Jess: Me at Eloise Bridgerton type "feminist" characters in tv and film
If you can't tell, I'm girly as hell and any good feminist should NEVER look down on women who tend to vibe with feminine attributes.
It doesn't make them less than and shoe horning in "feminists" in period dramas who do nothing but rant, act holier than thou and look down on the more "girlier" characters is a complete disservice to women and girls who watch this and feel like they should rid themselves of femininity altogether in order to be taken seriously by others (case in point, Season 6-8 Sansa Stark)
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Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad.
I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING
What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*
who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.
love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.
and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.
“the goo pile that is now your body”
i’m dying over here, jesus
please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.
Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*
Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 4th’s fic!
Charles Blackwood + “Don’t you realise how much I want you?” (Regency AU)
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Countess Drayfort, nee Locke, now Blackwood, reclines against her pillows as you enter with a tray. You bring the porcelain tea set right to her bedside as she soothes herself with a painted fan. Her once rosy cheeks are pallid. You wonder if at least age has broken through or if this is a summer ague come to fester.
"Kathleen put some African ginger in the tea. She says it will help, my lady." You pour a cup and add some sugar as she prefers.
"She thinks of everything," Lady Drayfort preens softly. She accepts the cup but you notice the tremor as she struggles to balance even that weight on her own.
"And some berries and whey. It shouldn't be too heavy on your stomach, lady."
"Mm, I am not of body to eat," her lips downturn and the lines around her mouth and eyes deepen. Despite the decades behind her, she never truly looked or acted as though she knew them.
"You should try, lady. You need your strength."
"I've got it still. Never fret for me, dear. You are too kind to me." She thinks of reaching dorfyou but thinks better of it as the cup teeters. "Hm, have you seen my husband?"
"He was off early this morning, my lady."
"As ever he is. Busy of mind and body. In many ways." She smiles and leans back on the pillows. "When he returns, please let him know I am not fit to receive him." She goes quiet and peers into the depths of the porcelain cup. "I should hate for him to see me as such.”
“Yes, my lady.” You acquiesce with a gentle nod. “Would you like a cold cloth?”
“Please, go and tend your duties. I should hate to keep you.” She says.
“I will be back to look in on you,” you promise as you back away.
“You are always so sweet, ma petite.” She hums, the little name she’s called you since you were brought onto service as a girl.
“Lady,” you smile and curtsey.
You leave her with worry in your heart. You will call for the physician and bear her chagrin. She is ever stubborn but you’ve never seen her in this state, not even when her first husband died. She was ever lively, riding a saddle with ease and laughing over cards as she told bawdy jokes that would make men in their clubs blush.
You send Lionel in his cart to bring back Doctor Reginault. You go down to help the cook, Kathleen, but she waves you off as she does any gnat or rodent in her kitchen. You resign yourself to dusting shelves already touched with feather.
The physician arrives and you bring him up to Lady Drayfort. You leave him in the corridor as you go to warn her but find her unconscious with tea staining the high collar of her sleeping gown. She is breathing but pale.
You retrieve Dr. Reginault and he bends over her to feel her neck and forehead. He tuts as he opens his bag and searches out a vial.
“It is a summer sickness, I believe. Two centuries ago the like ran rampant in the cities. Not often out in the greenlands.” He advises. “Have her take these drops with her tea when she wakes. Sleep is most important. Rouse her in an hour or so. If you have citrus, have her eat some.”
“Yes, doctor.” You clasp your hands anxiously.
“Do not worry for the lady. The countess is a strong one.” He assures as he packs up his bag. “Be here with her.”
“Yes, doctor.” You repeat.
He goes and you sigh. You have a dreadful feeling for your mistress. You watch through the window as Lionel drives the physician out and you stare off into the sinking horizon. Some time later, hooves approach.
Lord Blackwood returns on his sable mount. He sits proudly upon her as he canters through the gate. His page meets him and takes away the beast as the master of the estate dusts off his trousers.
Though the countess bid you not to say it, you cannot keep a secret from her own husband. You go down to the kitchens and request a fresh tray of tea with lemon, and any citrus that might be in the stores. As Kathleen works on the task, you hear Lord Blackwood enter.
You go out to see him pull off his riding gloves. His eyes gleam at you. You bend your knees and neck reverently.
“My lord, Percy is around. Shall I fetch him–”
“I sent Percy off on an errand already,” Blackwood interrupts. “Come, you will tend to my jacket.”
You hesitate then go to him. He turns his back to you and extends his arms. You help him shrug off his embroidered jacket. It was one of the many gifts the countess rained on him.
“I will have claret in my office,” he commands as he hands you his gloves and hat.
You step aside as he strides past you. You wait until he is up the stairs before you scurry to store his things away. You return to the kitchen. The water is still boiling. You fill a decanter with claret and set it on a tray with a crystal glass.
You climb to the second floor and approach the lord’s office. The door is ajar in expectation. You stand at the threshold.
“My lord, you claret.” You announce.
“In, shut the door.” He demands as he pulls free his ascot.
You obey, setting the tray on his desk and going to the door. As you go to close it from the outside, he stops you.
“You must pour it.” He says.
“Yes, my lord. Apologies.”
You enter once more and close the door. You cross to him and pour a glass of the clear liquor. You set the decanter down and replace the gold cap.
“My lord. The doctor came to see the countess today.” You say.
He looks at you with a crinkle around his eyes. “Oh? Well, she is rather ahead in years. I suppose they are good acquaintances.”
“She is not well, my lord.”
“Surely, the doctor did more for her than I could.” He takes the glass and sips from it, watching you over the brim.
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me if I was overbearing.” You back away. “I must tend to her tea–”
“You tend to me.” He insists and drinks deeper. “And I’ve not dismissed you.”
You pause and dip your head. “Forgive me. I was not meaning–”
“You are shy.” He remarks.
“My lord, I only mean to attend my duty–”
“Evasive, I sense it. When I am around, you elude me.” He intones.
“No, my lord. I serve the countess.”
“You serve the household, of which I am master now.” He retorts. “You serve my wife but you also serve me.”
“Yes, my lord, you are true. I was not being defiant–”
“No, only… cautious.” He stands and rounds the desk. “For you sense it too.”
You chafe and clasp your wrist tight, unsure. “My lord?”
He crowds you, looming over you, his hand creeping up your sleeve. You lean away and he grips your arm to keep you from retreat. You gasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes twinkle as his cheeks dimple around his smirk.
“Don’t you realise how much I want you?” He whispers and leans in. “You don’t truly believe I want the decrepit widow?”
“My lord,” you gulp.
He grabs your other arm.
“Let her sleep. She will be better tomorrow when the serum has fled her veins.” He purrs, his lips brushing your hairline. “And tonight, it will only be us.”
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✧ We can confidently say that Elizabeth and Anne Boleyn shared a positive and close relationship as a mother and daughter. Elizabeth took an interest in her children’s early education; Anne was taught music, singing, dancing, poetry, embroidery, as well as arithmetic, reading and writing. Elizabeth effectively acted as a protective chaperone to her daughter during her courtship with the King; by accompanying her to court and other places. She was present at Anne’s coronation and remained in her household throughout her time as queen consort.
After Anne’s downfall, she was taken to the tower obviously distraught and was heard to exclaim, ‘Oh, my mother, my mother!’. On learning of the other men accused with her and after being told that Norris had confessed to his crime (a lie) she wept, ‘Oh, my mother, thou wilt die with sorrow!’. The fact that Anne worried about her mother after her arrest suggests that they shared a special bond and that Anne was aware that her mother would be devastated by her imprisonment and imminent execution. [x]
