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theexecutionerssong · 3 years

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Hey Gaëlle ! Est-ce-que tu aurais des recommendations de fic Destiel ? Sans trop de smut, surtout pas beta/Omega (c'est même plus du smut à ce niveau-là...) et beaucoup de pining ? ( Je devrai être en train de réviser mes partiels d'ailleurs... 😅). Merci beaucoup ! 😌

Hellooo ! Alors tu as frappé à la bonne porte parce que je lis jamais de smut, ou alors quand c’est dans des longues fics, je passe juste ces passages là. (mais j’aime beaucoup les fic a/b/o qui ont pas de smut, parce que les sentiments sont quintuplés donc pining + angst on a whole other level). Y’a peu de fluff dans mes fics préférées, love me some angsty life and death moments, mais ça finit toujours bien. Enfin. Vérifie les tags quand même :)))) J’ai mis les liens, si y’a pas c’est qu’elles ont été supprimées mais j’ai les pdf donc hit me up.Et révise tes partiels !!!!

CANON

A turn of the earth -https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138552/chapters/11825306

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.

Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

Probably my favorite fic set in Canon. It’s set around season 11, and I love how we dive into Dean’s past pre-series and then as time goes by, we catch up with the show timeline’s. It’s incredibly well written.

525,600 Minutes - https://archiveofourown.org/works/507228/chapters/892693

A man wakes up alone on the streets of Detroit. Lost and somehow forgotten, he's dressed in blood-soaked clothing without memories and without a name.

This is his journey to find it.

It was first published in 2012 set after s5, but it was rewritten last year. I still have the old version for nostalgia’s sake but the new version is even better. It’s got some amnesia so great for pining :))))

The inexhaustible silence of houses -https://archiveofourown.org/works/560268/chapters/1000755

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh.

But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

Listen, I cried. I cried SO MUCH. There was a lil fandom war going on for a time between which was the hardest, this one or Twist and Shout, and both destroy me completely. But this one is set in canon and closer to the characters, to me, so I’ll always recommend this one first (unless you want a happy ending, in which case, don’t read it)

Only if for a night - https://archiveofourown.org/works/826303

Castiel is captured by a djinn. Dean goes slightly crazy, and Cas discovers a thing or two about himself.

I’m a sucker for Dean/Cas in Djinn verse and this one is by far my favorite.

The Bird That Feels The Light (not slash) https://archiveofourown.org/works/210860

AU from 5.18 (or thereabouts). Castiel awakens in the middle of a smoking crater, stranded and very much human. According to the people who have discovered him, it’s six months to the day after Michael and Lucifer faced off on the field of battle outside of Detroit, and Castiel isn’t the only one to have returned. When, at his insistence, they take him to this other person, he finds a child –a little boy– and realizes that, contrary to all his expectations, he has been reunited with Dean Winchester. The world has changed in their absence, and not for the better. Sam is gone, whether dead or simply missing is uncertain. Castiel is given the name of a man in Idaho who may have answers for him. He is faced with the task of travelling cross-country with Dean, who is dependent on him now in ways he never was before, in order to discover the truth. But along the way, as he and Dean learn to know and trust each other once more, Castiel begins to realize that the answers he thought he wanted might not be the ones he needs.

It’s not slash at all since Dean is a kid but I’ve read it probably about 20 times and I still love it as the first time. There’s just something about human Castiel carrying a 4 year old Dean across the world and fighting monsters and demons and humans to survive that gets to me.

Hands, From Which All Things Are Built - https://archiveofourown.org/works/747324

Castiel travels with the angel tablet and without the Winchesters. One day, Dean gets a text from some anonymous number. (They speak in the language of need.) A post-08.17 Goodbye, Stranger story.

If you want pining, this one is definitely for you.

Last Man Standing - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8363328/1/Last-Man-Standing

This one is set just after the season 7 finale, it’s a Purgatory fic with so.much.pining I always need to hold a pillow to my chest when I read it or I go insane sdfghjkl I haven’t read it in probably 4 years but I remember absolutely loving it.

Outrun my gun - https://archiveofourown.org/works/281887/chapters/448388

"The two of you are so stubborn you've made Heaven blink." Finally convinced that Sam and Dean will never say yes and accept their destinies, Heaven and Hell come up with a new plan, one that will redraw the Apocalypse and make everything run much more smoothly. All they need is Dean Winchester's soul.

Don’t mind the MCD tag, it’s got a happy ending. Also a classic set in canon, it’s from 2011 so quite oldish but it’s incredible how the characterization is on point. Love love love it.

Tramps Like Us

Dean Winchester's life is falling apart. He's lost his job, his apartment, and his brother, all in one day. He seems to break everything he touches. Frustrated and alone, he drives off into the night with no idea where he's headed. But then he meets Castiel Novak, a quiet and reclusive man with a haunted past, and suddenly he finds himself with a very specific destination in mind.

I feel like everyone has read Tramps Like Us but just in case, I’ll put it on the list. Not sure what I can say that hasn’t been said by half this website already but well… it deserves the hype.

Til The Last - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001935/chapters/1984189

When the war came, Dean Winchester was determined that he was not going to get involved. He had more important things to worry about than some rich man’s fight. He had work on the farm and he had taking care of his family. Nothing else was worth his worry. But in August in the Year of Our Lord 1863, when the soldiers came knocking, they weren’t asking. They dragged Dean away.

Dean and Cas have been best friends since they were kids. When Dean is drafted into the Confederate army, to what lengths will Castiel go to ensure that Dean makes it back home alive?

OH BOY. OHHHHH I could talk about that one until the day I die. It’s a complete AU but it has great parallels to canon, it’s incredibly well written, humanity in all it’s ugly truth and “I will fight for you ‘til the last, Dean Winchester” jesus christ it’s so good, so good

Out of the Deep - https://archiveofourown.org/works/548878

Stay away from the light-beds. Stay in the deep.

It is the first thing hatchlings are taught the moment their fans unfurl and they can swim without their parents to buoy them along. It is the first rule, the first law. It is the beginning of every boogey-monster bedtime story told when they settle against the cliffs to sleep.

Castiel should have listened better.

I love everything she writes but I think this one if my favorite. It’s sooooo long, and angsty as fuck but all ends well and it has some very fluffy moments. If you’re into this kinf of AU then 100% go for it.

To Raise a King - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961403

This must be some kind of horrible joke at Castiel’s expense. Is he truly expected to protect a King? One who has been their enemy for as long as he can remember? He is much more suited to being a part of the army, or at the very least someone who helps to train the knights. That would be far more preferred than having to watch over the King. It means Castiel would get to keep fighting – and that’s the only way he knows to give meaning to his life.

An AU too, Cas is tasked to watch over Sam and Dean -there’s an 8 year age difference between Dean and Cas. I loved it because it’s set over about 15 years and Cas is asexual and I love time period AU in general :’)

Painted Angels https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085792

Author Castiel Novak has finally hit the big time, with a book based on his failed college relationship with a brilliant painter. He's put all his pain behind him, but at a book signing, he comes face to face with Dean Winchester for the first time in twelve years, and the reunion doesn't go like Cas hoped. Dean's a broken man, with a lot of scars and secrets, shoulders weighed down by his demons and self loathing. Cas sees a second chance with the man he's never stopped loving, but Dean's moved on, and is about to get married. Sam launches a "brilliant" plan to reunite his brother and his best friend, but Cas is worried it will all blow up in their faces, and he'll go through the agony of losing Dean a second time.

This one is hard to read because for the most part, it’s heartbreaking. There are happy flashbacks all along but it’s still hard when what happens in the present it’s a fucking tragedy. But I would still read it a thousand times over, and the timestamp completely make up for all the pining and the angst. It’s rare to find fics that last an entire lifetime.

#gaelle parle #spn #fic rec #martineaualexia

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darkmindsotome · 4 years

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Risque Rouge pt17

Tagging: @umbralaperture @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly.

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 17

Acrid smoke clinging to her, wrapping itself around as if she were to be bound in a blanket of toxic fumes. The air was burning, particles of embers and ash floating like feathers all around her. Her hand was being held by someone she couldn’t make out through the thick smoke. They were holding her so tightly her fingers were going numb but she didn’t cry out against them as they encouraged her to keep moving, dragging her in their wake.

Her heart was pounding in the darkness, every movement of her body felt torturous. She could feel the ground under her feet even though she couldn’t see it. Bodiless screams in the dark rose up around her in a terrible crescendo no musician could ever emulate. The feeling of pain and torment that was not her own filled her up to bursting. Why was this happening?

There was a muffled moment where the smoke seemed to become a wall, the sounds around her drowning out what was being said to her. She felt like she was about to lose the last thread of hope she had and was overcome. The fear she had been able to hold back till now dug itself in deep, latching on to her with icy claws. As the hand holding hers slipped through her fingers like sand. Then there was an almighty force shoving her away, casting her alone into the smoke and darkness.

Evie opened her eyes to find herself in a tangle of bedding on the floor of her bedroom. Her breathing was ragged and every part of her body was screaming in confusion and pain. She brought her hand to her head, the sensation of moisture finding her fingers. As she pulled her hand back, she saw the sweat of her brow glistening like powdered diamonds in the moonlight.

“It was only another nightmare.” She muttered to herself with a broken laugh. Her body had still not calmed down and she dragged her knees up to her chest leaning back against the bed frame. “Just a bad dream…”

Her mind raced as she tried to convince herself it was all just in her mind. It naturally began to focus on the fatale conversation from town and the pained look of Comte as she rejected him. Her body had stopped trembling, the sweat on her skin had all but dried up. Still, that conversation played on a loop and the more she thought about it the more it seemed to resonate in her. Each time she came to the same phrase there was a dull spark in her mind. Pure blood.

---

The air from the balcony was particularly crisp tonight. If it were more than a slight breeze it could have cut right to the bone and yet there was at least one man standing there oblivious to it all. His mind hadn’t just naturally drifted to the young woman in his house in truth it had been stuck on her from the moment they returned.

He had hoped she would reappear but she had cloistered herself in her room and had not even opened her door for Sebastian when he took her meals. That part was concerning for more reasons than he dared think about. His hands unconsciously tightened their grip on the stone balustrade as he looked out over the landscape tinted in the moonlight.

It was always a relaxing sight and he came here often, but tonight the view didn’t register. He simply stared, unfocused on a fixed point in the distance. Neither his gaze nor his heart moved as the breeze made his hair and coat flutter on the wind. They were the only signs of life when he himself felt closer to a statue carved out of time than a living creature.

“I thought you would be out here.” A friendly voice greeted him. The soft click of the door leading back into the mansion being closed gave the subliminal warning of escape being futile.

“Not now Leo.” Comte sighed. He could have faked a smile, placed any one of his masks on his face and put on a show. All of them would have worked a charm, except on his oldest friend. Comte was actually a little surprised it took Leo this long to track him down.

“Oh, you would prefer I smoked inside? You’ve changed your tune.” Leo appeared chuckling at his side, slipping one of his beloved cigarillos from its tin.

“I would prefer you didn’t smoke at all, it clings to the furnishings.” Comte groused his usual complaint that was destined to be ignored.

He watched Leo as he patted down his jacket searching for his lighter. Comte rolled his eyes in resignation and pulled out some matches from his own jacket, striking one to offer his friend alight. Leo grinned with his cigarillo perched in his lips, leaning forward into the flame guarded in Comte’s hands.

“Which is why I’m out here. Just me having a quiet smoke.” Leo spoke through a half-closed mouth, taking a long drag.

Leo wedged one hand in his pocket and leaned back against the supporting pillar to the side of the balcony, blowing smoke rings into the night air. The silence that flowed between them wasn’t uncomfortable but it was obvious that there was more to this meeting than simple coincidence.

“Say it.” Comte muttered a barely audible command.

“What?” Leo asked innocently adjusting his jacket on his shoulders.

In all the centuries they had known each other it seemed there were some things that never changed. It didn’t matter what time of day it was Leo always seemed to look like he was shot out of a canon. Comte admired his friend’s ability to shrug off social conventions and judgemental gazes. If he could have done similar, he wondered what kind of a man he would be today?

A familiar emptiness settled at the back of Comte’s memory, a bottomless solitary sensation that was as endless as his own immortality. Leo had once said he left the world they were born into because he wanted to find something greater, to nurture it and help people smile.

There were other reasons for his departure from the main royal court but his core ideal remained the same. It was a simple wish and dazzling prospect for one born as Comte had been to the endless night. Perhaps it was in understanding the inventor’s passion and kind heart that Comte had wished to harbour him for all this time. Allowing someone else's light to flourish where he felt his never could.

“I’m a fool. You know that’s what you want to say.” Comte mirrored his friend allowing his shoulders to fall back on the opposite pillar, their bodies becoming the frame for the view beyond them.

“No need Mio Amico, you are doing a fine job of that yourself.” Leo’s words stung with truth more than they did because he was being critical.

There was sympathy laying there under the thin veil of friendly banter. Comte knew he had caused Leo to become concerned and it seemed to add to the weight on his own shoulders. The events of the day remained indelible no matter how much he tried to stop thinking about them they were always there.

“I hurt her Leo. I forgot my own plan for trying to explain an impossible situation and I hurt her.” Comte’s voice didn’t seem to hold any of the resolve or certainty it usually did. His voice was stripped back to the man he was a long time ago, before the fame, the names and titles.

“I dare say you did.” Leo nodded. He had felt it, the turbulent wash of emotions crashing within him that were not his own, and realised something was wrong. He could sense clearly the two combining forces as they sparked and flashed against each other. It was a painfully beautiful resonating feeling that held both ends of the spectrum of love firmly in its grip. “La signorina has not shown herself since your return. I sense it as much as you do but I think I noticed something different.”

“Different?” Comte looked at Leo’s face studying him wondering what he could have picked up that would prove to be any different to the reality he felt. He didn’t wish to be told something so trite as words of reassurance when that would only give false hope and pay lip service to an ego that deserved to take this particular hit.

“I don’t think it’s hurt that she feels. She is frightened, it’s a torment that isn’t easy to explain but it is there all the same.” Leo blew out another cloud of smoke watching it as if he were looking into a crystal ball.

The smoke swirled between them and Comte wondered if Leo was looking at the image his own mind conjured. Her smiling face turned to tears, he felt his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest.

“I know she is frightened. I had planned to handle this differently and hope that she would be… ach!” Comte groaned in frustration and lightly bumped the back of his own head off the stone pillar.

The sensations he had tried to block from before were running rampant through his system freely like a forest fire. Emotions that weren’t his blended with his own but he was unable to find that needle in a haystack his friend was so ardently pointing out existed.

Leo couldn’t bring himself to smile for a few minutes, finding his theory that his friend had missed that which might have relieved some of his burdens confirmed. Comte had not seen her actions as something other than a rejection of him, punishment for him. Comte was too close to the situation or perhaps to shaded in denial to see the light in the darkness.

“No amount of planning can prepare someone for something they don’t wish to know. Even if they had begun to suspect something themselves, to have their fears confirmed is never where it all ends. You cannot change the past, my friend. You do still have a say in how the future plays out though.” Leo smiled that all-knowing smile that repeatedly stirred a desire to slap him from time to time.

There was more than one occasion between them where Leo also felt the same level of frustration towards Comte during one of their tête-à-têtes. Oh, how the tables turn. Long-life tended to provide a lot of experiences that meant conversations like this felt a little like being placed in a swirling vortex. You could easily lose sight of your position only to have the other point out how close you are to chasing your own tail over something that should basically have a simple solution.

In this case, as least the reason why Comte was so reluctant to argue was that he felt Leo held an unmistakable truth in what he surmised. Comte knew all too well the passage of time did not flow backwards, no matter how much you wished for a second chance. It was a long winding road with no clear trajectory and strewn with obstacles that were both obvious and well hidden.

You had choices at every bump in the road. Each one offering up a different direction for you to follow. Give up or keep moving? Neither provided a guarantee of a better future but his choice was clear enough, he was not ready to simply give up.

Leo crushed his cigarillo under his boot as he pushed his body off the stone and began walking back towards the mansion. His hand fell on the handle of the French doors before Comte called out to him.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I told you I was only out here to have a smoke.” Leo shrugged, entering the mansion and disappearing into the empty warmth of it.

Comte remained on the balcony his eyes returning to the landscape but this time he was able to see the life in it.

---

Evie groaned at the sound of knocking on her door. At some point, she had drifted back off to sleep and slumped on her side still tangled in the bedding that was on the floor.

She was well aware she had failed to open it the previous day and was thankful for Sebastian’s consideration that he didn’t press the topic of trying to gain access. He had simply left the tray he had brought outside her door and returned later to remove it. She felt guilty for the bother it caused him to do so but she was neither in the mood to eat or see anyone.

The knocking on the door occurred again this time with a muffled conversation attached.

“Look she clearly isn’t awake yet let’s just go already.” The disgruntled impatient voice was one she had only heard briefly before but she could hardly forget the abrupt Theo.

“Sebas said she didn’t eat yesterday and I’m worried about her.” The softer and much warmer voice of Vincent was like a soothing balm even through the wooden obstacle of the door.

Evie sleepily unravelled herself from the knot of bedding and moved to stand, regretting it almost immediately as her head swam. Her broken sleep had created a sluggishness in her that was hard to shift. She leaned against one of the posts on her bed as the conversations beyond her door continued.

“Look there is no point in worrying over that little mutt. She is Comte’s problem, not yours Brother.” Theo was sounding impatient and as much as she hated to feel like she was eavesdropping on a private conversation Evie disliked the fact that Theo was referring to her as a dog just as much.

“Schei uit, Theo. You should try to be nicer to girls.” Vincent sounded stern even though he didn’t raise his voice. She thought this must be a common conversation between the brothers. She remembered Vincent apologising for his brother’s attitude before and shook her head smiling.

“I still don’t see why…”

“I like her.” Vincent cut off Theo with words that caused a very audible gasp from the abrupt younger sibling.

“You--? Broer… what?”

“She’s nice and kind and I like her just as I like everyone else here. I’d like us all to be friends, there can’t be anything worse than feeling all alone.” Vincent’s reply was so earnest it was like a ray of sunshine. She was a little thankful that no one was around to witness how rosy her face had become.

“Brother… fine.” Theo seemed to locate his composure before the knocking sound returned. This one much louder than the last. “Hey, Hondje! You better open up or I’m just gonna open it myself.”

---

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longlivefeedback · 6 years

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“Why Can’t I Say This?” Context, Concrit, and Commitment

The current (unwritten) rule for commenting is the golden rule:

Gif of Thumper from Bambi saying if you can't say something nice, don't say nothin' at all.

Commenting (on AO3) is a public experience and we at LLF have openly supported this stance, urging people to praise in public and criticize in private.

Still, what about those writers who explicitly state at the end of their fic that they are open to concrit? Is that permission to take their fic apart, line by line and give them what is could very easily become the equivalent of a public flogging?

The answer, as with all things that involve more than one person, is that it depends. If you are reviewing a work and find yourself wanting to say more than just praise, here are a few questions to ask yourself that can help you determine if your feedback and criticism is actually constructive.

1. Which party are you at?

First, let’s establish where you’re giving concrit - is it as a beta in a GoogleDoc on a first draft, is it in the public spheres of tumblr/AO3, or are you in a writing group or writing class where today’s assignment is to practice giving critique? Depending on the situation, how much and what type of concrit you give would vary.

Let’s say that instead of fic writing, we’re all chefs (or people who make food) here. We each make a dish and now we want to share it with the world. Do you (A) take it to your friend’s house where they are holding a potluck celebration; (B) set up a stall at the state fair; or (C) enter it into a cooking/baking competition ala Chopped where 5 star judges and food critics will sample your food? Depending on where you take you food, you would expect very different reactions. Generally speaking, you would probably want your friends at the potluck to thank you for bringing something and compliment you for how delicious your dish is. If you were still fine tuning your recipe, you could let them know and maybe they would be able to say one or two things they liked or didn’t like about it which you would file away for the evening, to be looked at for the next time you made something. However, if you were at a state fair, even getting your dish looked at by the crowds of people milling around would be an achievement. If someone bought some of your food, that would be fantastic! If they bought it, took a bite, and then told you how tasty it was, even better! Those people that bought your food, went away, and then came back to tell you how much they enjoyed it or came back to buy some more and brought all their friends with them are heaven sent angels. You probably wouldn’t expect anyone to say anything negative about your food because even if you were still fine tuning the recipe, a state fair is neither the time nor place where any sort of meaningful culinary discussion can really take place on a consistent basis. The situation would be different if you were at a cooking competition. There, you would expect these food experts to pick apart your food. Maybe not steamroll and chew you out à la Gordon Ramsey, unless that’s what you were expecting and the kind of feedback you respond best to (in which case, you should sign up for a competition where he is judging). Perhaps you don’t want to just be yelled at, but would actually like to be coached, then maybe enter a competition with more of a mentoring element versus cutthroat competition.

Being aware of which and what kind of party you’re at helps establish expectations and prevents you from breaking the dress code and expected rules of conduct - something that often leaves you and the host standing around in embarrassment at best and on toxic hostile terms at worst.

We’ve all heard stories about people leaving concrit on works and might have started out as a gesture of good intentions, devolves into a dumpster fire of abuse and personal attacks. If we give each party the benefit of the doubt, this kind of scenario often stems from a mismatch of expectations.

In my opinion, posting to ao3 is closest to the state fair, and is why the “positive feedback only” default is perfectly acceptable and even encouraged. If this stance annoys you, this might be an indication that there is some disconnect between what you really want as a commenter/author and where you’re going in order to get it. I think that we can all agree that going to the state fair and expecting Gordon Ramsey to show up and tell you why your dish sucks is just… not going to happen. Even more, it’s something that shouldn’t happen on the reg. What if you were at the state fair to raise money for charity? No well-meaning person there is going to tell you that your food sucks and that you should do better - and if they do, they don’t mean you well.

So how do determine which party you’re at and what sort of criticism, if any, to expect? Well, when in doubt, ask.

2. Who are you and who is your audience?

When it comes to feedback, take a step back and question your assumptions. Who is the author whose work you are commenting on? Is this an old time friend who you know has nerves of steel and likes every single typo pointed out or is this an unfamiliar username whose work you’ve just stumbled across? Or are you a regular reader who has followed this author’s works, had regular conversations about them with their story, and to whom they’ve expressed their struggles with pacing/plot/characterization?

Are you at Janet’s party, where everyone is expected to pat each other on the back and say something nice to each other, or are you at Bob’s party, where everyone has known everyone for years, has eaten every variation of Dinah’s herring pie, and knows that she’s still looking for the perfect complement to it?

Establishing your audience and writing for them is one of the fundamental rules of effective writing. Whether it’s business emails, academic essays, or love letters, the better you know the person on the other side who will be reading your words, the better you will be able to deliver your message to them.

Be conscious of the fact that people write for different reasons, and that while some may be okay with great advice being shouted at them, it is a nightmare for others. Don’t be a Gordon Ramsey walking around at the charity fair of home baked goods giving tips to the local families trying to raise funds to repair their schools. Be kind and don’t show up at the wrong party.

3. What does the author consider ‘concrit’ and how do I get them to listen to me?

Concrit is, by definition, constructive. It should help an author as well as encourage them to keep improving and to keep writing. If the author comes away feeling discouraged and like giving up on writing, you have failed in your goal of giving concrit.

It doesn’t matter if you have the best cake ever. If you package it in a moldy and dirt encrusted box, I won’t eat it. Likewise, it doesn’t matter if your criticism is pure objective truth (unlikely, since the rules of writing get broken all the time), if you give it in a way that the author is not receptive to, they will not listen.

Giving and receiving criticism is hard, even when you think you’re ready for it. Please also keep in mind that context matters. Anyone who has been a beta will tell you that giving criticism is not easy, especially when we do not have the benefit of verbal and visual cues to help us express what we really mean. How you say things is often just as important as what you say. Tone and nuance is difficult to get right in writing, particularly when two people are essentially strangers on the internet. Cases of misunderstandings and miscommunications abound (they are the villains in so many fics) and sometimes, things just get written the wrong way, or read the wrong way.

Everyone has their own personal biases, and to assume that criticism that you would find helpful and valuable would be similarly received by the author is fallacious and a dangerous assumption. What works for you may be hurtful to others, which is another reason as to why we support the “positive feedback in comments only” default. It’s harder to ruin someone’s day with only positive statements, especially when you don’t have the time or platform to really explain yourself and have a meaningful conversation with the author.

Even in the cases where the author has explicitly asked for concrit, giving it is hard. The best forms of concrit are specific, targeted, and provide a roadmap to the author on why this isn’t working and how to improve. It is not as easy as listing out all the flaws you see and letting the author figure out the rest. If you are serious about giving concrit, make sure that you’re prepared to commit to answering questions and having conversations about why you think something works or does not work. If someone asks you for your opinion on the pie filling, be clear that you think that it has too much salt and only if they ask for it do you tell them about the burnt crust since it could be the case that they are well aware that it is burnt and is why they only asked about the filling in the first place. When critiquing, make sure to establish expectations and who your audience is and commit to having those conversations.

In conclusion...

Consider the fact that feedback doesn’t have to be negative in order to be helpful. If you are able to point out the flaws — and I mean really point them out as writing flaws and not stylistic differences because you are able to pinpoint and explain why something generally does not work — then you should be able to point out the good as well. It is rare when a work has absolutely no redeeming qualities. Maybe you will have to look harder to pick out the unpolished gems, but being able to see the potential and conveying that to the author can more constructive than a hyperfocus on tearing their work apart.

In summary, when you’re tempted to leave constructive criticism:

Remember your audience;

Check your expectations;

Show up at the right party; and

Bear in mind that knowing how to say things is just as important as knowing what to say.

~ mod dragonling

#longlivefeedback #constructive criticism #concrit #context concrit and commitment

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feuillesmortes · 6 years

Text

Academic life got in the way of this fic, but here we are! This chapter happens just one day after Henry and Lizzie’s day trip to Richmond. I’m tagging my mates @harritudur and @queenbessofyork, who have been incredibly supportive of this fic.

As always, you can also read it on Ao3.

Henry, London Borough of Camden, 2:04 p.m.

One could think of few things better than spending a bank holiday in North London. The sun was out, the birds were singing. The sound of the rustling leaves coming from the Heath was carried along by a gentle breeze sweeping down on Hampstead Village. That posh neighbourhood, known as the new frog valley of London, where french pâtisseries and crêperies endowed the air with the richest of flavours, was home to François de Bretagne.

In one of the large Edwardian houses that populated the neighbourhood, Henry Tudor attended his boss’s garden party garbed with his best bottom-up and armed with a politely trained smile on his face. It was a great chance to properly catch up with his co-workers and improve his networking skills. Except Henry would rather be anywhere else. Well, not really anywhere else. Certainly not with anyone. He had a very specific person on his mind.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he unlocked his mobile screen to look at her text:

Can we meet today at 7? Spoons would be nice x

Just ten simple words. Not unlike with everything else in his life, Henry found himself overanalysing that line of text. She had ended it with a single ‘x’ instead of a double… Not the most affectionate way to end a text, one could say. Their goodbye the previous day had been awkward enough, yes, but she hadn’t shied away from his embrace. Granted, when walking Lizzie to her flat she had hurried inside the building maybe a bit too fast.

But her invite to the local Wetherspoons was a good sign, wasn’t it? A familiar feeling gnawing at his insides, Henry started to think he might have miscalculated his move. Maybe he should have given her more time… He instinctively touched the pocket where he kept the gift he had bought her ages ago: a gold necklace, paired with a rose pendant. He had bought it as a Christmas present, only at the time he hadn’t had the guts to give her.

“Tudor, are you coming or not? We’ll be running out of gravy soon.”

“Yeah, bruv! Just grab your plate and get in the bloody queue!”

Henry looked up to find his co-workers Ed and Tom waiting for him, both mildly annoyed at his delay. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

His colleagues were right to worry about the gravy, though; the queue for the buffet table was incredibly long. It looked like everyone who worked for the company had been invited to the party. The majority of the employees were EU nationals, but Henry’s fellow Brits were increasing numbers every day.

“Oh shit, is that Jane from HR?” Tom exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve gotta go talk to her. Hold my place for a sec, will you?”

A cocktail cooling in hand, Henry watched Tom approach the HR girl with the characteristic sleazy smile he put on whenever he tried to chat up a girl. Thomas Grey, simply known around the office as Tom, looked just like a generic Tom was supposed to look. Small round eyes, rosy face, neither tall nor short. Every Brit knew at least one generic Tom.

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend or something?” Henry turned to ask his other colleague, Edward Woodville. He bore the same last name as Lizzie’s mother, which sometimes made Henry wonder whether they were distantly related or if it was all just coincidence.

“Last time I checked, he had a fiancée.” Henry let out a small oh, taking a sip from his glass. Ed simply shrugged. “You know how Tom is. Always… fooling around.” He turned his gaze to Henry. “What about you? What were you doing back there on your phone? Not bad news, I hope.”

“No, not bad news. Just… me being paranoid, I reckon.”

Ed nodded, turning to scan the rest of the party. “Do you… want to talk about it… maybe?”

“Nah, mate. I’m fine.” Henry looked down at his glass, shaking the ice cubes. The liquid quivered with circular vibrations. Some unspoken rules were just not simply broken.

“Cool.”

“Cool.” Henry repeated, as if those were not his worries they were just trying to discuss. Cool.

A comfortable silence settled over them, lasting no longer than Tom’s return. Looking triumphant, Tom got back just in time before the queue moved too far. “I did it! I got her number! See, I told you I would—”

“Well, well, well! Who do we have here?”

They spun around to find Pierre Laudais, François’ assistant. He sported a mocking smile and an awfully tacky tie as he usually did. He wasn’t particularly popular among the employees, not even the EU nationals working for the firm. As the second in command, Laudais was merely tolerated. Henry let out a deep sigh, bracing himself. Here we go.

“And do my eyes deceive me or it is Henry Tudor, the absolute ledge!” The Frenchman laughed, patting his shoulder. “Isn’t it how you lads say it? Absolute ledge?”

Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder stare. You’ve got this. Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder st—

His colleagues shook their heads, barely concealing their contempt.

“It’s not… It’s not really…”

“It’s not how we say it.”

Laudais was thoroughly amused, though. “Why not? This guy— this guy here, I’m telling you. This guy right here is a legend. The best intern we ever had. Go ask François. N’est-ce pas, Tudor?” Laudais spoke his last name with a strong accent dripping with sarcasm. It all clearly meant: aren’t you a proper boss’s pet?

Henry squinted his eyes at him, fake smiling. “Thank you, Laudais. I only try my very best. But clearly, you already know that for sure.” Just the previous month, Henry had checked a couple of funny reports, counts not matching the system. The error couldn’t be tracked at the time, but Henry had a feeling Laudais hadn’t been much happier since then.

Laudais simply blinked at him for some seconds before turning to his co-workers. “Well, forgive me for trying to blend in with you, heh. You know, after Brexit one does fear about losing his job. No one is safe! Who knows who could be next!” He raised his glass of champagne as a way of goodbye and gave them an ugly smirk, a motion that rendered his face even more punchable. He left them to go straight to the casserole dish stand, jumping the queue and receiving some silent head shakes along the way.

“Connard.” Henry muttered under his breath, gulping down the rest of his cocktail. He could assign a long list of names to that bastard. It was a special pastime of his to get colourful with his french insults: enfoiré, abruti, crevard, quickly turning into trou du cul, face de rat, sac à vin, crétin des Alpes, ironie de la création… It was truly a great pity he could not voice his thoughts with so many French speakers around.

His co-workers beside him, though, were not so subtle.

“Dickhead.”

“Fucking wanker.”

Henry served himself a couple of golden yorkshire puddings, a recent favourite of his. “Don’t mind him. Laudais is just trying to scare me. Honestly, I couldn’t be arsed to care.”

“But maybe you should,” Ed said, stuffing his plate with roasted vegetables. “Aren’t you graduating in a few month’s time?”

“Hopefully yes.”

“It’d be nice to have a job then, don’t you think?”

Henry fell silent at that. It would be nice to have a job. That was something he had to remind himself every time frustration got the better of him, like a mantra. It would be nice to have a job.

The hours dragged, the minutes stretched. Taking rounds around the garden to chitchat with his colleagues was like a personal nightmare come alive. The weather! Where would they all be if not for that particular topic of conversation? Switch to French. Switch to English. Switch to French again. François’ relatives were there too, which meant of course even more fake smiling, fake listening, enthusiastically nodding your head and feigning interest in the most tedious things. The number of times he had to say “how do you do?” that day just couldn’t be measured.

Henry would check his watch every now and then. Shit, only five minutes since last time. It was at that rather depressing moment that Tom pulled out a cigarette pack. “Time for a break. Are you coming, Tudor?”

Ed didn’t smoke, though he would sometimes join them during coffee break. Every time, though, he would complain the smoke followed him around. Henry himself as he was trying to quit gradually stopped joining Tom for a drag.

Henry looked at the pack Tom was shaking in his hand. They were L&B, a popular brand, but too chavvy for Henry’s taste. He forcefully willed himself to look away. “No, thank you. I’ve quit.” He rubbed the nicotine patch beneath his shirt, placed just above his elbow. He knew the day would be stressful enough, so he had to come prepared.

“What, Tudor! Seriously?“

Ed congratulated him by clapping. “That’s the spirit. Good for you, Tudor. ”

“Come on, mate! One fag is not gonna kill you.”

Tom extended a cigarette to Henry, nimbly holding it between his fingers, but Henry turned it down. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.” He had promised other things as well, like getting an appointment with his GP. As if Henry had enough time for that.

By now Tom was lighting up his cigarette. “So what now? You promised your mum you’d stop smoking, is that it? Nancy boy doesn’t want to disappoint his mum?”

“Not my mum, you blinking idiot.” It was impossible not to sound defensive. “I promised a friend.”

“A friend?”

“A girl…friend.”

“Oooh, a girlfriend. Ed, do you believe this fucker? He never tells us anything.”

Edward wriggled his eyebrows. “Is it that girl you fancy, Lizzie? Tom, he won’t say a thing but he’s mentioned her name several times.”

“Lizzie, eh?” Tom took a long drag and let it out in a silvery grey cloud. “Yes, I recall. Have you shagged her yet?”

Henry shot him a deadly, fulminating stare. “That’s none of your bloody business.”

Tom turned to Edward. “I take it as a no.”

Ed suppressed a laugh, but Henry wasn’t amused. "Why don’t you just fuck off, Tom?”

“Calm down, bruv.“ Tom raised his palms in self-defence. "I was just taking the piss. What else are friends for these days?”

Henry wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. Co-worker, associate, colleague, work fellow, ally, a little dot in his social network scheme, but certainly not friend. “I appreciate your interest in my love life. But rest assured, I know how to handle myself.”

Tom didn’t take the hint. "You’re really serious about that girl, eh?”

Henry’s best fake smile flashed through gritted teeth and squinted eyes. “Unlike some, I don’t fool around.”

Tom frowned quizzically, as if trying to decide whether that was a veiled insult or not. Thankfully François came calling before the air turned too foul. “Boys! Ed, Tom, Henri! We’re taking a group picture. Come, all of you!”

Henry had thought the party couldn’t get any worse.

__________________________________________

Lizzie, City of Westminster, 6:53 p.m.

A girl sitting by herself is always a sorry sight no matter the place, that much she had been told. Some lessons took longer to unlearn, so maybe that was why Lizzie was so restless in her seat: one minute fidgeting with the rings on her fingers, the next gripping the menu tight in her hands. It was her own fault, actually, to have chosen the local Wetherspoons to meet him. It was too familiar, too public a place to talk with him. Her anxiousness grew from a knot in her throat and spread to the tips of her toenails like a rope stretched too tight.

From her place at the table, Lizzie watched different groups of friends ordering their rounds. She tried to distract herself by inventing lives for each men. The short one with the funny hat was an architect, she decided. The loudest of them, she kept on musing, was actually the saddest, his hollering and chattering only a mask to hide his— No, it wasn’t working. Her rambling mind kept trailing back to her own doubts and worries. No, it was entirely her fault. She didn’t need to get there so early in advance. Henry was halfway across town and chances were he wouldn’t get to the pub in time.

She took another sip of her pint of cider, an overly sweet Strongbow Dark Fruit. Lizzie had never been one for drinking. She had always been too prim, too proper. A general distaste for beer and a lack of aptitude to handle hard liquor made it all too easy for her to rely solely on sugary booze. But regular cider was something a 16 year-old might pick when illegally drinking with her mates in the park. Lizzie, on the other hand, liked to think a Dark Fruit was a much classier option with its rich royal purple liquid gracing her taste buds.

She kept thinking of what Cecily had said during their last facetime session. Lizzie had volunteered to help her sister improve her grades— she vowed she could help her with anything, anything but maths. But Henry could help her with that, Lizzie reckoned. She knew he would if she asked him nicely enough. Cecily had been all too grateful for the help, but when confronted about her seeing a particular boy while still grounded, Cecily had plunged into a sullen mood.

“Whoever said I can’t see him?”

“Well, for one, mum said that.”

“Lizzie, have you thought that mum is not our boss? Do you let her rule your love life? Do you let her pick your boyfriends for you? No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you can think for yourself. So why should she have a say in who I date and who I don’t?”

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Lizzie looked down at her pint glass. She was on her second pint already. God, what was she thinking? She pushed it away while she still had a clear mind. She certainly wouldn’t like Henry to see her tipsy. It was at that moment that she saw a familiar face walking the place. Lizzie ducked her head, tried to hide her face behind the menu as she realised it was her ex-boyfriend Charles. It was a futile action though, for he had already seen her and was coming her way.

Lizzie let go of the menu, but kept her eyes focused on the ground, refusing to acknowledge him. Yet the feet planted in front of her table weren’t going anywhere, it seemed. Lizzie clutched the edge of the table and slowly raised her eyes.

“Chérie, I haven’t seen you in a long time.” His dark hair slicked to one side, a carefree smile dancing on his lips, and sporting a Paris Saint-German shirt, Charles took the chair opposite hers. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself.” She managed to croak out. “I’m waiting for someone.” Her reply was brief, almost rude, but Lizzie had no intention to be polite with him. He surely hadn’t been considerate of her feelings when they were together.

Something like aggravation flickered in his face before he dismissed it with a scoff. “Waiting for someone? Like what, like a date?”

“Like— Well, I’m…” Was it a date? “It's— It’s Henry! I’m waiting for Henry.”

“Oh!” He chuckled, probably relieved. Lizzie couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to see how pretentious he looked with that smug smile of his. “Henry Tudor, isn’t it? We have some classes together. Your roommate.”

“He’s my former flatmate, as I’ve told you well before.” At the time of Henry’s moving out, Lizzie had repetitively whinged about it to Charles. Lizzie had always suspected he hadn’t listened to any of her grievances; now she had complete proof.

“Yes, yes, ma chérie. I’m sure you did.” Charles made a vague dismissive gesture with his hands, his tone patronising.

I am not your chérie, she thought bitterly. Lizzie wanted to erase that smile from his face, wanted to slap him to see if it went away. If she flung her pint into his face would that be enough? Would it be enough to see it dripping into his expensive football shirt?

“Anyways.” He started again, lounging too comfortably on his chair. “I don’t know why you’re still hanging out with him. Tudor is such a huge nerd.”

“Don’t talk of him like that!” She snapped. “You don’t know him.”

Charles frowned, slightly amused. Maybe she had sounded a bit too defensive. “Wow. PMS is a bitch, hein?”

Lizzie looked straight at him. She didn’t flinch from his gaze— she took all in, saw all of him. His dark eyes, his long nose, his wormy lips. She tried to find what had caught her attention before. Maybe, just maybe, it had been that overbearing sense of confidence he exuded through every pore of his being. Only now she knew it wasn’t confidence, no, it was an absurdly heightened arrogance. Suddenly she felt nothing towards him anymore. Neither love nor hate. Neither affection, nor contempt. Nothing at all.

“It was great chatting with you, Charles.” She stated with an even voice. “But I think you should leave now.”

Charles made no intention to move. “What, leave? Ma chérie, we haven’t even started.”

He moved to grab her wrist, but she pulled her hands into her lap before he could do so. "Just. Leave.”

Charles looked at a point behind her. “Tudor! We were just talking about you.”

Lizzie turned around to see a newly-arrived Henry. If he was in any way displeased by seeing Charles at her table, he didn’t show any of it. On the contrary, he looked every bit dignified. His hair was neatly combed, his button-up shirt complemented his Burberry tailored jacked wonderfully. He was wearing his contacts that day, looking every inch sharp and professional.

“Lizzie.” He greeted her with a warm smile, taking the seat beside hers to wrap an arm around her waist, going in for an open mouth kiss. For a moment Lizzie forgot they weren’t alone.

“Rôôôôh! C'est quoi ce bordel?!” Charles sounded a mixture of gobsmacked and furious.

Pulling back, Henry acted like he did not see him before. “Oh, Charles. Hello there.” Henry said simply, almost like acknowledging his presence was an afterthought.

Charles looked from Henry to Lizzie, eyes bulging. “Tu te fous de moi?”

Lizzie carefully replied, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Charles, it’s been months since we—”

“You were fucking behind my back, that’s what you were doing!“

She opened her mouth to deny it, but Henry stopped her by landing a hand atop hers, ceasing her fidgeting. "Lizzie, you don’t owe him any explanation whatsoever.”

“I know, but people are looking.”

“All this time!” Charles kept raving, his accent getting thicker by the minute. “And oh my God, you were roommates!”

”Flatmates!“ Their voices corrected him in unison.

"A slut, Lizzie! That’s what you are!” Charles smacked down a hand on the table.

It was at that moment that Henry grabbed him by the shirt, pulling Charles across the table to face him. “That’s enough.” His voice was cold, perfectly controlled. “You will remove yourself from this table and quietly fuck off. Do you understand?” Charles, caught by surprise, could only stare at him. “Do you understand me?” Henry released him with a sneer. “Pauvre con.”

Charles’ face went quickly from white to purple. “Ta gueule!” He stood up, pushing his chair noisily across the floor.

The whole pub watched as Henry slowly stood up from his place. Lizzie tried to grasp his hand to stop him. “Henry, don’t.” She murmured, but Henry had already disentangled from her grip and made his way around the table.

“Ça commence a me gaver là, putain.”

“Ah carrément?” Charles scoffed, giving him a shove.

“Oui, carrément.” Henry pushed him back. Both men grabbed each other’s by the collar.

It was a matter of seconds. Lizzie rushed to get between them, struggled to pull them apart. “Stop it! Stop it! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Take that outside!” Someone shouted at them.

Why are men so bloody stupid? They were acting like she was some sort of property to be fought over. Henry had the grace to look somewhat ashamed, but Charles still looked furious. Thankfully, someone had called the security guard. “Gentlemen, I have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m leaving. He can stay.” Henry carded his fingers through his hair, putting his clothes back in order. “Come, Lizzie.” He took her by the hand, pulling her along. She managed to pick her purse and jacket before she was half-dragged to the exit door.

Charles still had some in him to bite back. “Yes, flee like the coward you are! Dégage!”

It didn’t matter what Charles could say, Henry was still the one who left the place with his arm wrapped around the girl. Henry mockingly waved to him before they crossed the door, but Lizzie could only feel her cheeks burning. She would never be able to step inside that pub again. They had just walked past the corner when she pushed Henry away. “Why did you do that?”

“Excuse me?” He was still jumpy from his altercation with Charles.

“Why did you have to make such a scene?”

“I made a scene?” He scoffed, sarcasm coming out. “Sorry, were you trying to make up with Charles back there? Did I interrupt anything?”

“You know I was not! Don’t even try to play that card. The point is you made it look like we’re a thing. We’re not a thing! We’re not even together!”

At that Henry lowered his head, as if taking a blow. He blinked for a second before replying. “Well, thanks for telling me now. When were you planning to tell me perchance? Today? Next week? Maybe after I brought you a wedding ring?”

“See, that’s not how a relationship works! You don’t get to decide what we do, what we are, before we can talk things through. Just because we kissed that one time—”

“By that one time you mean yesterday.”

“—That doesn’t mean we are together. It doesn’t mean I owe anything.”

“Owe me? What sort of nonsense is this?”

“Look, Henry.” She ran a hand through her long hair, searching for the right words. “I am not ungrateful. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for offering help when my family faced eviction. I truly do! But you don’t get to decide our relationship. I cannot repay you like that.”

“Lizzie, for God’s sake!” He rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, so so very tired. “I’m not trying to buy you!” His voice took a quiet turn then, almost tender. “Don’t you see that everything I do, I do because I care about you?”

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He looked befuddled, almost hurt.

She looked away. “Don’t come at me like that.” Don’t be soft now, or you’ll make me soft too. “What of what I want? What I think, what I feel? I’d like to have a voice in this too!”

“Of course, Lizzie! But you do!”

“I don’t want it to be like that. Like— Like I’m paying back a favour.”

“But you’re not! I’m not asking for payment!”

“It doesn’t matter, that’s what it looks like to people.”

He caught her wrists then and brought them to his chest, pulling her to him. They were both short of breath, chests heaving. He didn’t kiss her, but she almost wished him to. From that close proximity it was almost unbearable to look at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses— there was nothing between her and his agitated eyes. They were piercing and blue, and terrible to face. “Lizzie, it’s simple.” He said, very quietly. “Do you want me or not?”

“I…” She faltered. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

“Stop with the mixed signals for once. Do you want me…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or not?”

“I…” She searched for a word, anything. “I don’t know.”

He released her then, splaying his hands like she’d just burned him. He stepped back, his expression unreadable “Henry?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into one of her hands. She opened it to find a delicate gold necklace, a pendant in the shape of a rose carefully crafted. “What… what is this?”

“A gift. I have no use for it.”

Lizzie felt her eyes swarming with unshed tears. She looked up to find his back to her. Henry was steadily walking away. He is leaving me, the realisation struck her like a dagger. “Henry! Henry, where are you going?”

He didn’t reply. She wasn’t even sure he had listened to her. Lizzie watched as he descended the stairs to the tube station. He wasn’t going back to his flat, that much was clear. He didn’t need to take the tube for that. “Henry!” She called him one last time.

She wouldn’t run after him. Not her, not while people passing by could see her in such an undignified state. She did the right thing, so why did it feel like the worst decision she had ever made? The coldness of the night suddenly crept into her bones. She wrapped herself tight in her jacket, a shiver ran down her spine. She was left alone on that street, alone with her thoughts and the words she should never have said.

#henry x lizzie #henry vii x elizabeth of york #modern au #flatmates au #fanfic #thanks for sticking with me

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mademoiselleseraph · 7 years

Text

Like Pluto and Persephone chapter 2

Chapter Two of my Roméo et Juliette: de la Haine à l'Amour AU fic. ~~~~

The sun had set and La Muette was to slink her way to the exiled Montaigu. She had a letter the young man needed to read, and promised her lady that it would reach him.

The circumstances reminded her of her previous life. Everyone prophesied that Granada would fall, and the civil war between those supporting the sultanic claims of the one called Boabdil by Spain and Muhammad al Zaghal made the emirate vulnerable to the armies of Castile and Aragon. She did what she could to protect her homeland. She was literate, which was more than anyone expected from a skinny bastard girl living in destitution. In fact, no one expected a little deaf girl to be in the business of selling secrets, but that’s exactly what made her so effective.

She was snapped from her thoughts by the sudden sight of a young man on a horse, dressed head to toe in Montaigu blue. It was Benvolio, Roméo’s cousin. Of course, once he saw her, he commanded his horse to stop.

Whenever Benvolio meant to communicate with her, he spoke and signed at the same time. She appreciated the gesture, even if he usually intended to mock her with it. He had asked her why she was on the way to Mantua, and why so late. By way of response, she held up the note she was tasked with delivering. He, of course, snatched it up in turn, carefully separated the wax-bound ribbon stuck to it and unfolded it, meaning to read it in what was left of the twilight. And then he looked quite confused.

A noble effort, she thought, but she knew that there were astoundingly few people of Verona, if any, that could read or write Arabic. Much fewer than lived in Granada. It made her job easier. Writing that came so naturally to her could now be read by practically no one.

She reached her hand out, open and expecting, and he gave her back the note.

“I saw the lady Juliette’s name,” he stated. “Is this going to Roméo?”

She gave a curt nod and scampered off in hopes of not wasting any more time. He grabbed her arm.

“Wait,” he asked. “Let me take you to him.”

She turned without response and was about to start off again when he grabbed her shoulder.

“It’s a long way and it’s not safe for a woman alone. Please.”

She pulled a knife from her garter and replied with her hands, “Bad luck, attacking a woman alone.”

“I understand,” he told her. “It’s a day’s walk there and back. If you want a chance at being home by tomorrow I can help. Even if it’s just the way there and not the way back.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him with suspicion, then tapped her forefinger on her forehead to ask why.

“In all honesty,” he replied, “I am alone as well, and I am not armed. Sharing the road with a fellow traveler would be good, one with a knife even better.”

She considered for a bit and accepted. She mounted behind him and rode side saddle so as to more easily reach her tucked-away weapon and dismount. She kept hold of his shoulders in order to not fall off.

Benvolio had often offered rides to others who went without. It was his way. His horse was a sturdy crossbreed named Janus, not the most agile beast or a particularly tall one, but gentle and strong enough to carry two. He had a special saddle constructed for the express purpose of allowing someone to sit behind him and make the weight of two separate people easier to bear.

Even with her behind him, he could see flashes of her red skirt out of the corner of his eye.

How do they afford the kermes to dress even the servants in red?, he often wondered, but he never needed to ask anyone. It was well-known that the Capulets kept a hold of their wealth through strategic marriages within the family. One second cousin once or twice removed would marry another and their child would then be wed to a third cousin God-knows-how-many-times removed and so on. Even the current Comte Antonio Capulet and his Lady, born Giovanna de Gondelaurier, were fourth cousins, though Benvolio couldn’t remember if they were any times removed. Marriages between first cousins weren’t too uncommon either, but the family tried to limit it to one every three generations, and maybe a second in case of emergency. The truth of the matter was, plainly put, that anyone born a Capulet was as inbred as a prized horse.

Or a mad dog, Benvolio thought, remembering how Mercutio would describe Tybalt. “A mangy crazed cur foaming at the mouth whose parents were pups of the same litter!,” he would say. It was only a few nights ago that Mercutio talked of a masquerade ball celebrating some Capulet brat’s betrothal. “And why not celebrate so lavishly?” he had laughed. “They never marry outside the family, so this is really quite an event!” But Mercutio was gone now. He would never shake the world with his laughter again.

La Muette would never honor the offence with a reply. That is, not a reply of words. Her hands would answer, but by forming fists instead of signs. Her anger was a rare sight, but that only made it all the more startling to see. It was not unlike a tiger that would slink out of the woods to drink at a stream where children often played and women washed clothes. Insulting the House Capulet was one way to bring forth her wrath, the other way was to call her a Spaniard.

The Comte Capulet took his own ship to rescue her and her elder sister; then starving, penniless, and recently orphaned bastard daughters of some great-uncle Capulet’s stepson. He brought them to his home as serving gentlewomen before their city fell to the Reconquista. Everyone knew of it, as discreet as it was intended to be, and murmured about from Venice to Florence and as far west as Savoy. They were charming girls, it was said, so much that a man could get drunk on their presence alone. Benvolio refused to believe it when he first heard it, but when he saw the younger sister laughing and shaping her thoughts in the air with her hands, he reluctantly admitted to himself that perhaps there was some truth to the rumor.

Her hair is red as fire, he’d thought, and there’s a passion burning as bright and hot in her eyes. She even moved in lithe and flickering sequences like a gentle flame and bore a sense of dignity befitting the sun.

And now she sat behind him with a beautiful, expressive hand on each of his shoulders. He wanted to reach for one, to touch it and hold it, but she was already suspicious of him and the knife she kept in her garter could without a doubt kill him before he could explain.

Alternating between trot, gallop, and rest, they arrived in Mantua just under two hours later. After some asking around about a recently settled exile, the pair were on their way to Roméo’s new dwelling.

It was smaller than anything he lived in before, more a room than a proper house. La Muette noticed it was about the size of the servants’ quarters only without all the beds. Roméo was trying to help the young servant boy he brought with him build a fire. Upon hearing steps at the door, he looked up and embraced his cousin without having to think about it. When he pulled away again, all could see tears streaming down his cheeks. They didn’t seem to match his smile.

“Benvolio, my friend,” he called, squeezing his arms and giving him a playful shove, “the Prince has cheated me. He seems to find banishment more merciful than death. He must not realize how lonely it is to be surrounded by strangers. I hadn’t until I arrived.” He took a breath and regained his composure. “Now,” he continued, “I appreciate your company, but tell me, why are you here?”

Benvolio cracked a smile and let out a chuckle. “Your mother sent me, as you could have guessed. She’ll not rest until I bring back news that you are not dead in a ditch.” He looked around his cousin’s miserable lodgings. “It’s seems her fears were not wholly unfounded.”

The servant boy, named Piero La Muette remembered, was taking Janus to a tiny stable outside. Roméo shot an irritated look at the wood in the fireplace. “It’s too green to light,” he explained. “We shall have to pile on blankets and pray for a mild night.” His eyes fell on La Muette dressed in Capulet red and he asked why Benvolio brought her.

La Muette answered herself by handing him the letter.

“The seal is broken,” he observed.

La Muette gestured toward Benvolio. Roméo nodded and unfolded it. It smelled of his love and that reassure him, but he couldn’t read the script. He turned it around, trying to see if he was supposed to be seeing something else.

“Arabic,” she explained with her hands. “Should it reach the wrong people. Lady Juliette’s words, she signed. I can interpret.”

“Pray do!” he implored. “I’ve a pen, ink, and paper. There’s a table you can write on.”

“Only for you,” she explained, her hands moving in subtle flickers, as if they were whispering. “Not with him.” And she moved her eyes in Benvolio’s direction.

Roméo nodded, instructing his cousin to stay near the door in case Piero should need any help. He did as he was requested and La Muette set to rewriting the letter so Roméo could read it.

My love, Roméo, it opened;

My Lord father and Lady mother know nothing of our union, and perhaps the secrecy has damaged more than helped. With he that they had betrothed me to dead, they decided to wed me to my own dear cousin, Tybalt. He has revealed to me that he intends for the marriage between us to be nothing but an act to appease our family. Worry not. We shall be together soon. With deepest and most ardent affection,

Juliette

His heart swelled and burst. He could have kissed the maid in red without realizing it, had he not his one shred of self control. He almost did anyway.

“Should I write a reply?” he whispered with clumsy signs.

“No,” she answered, her fingers still whispering like ember. “Only more trouble, more to hide. Ought to burn that translation. Soon as you’re able to light a fire.”

He nodded, crumpling the paper into his boot when he heard Benvolio open the door for Piero. The two approached the table and Roméo prepared to play the host.

“Unfortunately,” he started, “due to circumstance, all I have to offer is water and stale black bread.” He turned to La Muette. “Would our welcomed messenger like any?” he asked her.

She in turn explained that her business was finished and she needed to return home. He insisted she take a slice of the bread for her journey and wished her safe travels. She signed a thank you, curtsied, and left, thinking about how Benvolio looked at her when he thought she couldn’t see.

Meanwhile, her sister Carmina and Tybalt were sharing his bed.

He had so often invited her to spend the night in the large featherbed he inherited from his father that she began to make nightly visits as she pleased. He couldn’t be happier for it. He found comforting security in her arms and steady tranquility in her words. She was like stone, stoic and immovable, happy to listen and share her wisdom without moralizing.

In fact, with all that Carmina told him about her upbringing with La Muette, it often seemed the sisters were tossed into a fire pit. The younger sister became the fire, passionate and boisterous, and the elder chose to harden like clay rather than be consumed and crumble to ash. Tybalt was fond of her, thought her pretty, respected the simple and objective logic she used in her advice, but more than that, he trusted her.

Trust wasn’t something he gave freely, not even to women. She was the only one he told about Juliette, though he was sure she wasn’t the only one to know. He asked her if it was wrong to desire one so close in blood. She asked him in turn if it was wrong to want to kill every Montaigu when it was written by God “Thou shalt not kill”.

When he couldn’t answer, she told him, “Morality is often too ambiguous and life often too complicated for the two to ever align. Think instead of results. Right and wrong are questions for your confessor. You ought to ask yourself instead who will be hurt and if it’s worth it.”

She had said this with her fingers in his hair. He laid his head on her lap as he’d been violently sobbing into his wine. It had been the eve of sixteenth birthday after spending the better part of a year in France, and he asked her to keep him from making rash decisions. He felt safe with her, even in so vulnerable a position; with his throat bared to her and his hair loose and available to forceful hands.

He told her everything about it. About the woman in France his aunt sent him to, how she told him to kill her husband and her greedy touch and the way she filed her nails like she was honing a blade. He told he of the Lady Capulet as well; how she pushed him against the wall and slipped her tongue into his mouth when he returned home. He pushed away and hadn’t been able to look her in the eye since.

The two had quickly become inseparable.

And now Carmina sat at the edge of the bed, combing her fingers through her hair, saying, “This is our last appointment, isn’t it? I know that with any other woman you would consider, but you wouldn’t dishonor the little comtesse by keeping a mistress.”

“No,” he said. “My keeping a mistress couldn’t possibly dishonor another man’s wife.”

“So there was a wedding,” she snarked in conclusion while adjusting a stocking.

“And a consummation,” Tybalt added.

“You Capulets waste no time, to be sure,” she mused with a dry chuckle. “How do you know for certain? I doubt the boy would have lived if you caught him in the midst of it.”

He tried not to imagine the boy in the midst of it as he explained, “The bed was still a rumpled mess and it smelled of someone else. The window was flung open. She had a blush about her face as women get when they’ve just….” He trailed off and took a moment to shake off the shame. He hated thinking of her in so compromising a state and was disgusted with the jealousy it produced in him. “And, of course,” he continued, “he left a garter.”

“Then what does that mean for your union with our Juliette?”

“The two shared a confessor who agreed to marry them. I’ll talk to him and arrange for him to perform the ceremony in a way that’s not legally binding. We’ll retreat to the villa and I’ll take her to visit her true husband. From there, I can only hope they have children and no one suspects.”

“And if they do suspect?” she asked. “If they have reason to believe that there was no consummation, they might demand a display with witnesses. Even if she was your true wife in flesh and soul and loved you as such with all her heart, she would die of shame if pushed to that.”

“The betrothal will happen tomorrow,” he thought aloud, “and there will be at least a week until the wedding proper. I have time to figure it out. Not much time, but I have time.”

“And what am I to do with the ring, then?” she asked, looking intently at her left hand.

She wore an old Capulet signet ring like a wedding ring. It had been Tybalt’s and he gave it to her. It was something of a joke between them. Everyone knew what they were to each other and what they did behind closed doors and bed curtains. Even Juliette knew. Her Nurse told her that they were “off being husband and wife” and the little comtesse walked in on them one morning before Carmina had a chance to dress.

“Play the part you think fits best. Keep it on your finger and be bitter, if you think you should. Or wear it on a different finger and weep, if you think that would be better. Or wear it round your neck and look to suffer silently. I don’t know.”

She stroked his hair, whispering, “I don’t have to leave. I can stay if you need me to.”

He took her hand in his and slid it down to his cheek. “I would like that.”

She laid in the bed again with his head on her shoulder and her fingers combing through his hair.

“I was unkind to you the night before last,” he muttered. “I don’t expect forgiveness for it any time soon, but I swear to you it will not happen to that degree ever again.”

“I know,” she said.

~~~~

#retj #roméo et juliette #fanfic #like pluto and persephone

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