#and also illness worked itself in there. go me

[ot3]

tangentially related to 30 rock... i just finished watching girls5eva because its the level of sitcom that's fine for me to watch while working and someone brouht it up in my inbox a week or so ago. but when i saw the tiny fey EP credit i was like ahhh okay that makes sense.

showrunner of girls5eva was meredith scardino who was a writer on kimmy schmidt, which also tracks. the 30 rock dna is really trickling down through those shows and i can't tell if its getting weaker as it goes or if its just that since this style of humor is no longer novel it doesnt hit as well

girls5eva was fine i watched the whole thing (i accidentally started on season 3 and did not realize until it was finished. i dont know why netflix decided to start this show at season 3 for me when i hadnt watched the previous ones?) and it definitely had some funny moments but i felt it just like it wasn't quite getting where it needed to humor-wise for me. like all of the ribbing about the horrible misogyny and shit that was just Everywhere in the 00s was fun but i think over all just nothing about it was fresh in a way it would have needed to be to make the show stand out

i never finished kimmy schmidt but i do remember it being pretty funny. havnet watched it since the first few seasons were originally airing, maybe ill go back and do that to compare. but theres also something to be said for how much shorter every show has to be now. girls5eva is 3 seasons with 22 episodes total (dont know if its getting a 4th but it's still listed as 2021- on everywhere), kimmy schmidt was 4 seasons with 51 episode. meanwhile 30 rock had 7 seasons and 139 ! episodes. that's a pretty fucking significant difference. so it may be that just having more leeway to throw spaghetti at the wall gives you the chance to be funnier.

im not exactly tapped in to the sitcom market but i feel like it's been probably around a decade since we've gotten a new one that's really managed to produce what i view as stand-out and novel humor. definitely the best one since 30 rock has been community, but i also do think brooklyn 99 managed to really nail a lot of good Bits even if the way it made people act was intolerable a lot of the time. captain holt you will always be famous. but other than those 2 i don't think anything really groundbreaking has been done in the US sitcom landscape since the aughts

im sorry abbott elementary stans its perfectly enjoyable television but it's just like Doing a Parks and Rec again which was in turn Doing An Office But Twee itself.

[bisexualhomelander]

May is upon the fandom. I'm going to be insufferable. Have fun with cute Butchlander for, like, an entire month.

Domestic May Prompt: Making tea/coffee for a loved one. Pairing: Butchlander

Billy felt watched. It wasn't the only thing he felt: his nose was stuffy, his cheeks were hot, his eyes were teary, his throat felt like he'd deepthroated a sandpaper cock taco. But there were also eyes on him. He could tell.

"What d'ya want?" he mumbled, not willing to open his eyes and confirm that the cunt was watching him.

"You're sick."

"Astute observation, mate. What gave it away? The snot on your high thread count Egyptian cotton?"

"It's American cotton, it's from OurSheet." Always on the defensive, that one. God forbid he sleep on imported sheets.

"Let me sleep."

Billy didn't think it'd deter him, and it didn't. The bed dipped when the supe sat next to him and extended a hand, a too-warm palm laying itself over Billy's forehead and greasy fringe. "One-hundred-and-one."

"You can tell just by touching me?"

"I can tell by the temperature of your sweat, actually, but it's nice to confirm."

"You're a little under the weather yourself, aint'cha?"

"You mean my temperature? It rises when my body deals with any pathogen. It's not the same as a human fever. I'm not ill."

"That... is exactly what a fever is, but whatever. Course you're indestructible, your highness. Ryan already awake?"

Homelander's eyes wandered to the side, going wide and empty as he tried to find his son through the walls of the Tower. "He is. He ordered Ashley around to get him breakfast in a tone of voice I'm almost proud of."

"You're raising him into a spoiled little prince."

"He's just gotten over his cold. I'll let him indulge a bit." It was true. Ryan had spent the past four days in Homelander's penthouse with a feverish, splotchy face, wrapped in all the blankets his father had been able to get and idly browsing through Vought+ for some entertainment. When the kid had complained of being cold, Homelander had picked up the entire bundle of blankets and Ryan and settled him into his lap, holding him close, even firing up his lasers from time to time to generate extra warmth. When work had called him away, Billy had taken over and put himself right in the line of fire. Now, four days later, the plague had gotten him by the balls.

"Why can he even get sick anyway, shouldn't he be like you?"

"He's not grown into his full power yet. I was susceptible to sickness when I was young. Resilience is something that will come to him in time. Until then, he has a lot of viruses to catch up on now that he's in school, surrounded by other children, out of his secluded home." It sounded like something the cunt had read in a parenting book. Knowing him, it was true. He had a habit of memorising trivia from books and then quoting it back. Must be the actor training.

Billy coughed. "Just happy he's doing better."

"I thought I'd be tired of it by now," Homelander said.

"Caring for others?"

"You and your silly little illnesses." He grinned. "And yes, caring for you. Not for Ryan. I'd kill everyone in this tower if it meant he'd get over his symptoms quicker, but you, you are..."

"A right cunt. It's alright. I don't need you to play nurse for me." Billy made to get up, but a hand on his chest pushed him back down with a determination he had nothing to put up against - less, even, in the state he was in.

"I said I thought I'd be over you being sick. I didn't say we're already at that stage." Homelander's hand trailed down to the edge of the blanket that had slid off Billy's torso and put it into place - up to Billy's shoulders, so only his head was peeking out. The furs were put over him as well. "Warm enough?"

"Mate, I'm already feverish. Last thing I need is more layers."

"Sweating is healthy. Ryan was a much better patient than you. At least he was grateful."

"Yeah, not the point of taking care of others, right?"

"I'm grateful, too," Homelander mumbled. "I know you wanted to laugh when they told me that- I know you did, even. I heard you. But you made sure never to do it while I was in the room with you. I owe you for that. That's all."

Homelander could apparently feel the smirk form on Billy's mouth because despite not looking in his direction, the supe raised a finger and said: "Don't."

Billy had never cared much about his own life, so the risk of being lasered for his comments didn't exactly deter him. "Least mine gets better with time, luv."

He finally managed to hoist himself into a sitting position and wrap his weakened arms around Homelander's body, pulling him close. "I wouldn't want to be ungrateful," he mumbled, kissing the supe's nape. "'M sorry."

Homelander shivered, but wriggled himself free. "I want to make you breakfast."

"Don't got much in terms of hunger."

"You're losing fluids. I'm a little concerned. Does coffee or tea sound better?"

"Vought doesn't sell any of the shit I want, and your celebrity chef isn't awake yet."

"Not Vought. From my kitchen."

"Your... what? If there is a kitchen in this room, you've never used it. I wouldn't know where it is, either."

"Doesn't matter. I know how to boil water."

"I'd kill for a cuppa." Billy let himself fall back onto the bed, stretching his arms out over his head, then deciding to cover his eyes with his hands instead. He looked like shit warmed over and was surrounded by mirrors to prove it.

"I have leaves. I know you like them better than the bags."

"Touched, luv," he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his sinuses.

Homelander vanished. Billy waited to hear the sound of a tea kettle, or the bubbling of boiling water, but what he heard instead were lasers. He stifled his laughter with his fist, wrestling down another coughing fit.

Homelander returned a minute later with a steaming cup. The smell of earl grey permeated the sickness-laden air of the apartment, and Billy didn't feel much like laughing anymore.

"Only touch the handle," the supe explained helplessly despite cradling the cup in his hands like it was his firstborn. "The rest is still hot."

"Because you boiled it with your eyes. Kitchen my arse. You don't even have a kitchen."

"Okay, okay, I am the kitchen. I can cut, boil, stir, sauté." He held the cup out, handle towards Billy, looking anxious and expectant.

Billy was embarrassed. Being offered tea in bed, being sick in the vicinity of a supe who didn't get sick. He was showing his underbelly. Part of him was still waiting for the supe to strike. But he never did. There was no mutually-assured destruction anymore. There was just them in this room, spending time. Maybe that poem had it right. Maybe earth really was just an anagram for heart, and he was a fucking idiot. What he'd scorched wasn't the earth Homelander didn't need to walk on anyway. If anything, he'd destroyed the last bit of honour he'd still had. The last shred of respect his team had had for him. He'd sullied Becca's legacy by jumping into bed with the man who'd hurt her worse than anyone ever had.

He took the tea before that train of thought could lead anywhere. The smell was amazing, and the taste was even more delicious, at least as far as Billy could tell with his sense of taste being fucked by his cold. Earl grey. Real earl grey, traditional mixture. Real bergamot oil, none of that artificial stuff. Despite having only taken a minute to make, the supe cunt had somehow managed to hit the perfect temperature and concentration of tea in the water.

"Thanks," he said, not meeting Homelander's eye, which probably signalled more than he wanted the supe to see.

"Oh no!" a voice piped up. Billy hadn't heard him come in, but there Ryan was, chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, skateboard in the other hand. "Did I give that to you?"

Homelander jumped from the bed so fast it looked like he'd forgotten about the force of gravity for a second and floated upwards instead of standing up. "You get out, young man! I don't want you to pass this back and forth like a football. It's back to school for ya, bucko!"

Ryan chuckled, mouth still full of doughnut. He wiped sticky sugar from his face with the back of his hand. "Get better, Butcher!" he yelled before he was successfully shooed out of the room.

"Enjoy your tea," Homelander said, closing the door behind him. Every single day, he accompanied Ryan down to the entrance of Seven Tower, seeing him off to school with a lunch box and a kiss on his hair. It was cheesy as all hell, and Billy found it weirdly adorable.

Despite taking the skateboard with him every day, Ryan often flew at least part of the way. Billy heard the sonic boom that the kid could replicate perfectly by now. A second later, Ryan appeared outside the window of Homelander's apartment on the 99th floor. He waved at Billy and shot off into the sky.

Billy took another sip of his tea, letting the warmth of it soothe his sore throat. He couldn't remember ever having had tea that good before.

"Is that enough for your true British sensibilities?" Homelander was back, cautiously eyeing Billy up and down for signs of either enjoyment or criticism.

"Mate, I wasn't born in Ascot. I never had tea like this at all. How much did it even cost you?"

Homelander gave a dismissive shrug. "Import was more expensive."

"So it's the patriotic OurSheet for you, but you import tea for me? You pay taxes on it, too? Forgot your values?"

"Never. You know, William, I value family more highly than anything." And with that, Homelander crawled back into bed with him, and Billy intimately hoped that the supe would interpret the shiver down his spine as a symptom of his cold.

#billy butcher #homelander #butchlander #ryan butcher #my writing #cozy corner domaystic

[snarlesofthesewers]

a taste of poison

snarles x reader part 1 - if there's enough demand maybe ill make a part 2 lol idk i hate writing so it would probably take just as long as this one

a while after landing on this strange planet, finding yourself in the dark and haunting forest known as Subcon a spirit known as snatcher steals your soul and forces you to do his bidding unfortunately for you while working to complete one of snatcher's tasks you end up far deeper in the forest then you should have been and end up in someone else's hunting grounds

after searching for nearly two hours you find yourself running into a small clearing leaves rustling and twigs snapping underfoot as you ran towards the rare flower snatcher had asked you to gather for a certain potion he needed to make what kind of potion? you had no idea but what you did know is that snatcher would probably kill you if you came back empty handed you should have been paying better attention to your surroundings while running you weren't exactly paying attention to anything other then the flower leading to you tripping over a fallen tree and planting your face directly in the cold and wet soil of the forest which definitely woke you up but when you realized just how much noise you had made on the way here you could feel nothing but dread something probably heard you no.. something definitely heard you you quickly wipe the mud from your face and come to your knees scanning the tree line and tuning in your hearing as you slowly get up but you see and hear... nothing nothing but the sound of wind howling between the cracks of broken trees the coast is clear and you are alone so you begin to stand and reproach the flower pulling it from the ground with the roots intact and stashing it somewhere safe for the journey back to snatcher's house but just as you pick it up the smell of something absolutely awful fills your nose its hard to stop yourself from puking and you probably would have if you weren't already so used to the constant smell of death that lays thick in Subcon's air... but this wasn't the usual smell of old decaying bodies this smelled far more ripe where the hell was that smell even coming from? "right behind you that's where~" a small crack and snap can be heard in the treetops above with the faint sound of hissing that transitioned into a shrill and wet sounding cackle that followed soon after you run but you didn't get far before you are promptly pinned to the ground by something far larger then yourself with its claws digging into your shoulders causing fresh blood to trickle down the side of your back and onto the cold wet ground and it was at this very moment that you realized YOU BLEW IT YOU TOTALLY SCREWED YOURSELF!~ you feel the smooth and slimy skin of whatever creature had you pressed against the ground began to coil itself around you like a snake ready to suffocate its prey your mind and body had already started to go numb but before you could pass out you were quickly snapped out of it by a voice... and maybe also the claws still stuck in your shoulders like knives but mostly just the voice

"finally.. fresh meat its been days with not a single soul... I was starting to worry that people had finally gotten smart and started to avoid this wrenched forest~"

"...now then.. how about we get started my lost little mouse~ it would be a real shame if I let fresh meat like you go to waste"

you struggle and struggle and struggle some more attempting to worm your way out of its firm grasp but its no use but if you were going to die you at least wanted to get a good look at whatever was about to kill you so you continued to struggle until you could get a good look at its face even if that meant completely exhausting yourself you catch a glimpse of its soulless yellow eyes flickering

"oh how cute the prey thinks it can escape~? you keep making this easier for me I almost feel bad... maybe the hunger is finally starting to get to me or maybe its just that scent.... wait hold on that scent" they lean in close to your face and just stare at you for what felt like an eternity before uncoiling you and towering above your sore body "is... this some kind of cruel joke?" they hissed in frustration before grabbing you by the leg and pulling you close to their face "no this cant be the case... did his previous contractor kick the bucket already? its only been a week there's no way he's dead already" they drool at the thought of eating the remains of snatchers previous victim even if there's no guarantee he was even dead...yet "well well well~ ...might you be snatcher's newest pet? oh ...don't worry about trying to speak.. I have other ways of finding out~" "my little mouse"

#no i will not fix grammar errors i don't feel like it #scream at me if you want part 2 #reader doesn't say anything because I'm not sure how to do dialog lol #if you see any missing color i cant fix it :( #feeling kinda shy about posting this #i hate writing grrrrrrr #snarles x reader #yall asked for it #sewersnarles #thank you for reading my cringe #snarles writes shit

[queenlucythevaliant]

Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

*

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

*

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

*

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”   

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

*

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”  

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night. 

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

*

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

*

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.  

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.” 

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs. 

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her. 

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes.  “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.” 

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.” 

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun. 

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud. 

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too. 

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in. 

*

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke. 

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes. 

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.' #Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

[theoldkyokodied]

Uploading all my Tomgreg art at once from the past few week before season 4 hits, who knows in what kind of mental state i'm gonna be once it does :')

#tomgreg #succession #dont even talk to me i started watching this show when i had nothing to do at work and now i watch it with averiel my good friend averiel #and we are going to watch s4 together and i feel physically ill from bein so excited #so ya thats what ive been up to... anyway. i love these idiots they desever nothing but the worst (affectionate) #im also a tomshiv lover btw. im the one who yells 'THIS IS HOW TOMSHIV CAN STILL WIN' while they are actively losing on screen #thats the kind of person i am #dont look at me (lying on the floor) #okay i was not going to say stuff in the tags and let the art speak for itself but i NEED to point out details in the wine Painting.. #i put a lot of work into that one. thinly veiled metaphors and symbolism yknow.. #greg is gripping the stem of the wine glass with his full fist. tom and greg are dressed in the same outfit (sock garters included) #greg look appalled but he is not doing anything about the spill. tom is fondly pouring greg more and more wine. he is doing him a favor #i colored the red wine the same way i would color blood :) oh and tom is not really touching greg #only holding the chair in place. greg is making himself look smaller than he is like usual #oh and @ the person who said that it's the inverse of the tom and nate scene i love the way you think. i did not think of that before #but god. yeah. i actually thought about the scene change from when roman uhh.. christens his office in s1. the one with the coffee machine #i always go insane at that cut. this is not exactly the same since it's more.. about emotions but yknow.. it can be.. the same...

[skitskatdacat63]

For everyone who wanted bullfighter Nando when I mentioned it the other day, here you go :D

+ this one I don't feel like coloring yet(imagine he's in Ferrari colors!!!)

#did you know bullfighters dedicate their kill to a friend or member of the public by giving them their hat? #i really wanted to draw silly vettonso where fernando offers seb his hat #seb retires from bullfighting(yeah its an au now) and fernando in his green costume is like; #'here is my hat. now will you come back from retirement? 🥺' #but yeah feel very abnormal abt that ^ and also the thing abt them having someone who helps them get into their costume as a sacred ritual #theres just a lot of thoughts and ideas floating around in my head bcs of it #anyways i liked drawing this but it was very suffering too and took me like 5 hours #its like. you see the intricate embroidery and im like ah! omg! i love painting details!!! #and then remember im not the best w coming up with ideas for the embroidery pattern itself #so pls bear with me 😭😭 mainly i was trying to reference the diamond logo of renault #but most of it kinda just ended up being austrian knots i guess bcs thats what my mind defaults to #i thought the shoulder pad would be the most difficult but that came together the easiest and made the rest actually work in my head #aaahhh also im surprised w the angle of his face! im usually not good at side profiles as well as tilted down heads #but i think he looks pretty good honestly??? #also w the sketch i just wanted to post it bcs i liked his face okay 😭😭😭 #i wanted to paint it too but I realized im so naive thinking i could paint two of these horrifically detailed things in one session #but his face 🥹🥹 i like it!!! theres some renault era pic of him i really like where hes sun drenched and angry looking #^ and i think i captured the vibe well so!!!!! #well anyways mayhe ill draw more of this. it was fun but also like sucked my life force out bcs it kept going from easy to 'I CANT DO THIS' #the pictures of matadors are just...insane to me. tiny waist fat ass flamboyant costume. im dead 🫠 #f1 #formula 1 #fernando alonso #catie.art. #fa14 #matador au

[quietwingsinthesky]

sometimes interpreting media through a shipping lens enhances it, on occasion even beyond the author’s original intent, but sometimes, you do have to accept that your ship was not in the heads of anyone making the source material and trying to force it to fit into evidence of your ship will severely hinder your ability to discuss the actual text.

#and also ill hit you on the head with a brick #posts that. im not going to say theyre about destiel. im not going to say that. #and im not gojng to say it because. i dont need to. you already know <3 #and to be clear: its not the interpretation thats a problem here. thats the fun of shipping. its then taking what youve interpreted and then #trying to backread that onto the media itself as intentional. as intended. #dismissing the actual themes and story for evidence of a ship is the problem. u get me? #shipping brainrot is not ‘oh i think these characters would kiss for this reason’. #its ‘this show is and has always been about these characters kissing no matter how much i have to ignore about the show to make that true or #pretend is completely different than its actually presented or straight up make things up to make my ship be a part of the intended reading’ #thats the brainrot. the brainrot is when u step off the train of reality. #this is not true about the best piece of art ever made Captain America and the Winter Soldier. btw. that movie IS about bucky and steve #kissing alsjfdjskdjg #(<- okay im being silly here but id like to make a real point here too. the thing about TWS is that. it is genuinely enhanced by a romantic #reading. its not *better* than a platonic one. its just different. being able to see it through that lens does make a lot of the original #movie’s ideas even more complex. case in point like: steve struggling with his dating life. because what shared life experience does he have #with other people who look his age. and the movie is. about. someone who has his shared life experiences. and his mission to get bucky back. #you can see how that lens would be beneficial to the original movie rather than fighting it to prove the ship works in opposition to the #author’s original intent.)

[pepperpixel]

A pic of my human whirl design and holomatter avatar whirl hanging out together! Cuz I thought that’d be cute! And I was right… it is!

#transformers #mtmte #whirl #tf whirl #humanformers #mtmte whirl #doodles #Srry it’s been so long since uploading anything. I got a job! last month #and! it’s been going good… but also I do not have as much free time… #also… I’m.. it’s at a daycare… and I got a 102 degree fever last LAST Tuesday #2 Tuesdays ago. and I’m still fucking coughing. every time I start feeling better I go back to work and the sickness like resets itself. #also one of the kids gave me pinkeye!!! #im… thinking about looking for a diff job lol #im rlly proud of how well I’ve been handling this one. and its def boosted my confidence! #but.. like… i live with old ppl. who have there own serious issues. also I have my own issues! #espec w the eye thing like i had to go to an eye doctor ever month for like 2 years cuz my eyes were screwed up #and finally last year i got the ok that my eyes were doing good! and they weren’t screwed up anymore. and then i get fucking pink eye! #that freaks me out!!!! and Ive been sick for 2 weeks straight! that sucks!!! #like.. ive just realized… this level of exposure to illness and bacteria.. is not worth it lol #ive still got to do like 2 weeks notice tho so hopefully im not fucking sick for 2 more weeks #I feel like that’s a possibility ghgh #anyway yeah I got a job that’s why arts been scarce. gonna get a new job after this one so art will probably still be scarce lol #it’s ok that just means it’ll be more of a treat when I do post! like u guys’ll cherish it more right? lol #absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that #maccadam

[steampoweredskeleton]

.

Ignore

#delete later #i have three medical appointments in the work day in the next three weeks #one on Thursday then two mid/late January and i know that its good bc i need these appointments but i get so #anxious that ppl ay work are mad at me for having so many #im also scared about thirsdays one bc its for my ankle and hand pain and ironically the hand is way better and the ankle is also #more stable. something clicked again a couple days ago and fixed the pain in half of ky foot. no idea what happened there but #the click itself hirt like a bitch which is new. most of my pain doesnt start with a click and most clicks are painless #so fun #im just in a permanent state of being afraid i wont be taken seriously. my physio wanted a scan on my foot so om gonna #relay that but like idk what theyre gonna say. also if they do want to swnd me for a scan that's gpnna be ANOTHER appointment #so fuck me i guess. at the very leasy its not like severe psin any more so they wont send me to a and e for an x ray like they did #with my hip that one time. that would fucking suck to explain tp my manager #hey julia im fine but ive been sent ro rhe hospital for a scan so i guess ill be back when im back? #fuck me im anxious. and i hace so much apprenticeship work tp do i want to scream #also was distracted by my aching hands bc often they just ache abd successfully triggered myself so bow time to play what #is actual acge and what is remembered ache oh joy #one of the other appointments is gender clinic appointment abd im hoping to get referred for top surgery now ive been on t #for 9 months. waiting list gonna be like four fucking years but debating saving like mad abd going private bc jesus Christ #i cant bind bc of sensory problems and constantly aching ribs and last time i taped i ripped chunks of skin off so kinda #think i shouldn't do that again but like it sucks. not as bad now that my voice is dropping abd shit but still not fun #we'll see!

[red-dyed-sarumane]

love to submit my fave songs to vocaloid tournaments & watch them get decimated

#[about a song with 6k views] heres how we can win this popularity bracket- #i only submitted my 2 fave series songs so far. if im feeling it ill go back & submit the rest. if they post the 'why u love it' #as propaganda u'll know its me bc i wrote essays. shorter than usual but i think its obviously me #i feel like i have to submit maximizer myself too bc if someone else submits is and is only like 'its such a party jam' #im going to launch into the most annoying and long winded essay uve seen yet #the song does fuck verily but i wont let u look past the fact its about watching people pass the point of no salvation #like it does sound fun but if u know anything about the series It Is Not #aru sekais whole 'person' vs 'thing' thing fucks me up if i think about it too hard. terrible concept. dont like it #fascinating thing to help drive a narrative tho #'yeah sorry u gave up ur own goals & ended up just working for the job itself. ur dying now byebye.' #awful criteria. u devote ur life to this cause & then are told it means nothing. absolutely crushing #anyway i also put in nulls teto songs. no one gets them like i do (joking) #i might submit kaiko no kanmuri & major later too. maybe. remains to be seen

[girlwithfish]

i feel down and idek why 😔

#therapy so early in the morning is hardd im trging to process what she was telling me lol #I kinda miss my classroom ive been in a diff class today again cuz they replaced me agin bc theres a new girl so now shes in my classroom #that im usually in . #I think ill go back to it eventually cuz im like the coteacher there i thinkk idk they putmy picture on the wall w my coworkers lol #so i think its just temporary #i kinda miss my kids tho but i like the class im in rn too theyre a bit older so less crazy and messy tbh #but still #i did get to see them ystrdy for the last hr cuz i got moved for closing but yeah #Work is just so repetitive and i dont feel fulfilledddd even tho i like the kids i work w and the job itself is alright #zzzzzzzz life is boring i just need hobbies and also more time and a million dollars so i can buy whatever i want and travel😔👍

[loamsome]

Wouldnt it be funny to use company money for gender stuff

#/personal #we are so severely under budget. my lead is like ''please help me spend money or we'll have funding cut'' #it helps that the outdoor industry in part caters itself to making being a cis woman outdoors more manageable. yknow. with the horrors #im going to try and get good work shoes and also maybe an emergency kit for the car and ill see how far it gets me

[blujayonthewing]

'my mental health's been a lot better for awhile now, maybe I could start taking commissions again' vs 'would taking commissions just ruin my mental health again after it took this long to get it somewhere that feels reasonably healthy'

#I DON'T KNOW! I'M NOT SURE!!! #I haven't been drawing much at all lately so that's also a factor in the 'don't' column lol but aside from that #it's frustrating. it's so frustrating! #in theory the concept of 'you don't even have to be creative! someone else does the thinking and you just sit and make art and get money' #is like. IDEAL?? most of the commissions I've done have been really fun and rewarding to work on! #but ALSO!! every SINGLE time I've done a commission of anything for anyone my brain has eaten itself about it #I don't have discipline to do it in a timely manner and then I start feeling guilty so I go into a guilt avoidance spiral #and it's always been for friends so I ALSO feel like I'm FAILING MY FRIEND and there's also MONEY so I'm also GUILTY ABOUT THE MONEY #and everyone I've ever worked with has been so gracious and so kind to me in spite of all of that #but also most of the time I was actively seeking commissions I've been Mental Illness-- I mean at least a little more than my baseline #so I don't know. if I'm starting with a stable foundation... could I get my headspace right first.... I don't know :') #about me

[moralitas]

Alright yall hate to have to do this on my bday but someone who's stealing my writing and my ideas for their au is apparently under the impression that I stole it.

Ill be reuploading the fic with the sequel and while I have 0 problems with my aus inspiring others, they've built a platform on this and other stolen ideas. I dont have any other sonic blog but this one. No one can fully own an au but I assumed at they very least their origin stories wouldn't have the same details. This is just really annoying and a lil embarrassing. If you can't make your own stories that's ok, don't steal other people's.

Stealing content and work isn't illegal, especially on the internet, but it speaks of a strong insecurity.

#mora talks #this is about the uncle scourge au #ill make another post when i reupload the fic #its embarassing they made a whole platform off a story i came up with #indidnt mind at the time but considering the disrespect they put me and my friends through. #hm #not going to call anyone out bc i dont need to steal shit to create and finished stories #also ill totally let my work epeak for itself. i wrote the origins and I'll write the sequel

[the-fabulous-51]

so sorry for the people here who wish for another fic for my 'weathers family farm' series/are wondering if I'm dead. finals may have killed my spirit but mostly my writers block is being caused by my brain being taken over by my OCs. they're not even paying rent (letting me write about them in a publishable way)

#mine #im trying to finish this one fic but its fighting me the whole damn way #it might be a while honestly #i think finals took more out of me than i realised #if i trusted my longfic skills more i would write about them but unfortunately the longest ill go is maybe 3 or 4 chapters #me and long plots dont work out very well #and for some reason the story i do have is setting itself up in my head more like a tv series?? than a fic?? #which is weird for me cause usually if i think about scenes over and over ill stop thinking about them visually #and start thinking about them in terms of how i would write the scene right? #but this one is trying to be a tv series #like ive imagined a trailer for it and everything #ive written some scenes but most of them are backstory for a side character and not like the main plot :/ #big sigh #anyways this isnt about my main OCs per se but i saw a picture the other day of the Stargazer (my beloved) #and ive been wondering how the stargazer would fit in WOC #and my brain latched onto the idea that they were the first/one of the first commercial aircraft to get a doctorate #bc my main oc storyline takes place in college #bc thats the sisyphean hell im putting myself thru so i need my characters to suffer with me #oh yeah im also trying to pack. like all my stuff. so thats also going on in the background of all this #im literally sitting on the floor rn surrounded by coat hangars after giving up trying to shove them in an ikea bag #heem heem. whimper even.

[skitskatdacat63]

And here is the bull himself >:)

+ lore notes

I was like, ah I should make the shadow something interesting, and then I'm like GIVE HIM BULL HORNS???? OKAY SURE !!!!! I'm glad such thoughts can strike at 7 in the morning....thanks brain. But hehehe I'm glad bcs now this matches up super well with the Nando one!

New ship dynamic: who's the bull and who's the matador :)

I think, in this AU, Fernando is generally pretty fond of Seb when he first meets him. Like "ah yes my very own protégé, very nice, I shall mold him in my image." But then Seb starts veering off that course. Bullfighting is all about being dramatic, but Seb maybe has a bit too much(🤏) flair for the dramatic. This escalation starts while he's still Fernando's assistant but he keeps it generally at bay. But god when he becomes a matador himself, he's just off the rails insane.

Bullfighting, to me, is a sport about reckless endangerment of one's self in the pursuit of drama and performance(its literally described as a tragedy in three acts.) But Fernando thinks Seb endangers himself *too* much, not because he cares or anything, but he's making a mockery of the sport!! Especially when Seb starts doing that bull hand symbol(seen above), Fernando just keeps become more enraged with him, not anything to do with the fact that Seb is threatening his records and threatening his own wellbeing, nah of course not.

Seb's gesture is making a mockery of the sport, he's disrespecting the culture, the very nature of it, blah blah blah. Jenson once asks Fernando, after noticing him seething while watching Seb do his gesture, "Which bull are you really trying to defeat?" One could also describe Fernando and Seb's relationship as a "tragedy with three acts."

Anyways Fernando gets very tied up with this rivalry. Even after suffering a severe injury(I have yet to decide, but y'know mchonda electrocution core), he quickly returns to the sport, loath to let Seb get any more headway. And then Seb gets injured, poor little sweet Seb, and neither of them can handle it. Though I already covered this in my prev lore post 🤭 and I think I put it pretty viscerally there so!! I digress.

They're both matadors, but the bull itself is not the only bull Fernando wants to conquer. Conquer as in death? Hm.

#i love matador au all my homies love matador au #<- its a lot of fun for me to draw and easy to have ref for :) so its like my little comfort drawings #even tho i want to sob every time i write any of the lore down bcs it is so </3 #ah i just like how visceral it is ig #f1 is a dangerous sport but bullfighting is just. such another level of maniacs 😭 #ive talked abt this a lot w cofi lmao its just super interesting to me. just the whole mentality and display and culture of it #also just: trajes de luces go brrrrrrr #ah one day ill draw both of them in green suits 🤭🤭 #i had a chibi art of this au i was working on bcs i didnt have mental energy for a full thing #or at least i THOUGHT so #ive had the refs for this since 2 wks and im like YOU WILL FINISH THIS bcs i rly liked the pose 😭 #so then i just drew for like 5 hours straight. yknow as one does #and wrote this post at uh. 8 am. normal time for one to be drawing and writing. as one does. #WELL ANYWAYS PLEASE ENJOY MATADOR SEB #this au grips me the throat 😭 i rly enjoy it 😭 #i have a lot of thoughts ab the au lore itself but also drawing these is very no thoughts head empty <3 #also god side note. pink stockinks. i hated the idea of them at first. but now im like hehe hot pink time 🥰🥰 #its crazy how it doesnt clash that much??? i thought it would ruin the outfit but ah they suit everything p well #f1 #formula 1 #sebastian vettel #catie.art. #matador au