Karl Johan Baptist Julius @karlxivjohan - Tumblr Blog

By Our Royal Decree:

We are Charles XIV John, Sovereign Prince of Pontecorvo, Marshal of France (formerly), and more predominantly remembered as King of Sweden and Norway by the grace of God. Titles aside, We expect you lot to address Us as Charles John: While Our name may still hold some weight from the days of the Empire, it is Our royal title that reflects who we are now. Therefore, those unacquainted with Our earlier life should address Us as such.

Friends, of course, may conduct otherwise, though time has rendered Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte increasingly foreign to Our ears. Such familiarity is a privilege, not a right, and we are rather selective about granting it.

Having observed the activities on this peculiar platform for some time, We have decided to engage as even We are not above indulging in the occasional jest if it strikes Our fancy; if only to amuse Ourselves in quiet moments between more substantial endeavors. It is a curious thing, this "blog," and We must admit, the opportunity for correspondence suits Us well. The chance to meet others- be they familiar faces from Our past or wholly new acquaintances- is, We daresay, rather appealing.

We have opened Our correspondence for those wishing to inquire about matters ranging from Our career to Our philosophies. We shall do Our utmost to respond thoughtfully. A few notes before you proceed:

We do ask that you exercise civility in your correspondence. While We welcome spirited debate, We do not entertain hostility.

If you wish to speak of the intricacies of Our earlier life- We shall answer as We see fit. However, personal matters regarding Our family or past controversies may not always receive the same courtesy. There are limits to even Our patience. We will not tolerate unnecessary rudeness or those who feel the need to poke fun at Our decisions during Our tenure as a Marshal or as a monarch.

We value decorum and respect, this is not a tavern. Overly inappropriate questions will not be answered, that is the bottom line. A little wit or cheekiness is fine, but keep it tasteful.

Let it be known that We anticipate these exchanges with earnest interest and look forward to engaging with those who write.

By Our Hand and Seal,

Carl Johan

King of Sweden

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#Proclamations de la Majesté Royale #historical rpf #napoleonic rpf #jean baptiste bernadotte #bernadotte #napoleons marshals #rp blog #ask blog #charles xiv john #karl xiv johan

look being king of sweden is cool and all but why is your chosen name so plain—bernadotte already sounded so badass 😭

Well, it was taken in honor of the man who adopted me into Sweden’s royal family, King Charles XIII. It was a gesture of respect and a recognition of the crown and country I was called to serve.

And before you despair, the house still bears my name. You can still shout it like a battle cry, if it pleases you. I won’t stop you.

#réponses de la boîte de réception

passionedeperdrix

I think I am kind of fond of stick bugs.

passionedeperdrix

Hmm, yes... I like this... Fascinating little guy...

karlxivjohan

[ coughs discreetly into his hand ]

Spindly little creatures. Funnily enough, they’re still slimmer than you will ever manage, despite all your rigid discipline.

passionedeperdrix

Do you not have better things to do in your miserable life like cheating on your wife, being a terrible father and fucking Magnus?

karlxivjohan

You know, I’m starting to think you keep a little list by your bedside: “Ways in which Bernadotte has ruined my life.” You recite it like a prayer before sleep. Touching, really.

As for Magnus — What is this, the third time you’ve brought him up unprompted? You speak his name more than I do. Beginning to wonder if you don’t harbor a bit of… professional curiosity yourself.

#ces autres gars #Davout

passionedeperdrix

what's the dumbest thing you witnessed marshal murat doing? I HATE MURAT!!!!!!!!!!! RAAGGGHRGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!! BLACKMAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey. Do not hate M. Murat. Only I can do that.

passionedeperdrix

Hate Bernadotte, he actually sucks.

karlxivjohan

You spend half your life sharpening your claws for that man, and suddenly you’re issuing proclamations like “only I may hate him”? Do you even hear yourself? It sounds less like an insult and more like a jealous lover staking a claim.

If you despise me, fine — line forms to the left. But I’ll never understand this sudden gallantry on Murat’s behalf. Either you’ve lost your mind, or you’ve grown sentimental in exile.

Neither possibility suits you.

#ces autres gars #davout

passionedeperdrix

I think I am kind of fond of stick bugs.

passionedeperdrix

Hmm, yes... I like this... Fascinating little guy...

karlxivjohan

[ coughs discreetly into his hand ]

Spindly little creatures. Funnily enough, they’re still slimmer than you will ever manage, despite all your rigid discipline.

#davout #ces autres gars

I still wish you would, at the very least, kill yourself.

What an odious little sentiment to send to another human being. Do you imagine yourself clever, or brave, lobbing such bile from behind a screen? You shame only yourself.

I have endured battlefields—yet you, with your petty malice, believe a few words can undo me? Hardly.

If you truly wish me dead, then I suggest you come try your hand yourself. Until then, keep your venom to your own lips. I have a wife, a son, and a kingdom, and I’ll not be dispatched at the whim of a coward like yourself.

How did your ambitions regarding Poland turn out, by the way?

#réponses de la boîte de réception #Davout

passionedeperdrix

[Slaps your bald head]

OOC:Saw this and couldn't resist]

Do not my baldness, please. Else I will have to "slingshot" M. @troboi1806 at you.

troboi1806

Of course, Monsieur le Maréchal! I have my gravels and rocks ready!

I think it's not what you think it means, man.

karlxivjohan

Oh, that’s precious. He doesn’t even realize he is the gravels and rocks... Poor thing. Davout winds him up, points him at a target, and off he goes—convinced he’s a cannonball.

But by all means, keep bragging about your bag of pebbles. It’s charming, in the way watching a child play soldier is charming...

#ces autres gars #Davout #Trobriand

Do you ever miss Pau? Your home, I mean

Yes. Of course I do.

I miss the smell of the air after rain, the sound of the Gave de Pau running fast after the snowmelt in the Pyrenees. I miss the markets and the familiar streets, the mountains on the horizon.

But you cannot live entirely in the past. Pau gave me my first home; Sweden has given me my last.

#réponses de la boîte de réception

hello beak boy 👅

...Hello.

I assume this is meant to be some sort of—what—flirtation? An insult? A zoological observation?

Either way, thank you for your input. I will be sure to pass it along to the next ornithologist I meet. I'm sure they’ll be fascinated.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go continue ruling a kingdom with this alleged beak of mine.

#réponses de la boîte de réception

Who do you think you are stealing MY proper place as King of Sweden? You better watch out unless you want the same thing that happened to my dad happen to you. 🤬😡

[ The King of Sweden stared at the letter. Not in outrage—no, not quite. More in that slow, squinting, bemused fashion one might adopt when trying to decide whether they’re reading a threat, a joke, or the ramblings of a lunatic. ]

…Right.

[ He held the message with two fingers, like it might be contagious. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to Magnus. ]

Do you think they know who they are?

Because I certainly don’t.

“Your proper place as King of Sweden”? Bold of you, considering I didn’t exactly trip and fall into the crown. I didn’t steal anything. The Swedish Parliament sent a delegation to offer it to me. I had witnesses. There was legal procedure. A vote. Paperwork. You know—civilization.

And as for your father… I can’t help but notice you left his name out.

Now, I’m not going to speculate—because I am a king, and kings do not speculate about angry anonymous peasants with ominous threats and daddy issues. But I will say: if you’re going to threaten me, do try to be more specific. A little clarity goes a long way in politics.

[ He handed the letter off to an aide with a flick of his wrist. ]

Keep an eye on the post. If someone else starts claiming to be King I’d like to get ahead of it this time.

#réponses de la boîte de réception

AWWWW YOU AND DESIREE ARE SO CUTEEEE :3333

Oh—ah. Well.

That is… kind of you to say.

I suspect the majority of that “cuteness” you speak of is due to my wife’s particular charm. @reine-desideria has a way of making everything around her warmer, livelier… brighter. It’s quite impossible not to look softened by proximity.

I simply stand beside her and hope I appear worthy. So yes—if we seem cute, I assure you it is mostly her doing. I'm just lucky enough to be the man holding her hand.

#réponses de la boîte de réception

reine-desideria

I can't stop thinking about you; beautiful, sweet, passionate Désirée.

If Sweden is too cold, you know where to find me in Paris 😏

📝 The Duke of Richelieu

Sweden is always cold. But in this frozen land, I have everything I need and love most in the world.

Please believe me when I tell you that our story really meant a lot to me. I loved you very deeply. But all of this belongs to the past. A woman will certainly find you in Paris and make you the happiest man on Earth but this woman will not be me.

Farewell, dear Armand.

karlxivjohan

‘I loved you very deeply.’?

You know, for someone who gives me endless grief about only using the word “fine” to compliment your appearance once—just once—you certainly don’t seem to be choosing your own phrases with much... restraint.

I’m just curious—purely curious—what qualifies as “very deeply,” exactly? Is there a scale I wasn’t made aware of? A unit of measurement? Meters of passion? Liters of fond remembrance?

I’m not upset. I’m just... reflecting. As one does. On the wording. The specificity of it. Not deeply. Not once. Not with affection. No—very deeply.

I don’t recall you saying you loved me very deeply. Perhaps moderately. Occasionally. Possibly during the Consulate. But very? No, that was reserved for Richelieu, apparently.. And here I thought that after everything we have been through it would have earned me exclusivity in the “very deeply” department.

And what is this about our story meant a lot to me? Do you recall if you and I had a “story”? I thought we had a marriage. A kingdom. A son. But no, Richelieu gets the story.

But of course, I understand. These things are sentimental. Fragile. And entirely in the past. Where they shall stay. You are being gracious. You were being noble—polite. You were—what’s the word? Ah, yes—cordial.

Very deeply. Honestly.

reine-desideria

Désirée probably didn't react the way her dear husband would have wanted her to - perhaps lowering her eyes in shame, apologizing, tenderly wrapping his curls in rollers while reassuring him of the certainty of her exclusive and eternal love before suggesting they give Oskar a little brother or sister to end the reconciliation process. That was probably what he wanted, but it wasn't what he was going to get.

Désirée looked neither ashamed nor sorry. Her smile spread from ear to ear and she blushed, as if Jean-Baptiste was seducing her like a young man and not berating her for her past lovers. An excited chuckle came from her mouth, so delighted and euphoric was she.

“You're jealous! Oh how adorable, I can't resist you when you're acting jealous and you know it.”

This sounded like excellent news to Désirée, who threw herself around her husband's neck, obviously seduced by this episode of manifest sulkiness.

“Idiot, did you miss the part where I say that everything I need and everything I love is in Sweden? Idiot, idiot, oh how I adore you!”

With her arms wrapped around him, she rested her head against his shoulder with a very affectionate gesture, still smiling.

“When I heard about Koskull, I wanted to kill you. I thought about it a lot. I said to myself: I'm going to get into his bed with a gun, I'm going to kill him and then I'm going to kill myself. Quite passionately and romantically.”

She lifted her head to his face to look at him, still very happy and excited.

“Did you also want to kill me when I was with him?”

karlxivjohan

[ He faltered. Just briefly. As her arms wound around his neck and her head found his shoulder, the sharp edges of his grievance were softened—momentarily dulled by the familiar warmth of her affection. He blinked, stared ahead as if trying to formulate a response worthy of a diplomatic summit. From Désirée came the were multiple enthusiastic “idiots” lobbed at him like affectionate grenades. His shoulders stiffened ike he’d just been told an enemy column was flanking his left. Then came the question. He froze. Inside, gears turned at a thousand miles an hour while the rest of him betrayed only a faint twitch of the eye. One misstep and he was a corpse. ]

Kill me?

[ His voice pitched up an octave. Just slightly. Not panicked. He would have you believe. ]

…Well. That’s… dramatic.

[ There is a beat as he inhales slowly. Weighing every word like it might explode. Because it might as well, he was practically attempting to defuse a bomb. ]

...I—no. No, my darling, I didn’t want to kill you.

[ He held up a hand preemptively, cutting off any objection he sensed brewing in her chest, which there undoubtedly was. ]

—Not because I didn’t care. I—love you too much for that—than to murder you. You know that. I’ve never been able to imagine a world where you’re not in it, much less one where I could willfully make that the case. That’s… unthinkable. Even at my most irrational. Even when you say things like “very deeply”

[ He paused—swallowed—then glanced off, just for a moment, as though ashamed of the direction his thoughts had taken. ]

If anything, I wanted to—perhaps—kill him. and then I also thought about using connections in Saint Petersburg. A letter to the Tsar. A discreet suggestion that the Duke of Richelieu would be infinitely more useful somewhere remote. Serbia, perhaps. Or Kamchatka. Or a lead mine..

And I almost acted on them. But then I remembered that I love you more than I hate him. And that seemed… significant.

Besides, you said farewell. That’s what matters. Not the very deeply—though we might circle back to that phrase—but the farewell. You came back to me. Not to him. You chose me.

[ Désirée already knew he was jealous. And she knew she’d won, no doubt. But no matter how bitter or lost or wrong-footed he felt, she was the only thing in his life he hadn’t wanted to break. Even when he felt like the wrong man in the right place, who simply stayed longer than he was meant to. ]

And regarding Marianne—Those were very long winters..

[ He added quickly, half-defensive. ]

The woman had excellent handwriting and could play the harp. That’s hardly a reason to my brains into my bed.

[ He’d then sigh and give her a small peck on the cheek ]

But if you do ever sneak into my bed with a gun… please, at least give me a kiss first.

reine-desideria

Bernadotte, marshal of France, great king and founder of a royal dynasty, looked absolutely terrified at the prospect of being murdered in his sleep by the cheerful, cuddly little woman who held his shoulders captive within her arms. Désirée wasn't being serious, though: she could never bring herself to kill her husband. The risk of him returning to Koskull in Hell was far too high. The answer he gave to her question, probably the most difficult trick question in the History of marriage, seemed to satisfy her. Her face wrinkled in thought, an unnecessary detail seemed to have caught her attention.

“Where's that, Kamchatka?”

Her face clouded a little, with sadness and resignation. She released Jean-Baptiste from the hold her arms exerted on him, immediately showing a very serious and grave air, one wasn't used to seeing on her, which she took on now because she needed him to take her seriously, to believe her.

“The winters were long and France was lonely. So? Let's leave those memories where they belong: behind us, not between us. Besides, what's so special about playing the harp? Anyone can do it. Even a dog, if you teach him correctly.”

She then appeared pensive.

“I wanted to come back in 1816, you know. I expressed this desire to the Queen. No matter how much I play the independent, modern woman, I have to face the truth: I can't live without you... Or well, I mean, I can, I'm not going to die of instant combustion just because you're not here, but without you I'm terribly unhappy and I often cry and miss you as if part of my heart had been ripped out and a butcher had badly treated the wound. But the Queen told me...”

She paused, feeling her throat knot up and tears welling up -for she could cry over the smallest of things- out of anger and resentment at the mere mention of these memories. Her cheeks were still flushed with rage and shame at the mere thought of that memory, even after all these years.

“She told me you were happy and that if I came back, you would have to give up that happiness. She made me understand that it was about a woman. That's when I found out.”

A twinge in her heart, a sudden rush of possessiveness and regret at having listened to that stupid letter, drove her to desperately seek physical contact again, slipping her hand into his and squeezing it tighter than necessary. She used to have literal nightmares about Koskull taking her place, curling Jean-Baptiste's hair before going to sleep and it was horrible. She could have died from it.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and managed to restore Désirée's cheerfulness with some humor. She was smiling again, albeit faintly. Unsatisfied at getting her cheek honored, she straightened up to demand another kiss against her mouth.

“I love you.”

She had already said it. Several times. But he probably wouldn't complain about the repetition.

karlxivjohan

[ Jean-Baptiste watched her closely, trying not to look as unnerved as he felt. Désirée’s arms still clung to him with deceptive softness, her expression sunny even as she casually suggested she might one day smother him in his sleep. He swallowed. Not because he truly believed she would — she was too gentle, too loving, too her — but the conviction in her eyes gave him pause. That, and the unnerving implication that she'd thought it through. Koskull in Hell. Mon Dieu. But then—Kamchatka. He blinked. ]

[ His mind stuttered, only just keeping up. Of all things, she’d latched onto that? He opened his mouth, closed it again. Was she—was she genuinely asking? Or was this another test? Her face, creased with thoughtful melancholy, gave him no hints. He decided not to answer. Just in case. ]

[ She let go of him then, and something in her changed. The air around her shifted — like the hush before a cannonade. He straightened instinctively. Her voice no longer danced; it dropped low, steady and bare. And for once, she didn’t soften her truths with mischief. Her words struck clean. And hard. ]

[ The harp comment caught him off guard — the casual venom, the strange image of a dog plucking out scales in a powdered salon. He almost smiled. Almost. A dog playing the harp. That was—well. He wasn’t sure whether to be charmed, offended on Marianne’s behalf, or concerned that Désirée had clearly thought it through enough to believe it possible. But then— ]

[ “She told me you were happy…” ]

[ He stared. Whatever amusement had lingered drained from his face. The words registered slowly, then all at once. The Queen told her that? About him? And Koskull—that was when she found out? His brows knit. He hadn’t known. Not about the letter. Not about the conversation. He felt something coil in his stomach—shame, mostly, and confusion, and a faint flicker of anger. He would have told her. He should have told her. But she’d been gone, and between the weather and the court—he thought she didn’t want to come back. He opened his mouth slightly—then closed it again. ]

[ Her hand found his, suddenly, fiercely. He didn’t flinch. He gripped back just as tight, steadying her. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, as if to soothe both of them at once. He remembered those years too — quiet, frozen, full of distance. He remembered her absence like a missing limb. He had moved forward because he had to. But he had never stopped wanting her. He shook his head almost at once. The words hadn’t even settled in his chest before he rejected them. ]

No. I didn’t know. Désirée—ma chérie—I didn’t know.

[ He leaned in and pressed his lips gently to her cheek, then drew back just enough to see the fading storm in her face. She was already demanding another kiss. Of course she was. ]

I’ve never wanted a life you weren’t in. Not even when I was foolish enough to pretend I did. You’ve always been at my side. And that’s where I’ll always want you. Though I can’t say no to a woman who demands kisses.

[ —So he obliged, brushing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was neither hurried nor dramatic, just warm and full of old, hard-earned tenderness. Then he brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. Then the palm. Then, more softly, the wrist. Just to compensate. ]

No one else could ever replace you.

[ He touched her chin lightly. ]

Not really, not in anything that matters. There’s never been a version of my life where I didn’t want you there. I love you just as much as you love me..

[ Another kiss, softer this time, less to prove a point than to make a promise. ]

#désirée mon doux destin