#or quarter horses if they actually looked like horses

[only-horse-polls]

Propaganda (Kunama, The Silver Brumby Series): Thowra, the epic badass Silver Brumby gets a defiant teenage daughter. There's just something amusing about that. And in some ways, Kunama's a more real, less mysterious character, someone you can more easily relate to. She messes up, she's not a legendary ghost horse. Though inheriting Thowra's otherworldly beauty, Kunama's less seasoned than him. Because she's so beautiful, she's also a target of human avarice -- and because she doesn't have mystical wind-and-rain powers like Dad, she actually suffers capture and a brief period of human domestication. But don't worry, she goes free again and ends the book with a handsome black stallion for a boyfriend.

.

[fingertipsmp3]

I will never have friends like the friends I had in secondary school ever again. And in some ways this is a good thing

[misslobotomite]

omg where do people meet lovable weirdoes everyone is either an ig baddie or a polyamourous community worker... where are the working class lesbians with dreams.

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — bull-rider!MATTHEW TKACHUK x barrel racer!hughes!reader (can be read as an unnamed oc) wc — 1.8k synopsis — wear the hat, ride the cowboy—even if it might get you disowned.

note — there's one line referring to the reader as jack's twin, but no physical description is given. also, this one-shot is a "party favor" from our feb slumber party

specific content warnings under the cut.

cw — quinn being a dramatic, misogynistic douche-canoe 3000 for the entirety (ratty matty has his moments, too), no actual smut but it's heavily implied they do the dirty on the reg, a disgustingly intimate situationship — ick, off-color comment(s) relating to first times and the concept of virginity, lots and lots of familial angst (jack is a snake), oh! and more than a few loose ends... but you know the drill by now, i'm incapable of keeping a story contained

“Go on, Palomino Princess. Ride me like one of your ponies.” 

Condescension drips from the lazy taunt. Matthew earns a palm to the chest for it; her ire lands with a faint thud, but he doesn’t mind. He gets off on riling her up, and after two years of backseat meetings and hushed phone calls, he’s damn good at it too. That, and she might be the most reactive person he’s ever met—and that’s saying something. 

Matthew’s been going head-to-head with all three of her brothers for over a decade, and he’s known their family for even longer. Having a short fuse must be genetic.    

“Y’won’t break me if that’s the hold-up. S’gonna take a hell of a lot more than a dry humpin’ buckle bunny to put me outta commission, sweetheart.” 

He knows damn well she ain’t anywhere close to the derogatory term, but he likes what the complete disregard for her accomplishments does to her deceptively cherubic face. 

It may look less harrowing than every other event on the card, but barrel racing ain’t for the faint-hearted. The event is a death wish personified, and it feels about as good as someone taking a metal pipe to both shins. It takes balls—metaphorically, in her case—to charge into an arena on an American Quarter horse with the intention of guiding it through a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels while sprinting at top speed, but it takes dedication and skill to succeed the way she has. The winner is determined by just thousandths of a second. 

The woman perched on his tailgate is unmatched—undefeated.  

Flames of pride lap at his loins, the fire of desire stoked by the wicked roll of her hips. 

“Ohh—shit!” Matthew hisses, his head lolling back as his hips buck into her heat. 

She smirks, apparently vindictive as ever. “How’s that, cowboy? Everything you dreamed?” 

“And more,” he growls as he grabs a fistful of her backside. 

His grip is tighter than it needs to be as he switches positions. Not nearly as rough as she would prefer it; beggars can’t be choosers.  

Matthew steps between her knees, and, despite herself, she shivers with anticipation. Chuckling, amusement twinkles in his baby blues. “Now give me a kiss, sweetheart. My lips are feelin’ a little lonely tonight, and you happen to be wearin’ my hat, Little Miss.” 

He flicks the brim of his hat. She catches it before it hits the ground before plopping it back on the rightful owner, the damage already done.  

“You just love that antiquated rule,” she shakes her head while most definitely laughing at his expense. “Y’wouldn’t see any action without it, now would you?” 

Matthew grins. Trading insults is his favorite form of foreplay. “Neither would you. Isn’t that your signature move, outlaw?”

“I should kick you to the back of the line with that attitude. Hell, I’d probably be better off keeping you at a distance anyway.” 

“Keep mouthin’ off and see how far it gets ya. Definitely nowhere near that McMansion castle you call home, that’s for sure.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout me, sugar. I’ve got plenty of options if I need a ride home.” 

“I’ll bet, show pony. Sexiest can chaser east of the Mississippi; who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to carry Cinderella home to her Daddy?” 

Men have a habit of gawking at her; Matthew has a habit of relieving them of their teeth. 

He leans in to taunt her ear with greedy lips and barbed arrogance. “Best of luck finding one that’ll fuck you better than me.”     

“Do you think about other guys fucking me often?” she fires without missing a beat.

More than he would like, actually.

With a heavy, drawn-out sigh, he runs a hand over his face. His patience is running thin, and his jeans are starting to chafe. Exasperated, he tries coaxing her to reason, “Sweetheart, c’mon. We both know you want this—want me. Stop makin’ this so damn hard.” 

“Why? Because you already are?” 

Matthew makes an exaggerated show of play-biting her scrunched-up nose. 

“Woman, you drive me insane.”

“It’s why you’re so obses—“ 

Her teasing is thwarted by the sound of her own name. Spat out of her older brother’s mouth like a heirloom gone sour, it's no great surprise Quinn looks at her like he can’t recognize her. Like a stranger—like a traitor. 

Guilt, thin and fleeting, pieces the tenderness between her ribs. 

She squirms, attempting to put some distance between them as if that could erase the discovery—and her culpability—from his mind. Matthew and his shit-eating grin keep her from getting too far but don’t be fooled. This is no chivalrous encouragement to stand her ground. It’s got nothing to do with her and everything to do with her brother. 

Quinn rages outside the hauler housing Matthew’s precious 3500 Laramie. Walking by, seeing the main trailer hitched Brady’s F-350 made his stomach churn. It didn’t sit right, and now he knew why. 

“You can’t be serious! Nuh-uh, no—no fucking way. Get out here before I drag you out myself.”  

At his tone, what little remorse she felt dissipates. They were both far too old for his tired, overbearing song-and-dance. 

“Who died and made you king?” 

Quinn, blinded by overripe anger, sweeps over the irritation, twisting her tongue and the disbelief arching her brow. “I thought I made myself clear last time. Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“Oh, crystal, Quinny.” Matthew snorts at the juvenile nickname but is swiftly cajoled into silence with a pinch to the side. “Message received.” 

“Then quit screwin’ around and get your ass back to the truck before Dad blows a gasket. He’s been lookin’ all over for you. So, you best be thanking your lucky stars I got here first. That its me catchin’ you red-handed colluding with the enemy.” 

He’s so serious, nearly shaking with rage, it’s difficult not to laugh. She can count on one hand the instances wherein her brother became visibly angry—all of them involving the man standing between her dangling feet. She fares better than him, but that’s to be expected. Unlike her accomplice, for her, there’s real risk involved. 

“Just ‘cause I heard you don’t mean I have to listen.” 

Lips pressed to her temple, Matthew clicks his tongue in approval. ‘Bout damn time she started giving back what Quinn so readily dishes out. 

“Look, y’can spread your legs for anyone with big dreams and a buckle some other night. Parade around the circuit acting like a slut, see if I give a shit. But not tonight. And not with him.” 

The knowing glint in Quinn’s blackened eyes is telling, but it isn’t as menacing as he thinks it is. The Hughes heir apparent couldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have a lick of proof. Just suspicion and a personal vendetta the size of Texas. 

A safety net swaying below, Matthew decides to have a little fun. “Whoa, settle down, Trust Fund. Y’can’t talk to a lady like that, ‘specially not your sister.” 

He’s no white knight, but he can pretend. 

And isn’t that what you’re all doing? Pretending to be people you aren’t. Acting out your roles, putting on a show. After all, a performance will always be more entertaining than the truth. 

“—and here I thought etiquette classes were a Rodeo Royalty rite of passage. Glad t’know she ain’t the only roughneck hellion in your family tree, Huggy.” 

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His tongue threatens to put a hole through his cheek. Hands on his hips, the eldest sibling only nods. He ignores Matthew entirely. 

“Real winner y’got there. A class act. You really know how to pick ‘em—cream of the goddamn crop. Say, what’re you gonna do when he inevitably gets bored of you? When he gets his hands on a fresh doe-eyed virgin to tarnish?” 

After she finishes with Matthew, she’s kicking Jack’s sorry ass. 

Those anxieties—and that majorly personal tidbit of information—were shared in confidence. Because unlike her older brother, she trusted her twin. Well, she used to, at least. Luke’ll be over the moon at the chance to be her favorite. 

She bares her teeth like a scorned lapdog. “We’re not kids anymore, Q. You can’t push me around whenever you want or tell me what to do like you’re my father. And you sure as shit can’t bully me into submission, either. Give it up, or get lost.” 

“Whatever,” Quinn barks as he backs away from the trailer. “Your fuckin’ funeral.” 

Listening to the fading sound of her brother’s Ariats pounding through the dirt, she buries her face in the warm, familiar crook of Matthew’s neck; she needs a moment alone. He seems to understand this, his mouth zipped shut as he runs calloused hands up and down her sides. She’s breathing heavily, but he does her the simple mercy of leaving it be. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was growing on you,” Matthew hums, a low-maintenance attempt to lighten the mood. 

They don’t do the touchy-feely BS. It’s one of the things that reeled him in—and kept him coming back. 

“But you do.” She pulls away to look up at him, chin resting on his sternum. He hates that her melancholic eyes are red-rimmed. “—and stop thinking, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“And what does, princess? I’m dyin’ for your insight.” 

“Shut the door and I’ll show you.” 

He blinks, taken aback. Who is this brazen tart, and when did she take your place? Matthew wonders to himself. Maybe he is the bad influence everyone paints him as… He hasn’t really thought about it until now, and it's troubling the way it makes his chest tighten. 

Matthew clears his throat—and, from his mind, the distressing notion that he’s ruined someone good with his carelessness—as he leans over. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He pulls the hauler’s heavy metal door shut with clamorous finality.  

Matthew Tkachuk might be the most self-serving swindler on dirt, but Quinn Hughes is just another name on his list. A box to tick and then forget. He wouldn’t lose sleep, it wasn’t like their friendship meant a damn thing. Not anymore. A friend turned foe, reduced to another obstacle in his way, a hurdle to jump. 

Tonight, his sister’s fealty; tomorrow, his title.

Retribution is at his fingertips, so close he can taste it. Yet, it would seem that Matthew merely traded one hornet’s nest for another. 

At least this one’s easy on the eyes. 

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[grogusmum]

Please Mister Please

JOEL MILLER X F!READER (nicknamed)

SUMMARY: You can't seem to escape that one song even after the apocalypse. Joel and Ellies friendship brings you some comfort, and maybe Joel is interested in more.

WORD COUNT: 1700ish

WARNINGS: None to speak of. Unless you need one for soft Joel. As always, if you see something I've missed, let me know in my DMs, and I'll add it.

A/N: Just a little something inspired by the Olivia Newton-John's song of the same name. (She was in her country music era) It's hardly edited, written on my phone, and Imma just yeetin' it out there. Oops. It's just the usual fluffy hurt comfort. But it IS my first go round with Joel. I hope you enjoy it! 💚

The jukebox was found on a supply run at some honky tonk out Fort Collins way called Sundance something or other. You laughed at your first thought, which was it's wasn't one of those new ones with CDs, realizing "those new ones" were now 40 years old... but this one was truly an antique, with vinyl in it and everything.

A Wurlitzer in all its chrome, brightly colored bakelite, and satisfying push button glory.

You shake your head now, thinking you should have known the moment you heard. Everyone was so excited. Because, of course, they were! How fun is an old timey jukebox full of country-western ballads, anthems, and line dance classics?

It brought an energy into Jackson, the likes you hadn't seen before it. You'd gotten in early on, and watched its evolution from place where people were merely surviving to an industrious hive of busy bees, creating abundance but there wasn't much room for joy and then out of the clear blue sky - line dancing. At first they couldnt keep it plugged in all the time, it was turned on for a half an hour at the end of the day, until they had a good handle on the dam and the power plant was working consistently. You're sure it was the inspiration for Maria's attention to holidays and socials after seeing the excitement and morale lift from it. Suddenly, y'all were living, not just staying alive. So it seems silly, with so much real life and death shit to deal with, to get so hung up on one song, but it carried so much weight for you, you just couldn't shake it. If only it wasn't so sweet, if only it wasn't so catchy… Maybe people wouldn't have noticed it among all the other tracks. But it was sweet and it was catchy, and about making it after all the shit they'd been through...

So naturally, at five songs for a quarter, it ends up in the mix at some point. (It's the only reason the town has any coins. Paying it could have been bypassed, but dropping the 25¢ seemed to be part of the fun.) So when you least expected it, it would start to play, and so far, it continued to flip your stomach and make your eyes glass. And think about how he and you didn't actually make it.

Joel and Ellie have been in Jackson several months now. Ellie dove right in, school, taking care of the horses afterward, trying to socialize. She's a little guarded sure but mostly funny and eager. Joel started helping Tommy right away, but it seemed to you more to keep busy than to join the community. He's wary and taciturn. When they weren't in those organized work times, they stuck close. When Ellie ventured into social activities, Joel let her go, but he was ever watchful, with Ellie checking in often even just a look over her shoulder, just to see if he was still there. He always was. They reminded you of a bonded pair of strays.

You liked your place, Catnip's Apothecary. They'd come in twice so far, once when Joel brought Ellie in for a poison ivy rash and once when Ellie brought a very grumpy Joel for inflammation in his knees Ellie found all your jars of tinctures, teas, herbs, and powders fascinating. Asking what everything did, looking at drying plants hanging from rafters in wonder, pspspsing the cats.

“Are you a witch?”

“Ellie!” Joel admonished, but looking at you for a tell. Were you? You could see him wondering.

You only laughed. Sure you were, but what they were seeing here was hardly witchcraft, just herbalism, mostly. Joel and Ellie are both bright and observant - you're pretty sure they both noticed you didn't answer.

Tonight, Ellie is at the rec center, a movie theater for the evening, awaiting the start of none other than Star Wars.

Where did they find all these 70s flicks? Nevertheless, A New Hope's a great find. You can't resist going, even though you know it by heart, and you'll have to force yourself not to recite all the dialogue. Sitting smack dab in the middle, surrounded by all these kids and young adults, seeing it for the first time, you munch your popcorn and smile.

You don't see Joel, but it's not like you are actively looking for him… just curious, given their penchant to stay together and you figured he will know the movie too, maybe he's more of a Trekkie. When you catch Ellie's eye, she waves animatedly and moves to sit beside you.

“Sssoooo, you're like one of the only grown ups here.” there is a gremlin glint in Ellie’s eye.

“Yeah, I thought there'd be more nostalgia watchers-” you say a little sheepishly. “ But it's okay, I'll see it with a soon-to-be New Generation of Star Wars Fans. Bear Witness!”

“And what if it sucks?”

The noise you make is somewhere between an indignant scoff and a gasp of purest offense. But you rally.

“Oh just you wait padawan-”

"What's a pada-"

As quickly as the lights go down the attention commanding drums of the 20th Century Fox fanfare begin.

“Oop here we go! Buckle up, buttercup!!”

You live vicariously through the new audience for the next two hours, and it is a pure joy.

The young people of Jackson laugh at the Laurel and Hardy comedy stylings of Threepio and Artoo, they eat up the “though she be little she is fierce” snarky spirit of Princess Leia, gasp at Alderaan's fate and Obi Wan's sacrifice, cheer at Hans return, hold their collective breath when Luke turns off his targeting device to use the force, and burst into applause when he makes the one in a million shot, womp rats in Beggars Canyon take heed.

“Aw man I really hope we can see Empire some day,” you say as the credits roll.

Ellie is elated, peppering you with questions about the sequel and then Return of the Jedi as you walk out of the rec center, and everyone begins to head home. You do you best answering, not wanting to spoil too much if she actually gets to watch it.

“I'm this way,” she says suddenly, as she peels off from the town center, “see ya!”

You head toward the Tipsy Bison, to join the adults, most of which took advantage of the kids being off at the movie to do a little drinking and dancing.

The spring has brought high spirits, and with it bright chatter and the stomp of line dancing in progress. Grabbing a spot to watch, you order yourself a drink. When the song ends, there's hoots and applause, and the next one is slow and sweet, and it only takes the first note for you to feel the drop in your belly.

Joel saw you come in, he had seen you from the street actually, when the community center emptied after the film, he had his eye out for Ellie and saw her come out with you, talking animatedly and laughing. He smiled. You were his age, or close enough, he guesses, not only from both the smile and worry lines but your points of reference when talking, only missing references that are local to growing up in Texas. It's comforting, you remember Before. You also have a light he can't get enough of. You didn't confirm nor deny it, but he is sure you've enchanted him witch or not. He's just been too, 'shy' isn't the right word... he just hasn't been able to make any sort of move.

Then he does his best to saunter over to your little table, drink in hand. He's pretty sure his sauntering days are over.

Now you sit alone, a moment ago smiling, tapping to the music. He had been taking in some liquid courage, in the form of whiskey, to ask you to dance. But the light in your eyes is replaced with a shine, not in the way he loves. He's seen this a couple times, he realizes. Times when your eyes go far away and a sadness descends on you.

He gets up and checks the jukebox, taking note of the song. He's pretty sure he's right. He can't bypass a song on a jukebox, nor can he tell a DJ to change it. But he's gonna talk to Walt the barkeeper, first chance he gets.

“Hey Catnip, can I sit?”

You look up wiping your wide eyes.

“Oh, sure, Joel, please,” your smile tries to reach your eyes, but it flickers and can't stay.

“So," Joel starts, he's not good at this. He's gotten better but, “You're Still the One, huh? For me, it's Vince Gill- When I Call Your Name ”

You just look at him, and he starts to think maybe he hasn't improved at all.

“I don't know that one, it was kind of a fluke that our song, his song was a country song. It's not my usual genre.”

“Well it wasn't my lady and my song, it was the song that I listened to after she left. Sarah was so little. I felt so lost in those early days. Now I can't even hear the open-”

“Opening chords,” you finish with a chuckle, “yeah, I can't- and now of course it all wrapped up in the Before Times, too. But here it is, in a jukebox of less than 200 songs, the one song that represents my husband walking out on me before the shit hit the fan.”

“I can't even picture anyone leaving you with nothing but a song.”

“Yeah, well, I can picture it quite clearly. I can't imagine someone leaving you with a little baby girl to raise.”

“We are in the same boat, darlin’ until it happened I would have been with you on that. We were very young, 22, she panicked.”

“Aren't we a pair?”

“Why don't this pair go for a walk then?”

Joel holds his breath, looking into your lovely face.

“I'd like that.”

Standing, Joel holds out a hand to guide you up and out of the bar, it settles comfortably on your lower back, the song long over. His hand tingles and theres a flutter in his chest at being allowed to touch you this way.

It smells like petrichor, though the skies are clear. Joel's hand leaves your back to your chagrin, but he gently holds out his elbow, and with a crooked smile you slip your hand in the crux of it.

“Such a gentleman.”

He smiles and brings you to the newly constructed, yet to be painted, gazebo.

You climb the handful of steps and look at the town from this new vantage point.

Behind you, Joel comes close, his hand casually on your hip, like you did this everyday. His mouth close to the shell of your ear and a quiet hum floats in, the controlled breath tickling, you smile knowing the very apt song choice,

“Are you making fun of me Joel Miller?”

He chuckles, then the words over take the hum -

“Please mister, please, don't play B-17

It was our song, it was his song but it's over

Please Mr. please, if you know what I mean

I don't ever wanna hear that song again…”

Joel turns you, arm around your waist, his other hand sliding into yours -

" I'd sound a bit better with my guitar, but when we couldnt dance, so-"

He starts a simple box step, as he sings quiet and low, just for you, while turning you around the gazebo.

You join in singing, whispering in his ear the chorus when it comes again. It feels cathartic. Then you step back - who is this man? Not the guy who came in with a little girl, a gut wound that should have killed him, poorly healed knuckles, and the wary eye of someone who is always waiting for the other shoe to come down on him like it's made of lead. But looking at him now, those brown eyes wide but the little crease between his eyes holding his concern. His jaw soft, making you take more note of his natural pout and the salt and pepper scruff, the little spot that just won't fill in, it looks like a heart… you wonder if it's as soft and smooth as it looks and if he'd let you touch it to find out.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING 💚

Please consider commenting and reblogging. If you are interested in reading more of my writing, you can find my masterlist here. If you would like to be notified when i post more work, you can find my taglist form here.

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

(correction: title should also say vs. Karl Wilhelm von Toll. But funny mistake given the standings at the moment I'm writing this)

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas

“mustache”

“Tall! Daring! Swashbuckling! A devoted husband and father! Had a personal conflict with Napoleon! Also it was said he could, while holding onto a bar above his head, LIFT A HORSE WITH HIS THIGHS. How is he not on this list ten times already! Vote for General Dumas!”

“He was so hot that he inspired The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and many more books that his son, Alexandre Dumas, wrote. He definitely looked the part of a sexyman, as he son recounts in his memoirs: "My father, as already stated, was twenty-four, and as handsome a young fellow as could be found anywhere. His complexion was dark, his eyes of a rich chestnut colour [...]. His teeth were white, his lips mobile, his neck well set on his powerful shoulders, and, in spite of his height of five feet nine inches, he had the hands and feet of a woman. These feet were the envy of his mistresses, whose shoes he was very rarely able to put on." He could crush you between his thighs: "His free colonial life had developed his strength and prowess to an extraordinary degree; he was a veritable American horse-lad, a cowboy. His skill with gun or pistol was the envy of St. Georges and Junot. And his muscular strength became a proverb in the army. More than once he amused himself in the riding-school by passing under a beam, and lifting his horse between his legs." He was so badass he could beat 13 men with 4 and take all the enemy prisoner, and defend against hundreds of men on a bridge by himself. He performed these acts of valour numerous times in Italy. He was so formidable that the Austrians named him the "Schwartz Teufel", or the Black Devil, and his feat at the bridge earned him the moniker of "Horatius Cocles of Tyrol". He wasn't afraid to stand up to his morals and protest against unfair treatment. When unjust executions by the guillotine were happening outside his quarters, he closed the blinds of his curtains, earning him the nickname "Mr. Humanity". When in the Vendée, he complained about the wanton indiscipline in his troops. When in Italy, Berthier wrongly reported his actions as one of "observation" in St. Antonio. Dumas wrote to General Bonaparte that if Berthier was in the same position, he would have shit his pants. Dumas abhorred plunder, never exhorted the locals, and ordered the Directory agent who had come to persuade him otherwise be shot if he dared present himself to Dumas again. Integrity and a sense of moral justice is sexy, mark my words. For Dumas' final qualifier as a sexyman, look no further than this Tumblr heritage post (https://www.tumblr.com/petermorwood/133803437020/hortensevanuppity-elodieunderglass), with 300,000 notes and counting. And I quote: "- daddy general dumas was an immense fierce french warrior who was a 6 foot plus, stunningly gorgeous and charismatic Black gentleman - he invaded egypt - the native egyptians said “is this napoleon? this must be napoleon. we for one welcome our majestic new overlord” - then napoleon showed up - napoleon has all the presence of yesterday’s plain Tesco hummus - the native egyptians were like “… no… no, we’ve thought very hard and we’ll have General Dumas actually” - this did not make napoleon happy - in fact it made him jealous - napoleon felt so emasculated that he launched a campaign of revenge against General Dumas, including taking away his pension, that probably inspired a lot of Alexandre’s rather satisfying scenes in which fathers are nobly avenged and the money-grubbing villains are rubbed in the mud" I rest my case. Tl;dr: He was so hot he inspired multiple books, he was a stronk man who could crush you between his thighs or carry you like a sack of potatoes, and he was so badass that he could take on odds of 1 to 3. He had a foul mouth but a heart of gold and his actions were never self-serving. Posts relating to him on Tumblr have had 300,000 notes and counting. He is qualitatively and quantitatively qualified to be a sexyman.”

Karl Wilhelm von Toll

"smart military organisation thinking”

[apomaro-mellow]

King&Prince 6

Nancy was pacing back and forth. Normally, it made Eddie anxious, but since he knew exactly what was on her mind, he decided to let her continue until her short legs tired her out.

"I just-I don't understand you. How can you give him free reign of the castle?"

"He doesn't have free reign", Eddie said.

"Did you put a collar on him? Or cuffs?", Nancy asked. When Eddie shook his head, she continued. "Do you put any sort of spell on him? Or charm?"

"Robin can handle herself. And there's always guards nearby if he steps out of line."

Nancy looked him up and down, then crossed her arms. "It's almost like you have faith in him or something."

Eddie couldn't describe what he was feeling. He couldn't forgive the Harringtons for what they had been doing. But Dustin was right. Unless he could prove that Steve had been directly responsible, it wasn't right to punish him. He could still dislike him, since he definitely benefited from the misdeeds of his family.

And there was a slim chance those hard feelings would ever change.

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

Steve got dressed just in time to hear someone knock on the door.

"Hey, your royal slowness, we haven't got time for you to soak all day. I have actual important things to do."

It sounded like the woman from before. The one who didn't want him. Steve opened the door to her unimpressed face.

"Let's go."

"Without shoes?", Steve asked, looking down his bare feet.

"You won't need 'em."

She led him down the hall, past some windows and Steve got his first glimpse of the outside. It looked...normal. Nothing like the blackened, dead trees, and the dry, salted earth that he'd been led to believe this area was. The trees were wilting, sure, but in the typical way ones did in autumn. There was grass and even people doing chores outside.

Past the castle walls, he could make out something in the distance that looked like a town.

"Keep up!"

Steve tore his eyes away and saw that she was a long ways ahead of him. He jogged to catch up, noting the carpet on the floor. He was suddenly reminded of being very young and still allowed to go barefoot outside his quarters.

"Alright", she opened up a closet that was filled with instruments. "I need these moved over to the other end of the south wing and then polished and shined."

"So you're using a prince as both a pack mule and a maid?", Steve asked, brow raised. "What if I refuse?"

"Then I get our all-powerful king to put a compulsion hex on you and hypnotize you to do it anyway."

"Steve!", Dustin exclaimed when he came around the corner, beaming. "I went down to visit you and you were gone! They set you free?"

"I'm less free and more like free labor, apparently."

"You know you're not supposed to go down into the dungeons, Dustin."

"I see you've met Robin. Don't worry, she's nicer than she looks", Dustin grinned.

"Not nice enough to not tell Eddie what you've been doing. And I'm pretty sure he threatened to tell your mom. Maybe I'll just cut out the middle man", Robin warned.

Dustin paled. "You wouldn't dare."

Robin gestured to the musical instruments. "Help out with this and I won't tell a soul."

Dustin let out a breath of relief. "Menial work? That's it? Between Steve and me, we can knock this out easy."

Steve frowned. "I never said I'd-"

"This spoiled brat probably can't even lift a flute", Robin challenged.

"He knows how to kill a guy like a dozen different ways. Steve could finish this in like ten minutes", Dustin countered.

"Ooh, challenge accepted", Robin turned, ignoring Steve's protests. "I'll be in the second music room. Keep his highness on a tight leash."

Fully roped into it, Steve started hauling instruments. Dustin was talking, but he was thinking of his escape. He had no shackles, no bars. He could find a moment to get past the walls and then...maybe it would be better to sneak to the stables and get a horse first. He dreaded the thought of traveling such a distance with no shoes though. Maybe someone had a pair lying around?

Could he steal a pair in town without anyone noticing? He doubted most townsfolk would recognize him as an enemy prince. Steve was deep in his escape plan strategizing, that he just nodded along and 'mhm'ed to whatever it was that Dustin was saying. That kid could talk to a wall and keep the conversation going, which he was pretty much doing now, talking to Steve.

He barely even noticed that they were done moving things until the woman, Robin, threw a cloth at him.

"I want these shiny enough to see my reflection in them", she ordered.

"Why are you making him do all this?", Dustin asked.

"I'm getting new students tomorrow and they deserve nice equipment."

Dustin's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Oh no one you'd know. Except for Mike."

"Mike?!"

"And Max. And El, oh and Lucas and", Robin went on naming people, some Steve knew, others that he didn't.

"Bullshit! There's no way they're all taking classes!"

"Oh they are. And you are too", Robin said while leaving the room.

Incredulous, Dustin followed her out, leaving Steve alone in the room. Alone. They had left him alone. He looked to the open door, leading out into the hallway, then the instruments spread out on tables and the floor, covered in dust.

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

Jeff and Nancy were strolling the halls, discussing how best to prepare for any sort of retaliation when they heard whistling. It wasn't the sound that gave them pause, but where it was coming from. A music room that wasn't supposed to be in use yet. They poked their heads in and saw Prince Steve, whistling a happy working tune while shining a shining a trumpet.

The two of them pulled their heads out, shared a mutual expression of confusion and went to seek out Eddie to report to him, but he was nowhere to be found. That usually meant he was off in town or visiting some other part of the kingdom. Either way, they wouldn't be able to talk to him until he returned.

Steve didn't spend too long rationalizing why he was doing this. He was just biding his time until he came up with a more solid plan. Even though his homeland wasn't really a home, at least no one there wanted to actively kill him. He wasn't safe here and he couldn't forget that. He especially couldn't let his guard down around the king.

Robin remembered him a couple of hours later and led him back to the room he'd first been brought to. Steve had time to actually look at it now. Smaller than his own room but larger than the prison cell. Definitely warmer to. But besides that, it was very minimal and sparse. A bed, a small drawer, and the bathroom. Steve wondered what this room was for. It was an odd sort of guest room.

Robin said something about dinner being brought up but Steve paid it no mind when he realized he'd be sleeping on a bed tonight. He collapsed into it and buried himself in the blanket. He'd be having sleep for dinner.

Part 8

Tag Team

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent @snakeorsquid @ignoremyworld @theclichefortunecookie @goodolefashionedloverboi @just-a-tiny-void @0body0disphoria0 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @samsoble @sugartin @jamieweasley13 @y4r3luv @xtkxkrzrizir @un-knownperson @greekgeek24 @justdrugsformethanks @potato-of-the-lord @notaqueenakhaleesi @swimmingbirdrunningrock @queenie-ofthe-void @nebulainajar @lil-gremlin-things

[jadevine]

Medieval Warhorses, Repost + additions!

Since people loved my "Preindustrial travel times" post so much, I decided to repost my "Realistic warhorses" info separately from the original link, where it was a response to "how to get the feel of realistic combat."

--

The original link is here.

The "Warhorse" post on my blog, plus a recent addition, is here.

And here's the text for people who want to go down my "grown up horse-girl" rabbit hole right away!

Medieval Warhorses:

First of all: DESTRIERS WERE NOT DRAFT HORSES. Horse/military historians are begging people to stop putting their fantasy knights on Shires, Belgians, and other massive, chunky farm-horses! The best known instance of “a knight needs to get lifted onto their 18-hand draft horse” is a SATIRE (A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, if I remember right), but somehow laymen decided to take it seriously.

Hell, I think the film’s historians knew that this was extremely inaccurate and begged the director not to do it.

--

For the purposes of this post, I will not get into the different TYPES OF WARHORSES. That is a hyper-fixation for another day, lol.

—

First problem with “Draft horses as warhorses:”

The bulk of modern-day “breeds” are far too recent for a medieval or medieval-fantasy story. Modern horse “breeds” began around the 1700s-1800s, so that’s in the EXTREMELY late-medieval/early-modern period. Before that, most medieval horses were referred to by “TYPE/PURPOSE” and maybe a “Country/Region.” “Spanish/Iberian horses” (the ancestors of modern-day Andalusians, Carthusians, and Lusitanos) were overwhelmingly popular for combat, and other baroque horses were also esteemed.

Destriers are physically average-height at 15 hands high (about 5 feet tall at the shoulder/withers), but the important part is that they are STACKED at 1200-1300lbs when most 15-hand horses are only 900-1000lbs, so that’s a quarter to a third more weight in muscle.

And remember, muscle will not make a given horse look “chubby!” Good ways to get across a warhorse’s muscles in writing is 1) how ROCK SOLID they are when you touch them, 2) their chiseled shoulders, necks, and butts, and 2) when they get into motion, especially for a fight, their muscles will flex and get REALLY defined. The three regions I mentioned are usually the most visible if they’ve got horse tack or a rider on them.

Think of the difference between “regular horse” and “destrier” as “regular Tom Hardy, who looks fit but normal,” versus “Tom Hardy playing Bane, where he put on thirty pounds and his torso and arms look like a fucking tree-trunk.”

Warhorses had nerves of steel, and the best-trained warhorses used could sprint and turn on a dime–they’ve been called “the sports cars of the medieval world.” This is a far cry from huge, sweet, and lumbering draft horses.

Besides Spanish horses, modern-day candidates for destriers would be European cobs (heavier all-purpose horses, large Welsh cobs are the best-known modern breed), and Foundation Quarter Horses (working/stock horses that can herd cattle and race and actually USE their muscles, not the bloated halter-horses who are mostly bred to look “good” to judges).

—

But if the destrier was supposed to be the horse equivalent of “Tom Hardy as Bane” and not “The Mountain from Game of Thrones,” then how could they carry a knight’s armor as well as their own?

First of all, human combat armor is different from JOUSTING armor and it is easily half the weight for better mobility. Warhorses from proper medieval times aren’t shown wearing much horse-armor, even in jousting. The stuff you see in museums is also frequently the custom-made armor for wealthy nobles, who either 1) wore it once or twice a year for public celebrations, which is also why the armor’s in pristine condition instead of dented and bloody like combat armor would be, or 2) wore it because they were rich enough to not want themselves OR their expensive horses to die too soon in combat.

Assuming that all destriers needed to carry 150lbs for an adult armored man, PLUS another 150lbs of the horse’s riding tack and armor, is like people from the years 2500-3000 assuming that everyone with a “car” must have a Lamborghini or a Ferrari that takes up a lot of maintenance (if you want to keep it looking nice, at least) and can go 200 miles per hour.

So the vast majority of realistic warhorses/destriers didn’t get much if any armor, because 1) horse-armor is for princes and dukes, not Count Whoever’s third son or his nephew that he tossed out on adulthood with barely any money, and 2) horse-armor is going to weigh down your FAST and NIMBLE warhorse. (Remember: Knights wanted sports cars, not tanks!) Take a look at the horses and knights of the website called “Destrier!” Most horses there aren’t notably tall, and they mostly wear head-armor and fancy but not heavy horse-tack like capes, instead of full barding.

Another reason average/short warhorses were preferred is for medieval safety issues: You wanted to mount your horse from the ground without help. The famous knight Jean Le Maingre was so dedicated to fighting that he could VAULT onto his horse in armor, without touching the stirrups. His instructions are, essentially, “put on your armor, find your horse, put your hands on the horse’s back/saddle, and FUCKING JUMP.”

Unless you’re seven feet tall or a gymnast, you’re not jumping onto an 18-hand draft horse.

So all those Red Dead Redemption animations where you get to alley-oop your way onto your loyal steed? POSSIBLE, IF YOU ARE CRAZY/ANGRY ENOUGH.

Quick note: In ancient Ireland, they refer to a “steed-leap” that nobles, warriors, and other “people rich enough to own RIDING horses” were trained to use–with the important distinction that Gaelic nobles often took pride in either using saddles without stirrups, or NOT USING SADDLES TO PUT ANY STIRRUPS ON. So the bulk of Gaelic Irish nobles could theoretically go Red Dead Redemption on your ass.

—

And the third reason most combat-ready warhorses didn’t get armor is because infantry (the vast majority of most medieval armies) just had a low chance of hitting them in the first place.

First of all, most horses are already faster than people. Destriers were EXCEPTIONALLY fast as the cream of the crop. For the horse to need armor, someone needs a good chance of hitting the horse.

Second, most horses are hard to kill physically because horses don’t tend to like getting stabbed or shot at, so they will likely try to kill YOU, which means that a knight and his horse are TWO fighters who are both very angry and very protective of each other. Most people love their horses, and many combatants share intense bonds! IMAGINE IF YOUR HORSE IS ALSO YOUR SQUAD-MATE!

And last of all, most horses are hard to kill mentally because when you want to use cavalry, you ALSO want the other side’s infantry to get consumed by panic and bolt for their lives, away from their companions and AWAY FROM THE CHARGING HORSES. (Which routinely leads to a slaughter, often called a “rout” in period literature, or a “curb-stomp battle” on TV Tropes.) While most knights could dish out one-on-one duels against EACH OTHER, a knight against a foot-soldier is going to have a huge and explicitly unfair advantage if the soldier is not specifically trained and equipped to take them on.

See, when you get a herd of knights on their steeds, the noise and the wave of horseflesh charging at you is going to make your reptile-brain instincts scream “NOPE NOPE NOPE, WE GOTTA GO!!!”

That instinct is so strong that infantry ACTORS in movies–who know that this is not a real war, and the riders don’t actually want to kill them–still routinely break formation and run.

It was possible to stop cavalry with infantry and end up slaughtering them instead of getting routed–it was just extremely notable.

Also, unless you’re specifically going for blood: You don’t WANT to slaughter a whole formation of knights! That means you’ve just pissed away a WHOLE lot of money that the knights represent!

You killed the horses that you could have used for your own side, and possibly bred for more high-end horses! You ruined the armor that you could have used for your own side, or at least melted down for high-quality, already-mined metal! You killed the knights that you could have sweetened up and used for your own side–or more likely, told their families to pay you if they wanted them home intact.

Barely anyone remembers that knights were as good for HOSTAGES as they were for actually fighting. (Except for Game of Thrones, and it’s still only plot-relevant for Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy, and they explicitly did NOT get the protection a noble hostage should have.) It’s noted that Agincourt was a GREAT ending for England because capturing all those French nobles earned them TWENTY YEARS’ WORTH of regular income in ransoms. If they hadn’t won and gotten all that sweet, sweet French money, they would have been bankrupted and depopulated instead.

—

Two more strikes I’d feel are appropriate for “not wanting draft-type horses in combat:”

-Logistics 1: Too much food, too much hassle. Horses are already notorious for eating a lot, and a DRAFT horse that’s 2000lbs instead of 1200lbs will eat twice as much. No army wants to use their fodder for only half the number of horses they’d expect.

-Logistics 2: Too much hair, too much hassle. Shires and other British horses often have feathering on their legs, and anyone with long hair knows that loose hair/fur is a fucking PAIN. You can braid a horse’s mane and tail, but if you’re one of the many average/poor knights who DON’T have servants to take care of your horse for you, do you want to spend extra time cleaning and combing out your horse’s LEGS instead of necessary things? Like feeding them, grooming them, and checking for wounds? Nope, you’ll probably shave the feathering off or just pick a horse that doesn’t have it.

-Extra note on Friesian horses, who are RIDICULOUSLY common in “medieval” movies: Friesian horses are technically baroque horses in body form (Strong-boned! Big necks and butts!), but they’re also over-used in general, so most horse folks are sick of seeing them in movies. And if you don’t have the right kind of MODERN Friesian, you’ll probably be a laughingstock in addition to an eye-roll.

Some strains of modern Friesians are from carriage-horse lines, often referred to as “big movers.” This means “fun to LOOK AT, but terrible to RIDE.” Because, you know, those strains of Friesians weren’t meant for riding, but for PULLING CARRIAGES. Their movements are big, dramatic, and flashy… and their trot is notorious for bouncing people out of the saddle with every step. Not something you want for a knight who fills his opponents with terror.

A good riding horse’s movements are usually smooth and low to the ground, often described as “floating” and “effortless.”

—

A horse-note that I can’t figure out where to put: Many Western cultures love the idea of fiery stallions (intact male horses) for their noble knights and kings to ride into battle on, but realistically, stallions are only half of a given horse population. Many Western stallions are also gelded if they’re not the cream of the crop (which is probably at least the bottom half of the male horse population). So mares can be used by at least half of a realistic formation who just wants a warhorse, and doesn’t care about aesthetics or masculinity.

Also, mares can be ruthless and stallions can be nervous wrecks! Horses are living creatures, with personalities and feelings!

Horses also aren’t very sexually dimorphic, so a 1200lb war mare is DEFINITELY a match for a 1300lb war stallion. And remember how Loras Tyrell used a mare in heat to distract The Mountain’s stallion? That happens with a lot of stallions… almost like they’re living creatures, with instincts that they can’t always control! So if you know when your girl is ready to go every month, you can play dirty in a joust, too!

Just remember that you’re taking an equal risk, since your mare will possibly try to let a stallion mount her instead of fighting. You will either need to bail when she starts making googly-eyes, or you need to know you have ABSOLUTE loyalty from her, and she will listen to YOU instead of “the hot dude I just met five minutes ago!” HORSES ARE LIVING CREATURES, WITH INSTINCTS THAT THEY CAN’T ALWAYS CONTROL.

Then geldings will be used by at least another quarter of “the knights who cannot afford a horse good enough to keep his testicles,” so that leaves “a quarter or less” of knights who can realistically be mounted on stallions.

WORSE NEWS: If you geld a stallion too late (usually once they’re MOSTLY physically mature at 4-5 years old), that risk may never go away–so you’ve got a gelding who’s not breeding quality, but he’s still chasing mares in heat and fighting other stallions in turf battles, without understanding that he can no longer make babies!

On the other hand, some cultures don’t geld stallions because they view it as unnecessary or outright unnatural… but they also don’t want half the horse population distracted by pretty mares, or fighting with other stallions who walk by the pasture, so those cultures breed them to be sweet and easily managed (outside of battle, at least).

In short: ALL HORSES HAVE POTENTIAL TO BE WARHORSES, WHETHER THEY HAVE BALLS OR NOT.

—

Update, Feb 2 – Another day to expand on that “Different types of warhorses” mention!

Much like the common misconception of “all knights must be at least 6 feet tall and have 200 pounds of muscle” varied in real life due to genetics, cultural values, and logistics problems, the assumption that “all knights MUST have top-quality destriers that cost seven times the price of a normal horse” was not the case for the vast majority of “knights.”

Knights would have either “the best horse they could AFFORD” or “the best horse FOR THEIR SPECIALTY.”

A poor knight, or one of the early Middle Ages, would have “one horse that they’re with all the time;” that horse may not be pretty or come from fancy breeding lines, but they would get the job done and most definitely be taken care of. A wealthy knight of the later Middle Ages, when everything got more expensive and status more codified and finicky, would have two or three horses–one horse for warfare and one for regular riding, with the really wealthy knights having a third packhorse to carry all their stuff. (Moreover, they would have at least one servant to help take care of three horses.)

A muscled sprinter like a destrier is better in tight quarters and for short bursts of speed; to bring in the modern example of a classic/Foundation Quarter Horse, who are ideally “short-legged and low to the ground,” these dudes can literally hit the ground running and reach top speed in a few steps/seconds, so compare that to a sports-car going from zero to sixty miles. The tradeoffs?

1) You need to be able to hang the fuck on… and to avoid getting pitched into a wall/enemy WHEN THEY STOP.

2) That full-throttle gallop will really wear out your horse. A good commander will not bring out their heavy cavalry right away, because you also have to figure out how to get them back from the enemy’s side of the field.

In very simplistic terms, this is one of several problems that the battle of Agincourt had for the French; you had a bunch of hoity-toity noblemen with no proper battle experience who all wanted to do things their own way… and how do medieval noblemen usually want to fight a war? JUST FLOOR IT AND HIT THINGS AS HARD AS YOU CAN.

That went so badly that the recorded death-toll for the French side of Agincourt has been commented as “a roll call for French nobles.”

A destrier would not be suitable for a scout or light-cavalry; they’d need lighter and ground-covering horses to cover rough terrain, and to chase down the enemy for long stretches–akin to a modern-day Thoroughbred. For period pieces they might resemble an Akhal-Teke or “Turkmene” horse. A modern-day Thoroughbred horse can “only” reach forty miles per hour at a gallop, but they can keep that up for a whole mile or longer. So now your knight’s problem is “Hanging on for two or three whole minutes,” and anyone in performing or athletics will explain how long and agonizing a few minutes would feel on a rampaging horse. Have you seen how stacked a racing jockey is? The general consensus I’ve seen from equestrians is that barely anyone in any other horse-discipline is that built.

Meanwhile, an ideal light-cavalry horse would need longer legs for a ground-covering stride, and they may or may not be taller as well; as seen in the Akhal-Teke article, many endurance horses tend to show a lot more ribs and bones than other breeds, due to how lean they are. But think of them less as a dainty riding horse and more like a hunting greyhound/sighthound–all muscle, no fat!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

EDIT Feb 4, 2024: My post got cut off, so here's the rest of it!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

A period-accurate scout's horse was known as the Irish hobby, ridden by their eponymous hobelar troops. These little dudes were VERY little and about 12-14 hands high (48-54 inches, or 4 feet tall to bit under five feet tall). They were known to cover 60-70 miles a day in their raids, which my "preindustrial traveling" post notes is the EXTREME upper end of mounted distance travel. Their modern descendant is likely to be the Irish Connemara Pony.

Very wealthy and/or lucky European horsemen could probably manage to buy/steal an Arabian horse, as they remain exceptional endurance horses to this day. However, excessively cold/wet climates will need a lot of upkeep for a desert-bred horse to stay healthy.

While Arabians are known for their adorable "dished faces," this is not actually required! Many well-bred native lines have a regular face (ie, a "straight nose/profile") but they are from well-bred parents and have the capabilities of other Arabians. To the other extreme, you have some modern show/halter lines with REALLY exaggerated heads that hit a lot of people's "Uncanny valley" buttons, and they find it creepy/weird instead of refined. This kind of "seahorse face" would NOT be seen in a period piece.

Notice how the smaller a horse gets, the more ground it can cover? This is partly because size only matters TO AN EXTENT for "how long a horse goes," and partly because of physics! Less weight for a horse to drag around on its own body means more energy for putting miles behind them!

[howlingday]

Panthera Tigris Tigris Nikos

Jaune: Hey, Pyrrha? Can I have a hug?

Pyrrha: Of course, Jaune! (Hugs)

Jaune: (Sinks into her)

Pyrrha: Would anyone else like-

Nora: (Dragging Ren) MEMEMEME~!

Fun Fact! Bengal tigers are big. Females have been documented to reach 400 pounds, males 500 pounds, and occasionally larger specimens reaching 700 pounds. Royal Bengal Tigers are reportedly even bigger, with one specimen shot by David Hasinger in 1967 was reported to be 857 pounds, measured at 11 feet long, and left paw prints "the size of dinner plates," and it's last meal was a live water buffalo weighed down by an eighty-pound weight. It is displayed in the Smithsonian Institutions's National Museum of Natural History, in the Hall of Mammals.

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

Pyrrha: Ready for our run, Jaune?

Jaune: You bet! Maybe this time I could-

Pyrrha: (Ear flicks) Oh, uh, why don't you keep warming up, Jaune? I need to grab something from the dorm.

Jaune: Oh, uh, sure thing, Pyrrha. I'll be right here.

Cardin: (Sitting on the roof) What the hell? Where's Nikos go- (Door swings open, Mauled)

Fun Fact! Bengal Tigers are fast. They can make short sprints of forty miles per hour, which is about the speed of a thoroughbred horse. An incident with a startled tigress mother with her cubs in Nepal in 1974 resulted in the death of a researcher who was hiding 15 feet in a tree. In 2007, on Christmas Day at the San Francisco Zoo, an Amur Tiger cleared a thirty-foot moat to maul three visitors who were harassing the tiger, killing one of them before being killed after four shots to the skull by responding police officer's .40-caliber-pistol rounds. It should be noted that the Amur was a captive tiger, raised from birth in the zoo. Imagine a wild tiger raised in the jungle.

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Pyrrha: Are you okay, Jaune?

Jaune: Y-Yeah, I... Wait, what about the goliath?!

Pyrrha: It's okay, Jaune. I took care of it.

Jaune: But how, Pyrrha? (Holding) Your weapons-!

Pyrrha: (Takes, Smiles) I took care of it.

Jaune: (Looks behind her, Sees dead goliath)

Fun Fact! Bengal Tigers are strong. Their bite force can reach up to a thousand pounds, which is much stronger than a pitbull's and about a quarter of a great white shark. Their prey includes deer, buffalo, bison, bears, rhinos, and elephants. A single blow can break a bear's spine, and easily decapitate a human.

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

Jaune: Thanks again for letting us come visit, Mrs. Nikos.

Mama Nikos: Oh, Jaune, don't be so formal. We're practically family, so just call me Mama.

Jaune: Uh... No, I'll just stick with Mrs. Nikos, if you don't mind.

Mama Nikos: Oh, you are just so polite! I'm glad Pyrrha could have such a handsome team leader like you.

Pyrrha: (Blushing) M-Mom...

Nora: Can I have more meat buns, Mama?

Ren: Nora...

Nora: Oh, right! Khm! May I have more meat buns, Mama?

Mama Nikos: They're in the oven.

Jaune: So what do you do for a living, Mrs. Nikos?

Mama Nikos: I'm a personal fitness trainer. It's actually how I met Pyrrha's father. He said he could perform a perfect double twister kick, and I told him it was impossible unless he could twist and launch himself at a 167 degree rotation with a north-northwest gale blowing at 3.5 miles per hour behind him-

Mama Nikos: (Ding!) Oh! Meat buns are done!

Jaune: Huh...

Pyrrha: Don't worry. I didn't get it the first time, either.

Fun Fact! Bengal tigers are smart. Cubs are raised by their mothers for two and a half to three years. There are also notes of tigers imitating deer and bear calls. They will chase larger prey into water, tear at buffalo legs to bring them to the ground, and will flip porcupines from to their backs to avoid spines. There are also records of tigers killing 15-foot crocodiles, 20-foot pythons, 300-pound seals, and a 20-year-old elephant.

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

Jaune: Hm? Hey, Pyrrha? Who's this standing with your mom?

Pyrrha: Hm? Oh... That's... That's my mother. She... She's not around anymore.

Jaune: Do... Do you want to talk about it?

Pyrrha: I... I don't know where to begin. She was my hero, but she did something really bad, and she died when I was really young. And I...

Jaune: Hey. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.

Pyrrha: (Leans on Jaune) I was probably six years old when it happened. She and I were on our way to watch a tournament together, but then this guy came from out of nowhere. He shot at us and broke her jaw. She carried me back home, and then... She left that night. I didn't learn about what happened to her until just after getting accepted into Beacon. She... She went on a rampage and then... Then she...

Jaune: (Holds her) Hey, hey. It's okay, Pyrrha. I'm... I'm sorry to hear that. I'm... I'm sure she was a great mom.

Pyrrha: (Sniffles) She was the best. And, on the bright side, because of her, there's a new standard for huntsman and huntresses to follow. And she's part of the reason why I became a huntress. So I could make sure everyone follows the standard. Follows the example she set. (Smiles) I think she would have liked you.

Jaune: (Looks at family photo) I think I would have like her, too.

Fun Fact! In the first ten years of the 20th century, until her death in 1907, the Champawat Tiger, also known as "the man-eater" killed and ate 436 humans in western Nepal. She evaded capture and continued to kill until she was shot by British hunter Jim Corbett, who speculated the tigress lost her teeth years ago from a gunshot, forcing her to change her prey to much easier humans. He then went on to be an advocate for wild tigers and spent the latter years of his life devoted to their conservation, even having a conservation park in Nepal dedicated to him.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This home looks like a combination Tudor/Castle, but it's an Equestrian Estate and an Elizabethan style manor house with 2 caretaker homes, a carriage house with groom's quarters, a yoga studio, a 12, 000 sq. ft. stable, greenhouse and more. Built in 1860 in Pawling, New York, it has 17bds, 9.5ba., and a total of 43 rooms. $6.5M.

The grand entrance. Does the Samurai warrior convey?

Wow, look at the stone walls and wood carvings.

It's very classic- a sitting room with rich wood paneled walls, beamed ceilings and leaded glass windows.

Wow, this is some dining room with an interesting fireplace, wainscoting, and ceiling. That's a table for 14. Geez.

Beautiful huge sun porch with views of the grounds.

Don't know what this little sitting area is, but it sure is fancy.

Gets more modern in here.

This is cute, a little sunroom.

Like the kitchen- look at the old water heater in the corner and the vintage stove. This is such a classic vintage French country kitchen, I wonder if they'll leave the map of France.

The primary bedroom has a full size sitting room.

This bedroom has a full-size living room and a dining alcove.

Looks like all the bedrooms have sitting areas.

Like the ceilings in the upper floor bedrooms. So cozy.

Nice family room. Love the castle look.

Look at this, it has a chapel.

Nice billiard room with built-in seating, book shelves and a fireplace.

This is the children's wing with creepy circus murals on the hallway walls.

Love the vintage baths.

They have antique cars in carriage house.

Must be the stables.

The barn and horse buildings look like they need some work.

The property is 25.5 acres. Actually $6.5M isn't that bad for all of this.

[snowyslytherinowl]

The First Perfect Christmas

PAIRING: Severus Snape x Reader

SUMMARY: For the first time in Severus's life, he won't be celebrating Christmas alone. This time, he'll spend the holidays with you, his girlfriend. Since it's your favorite holiday, Severus tries to get you every Christmas gift on your wishlist. But when not all the items you want are available, Severus worries that he'll ruin your Christmas and disappoint you.

Warning: a very brief reference to child/domestic abuse and there's angst, but there's nothing intense. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and even if you don’t, I hope you have a wonderful day! I know I haven’t published in a while since my life has been busy, but I wanted to at least write something for the holiday season. Also, I tried my best to use British English terms (I know I didn’t use British spelling, though) but I may not have gotten them all since I’m ✨American✨.

*GIF isn't mine; credit to @smilingformoney

For the first time in his life, Severus Snape’s Christmas won’t be one of loneliness. He spent his childhood Christmases with his parents, but being with his parents was like being with no one at all. Every Christmas was the same; his father drank himself into a violent rage and his mother sat on the couch in silence. Severus envied the children who received the newest toys and ate warm meals beside a grand tree. At the very least, Severus wanted to spend time with his family even if there was no tree in the corner of the living room. Wasn’t Christmas time supposed to be full of holiday cheer and merry greetings? 

You are the only person who makes him feel happy during the holidays. He stuck his nose up at the Christmas decorations around Hogwarts and not a single tinsel could be found in his quarters. But when the clock struck midnight on the First of December, you required him to add some holiday cheer to his quarters. He placed a mini tree in the living room, hung stockings above his fireplace, and lined the doorframe to his bedroom with garland. The colorful ornaments you gave him for the tree are a little too bright and tacky, but it doesn’t matter; he’d do anything to make you happy. 

On the other hand, you decked out your Hogsmeade cottage in the spirit of the holidays. A train chugs around a miniature Christmas village, the large tree displays red globes and floating snowflakes, and a beautiful snow globe with white horses rests on your mantle. The aroma of gingerbread cookies and plum cake wafts from your kitchen as Severus walks into your cottage. You peek into the living room from the kitchen and smile widely as you see him come in. 

“Come here!” you say enthusiastically to him, but you run towards him and pull him into the kitchen before he even has a chance to oblige. There are many baked goods on the counter, ranging from gingerbread cookies with iced smiles to a Yule log that actually looks like it was cut from a tree. Without warning, you shove something in Severus’s mouth and he almost spits it out from the surprise. 

“How’s the plum cake? I’m in between giving my neighbors a plum cake or a plum pie. They said they like anything with plums, but a pie and a cake aren’t the same thing. So, what do you think I should bake them?” You look at him expectantly as he chews on the plum cake. It is absolutely delicious; it’s moist and not too sweet. Severus swallows the last bite and is about to respond when your eyes widen and you gasp. “Oh wait! I forgot to give you the pie!” Once again, Severus almost chokes as you shove the plum pie into his mouth. 

“Now what do you think?” you ask him. Severus stares blankly at you. He doesn’t want to make the wrong choice and therefore disappoint you, especially since you’re looking up at him with expectant eyes. What if he chooses the cake and the neighbors deem it not moist enough? Or what if he tells you to bake the pie and the neighbors don’t like doughy desserts? It’s a minor decision to make, but he never wants to upset you; so, he chooses the sweet he likes more. 

“I prefer the cake,” Severus says, pointing at the dessert on the counter. You beam at him and wave your wand to pop another cake into the oven. 

“Thanks! Now why don’t you sit down on the couch and I’ll clean the kitchen up?” Before he can oblige, you gently push him out of the kitchen to immerse himself in the Christmas wonderland of your living room. 

Severus sits next to the arm of the couch and looks around the room as he patiently waits for you. He notices an open journal on the side table and leans forward to look at the top page. It’s a list of some sort: a snow globe, notepad, pillow, and Iridescent Ink. Every wizard knows what Iridescent Ink is and he thinks the ‘pillow’ is the one he saw you looking at in Hogsmeade. The snow globe on your list likely refers to the one featuring Diagon Alley with reindeer flying overhead. He remembers how you gushed over how cute the reindeer were and how magical Diagon Alley looked… Wait, is this supposed to be your Christmas wishlist? 

Severus’s head snaps to the snowman Christmas countdown, which lets him know that there are twelve days until your favorite holiday. Twelve days should be plenty to find all the gifts you want, but he still internally smacks himself for forgetting to buy gifts until now. 

He immediately straightens in his seat and rips his gaze from your journal when you enter the room, carrying two mugs of steaming liquid. You wrap your arms around him and Severus blushes crimson. Even though you’ve been dating for almost a year now, Severus reacts the same way whenever you touch him. “I can’t wait to cuddle with you tonight. It’s been extra cold recently.” You rest your head on his shoulder and gaze up at him.

Yes, his thoughts about the pillow were definitely right. The pillow shapes itself around both sides of your body and adjusts when you move. He remembers how you teased him when you said, “I need something to cuddle with when you’re not here to be my body pillow every night.”

“I regret not being here to keep you warm every night, though you know that my responsibilities at Hogwarts are the only factors keeping me away from you.” Severus blushes again at your closeness and looks down. On the weekends, Severus stays overnight at your Hogsmeade cottage. You snuggle so closely and wrap your legs around his so tightly that your bodies are practically fused together. Although he isn’t particularly fond of being confined underneath your body, he does appreciate the warmth that envelopes him. “Even when I am slaving away under Dumbledore’s orders, you can always use a warming spell on nights like these.” 

“Mmm, but I prefer it when you keep me warm.” Any thoughts about the hot chocolate awaiting him on the table flee his mind when you cup his face and kiss him on the lips.

After a night of suffocating cuddles, Severus untangles himself from your arms and slips out of the bed. When you stir awake and attempt to pull him back into the bed, Severus whispers an excuse about needing to retrieve essays to grade. You press a wet kiss to his cheek, murmur a farewell, and fall right back to sleep. He’s thankful that your shift at Scrivenshaft’s is later in the day since you won’t catch him apparating to Diagon Alley. 

Stores in Diagon Alley have just opened when Severus apparates there. He heads straight for Scribbulus Writing Implements to buy Iridescent Ink for you. Rows and rows of ink line the shelves, making it impossible for him to find Iridescent Ink among colors like Eccentric Emerald and Plum Paradise. After he finds three jars, he heads for Rosa Lee Teabag. Even if you didn’t ask for tea on your wishlist, Severus still buys a box of your favorite tea. Then, a book with moving illustrations displayed in the shop window of Flourish and Blotts catches his eye. His cheeks burn when the cashier asks if it’s for his child, but his momentary embarrassment is worth it since you love books with colorful, detailed illustrations. Perhaps it could be passed on to his future child too. 

He remembers seeing your desired snow globe at Ethereal Embellishments Emporium. House-themed snow globes line the top shelf and snow globes with a crackling fireplace lie below. Severus’s brow furrows when he notices that the Diagon Alley snow globe is missing. Try as he might to scavenge through the store and rearrange the shelves, Severus can’t find it. 

Even when he asks the store clerk if there are any Diagon Alley snow globes in their inventory, his inquiry remains unsuccessful. She comes back with a box containing a snow globe in the shape of a lantern. A snowman and snowwoman hug each other and wave at the person outside the glass while snow falls around them. Severus frowns as he turns the snow globe in his hand. One reason why you like the Diagon Alley snow globe is because of the cute reindeer flying overhead, and this snow globe has cute snowpeople. Even though it’s nice, it isn’t the one you wanted. After handing it back to the store clerk, her thanks her for her time and leaves the store. 

Awkwardly standing in the middle of the street, Severus feels a sense of dread as he considers where else he can find that snow globe. Dazzling Decorations Depot and Hartigan’s Holiday House both sell Christmas decorations. Though when he visits the two shops, he finds out that Hartigan’s has sold out of snow globes and Dazzling Decorations Depot doesn’t even sell snow globes. 

His dread turns into panic. He only bought the Iridescent Ink, which can be bought at any stationery shop. The Hogsmeade store that sells the pillow is closed on the weekends. He’s afraid that if he purchases it on Monday, you’ll catch him walking back to Hogwarts with the pillow in hand. He can’t buy the notepad from Scrivenshaft’s either since you work there today and it’s closed on Sunday. The only other day you have off is Tuesday, but it may be sold out by then. 

Of course, Severus can gift you items other than what’s on your wishlist. But what if you get angry that he didn’t get you everything on your wishlist? What if you don’t like the gifts he’s chosen for you? Would this ruin your Christmas? Examining the contents of the shopping bags from Rosa Lee Teabag and Flourish and Blotts, Severus can't shake the thought that the items he purchased aren’t good enough for you. 

After returning to Hogwarts, Severus drops off what he bought and retrieves the essays he actually does need to grade. He returns to your cottage and sits at your kitchen table, grading the essays. Reading his students’ subpar papers on the properties of Wolfsbane Potion does nothing to distract him from his thoughts, especially as he hears the toot of the train chugging around the Christmas village. You decorated your cottage in the Christmas spirit, make him Holiday Blancmange every weekend, and send sweet notes to his office in Hogwarts Castle. Meanwhile, he hadn’t even thought to start buying gifts until yesterday. 

Severus’s eyes brighten as you return home from work, but his gaze holds a bit of sadness as he thinks about what a poor excuse of a boyfriend he is. You laugh as you close the front door and quickly hide something behind your back. “Give me a second!” you say enthusiastically to him and dash into your bedroom. He finishes marking an essay as he hears you rearranging items in your room. 

You come back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “How was your day, sweetheart?”

“It can only ever be average when I must read my students’ atrocious papers,” he drawls and rests his hand over yours. “How was work? You are slightly later than usual.”

“It was stressful and the store was packed with people throughout my entire shift. You know, with it being the holiday rush and all.” You lean forward and kiss Severus’s cheek. “But I got something special for you.”

Feelings of guilt eat away at Severus’s heart and his shoulders droop, but he tries to shake it off before you notice. “Oh? Where is it?”

“You won’t get it until Christmas, silly.” You laugh and playfully push him. “By the way, what do you want to do for Christmas? I was thinking that we could just stay in and cook together. Oh! And what do you want to eat? We must have roast beef and I’ll bake any dessert you want.”

Severus thinks you look the most beautiful when you’re excited about something. Your eyes shine, you smile widely, and you shake his shoulders as you go on about whatever makes you passionate. He doesn’t deserve you, especially when you look as beautiful as you do now. He just smiles at you and mumbles,  “Whatever you want, I will be happy with.”

After classes end on Tuesday, he walks down to Hogsmeade to buy the pillow and notepad. Lumos Living is swarming with customers when he walks into the store. Unfortunately for Severus, the shape-shifting body pillow is so popular that there are none on the shelves.

Severus’s pointer fingers pick on his cuticles as he approaches a store clerk restocking the shelves in the bedding section. “Do you have any of the shape-shifting body pillows in stock?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t. But we’ll restock on Friday morning, so you can come back and check on that day!” Great, just great. Yet another item on your wishlist that Severus can’t buy. He huffs and thanks the clerk as he stomps out of the store.

Scanning the streets of Hogsmeade, Severus ensures you’re not around as he makes his way to Scrivenshaft’s. Just as you described your shift on Saturday, the store is packed with wizards and witches alike. He hasn’t seen the notepad you want before, but he remembers how you described it to him after you came home from your shift several weeks ago. Every time you pull a sheet out, the next sheet morphs into a completely different shape and design. 

The notepad and notebook section isn’t as busy as the rest of the store. There are flying notepads, notebooks that you can have conversations with, and notepads in the shape of a twinkling Christmas tree. Severus thanks Merlin when he finds the notepad you described and snatches it off the shelf before anyone else has a chance to grab it. 

Severus walks toward the long checkout line with a slight pep in his step only to freeze as he catches sight of you. Tuesday is your day off; why are you even here? He ducks behind a table displaying a stack of notebooks as you turn to look in his direction. It doesn’t seem like you notice him since you calmly walk over to your coworker at the register. 

The two of you have a brief conversation before your coworker hands you something. When you start walking in his direction, Severus dashes from the table to the opposite side of the store. You press something inside the keyhole of a door, which he assumes leads to the stockroom, without spotting your boyfriend. 

Severus feigns interest in the limited edition holiday quills as he waits for you to leave. He slowly sorts through the boxes of Festive Featherflame Quills and pretends to look for the best quill. Another customer gives him an impatient look when he takes too long, so he awkwardly steps to the side. He turns around to look at the door to the stockroom, but you still haven’t emerged. 

“Sev?” Severus jumps and begins to pick at his cuticles at the sound of your voice. He quickly shoves both the Festive Featherflame Quill and the notepad to the side. His eyes dart to a door beside the quill section, which has just closed shut. Realizing that this door also leads to the stockroom, Severus internally curses himself for not noticing it when he sprinted over here. “What are you doing here?”

“I… well, I am in need of ink and a quill,” Severus attempts to say nonchalantly. When your eyes wander to the shelf behind him, he turns his body to hide the two items from your sight. 

“Okay…” you say and frown. “I just wish you bought it during my shift.”

“I apologize, my love, but I did not realize that I needed these two items until this morning,” Severus lies again, but feels a genuine twinge in his heart as you frown. “Further, why are you here today if you are not working?”

“I left my coat here last night.” You still look a little upset, but you peck a kiss on his cheek nonetheless. “I’ve got to run. See you in a few days, okay?”

With a sigh of relief, he watches the front door close behind you. He quickly retrieves the notepad he threw to the side and makes his way to the checkout line, which is even longer than before. 

A bell from the second register rings, beckoning the next customer in line. He recognizes the store clerk helping him at the register as Mary, your favorite co-worker and the reason why you two are together. One chilly day in late November, Severus popped into Scrivenshaft’s to buy jars of ink. You caught Severus’s eye as he searched for ink and he could barely string a sentence together when you helped him at the register. Under the guise of buying ink and quills, he visited the store every few days, secretly reveling in the opportunity to admire you and exchange a few words with you. After several weeks, his office stationery drawer overflowed with ink and quills, and Mary noticed how enamored he was with you. During every free moment of your shifts, she teased you about him and eventually convinced you to make the first move. 

“Severus, hey!” Mary says enthusiastically and louder than he would’ve wanted. Several other customers and employees glance at Mary and him. “How’ve you been? What are you getting today?”

“I am well. I would like this.” Severus hands over the notepad, causing Mary’s eye to twinkle. 

“This one is so cute!” she gushes. Then, something seems to click in her mind and she gasps loudly, of course. “Wait! This is the one that your girlfriend wants!” 

Severus looks around to see even more people looking at them, causing him to sigh. Keeping this purchase a secret from you is practically an impossibility at this point. “Mary, please quiet down. I do not want her to know that I am purchasing this for her,” he attempts to say calmly, but a hint of impatience leaks into his voice. 

Mary makes a zipping movement over her lips and smiles giddily. “Don’t worry! I promise not to say anything.” She scribbles down the item and price on a record and then looks back up at him. “That’ll be five galleons.”Swiftly handing over the coins, Severus leaves the store with the notepad clutched firmly in his hand. 

When his final class before lunch concludes on Friday, Severus shoos his students from his classroom and rushes down to Hogsmeade. He’s nervous that he won’t make it back to Hogwarts on time since the lunch period isn’t long and the village is full of cheery citizens participating in holiday activities. Though what makes him sweat is the possibility that Lumos Living has already sold out of all the shape-shifting pillows they restocked this morning. He can’t afford any more bad luck when it comes to gift-giving. 

But unfortunately for Severus, his already minimal good luck has completely drained. There are no more shape-shifting pillows, no matter how many times he ransacks the store and sticks his hands into the crevices between the shelves. He mutters curses under his breath and stomps back to Hogwarts for the final classes of the day, where the students note that he is in an especially foul mood. 

His only consolation after all classes end for the day is that the Christmas holidays have just begun, so he can spend two whole weeks at your cottage. His heart soars with excitement as he heads down to Hogsmeade, yet simultaneously sinks with self-disappointment for not buying everything you asked for. 

When you arrive home from your shift, you stomp the snow off your boots and joyfully display a bottle of eggnog in your hands. “It was a little expensive, but why not? It’s Christmas and I get to keep you here for two weeks!” you cheerfully say as you hand him the eggnog. Severus waves his wand and pours two glasses as you continue, “I was thinking of going caroling after my shift tomorrow and I know you don’t like it, so I won’t drag you along. But I’ll make up for my lateness tomorrow night with smoked salmon for tonight’s dinner, okay?”

“That sounds delightful, my love,” Severus says quietly and sips his eggnog. Turning over the bottle in his hand, he sighs at your sweet gesture, which he feels he is unworthy of. 

As you wave your wand to summon all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner, you turn to Severus and frown at him. “Is everything all right, sweetheart?” you ask, concern clear in your voice. 

Severus looks into your eyes and sees genuine worry. He can’t bear the thought of ruining your day, so he forces a small smile and pulls you close to him. “Do not worry. I am fine. My head is merely spinning at the thought of the potions I have to brew for my stores over the Christmas holidays. At least those pesky students will not give me headaches for the next two weeks.”

You smile back at him and nuzzle your nose against his. “And I’ll start making dinner so you can get your head off things. But I still expect you to make one of your special drink concoctions.” 

As the evening progresses and you eat a delicious dinner, he enjoys spending time with you and listening to you rave about what your friends plan to do for Christmas. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake up the feelings of guilt building inside him. 

As you head off for work and caroling the next day, he takes advantage of the time alone to do some final holiday shopping. The store clerks at Lumos Living inform him that the shape-shifting pillow won’t be stocked until after Christmas, so Severus resorts to buying a body pillow that changes temperature based on your body temperature. Pillow stuffed in a bag, he apparates to Diagon Alley to find the elusive snow globe. Neither can the Diagon Alley snow globe be found in any of the shops. After carefully inspecting all the other substitutes from Ethereal Embellishments and Hartigan’s, he decides to buy the snow globe with a ​​snowman and snowwoman hugging each other. At least you might appreciate the cheery, adorable faces of the snowpeople. 

As Severus wanders aimlessly around Diagon Alley with his store bags in hand, he ponders over whether to get you something from the surrounding stores. His memory flashes back to the first gift he gave you: a red glimmering potion that released tiny floating animals. Nothing has ever made him nearly as happy as when you threw your arms around him and gushed over it for weeks. Instead of buying other items at Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, he resolves to brew something similar to that potion. At least he knows you’ll like it. 

Upon his return to Hogwarts, Severus immediately sets up a large cauldron and assembles the required ingredients. Since it’s not an overly complicated potion, he adds extra details to make the gift even more special. Stirring the boiling water and dropping ingredients in as they’re required, he makes the potion sparkle green, gold, and red. After he waves his wand over photographs of you and him, the cauldron releases floating, moving images of the two of you. He smiles as two tiny figures float in the air: you and him standing in front of a zoo enclosure of mooncalves. 

He pours the finished potion into a large bottle and mulls over what else he should make using his potion skills. It may be too late to hang new ornaments on the tree, but Severus still decides to make liquid-filled ornaments for the following year. He prepares a potion similar to the one he made earlier, which also glimmers in the cauldron. Then, he transfigures clean potion bottles into the shapes of icicles and eggs and adds tiny, colorful glass pieces to design the eggs. Severus frowns as he inspects his uneven placement of the glass pieces on the eggs, but he hopes the ornaments still look enchanting enough as the potion swirls inside the glass. 

Over the next several days, you occupy almost every minute of Severus’s time. As a child, he never built snowmen or lay on the ground and made snow angels. Neither had he been brave enough to challenge the other children to a snowball fight or ride a sled down the small hill near his home. But when you two aren’t relaxing at your cottage or walking hand-in-hand at a Christmas event, you pull him outside and have fun in the snow. A snowman and snowwoman fashioned after the two of you still stand outside your front door, and Severus adjusts their twig arms so they continue to hold hands despite the harsh wind. No matter how many times you ride a sled together, his arms wrapped around your front remain stiff; yet when the two of you roll off the sled after crashing into something, he can’t help but crack a smile. And every evening that the two of you spend together, you walk through an enchanted Christmas wonderland the village of Hogsmeade has set up. Throughout all these festivities, Severus almost forgets how he’s failed in getting all the gifts you want. Almost. 

In the middle of the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Severus rushes to retrieve the gifts from Hogwarts and properly package them. With only a candle lighting up the room, Severus hunches over the kitchen table and waves his wand over the wrapping paper. The process of wrapping the Iridescent Ink, notepad, and potion gifts go smoothly. However, he pauses as his eyes roam over the snowpeople globe, temperature-changing pillow, box of tea, and illustrated book. Would it be better to not give you the second-best gifts or not give you a pillow or snow globe at all? Perhaps you would think he didn’t bother to find you everything on your list, so Severus reluctantly wraps up those two things. Along that same train of thought, he covers the box of tea and illustrated book with silver wrapping paper. Before he can overthink the gifts he’s wrapped, he waves his wand and sends them to rest at the foot of the tree. 

At precisely eight the next morning, Severus is shaken awake by you. He slowly opens his eyes and sees your eager face and messy morning hair right above him. “Wake up, Sev! Happy Christmas!” you squeal. You kiss him on the lips and scurry out of the room. 

Severus yawns and slogs out of bed. When he enters the living room, you run into his arms and kiss him. “When did you put all those gifts under the tree?” you ask excitedly. 

“When you were sleeping last night,” Severus says groggily and pulls you close to him. It’s an irrational thought, but he thinks that you might not open up his gifts if he holds you here all day. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and gaze adoringly up at him. “You know you’re the best boyfriend, right?”

He feels a twinge in his heart, but he forces a smile onto his face. “Do not flatter me, my love.” You laugh at him and gently push him away before he can hold you closer and prevent you from sitting under the tree. 

Severus holds his breath as you sort through the gifts, but then you pull out a package that he doesn’t recognize. You pat the floor next to you and hold the package above your head. “I want you to open all my gifts first.”

He takes the package from you and tenderly runs a hand over the green bow and red wrapping paper adorned with flying hippogriffs. Reluctant to rip away or lazily flick his wand over the wrapping you obviously put effort into, he slowly unties the bow and gently removes the wrapping paper. Inside is a packaged set of books on the Dark Arts, specifically rare volumes that he had expressed interest in several weeks ago. How did you even find these? How did you even remember that he wanted these? Severus looks up and notices the hopeful look in your eyes. He genuinely smiles at you and leans forward to kiss your cheek. “Thank you, my love. You are so very thoughtful.”

“Of course, Sev!” You turn to look for another gift and hand him a package even bigger than the last one. Again, you eagerly watch him as he carefully unwraps the gift. His mouth drops in awe as he uncovers the exquisitely crafted wooden box that serves as a travel potions case. The outside of the box is carved in the design of a tree and when he opens it, his name is engraved on the top section. Jars of potion ingredients are also stored inside the box, ranging from bat spleens to boomslang. You smile shyly at him and say, “I wasn’t very good at Potions, so I don’t know if those ingredients will be useful to you. But I did find a list of ingredients you’re running short of, so I bought those.”

Severus sets the box aside and embraces you. “No, no. This is the most beautiful trunk I have ever set my eyes upon and I am in need of all of those ingredients. You should not have done all of this for me,” he says quietly and his voice even breaks. His heart pounds wildly and his mind swarms with thoughts of how he doesn’t deserve this, how he doesn’t deserve you. You gave him this and the best thing he’s giving you is a silly lovey-dovey potion. Some tears form in his eyes and he quickly blinks them away before you notice them.

“Nope, I would get anything for you, Sev. I’m just afraid that the other gifts aren’t as nice as the last two,” you say as you rub his back. You pull away and summon a small present into your hand. “I know you like practical gifts, so I hope you like this one.”

Underneath the blue bow and icicle-themed wrapping paper, the clear box contains several red rubbers. You laugh as you spot the unintentional look of confusion on Severus’s face. “They’re Flubber Rubbers. I know you can’t usually remove the ink from your students’ essays, but these rubbers actually do remove ink and write encouraging comments in the margins. I thought these would help you stay more positive after Minerva scolded you for being too harsh.”

His cheeks burn and he glares at you, sending you into an even louder laughing fit. “I do not know if I should feel insulted or be grateful, though I suppose I can use these on essays that fall short of atrocious.” Internally, Severus is secretly very grateful that you would try to help him with his work as a professor. He takes in a deep breath and blinks, yet again fighting the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes. How did he ever manage to make you, an angel, his girlfriend?

Your hands grasp onto a large box with a red and green bow on the top, but then you pull your hand back and pass him another present. “I also got this one from Scrivenshaft’s. I hope you don’t already have this one,” you say a little nervously. 

Severus cocks his brow as he unwraps the gift, pondering over what you meant by “I hope you don’t already have this one.” Almost every stationery item he owns is from Scrivenshaft’s since he wants to support the shop you work at, but he doesn’t buy unique stationery items. He mostly purchases black and red ink, basic quills, and journals. Perhaps this is a leatherbound journal?

Severus lifts the lid of the box. Inside is what he assumes is a limited edition Christmas quill. He doesn’t recognize the bird from which the feather was plucked, but the feather has been dyed a deep red and flutters to increase and decrease in size. It’s nice, but he wouldn’t choose Christmas quills over basic ones. Why did you get this? Then, it clicks in his mind. Last week, you spotted him in the limited edition holiday quill section at Scrivenshaft’s. You must have thought that he wanted one of those quills, especially the Festive Featherflame. 

His lip trembles and he frowns deeply as he holds the quill in the palm of his hand. You notice everything about him, from the wanting looks at potion ingredients to how he lingers around a particular corner of the Dark Arts section of bookshops for too long. Severus now thinks that he isn’t nearly as observant as you are. What if you clearly wanted something, but he didn’t buy it for you because you didn’t verbally express interest in it? How many items has he now missed out on buying? Out of all the things you’ve given him so far, the item he didn’t necessarily want finally forces the tears out of his eyes. Severus’s shoulders shake and he pinches the quill a little too forcefully in his hands. What an utter failure of a boyfriend he’s been.

“What’s wrong? Do you not like it?” you ask quietly, but the concern is loud in your voice. You scoot closer to him and wipe the tears flowing down his cheeks. 

“No, it is not that. You notice everything about me and all of these gifts have been incredibly thoughtful,” he sobs. “Meanwhile, I could not even find you all the gifts on your wishlist.” Severus accepts your loving embrace and buries his face in your shoulder even though he knows he doesn’t deserve this. 

You pull back and furrow your brow in confusion as you ask, “Wait, what? How do you know I made a wishlist?” 

“I found it inside your journal around twelve days ago, I believe,” Severus says shyly and his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I apologize if I invaded your privacy by looking at your journal. Though I swear that it was already open when I looked at its contents.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I was just wondering how you knew since I didn’t tell anyone.” You push a strand of hair behind his ear and kiss his cheek. As more tears pour down his face, you summon a handkerchief from a cabinet and hand it to him. “You really didn’t have to get me any of those things, Sev. I planned on buying all of them when they went on sale tomorrow.”

“But then what would I have given you for Christmas? You have given me so much and I bought gifts that are unworthy of you.” Although your loving touch has slightly calmed him down, his body still shakes and his voice breaks as he speaks. 

“Really, you didn’t have to give me any presents. This is corny to say, but having you here for Christmas is all that I wanted. I didn’t ask you for your wishlist nor did I give you my own since I think it’s better to give your loved ones thoughtful gifts rather than ones they’ve been begging for for months.” You pull away from him and sweep your hand over the gifts under the tree. “I was going to have you open all my presents first, but why don’t you let me open the ones you got for me?”

Severus shakes his head and looks down. “I do not want to disappoint you. I know Christmas is your favorite holiday, so I do not want to ruin your day.”

You sigh and cup his face again. “You could never disappoint me or ruin my Christmas, Sev. The fact that you’re even crying about this shows how much you care about me. You are the best boyfriend I’ve ever had and there is nothing that you can say that will convince me otherwise.”

Severus grunts a “fine” under his breath, but he glows internally at what you’ve said. He decides to hand you the present with the notepad first since he doesn’t want to get your hopes up with the potions present or disappoint you with the second-best gifts. 

As you carefully remove the wrapping paper like he had, Severus can tell you’re holding yourself back from ripping at it. When you uncover the notepad, your face lights up and you throw your arms around him. “This is why you were at Scrivenshaft’s without me! You’re so sneaky!” 

“You nearly caught me multiple times. Then, I nearly had a heart attack when you said hello to me.” He laughs at the memory and runs his hand over your hair. 

“Yeah, you looked pretty nervous.” You join him in his laughter and place the notepad on a nearby table. “What’s next?”

“This.” He points out the small box in golden wrapping paper. He realizes that his wrapping, even when he used a spell to do it, isn’t nearly as good as yours. “It is not special, but it was on your list.”

“If it’s from you, then it is special,” you say with a smile. Normally, he would roll his eyes when Dumbledore makes a statement like that. Yet you say things like that, he rolls his eyes and smiles. 

You quickly remove the wrapping paper from the Iridescent Ink and you embrace him again. “Thank you, Sev! I’ll use this to write notes when I’m at home. It’s too special to use at work.”

His hands shake as he hands you the pillow and the snow globe at the same time. Although you promised that this wouldn’t ruin your Christmas or that you wouldn’t be upset at him, Severus’s mind always goes to the worst. You reach for the snow globe first and squeeze the wrapping and padding before opening it. 

“Ooh, what’s this? It’s probably something fragile by the feel of it,” you comment. When you spot the cute snowman and snowmen waving at you, you squeal. “They’re so cute! That’s us! And they remind me of the snowman and snowmen outside too!” You run up and place your new gift on the table with your snow globe collection. “You know what? This is even better than the Diagon Alley snow globe.” And that makes a genuine, wide grin break out on Severus’s face for the first time that day. 

“I am glad. I hope you like the next one as much.” Once it’s free of its covering, you squeeze the temperature-changing pillow and sigh at how it adjusts to your body temperature. 

“I’m going to find a way to make this one Severus-temperature on the nights you’re away. But for now, I’m going to put this in the closet so it doesn’t get dirty.” 

After you get back, you open the tea box and the illustrated book. You promise to make two cups of that tea right after opening all the gifts, and your eyes light up at the moving illustrations. He tells you about the store clerk assuming that it was for his child, and you bury your face in your hands and laugh. 

“I saved the best two for last,” he says quietly and first gives you the potion ornaments. “I made everything myself.”

You unwrap the potion ornaments and your mouth drops in awe. The liquid swirls inside the glass and casts a mesmerizing glow onto the walls and the floor. You immediately wave your wand and hang each icicle and egg ornament on the tree, then tap them to change the color of the potion inside to match the colors on the tree. Severus anxiously watches to see how else you’ll react, but then feels a surge of relief when you turn to him, tears in your eyes. You embrace him for the millionth time that day and kiss him so passionately that he can hardly breathe. “This has to be the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Either this one or the animal potion you gave me several months ago,” you say breathlessly. 

Severus cries again and presses his forehead against yours. “That means you will adore the last present I have for you.” You pick up the box right beside you and tenderly open it. You sniff and continue to cry as you uncover the large bottle. Cradling it in your hands, you uncork the cap and are mesmerized by the tiny images of the two of you floating into the air: clinking your drinks at the Three Broomsticks, standing outside a glowing Diagon Alley shop, and wrapping your arms around him as he sits in his Hogwarts office. Your lip trembles and you sob even louder as you stare at the sentimental gift. With steady hands, you carefully place the bottle on the side table and hug him again. 

“I keep hugging you, but you deserve something even better tonight,” you whisper suggestively into his ear and laugh gently. Severus blushes and twiddles with his thumbs, trying to ignore the heat rising in other parts of his body. 

Every other present Severus opens jerks even more tears from his eyes: a scrapbook with photos of you and him, a vintage book on spells, and a candle set with subtle Christmas scents.  

After you both put your presents away, you brew the tea as promised and prepare a light meal. For the rest of the day, Severus helps you cook roast beef, roast potatoes, parsnips, rolls, smoked salmon, Holiday Blancmange, plum pudding, and chocolate cake. He continually fears that he’ll burn something or start a fire, but everything tastes delicious once you two finally sit down and eat. During the evening, you relax by the fireplace and the Christmas tree, sipping hot chocolate and talking for hours. When you two go to bed, well, Severus receives his last present of the day. Although the day isn’t full of sled riding down steep hills and he never expected to burst into tears as you exchanged gifts, Severus deems this the first perfect Christmas he’s had in his life. 

[mschievousx]

now and then | b.b.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x ofc

summary: loraine silva always knew she was not normal. she loves unusual things. she loves her father's guns, horses, boxing, climbing a tree, falling from a tree, engineering, astronomy... oh, and a man eleven years older.

series masterlist

x. ten: live that way

it was the first time in a while that the sunlight touched her face and it did not hurt. she stirred awake, the light seemed to be poking her from sleep. raine tossed, pulling the sheets deeper to her.

"i was afraid you will not be here when i wake up."

his morning voice greeted her as he placed a hand on her head and played with her hair. ah yes, last night really did happen. she buried herself on his chest, taking in his natural smell.

she looked up at him, her lips grazing his collarbone as she spoke with a smile, "anthony and violet are going to kill us."

benedict chuckled lowly at her jest, "they will not."

she returned back to his chest, closing her eyes once again. he planted his face on top of her head, seemingly taking in her smell as well. this was it. these were the arms she has longed for—the comfort she has been seeking.

"i am too tired." her muffled voice resounded.

he planted a kiss on her for solace, "it is alright. i will be here."

raine pursed her lips, deciding if she should say anything about her grave situation later and ruin the moment or not. but as we have always known, she was a frank one. it would not be her if she wasn't.

"this may be the last time we will be together."

"then i will wait for you."

he replied with ease, professing confidence amidst the direness of everything around them.

raine was sure though—that the intensity of the situation has not sunk in on benedict yet. she was with him, alive and well right now. how easy it was to be lost in the blissfulness of the moment.

she slowly sat up, leaning for a kiss on his forehead as she removed herself from the sheets, "let us go. they will grow wary of our absence."

raine clothed herself as the man kept his eyes on her. she turned to him, instructing that he follow down after a couple of minutes to avoid suspicion from the family. she turned the knob, exiting the room silently.

as she looked up to walk, she was met with a viscount already staring curiously at her.

"what? it's my room. ho—how was the ball?" she said in a pitched voice, quite defensively, causing anthony to narrow his eyes at her.

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

she ate quite the breakfast, treating it as if it was her last meal. at the very least, she was happy she ate with the bridgertons—the only family she has left.

after a meal for breakfast, she excused herself at once, quickly going to anthony's office with raphael in tow. they have been going back to back for strategies on what to do for more than two hours already, now settling in silence to let themselves take a breath. the colonel called for her out of the blue, the latter waiting for him to continue.

"lord high chancellor scott will be there."

she looked with confusion at that. raine was familiar of the man, yes, but she has not seen him ever.

"i do not know what he is like."

"raine, i have not told you one thing." he began, words laced with shame, "they took general's body."

in truth, she knew already. raphael would have done anything to bring her father to her even if a lifeless body. he would actually give his life to his superior since the general saved him before in the streets of homelessness too.

"i have figured, given that you returned alone without his remains. you would not have left if you could."

she tightly smiled at him, the most form of comfort they could achieve in this moment.

"it was him. he was there when they attacked our quarters, ordering his men." he revealed, regret in his voice on how he was not able to do anything to save the general in that time.

raine put her pen down, closing her eyes for a second before turning to him, "why are you telling me this just now?"

"i was debating myself whether i should." he replied with doubt. he knew how the girl can get mad easily sometimes, especially that concerning her family.

she stared out of nowhere, trying to think of something. an idea popped in her head as she spoke with a realisation, "we will use that to our advantage then."

"no, that's..." raphael seemed go have caught on what she was thinking. he showed his clear disagreement with her plan, "you will be charged for high treason."

"by questioning his person?" she scoffed at the idea of a soft high chancellor.

"by questioning his person, you are accusing him." the colonel retorted, his arms on his waist, thinking of other solutions as well.

"it is not an accusation if it is true."

"it is an accusation if we cannot prove it."

raine knew he was right. they could do nothing about it if they cannot prove it, "we can build the story around us, put the rest of the soldiers outside of it all."

he sat beside her on the couch, facing her calmly as if giving up, "they all knew what we were doing, raine. there was nothing like only the general and i. the whole troop knew the issue we found and the measures we were taking. they are all highly ranked men and were the most trusted by your father."

"i do not care." she said with a slam, staring him down with firm, "forty-six soldiers, raphael. forty-six."

despite her best efforts, a tear fell from her already luminous eyes. the thought that these men who should have been celebrated by their services are coming close to dishonor angers and pities her at the same time.

"i will not let you all die."

he placed a hand over hers, "we are soldiers. we have been prepared for this."

"not without dignity."

raine declared with might. she will make sure to turn the tables, and if it will not, she will fucking flip it over.

he could do nothing but nod slowly, accepting her point. he took a glimpse at his watch, ruffling the girl's hair as he stood up.

"it's noon."

she nodded, following the man outside the study, "gather them."

currently in the hallway, waiting for carriages after carriages to arrive, the second daughter caught sight of her and took her hand.

"raine, come. just for a while."

she followed the young woman up to her bedroom where penelope stands, waiting in anxiety. eloise gestured to the redhead as she offered.

"penelope can help you turn the people's favor to you."

getting a hint of what she was trying to say, raine tightly smiled at them, "lady whistledown?"

penelope stopped her tiny movements of unease as she turned to the silva, both of them asking her in chorus, "how did you know?"

"no," she ignored the question. she was a daughter of a general, of course she would know. she stepped towards the girl, addressing their idea to help, "i appreciate you both trying to help, but no. they knew of my father's activities and he was a general."

raine took the featherington's hands and held them softly, "my best bet is they know you are lady whistledown and is just letting you be for now since you have not attacked them directly."

"but you cannot go there like this." eloise voiced in distress and worry.

she did not realise that other people were being affected by her situation this much. the young silva thought she has managed to keep them off and away—enough that they would not need to worry. evidently, that was not the case.

"come here." and so, she placed each of her arms on the girls' shoulders, bringing them in on a tight hug. it may have been her imagination, but eloise let out a small sob as she wrapped her arms on her.

they exited the room after, descending it with begrudging steps. the carriages have arrived and are only waiting for them. the bridgertons gathered near the door to bid her farewell. she turned, addressing them for possibly the last time.

"i ask of you all, do not go anywhere near the palace."

the matriarch could not help herself but grab the girl, enveloping her in one of the warmest hugs the young one has ever received. violet kissed the top of her head, a gesture that says all will be well.

raine knew it was not going to be.

and so, she continued on her way, exiting the bridgertons' home to see the carriages lined up, all filled with soldiers. they waited for her to get in just as benedict came forward. he held her hand tightly, prompting her chin up as he caught her lips in his.

she tasted like heartache and war.

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

the twelve carriages that contained the forty-six soldiers and loraine silva arrived at the front of the palace in a processional manner. a significant number of citizens have gathered. at the sight of the hottest topic of the town—the country, even—some were yelling in support to them and some against.

the viscountess, the colonel, and the major sat on the first carriage, the men exiting first. she followed, not sparing any look to the people. they could not affored to cheer nor smile. this was the deciding moment of their future.

raphael and raine entered the palace alone, the soldiers all lined up in a row outside, facing the people. they were greeted coldly and strictly by both royal guards and other military that she was sure must have interacted with her father at least once. they were guided into different rooms. she was given nothing but the wary and observing gazes of the unknown soldiers guarding her.

the colonel has been away for more than an hour now. she understood that they were interrogating him first, squeezing all the details before they would deal with her nuisance. not later than her own planning of her statements in her head, the door opened to reveal the man, head leveled properly. but, she could tell. that it was only his rank that made him still have the dignity to raise his head. however, the inner raphael? she could see him conceding and casting the head downwards.

she was prompted to stand up, them crossing each other as she left the room and walked towards where raphael came from. the doors opened to reveal the queen, brimsley behind, and the lord high chancellor with two other parliamentary members and two decorated generals, it seems.

raine sat across them all as lord scott did not waste time to begin his questions, "did you know of your father's treacherous plans against the crown?"

just by the first question, she already knew she wanted to shoot him. he was enjoying this, evidently on his tone.

"i did not."

he scoffed sarcastically at that, turning to the other members present as if gaining their attention, "i find it hard to believe, considering how close you both were, especially after the death of your mother and brother—god rest their souls."

it was a foul. mentioning them both amidst all of this was a great foul. she narrowed her eyes at him, firmly and armed as her voice sounded with confidence, increasing in volume.

"i did not know because there were no treacherous plans in the first place."

the members of the parliament leaned back slowly with their chins raised in an insulted manner. the two generals present turned to them with a curious look. ah, these generals are not involved in this.

lord scott noticed their interest piqued and hurried to push the matter to the young lady, "major general silva was reported of having questionable communications within the military force. we were monitoring him for months."

he continued to reveal the story he has crafted so well against them, "in the most recent event, he was caught exchanging fire with the british military, resisting in the quarters that must have served as their unofficial office for such activities."

she sat up straight with a piercing look at him, offense clear intended on her tone, "and who can attest to this?"

"girl, you question the credibility of the sources of the highest governments of the crown?!" he bellowed, sitting at the edge of his seat as the other members gestured for him to calm down.

"yes, in fact, i do."

"loraine, address the assertions."

the queen spoke for the first time. ah, she was not involved either. raine could tell she was trying to help, trying to get her out of this.

"your majesty," the girl began, turning to the queen with respect in contrast to the lord high chancellor, "my father was not a traitor and neither am i or raphael."

"where is the quarters where armand was unfortunately killed?" she asked outright.

the young silva could see right through the queen's plans. her majesty has conceded the matters of the girl's father. there was no saving his legacy—he was not saved already. it was a lost cause.

charlotte focused on his offspring, saving her from this is the only thing she could do for the family. and fortunately, the girl looked like she did not know anything.

raine had no words to answer at all. all the planning they did, all the stories she prepared—they went to the drain in just one question.

the queen waved her hand, the footman understanding her language. he opened the door and there enters raphael. he sat on the other chair beside the girl as charlotte continued.

"colonel montague has admitted to all suspicions." at the mention, raine turned to the man instantly, looking at him in surprise. the queen continued, "your lack of knowledge in the basic information of their activities suggests that you were indeed oblivious to the acts of treachery to the crown."

the girl glared at the queen, completely opposing her idea of helping. she declared clearly, word per word in firmness, "there was no betrayal from our end."

she clutched the couch, anger rising at their refusal to listen and acknowledge her side. other than being known for her unceasing confessions to the second bridgerton son, raine is also infamous for her hatred and passive-agressiveness.

"the colonel has copies of multiple reports that were altered to provide misinformation and cause mayhem in the military communication." her voice maintained the strength of her argument, "they were investigating it for months, even during my debut. we can call people as witness—"

raine held her tongue in time. she does not wish to put people on the government's eyes anymore. she swiftly dismissed the previous idea, continuing her previous point.

"the night they were ambushed on the way to the ball... tell them, raphael."

she turned to the other man who stayed silent the whole time, beckoning him to talk about what he witnessed in all actuality. however, the latter refused to utter a single word. she furiously turned back to the high officials.

"he saw the british insignia—the very people my father promised to protect the crown with." the young one spat the words with absolute hate, pointing her finger to the high chancellor, "and in fact, when they attacked my father in the quarters, you were there lord scott, were you not?!"

"you dare declare such accusation when you do not even know its location!" lord scott raised his voice, growling in her disrespect, "we are not here to address the matters of your father. he was a traitor. you are here to be questioned about your involvement in the said treason!"

raphael moved, raising his head to the officials with a determined voice, "i have conceded to everything. i have divulged all you wanted to know. the girl is entirely unaware of our activities!"

"oh, stop making her look like a child!" the high chancellor sneered at him, looking at loraine with sarcasm, "the lady has been raised by a general. everyone knows of your physical skills and marksmanship, taught by your very own father since you were young."

he stood up with authority, slamming his words with distaste. he stepped forwards as he pointed down a finger to stress his point. the young silva's eyes darkened at that, her mind going blank as he continue.

"there is no need to stray far from the truth."

he was too loud for her, his words biting her. she recognised this tension, this atmosphere. this is the battle. this is the war.

"you grew up mostly with him, taught everything by him, discussed plans with him, strategised with him," he paused, as if gathering his breath before he spat with malice.

"and committed high treason with him!"

raine stood up at once, unclasping her gun from her thigh in the process as she shot the man on his chest twice, his blood getting on her dress and features. the queen jumped and recoiled at the sound, brimsley nearing her instantly. the rest of the members jumped away and the generals reached for their guns.

loraine silva has shot the lord high chancellor.

one of the generals opted to reach for the actively dying lord scott, his hands on his chest as his mouth froze and jaw locked in neural shock.

the girl turned to the general and pointed her gun at him, "help him and see what follows."

he slowly backed with the queen gesturing for him to stay down as well. her majesty understood the young lady. she was not a threat to anyone else at the room as long as they were not a threat to her.

she walked to near the chancellor that leaned back helplessly with blood on the foamed chair, "you were right about everything but one."

she did not dropped her gun, still aiming it to his head now with clear dark intent. her voice was neither loud nor small, neither hard nor soft. it was the kind that would cause you to squirm.

"we did not betray the crown. we did not betray its people."

her voice did not declare war. it proclaimed the ending.

"and if we did," she leaned down to him as if whispering, "none of you will ever know."

raine stood straight up, sneering at the chancellor below her, "we would not have been as stupid as you."

she pulled the trigger thrice more—with no mercy or pity, with no regards of the people around her. seeing him finally stop breathing, she dropped her arm down, still gripping the gun hard.

"it would have done you good to know that i have his patience as well."

by the remnants of her rage, the future became clear—it's going to fall apart.

"your majesty," raine turned to the queen. the two generals behind her went for their guns seeing the girl's back on them. charlotte raised her hand immediately, halting the actions of both men as the silva continued, "the reports and all related documents are in the care of viscount bridgerton."

she dipped her head down in a bow for a few respectful seconds before standing back upright, feet together, leaning in a martial manner.

"i apologise for the mess, aunt lottie."

raine walked away, raphael following closely. he wanted to say something so badly, but was fearful of disturbing the already unstable state of the girl.

they exited the palace with no other encounters, likely because of her majesty's intercession. reaching outside the fence, the people tripling in number than earlier. they all yelled unintelligibly at the sight of them. her father's soldiers turned about face at their arrival. it was obvious that they heard the gunshots—her father's silver flintlock pepperbox has a hell of a sound.

gilbert returned raphael's gun, the latter cocking it immediately up in the air before firing. the crowd silenced in chorus as the girl inhaled deeply.

"each and every one of you has seen my father. major general silva had always been for the people."

while her father carried the rank of a major general, he was not disconnected with the people. yes, he was still distant for security purposes, but for a man his rank, he willingly shook hands with the people that deserved it.

and, armand often told her that he gets to shake more hands of the commoners and the general public than the officials.

"he was not a traitor. they have blamed their own treachery to my father, killed my father, and killed his loyal men—men that were all defending the crown and its people. this is what has become of our society. i do not care if you are busy with the social season and of other pleasures. this should be your duty as a person behind the crown."

she walked at the center, nearing them all so that they would hear her words better—words that they shall engrave in their hearts and minds, etched in their very soul.

"i stand before you all, not only as his daughter, but as someone who will never sit whilst injustice is apparent."

the viscountess silva's voice deepened with conviction. her eyes were flaring with truth and patriotism. she caught everyone's gaze and held it until it hurt.

"one who will not cover her ears against the screams of the dead."

"one who will not close her eyes in the midst of people abusing their power."

"one who will never sleep soundly whilst there are bodies of the wronged under each of our beds. "

all of her will went to her voice as she declared her final words to the public.

"this is the age of awakening. do not go gentle into that good night!"

raine continued to speak in the words coded by her father, the late major general, the superior of all. the forty-six soldiers answering with equal strength.

"min koimitheís ísycha ekeíni tin kalí nýchta!"

"orgí, orgí enántia sto svísimo tou fotós!"

they placed their right fists on top of their heart as the young lady and raphael found the royal guards and other military personnel. there was no escaping their situation now. what they did ensured only one path, and that was their head to the execution block.

the queen has ordered to not execute them on the spot. she reasoned that it would mean making them martyrs on the eyes of the people and they want to avoid that—although in truth, she pushed for them to have a private execution because that is what the two wanted.

viscountess loraine silva and colonel raphael montague turned about face to the rest of the soldiers. the latter saluted in uniform to the colonel, him returning it. they were saluting their ranks for the last time. she saluted the men this time, and by her surprise, the soldiers then turned to the young lady and saluted to her.

they were not supposed to salute back to her. she has no official rank.

raphael nudged her, prompting the girl to dismiss the salute as did the soldiers. a warm smile settled on her lips before both of them turned to the guards.

this is it. there is no going back.

and just as raine entered the vehicle to transport them to the cells, she completely missed the familiar head standing out from the crowd like a sore thumb despite her telling him not to attend.

once again, he could do nothing but hold his head down and shut his eyes at the end of the day. his palms formed a fist, biting his lips intensely as tears graced the floor under him.

every storm runs out of rain.

taglist: @aadu2173 @imgondeletedis @pumkiinpasties @rebleforkicks @perseny @everavenclaw @datingbtr @peetahpahkah @idek-what-to-put @aysamuka

[bluecanvasshoe]

platonic!Arthur Morgan & teen!fem!reader

reader being female is only mentioned, like, once at the very start, rest of the story has virtually nothing to do w it

based around the end of the game!!

Arthur notices you’re upset after some sulking around, so he takes you fishing.

warnings: slight rdr2 spoilers, a little smidgen of misogyny, maybe ooc? idk, no beta reader we die like MEN 🔥, little bit of angst, comfort, NO ROMANCE‼️‼️‼️

word count: 1.5k

——————

For the past couple months, it’s felt as if nothing you have done has ever gone right.

When carrying hay-bales to the horses, your arms grew tired. Micah laughed as you dropped the feed and breathed heavily. A few months back, Hosea reminded you that, as a child, you weren’t expected to do any of the more challenging work. However, the urge to prove yourself triumphed over his lectures.

Then Ms. Grimshaw approached you in camp, reprimanding you for your insistence on doing the more “manly” tasks. As a girl of the camp who was yet to be an adult, you, unfortunately, were not saved from her pressing you about your future in the gang.

Afterwards, while practising your handiwork with a needle, you pierced your index finger. It drew blood, so Strauss gave you a bandage and a disapproving look.

The gang slowly dwindled in numbers, leaving your already fragile state of mind in a bit of a crisis. Small things piled on small things that piled on big things, and you soon found yourself dreading chores, which turned into dreading every day that followed. The feeling of thinking you were actively disappointing every living being ever drowned out any sense of reasoning.

On a clear morning, you woke up groggy. All seemed well until you were punched in the face with the realisation that you had to actually get up.

Instead of wasting the early morning away, wallowing in the sadness of your flimsy canvas tent, you sat at the dying campfire. Your heart felt heavy in your chest, and your mouth subconsciously pulled down into a frown.

Arthur, ever the early bird, awoke not long after you and sat down on the next log over. His worn and muddied boots crunched on the gravelly terrain, interrupting the chirping of birds. The sun hadn’t yet risen, shrouding everything in a dusky glow.

“You uh… sleep well, kid?” said Arthur, holding onto a steaming cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” you replied simply, staring at the fire. Strauss told you not to drink coffee; he said it was “bad for a child’s development.”.

Arthur sighed, turning his head over as he propped his upper body up, an arm supporting himself by pressing on his knee. “You’ve been acting’ strange,” he commented, “we’ve all noticed. Is somethin’ botherin’ you?”

Your voice caught up in your throat, the words that formed in your head fighting to escape and pathetically losing. “No…just tired.”

The man next to you coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “You…uh, you wanna go fishin’? I oughta' bring some food back to Pearson.”

Fishing? Now there’s something you haven't done in a while. Maybe you could get out of the camp.

“Okay,” you fidgeted with the fabric of your sleep bottoms, your eyes darting from Arthur and back to the fire. It seemed Arthur hadn’t expected you to agree, as he hesitated to find a response.

“Alright, then. Be ready in...about half an hour.”

As promised, you were dressed a quarter after six; at least that’s what your pocket watch you pickpocketed forever ago said. Hopping up onto the pony you used on rare outings, you waited for Arthur to saddle up too.

“You got all your stuff?” He asked, storing away his fishing rod and hoisting himself up, grabbing hold of his horse’s reins.

You look at your saddle bag one last time before turning to Arthur, nodding. “Yeah. ‘Been a while since I've gone fishin’, though.”

“Don’t worry about that; I'll give you a refresher.” Arthur shifted his weight before clicking twice, lightly jabbing his spurs into the side of his mount.

Following his movements, — except spur-less, as you don’t do nearly as much riding as the other men in the gang — you began to move, your horse huffing gently.

You caught up to him thanks to his slow trot, swatting away a couple mosquitoes in the process. “Where’re we goin’?” you asked, your voice raised.

“Well, you ain’t too familiar with his area,” he quickly wiped his nose with his free hand, sniffling. “But it ain’t far. There’s a nice little spot on a lake nearby. You oughta' get a couple bites.”

“Uh-huh,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. Arthur was holding onto his horse’s reins with one hand. You had trouble steering your horse with two.

Arthur slowed once he approached a patch of gravelly sand, getting off his horse with you following. He took out his fishing equipment and walked over to the shore.

“Here,” Arthur reached into his brown satchel, pulling out a block of cheese wrapped in brown parchment paper. “Use some a’ this.” Reaching over, you broke off a small chunk and murmured a hushed ‘thank you’ in return.

“‘M guessin’ you remember what bait is and how to use it, right?” he remarked, preparing his rod. “I think I got it,” you muttered, fumbling with the fishing pole but eventually hooking the cheese onto the sharp point.

“Careful there. Don’t wanna poke your finger.” Arthur joked snarkily, waiting for you to get into a similar position to his, his fishing rod held in front of his body. “Shut up,” you grunted, getting a good grip on the pole and holding it out in front of yourself. The water moved lazily, quietly washing up and down on the sand. The calm surface showed the fish that swam underneath. Minnows dashed around quickly, the small groups of fish moving together.

Crickets still chirped in the distance as birds were beginning to sing, too. The air smelled fresh and felt dewy, a light breeze turning trees into calming windchimes.

“You wanna hold it like this,” he said, tapping his index finger against the line. You attempted the same hold that he had, but with the limited information given, you didn’t immediately get the hang of it.

“No, like- like this, with your index on the line. Should be pressin’ against the rod.” Arthur peered over your shoulder as you adjusted your fingers, pressing the thin string against the wood of the rod. Arthur nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Now pull back the bail.”

Now, you hadn’t a clue what the bail was, but that hardly mattered. Matching Arthur’s movements, you pulled a semi-circle piece of metal back and over the line spool.

“Alright, now be careful here; don’t wanna take out an eye. Draw back your rod over your shoulder, but not too far. The farther you draw, the longer the cast,” he advised, drawing the pole over his shoulder. You mimicked him.

“Now, you throw it over your shoulder and straight forward,” he instructed, watching your movements. The bait landed about 3 metres away from the shoreline, splashing pathetically before bobbing up and down.

“Just like that. Now, you pull back the bail and wait.”

Silence filled the space between you two—a suffocating, invisible force.

Deer galloped across the lake and within the thick brush. One stopped, a buck, and stared at the two fishermen across from it. His ears twitched before he joined the others.

Loons sang, their eerily beautiful calls travelling across the calm waters. Frogs croaked in the distance, and clouds languidly drifted overhead.

“Look, I… I haven’t a clue what you’re feelin’. But just know that you ain’t alone. We’ve all been stressed. I can’t imagine what you must be feelin’.” said Arthur, turning briefly to face you.

The sun peeked over the distant treeline, slowly casting a calming light over everything in the vicinity.

“I feel like I can’t never do anythin’ right.” You croaked, voice catching in your throat and a painful ache creeping up to your jaw.

“Aw, kid… whad’ya mean?" Arthur had never been great at comfort. He could do it, of course, though he certainly had his favourites when it came to his affections.

You stared off into the lake, your reflection looking right back. “Everythin’ I do feels like a failure. There ain’t a single thing I’ve been able to do right recently.”

Arthur sighed, reeling his line back in and casting it again.

“That ain’t true. You’re a kid. You’re learning. You ain’t… supposed to be great at everythin’, and nothin’ you do is supposed to be right; it’s just supposed to teach you somethin’. This’ll go away; trust me.” He chose his words carefully, coughing to the side before continuing. “Now I know this probably ain’t what you wanted to hear. Feelin’ sad feels... nice sometimes. But it’s true. Basically everyone in this gang is an adult, ‘cept for Jack, so don’t go comparin’ yourself to anyone, ya hear? We’re all goin’ through hard times; none of this is your fault, and you ain’t a failure for anythin’.”

The sun steadily rose, framed perfectly by the view in front of you. Your horses huffed occasionally as geese flew above, honking distantly.

He was right; you didn’t want to hear this. You don’t know what you want to hear. Maybe something about how awful you are, or maybe something about how great and amazing you are. You felt conflicted, confused, and even a smidge defensive.

“But I-” “but nothin’, kid. Do with that what you will, but just... think about it. Maybe see things from a different perspective.” He rasped, clearing his throat. “Or don’t; it’s your choice. But just give it some thought.”

Silence settled between you two again, leaving your conflicting feelings to dissipate.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, watching as your bait bobbed on the water’s surface. The chill of the north was soothed by the warmth of the sun, and everything, in that moment, felt okay.

[blurglesmurfklaine]

Truth be told, Jack doesn’t remember the eight seconds he spent on the bronco’s back.

If any moon-eyed fangirls come up to him and ask about it, he plans on giving the standard blanket responses, like all he heard was the roar of the crowd.

In actuality, all he has are fragments from right before the livestock hands pulled that gate. It’s hard to forget that kind of anticipation racing through his veins, the sawing sound of rope pinning his riding glove to the back of the horse as Jack grit his teeth, ordering Racer to pull it even tighter.

Everything else, like the sickening crack from his head slamming against Midnight Train’s spine that made the audience cringe in horror, was told to him second hand. 

The trainer who checked him out gave him a lot of medical jargon he wasn’t too familiar with, but Jack gathered the important stuff. No riding for three days, get plenty of rest, neither of which he has any intention of following. And of course, there was the whole spiel about concussions affecting memory.

Imprinted in his is the face of one of the pick-up men as Jack faded in and out of consciousness, stern and cool and steady. He can nearly still feel strong arms around him, keeping him from falling into the dirt of the arena, can still hear the New York accent reassuringly mutter, “I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

So if Jack can’t stop thinking of the pick-up man who hauled his limp body from the horse into his lap, he’s chalking it up to brain damage. 

He’s been named Rookie of The Year for Bareback Riding—Jack Kelly can’t afford to be distracted by any potential flings. 

And still, every time he blinks, that face is waiting for him just behind his eyelids.

It’s the longest, most agonizing twenty-four hours before an opportunity to make a bad decision presents itself to Jack. He usually doesn’t make it that long. He also usually doesn’t go that long without visiting Dancer, but his body needed to recover after being thrown off that horse in the arena. 

The first thing that greets Jack when he enters the stables is the very same face that’s been stuck in his mind since yesterday. The pick-up man is reaching up, brushing the soft golden mane of the quarter horse that pulled Jack off the bronco.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he greets, drawing up his most charming first-impressions smile.

“In the stables?” asks the pick-up man. Not an ounce of his attention dedicated to brushing his horse’s long blond mane is redirected to Jack. “Pretty sure this is the least fancy place to meet someone.”

“It’s as good a place as any to thank you. For yesterday.”

“I assume you mean when you got your ass bucked off of Midnight Train and I dragged you out?”

Jack scoffs. He should probably be accosted, but he’s only more intrigued. “That would be correct,” he admits.

“No need to thank me, in that case. Just doing my job.”

“Be nice if I had a name to the face that saved my rawhide.”

“And it’d be nice if you checked your staff sheet maybe once before you rode.”

Jack blinks. “Pardon me,” he begins, leaning an elbow up against Dancer’s stable, “but have I offended you?”

“Not yet.” His head twitches in annoyance. “But you’re a rodeo man. You’re bound to eventually.”

Jack crosses his arms. “I’ve been nothing but a gentleman.”

The pick-up man pauses and sighs, finally rewarding Jack with a look in his direction. He pretends not to, but Jack catches the way his eyes quickly scan him up and down. “David. David Jacobs. Which you’d have known if you’d check your staff sheet. You haven’t even bothered to give me your name, because you assume everyone already knows it.”

“So you’re saying you haven’t heard of me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you, Jack Kelly,” David answers, turning his attention back to the silky mane he’d been brushing.

Jack looks up at the horse in question—a beautiful quarter with an unusual coloring halfway between brown and straight up golden. He steals another glance at David, head turned up in an admiration that’s reserved for the sacred bond between man and horse, as ridiculous as Jack admits that sounds.

Still, it’s quite the sight. David is quite the sight, beams of the setting sun reflecting off his green eyes, the shadows accentuating the perfect combination of curves and angles on his face.

 “Gorgeous,” Jack finds himself muttering.

“Thanks,” David replies, completely missing where Jack’s compliment was directed. “Shimmer’s my pride and joy. If you should be thanking anyone, it’s her. She’s a bit of a social butterfly. Even broncs love her.” He turns his gaze to Which one’s yours?”

“The skittery one right next door.” Jack points out the appaloosa horse, Dancer, aptly named for the way she fidgets her feet when she’s excited.

David snorts. “Figures. Shimmer’s obsessed with her. I always catch them talking to each other ‘cross the stables.”

“Funny. I’m obsessed with you.”

David rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should be obsessed with brushing up your technique, and you won’t get your ass handed to you so often.”

“Ass handed to me? I made it to eight seconds.” He also ranked fourth in the semifinals. As a rookie. But he won’t bring that up right now.

“It’s going to take a lot more than eight seconds to impress me.”

“Let me take you out to dinner then, darlin’. Show you that I can go all night.”

“You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

Jack shrugs. “To be completely honest, I think I’m downright adorable, but that’s besides the point.”

He thinks he might see David’s mouth twitch when he returns his attention to Jack. “I don’t sleep with cowboys. Kind of a rule of mine.”

“Believe me, sweetheart, you spend a night with me and we won’t be doing any sleeping.” He chances hooking a finger under David’s chin and dragging his mouth dangerously close to his ear. It’s entirely too brazen and forward, but Jack doesn’t know any other way to be. “You think Broncos are the only thing I know how to ride?” he asks, grinning when he hears David swallow around a drying throat.

“You couldn’t keep me saddled if you tried,” David mutters back, and his breath against Jack’s cheek sends a shudder from his ear, through his spine, all the way down to his toes.

And then David shoves him. Hard. Sending Jack toppling over his own feet and sprawling out onto the ground with an incredible lack of grace.

“Like I said,” David calls back as he opens the gate to Shimmer’s stable and saddles her up. “Technique could use some fixing.”

The click of horse hooves trotting against cobblestone fading into the distance, Jack decides he’s unequivocally in love with David Jacobs.

[emry-stars-art]

YES, PLEASE AND THANK YOU @snazzy-jas-z-is-a-fan-of !!

(Find the royal au writing masterpost here 💕)

And I’ll do an art-only version of this post for your reblogging pleasure here :) there's always always more to be said about this so I might make another post on the same topic but later

Anyway onto the juicy stuff

Okay so. Evermore and Palmetto both have glove etiquette, but in Evermore Nathaniel never had to worry about it, because he was expected to constantly be wearing gloves from first day he’s able to after getting nasty scars on his hands. Except for when he’s working or helping Nathan work. The nobles and specifically Prince Riko made it clear that they had no desire to see how ugly his hands were. (This is also why he has a habit of wearing a little of his hair down on the left side; it helped cover the scars on his cheek that ruined his pretty complexion.)

Then he comes to Palmetto and Day introduces him to a whole new set of rules. Gloves are a common and important part of dress and fashion, but people are also able to decide whether or not to wear them at any given time. The only real rules on gloves are when not to wear them; you always take off gloves to eat or drink, and to offer your hand in greeting or service.

Nathaniel gets to kind of ease into it; he’s not around anyone important enough to need to offer proper greeting or help, so mostly he takes his gloves off to eat in the servants quarters, where he doesn’t deal with more than curious glances. There’s a lingering fear of letting anyone important see his hands, no matter what Day says to assure him otherwise.

Then Nathaniel becomes the prince’s guard. Nothing changes for a while - the prince has always been more self-sufficient than most - until one day Nathaniel sees the prince eyeing the fall from his horse. (Really Andrew is trying to get up the courage to dismount, because even if the fall isn’t actually an issue for him, his fear of heights sometimes catches up to him when dismounting horses.) Nathaniel understands by now that he’s allowed and expected to help, so he reaches out - and remembers. He’s also acutely aware that the prince hasn’t yet seen his hands, then also also acutely aware of how serious Day was about the proper etiquette, and slips off his glove. The prince gives his hand a curious look, but accepts the help and all but crushes Nathaniel’s hand in his as he finally makes the fall. Even on the ground, though, he doesn’t let go quickly. Instead, the prince’s thumb brushes once across the back of Abram’s hand and he turns his hold, pulling Nathaniel’s hand up to examine it. The only thing keeping Nathaniel in place is the bone-deep instinct that he isn’t to deny anyone, especially a prince. Maybe the prince would decide he didn’t actually want to see Nathaniel’s hands and Nathaniel could go back to wearing his gloves with little more than a strike to the cheek for making the prince look at them.

But the prince does no such thing. He drops Nathaniel’s hand and continues on as normal. Nathaniel does his best to do the same, but that’s probably the first kind skin to skin contact he’s had in years. He isn’t recovering as quickly as he imagines he should.

(Meanwhile Andrew was NOT about to let an opportunity to hold Nathaniel’s hand slip like that, and he finds that he doesn’t mind the roughness. Most other guards were pulled from a much more privileged crowd - usually who had some callouses or scratches at most. Nathaniel’s hands show Andrew that this one isn’t all bark and no bite. Andrew… really likes them.)

Gradually, Nathaniel (likely soon or now Abram) gets used to taking off his gloves. He doesn’t without reason, it takes him a while not to feel naked without them, but it only takes a few more instances for him to realize that the prince truly doesn’t mind his scars. Helping the prince from his horse becomes easy habit (GS isn’t necessarily tall, but neither is Andrew. No step stool = Abram’s help).

Maybe there’s even a few times Abram is completely gloveless when he’s around only Day or the prince. He finds himself hiding his hands subconsciously when he’s not thinking about it, but he’s never once told to cover up.

Then Abram is kidnapped, taken back to Evermore. All the same rules are enforced and more. In this case, gloves aren’t all that different or upsetting. That much is okay.

It’s when he gets back that things change. Since he’s blind for a while, he’s relying much more on touch and hearing. It’s also a good tactile reminder; if he were still in Evermore, he would never be bare handed. This is when he truly gets used to not wearing gloves. (During this time he’s also touched more gently and more often than ever in his life. Others’ bare hands on his naked skin to care for scars and rashes and fever, first Day and medics and then Day and Prince Andrew. Abram finally, finally realizes that this is what he’d been missing. He actually finds himself calmed and cared for in being touched.)

Even when his sight returns, Abram only wears gloves out of doors or to formal events. Slowly and so, so carefully, Andrew finds more small reasons to touch Abram’s hands, and Abram always finds rationalization to accept. Then Abram even leaves his gloves in his saddlebags or pockets when they go out.

Winter hits. Abram has very few burn scars on his hands, but even the simple knife scars can seize and ache in cold weather. By now Andrew is very attentive to Abram’s pain or discomfort, so he notices. Abram’s hands hurt.

So Andrew buys him new gloves, lined with soft, warm fur. Abram is both pleased and disappointed - pleased because any gift from Andrew is a good gift, and disappointed because the prince expects him to wear gloves again. But the first time Andrew sees Abram wearing them indoors, he says easily, “They’re to keep your hands from the cold. Wear them only as much as you need.” (Because, again; he’s not going to admit it, but he loves Abram’s hands.)

It probably takes a long time for Abram to get accustomed to much more touch. He likes holding the prince’s hand, he’s used to that this far into their courting, but anywhere else with anything more than clinical intent - sometimes including with clinical intent - he gets overwhelmed very easily.

Andrew is careful with him. Like we mentioned in the last post, Andrew’s had about six to eight years longer to get readjusted to wanting and touching; Abram is essentially starting fresh. It’s a lot for him to handle.

(Don’t worry, though, I promise they figure it out. Just like they always do, in every universe, for all of our mental health.)

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas:

“mustache”

“Tall! Daring! Swashbuckling! A devoted husband and father! Had a personal conflict with Napoleon! Also it was said he could, while holding onto a bar above his head, LIFT A HORSE WITH HIS THIGHS. How is he not on this list ten times already! Vote for General Dumas!”

“He was so hot that he inspired The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and many more books that his son, Alexandre Dumas, wrote. He definitely looked the part of a sexyman, as he son recounts in his memoirs: "My father, as already stated, was twenty-four, and as handsome a young fellow as could be found anywhere. His complexion was dark, his eyes of a rich chestnut colour [...]. His teeth were white, his lips mobile, his neck well set on his powerful shoulders, and, in spite of his height of five feet nine inches, he had the hands and feet of a woman. These feet were the envy of his mistresses, whose shoes he was very rarely able to put on." He could crush you between his thighs: "His free colonial life had developed his strength and prowess to an extraordinary degree; he was a veritable American horse-lad, a cowboy. His skill with gun or pistol was the envy of St. Georges and Junot. And his muscular strength became a proverb in the army. More than once he amused himself in the riding-school by passing under a beam, and lifting his horse between his legs." He was so badass he could beat 13 men with 4 and take all the enemy prisoner, and defend against hundreds of men on a bridge by himself. He performed these acts of valour numerous times in Italy. He was so formidable that the Austrians named him the "Schwartz Teufel", or the Black Devil, and his feat at the bridge earned him the moniker of "Horatius Cocles of Tyrol". He wasn't afraid to stand up to his morals and protest against unfair treatment. When unjust executions by the guillotine were happening outside his quarters, he closed the blinds of his curtains, earning him the nickname "Mr. Humanity". When in the Vendée, he complained about the wanton indiscipline in his troops. When in Italy, Berthier wrongly reported his actions as one of "observation" in St. Antonio. Dumas wrote to General Bonaparte that if Berthier was in the same position, he would have shit his pants. Dumas abhorred plunder, never exhorted the locals, and ordered the Directory agent who had come to persuade him otherwise be shot if he dared present himself to Dumas again. Integrity and a sense of moral justice is sexy, mark my words. For Dumas' final qualifier as a sexyman, look no further than this Tumblr heritage post (https://www.tumblr.com/petermorwood/133803437020/hortensevanuppity-elodieunderglass), with 300,000 notes and counting. And I quote: "- daddy general dumas was an immense fierce french warrior who was a 6 foot plus, stunningly gorgeous and charismatic Black gentleman - he invaded egypt - the native egyptians said “is this napoleon? this must be napoleon. we for one welcome our majestic new overlord” - then napoleon showed up - napoleon has all the presence of yesterday’s plain Tesco hummus - the native egyptians were like “… no… no, we’ve thought very hard and we’ll have General Dumas actually” - this did not make napoleon happy - in fact it made him jealous - napoleon felt so emasculated that he launched a campaign of revenge against General Dumas, including taking away his pension, that probably inspired a lot of Alexandre’s rather satisfying scenes in which fathers are nobly avenged and the money-grubbing villains are rubbed in the mud" I rest my case. Tl;dr: He was so hot he inspired multiple books, he was a stronk man who could crush you between his thighs or carry you like a sack of potatoes, and he was so badass that he could take on odds of 1 to 3. He had a foul mouth but a heart of gold and his actions were never self-serving. Posts relating to him on Tumblr have had 300,000 notes and counting. He is qualitatively and quantitatively qualified to be a sexyman.”

Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey

“Honesty and integrity (letter to Louis XVIII against sitting for Ney's court-martial, getting imprisoned for 3 months for it). Very sexy. Defending the capital (Paris) is also very sexy.”