimidating man appear so soft? She wondered; their eyes existing for only each other in that moment.

“Harwin.” She countered, trying to replicate the care he put into her name. His face warmed and he offered her the smallest of bows.

“May I join you?” He asked, head dipped toward the tree she had been sitting against, “I do feel that we both are in need of a slight reprieve from the fanfare.”

“Please.” She gestured for him to follow her, feeling the heat of his gaze against her back until they both dropped to the soft earth and leaned back against the tree. As if on cue, or maybe he had been playing the entire time, the Bard’s strumming filled their ears once again.

They sat in comfortable silence for moments that seemed to stretch on forever, passing what was left of the wineskin back and forth. She didn’t know the song the bard was singing but surprisingly, Ser Harwin did. He sung softly between sips and when his eyes met hers, she was trying to suppress her smile.

“Does my singing displease you?” He laughed, bright smile matching the one she was unable to hold back. He knocked his shoulder against hers lightly as if they were just childhood friends having a laugh. The closeness stole her breathe for a moment.

“Not at all, you are a lovely singer,” She said, leaning over to steal their shared drink from his hands, their fingers grazing one another, “Rid yourself of your lance in the next tourney and sing your opponent off his horse.”

The laugh that escaped Harwin electrified Lyra in a way she had never felt before. The sound invaded every pore in her body and exploded with a warmth that made her feel like she would never be in need of a cloak ever again.

“Clever girl.” He praised her lowly, voice containing more heat than humor.

It was a magical sound, one that she felt the overwhelming need to hear again. But just as she attempted to poke him again to elicit that glorious sound, a piercing yell broke through their cozy bubble.

“LYRA!” Her brother, Raeken, called from somewhere not too far in the darkness. Her oldest brother would be absolutely livid to find her alone with a man, even one held in as high regard as Harwin.

“Shit!” The word came out as a hiss as she hurriedly pulled herself to her feet. Harwin followed, catching her elbow as she slipped slightly. Her skin flared hot under his touch. She caught his gaze and smiled sadly, bidding him farewell with her eyes before taking off into the darkness to murder her oldest brother.

#harwin strong #harwin x oc #house of the dragon #fanfiction #there will be smut #harwin strong x reader

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dc-said-bi-robin-rights · 1 year

Text

Like most places, Titans Tower was quiet in the early mornings.

That’s not to say it was never quiet in the working hours, but any building inhabited by an unsupervised group of would-be uni students living in close proximity to each other for months on end tends to always have something going on. Not so in the early mornings. The early mornings were always quiet, which was why Cassandra Sandsmark so often chose to indulge in them ever since her appointment as team leader made it so that she always had to be the responsible one when shenanigans were afoot. It was just easier to simply exist in those precious few hours before the sun came up. There were no responsibilities, no disgruntled teammates to wrangle or heavy missions to plan, and even people who enjoyed leading the ragtag band of morons known as the San Francisco Titans into battle needed that from time to time.

That was why Cassie loved the early mornings. The space to think. The freedom from responsibility.

Well… that and one other reason.

Mumbled, off-key humming fills her ears as she walks into the living room, the sound clearly coming from the adjoined kitchen to the left, and Cassie feels her lips curl into a vexed smile. So she did come back.

Not that Cassie really doubted she would, but still.

Forgoing her usual morning routine of stargazing with a coffee on the attached balcony, she turns and walks into the kitchen, heat and the scent of food cooking assaulting her senses as she does so.

Cassie barely notices. Her focus is entirely on the sudden assault on her sight.

Rose stands in front of the stove in a purple workout top, her back to Cassie, her white hair, silver in the dim light, pulled back into a high ponytail that leaves the toned musculature of her lower back exposed to Cassie’s roving gaze. There’s still sweat there, evidence of the midnight workouts Rose sometimes engaged in, and Cassie is struck by the sudden irrational desire to walk up behind Rose and lick it before her unwholesome thoughts are interrupted when the humming starts up again.

Shaking her head slightly to clear it of any lingering lesbianisms, she leans against the doorway and closes her eyes as the off-key, on-off humming fills her ears. A small smile curls across her lips, her irritation slowly fading. There were maybe ten people on the whole planet who knew Rose liked to cook, and maybe three who knew why, but she’s almost certain she’s the only person—only living person, she amends with an irrational stab of guilt—that knows the song Rose likes to hum while she cooks was sung to her by her mother when she was teaching her how to cook. Rose’s official file claimed she had a “perfect recall”, meaning that her enhanced mind was supposedly capable of instantly and perfectly recalling any scrap of information or faded memory with impossible clarity, but Rose had once admitted to her that that wasn’t true for anything pre-serum. Hence, the intermittent humming.

For a moment, Cassie just stays there, listening to Rose as she hums a particular stanza over and over again with growing terseness before finally remembering the next part, the noise growing steadier as her confidence about her own recollection returns and the song transitions into a part she better remembers. Idly, she wonders what Rose’s singing would sound like. So far, none of them had managed to get Rose to sing. She typically stood off the side during karaoke nights, lips curled into an amused smirk as she watched her teammates make fool of themselves the way some people would watch a bad movie just to mock it, and neither threat nor bribery could make her join in with the rest of the group no matter how drunk they all were. She wonders if she’d be good at it. She doubts it, somehow, even if Rose’s voice could get wonderfully smoky in… certain contexts. She just can’t see Rose singing no matter how hard she tries to picture it.

The humming fades back down, and Cassie opens her eyes, drinking in the sight of her… whatever-they-are in all her post-workout glory for a few long moments before letting out a pointed cough. Rose doesn’t even bother turning around, but the dismissive noise she makes in the back of her throat is enough to tell Cassie she knows she’s there. She doesn’t stop whatever she’s doing, though, or make any other attempt to acknowledge her presence, and Cassie can feel her irritation returning with every passing minute of this interaction. She puts her hand to her brow and sighs, passing it through her short-clipped hair a moment after to see if she can bait Rose’s attention to it, but it’s useless. Either she hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about her sudden change in style.

Fine. Whatever. Not like her hair is the important thing here, anyway.

“Where were you?” she asks bluntly, annoyance creeping into her tone. She’d been worried, and lonely, and… maybe she’d actually missed Rose, just a little bit.

“Aw geez,” Rose mutters, the unstated “here we go again” apparent in her tone. She picks up some kind of oil Cassie can’t see the label of and pours it into the pot, her voice growing louder as she addresses Cassie directly. “I wasn’t aware I needed to report to you, little miss scoutmaster.”

“Maybe you do,” Cassie says sweetly, putting a hand on her hip. “Maybe that’s what being part of a team means—ever think of that?”

“Whatever,” Rose says, turning the stove off and picking up a rag. She swipes her brow with it, and turns around to face Cassie, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms. Her one eye widens for a moment as she takes in Cassie’s new look, but the seriousness of the situation reasserts itself a moment after and her expression tightens. “Look, if you want me to leave, just…”

“That’s not what I said,” Cassie says quickly, heart unconsciously skipping a beat. That’s the opposite of what she wants. “I… it’s just… you should have called. Texted me. Something.”

Rose’s lip curls. “Why, the tracker you let Tim put on me stop working?”

“That’s not…” Cassie begins, before cutting herself off and frowning. “Stop trying to change the topic.”

“Oh, is that what I’m doing?” Rose gives an exaggerated eyeroll. “What tipped you off?”

“The fact that you’ve always known about the tracker… just as you know we would never use it except in an emergency,” Cassie replies, dismissing the nagging thought that Rose might actually have a point. “Besides, I didn’t let Tim do anything. He was still team leader when he planted it on you.”

“And now he isn’t and I still have a tracker on me.” Rose’s voice was scathing. “Why’s that?”

“I… Rose, if I had any intention of using the tracker, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” she points out, before sighing and running a hand through her hair. “Look, whatever, we can argue about it later. I just want to know why you didn’t call me after you left.”

“I didn’t call you because it didn��t have anything to do with you,” Rose says, rubbing her arms and looking away. “Besides, I wasn’t gone for that long.”

“Two months is ‘that long’,” Cassie replies angrily, her irritation flaring up again. “Great Hera… I can’t believe I have to spell something like this out for you! Anything can happen in two months when you live lives like the ones we do, Rose! Anything! You could have… you could have been ambushed, kidnapped… you could have been killed, and we wouldn’t even know! I wouldn’t even know!”

Rose looks at her for a long minute before turning around and going back to watching the pot. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I need a guard dog, Wonder Girl. Go woof woof somewhere else.”

Cassie let’s out a frustrated groan and turns to leave, exasperation making her throw her hands in the air. “Fine. Fine! But next time you feel like taking a two month long AWOL trip… don’t bother coming back.”

Cassie hears Rose’s breath stutter and she almost takes it back, but the anger in her wins out and she stalks out the door without so much as looking back.

~~~

“… and then she says ‘go woof woof somewhere else, like I’m some kind of dog!” Cassie complains, throwing her arms up in the air as Bart zooms to her end of the ping-pong table and hits the ball with his paddle before doing the same on the other side, effectively playing ping pong with himself. “I mean, seriously, who does she think she is?! Here I am, just trying to tell her how worried I was about her, and she acts like I’m, I don’t know, trying to chain her up in the basement or something!”

“Have you tried—” Pwoosh, plunk “—just talking to her about it?”

Cassie is incredulous. “Just talking… have you even been listening to me?”

“Not about—” Pwoosh, plunk “—that, about her leaving all the time.”

“Well, obviously,” Cassie grounds out, unable to keep the irritation from her tone. “But she refuses t—”

“No, that’s not what I…”

“Could you stop interrupting me?” Cassie snaps, before sighing and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Bart. What was it you were saying?”

Bart stops zooming around and turns to her, catching the ball in midair when it bounces towards him. “Well, she’s got to be going somewhere every time she leaves, right?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Well, if you found out where it was she was going to…”

“Bart, you’re a genius,” Cassie gasps, before turning and running from the room.

“I know I… wait, where are you going?”

“… and then she goes and coughs at me, like I’m supposed to turn around and salute her every time she enters a room or something,” Rose complains, her wrapped fists hitting the punching bag so hard M’gann winces. “I don’t know how they do things on condescending little miss bossy-bossy’s planet, but here on Earth… wait, M’gann, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” replies M’gann, who is actually from another planet but doesn’t like making a big deal of it. “Just continue.”

“Right, yeah… anyway, after all the effort I put in into making something nice for her…”

“Did you tell her you were cooking for her?”

Rose huffs. “Well, no, but…”

“Rose, I’m the mind reader, not Cassie,” M’gann says gently, shooting the spherical punching bag a dubious look as Rose keeps pounding on it. “You… you know that thing is gonna break if you keep hitting it like that, right?”

“We can afford it,” Rose says dismissively, taking a step back and hitting the punching bag with a strong uppercut that rips it off its chain and sends it flying across the room, where it lands, tearing open like a sack of grain and scattering sand all over the floor. Rose flexes her hand, watching her enhanced muscles flex under the wrappings. “We’re gonna need heavier punching bags if I’m gonna stick around, anyway.”

M’gann notes the strange wording with a raised eyebrow. “If?”

Rose sighs, pushing her hair back with a wrapped hand and walking over to her locker. “Yeah,” she says, pulling a towel out and slinging it around her shoulders. “If.”

“Oh.” M’gann feels a pit form in her stomach. She hates it when people leave. “How long will you be gone for?”

Rose slams the locker shut and turns to her, lips pursed. “What makes you think I’m coming back?”

“You have to,” M’gann says, suddenly alarmed. “You… you can’t just leave us again, Rose.”

“Gee, what is about this place that makes people think it owns them?” Rose complains, walking towards the automatic door… only to jump back as it is pulled down in front of her as if by gravity. She half-turns to look at M’gann and scowls when she sees her standing behind her with her hand splayed out, eyes glowing green. “You can’t be serious.”

M’gann keeps the door down. “Deadly.”

Rose’s scowl deepens. “M’gann, let me through. Now.”

“At least tell me where you’re going. I think you owe me that.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think I owe you,” Rose sneers, but relents after M’gann shoots her a glare. “Fine.” She sighs, pushing her hair back again. “I… I was thinking of going to Cambodia. Maybe the reason the trail went cold here in America is because she went back home after… well, you know, don’t you?”

She does. She’s been inside Rose’s mind, after all. “I do.” She let’s go of the door, and it slides back up, leaving the doorway free of obstruction. “Well… you know, if you ever need anything…”

“Uh-huh.” Rose wipes down her face and then throws her wet towel into a bin without even looking as she walks towards the now-unobstructed doorway. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

M’gann sighs, shaking her head as she turns away from the retreating shape of Rose and towards the remains of the broken punching bag, which she levitates into the air and floats into another, dedicated bin, which is already half full with the remains of all the punching bags Rose and specially Cassie break while working out. “Make sure you do, please. We don’t need another repeat of the Dark Side Club fiasco.”

“Low,” she hears Rose snort, and her lips curl into a smile.

~~~

“You don’t get it, Tim,” Cassie growls, resisting the urge to punch the wall next to Tim’s head to get him to look at her.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Tim says wearily, eyes still glued to his computer. “What are we talking about again?”

“Rose! We’re talking about Rose! About how she keeps leaving and telling no one where it is she’s going!” Cassie wants to rip her hair out… again. “Come on, don’t you at least think that’s something we should care about?”

Tim sighs. “Don’t tell me you still think she’s a security risk?”

Cassie’s cheeks color. “What? No! That’s not… I’m just worried about her, okay? I want to make sure she’s not getting into trouble.”

“Well, she’s not, so…”

“Ah-ha! So you admit you do know where she keeps running off to,” Cassie says, lips curling in triumph. “I knew it!”

Tim curses beneath his breath and turns away as Cassie leans in closer, her smile turning into a grin. “Come on, now you have to tell me. Besides, I’m the team’s leader, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Tim concedes, biting his lip, “but that doesn’t mean I have to tell you something that really doesn’t have anything to do with either you or the team.”

Cassie raises an eyebrow. “Since when are you the privacy guy?”

“I’m serious, Cassie,” Tim says, his voice hardening. Cassie sees the flash of an old pain in his eyes, but it disappears before she has a chance to ponder it further. “Rose isn’t going AWOL so she can go visit Disney Land without us knowing. What she’s doing is… well, it’s important, and if I was in her position right now I’d be losing my shit with myself for even discussing it with you. Okay? So… drop it. Seriously. This is the one thread you do not want to keep pulling until it comes undone if you value your relationship with Rose.”

“Rose and I don’t have a…” she starts, before trailing with a frustrated groan. “Look, can’t you just tell me if she’s okay? I’d hate to think she’s doing something dangerous without us there to help her.”

“The last thing Rose needs is our help,” Tim says with a degree of finality. “At least when it comes to this.”

“Tim.”

“Look, I don’t know, okay?” Tim says exasperatedly. “I don’t know if she’s getting into trouble. I don’t even know where exactly it is she goes. I only know what she’s doing because she’s doing the analysis work with our systems, it’s not like…”

Cassie sees Tim stiffen as he realizes he just let something slip, and she can feel her grin widen. “Our systems, you say?”

“Cassie, I’m serious, don’t,” he warns, but it’s too late. Cassie turns and walks out of the room, clapping Tim on the shoulder on the way out.

“Thanks for all the help, Tim,” she can’t resist saying cheekily as she leaves. “I really appreciate it.”

Cassie hears Tim let out a bone-weary sigh in response, and her grin widens even more.

It’s only when she emerges out into the hallway that she pauses to really think what she’s about to do over, the grin slipping from her face and being replaced with a frown. Does she really want to go digging into something Rose supposedly doesn’t want her to dig into?

On the one hand, she doesn’t owe Rose, who is the absolute worst and also not someone she has any kind of relationship with (no matter Tim says), any favors. And it’s her prerogative as team leader to investigate situations that could put the team as a whole in hot water.

On the other hand… it feels wrong. The thought of it makes her feel guilty for reasons she can’t really articulate. And hadn’t Rose once told her that part of the reason she had pursued this completely unnamed and impossible to define arrangement of theirs in the first place was because Cassie never lied to her or hid her opinion of her, no matter what that might be? This feels uncomfortable close to doing the one thing that their arrangement depended on her not doing.

On the other other hand, it’s not really lying, is it? If anything, Rose is the one lying by keeping the truth of where she’s going from he—from the team. And that wasn’t fair to he—to the rest of the team, who had to stay behind and worry themselves sick about where Rose was and what she was doing and… and…

Maybe Rose was out there killing people. Cassie steps to a halt in the middle of the hallway, struck suddenly by how perfect the thought is. Maybe Rose is out there killing people, and it’s up to Cassie to figure it out and stop it before more people die. That’s why she has to do this. For all the poor, innocent people Rose is probably out there killing. And also for the team. And also for Rose, who’s probably being blackmailed into this by either Clock King or her father or… someone. And… no, yeah, yeah, that’s perfect.

Her excuse reason for investigating crystallizing in her mind, she changes directions and walks towards the common room, finding Rose scrolling on her phone while seated on the couch in a different gym top, orange this time, with the Ravager skull and crossbones logo in black across the chest. She forces down a flush, pushing down memories of sweaty spars and stolen kisses in the training room as they threaten to resurface, and walks over to the couch, taking a seat next to Rose and playing with her hands nervously. Neither of them says anything for a long moment, but the silence is eventually broken when Cassie decides to just bite the bullet already and do the mature thing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning her head onto Rose’s shoulder and sighing. When Rose doesn’t reply, she shifts, placing her hand on Rose’s chest and looking up at her from less than an inch away. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Which part?” She can feel the Rose’s breath on her face as she speaks. “The part where you said you didn’t want me to come back or…”

“I’m not going to apologize for saying you should’ve at least called me before you left, because you should’ve,” Cassie says, voice firm, “but I don’t really want you to stay away. Obviously. That’s what I’m apologizing for.”

Rose is quiet for a moment. “I… didn’t think I was going to take so long,” she admits. “Things just got… complicated.”

Cassie feels her heart skip a beat. A clue, even if Rose hasn’t realized it. “I’m guessing there wasn’t any service where you were?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you should answer my question before we start arguing again,” Cassie says flatly, and Rose sighs.

“Ugh, fine. Yeah, there wasn’t any service. Happy?”

“Very,” Cassie says sweetly, already thinking about how much this narrows down the list of places Rose could be going. “Thank you so much for your honesty, Rose.”

Rose’s lips curl into a smile. “Go die in a fire.”

“You first,” Cassie says, smiling back. They stay like that for a moment, just smiling at each other, before Cassie plants a small kiss on her not-girlfriend’s neck and moves back.

“I’m sleepy,” she says, yawning slightly for effect. “Stay with me tonight?”

Rose’s one eye flickers to the clock on the wall. “You know it’s nine pm, right?”

“Yeah, well, so it is,” Cassie flushes, swatting at Rose’s chest. Maybe she should’ve checked the time before making her move, but she has to play it straight now. “Are you coming or not?”

Rose’s eye flickers to her hair and her smile turns into a grin. “Only if I can call you wonder butch from now on.”

“No deal,” Cassie says immediately, because that’s horrible. “You can sleep alone if you’re gonna call me… that.”

Rose rolls her eye. “Wonder Girl, being stuck up? What a surprise.”

“I said no, Rose.”

“Don’t be such a party pooper, wonder butch.”

Cassie can’t help but grin. “That’s ironic, coming from miss grumpima maxima hers—”

She lets out a squeal as Rose suddenly stands up, forcing Cassie to wrap her legs around her waist and her arms around her shoulders to not fall off. “Rose!”

She can hear the grin in Rose’s voice when she says, tone as innocent as any, “What?”

“You’re the worst,” Cassie pouts, falling into a fit of giggles and letting her head fall forward to rest on Rose’s shoulder. “Seriously, put me down. I’m taller than you. This isn’t gonna work.”

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it, wonder bitch.”

“Rose.”

~~~

Cassie pretends to be asleep right up until the moment she feels Rose get out of bed. She waits ten seconds for the door to creak before letting out a yawn and stretching her arms over her head, blinking sleepily at the blurry image around her until it crystallizes into her—thankfully empty—room. Alright, she thinks, the fake sleepiness vanishing from her posture in an instant. So Rose isn’t onto her. What now?

Should she just go find her? She doubts even she would just leave like that, which means she’s probably still in the Tower, using their systems for whatever nefarious assignments Cassie needs to save her from being blackmailed into doing.

Right. Save Rose from her father. Or Clock King. Or whatever. That’s what this is about. Saving Rose. And also everyone else.

Definitely not about her being a nosy soon-to-be ex-girlfriend—not that Rose is her girlfriend or anything, that’d be ridiculous—who is 100% about to be dumped for poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Nope. This is about saving people. She couldn’t save Kon, or Bart, so she’ll save Rose and she’ll thank her for it and everything will be just like it used to be in those days when Cissie still talked to her and Donna still cared and there was no need to know everyone’s measurements in case the memorial hall suddenly needed a new statue. She’ll do this and Rose will finally say I love you back even though she just stared at her like a crazy woman the first five times she’s said it and got really quiet the last two and everything will be fine and… and…

She tries not to think about how if she really thought Rose was being blackmailed into killing people she’d be taking far more drastic action than… whatever this was supposed to be as she walks down the stairs and enters the laboratory, finding Rose seated behind the terminal and staring up at the screen. Cassie plasters a sleepy pout on her face and walks up behind her, slinging her arms around her neck and leaning in close.

“It’s late,” she breathes in Rose’s ear, planting slow, sloppy kisses on Rose’s collarbone, her hips grinding forward slightly. “Come bad to bed, okay?” And let me see what you’re looking at in peace, she thinks but doesn’t say.

Rose doesn’t reply, so Cassie pouts harder and kisses down to her collarbone.

“Please,” she whispers, her hands softly sliding down the front of Rose’s chest. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

No reaction. Absolutely no reaction. Not a snort, not a snicker, not a soft hitch of breath or an impatient retort, just… nothing.

Cassie frowns and cranes her neck up to look at the screen, a gasp coming out of her mouth a moment later. She can’t help it. It’s not the image of a black-haired woman who looks a lot like what Rose might’ve looked like at forty if she died her hair black that draws such a reaction from her, nor the unfamiliar name at the top of screen, but what’s right in the middle of it. For there, written in big bold red letters, were the words MATCH FOUND.

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bigfan-fanfic · 2 years

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A Song at the Hearth (Reader x Geralt x Jaskier)

A sequel to A Song on the Air

Requested by Anonymous for Hello 👋 could i request a sequel to the Geralt x Jaskier x Reader fic where they fell in love with R's singing? Doesnt have to be nsfw, Id love to see them all domestic-y together when the pair drop by btwn their adventures

Jaskier hasn't yet told you of his new song.

He sings it when he feels particularly homesick - and you and Geralt are his home.

The song is a soft and sad ballad, of a man who met a beautiful spirit of air and mist and song, whose voice captured him, and ripped his heart from his chest to keep it for all eternity. A song of how every moment away from his love is torture.

He likes to think back to how he lucked out on becoming a part of your and Geralt's relationship, how he had been stunned silent by your singing, and how Geralt had growled in his ear in that gruff voice of his when he asked the bard in.

Jaskier had never been so empty of words. So lost. To see Geralt smile, and what's more, to see a genuine smile directed at him. To see the witcher relaxed, vulnerable, even. His shirt discarded and reclining on pillows while the herbalist played with his hair. Jaskier will never forget the moment Geralt shifted to rest his head in Jaskier's lap, and the herbalist draped himself over the bard's shoulders.

Never in the most decadent courts, never in the most passionate tryst, had Jaskier ever felt so loved. They hadn't done anything more than eat and feed each other and drink while reclining on pillows and pelts, but it was easily the most sensual night Jaskier had ever had.

Days passed in delirious happiness. Geralt hunted. The herbalist cooked and cleaned. Jaskier made himself useful where he could, but even with doing more than anyone would ask him to, he still found himself with hours of time to fill - hours to write and compose, to find and lose stanzas of great epics and create new ones on the spot. Time to sing with the herbalist and practice harmony with a master, albeit one not classically trained.

But perhaps the most wild thing he experienced was the free exchange of affection. He could pull Geralt in for a kiss whenever he wished, or be suddenly wrapped in an embrace with the herbalist. He could walk in after a while in contemplation and find Geralt giggling at the tickling sensation of some soothing ointment the herbalist had made being rubbed into his skin.

The Path awaited Geralt, however, and wanderlust once again claimed Jaskier with a passionate fever. He knew they must go but for the first time, felt bitter about the transient nature of things.

"Do not fret. You will return to me." was the only goodbye said.

"I leave my heart with you. You will keep it safe." was what Geralt offered in turn.

Jaskier preferred to end things with a kiss, and did so, with the herbalist, and with Geralt, realizing that he was leaving Geralt the man and lover with the herbalist and setting out on the Path with Geralt the Witcher.

But it was true. They returned, again and again, and each time they resumed the idyllic peace as though it had never left. As though all that existed in the world was the three of them.

Perhaps someday, Jaskier mused, there would come a time when they would grow weary of travel, and that great peace would claim them until the end of their days.

Perhaps there was something truly great about being with the ones you love, greater than coin or fame, or the immortality of song.

#jaskier x male reader #geralt x male reader #the witcher x male reader #the witcher x reader #x reader #witcher headcanons #headcanons

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smokingbomber · 1 year

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RP Justice Speech Compilation

At a youma poetry slam: Heed my words, you heartless demon! Plans you've wrought through Coleridge schemin', still not fit for basic dreamin', break when faced with justice gleamin'! This missive you’ve delivered through apostrophic caesura… gonna find your metered scansion in the throbbing from a beating. And your boss, he stanza lone reciting antiquated poesy while your flow is deconstructed by a justice swift and rosy, and your sins against humanity and decency are dozy so they'll ever weigh you down so hard you'll never take a bow until your reign of fail is ended with a SAILOR MOON! NOW!

In civvies: Chocolate is a treat that brings pleasure to both palate and soul when enjoyed in moderation. I won’t forgive those who abuse its delicious flavor and rejuvenating qualities in the name of fear and supernatural intimidation! You are cowardly and perverse to twist such delight into terror. I, Chiba Mamoru, will be your opponent!

Standard justice speech: Beauty magazines should be used for stylish inspiration only, not as a judgement of worth! I won't forgive anyone who tries to hurt innocent people with a wrongful interpretation of loveliness!

To a giant monster in Tokyo Bay: Those who stir from the depths to disrupt the peaceful and enjoyable off-hours of hard-working students and heroines with slovenly and oversized misconduct are no more excused if they are kaiju than if they are simply bullies! I, Tuxedo Kamen, cannot forgive you!

At a youma quiz show: People wish for adulation and fame for the hard work they do to learn everything they can! To use this desire against innocent contestants and their friends and families who have come to support them is a crime! I, Tuxedo Kamen, shall not forgive you!

Whispered in the middle of the night at an orphanage: For pretending to be a pile of delightful snow in which children play with innocent laughter, I cannot forgive you!Whatever you are. I, Tuxedo Kamen, am your opponent! So chase me right now or we might wake up the kids!

Deadpan in civvies to a friend: Anyone who would dare to use cookies in such a violently non-delicious manner is unforgivable. I won't stand for it. You don't need to thank me for allowing me to help punish that creature for his evil intents.

To a cook villain: BASE TREACHERY! How dare you waste excellent cuisine! How DARE you seek to destroy the dreams of a young maiden dedicated to bringing the delight of gourmet cooking to appreciative palates! You are a CHILD, throwing tantrums at the idea of losing! And you will ALWAYS lose in the end!

To the same cook villain who made a nice youma: How dare you create a sweet youma from a child's treat, only to let her die in your service! HOW DARE YOU STEAL the inner heart of a young girl and try to gift it to your dark mistress?!

At a play audition: A young girl's heart is the home of dreams and wishes too pure and good for you to understand, but your wickedness is not excused by your ignorance! Hell-spawned creature of darkness, who has seduced and brainwashed innocent maidens and taken that precious innocence from them, I won't stand for this! For what you have done, there can be no punishment great enough to be sure justice is done-- death is too good for you! But your death shall serve to protect the future from your curse, from your predation, your depravity--!! YOU ARE UNFORGIVABLE!!

Standard justice speech: The aspirations of young girls are nothing to be toyed with or attacked, and to use them against one in order to take her energy is unforgivable! Let the powerful love of Runealy-san's friends violently demonstrate to you the error of your ways! Allies of justice, this is the work of the Dark Kingdom! Erase its impurities from this world!

When visiting a friend and finding a burglar: This is my friend's dorm! How dare you lurk in her sanctuary, waiting for her to come home so you can ambush her! Her dormitory room is a place of excellent cooking and terrible timing, and I, Tuxedo Kamen, won't forgive you for trying to ruin her day!

Standard justice speech: Nothing-– nothing is truly hollow; no ghastly sin is forever damning! I, Tuxedo Kamen, won't stand for despair! Not for those who bring it, and not for the despair in their own hearts!

Standard justice speech: Villains who use the sweet art of harmonic vocal expression to bolster the foul trespasses of a bully who apparently consumes sentient life, I will not forgive you! I, Tuxedo Mask, oppose your evil ways!

Standard justice speech: Happiness may be fleeting, but it will always return. However, when wise old women tell young maidens with broken hearts that there are many fish in the sea, they do not intend for those fish to then exit the sea and wreak havoc on land! For intentionally misinterpreting the lovingly given adages of those kindly people experienced in the ups and downs of lives lived with conviction and valor, you will not be forgiven! I, Tuxedo Kamen, will not stand for this gross injustice!

As an example versus Fiore for a redeemed Nephrite: Flowers have a language steeped in the history and tradition of secret love, and to twist those unspoken words into a message of hatred and destruction is unforgivable. You have taken the loneliness of a lost boy and disguised lies and maliciousness with a perverse mockery of the sweet perfume of floral linguistics, and I, Tuxedo Kamen, will not stand for it!

I'll kick my own ass: THE HOPES AND DREAMS OF YOUNG GIRLS ARE A PRECIOUS AND SACRED THING, AND IGNORING THEM IN FAVOR OF SELF-CASTIGATION IS A HEINOUS ACT OF VILLAINY THAT I WON'T STAND FOR. TUXEDO KAMEN, YOU HAVE BEHAVED UNFORGIVABLY! I, TUXEDO KAMEN, SHALL BE YOUR OPPONENT!

Jokingly, OOC: Those who break the rules of grocery store fast lane checkout lines are not only upsetting the social order but inconveniencing their fellow shoppers, who have joined the queue with the understanding that having fifteen items or less would allow them to escape the store and go home to make sandwiches for their loved ones in a timely fashion! Madoka Kaname, such behavior is unforgivable, and I won't stand for it! I, Tuxedo Kamen, shall be your opponent!!

On this blog: HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! Love of, shipping of, and identification with the values and travails of fictional characters are wholesome and safe occupations in which fans of all genders and ages should be allowed to participate. Ostensible other fans who levy the terrible crush of hatred and oppression on innocent shippers and character-lovers, filling bright loving hearts with shame, darkness, and misery, and who spread this hatred to new fans who haven't yet been allowed to form their own opinions of the intellectual property in question, cannot be forgiven! I will not stand for such inconsiderate behavior! I, Smokingbomber, shall be your opponent!

Versus King Endymion in the breakup arc: AS WELL YOU KNOW, King, my love for Sailor Moon is a sacred thing: she is a girl of great strength, kindness and care, and I have fallen in love with her no less than three separate times! Once in the life before this one, whose name you bear now, once as her sweet and clumsy self who was brought up in the arms of a loving family, and once as the self-sacrificing and strong Senshi of Mystery, the soldier who embraces all! It is this unparalleled paragon of love that draws the lost from darkness which is not to be toyed or tampered with in the interest of excising my faulty communication preconceptions! How dare you use that love to create a situation that causes her pain, taking advantage of my appalling social integration, even to attempt to correct that terrible personality flaw! It is a gross miscarriage of justice, and will not be tolerated! I, Tuxedo Kamen, shall be your opponent!

#justice speeches #roleplay #smokingbomber writing #tuxedo kamen #mamoru chiba #text post #long post

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