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jamilelucato · 7 months

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The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 01)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n] Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London. Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+. Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it! (Part 02 here!) To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy! Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.

For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.

Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.

"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"

The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.

"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.

"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.

"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"

The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."

"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?"

After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"

"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"

Dear God, she hoped not.

"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."

"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.

"Would you be able to make an exception?"

There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.

"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"

"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."

"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.

"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."

She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?

"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."

"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."

"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"

She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?

"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"

"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."

"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?

She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."

He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."

After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.

That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.

Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?

She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?

He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.

Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.

Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.

"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"

[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."

"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."

"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.

"Mister Bridgerton!"

Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?

"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.

"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."

Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."

"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.

Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."

"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.

"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.

"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"

"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"

"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."

"Your niece?" he echoed.

"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"

Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.

"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"

Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.

"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"

Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.

"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.

"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.

"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"

"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"

[y/n] had no reason to disagree.

"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."

Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.

"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."

"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."

But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.

Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.

The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.

She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.

Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.

No.

He didn't like it.

Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!

Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.

"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."

Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.

"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"

"Yes," he replied overly quickly.

"And you draw?"

"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).

Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.

She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.

"Need a painting, Miss?"

"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.

He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.

"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"

"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.

[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.

"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."

"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?

"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.

Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."

She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.

"But I am."

"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.

[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.

"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."

Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.

"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.

"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."

"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."

Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."

"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."

Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.

As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.

#benedict bridgerton #Benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x yn #bridgerton #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton #polin #lady danburry

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acewritesfics · 6 months

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Birthday Surprise | Jay Halstead

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Wife!Reader

Request: No.

Warnings: Nothing but fluff.

Word Count: 1,099

Jay Halstead Masterlist | Main Masterlist

"Hey, did you get it done?" Y/N hears Jay ask into his phone as she approaches his desk and leans against it after exiting Hank's office.

He winks at her with a smile on his face. They're the last two members of the intelligence unit remaining upstairs. Everyone else had gone home early, leaving the couple to finish theirs alone. What Y/N didn't know was that the paper work that needed to be done could have waited until the morning and that Jay's using it as a rouse to distract Y/N from leaving when the others did.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he assures whoever is on the other end of the phone call before ending it.

"Who was that?" she inquires, curiosity getting the better of her.

"That was Will," he replies as he stands up and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. "He asked my opinion on something he was contemplating."

"I'm guessing he listened to you," she comments as she takes his coat and helps him in putting it on.

"He did," he says as he spins around to face her before leaning forward to plant a kiss to her lips. He steps back from her and asks, "Are you ready to go?"

Y/N nods and returns to her desk, where she picks up her coat and beanie before putting them on. As they walk out of District 21, he takes her hand in his and kisses the back it.

When they reach his truck, he draws her in for another kiss before unlocking the front passenger door for her. He helps her into the seat and kisses her once more before closing the door.

As she watches Jay run around the front of the truck and into the driver's seat, she blows hot air into her hands to keep them from freezing.

"You've been oddly affectionate today," she comments, recalling all the times he's pulled her aside for a short sweet kiss and a private moment with her. He was a lot more touchy with her, even in front of the others.

At work, they kept their relationship professional and kept their affection for one other to a minimal, saving it for when their shift is over. Calling each other babe was largely a slip of the tongue; they kept their hands to themselves, limiting their intimacy at work to an embrace and a kiss in the locker room and a sneaky kiss in as they gear up to take down an extremely dangerous suspect. At work, they'll always be partners before husband and wife… until one of them gets hurt.

"Can't I show my wife some love on her birthday?" He asks, unable to disguise the joy in his voice, his smile radiating from ear to ear as he began the drive to their apartment.

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she says, smiling as she hears his excitement and delight in his words and sees it on his face. She stares at him and feels herself falling in love with him all over again. Her heart always soars when she sees him happy. "I thoroughly enjoyed it."

"Good," he replies, taking her hand in his and kissing the back of it as they come to a halt at a red light.

"Before we walk inside, you have to promise me you won't murder me," he says as he steps between her and the apartment door and removes her keys from her grasp.

She glances at him with suspicion. "What did you do?"

"Nothing bad," he quickly replies. He's aware of her dislike of surprises, so he kept this one to a minimum, including only his brother and the unit.

Kim, Adam, and Kevin wanted to throw her a surprise party, but Jay immediately vetoed that idea since he knew it would be the last thing she wanted, especially the day after Christmas. She'd told him a week ago that all she wants for her birthday is a night in with her husband, eating pizza and having a couple drinks.

So that is what Jay planned.

He opens the door and walks ahead of her inside the apartment, laying his stuff on the floor. He looks around the room, noting that he owes Will big time.

Y/N follows Jay into the apartment, a shocked expression on her face as she takes in the dim lighting and candles flickering about the room. The fire is roaring and there's a bottle of wine, two glasses and a pizza box set on the coffee table, which she giggles at. It isn't her first birthday spent with them as a couple but it is her first birthday as Mrs Halstead and he wanted to make it as special and meaningful as she is.

"Happy Birthday, babe," Jay says quietly as he approaches her and helps her take off her coat and beanie before kissing her on the cheek.

She spins around to face him as his arms encircle her waist, drawing her into him. "I really do have the best husband ever."

"And brother-in-law," he smiles, implying that he had help in setting things up.

"Is this what you were discussing with him?" She asks, amazed that they were able to keep it so well hidden from her.

"Maybe," he shrugs, his smile turning into a smirk.

"Make sure to thank him tomorrow," she adds, running her hands up his arms, shoulders, and neck to his head. "Until then," she adds bringing him into a soft and loving kiss.

Before either of them could deepen the kiss, her stomach rumbles as the smell of the pizza invades her nostrils. Breaking the kiss, she pulls out of her husbands hold and moves toward the coffee table. Opening the pizza box, her mouth waters at the sight of her favourite toppings on top of her favourite pizza base. Jay moves beside her and opens the bottle of wine, pouring some into the glasses. He hands one of the glasses to her.

"I love you so much," she says taking her glass.

"I love you too," he smiles and kisses her.

"Best birthday ever," she says breaking the kiss and taking his glass from him. Deciding to ignore her stomach, she places the glasses back on table and moves back into her husband's arms.

His lips meet hers again as he guides her in front of the fire, his hands grazing her skin underneath the shirt, that just so happens to be his, that she's wearing. As he lifts the shirt off her, he tells her, "Babe, we're just getting started."

#jay halstead x y/n #jay halstead x reader #acewritesfics repost #chicago pd x reader

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venussaidso · 9 months

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Vedic Astrology Observation (based on shows/films part 4)

I'm watching the series Archer and I guessed three main nakshatra archetypes correct! This includes Uttarabhadrapada, which is so potent in the two of the most prominent female characters in the main character's life.

First of all, this series is about espionage. So immediately, I know there are moon nakshatras. The main character, Sterling Archer, embodies lunar qualities: being a secret agent, going undercover, using disguises/aliases, trickery etc. etc.

Another hint that supported my theory of the character being lunar is how the fandom literally compare his character design to Henry Cavill who is a Shravana Moon.

As Henry Cavill is also famous for being in the espionage, spy film The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

Another hint is Archer being a huge fanboy for Burt Reynolds who he inspires after or quotes during his epic, spy missions. And Burt Reynolds is a Hasta Moon, Rohini Ascendant.

Burt Reynolds even guest starred in an episode as himself and we see our main character fanboying throughout.

Burt Reynolds is famous for his spy film Operation CIA in which he plays a CIA agent who is undercover as a university professor.

The character Sterling Archer has to be voiced by a moon nakshatra native, right?

Finally, I went out to find the voice actor and calculated his vedic chart. Thank goodness the guy has his birthtime available; and accurate, at that. And I guessed right!!! 😭👇🏼

Just like Henry Cavill, also Shravana, who was a highly voted candidate in the fandom to play the live-action version.

But, in the very beginning of watching this series, the character Sterling immediately struck me as a Sun nakshatra native. His inability to commit to a relationship or anything; having zero devotion to anything.

He improvises everything; not much of a planner which makes him come off more carefree. He is missing this cold, lunar quality to him of being a strategist or even just being highly intelligent. I've always believed that Sun men are quite... bimbos, to say the least. Claire Nakti explored this in her Sun dominant men video more articulately and respectfully; and Archer embodies this energy too.

So, in the beginning episodes of the series, I believed he was mainly Sun dominant before witnessing other aspects of the character expanding.

I also noticed that he is emotionally volatile and loud and extremely comedic, which is not really Solar or Lunar, but Rahuvian. And guess what? The voice actor is an Ardra Moon, which makes a lot of sense.

But, I was right, again, to assume him being a Sun nakshatra. Because the voice actor also has Krittika Sun. Ha!

The reason why his Sun nakshatra was more blatantly obvious in the beginning for me was because of his relationship with his ex girlfriend, Lana!

Lana, whose character design is quite literally inspired by Rihanna's physique.

Rihanna, who I personally believe is an Uttarabhadrapada Ascendant, as her birthtime is rated C (unlikely to be accurate). And even if you don't think she's Uttarabhadrapada, fine, but the character Lana is.

She is the Saturn nakshatra archetype.

She's very kickass, warrior-like and has a masculine edge— which are the type of characters usually played by Saturnians/Uttarabhadrapadas.

I immediately noticed with how she butts heads with Archer. Uttarabhadrapada is a nakshatra in which its women are known for emasculating other male archetypes/even going head to head with men ruled by fiery-hot planets such as the Sun. Their chemistry in the series is the epitome of the Saturn woman x Sun man pairing.

Sun and Saturn are literally mortal enemies.

But people with this planetary rulership tend to be intrigued by each other. It seems to be very similar to having an intense square synastry with someone, in my opinion, which might add sexual/romantic tension more often than not.

Archer's mother is another important female figure in his life who is also Uttarabhadrapada.

She's a hardened woman who is in charge of a spy agency, a masculine job, and she acts or looks very similar to characters such as 1996's Cruella Deville or Miranda Priestly (both also played by Saturn nakshatras; both characters' hair are pale white).

Malory Archer quite literally ruined her son's life since he was born; always emasculating him even in his adult life. She's had a very cold, (Saturn) oppressive nature towards him since he was young. Saturn nakshatras are either known to humiliate its natives, or natives under this nakshatra lord will further humiliate/abuse others into their cold grip.

A trope I've seen often with this nakshatra, which makes sense if you think of them being the literal ice dragon.

I immediately noticed that she is Uttarabhadrapada not just from her masculine, commanding role in the series— but from the outfits she wears in every episode. She's always wearing cold colours, especially powder blue.

Uttarabhadrapada characters almost always have something significant that is coloured blue, which you'll always associate with the character; as Claire Nakti brilliantly pointed out in her Uttarabhadrapada video. And that's how I knew.

And her relationship with Lana, who is also very Uttarabhadrapada coded, is interesting. The same way Sun men tend to respect each other and always find each other from across the room, Saturn women always have a quiet air of respect for each other's strength.

The first time Malory met Lana, she pointed a gun to her head and Lana stubbornly stood her ground. It was like Malory immediately recognized herself in Lana. She was so impressed by her that she hired her to work at her agency as a top spy, just like that.

I was so certain that they were Uttarabhadrapadas and finally had the courage to check their charts AND I WAS RIGHT! Both voice actors are Uttarabhadrapadas!!

Their dynamic features this very Ascendant-Moon synastry — I definitely couldn't have guessed that one. This synastry quite literally demonstrates seeing yourself (Moon) in someone else (the Ascendent person). I've been very into studying synastries lately and it's always interesting how it plays out.

Anyway, now it makes sense why Sterling has a connection with Lana. Even though Lana isn't half as worse as Malory, I've always noticed their similarities. Like Lana, Malory used to be a kickass, spy lady before Sterling was born. They both have very sharp, stern personalities and are frequently annoyed by Sterling's existence. And in Sterling's case, it is true that you'll subconsciously seek out traits in a partner that are similar to your parent's.

Also, Sterling's unhealthy relationship with women & sex (unsuccessfully) fills up the empty hole inside of him that was supposed to be nourished by his mother's love as a child. This makes him fearful of intimacy and closeness, which is common with Sun nakshatra natives.

Malory's neglect is still a running gag in the series — she's emotionally hardened which is a prominent theme for Uttarabhadrapada (especially for the female natives). Being the middle nakshatra in the Pisces segment, it truly is the only Pisces that can struggle with intimacy, vulnerability or melancholic fluff. Which makes sense as Saturn is there. Luckily in Revati, there is more freedom and unrestrained expansion. There is a reason why Venus exalts in 27° of Pisces, where Revati lies. Revati is everything love and philosophical. Uttarabhadrapada isn't always comfortable expressing sentimentality, as they tend to be very self-restraint or outwardly hardened.

Anyway. I'm not done with the characters. I'll make a part 2 once I have the energy.

Ugh I'm sooo good at guessing nakshatras! LMAOO 😭

Especially moon nakshatras. I'm still so intrigued by moon men.

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orionsangel86 · 1 year

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Hob Gadling - A Queer Romantic?

I have been listening to The World's End chapters of The Sandman on Audible lately and just finished Hob's Leviathan. I didn't pay this story much attention when I first read the comic, as I tended to read through the stories quickly and put more focus into the stories where Dream had a larger role. But one of the reasons I like listening to the Audible book is because it allows me to absorb each story more thoroughly and take my time thinking about each one and the (usually multiple) meanings behind them.

Hob Gadling is a character that fandom has fallen in love with. I think this is clear to anyone that takes even a partial glance at Sandman fandom. This isn't a criticism - Ferdie's performance as Hob in the Netflix show has done wonders for Hob's character. He has made his version of Hob very easy to fall in love with!

But the truth is that in The Sandman comics, Hob is a minor character who we only get to know very little about. The story Hob's Leviathan appears in The Worlds End Sandman book. We only meet him twice before this, once in The Doll's House, where we are introduced to him in Men of Good Fortune, and again in Season of Mists when Dream comes to let him know that he may miss their next meeting. In both these issues, Hob is introduced via the narrator, and therefore I like to think that we are given a fairly honest representation of the kind of person he is. We watch him grow and learn throughout the centuries in MoGF, but one of the major takeaways from this I believe is that he tends to always be on the wrong side of history. He makes bad choices and can be a bit narrow minded. He is rude and selfish and also rather self-absorbed. I actually think that the performance of the voice actor who plays Hob in the Audible book emphasises these character flaws making him even more unlikeable in many ways, though I am aware that this could just be my own experience and opinion.

But Hob's Leviathan takes a different view of Hob. Literally. The narrator of this story is a young boy of 16 called Jim. Jim met Hob on a ship travelling from Bombay to Liverpool in 1914. Jim was working on the ship as a cabin boy and Hob had bought his passage back to England - though it is revealled at the end of the story that Hob actually owned the ship they were travelling on. It is clear that at this point in time, Hob is extremely wealthy.

Jim attends to Hob throughout the journey, and grows very fond of him. In Jim's tale, Hob is a good man, who is kind and thoughtful and cares about others. He saves the life of a stowaway (who turns out to be another immortal). He is shown to be patient, and funny, and very intelligent. Jim waxes poetic about how smart Hob is, and how much he impressed him. It is particularly clear in the Audible book that Jim is taken with Hob, to the point that it could arguably be a crush.

It is fascinating how much more likeable Hob is when narrated from the viewpoint of someone with a crush on him, whether this story is exaggerated through rose tinted glasses is of course something to consider. All the tales in World's End are just that, tales. There is a constant undercurrent of exaggeration and make believe to them where even the other patrons of the inn question elements to each of the stories. We are not supposed to take these stories as absolute fact, rather they are supposed to reveal to us more about the narrators as well as their own experiences existing in this magical and strange world.

When it is revealled that Jim is actually a girl called Peggy in disguise so they can get work on the ships, the quite obvious crush makes more sense to a heteronormative audience, but what I particularly like about this story is its queer potential. See in the comic, it isn't really clarified if Jim goes by Jim because they feel more themselves as a boy, rather than a girl, or if they are disguising themself as a boy just to get work as a means to an end. I would argue that the latter is the more obvious interpretation. Jim tells the other World's End patrons that they are getting too old to keep up the disguise and will eventually have to stop working in shipping, and that when that happens, they will take on a new name, a new identity and do something else, but that for now, the patrons can keep calling them Jim.

*for a lack of clarity around the point in the comic, I am going to use gender neutral pronouns for Jim going forward*

Now from Hob's POV, he figured out that Jim was a girl, and they talk about it briefly along with the sea serpent they saw. I think that at this point, Hob is impressively progressive compared to the previous times we have met him. Now whether or not this is biased storytelling from someone who has a crush on him remains to be seen, but if we take Jim's word as truth, not only is 1914 Hob a fair and honest man who is willing to pay the way of a stowaway and fully respect the secrets of a young girl disguised as a boy so they can work on ships, but he's also totally comfortable flirting with them.

I like that he calls Jim the "handsome cabin boy". I like that this version of Hob, whether real or an exaggeration skewed by Jim's feelings for him, respects Jim's identity. Jim may be a girl in disguise, but Hob doesnt call her pretty, he calls him handsome.

It's all just a bit subtly queer and I like that for Hob (But then I would do, I'm a Dreamling shipper HA)

When Jim finishes their story, they state that they didn't see Hob again after that, but the comics later do give us a possible outcome to Jim's story...

We next see Hob in The Kindly Ones where he is mourning the death of his girlfriend Audrey. He briefly reveals that Audrey was the first person he had loved since Peggy, who was his lover until her death during the Blitz. Whilst it isn't made clear that Hob's lover Peggy is the same Jim that we meet in World's End, it is a bit too much of a coincidence. The timing adds up. If Jim was 16 in 1914, they'd be in their early 40s during the Blitz. Hob remains forever in his early 30s so I'd say its a safe bet that Jim eventually found Hob again and they were together. Hob loved them enough that he wasn't with anyone again until Audrey in the 80s. That's 50 years worth of mourning. A long time not to be with anyone, even for an immortal.

It's funny because we know so little about Hob, but one thing that I have seen commented on here a lot is that comic Hob is deemed to be as Straight as an arrow. Now I admit that the voice actor in the Audible book plays him very straight, but that is still only one interpretation.

All this is to say that I am fascinated with how the Netflix show will adapt this, since Hob in the show already comes across much kinder and more selfless than his comic counterpart. He already has an entire fandom viewing him as queer, and the comics certainly don't outright shut down such interpretations. There are moments in the comics that you have to wonder on. He does call Jim handsome rather than pretty, and when he talks to Audrey's grave he mentions his wives and loves as separate groups. He talks about finding it easy to get sex if you want it, and he talks about it in generally gender neutral terms. In Sunday Mourning Gwen reveals that she thought he was gay when she first met him, though her reasonings were that he knew so many dead people (a dark reminder that these comics were published at the height of the Aids epidemic). He reacts very badly to the news of Morpheus' death. He states on several occassions just how much he liked Morpheus, and he is one of the few people to wake up from the Wake with tears running down his cheeks. I would arguably state that its between Hob and Matthew as to who had the worst reaction to Morpheus' death, showing just how much both Hob and Matthew cared about him, and placing Hob on par with Matthew in the comics is a big deal. He seriously considers accepting Death's gift when she offers it, simply because Morpheus is dead. He doesn't, because at the end of the day, its just not in his nature to do so, and given he then dreams of Morpheus, I like to think that it was a test, that he passed.

When it comes to how the show will adapt all this, I genuinely think it will take a new approach with Jim/Peggy. I think they will be either a trans man, or at least non binary. But I think having Jim be a trans man is the better option. In the comics, Jim's tale is only very subtly queer, Jim clearly likes being Jim, but it seems like its a means to an end, a convenience in order to get work on the ships, rather than being something that is core to Jim's feelings on their gender. Besides, if we assume that Jim is indeed the Peggy Hob talks about in The Kindly Ones, then we know that Jim goes back to being Peggy when they get older and apparently continues living as a woman whilst they are with Hob, otherwise I doubt Hob would have referred to one of his greatest loves by a name they themselves rejected and only used she/her pronouns when talking about them. Nevertheless there is no reason for the show to take this approach, and if they DO decide that Jim should be a trans man, then their relationship with Hob is canonically a queer one. Trans men are men and if one of Hob's greatest loves is a trans man, then Hob is a queer man himself. I genuinely believe the show will take this route and I can't wait to see it.

Going back to my point about narrators bias, if MoGF, SoM, tKO, and TW are all narrated by a neutral third party, then this must be the true Hob. A not overly likeable rather selfish man. He has his good points, and he has certainly grown and changed over the centuries, and carries a lot of guilt for his past mistakes, but he is still quite self absorbed. Jim paints a picture of a rose tinted Hob that is far more the dreamy romantic older gentleman that took a young person under his wing. Which is fair enough.

The show is of course its own adaptation, with changes from the comics as it sees fit, but I do feel it's my duty to remind you that the show also has a narrator guiding the audience through its many stories. Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, King of Nightmares and Prince of Stories himself. Take from that whatever you will.

;-)

#why yes i did just imply that show!hob comes across so likeable because we are seeing him from Dream's POV #what of it?#lmao #sandman meta #the sandman #sandman analysis #hob gadling #dreamling #dream of the endless #the worlds end #sandman comic spoilers #major sandman comic spoilers #the sandman comics

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haveawish · 8 months

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Miller's Girl Review/Recap

Spoilers for the full movie!!!

No seriously...I spoil the full movie, so if you've not seen it, turn back!!

Cairo is 18 years old bibliophile and inspiring author, who is extremely intelligent, lonely and bored of her life in Tennessee, Cairo's rich lawyer parents completely abandon her, leaving her to dwell in their mansion like a ghost left behind. Cairo seems convinced they don't care about her. That dynamic isn't explored any further sadly.

Cairo is striving to escape to Yale but struggling with her entry essay. To write about her greatest accomplishment. Cairo realizes she has none, as she’s been insulated in the bubble of her privilege or as best friend Winnie calls her “just another run-of-the-mill generationally wealthy gal living in a haunted ancestral mansion,”

The college essay is actually the catalyst for the movie. Cairo needing inspiration and along comes failed writer Jonathan Miller.

Miller is stuck in his mundane life as a literature teacher, his writing career amounting in a poorly received book and a wife who is more focused on her own career and any available alcohol than placating her husband.It’s unsurprising that Jonathan becomes drawn to Cairo — though his wife exudes sexuality, a good portion of the movie she's in her lingerie, it seems to be no match for Cairos charms.

Cairo is like a breath of fresh air to Jonathan, a young attractive girl who intellectually seems to be on the same wavelength as him and appreciates his opinion and wisdom. He thinks he finds in her a willing protégé into whom he can pour his own unrealized ambitions as a novelist.

Jonathan lets himself be seduced by Cairo’s Intelligence in literacy and flattery. Her being complimentary of his own book strokes his ego, not to mention her receptiveness to his attention.

Somewhere along the line Miller forgets himself and his boundaries as an educator, treating Cairo not as a student under his care but as a peer and fellow writer.

The movie throws in moments of mutual attraction and showcases Miller's descent into crossing the line of appropriately, keeping on pushing his own choice of college on her even after she said she was dead set on yale, sharing a cigarette multiple times, inviting the girl to an event after school filled with Miller's friends, looking like a first date as they squeeze next to one another during the reading.

With midterms looming, Jonathan gives Cairo a special assignment: write an essay in the style of an author she admires. An assignment that will soon prove fatal to his career and possibly his freedom.

A mix-up in the classroom lands Cairo’s cell phone in his possession and he breaks another unspoken boundary, he drives to his student house who he is aware lives alone to return it to her.

What follows is completely up to interpretation of the audience whether or not the two of them confront their mutual attraction. Whether the pair actually shared a forbidden kiss or if they even went further is up for debate. Something may have actually happened between them at her house. I wouldn’t be surprised if his ‘fantasy’ is actually him recalling their night together when he reads her story.

Cairo delivers her midterm essay inspired by Henry Miller, sent with the note ‘love, Cairo’.

Feeling underappreciated by his wife as usual Jonathan lurks to his man cave where he proceeds to read and masterbate to Cairo’s essay, whether Jonathan is recalling the night or imagining this would've happened between the two is never stated.

The story in which she thinly disguises Jonathan and herself as her subject and proceeds to write a smutty story almost fanfiction-like of a liaison between the two protagonists.

This finally shakes out Jonathan of his lust filled head to put a stop to things, but unfortunately for him he's already gone too far. He's toyed with Cairos growing feelings much less (potentially) with her body. As the two of them try to navigate the repercussions of their inappropriate intimacy.

Jonathan tells Cairo to scrap the essay and write a new one; the complete turn around shocks Cairo.

One day he was this cool teacher who's her friend and potentially her lover, he gives her attention and flirts with her and then next day he threatens her of failing the class. threatening to fail Cairo over the story is the worst thing he could have done in Cairos mind. If he had done it, she would've not been able to go to the college of her choice, Something extremely important to her, which he's well aware of, maybe restricting her to go to any college at all. Leaving her stranded in Tennessee would have been her worst nightmare.

What follows is the complete ruin of any type of relationship the pair had, Cairo is angry and vengeful. Jonathan's betrayal blindsighted her and as the intelligent girl she is feels that blow to her pride and her feelings. Cairo let's rip at Miller, all his insecurities laid bare, Miller eventually calls Cairo a child and she calls him a coward.

Him acknowledging her as a child is sickening now that the viewer has seen his actions throughout the movie. To him she's a femme fatale, a fantasy when he wants her to be but when things get real and serious, she's just a naive child and he knows better.

Cairo for all her scheming is still a teenage girl who for the first time has her heartbroken, and that heartbreak turns to cold rage and to get her revenge not even her best friend Winnie is safe from her plans.

Winnie is an interesting character throughout the movie that doesn't get the screen time and depth she deserves.

Winnie is a known lesbian according to Cairo, though Winnie playfully disagrees, claiming to like both as she tells Cairo of her flirtations with high school coach and Jonathan's friend Boris. Although Winnie claims to be interested in Boris, it is obvious to both the viewer and Cairo that Winnie has unrequited love or lust for Cairo.

Cairo offers to make out with Winnie and send a picture to Boris to try to get the coach jealous, perhaps getting her revenge at that moment at the coach rather than her desired revenge against Jonathan. Cairo manages to manipulate Winnie's obvious feelings for her, kissing surprisingly lustfully and hard since it was a supposed ruse, however that moment soon breaks and Cairo dismisses Winnie coldly.

Boris is shown to be a complete hypocrite. His boundaries with students are just as bad as Jonathan despite his denial. The first meeting we see of him and Jonathan is Boris stealing Cairo's erotic novel she had left behind and reading it aloud, completely ignoring any decency of Cairo's privacy. His relationship to our knowledge doesn't go as far as Cairo's and Miller's. However texting a student's personal cell at night is a violation in itself. At the end of the movie he tells Jonathan that he “never crossed the line” in complete denial of how close he could have been in the same boat as Jonathan if Winnie didn't protect him from Cairo's threats. Winnie and Cairo's friendship becomes a casualty as Cairo blackmails her silence by threatening to out Winnies situation with Boris.

His ‘survival’ for Jonathan's public fall from Grace.

The telling thing is that Cairo didn't lie when talking to the Dean.

The fact that Cairo told the total truth to the dean leads me to believe that the kiss we saw wasn't real, she was all set to ruin his life and mentioning the kiss would've been the sure way to do that, however she didn't mention it once.

I believe Cairo is many things..but I don't believe she is a liar.

Honestly kiss or no kiss, it doesn't really matter.

Even more confirmation that Miller is not the victim of this story. The dean was asking all the right questions to find out if he did anything inappropriate. The fact that every answer she gave was the truth and the dean looked disgusted is proof in itself. She had a meeting with Cairo first, and Jonathan confirmed everything that Cairo said but was trying to excuse his actions the entire time. The dean thankfully didn't buy into his excuses.

Jonathan Miller is the Villain of this story, his choices were what lead him on this path, he could have done what any respectable teacher would have done and shut Cairo's flirtations down, but his ego and attraction won over his common sense.

Cairo’s actions do not cancel out her victimhood.

The Ending however was a bit too ambiguous for my taste. Through it all, Jenna Ortega is captivating enough to keep me watching. Freeman is completely overshadowed by not only Ortega’s performance, but most of the supporting cast. “like imitation crab in gas station sushi” is a very accurate description to his portrayal of the very one note character.

Cairo Sweet may be the character I will defend absolutely. A morally grey protagonist who deserved better.

#millers girl #miller's girl #millers girl spoilers #miller's girl spoilers #movie review #movie recap #cairo sweet #jonathan miller #jenna ortega #martin freeman

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tarotwithavi · 1 year

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How do your classmates and teachers view you?

A general depiction of how your classmates and teachers see you and think of you.

Choose the picture that attracts you and you can choose two piles. Leave a note to support. And have a nice day!

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Take deep breaths and fix your posture.

Pile 1

Hello pile 1 ! You're classmates see you as someone who's competitive and likes winning. You give off the vibe of higher achiever. You might also see that your classmates also see you as a competition and might compare their grades with you. For some of you I'm getting that you might be very popular in school because of your intelligence and knowledge and this might attract some jealousy. Your classmates see you as someone who is always in their own world and does their own thing and very passionate about their studies. Someone who takes their academic life seriously. You're okay with enjoying with your friends and skipping classes but when it's time to study or when you feel like you should study, you became very serious and forget your surroundings.

On the other hand your teachers see you as someone who balances their studies with their hobbies and is a mixture of topper and disguised troublemaker. Your teachers see you as someone who is going to succeed in life. You know the type of student who the teachers believe is going to be great person or is going to get a lot of fame. Someone who doesn't compromise their education for a short time fun. Your teachers see that you can become a perfect judge because of your unbiased opinions and advices. Your teachers see you as a hardworker too. They also see you as someone who makes stupid compromises? Oh I get it they see you as someone who doesn't realize their worth and how capable you are. You tend to underestimate yourself.

Pile 2

Alright pile 2 ! Your classmates see you as the forever helpful and nice classmates. The one who is always ready to help and explain the topics again if someone asks them to. Probably the second teacher of the class Or the head of the class. I'm also getting that your classmates see you as their friend and the coolest classmate. I'm also getting that your classmates recognize you for your art or creativeness. Maybe you sketch, paint, draw or sing? They see you as the down to earth person. The one who is nice to everyone and has good relations with everyone. They also see you as the mother of the friend group or the person who can vibe with anyone ( are you guys for real? How do you do that? What's your secret? ) Anyways , I'm also getting that your classmates like you a lot. And some might be crushing on you.

Okay so for your teachers I'm getting that they see you as "My buddy" Or "save this student at all cost " Or something like that. Now take that how it resonates but I'm also getting that they might think that you lack confidence? They see you as someone who is good with everyone but likes to do their work alone. They type to do the group assignment all by themselves even though they got paired with their friends. Your teachers see you as the student who's ready nice but won't tolerate bullshit and hates to be told what to do and how to do certain things. Your teachers might think that you won't ask for help and is a little hesitant to talk to people sometimes. They see you as Someone assertive. And needs to gain confidence.

Pile 3

Welcome pile3! I'm getting that your classmates see you as the person who's working very hard and trying their best. The type of student who always has their nose buried in books and always talk about the next test and the subjects they are bad at. For some of you I'm getting that your classmates think that you're hiding something. I'm also getting that they see you as someone who has a whole different personality at school and changes into their different self the second they feet leave school. You give off the vibe of Peter Parker. For example how he is a super hero but no one knows that. Even at school people see him as the average student . You might skip school a lot too. I just heard " There's a lot about me that people don't know. And I would like to keep it that way" . They also see you as someone who tries very hard to be like everyone else.

Your teachers really be hyping you up. They want to see you succeed and see all your wishes come true. There's a male teachers who really has high hopes for you and wishes the best for you. For some of you I'm getting that there's a female teachers who's very strict and might be called rude, who Sees the potential in you. You might be being burdened by work from this teacher but in her mind she's doing the best for you. Your teachers see that you're tired and stuck. They think that you're going through something that you don't want to share. And they wish that you would be a little good to yourself. I heard " You're doing great sweetie" . Your teachers see you as someone who has had enough and just wants to rest. They see you as someone who needs to rest and recover and remain positive.

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 8 months

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Frev friendships — Fouché and the Robespierre siblings

A circumstance relating to one of the most important crises of my life must here be mentioned. By a singular chance, I had been acquainted with Maximilian Robespierre, at the time I was professor of philosophy in the town of Arras, and had even lent him money, to enable him to take up his abode in Paris, when he was appointed deputy to the National Assembly. Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 12. Fouché first arrived in Arras in 1788.

Robespierre didn’t like science, but he thought it useful for his vanity to research Fouché and to annoy him several hours per day in his office in order to acquire the reputation of scholar. Often, in order to appear intelligent, he interrupted his physics demonstrations to reproach him for being a materialist. Note written by Barère, probably shortly after thermidor. Cited in Fouché: les silences de la pieuvre (2014) by Emmanuel de Waresquiel.

Fouché’s first need […] was to tell me his entire life story, a recital that I find in my notes written down that very day as it seemed interesting for me to keep: […] I (Fouché) had known [Robespierre] since our youth, we had belonged to the same academy. I then had occasions to prove to him his inadequacy, a relative insufficiency because he was judged poorly. He had some talent, a strong, persevering will; simplicity, no greed; but he was all puffed up with a pride that I had humiliated. De 1800 à 1812. Un aide de camp de Napoléon. Mémoires du général compte de Ségar (1894), page 438. According to Robespierre (2014) by Hervé Leuwers, it would not appear Fouché joined the arrageois literary society Rosati of which Robespierre was a member, a claim which is nevertheless often invoked.

Fouché had shown the most ardent patriotism, the most sacred devotion since the beginning of the revolution. My brother, who believed him sincere, had accorded him his friendship and his esteem; he spoke to me of him as a proven democrat, and introduced him to me in praising him and asking me to give him my esteem. Fouché, after having been introduced to me by my brother, came to see me assiduously, and had those regards and attentions that one has for a person in whom one is particularly interested. Fouché was not handsome, but he had a charming wit and was extremely amiable. He spoke to me of marriage, and I admit that I felt no repugnance for that bond, and that I was well enough disposed to accord my hand to he whom my brother had introduced to me as a pure democrat and his friend. I did not know that Fouché was only a hypocrite, a swindler, a man without convictions, without morals, and capable of doing anything to satisfy his frenzied ambition. He knew so well how to disguise his vile sentiments and his malicious passions in my eyes as in my brother’s eyes, that I was his dupe as well as Maximilien. I responded to his proposition that I wanted to think about it and consult my brother, and I asked him the time to resolve myself. I spoke of it, effectively, to Robespierre, who showed no opposition to my union with Fouché. Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 122-123. Charlotte places the courtship in the midst of the revolution, which can hardly be accurate given the fact Fouché was already married by then, but it does sound likely for it to have happened somewhere between 1788 and 1790, when both of them were unmarried and lived in Arras.

When [Robespierre and I] again met at the Convention, we, at first, saw each other frequently; but the difference of our opinions, and perhaps, the still greater dissimilarity of our dispositions, soon caused a separation. One day, at the conclusion of a dinner given at my house, Robespierre began to declaim with much violence against the Girondins, particularly abusing Vergniaud, who was present. I was much attached to Vergniaud, who was a great orator, and a man of unaffected manners. I went round to him, and advancing towards Robespierre, said to him, "Such violence may assuredly enlist the passions on your side, but will never obtain for you esteem and confidence." Robespierre, offended, left the room; and it will shortly be seen how far this malignant man carried his animosity against me. Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 12

Lamartine, in the first edition of his Girondins, wrote the following: ”A very small number of friends of Robespierre and Duplay were one after another taken into this intimity: sometimes the Lameths; Le Bas, Saint-Just, always; Panis, Sergent, Coffinhal, Fouché, who liked Robespierre’s sister and who Robespierre didn’t like, Taschereau, Legendre, Le Boucher, Merlin de Thionville, Couthon, Pétion, Camille Desmoulins, Buonarotti, roman patriot… […]” On the placard corrected by the widow and son of Philippe Le Bas, these words are replaced by the following ones: ”The Lamenths and Pétion in the early days, quite rarely Legendre, Merlin de Thionville and Fouché, who liked Robespierre’s sister and who Robespierre didn’t like, often Taschereau, Desmoulins and Teault, always Lebas, Saint-Just, David, Couthon and Buonarotti.” Le conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901) page 83-84. This could be read as Élisabeth Le Bas confirming, or at least not denying, that there existed links between Charlotte and Fouché.

…The representatives of the people in Commune-Affranchie, using the powers entrusted to them for the surrounding departments, have already purged several administrations in the department of Allier. So consult with your colleagues by going to Commune-Affranchie. The instructions that Fouché has acquired relative to the department of Allier, where he resided for a long time, will be all the more useful to you since, animated by the same principles, the same effects must result from your common energy. Letter from the CPS to Petitjean, written by Robespierre, January 8 1794

The Committee of Public Safety decides 1, that citizen Reverchon immediately travels to Ville-Affranchie to organise revolutionary government and that he, together with Méaulle, takes all the measures that the interests of the republic need. 2, that the representative Fouché immediately travels to Paris to give to the Committee of Public Safety the neccesary clarifications about the affairs in Ville-Affranchie 3, that all procedurs against the popular society in Ville-Affranchie, and especially against the patriots that were subjected to persecution under the reign of Précy and the federalistes, are suspended. The representative Reverchon and his colleges will severely persecute the enemies of the Republic, protect the true friends of the Republic, help the patriots in need and assure the triumph of liberty through a constant and inflexible energy. Committee of Public Safety decree recalling Fouché from Lyon, written by Robespierre (and signed by him, Collot d’Herbois, Billaud-Varennes, C-A Prieur, Carnot and Barère) on March 27 1794

The Committee of Public Safety, alarmed by the fate of patriots in Commune-Affranchie, considering that the oppression of a single one of them would be a triumph for the enemies of the Revolution and a mortal blow to freedom, orders that all proceedings against the Popular Society of Commune-Affranchie, and particularly against the patriots who were persecuted under the reign of the federalists and Precy, will be suspended: it further orders that the representative of people Fouché immediately travels to Paris to give to the Committee of Public Safety the neccesary clarifications about the affairs in Ville-Affranchie. Committee of Public Safety decree recalling Fouché from Lyon, written by Robespierre (and signed by him, Collot d’Herbois, Billaud-Varennes, C-A Prieur, Carnot, Barère, Saint-Just and Couthon) on March 27 1794 (don’t know why there exists two seperate decrees)

I have since learned that the step I took opposite Robespierre - viz, of calling upon him - was attempted about the same time, and with as little success, by Tallien and Fouché, each of them on his own part. I have learned that their eloquence likewise struck against a determined deaf-mute, and that to all their gentle, forcible, friendly, respectful, and feeling words Robespierre vouchsafed no other answer than an obstinate silence, an expressionless physiognomy, and neither word nor sign. There is in a like silence, on the part of a man wielding the scep tre of death, something more fearful to the imagination than uttered threats. Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 206

It is known well enough in what way [Collot and Fouché] conducted themselves [in Lyon]; it is known that they made blood flow in torrents, and plunged the second city of the republic into fright and consternation. Robespierre was outraged by it. […] I was present for the interview that Fouché had with Robespierre upon his return. My brother asked him to account for the bloodshed he had caused, and reproached him for his conduct with such energy of expression that Fouché was pale and trembling. He mumbled a few excuses and blamed the cruel measures he had taken on the gravity of the circumstances. Robespierre replied that nothing could justify the cruelties of which he had been guilty; that Lyon, it was true, had been in insurrection against the National Convention, but that that was no reason to have unarmed enemies gunned down en masse. From that day forth, Fouché was the most irreconcilable enemy of my brother, and joined the faction conspiring his death. I would only learn this later. Fouché never again set foot in my apartment, but I met him from time to time on the Champs-Elysées, where walked almost every day. He addressed me as if nothing had happened between him and my brother. When I learned that he was Maximilien’s declared enemy, I no longer wanted to talk to him. Despicable words have been spoken about me on the subject of that man, some have dared to say that I was his mistress before and after 9 Thermidor; this is an abominable calumny! Never did Fouché cease to have the greatest respect for me; and if in his discourse he had included any words tending to make me neglect my duty, I would have left him that very instant. Besides, Fouché had only sought my hand because my eldest brother occupied premier place on the political stage. That honorific of Robespierre’s brother-in-law flattered his pride and his ambition; to judge by that man’s conduct since, everything was a calculation with him, and, if he pretended to love me, that’s because he saw it was in his interest. What would have become of me if I had married such a being? Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834)

Robespierre murmured a lot about the forms that we had established in Lyon for the execution of decrees: he constantly repeated that there was no reason to judge the guilty when they are outlawed. He exclaimed that we had let the families of the condemned go free; and when the commission sent the Convention and the committee the list of its judgments, he was not in control of his anger as he cast his eyes on the column where the names of the citizens who had been acquitted were written. Unable to change anything in the forms of judgment, regulated according to the decrees and approved by the committee, he imagined another system; he questioned whether the patriots of Commune-Affranchie were not vexed and under oppression. They were, he said, because the property of the condemned being specially intended, by article IV of the decree of July 12, to become their patrimony, we had greatly reduced their claims, not only by not judging only a quarter of the number of conspirators identified by Dubois-Crancé on 23 Vendémiare, or designated by previous decrees, but also by establishing a commission which appeared willing to acquit two thirds, as it happened. Through these declamations Robespierre wanted to entertain the patriots of whom he spoke, with the most violent ideas, to throw into their minds a framework of extraordinary measures, and to put them in opposition with the representatives of the people and their closest cooperators: he made them understand that they could count on him, he emboldened them to form all kinds of obstacles, to only follow his indications which he presented as being the intentions of the Committee of Public Safety. Collot d’Herbois’ explanation of Robespierre’s dislike for his and Fouché’s Lyon activities in Défense de J-M. Collot, répresentant du peuple. Éclaircissemens nécessaires sur ce qui s’est passé à Lyon (alors Commune-Affranchie), l’année dernière; pour faire suite aux rapports des Répresentants du peuple, envoyés vers cette commune, avant, pendant et après le siège (1794), somewhat the polar opposite of Charlotte’s version.

Robespierre accused Fouché of having dishonored the Revolution by exaggerating all measures and erecting atheism as a doctrine. ”No, Fouché," he said to him in the hall of the Jacobins, ”death is not an eternal sleep." Besides, to use his own expression, he believed he "held him in his power in the matter of honesty,” as Fouché had been charged with not having been any too strictly faithful on the occasion of his mission to Lyons, where, outstripping his epoch in those early days, he was believed to have enjoyed a foretaste of that corrupt century. Reports, possibly mendacious, had reached Robespierre, according to which Fouché is said to have, in the midst of the demolition of the dwellings in the town doomed to endure his cruelty, behaved somewhat like the incendiaries who carry on their business by the light of the flames. It is that which caused Robespierre to assume so lofty a manner against Fouché, because Fouché was supposed to have begun "to make money" at a time when no one in the Republic had so far dreamed of doing such a thing, either because of the Terror, which was not disposed to indulgence towards thieves, or because of a sentiment of genuine honesty which dominated men whose sole thought was the defence of the Republic. Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 208-209

Fouché reads a report regarding Commune-Affranchie, where he was sent. After having brought up the slander repeated against the representatives sent to this commune, he proves by several observations the need of the measures that they took and the punishments that they handed out. He proves that the blood of crime fertilizes the soil of liberty and consolidates its power on unshakeable foundations. He also develops through much reflection the measures he was obliged to take in the last moments.

A citizen demands the floor in order to speak against Fouché.

Robespierre, after having declared that Fouché’s report is incomplete, pays homage to the patriotism of this representative and to the citizen who presented himself to speak against him. He presents some observations on what has gone down in Commune-Affranchie, and announces that the patriots, the friends of Chalier, and the companions of his suffering have been too modest against the schemers who put themselves in their place, and who introduced themselves among the patriots sent from Paris. He protests that without the schemers, the true patriots already would have plunged the whole conspiracy into nothingness. He recognizes that they have legitimate complaints to make, but he assures that the Committee of Public Safety, which is aware of them, has taken all the necessary measures to establish liberty in these unfortunate countries. Consequently, he invites the patriot who wants to speak, to put aside any kind of bitterness, to develop the facts and to give the knowledge that he considers useful.

I recognize, says this citizen, the validity of the principles of Robespierre, you will subsequently know all the facts. The truth will pierce through all the clouds; I’m backing down. (applauds) Robespierre and Fouché at the Jacobins, April 8 1794

Sure of having sown the seed, I had the courage to defy [Robespierre], on the 20th Prairial (June 8 1794), a day on which, actuated with the ridiculous idea of solemnly acknowledging the existence of the Supreme Being, he dared to proclaim himself both his will and agent, in presence of all the people assembled at the Tuileries. As he was ascending the steps of his lofty tribune, whence he was to proclaim his manifesto in favour of God, I predicted to him aloud (twenty of my colleagues heard it) that his fall was near. Memoirs of Fouché (1825) page 20

A deputation from the Society of Nevers presents itself at the tribune in order to repel charges directed against it. After having summarized the things done for the public sake by the Society which has sent him, the orator announces that the patriots have their souls broken and compromised in Nevers, because of atrocious persecutions of which they are every day the unfortunate victims.

Fouché (currently serving as president of the Jacobins): Your society deserves severe reproaches. If it is true to say that the impure breath of Chaumette could not exert its disastrous influence there during his stay in Nevers, it seems at least certain that the shadow of this conspirator hovers there today. Imprisoned suspects were released, and your Society made no complaint. Ardent and pure patriots, true sans-culottes, were slandered by federalist lawyers, and your Society remained silent. Finally, its correspondence is insignificant, it is null. As the Jacobins do not know how to disguise any truth, I make it my duty, on their behalf, to point out some false and very weak ideas that you have just expressed. The patriots, you say, have their souls compromised at this moment in Nevers. Citizens, strong hearts can never be compromised; Republicans know how to die for the truth as well as for liberty, and the perfidious person who tells you that he is not free to express his thoughts is a coward; the crime is in his heart, he complains of not being able to produce it. You hand us, as proof of your opposition to the maxims of the conspirators, the celebration that you are preparing for the Supreme Being; but in this you are only obeying the impulse given to nature. Add to this natural impulse the strength and courage to dedicate yourself to the defense of patriots and the annihilation of their oppressors; the exercise of democratic virtues. Brutus paid homage worthy of the Supreme Being by bringing the blade into the heart of the one who conspired against the liberty of his homeland.

I don't know, says Robespierre immediately, if the Society understood the motive and the object of the approach of the members of the Society of Nevers; I ask if the president's response can shed some light on this point. For my part, I assure you that I don't understand anything about it. If the president knows everything that concerns morals, it is his duty to explain. Everyone knows that Nevers was one of the main centers of the conspiracies hatched by Chaumette, in concert with the supporters of the foreign faction. We must remember that he abandoned his post as national agent, near the Paris Commune where he appeared to play a major role, to go, under a frivolous pretext, to plot in the commune of Nevers: it is important that we learn from what we were able to discover on such a journey. I ask that the president explain his response to us, and tell us frankly what he thinks.

Fouché takes the floor to give clarifications. He announces that, having served as representative of the people in the department of Nièvre at the time when the scoundrel Chaumette arrived in Nevers under the pretext of enjoying the native air, he didn’t hear from his mouth any counterrevolutionary expression; that he only saw him while in public, that, the popular society believing this Chaumette to be a zealous defender of liberty, it took him in without difficulty and without defiance. Fouché thinks that this immoral man hid away, because he saw the constitutional authorities strongly attached to good principles, and that he conspired in secret, and then returned to Paris to there continue his execrable profession of assassin of all public and private morality. As for the deputation that has just been heard, Fouché declares that, as the Society of Nevers has been indirectly attacked, it will send a deputation of its members to respond to the imputations that have been made against it, that there was a time when suspicious people, arrested, then released, and finally imprisoned again, managed to obtain an arrest order against the patriots. “This,” he says, “is all I know; I reproached the deputation on the weakness of the letters written by the Society of Nevers, and on the insignificance of its correspondence. The deputation presented its address to me when it entered, and it is on that I’m basing my answer.

Robespierre is surprised that the president and the delegation only say insignificant things that cannot enlighten the Society. He declares that Chaumette having hatched his plots in Nevers, it is impossible that neither the representative nor the Société populaire had knowledge of some of the maneuvers he employed. He recalls that at the moment when the Convention took a vigorous decision against the infernal plot of Chaumette, the Society of Nevers sent the Convention an address in which the decree was faulted.

Fouché observes that this adress wasn’t from the Society of Nevers, but from that of Moulins.

Robespierre replies that the latter is right next to to the other, that both corresponded to each other and that the information must have been the same; he continues by maintaining that the Society is isn’t instructed by the details that have just been given to it, and one has not sufficiently characterized the men who are called patriots, and those who are declared triumphant aristocrats. He is surprised to hear congratulations on the decree issued yesterday, mixed with observations presented by the Society of Nevers, as if this society could be aware of this decree. It is not by sentences, as he observes, but by conduct and facts that one must judge men: instead of stopping at the language of the deputation, one must ask the Society of Nevers if it fought Chaumette and foiled his horrible schemes? Very often the greatest enemies of the people use republican expressions, to better deceive unsuspecting citizens. It is not a question, he says, of throwing mud on the grave of Chaumette, when this monster has already perished on the scaffold. For a long time people have done evil while speaking the language of republicans. Today someone is spewing imprecations against Danton, who until recently was his accomplice. There are others who appear all fired up to defend the Committee of Public Safety, and who then sharpen daggers against it. The enemies of liberty have retained the same audacity, they have not changed their system; they do not want to appear to separate themselves from the patriots; they praise and flatter them; they even make vague imprecations against tyrants, and at the same time they conspire for their cause! It is to their friends the conspirators that they give the name of patriots; and it is the latter that they designate by the name of aristocrats: they surround the Committee of Public Safety and the representatives of the people only to intrigue, to lead them astray and thus destroy the Revolution. There are still two parties within the Republic: on the one hand patriotism and probity; on the other, the counter-revolutionary spirit, the crookedness and the improbity which are bent on the ruin of empires and the virtue of humankind. Patriots, you who in the career of the Revolution have only sought the public good, you who did nor go into it to serve a criminal faction, be more than ever on your guard; evil men use all imaginable artifices to destroy the Convention and slaughter the defenders of the homeland. Do not fall asleep in a false security, do not abandon the Convention and the government of which it is the center: let courageous voices be raised to make the truth known, stifle the clamors of the intriguers who surround us daily, who change patriotism into aristocracy, and reciprocally aristocracy into patriotism. Do not tire of instructing us, rest assured that the wish to sacrifice ourselves for all patriots is always deeply engraved in our hearts, that we are resolved to defend persecuted virtue with all our power, and to fight with strength and constancy the enemies of liberty and patriotism. This is the wish that I address, on behalf of the representatives, to the oppressed patriots; it is not natural that we remain indifferent on their account: the first of the republican virtues is to watch over innocence. Pure patriots, one is waging a war to the death against you, save yourselves, save with you all the friends of liberty.

Robespierre’s speech is followed by the liveliest applause.

Fouché observes that he hasn’t wanted to reproach the Society of Nevers for not having denounced Chaumette. This society didn’t know him as a conspirator, it wouldn’t have been late to accuse him warmly, had it suspected him of this. Robespierre and Fouché at the Jacobins, June 11 1794

Five days after (June 12) in full committee, [Robespierre] demanded my head and that of eight of my friends, reserving to himself the destruction of twenty more at a later period. How great was his astonishment, and what was his rage, upon finding amongst the members of the committee an invincible opposition to his sanguinary designs against the national representation! It has already been too much mutilated, said they to him, and it is high time to put a stop to a deliberate and progressive cutting-down, which at last will include ourselves. Finding himself in a minority, he withdrew, choked with rage and disappointment, swearing never to set foot again in the committee, so long as his will should be opposed. He immediately sent for St. Just, who was with the army, rallied Couthon under his sanguinary banner, and by his influence over the revolutionary tribunal, still made the Convention, and all those who were operated on by fear, to tremble. Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 20

Robespierre: The example of Commune-Affranchie can explain a theory that I have already noted. The patriots defend the patriots with all their means; they give no rest to the intriguers and traitors, they constantly badger and fight them; aristocrats do precisely the opposite. I knew Chalier at a time when the patriotic representatives of the people were themselves persecuted. It was he who first discovered Roland's perfidy, and denounced him to me for keeping an immense store of libels at his home, directed against the Mountain and against me. Chalier had no sooner known this conspiring minister than he abandoned him and renounced the justice he had come to demand from him, not wanting to owe anything to a traitor who sought to ignite civil war in France.

[Robespierre] adds that since this moment he has only known Chalier through the acts of heroism and virtue which immortalized his name. The enemies of the people were only able to establish their triumph through the assassination of this man, as patriotic as he was intrepid. He recalls the courage of this republican at the time of his torture, prolonged by the villainy of the aristocrats of Lyon who brought the ax down on his head four times, which he raised each time, crying out in a dying voice: Long live the Republic, attach the cockade to me.

After this touching story, Robespierre goes into detail about the services rendered by Chalier's friends; he knows them all, he also knows their persecutors. The fate of the former was to be oppressed by all the factions that succeeded one another. They opposed these tyrannical and unprecedented vexations with a calm and patience of which it is impossible to find an example in the history of any people.

When the overly prolonged siege of Lyon was over, and this commune had been returned to the power of the Republic, the friends of Chalier were not restored to the goodness that they had so well deserved by their constant virtue. One took care to make sure Précy and all the other conspirators escaped, although one went so far as to making the trick of the Committee the supposed remains of this monster. The gate of Lyon was opened to them at the very moment when the Republican army entered, and they left through the gate where the army corps commanded by Dubois-Crancé was, which remained motionless.

Another cause of the impunity of the conspirators is that national justice has not been exercised with the degree of force and action that the interests of a great people require and command. The temporary commission initially displayed energy, but soon it gave way to human weakness which too soon tires of serving the homeland, and it lost with all its courage, its devotion and its purity. After having given in to the insinuations of the perverse aristocrats, the persecution was established against the patriots themselves: the cause of this criminal change can be found in the seduction of certain women, and it is to these terrible maneuvers that we can attribute the despair that led Gaillard to kill himself.

Reduced to escape, the patriots come to submit their complaints to the Committee of Public Safety, which rescues them from persecution, and suppresses their odious persecutors with fear. Thus, virtue will be eternally exposed to the traits of two factions which, opposed in apperance, always rally to sacrifice the patriots. Here [Robespierre] swears to avenge Chalier, Gaillard and all the victims of the infamous aristocracy.

The speaker's principles are to stop the shedding of human blood caused by crime: the authors of the plots denounced, on the contrary, only aspire to immolate all patriots and especially the National Convention, since the Committee indicated the vices from which it must purge itself. Who are those who have constantly distinguished error from crime, and who have defended lost patriots? Isn’t it the members of the Committee? Those who demand justice can only be formidable to the leaders of the factions, and those who want to destroy the members of the Committee in public opinion can have no other intention than to serve the projects of the tyrants interested in the fall of a Committee which disconcerts them and will soon destroy them.

Robespierre ends by denouncing the author of all these maneuvers who is the same one who persecuted the patriots at Commune-Affranchie, with a cunning, a perfidy as cowardly as it is cruel: the Committee of Public Safety was not his dupe. He asks, finally, that justice and virtue triumph, that innocence be peaceful and the people victorious over all their enemies, and that the Convention puts all petty intrigues under its feet.

Couthon, who had interrupted Robespierre in order to cite charges against Dubois-Crancé regarding the siege of Commune-Affranchie, proposes that he be struck from the club’s list of members (adopted).

At the suggestion of Robespierre, Fouché is invited to come and exonerate himself of the reproaches which have been addressed to him before the Society. Robespierre at the Jacobins, July 11 1794

One reads a letter from Fouché, in which he asks the Society to suspend their judgement up until the Committees of Public Safety and General Security have made their report on his private and public conduct.

Robespierre: I begin by making the declaration that I am not interested in the individual Fouché at all. I could be connected to him because I thought him a patriot. When I denounced him here, it was less because of his past crimes than because he hid away in order to commit others, and because I regarded him as the leader of the conspiracy which we have to thwart.

I examine the letter which was just read out, and I see that it is written by a man who, being accused for crimes, refuses to justify himself before his fellow citizens. This is the beginning of a system of tyranny. He who refuses to answer to a Popular Society whose member he is, is a man who attacks the institution of Popular Societies. This contempt for the Society of the Jacobins is all the more inexcusable as Fouché himself has not refused his suffrage when he was denounced by the patriots from Nevers, and as he even took refuge on the [president’s] seat of the Jacobins. He was placed there because he had agents in this Society, who had been at Commune-Affranchie. He delivers a great speech to you on his conduct in the mission with which he had been charged. I will not seek to analyse this speech. The Society has judged that Fouché does not want to say anything, as his reflections are insignificant.

It is surprising that the one who, at the time of which I speak, craved the approval of the Society, neglects it when he is denounced, and that he seems to implore, so to speak, the aid of the Convention against the Jacobins. Does he fear the eyes and ears of the people? Does he fear that his sad face visibly presents crime, that six thousand looks fixed on him discover his entire soul in his eyes, and that, in spite of nature which has hidden them, one reads his thoughts there? Does he fear that his speech reveals the embarrassment and the contradictions of a culprit? A reasonable man has to judge that fear is the only motive of Fouché’s conduct ; well, the man who fears the looks of his fellow citizens is a culprit. He uses [the fact] as a pretext that his denunciation is sent to the Committee of Public Safety ; but is he forgetting that the tribunal of the public conscience is the most infallible? Why does he refuse to present himself here?

The obligation to give an account of his mission to the Committees of Public Safety and of General Security, which are the government, and to the Convention, which is its source or, rather, which is the government by definition, this obligation, I say, does not destroy the one of appearing respectable in the eyes of a Society, and does not excuse appearing to put it in contradiction with the Convention. A representative is responsible for his actions to the Convention; but a good citizen does not discard appearing before his fellow citizens. If the system of Fouché could dominate, it would follow that those who have denounced schemes outside of the Convention have committed a crime. This was the conduct of all conspirators, who, from the moment onwards when one has wanted to judge them, shunned this Society and denounced it to the different National Assemblies as a gathering of factious [persons].

I here call Fouché into judgement. He shall respond and he shall say who, among him and us, has borne the rights of the representatives of the people with more dignity, and struck down all factions with more courage? Was it him who unveiled the Héberts and the Chaumettes, when they hatched assassination plots and wanted to debase the Convention? No! It was us who, on this tribune, when the Hébertists claimed to be more patriotic than us, unmasked them openly. It was us who silenced the false denunciations.

They shall say if they would have been listened to here, these men who had only served the Revolution in order to dishonour it and to make it turn to the benefit of the foreign [powers] and of the aristocracy! All the vile agents who have conspired did not see their likes unveiled and punished sooner than they seemed to abandon their cause ; and, because we had dismissed the perfidiously spread calumnies against the Convention, they extended this principle onto themselves in such a way as to render it tyrannical. The slightest words against this kind of men have been regarded as crimes by them; terror was the means which they used in order to force the patriots into silence. They threw those into prison who had the courage to break it; and this is the crime for which I reproach Fouché!

He will not say that it were the principles of the Convention that he has professed ; the intention of the Convention is not to throw terror into the soul of the patriots, nor to carry out the dissolution of the Popular Societies. Which means would thus remain to us, if, while plotters conspire and prepare daggers in order to assassinate us, we could not speak in the presence of the Friends of Liberty?

Robespierre then declares that Fouché is a vile and despicable impostor ; that his move is the confession of his crimes and that the action which he takes is similar to the one of the Brissots and of the other crooks who slander the Society as soon as they are chased from it. He assures that virtue will never sacrificed to baseness, nor [will] liberty [be sacrificed] to men whose hands are full of rapines and crimes. I do not want to add anything, he says while closing; Fouché himself has characterised himself enough. I have made all these observations, so that the conspirators know once and for all that they must never hope to escape the surveillance of the people.

A citizen from Commune-Affranchie reports some serious facts against Fouché. The Society sends them to the Committee of Public Safety and, upon the motion of a member, Fouché is excluded from the Society.

The citizens Tolède and Dessyrier, who found themselves at Commune-Affranchie in the days of Fouché, and who claim to be accused, mount the tribune.

Robespierre observes that these two citizens divert, without wanting it, the attention away from Fouché, and that his cause must not be common with theirs. He recalls that the conspirators have always sought to save themselves by placing themselves beside pure patriots ; he hence invites Tolède and Dessyrier not to interrupt a discussion wherein they are not involved. – After members did justice to the patriotism of these citizens, they descend from the tribune. Robespierre at the Jacobins, July 14 1794

They are strange accomplices of Robespierre, those who, against his will, made a political report on the religious troubles, sheltered from all research in this matter the representatives of the people sent on mission in the departments, defended Tallien, Dubois-Crance, Fouché, Bourdon de l'Oise, and other representatives whom he relentlessly pursued. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de Salut Public et de sûreté générale aux imputations renouvelées contre eux par Laurent Lecointre, de Versailles, et déclarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier, à la Convention Nationale (1795) by Barère, Collot d’Herbois, Vadier and Billaud-Varennes

One man alone in the Convention appeared to enjoy an inexpugnable popularity: this was Robespierre, a man full of pride and cunning; an envious and vindictive being, who was never satiated with the blood of his colleagues; and who, by his capacity, steadiness, the clearness of his head, and the obstinacy of his character, surmounted circumstances the most appalling. Availing himself of his preponderance in the Committee of Public Safety, he openly aspired, not only to the tyranny of the decemviri, but to the despotism of the dictatorship of Marius and Sylla. One step more would have given him the masterdom of the revolution, which it was his audacious ambition to govern at his will; but thirty victims more were to be sacrificed, and he had marked them out in the convention.

He well knew that I understood him; and I, therefore, was honoured by being inscribed upon his tablets at the head of those doomed to destruction. I was still on a mission, when he accused me of oppressing the patriots and tampering with the aristocracy. Being recalled to Paris, I dared to call upon him from the tribune, to make good his accusation. He caused me to be expelled from the Jacobins, of whom he was the high-priest; this was for me equivalent to a decree of proscription. I did not trifle in contending for my head, nor in long and secret deliberations with such of my colleagues as were threatened with my own fate. I merely said to them, among others to Legendre, Tallien, Dubois de Crancé, Daunou and Chénier: “You are on the list, you are on the list as well as myself, I am certain of it!” Tallien, Barras, Bourdon de l'Oise and Dubois de Crancé evinced some energy. Tallien contended for two lives, of which one was then dearer to him than his own: he therefore resolved upon assassinating the future dictator, even in the Convention itself. But what a hazardous chance was this! Robespierre’s popularity would have survived him, and we should have been immolated to his manes. I therefore dissuaded Tallien from an isolated enterprise, which would have destroyed the man, but preserved his system.

Convinced that other means must be resorted to, I went straight to those who shared with Robespierre the government of terror, and whom I knew to be envious or fearful of his immense popularity. I revealed to Collot d'Herbois, to Carnot, to Billaud-Varennes, the designs of the modern Appius; and I presented to each of them separately, so lively and so true a picture of the danger of their situation, I urged them with so much address and good fortune, that I insinuated into their breasts more than mistrust, but the courage of henceforth opposing the Tyrant in any further decimating of the Convention. "Count the votes,” said I to them, “in your committee, and you will see, that when you are determined, he will be reduced to the powerless minority of a Couthon and a Saint-Just. Refuse him your votes, and compel him to stand alone by your vis inertiæ.” But what contrivances, what expedients were necessary to avoid exasperating the Jacobin club, the Seides, and the partisans of Robespierre.

My eye was on him; and seeing him reduced to a single faction, I secretly urged such of his enemies who still clung to the committee, at least to remove the artillery from Paris, who were all devoted to Robespierre and the Commune, and to deprive Henriot of his command or at least to suspend him. The first measure I obtained, thanks to the firmness of Carnot, who alleged the necessity of sending reinforcements of artillery to the army. As to depriving Henriot of his command, that appeared too hazardous; Henriot remained, and was near losing all, or rather, to speak the truth, it was he, who on the 9th Thermidor (the 27th July) ruined the cause of Robespierre, the triumph of which was for a short time in his power. But what could be expected from a drunken and stupid ci-devant footman.

What follows is too well known for me to dwell upon it. It is notorious how Maximilian the First perished; a man whom certain authors have compared to the Gracchi, to whom he bore not the slightest resemblance, either in eloquence or elevation of mind. I confess that in the delirium of victory, I said to those who thought that his views tended to the dictatorship: "You do him too much honour; he had neither plan, nor design: far from disposing of futurity, he was drawn along, and did but obey an impulse he could neither oppose nor govern." But at that time I was too near a spectator of events justly to appreciate their history. The sudden overthrow of the dreadful system which suspended the nation between life and death, was doubtless a grand epoch of liberty; but, in this world, good is ever mixed with evil. What took place after Robespierre's fall? that which we have seen to have been the case after a fall still more memorable. Those who had crouched most abjectly before the decemvir, could, after his death, find no expression strong enough to express their detestation of him. Memoirs of Fouché (1825), volume 1, page 18-22

…The fact is that, sent [to Lyon], after the sack of this city, I (Fouché) returned in revolt, with a report against Robespierre, and that, from this moment up until Thermidor, I was his declared rival! Robespierre had established himself at the Jacobins, and I in the Committees, from where I expelled him; you'll see! I was a Jacobin myself, but there were two kinds. As for us, we were not popular; we talked about equality, but deep down we were aristocrats! Yes, more aristocratic than anyone perhaps! The Jacobins of the opposite party, such as Hullin, paved the way; they would shout in the crowd on the floor; we only saw them in the stands. It was Robespierre’s henchmen who flattered this populace; Robespierre was its leader, its soul, attempting to reign through them and crush the Convention! But we were his antagonists there, me at the head! He feared me. […] [The fact that I had humiliated his pride] was enough to be certain that he would be my mortal enemy, his hateful and envious character would never forgive me for it, no more than Lacuée who, if it wasn’t for Carnot, he would have had guillotined! […] I understood that you couldn’t go and fight such a man in his club; that I there would be dominated, crushed, and that to resist it, it was necessary to choose another terrain, that is to say the Convention itself and its Committees. It was therefore there that, on my return from Lyon, I began with a report on what needed to be done to stop the complete disorganization of this province, of which I accused Robespierre. People were surprised and terrified by my audacity, Carnot among others, who in his emotion embraced me, praising my courage, but warning me that it would cost me my head! This did not stop me, I persisted; and, addressing all the enemies of the Dictator, either separately or in meetings that I convened as head of public education, I reassured them, encouraged them, and got the Committee to call Robespierre before it to defend itself. It was putting him in a false position, he did not accept it; he refused to present himself and confined himself to the Jacobins, where I proposed to have him attacked, seized as a rebel and thrown into the river! We were preparing the means when the 9th of Thermidor arrived, the day when Tallien, single-handedly, unexpectedly, without having warned us, without knowing our project, warning us, denounced Robespierre as the tyrant of his colleagues! He cited me in support of this questioning, to which Robespierre replied that this was a duel between him and me! You know the rest. But what we don't know is that, under the Directory, it was again me who destroyed the tail of this party, after having thus fought its head! De 1800 à 1812. Un aide de camp de Napoléon. Mémoires du général compte de Ségar (1894), page 437-438

The primary object of [Robespierre’s] ambition seemed to be to strike, in the first place, what remained or what might spring up again of those he looked upon as his personal enemies, of whom in his hatred he never lost sight. At the head of those he had marked for death stood Fouché, and as, in view of the point his personal quarrel with Robespierre had reached, he could not but succumb within a very short time, it had been concluded therefrom that he was to be one of those who would deal the first blows at Robespierre.

But the arguments brought into play to convince Fouché of his danger were not sufficient to inspire him with courage. He had certainly been at all times an ultra-Revolutionist, and had shown what he was made of in his support of the system of terror; but he had not exactly hit the idea of Robespierre, or rather he had become his rival, and had given him offence by going even further than he did. Fouché's position was therefore not one to afford him opposite his enemy a frank and clearly defined character enabling him to attack him openly. Robespierre had told Fouché that his face was the expression of crime. Fouché, far from replying, took it as a matter of course; expelled from the Jacobins, he had not been able to return to the fold; he no longer dared show himself even in the Convention, but busied himself actively and with a will with intrigues and machinations of the lowest kind. I sent him hither and thither to inform our friends of what we knew of the intentions of Robespierre, Saint-Just, and Couthon. His personal dread of the triumvirs served but to increase in his eyes the idea of their hostile plans. Everything that he already dreaded most sincerely was artfully exaggerated by him when seeking to stimulate those whom he sought to induce to make up their minds to action. Rising at early morning, he would run round till night calling on deputies of all shades of opinion, saying to each and everyone, "You perish tomorrow if he does not.” To those who mourned Danton, and who were threatened with the resentment of his executioners, Fouché said: ”We may, if we see fit, be avenged tomorrow, and tomorrow only will we be safe.”

In order to instil fresh courage into minds so stricken with fright more than one speech was required to place the question before each and every one in such a way that he should see his own interests in it. Hence it cannot be denied that Fouché, gathering together by his clever intriguing all sentiments against Robespierre, was a genuine resource in the midst of the elements extant ready to make a decisive move against the oppressors of the Convention. […] Matters were growing worse apace; no longer was there any possibility of a reconciliation, even under the mask of mutual deceit. Not only had hostilities been declared, but a war to the knife proclaimed. In spite of all Fouché's prudence, a letter written in his own hand had been intercepted, containing particularly the following line addressed to a colleague in the Convention: ”Ere a fortnight has rolled over us either Maximilien or we shall have ceased to exist." Hence the quarrel could end only by the destruction of one side or the other; nothing was left but to conquer or die.

Even at a time when he was brought face to face with the necessity of defending himself, it was not in Fouché to do so aboveboard. Indirect means, those of ceaseless and underground intrigue, in which he had served his apprenticeship at the Oratory, he was familiar with; and just as everything comes handy in a household, so in a conspiracy, which is itself but an intrigue more serious than others, skill and manoeuvring constitute the necessary elements; and it will be seen that Fouché was to be, if not by his courage, at least by his doings, a useful cooperator in what was about to take place. He has, in later days, boasted that he dealt mortal blows to Robespierre; the fact is that in order to flee from his wrath and, if he could have done so; from his relentless memory, Fouché no longer appeared at the National Convention nor slept at home; it was at night alone that, under various disguises, he would go the rounds of such of his colleagues as were busily engaged in preparing means of defence against Robespierre, and bring and carry from one to the other every particular as to what was taking place, and go on the errands it was requisite should be dextrously done in order to cement the alliances we were forming pending the moment, impossible to positively determine, when the decisive blow was to be struck. Memoirs of Barras, member of the Directorate (1895) page 207-214

Legendre: […] I did not see Fouché during his missions, but I saw him at the Jacobins; he surrounded himself with all the men who, before the 9th of Thermidor, were preparing for this great day. There he openly attacked Robespierre who, wanting to manage him or give himself the means to destroy him, had him named president of the Jacobins. Fouché seized this post to attack Robespierre more openly, and in his responses he designated this tyrant whom it was necessary to strike. I declare that I see Fouché as one of the elements of the day of 9 Thermidor. Tallien: On Germinal 12, at the time when I believed I saw in Fouché a man linked to the conspirators, I had the courage to denounce him. Since that time, I have had no relationship with him, but it is my duty to defend him by attesting to the facts that are within my knowledge. Fouché was proscribed by Robespierre, because he had opposed the measures taken by Collot in Lyon. Fouché courageously unmasked Robespierre, and declared that, even if his head fell, he would make this dictator known to the people. Every day Fouché came to report to us what was happening at the Committee of Public Safety, and the day before the 9th of Thermidor he told us: “The division is complete, tomorrow we must strike.” The next day, the tyrant was no more. Fouché, at the same time, wrote to his sister: “In a short time the tyrant shall be punished. Robespierre only have a few days left to reign.” This letter was intercepted by Bô, who sent it to Robespierre. These are the facts I had to make known. Legendre and Tallien at the Convention, August 9 1794

Madame Collot (d’Herbois) Mademoiselle Robespierre (their titles are common as well as their distress) Per month: 200 pounds Per year: 2400 pounds for special help. Collective decree granting Charlotte a pension from Minister of Police Fouché dated February 8 1805, cited in Charlotte Robespierre et ses amis (1961) by Gabriel Pioro and Pierre Labracherie.

#fouché wanting to throw robespierre into the seine😂😭#fouché #robespierre #maximilien robespierre #charlotte robespierre #joseph fouché #frev friendships #frev #french revolution

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thatscarletflycatcher · 24 days

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Top 10 favourite portrayals in Austen adaptations?

Hi!

10. Peter Gale as John Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility 1981

John Dashwood is most often portrayed as a weak, stupid fool designed to get on everyone's nerves, which tends to shift all the blame that belongs to his character upon Fanny. It is not so with this version of the character. It is obvious that he is rather stupid, but he's also greedy, selfish and callous himself, and an all around superficial person you can laugh at and be infuriated by.

9. Joseph Mawle as captain Harville in Persuasion 2007

Another example of a minor character done well, specially meritorious in this case because this adaptation is a tv movie. It is usually a problem that Wentworth's friends come across as a bit of a blur, but in this case, between writing and acting, Harville comes across as intelligent, loyal, amiable, etc, an all around gentleman whose friendship does credit to Wentworth's character.

8. Guy Henry as John Knightley in Emma (ITV) 1996

And another one! There's several "minor character in movie adaptation" in this list, because it is really hard to make a minor character feel "alive" or nuanced when said character is given very little screen time. Guy Henry steals the scene every time he appears in this adaptation. His delivery of the famous Christmas speech is impeccable. He also comes across as a loving father and husband too.

7. Angela Pleasence as Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park 1983

Jemma Redgrave (Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park 2007) is, in my opinion, a mesmerizing actress, one of those beings that are both beautiful and have a very strong scenic presence. I love her version of Lady Bertram, but Angela Pleasence is something else in the role, and somehow specially because her vibe is the strong opposite of JR. Always sweet, delicate, and soft spoken in her roles, her Lady Bertram is hysterical; I don't think there's a scene where she gets a speaking line where I don't laugh, and laughter is so very welcome in a story that can be as heavy and as painful as Mansfield Park. She provides a characterization that fits Austen's (pliable, lazy, dim, perpetually distracted) without making her insufferable.

6. Kate Beckinsale as Emma Woodhouse in Emma (ITV) 1996

Kate Beckinsale has always had queen bee energy, but her youth in this movie softens it enough that we can see how Emma is ultimately a young woman who means well, and means to be just. I don't read Emma as having the finishing school affectations of a Caroline Bingley (something that in my opinion happens in 2020 and to some degree in the Miramax movie); she was raised at home by an indulgent governess and rarely if ever meets other ladies of her rank. But I also do see where people are coming from when they criticize 2009 Emma for being too modern and her way of carrying herself as one that would have been considered vulgar in the regency era, and I think this Emma strikes a happy compromise. Emma has good manners and a sense of rank, but she's also decidedly provincial.

5. Hayley Atwell as Mary Crawford in Mansfield Park 2007

Love, hate or be baffled by this adaptation of Mansfield Park, most people seem to agree that this casting choice was great, and there's reason to it. Atwell is a very talented actress, and despite the script not helping, she brings out both the best and the worst of Mary out, avoiding both the femme fatale and the pure victim we don't talk about the expose my ankle scene

4. Olivia Williams as Jane Fairfax in Emma (ITV) 1996

I feel like Jane Fairfax also suffers from a problem similar to Emma in adaptations. She's made to have these very suspicious vibes and heavy-looking aspect (against the trendy more Heroin Chic look of Palthrow) in the Miramax movie, she's a mousy creature in 2009, and a sort of severe schoolmistress in disguise in 2020 (I'm exaggerating for effect, but for a character that is traced with few, delicate strokes in the novel, she surely gets a lot of rather sharp depictions). Olivia Williams gives a Jane that is very accomplished, but also elegant, understated and reserved. She's someone we can look at with Emma and see as a glaring spotlight on our shortcomings rather than an interloping rival.

3. JJ Feild as Henry Tilney in Northanger Abbey 2007

I feel a bit silly, because rivers of electronic ink have been poured over this beloved interpretation of one of the favorite Austen heroes, so what can I say about this one that hasn't been said before? Most of the choices in this list are unusual, and while I picked them because I think they are spotlight worthy and truly are favorites at the moment, I won't deny there is an element of... isn't it boring to repeat to each other ad nauseam what has been said over and over and over again and almost everyone is already familiar with? So I'll let you all fill in the blanks here.

2. Robert Swann as Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility 1981

This one is very high on the list because Sense and Sensibility is very dear to me, faultless despite all its faults, I obsess over it, and colonel Brandon is a very dear favorite of mine. So I am very picky about it all, and have grown dissatisfied with the 95 adaptation (I was never particularly keen on 2008) despite acknowledging its many merits as a movie and a period piece. One of the most interesting things about this novel to me, is the treatment of strength and power in its male characters -it's not a central theme, but it is certainly there. John Dashwood and John Willoughby are men who have power, and the power society and money give them, they use to vulnerate the women under their care or influence; and they are morally speaking, extremely weak men. By contrast, both Brandon and Edward are men rendered more or less "powerless" in the circumstances presented in the novel, in appearance "emasculated"; they are soft, unimposing, they don't demand attention or space, but underneath all that lays great moral strength, and it's said moral strength to do what is right and helpful that makes them dependable and even admirable.

That's why it is very important to me for Brandon to keep these traits -that softness, melancholy, humility, unobtrusiveness- besides his moments of high dramatic emotion that showcase his affinity to Marianne, and Robert Swann is the closest to this that we have ever gotten (I cannot call it perfect, but it is so very close), where other adaptations, to different degrees, try to "butch up" his character.

Elizabeth Garvie as Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice 1980

We have had our good Lizzys and our bad Lizzys and it gets on my nerves every time someone says "[actor] is [character]!" even and maybe specially when I say so myself, but, boy, has it happened very few times in my life that I have seen a performance and been struck by its likeness to the experience of reading the source material, and this is one of those. She's witty and she's lively but she's also young and vulnerable at times. She makes mistakes, she rationalizes, she reflects and changes and grows. She is what Caroline Bingley would call small and brown and not a beauty, but we see with Darcy the charm of her expressive eyes. I'd say if there wasn't any other reason to watch Pride and Prejudice 1980, Elizabeth Garvie's Lizzy would be reason enough and some.

Some honorable mentions:

Felicity Jones as Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey 2007 and Hattie Morahan as Elinor Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility 2008

I struggled a lot back and forth with the first. It is a really, really good portrayal of Cathy's ingenuity and honesty and JJ Feild's Henry wouldn't have been as good without her to play off of, but I also sincerely couldn't find a spot in between the others for her anywhere either at the top or the bottom of the list. So she remains in limbo without fault of her own, and I apologize to her for this failure.

Now, the second... there's this story Emma Thompson tells in her diary of the making of the 1995 Sense and Sensibility where she talks about sitting on at casting auditions for Elinor, and, unlike other roles, there being many candidates who gave great auditions, and her commenting "this is a country of Elinors". EDIT: it's been called to my attention in replies that it was Ang Lee calling Britain a country of Fannys, as it was Fanny's casting process. I do feel the dictum also applies to Elinors, on othe opposite end of the spectrum. That's probably the main thing keeping Hattie Morahan off the list. She's my favorite Elinor, but I don't think we ever had anything closely resembling a bad Elinor. 81 wasn't directed well, and Emma Thompson was indeed too old for the part, but characterization wise, they were good. Joanna David was really good in 71. And I felt on making this list that the "standing out significantly" was a key aspect. but she was, indeed, a really great Elinor.

Dan Jeanotte as Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility 2024/Bosco Hogan as Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility 1981

These interpretations of Edward are dear to me, and linked by being sort of opposites that complement book!Edward. Bosco Hogan is an unfiltered portrayal of Edward's diffidence, depression, and lack of personal charm even if his manners are polite. Jeanotte's captures an undercurrent of sass and glimpses of the character's deeper feelings and active negative emotions. Each on its own is incomplete, and yet show something essential to the character that is dissimulated or erased in 95 and 08; I wish I could mush them together somehow and have an Edward portrayal I could wholeheartedly love (From Prada to Nada's Edward gets relatively close, but then that is a rather loose adaptation).

Ask me my top5/top10 anything!

#Jane austen #ask game #aloveforjaneausten #long post

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monstersdownthepath · 26 days

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Monster Spotlight: Vilderavn

CR 16

Neutral Evil Medium Fey

Bestiary 5, pg. 268

Unlike our last few articles, these horrors are decidedly not just little guys, and are in fact one of the most vicious Fey we've ever seen. Unlike many malevolent Fey which are merely born from mortal misery and anguish, Vilderavn were directly created by an unnamed fey lord for the express purpose of destroying mortal armies and kingdoms, something they excel at to such a degree that they make excellent overarching villains in a campaign featuring a looming war and political intrigue. A Vilderavn, more than any other monster we've seen in several weeks, is not a monster to simply be dropped on the party! These bloody birds thrive at being shadowy puppetmasters behind a conflict, advisors to (what the party believes is) the Big Bad, or even potential backstabbing allies and resources to the party themselves, turning on them at the climax of the adventure!

And the best part is that it's extremely unlikely the party will see it coming. Don't think it's just as easy as spotting an ominous black knight with a raven motif; Vilderavn are accomplished shapeshifters with an extremely wide repertoire of possible forms, able to take on the form of any Small or Medium Humanoid, a black-feathered Peryton, a wolf, or a Dire Wolf. You may find it strange that a raven-themed knight doesn't turn into a raven, and that's because it already is one! The above picture? That's after it's shapeshifted. A Vilderavn in its NATURAL form is a gigantic raven, and this is the form it uses to swoop over battlefields and kingdoms it plans to destroy... and to appear before prospective allies as an omen of fate, offering nobles, soldiers, and mages its skill as an advisor, an oracle, and spellcaster to give them the edge they need in the coming war.

If you can't believe some ostensibly smart people could be so easily tricked into believing a dog-sized bird is here to help them, don't be so judgmental! That might seem suspicious to someone from Earth, but on Golarion the culture surrounding such events is quite different; after all, not only do stories of heroes cursed into the forms of animals and deities appearing to people in the shapes of animals abound, but the Psychopomps as a whole are often associated with carrion birds and possess powers over fate and fortune, both of which Vilderavn can manipulate with their powerful spells and Raven Hexes. Those Hexes have numerous uses both in and out of combat, one of which includes the ability to send Dream spells to up to 6 people a day, letting them sculpt a first impression LONG before they appear physically before their target.

This isn't even getting into their skills, such as +30 to Bluff and +21 to Diplomacy (and further heightened by their Charm Hex), or their spells, such as at-will Suggestion or a 1/day Mass Suggestion to steer opinions, send anyone who could call their bluffs out on errands, and create trust where there was none before, or even a 1/day Modify Memory to completely rewrite a victim's knowledge of events until the fey appears to be some sort of saint or savior. They can also offer a Limited Wish once per month to a mortal being to sweeten any deal they make, making them seem trustworthy even as manipulative malevolence swells within their hearts.

Even if appearing as an animal doesn't work, they can freely change into generic wise sages, charismatic nobles, intelligent generals, or imperfect copies of just about anyone... unless they pull a kill-and-replace. Any creature killed by a critical hit from their bite (including a coup de grace if they're unconscious or helpless) has their soul devoured by the fey, and from there on out, the Vilderavn not only has the ability to perfectly assume their form, but has access to all of their memories, making their imitation literally flawless unless someone can see through their disguise with magic (and it will likely HAVE to be magic, because their Bluff and Disguise shoot up to +40 when imitating a devoured victim). Even then, good luck convincing anyone of what you see, as everyone else is likely under the raven's dewclaw as it steadily kills its way into more and more important positions until, eventually, it can take command of events entirely.

Wow, all this and we haven't even gotten to what it can do in combat! We're going to have to put the rest of this under a cut!

Vilderavn tend to avoid combat right up until the point they can destroy an entire army with a single blow to its leadership, right after it's spend weeks or even months carefully sculpting their confidence by leading them to numerous smaller victories. Until then, they serve as excellent advisors and powerful spellcasters, able to use Dispel Magic at-will to shield themselves and their allies from enemy magic, Detect Thoughts at-will to sniff out dissent and betrayers among the ranks (along with anyone who could view them with suspicion), and Scrying at-will to spy on anyone who lacks protection from such invasive magic. They also have a handful of constant spells which make it almost impossible to sneak anything past them: Deathwatch, True Seeing, and Tongues. No vampires, illusionists, or hidden conversations in foreign languages will corrupt and mislead the leader the raven is trying to corrupt and mislead!

And speaking of corruption, Vilderavn are masters of the corrupt art of curses. Immune to curses themselves, they can freely cast Bestow Curse to personally torment anyone they desire and Geas 1/day to force annoyances on petty quest, and their aforementioned Raven Hexes also have a menagerie of debilitating curses and debuffs among them as well, including the crushing Misfortune, the action-economy-ruining Agony, the absolutely Fighter-punishing Retribution, and the ever-reliable Evil Eye... and capped off by the damning Dire Prophecy, a permanent -4 penalty to not only their AC, but most d20 rolls as well, including saving throws. The Prophecy can also be cashed in at any time by either the Vilderavn (if it's nearby) or the DM (if it's not), imposing a -18 penalty on the victim's AC or on an attack roll, combat maneuver check, skill check, or saving throw.

Where's the -18 come from? Well, they use their Hexes as if they were an 18th level Witch, and all of their Hex effects (as well as the DC, which is 25) are modified by the fey's Charisma rather than its Intelligence. Powerful enough on their own, anyone who's played alongside a high-level Witch knows that Hexes are extremely potent force multipliers when the rest of the party can take advantage of them, and this means if a Vilderavn has allies, it can safely sit back and use its 110ft fly speed to keep it out of trouble as it debilitates the party with its powerful Hexes... and caw-haw-haws at them with Cackle, keeping the punishment of Misfortune, Agony, or Evil Eye rolling round after round as its allies tear into the debuffed party.

UNLIKE a Witch, forcing a Vilderavn into melee doesn't mean you're home free, oh no. They're dangerous enough in their raven form, where Bloodbird tacks a stacking 1d6 bleed damage onto its Claw-Claw-Caw-Caw attacks, the former doing 1d6+11 and the latter 1d8+11. If you think that's a mistake on my part, no, the Vilderavn can indeed make TWO bite attacks with its beak whenever it Full-Attacks thanks to a constant Haste effect on itself. If that beak damage looks low, it really isn't, because it's got a critical range of 15-20, threatening a critical hit 25% of the time instead of 5%. With a single Full-Attack, the unkind knight can deal an average of about 70 damage AND stack up to 4d6 bleed onto a single victim, then fly backwards the next round and strike them with a Hex or two before flying back in to do it all over again.

But of course, it's rare for a Vilderavn to have allies it doesn't plan to slay itself. When it has already used (or cannot use) its spells or Hexes to weaken its foes, or when it simply wishes to display its martial skill and fight on even terms with a human, it takes the shape of the Raven Knight, shedding its natural armor and its terrible beak and claws but gaining +5 Full Plate and a +5 Cruel Keen Falchion. Its AC goes from 34 to 38 in its knight form, and its melee goes from four weak natural attacks to four powerful sword swings (despite its low BAB; remember a permanent Haste gives it an extra attack!) dealing 2d4+21 damage... while also keeping the same 15-20 critical hit range AND the stacking bleed, potentially dealing around 50 damage with one swing instead of needing four attacks to achieve the same result.

So, let's see, that's the offense, how about the defense... High AC, check. High saves? +17/+21/+18, check. DR 15/Cold Iron and Good, check. SR 27, also check. Permanent Freedom of Movement? Of course, we can't have a battle end with a single Hold Monster now, can we? No elemental immunities, but it IS immune to energy drain, death effects, and all forms of fear. I'm also receiving a note about its saves, hold on. Ah, no, my mistake, its saves are actually +22/+26/+23, because the Vilderavn DO have power over fate, which includes the ability to add +5 to any one saving throw of their choice each round as an immediate action, something they're likely to save when they're targeted by a powerful Save-or-Suck that they're not immune to, such as petrification, sleep effects, or nausea. There's no per-day limit on this ability, only per-round, so maybe ask your allies to pile on all their most powerful abilities at once?

Hah. 'Allies.' There's no one here that's your friend. At least, that's what you're going to think while in combat with the Vilderavn; anyone within 30ft of it is not only vulnerable to its Frightful Presence, but its FP is also attached to Shatter Loyalties, an ability that causes anyone affected by it to treat all other creatures as an enemy, thwarting not only teamwork, but teamwork feats, as well as flanking bonuses, movement in tight spaces, and of course: willingly accepting beneficial effects. Any creature whose loyalty has been shattered has to be forcibly administered any positive effect (and is allowed to make a save to resist such effects), and doesn't count as a valid target for any effect or ability that counts 'allies.' This shattering effect lasts until the victim is no longer within 30ft of the fey and bypasses fear immunity entirely, so the party Paladin may not be shaken up by the Frightful Presence, but if they fail the DC 26 Will save anyway, suddenly all their beneficial auras shut off for everyone else, leaving them more vulnerable to the raven knight's fierce spells and Hexes.

If the Vilderavn pauses its assault momentarily when it has someone at death's door, do not mistake it for a show of mercy. Remember that they can tear the souls from their mortal victims, but they can only do so while in raven form, as Soul Eater very specifically triggers from its bite attack. A party held at bay by its magic or laid low by its damage may only be able to watch in horror as it assumes raven form, climbs atop their fallen friend, and drives its beak deep into their chest, shearing their heart from their body and their soul with it (frightening everyone who sees it, or shaking them up if they succeed a DC 27 Will save). From there on out, it has full access to their memories, their personality, their very face, ready to destroy their lives and everything they had ever hoped to create... and if the DM is especially cruel, it may use Modify Memory on the only conscious witness to the act to make them think their ally is fine, that they managed to get away from that fiend! A fiend slithering its way into the party as it wears the fallen allies' face. Waiting for the chance to tear hope away from you all one final time.

You can read more about them here.

#monster spotlight #CR 16 to 20 #pathfinder #dungeons and dragons

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lucid-loves · 8 months

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Taste Like Venom ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 9

Pairing: Ghost x assassin!reader (fem!reader, callsign “Hex”)

Word Count: 4.7k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, enemies to lovers trope, slow burn, fluff, clear attraction and sexual tension, smut later on, reader POV and ghost POV, minors dni, Soap lives in this AU

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After Makarov gets away once again, Laswell decides to force a favor from you, the world’s greatest assassin and best-kept secret. You are now expected to help the 141 with taking down Makarov in addition to playing nice with them. It’s hard to play nice when you have always worked alone. It doesn’t help that one of the team members, Ghost, gets curious about you in each interaction.

Chapter Synopsis: After playing Makarov’s game, you finally have a chance to finish him once and for all. However, in doing so, you end up losing more than you expected.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9 ~ Part 10

Makarov waited patiently as you mentally prepared for your onslaught of lies and half-truths. Blending the two was easier to get away with the lies from a body language standpoint. Makarov was a sharp man. You had to be careful not to give anything away. No avoiding eye contact, no touching hair, nothing that can be a sign of deception. “I want to join your efforts as an assassin. My skill sets are advanced compared to many that you probably already know about. What makes me stand out is that you don’t know me.”

He quirked a brow at your confidence before waving his hand to call over the one he put in charge of his catacombs operation. Apparently, he wanted to test this. “Hand me her file.”

“We have no file to give. She isn’t found in any system. Not the US, not Europe, not anywhere.” The man confessed, feeling anxious over the possibility that this would be seen as incompetence. Luckily, Makarov believed him.

“That is impressive. An assassin that really knows how to keep a secret. Not many people know how to keep a secret nowadays. You seem to be good at keeping them and discovering them. Tell me, how did you discover this one?” He played along, his tone light as if this was all just a game to him.

It made your skin crawl, looking at such wasted potential. Such insanity. An intelligent man tainted by arrogance. His genius had turned into madness, and it unsettled you. You had to fight through your urge to end his life immediately. “I grew interested based on what I saw from the news. I decided that my best chance of getting an interview was by going through the back door instead of the front. Your men in Italy handling your weapons shipment led me right here. Patience and planning.”

“How did you know that you could tail them starting in Italy?” He inquired curiously, eager to learn where the breach in security was so he could fix it.

You shrugged, a shutter running through you that you disguised as nonchalance. “The U.S. government’s hold on classified information is difficult at best, but not impossible. I pulled a lot of information thanks to their incompetence. Fools shouldn’t be in charge of nations.”

“That I can agree with.” Makarov nodded with a sinister smile.

Before he continued, he called over one of his men again to fetch something to eat. “You haven’t given her food or water yet, have you? Right now, this is our guest. Not our prisoner. For now.”

The man nodded and swiftly went away like a servant serving a king. Afterwards, Makarov resumed. “You dislike the U.S. government?”

This was an easy one to get away with since it was actually the truth. You weren’t afraid to hold back on your opinion about this either. “I hate most governments. They always claim to be for the people and provide democracy, but the truth is, they have no idea what they are doing. They have no idea what the people want. Efforts to ‘keep peace’ are no more than just pissing contests for power. Someone more realistic needs to be in charge. Someone willing to make things happen despite the red tape.”

“You believe in direct action?”

“I believe in true progress, regardless of what some people may want.” You corrected, knowing how to twist your words into something Makarov would want to hear and trust.

Through your bobby pin, the 141 was hearing all of this go down. It took every ounce of their effort to not swoop in and get you out of there. They too could sense the madness oozing from Makarov with every word. How he questioned you, trying to figure you out. It was only your expert navigation through conversation that they were able to remain patient.

It didn’t take long for a sandwich to be placed on the table in front of you along with a bottle of water. You eyed the sandwich, stomach rumbling for food after skipping breakfast. However, you knew better than to just eat without caution. You picked apart your sandwich, observing each ingredient carefully with the low light of the lantern. Makarov chuckled. “Paranoid that I would poison you?”

“Only idiots take what’s in front of them without thought. It’s always worth the extra time to be cautious.” You truthfully explained as you sniffed the bread. Finally, you reassembled the meal and pushed it away, refusing to eat.

Half-hearted praise escaped your lips. “Clever trick hiding the poison in the bread. The almond smell blends in nicely with the rest of the nutty notes of the grains on the bread.”

Makarov grinned as you played his game quite well. His praise to you was genuine in contrast to yours. “Clever trick to use your nose too instead of just the eyes. You are the type to use all of your senses. A sign of a truly great assassin.”

The sandwich was whisked away, leaving you only with an unopened bottle of water. However, you opted to not take part in that either. Instead, you carried on with trying to impress one of the most dangerous men in the world. “You have assassins after you, Makarov. Though, they are pretty loud and proud about it. The 141.”

The 141 tensed up as you began to talk about them. This was one of the parts that they were dreading the most. Makarov already knew quite a bit of information about them including names and dates. However, it was your false insight that made them clench their fists. “Simon Riley, John Price, John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick, and Kate Laswell have been hunting you down, but their efforts have failed each time.”

Makarov seemed impressed by your knowledge, choosing to encourage you to speak even more. “It has been amusing and annoying to have them come after me. You sound like you have a solution to this. Is this the part where you offer your services?”

You nodded confidently, finally feeling that you were getting somewhere with the man. “Exactly. I kill off the 141 for you and I get what I want out of it.”

“What is it that you want exactly?”

“I want you to pin the 141 assassination on Urizikstan. At the same time, I want you to kill Farah Karim, but the blame will be on the United States. Have the two countries point fingers at each other.” You elaborated your false story like a spider weaving their web.

Makarov laughed, not expecting such a proposal from you. He found the plan incredibly entertaining and beneficial to him. You fascinated him. “You want war?”

“Nothing resets a country’s priorities like a war. Nothing lets a country’s guard down for attack from other places too. The world needs a reset, starting with one of the biggest global superpowers. When that happens, more suitable leaders will step up.” You explained further, each word coming out of your mouth more exciting than the last to him.

He pictured the United States crumbling to dust from their own undoing. He wanted the 141 to choke on that dust. It seemed that you were one of the most capable people to make this happen. However, he was also cautious about taking things in front of him. First, he needed proof of your suggested loyalty to him.

He gave a bloodcurdling laugh, pulling a knife from his pocket to set on the table. It was brand new, clean. You made no attempt to reach for it, but you did look at its potential. It could be the knife you would stab him with when the time is right. Your fingers almost twitched with how much you wanted to plunge it into his neck. Instead, you left a compliment. “Beautiful knife.”

“A gift if you give me one in return.” Makarov offered, your blood running cold as your mind raced. What was this man thinking? This wasn’t a question exclusive to you either. The men you have come to know over the past few weeks were also racking their brains with what Makarov could mean.

Simon himself was about to go on a rampage. He knew that Makarov would want you. It took Kyle’s hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

Your stomach dropped as you looked at the knife. “House rules. Choose your gift.”

“Truly, a clever girl. You know how to play the game. My gift will be your right eye. Break in that new knife of yours.” Makarov demanded with ease, his men behind him raising their guns in case anything went wrong.

From your pin, you could hear Price shout. “Hex! Abort mission! Don’t you dare give him what he wants!”

“You don’t have to do this, Hex!” Soap yelled at the same time. Everyone was beginning to become loud and unsettled, the energy almost breaking yours.

Kyle couldn’t hold Ghost back anymore, his strength from anger and anxiety too much to contain. All Gaz could do was give a warning. “Captain, Ghost and I are on the move! Hex, you need to get the hell out of there!”

You stared at Makarov, trying to read any sign of a bluff. When you saw none, you sighed in disappointed acceptance. “It’s a good thing I have two of them. Do you have a mirror?”

“Y/n! Don’t you fucking dare!” Ghost threatened, using the name that he just discovered. Oh, how you wished you could hear it from his lips in a better circumstance.

Makarov accepted your request for a mirror, ordering one of his men to fetch anything that could allow you to see your final reflection. After a few minutes, a dull mirror was placed in front of you. Damn, you looked exhausted. However, no fear. If this was the price for saving the world from a madman, for a life outside the cabin, then it was a small price to pay.

Slowly, you picked up the knife, feeling the heavy weight in your hand. Makarov watched you carefully examine it, determining what would be the best angle to get the eye out without damaging it too much. Once you made that determination, you took a deep breath and rushed the blade towards your face.

Your hand stopped at the last second, the tip of the blade dangerously close to your iris. Makarov’s hand stopped yours, seeming to freeze time itself. He clicked his tongue in approval, now looking at you almost adoringly like an obedient pet. “What would an assassin be without both of her eyes? I approve of the dedication. You have earned yourself a job.”

Price and Soap nearly fucking collapsed in relief, their breaths labored from how long they help them. Ghost and Gaz felt the same, their warpath slowing as Makarov allowed you to keep your eye.

Finally, Makarov let go of your hand to allow you to put the blade down. Your heart hammered in your chest from the close call, your throat closing to prevent yourself from throwing up from the sick feeling. You passed the knife back to him. “You may have your gift back then. A gift exchange isn’t fair if only one is receiving.”

With pride, Makarov took it from your hand. “A fair play. What shall I call my new assassin?”

“Hex, we are in close position. Just say the word.” Gaz notified as he peaked around the corner, counting heads. For a massive weapons operation, there didn’t seem like many people here. Then again, the catacombs were huge and dark, no doubt hiding more that were lying in the shadows.

You waited a beat before getting up, walking around the table, and stretching out your hand for a business-like handshake. “Hex.”

“A curse.” He took your hand, his grip so firm that it almost hurt your fingers.

“Precisely. It will be a pleasure doing business with you.” You politely nodded and shook on it.

Finally, you had him in your grasp to execute. With a harsh snap and a pull, Makarov’s wrist broke with ease. You twisted him to face forward, his back pressed against your front which stopped the men from taking fire. They could never possibly hurt their king. You felt the knife you gave back to Makarov go into your side, just narrowly missing vital organs. Or so you believed. There was too much adrenaline running through you to feel the pain.

“Now!” You called out, signaling for Ghost and Gaz to rain bullets. Gunfire echoed down the corridors, the men closest to the chaos grunting before death. The men in front of you and Makarov struggled to figure out if they should wait for the perfect shot on you or trust that their king could overpower you. You didn’t give them anymore time to decide as you removed the knife plunged into you and threw it, killing one of the men on impact.

The remaining guard, now alone as his comrades fought and one fallen dead, had no choice but to remain frozen to wait for a good shot. Makarov just chuckled, a wince coming across his face as his broken wrist surged pain up his arm. “You are indeed quite the formidable opponent, Hex. But you have trapped yourself. How long can you hold me here until you bleed to death? Not long enough.”

“Please, I have plenty of time.” You smirked diabolically, kicking the table behind you. The mirror and lantern crashed to the floor, glass shattering and light flickering out. Nothing but darkness in the makeshift room.

Makarov felt you let go of him, a move that surprised him completely. For the first time in his life, he was taken aback. Almost scared. All because you have proven to him that you were just as smart as he was and could play his games.

In the pitch black, you dropped to the floor, picking up the broken piece of mirror. With a shard, you cut into Makarov’s Achilles tendons, causing him to howl in agony as he fell to the floor. While he was down, the same shard entered his neck, the warm blood already flowing out to coat everything in sight. The guard, in a panic, fired his gun. You felt one of the bullets graze your shoulder, but you couldn’t stop now. Rushing forward, you swiped the blade from the body of the guard you killed and ran it up into the remaining one. Slowly, his body became limp before falling to the ground.

Your skin was warm with the coating of fresh blood. The metallic smell filled your senses, a scent that you, unfortunately, missed. Perhaps early retirement wasn’t in the cards for you yet after all.

The sound of gurgling and gunfire seemed amplified within the dark, Makarov’s pathetic attempts to recover proving to be for naught. Once your eyes adjusted to the dark, you managed to see his outline on the ground. It was a fitting picture, seeing the man that killed thousands lying in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by skeletons residing in the hell under Paris. You came up to him, the knife still in your hand, blood flowing from your side. “On second thought, I think I’m gonna keep this gift.”

With those final words, you slashed his throat, more blood dripping to add to his puddle. Even in the dark, you could see the light drain from his eyes. Gurgles and bubbles fought for final breaths until it was too late. Always one to confirm your kills, you felt for a pulse. When there was none for a few minutes, you knew that the job was done.

“Makarov is KIA confirmed. If the reinforcement is ready for a sweep, send them down.” You announced, taking the bobby pin out of your hair and holding it as close as you could to your ear.

“Reinforcements going down now. Defend yourselves until the end. Good work out there, Hex.” Price confirmed, so proud of the fact that Makarov was finally dead that he could cry. The amount of turmoil he has caused made everyone want to celebrate immediately. However, the job wasn’t over yet. The rest of Makarov’s men had to be dealt their own justice.

Gaz and Ghost head the confirmation on their end, pride swelling in their hearts and giving them a whole new energy to fight with. As Gaz unleashed hell with his rifle, Ghost gave his own update. “Making our way through the operation at a good pace. We believe that some of the men are fleeing now.”

As you walked towards your exit, you suddenly became lightheaded. The sound of gunfire seemed slightly muffled and your body ran colder than before. On your next step, you collapsed to the floor. With just feeling alone, your hand swept against your side, feeling just how much blood you had lost when Makarov stabbed you. You gave a painful chuckle. “Good job, team. This was a good last job.”

“Last job?” Soap repeated, confusion in his voice clear.

“Hex, You need medical attention! We need to get her to a medic!” Ghost picked up the cryptic language quickly, a new fear taking over his body. Without thinking, we began running through the catacombs to try to find you. Gaz called for him to wait so he could provide cover fire, but there was no getting through to him now. Simon couldn’t hear anyone giving him orders through his earpiece. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own terrified heartbeat.

You knew he was coming to get you, though. The voices through your communication device relayed this to you. You had barely registered it, but you heard enough to know that Simon didn’t plan on letting you bleed out if he could help it. The only problem was that perhaps he couldn’t.

“Hex! Y/n!? Stay with me! I’m coming to find you!” He tried to keep you awake, intuition telling him that you were slowly slipping away. Price hopped on his monitor on his end again, trying to aid Ghost in getting to you. As soon as he figured out where your positions were, he began to provide directions.

A few minutes later, Ghost was picking you up in his arms. Your body felt cool to the touch and wet with blood. However, he didn’t mind it one bit. He just held you close and spoke to you to try to keep you awake. It didn’t take long for Gaz to catch up in order to guard the both of you all the way back to the surface. “If you got her, let’s go!”

You slipped in and out of consciousness, losing more blood by the second. The adrenaline that was preventing you from feeling the pain was slowly fading. Now that you could feel your body again, you could tell that Makarov got you pretty good when he stabbed you. Damn, it really fucking hurt. At least it was better than losing a whole eye.

“Stay with me. We’re almost there.” Simon softly reassured you, praying to the universe that you will make it out alive. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

When the bright sun flashed on your faces as soon as you emerged from underground, it hurt. A medical team was waiting right there, rushing over as soon as they saw just how coated in blood you were. There was no telling which blood was yours and which one was Makarov’s. They were going to provide you with the best help they could.

Simon almost didn’t want to let you out of his hold. He held onto you tightly until Gaz coaxed him into handing you over to the medical team. As he watched them lift you onto a gurney and into the ambulance, he noticed you looking at him. You looked at him like it was the last time you would ever see him again. It damn near completely broke his heart.

When the ambulance began to pull away, siren pressuring cars to get the hell out of the way, Simon became determined. He spoke to Price through his radio. “Captain, permission to go to the hospital and wait for Hex.”

“Permission granted. The medical staff are probably going to be confused about her identity. Probably have a lot of questions.” He granted, understanding that this wasn’t coming from a place of professionalism. This was a personal request, one that Ghost never made in all the time Price has known him. Besides, you deserve to have someone by your side when you wake up in the hospital.

You woke up feeling groggy as hell, your vision blurry and aching from the bright fluorescent lights above you. Your mouth tastes like salt, a sign that an IV was working its way through you. The right side of you dully ached, no doubt painkillers making the stitches more tolerable. A headache began to set in as you tried to sit up, a groan escaping your dry throat.

“Kitten.” Ghost called out to you, noticing that you were finally awake. He wanted to reach out to you, but you stopped him for a few instructions first. You couldn’t handle a bear hug right now.

“Dim the lights and get me some water first. Call the doctor too.” You spoke, voice strained as you went through your mental checklist of things you needed. Simon had no issues following your orders, figuring that you deserved to be spoiled, especially after what you went through for them.

Once the lights were dimmed down, your headache began to ease up. Simon opened up a water bottle for you and helped you drink. Hopefully you’ll get a meal soon too. Pretty soon after that, Simon brought back a doctor who beamed at you, her teeth matching the fluorescent lights that were on moments ago. She spoke English, but her French accent came through. “Hello! We didn’t expect you to wake up for much longer. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” You truthfully answered, earning a little giggle from the doctor.

“Normal then. That’s good. Do you remember what happened?”

Your brain strained to remember how you ended up in the hospital, your memories showing you nothing but darkness. Seeing the strain on your face, Simon took your hand and held it. Suddenly, the memories began to flow back. “We were on a mission that led us to the catacombs. I assassinated Makarov. He got me with a knife before then. A bullet grazed me too. I lost a lot of blood. Right?”

She gave a gentle smile and jotted down a few notes on a clipboard. Simon looked at you, proud that you could remember. It seemed like you were still sharp as a tack even after everything went down. “Perfect. You were brought to the hospital for medical attention. We managed to find out your blood type for a blood transfusion. Examined your organs and stitched you back up. You are a very lucky lady.”

“Thanks. When can I leave?” You inquired, already itching to get out of the uncomfortable hospital bed. Simon glared at you as you expressed your eagerness to leave. You needed to rest, damn it!

“We want to keep you for another night just to make sure you’re okay. But, if you really are in a rush to leave, we can settle for a few hours. Your body has proven to be pretty resilient. Though, we recommend having someone help you out at home for a little while. You would still need to take it easy.” The doctor recommended honestly.

That was something you could work with. Accepting the compromise, you nodded your head and sighed, hardly believing that you could even sigh in this life still. Everything was beginning to feel more surreal. It felt like you were really close to death this time. Maybe if Ghost hadn’t found you as quick as he did, you would be dead.

The doctor put the notes on her clipboard and left to gather the things you need in order to go home early. Simon scowled at you under his mask, hardly believing how you could still be so frustrating after almost dying. “You better not be thinking about doing shit once you get out.”

You rolled your eyes at him, not missing the lectures that you thought were over with. “Relax, Simon. I just don’t like hospitals, alright? I would rather be in a comfortable bed with access to a full bathroom. Is that so much to ask?”

He huffed at you before grumbling under his breath. “No. It’s not. Sorry. I just. . . thought I lost you for a moment.”

Your gaze softened, guilt invading your heart. You shouldn’t be picking fights like this again. Not this soon at least. Hell, you should be showing him gratitude for getting you to medics in time. He risked his life to save you. “I’m sorry, Simon. Thanks for waiting for me. I would like to be able to recover back at the hotel for a while before getting back on my feet again. I would feel more comfortable there.”

At that, he gave an understanding nod and brushed your hair out of your face. You missed his touch. “You got it, kitten. We’ll make it happen.”

Kate flew all the way to Paris to help you navigate the intense questions on your identity when it was time to be discharged. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw her in person, but seeing her again made you realize just how much you actually missed her. She missed you too from the way she hugged you tightly, careful not to cause pain. She owed you big time for this. Helping you avoid questioning was only the beginning of her efforts to pay you back.

When you and Simon arrived back at the hotel, Soap, Gaz, and Price were waiting to see you again. They had bought plenty of food and drinks along with cake to celebrate your quick return and finally putting an end to Makarov. While you were still a bit closed off from them, you did begin to reveal more tidbits of information about you. Some of your other assassin stories, a little bit about your interests, and cracking jokes here and there. It was most likely the painkillers that were helping you feel a little more loose than usual.

At the end of the day, the men went back to their rooms, the men being granted permission to have a little vacation for a while for the good work they’ve done. Simon, however, stayed with you in your room. He showed no signs of leaving either. “What do you think you’re doing? Shouldn’t you be going to bed?”

“I am going to go to bed. We’re sharing the bed.” He answered like you just asked the stupidest question he’s ever heard.

When you opened your mouth to protest, he cut you off. “Doctor’s orders. You need someone to help you around at all times. Someone to make sure that you take it easy. I’m that someone. Don’t even try to argue.”

You bit your cheek, holding back your stubborn protests that were threatening to spill out. With a deep breath, you tried to accept the fact that Ghost wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “How long do you plan on sticking around for?”

“Two weeks. Doctor’s orders.” Simon revealed, a smirk playing on his lips that was revealed once he took his mask off for the night. His handsome face almost had you fall over. You didn’t think you would get to see that face again.

You didn’t think you will be able to handle being pampered by him for the next two weeks as well.

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comicarc · 5 months

Text

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

A chance meeting with a stranger leads down the road of an inevitable devotion. Breeding a childish love into an obsessive attachment. The devil's temptation is all-consuming, only producing pain disguised as pleasure.

wc: 2906

The grace of his footsteps, despite his enormous figure, had seemed to incite an absurd curiosity within me. His attitude ranged from a spectrum even vaster than that of light, as he got along with almost everyone he met, yet peculiarly, seemed to never lose his morals or beliefs in the face of so many opinions and conversations.

I had paid no mind to him when he first marched through the halls of Gotham high, the whole school was abuzz with chatter, gossiping about this bizarre new character. He never dressed the part of being Bruce Wayne’s ward, often rocking hoodies large enough to drown in, colored a deep blood red that seemed to fuel the fury of the teachers. He was a delinquent in every right, yet he was also as intelligent in the same capacity.

Paid for by the one-percenters of Gotham, the library the size of a Manhattan penthouse was often eerily empty, met occasionally with the presence of a student trying to pay another for answers to an assignment. I was an exception in all such aspects, for neither was I rich nor conceited enough to believe in the fantasy that I would be handed everything in life. I would relish the silence of the library, a place I had made a home of by the second week of high school. Gotham was not a city for me, and the cheap apartment that I called ‘home’ was anything but its namesake, lacking everything that the library could provide.

I had heard the whispers of others, of how the girls were intrigued by the new kid to instantly desire him, and of how the boys spoke nonsense, fueled by a jealous rage. Though these polarized opinions had left me curious, I never thought it my place to ever participate in such an activity of imagining. That was a right reserved for the rich, for those who had time enough to do as they pleased.

Jason Todd sat in front of me, one fine day, in the library, so enamored in The Great Gatsby that he ignored my existence. Although caught off guard, I enjoyed the silent company, feeling as though I was not alone in my fated destiny toward deterioration as I spent more and more time in the library each passing day. Life had only begun to worsen with time, yet his presence had seemed to soothe me with silent comfort.

At first, I brushed him off just as I thought he had done of me, yet the more I saw him, I began to imagine as well. He had made me a rich woman, not materialistically, but rather metaphysically. My mind spent hours trying to reason why he stayed. Was the library his abode as well? Was he trying to read every book he’d laid eyes on in there? Why? Questions only left a hole, a desire to fulfill my curiosity.

“Hey.” Jason's soft voice, like the serpent tempting Eve, left me craving conversation. It was the third month of our silent routine when he finally spoke, soothing months of contemplation with a single word. Oh, how desperate I had been.

The days that followed after that interaction were like a daydream. Unbeknownst to most, Jason had a poetic soul paired with the heart of a hopeless romantic. He would bring my favorite coffee with a pastry to the library and set it beside me inconspicuously. He’d brush off every thank you, pleased by the apparent delight in my expression when I would realize what he had brought. These little gestures enabled us to evolve beyond the library setting, meeting instead at coffee shops near the school simply to study as we normally had done.

Our interactions were intimate, yet physical exchange was always kept to a minimum, with either party fearful of crossing the line and losing the other. But observing the way his massive body could maneuver through the crowds of people on the street, watching him eat with a linger of an animalistic instinct through his gentle facade, and catching his radiant smile whenever he laid eyes on me was fulfilling enough. Until it left me longing for more.

It had taken me a while to muster the courage to make a move to him. I had developed feelings for him that grew deeper with each passing day, and I couldn’t hold in my desire any longer. So, on a sweltering summer day, as me and Jason sat at the coffee shop we would always hang out at, I decided that I would do something. Jason, in his tank top and jeans, sweat shining in the glare of the sunlight, had left me a blushing mess, too embarrassed to think through what I should do to further our relationship. In my state, I had barely recognized how he seemed timider than usual, keeping to himself.

After an awkward afternoon in the quaint shop, I decided my endeavor was a lost cause. I got out of my seat, and walked to the entrance, motioning to Jason that I was about to leave. Together we walked out through the door, yet before we could part ways, he grabbed my wrist with a gentle grip. The sudden action caused me to swing around, crashing into his chest as I did. Before I could apologize, he used his free hand to take hold of my chin and tilt my face upward just enough to meet his lips.

The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us suspended in time. It was a moment of pure magic. In that fleeting instant, I knew with certainty that Jason was the perfect man for me, the one I had been searching for without even knowing it. As we pulled away, breathless and exhilarated, I felt a sense of clarity wash over me like a cleansing tide. In Jason's arms, I had found my sanctuary, my safe haven in a world full of chaos.

And to tie the not on such a precious moment, he had whispered, “Will you be my girlfriend.”

Since that day, Jason established a routine. He’d keep his distance until the night, when he’d knock on my door, littered with bruises, crying for help. The late nights were reserved for peeling away every layer of Jason’s being his traumatizing past and his blissful present. Then, there came days that I wouldn’t hear from him for days, never seeing him at school or at the cafe. He was like a ghost disappearing and reappearing as he wished, toying with my heart every time. Yet, he always managed to make up for his absence, knowing just the right things to reel me back in when I started to slip away. But despite the distance, despite the pain, I stayed because I loved him. I had fallen in love with his fucked up ways, his twisted dreams, a secret life he kept from me.

He wasn’t a bad lover, just an absent one. His appearance had become the highlight of my days, the way he’d caress me when we hugged, the way he’d hold me in his arms while we rested in my bed. Everything he did was able to erect a lustful emotion I never knew I had. He was by all means, perfectly imperfect. Human in all rights.

After we graduated, he became more and more distant. He’d never told me what he was up to, convinced that I would stay by his side no matter what. I felt as though I was more of a token anchor than a person to him. Existing just for him, as if I did not have passions and ambitions of my own. But he was right. His love was intoxicating, leaving me an obedient puppet who’d always wait for him. Yet the summer after graduation, when he left me for months, I finally began to become skeptical of our situation.

It was bittersweet to know that this time, he hadn’t stood me up due to his own volition. Fate was a heartbreaker, leaving love a longed-for feeling buried six feet in a grave that I could never see, even if I wanted to. Jason had a simple ceremony, with his blue roses placed upon the coffin as he was buried. A speech was given, tears were shed, and people departed more disturbed than they arrived. Or at least that was what I was told in a letter. The sender was one who shared the same address, the same life, the same ambitions as Jason, yet hadn’t the heart to allow his girlfriend the privilege of knowing about the late son’s departure from this world.

Bruce Wayne had known loss to a degree incomprehensible to the common man, and no amount of money would ever fix the wounds that bled him dry. Yet, this experience should have encouraged communication. If he was as heartful as the news portrayed him to be, sympathizing with those less fortunate enough to form a family full of grieving children, then how had he glanced over me? The same pain had haunted me, from the moment I felt Jason slipping from my grasp, becoming more and more distant until he left me forever. Bruce Wayne, through Jason, was depicted as a madman driven by an insane drive as persistent as the Joker’s scheming. Jason worshipped the man more than god himself, and yet he often came to me with pained sobs, unfulfilled dreams, and an unbridled rage that his ‘father’ failed to provide for.

Having never met the man before, I had formed a loose persona in my mind that I had assumed the billionaire was. Yet, my assumptions were solidified after receiving the curt letter, rather, note, written with such passive care that anyone would have thought it was merely as insignificant as a to-do list.

To whom it may concern: We gathered to remember Jason at Wayne Manor. It's regrettable you couldn't join us. The Wayne family extends their condolences and offers assistance during this difficult time.

Pretentious, arrogant liars. Gotham’s elite were all the same. I sat in the restaurant for two hours, danced in the street on my way home imagining what I would do for Jason's birthday, and attempted to reason another one of his absences from the date before knowing. The sealed envelope sat on the doorstep, accompanied by nothing but a red seal that indicated its correspondent. It was a strange item to receive out of the blue.

With no notice, no knowledge of the life that Jason led among the elite, I was baffled by the harshness of facing a sudden reality. It felt surreal to imagine Jason of people dead. He was a killer, with killer looks, a killer smile, and a killer attitude. A body built to fight, and an aura as dangerous as a drug. He couldn’t have died, not my Jason.

I couldn’t comprehend losing Jason, enough that in such denial I had ventured to Wayne Manor, forcing my way through the ebony gates onto the gothic grounds of the mansion. At the front door, after incessantly pounding on the grandiose doors, I was finally met with the face of the butler, Alfred. Before speaking I stared at him for a few moments as I cleared my blurry vision from the uncontrollable tears that rolled down my cheeks. He seemed to recognize me, as he let me inside, placing a hand on my back for support as he looked toward me with an empathetic expression.

“Jason can’t be dead. I never saw a body, never heard a lick of what happened to him. You’re liars.” The words left like venom, hurting the old man enough to display his aching heart in his eyes.

“We all have lost someone very special, but we must accept it.” He spoke, attempting to keep a calm demeanor.

“Accept it? What the hell are you on about? A funeral I was never invited to and a body I have yet to see. How am I supposed to accept something that seems too imaginative?” I retorted, my anger laced with sorrow.

Silence hung heavy between us, but I pressed on, seeking the truth I feared. “He didn’t care, did he? He loved something more than he loved me, right?”

Alfred nodded, giving into his grief as his eyebrows softened, and his gaze moved to the floor, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes.

“Can you tell me what it was that he adored enough to give his life for?”

“Justice.”

I laughed. Of course, he chased independence from his family, yet revered the so-called philanthropist guardian he had. Though he might have begun with the pursuit of true moral justice, Bruce skewed into a dangerous endeavor.

Bruce Wayne was a killer, not Jason, no he had a handsome impression, a soft smile, and a hopeful attitude. It wasn’t justice that Jason pursued, it was Bruce’s image of it. He was an imperfect man, his only weakness was the longing for a familial love he was denied by his own parents. One that I could never compensate for. He wasn’t my Jason, never had he been. I didn’t know Jason at all, I was the puppet, toyed with by the father and the son.

After six months of sleepless nights and living nightmares, I finally found a haphazard peace to settle in. I watched the sky every night, wishing that the hope that blessed Metropolis would make its way into Gotham and give me the will to move on with my life. But, as the general populace is fated to remain in the same cycle, trapped in the chains of modern capitalism, all I was able to do was make do with my shitty job, in my shitty apartment, living a lonely life, as devoid of color as the Gotham sky was of the sun. My visit to Wayne Manor had not changed anything, for I was still left in the dark regarding every manner in which Jason’s name was exploited, whether it be a fundraiser in his honor or a gala, I was always the last to know.

But without hearing his name, seeing his face, or feeling his touch for so long, I had begun to forget him. Out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes, and though I had forgotten everything, his soft voice still haunted me whenever I slept. I had fallen into insanity fueled by my imagination, one that left me feeling rich in broken pieces of a heart.

Tonight I sat at the edge of my windowsill, one leg resting on a loose brick outside the apartment, while the other remained crossed beneath me. With my head leaned back against the metal of the frame, I watched the stars twinkle in the night sky, like diamonds. It was a rare night, to hear the sirens go off occasionally. There were no screams, no gunshots no cries for help, only the ambience of the city. I took it as a sign, that change had arrived, that peace was mine to finally be in.

Closing my eyes, I decided that tonight was safe enough to let my guard down. To enjoy Gotham’s raw essence as a mother to the unfortunate. Her touch let my hair dance in the breeze, cooling my body from the heat of the day. Her sounds were a harmonic symphony lulling me into a deep sleep. But her motherly affection was short-lived, as the sound of boots hitting the fire escape had woken me from my lucid state.

The footsteps felt heavy yet sounded as soft as the movements of a ballerina. There was a familiar feeling about the situation, but I couldn’t quite place it, not until his breath hit the back of my neck. Even with the faint light from the neon sign, the man remained a silhouette in the darkness, bigger than what the steps had led me to believe. I didn’t move, waiting for the man to make the first move.

“Hey.” In the same husky voice in which he introduced himself to me all those years ago, Jason had come back, yet again tempting me to be consumed by him. At first, I thought I had finally broken, gone insane from the grief. I was done fighting my end when the weight of Jason's touch settled upon me. It was as though a dark cloud descended, shrouding me in a familiar embrace that I couldn't resist. His fingers traced the contours of my hand, each touch sending shivers down my spine, igniting a flame that I thought had long been extinguished.

I felt the pull of his presence, magnetic and intoxicating, drawing me closer with each passing moment. His breath, hot against my neck, tempted me to abandon reason and lose myself in his embrace. Despite the past, despite the pain, despite everything urging me to resist, I found myself unable to pull away. His hold tightened and his lips brushed against my ear, I knew that I had crossed a line from which there was no return. Swallowed by the shadows of Gotham's embrace, I had sealed my fate the moment I met him. I was fated to die a poor woman, yet the devil enticed me with a taste, and I will die a rich woman consumed by the unending pain of unreal love.

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