Désirée Clary

C'est pas la capitale, c'est Marseille bébé. Queen consort of Sweden and Norway, Bernawife and bernamom of a bernachild, OOC RP blog.

[reine-desideria]

Cher petit village au bord de la mer Je te laisse en gage tout ce qui m'est cher L'éternel été d'un ciel enchanté Où j'ai cru vivre un jour tous mes rêves Pays que j'aimais je dois désormais Loin de toi m'en aller à jamais

⭒❃.✮:▹ DESIDERIA BERNADOTTE, née CLARY ◃:✮.❃⭒

THE MAIDEN -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE WIFE -ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- THE QUEEN

Bonjour et bienvenue sur ce blog!

Here there are no pompous titles or ridiculous little salon curtsies, we are among friends and we call each other by our first names: for you, I shall simply be Désirée. For posterity, I was Princess of Pontecrovo (nothing to be impressed about, I don't even know where this place is supposed to be), Queen of Sweden and Norway, but my heart has always remained in my beloved birthplace, Marseille.

Both my parents were merchants and traders. At the dawn of the French Revolution, my family's fortune was the object of covetousness, and I almost married Joseph (a wonderful guy, le sang de la veine, I hope he's doing well. Joseph, if you happen to be passing by, please write to me)(…saying that with the most honorable intentions, of course) and Napoleon Bonaparte (😐 I am not upset alright, bro is small and hairy like a dwarf ogre and I am SO GLAD Madame de Beauharnais got me rid of him, I HATE HIS GUTS). Then, after a period of studying pharmacy textbooks to learn how to die of sadness without losing my good looks, fate sent me to meet the best husband in the world: @karlxivjohan ♥

In fact, it is on his advice that I decided to open this account, in order to further educate myself on the complexity of this world and “broaden my general culture” (because according to him, it's “a disgrace” not to know who Molière is, but how does he expect me to have met everyone of his childhood friends?). At least this way, I can stay home, by the fireplace. In Stockholm, summer is even colder than winter. This city makes me depressed, the sun doesn't even come up for half the year, and I can understand why we were offered this crown for free - we should have seen the scam coming. The good thing is that here, the Corsican population is estimated at 0%.

I'm bringing my beloved son, Oskar, with me. He may interact from time to time. I'll also be posting a lot about the wonderful city of Marseille and teaching you a bit of the local dialect.

Ask all the questions you want, with a few conditions:

No insulting Marseille, Marseille rap music or the Olympique de Marseille.

No insulting my husband - only I and @passionedeperdrix are entitled to that sacred right.

Please be nice to me, I tend to cry easily.

Tag directory :

#correspondance de sa majesté : answering anon requests and enquiries

#billets privés : interactions with other rp blogs

#le pitchoune : answers by prince Oskar

#mon gâté : interactions with the hubby

#mon journal intime : extracts from Désirée's diary

#la galerie des arts : reblog of people's stunning art

#marseille infodump : educational posts about Marseille

[le-petit-caporal]

Magic anon: You're now cursed to be a talking horse until someone breaks the curse; it will break when you learn empathy for your fellow man.

What is this? Some sort of madman pretending to have powers?

What he does not realise immediately is that he is, in fact, now a grey Arabian horse.

WHAT THE HELL WHO DID THIS

[reine-desideria]

Unfortunately for the fallen Emperor, the first person to cross his path happened to be Désirée. It was hard not to notice this noisy, agitated animal, but what she noticed first was that it was a thoroughbred horse that looked very expensive. She approached it but didn't try to touch it. It looked wild. Or at least, not very well trained.

“Well, hello. Aww poor thing, your owner left you here alone? Don't be scared. How beautiful you are!”

She walked around it cautiously. This strange horse looked kind of upset, and she didn't want to get hit by its hoof.

“Eh, you're not very tall but it will do. My husband would be very happy to have you as a mount.”

[le-petit-caporal]

Désirée!

He paws at the ground angrily, pacing in between.

DÉSIRÉE! I AM NOT A REAL HORSE!

It's me, Napoleon!

GET ME OUT OF THIS BODY! SAY I'M SYMPATHETIC OR SOMETHING!

[reine-desideria]

Suddenly, as if in a nightmare, the horse began to speak, and it had the voice of the Devil. Or Napoléon, depending on your point of view. In fact, it wasn't speaking, it was screaming. Désirée recoiled in fright. When she recovered, she was more curious than anything else. If she'd had a phone, she probably would have filmed the scene.

“Which of the many people you've angered has cast this strange curse on you?”

She blinked at his request, almost outraged.

“Sympathetic? But you're anything but sympathetic, you're despicable. Why don't you start by calming down and stop shouting in my face?”

[le-petit-caporal]

Magic anon: You're now cursed to be a talking horse until someone breaks the curse; it will break when you learn empathy for your fellow man.

What is this? Some sort of madman pretending to have powers?

What he does not realise immediately is that he is, in fact, now a grey Arabian horse.

WHAT THE HELL WHO DID THIS

[reine-desideria]

Unfortunately for the fallen Emperor, the first person to cross his path happened to be Désirée. It was hard not to notice this noisy, agitated animal, but what she noticed first was that it was a thoroughbred horse that looked very expensive. She approached it but didn't try to touch it. It looked wild. Or at least, not very well trained.

“Well, hello. Aww poor thing, your owner left you here alone? Don't be scared. How beautiful you are!”

She walked around it cautiously. This strange horse looked kind of upset, and she didn't want to get hit by its hoof.

“Eh, you're not very tall but it will do. My husband would be very happy to have you as a mount.”

[galaxy--bunny]

Little mini script idea we often joke abt

Josephine : The horses look nice today

Desiree *mocking* : ThE hOrSeS lOoK nIcE tOdAy

Napoleon : What was that , Clary?

Desiree : Hmm? Nothing

Bernadotte *mocking* : WhAt WaS tHaT dEsIrEe?

*Bernadottes mocking the Bonapartes as they continue to watch the horse race.*

[reine-desideria]

My darling @karlxivjohan taught me everything about gaslighting <3

I don't hate Joséphine tho. She is doing more charity work than any King's wife with this marriage.

[karlxivjohan]

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.

[reine-desideria]

Whatever you say but I absolutely refuse to call you Karl Joan in bed.

[reine-desideria]

🎵 Je t'ai vu pour la deuxième fois

Sur une vue où on voit tout Marseille

Avec tes yeux aussi noirs que ma turgotine

Avec ton sourire espiègle 🎵

[reine-desideria]

Vi vill ha regn! Vi vill ha regn!

Awwwwnnnn thank you so much 🥰🥰 How nice to finally feel welcome ! long live you too !!

[karlxivjohan]

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.

[reine-desideria]

My dear, you greatly underestimate your own ability to charm me! You sometimes have those little quirks of which adorableness you don't measure.

[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.

[divorcedwife]

love love loved reading napoleon's sad letters to his long distance fiancée. it ended badly and i can see why :

"Be quite sure that "the most sensitive woman loves the coldest of men" is an excessively mean and unjust sentence, which you yourself could not believe when you wrote it. Your heart disawoved it even as your hand was writing it."

^ if someone wrote this to me i'd have them poisoned

[reine-desideria]

who is this diva 💜

Bernardine Eugénie Desideria Bernadotte, Queen consort of Sweden and Norway, at your service

[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]

how do you feel about people commenting about your nose

Well, let me clarify something: yes, I am fully aware that my nose is... prominent. It enters a room several moments before I do. Artists throughout Europe have tried and failed to render it without having it overtake the entire composition..

But the nose is distinguished. It is commanding. It has presence. You remember a man with a nose like this. You listen to a man with a nose like this.

And truly, if my nose offends anyone, they’re welcome to turn their heads. I, however, will not be turning mine. It would cause a weather shift.

[reine-desideria]

'You love the little birds, I think?

I see you've managed with a fond research

To find their tiny claws a roomy perch!'

[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.

[reine-desideria]

Yasss queen you slay!!!!!

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[reine-desideria]

My dearest Désirée, my darling, my radiant northern star, my legally wedded, publicly and spiritually entwined wife—

I hope this message finds you in good health and excellent taste, as always. I write not out of jealousy (though some might, unfairly, accuse me of it), nor out of irrational spite (which is frankly beneath me), but rather out of... gentle concern. And love. And a sense of—national security.

Permit me to speak plainly, for my heart knows no artifice where you are concerned. You reblogged something earlier—yes, yes, I do look at your posts and tags sometimes, it's charming, really—and it was from a person who you may not entirely recall is one of my most persistent lifelong enemies.

Now, I understand it's been some time, and memory can be a fickle thing, but the man you reblogged from—Louis-Nicolas Davout, Marshal of the Empire, bane of my existence, eater of joy and sunshine—is that Davout. The one with the glare, and no friends. That Davout.

To summarize, he is a terrible, horrible, insufferable man with a heart made of iron filings, nothing more than a grudge-bearing automaton powered by malice and regulation. I dislike him greatly. He dislikes me greatly. It's mutual, passionate, and, I fear, eternal.

Which brings me back to your tag. “hello <3”

Darling.

Sweetheart.

Light of my diplomatic balancing act.

He doesn’t deserve the heart. He deserves several hours of mandatory socialization. He would, without hesitation, twist your kind little “hello <3” into political ammunition, Do you not see what havoc such a tender glyph might wreak? I’m asking that you refrain from giving him your affection. I cannot bear to imagine him smirking at your kindness. He will print it out and frame it and use it as leverage against me. Not to mention, if word were to circulate that you, my queen, publicly greeted him with affection—even flippant affection—it would become gossip. Then headlines. Then quotes at my expense in council.

You understand, I trust, how that would make me look. The optics alone—well. I won’t dramatize.

All I ask is that you consider how our reputation—yours and mine, united in matrimony—might be affected. I know it may seem petty, but appearances are not petty when one wears a crown. And Davout would love nothing more than to insinuate a closeness between us, to smirk and say, “Ah, well, your wife doesn’t seem to mind me.”

I do. I mind him tremendously.

Anyway! Love you so much. Just thought you should know.

Warmest regards and eternal devotion from your,

Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte

P.S. You looked lovely yesterday. Unrelated, but I thought it would soften the tone.

My dear, sweet husband, whom I love beyond measure,

Too much text, I ain't reading all that, but I think I got the general idea.

Right now, you're in the library and I'm in the living room. If you want news of my health, just open the door and shout loud enough for me to hear you and if I do not respond, call emergency services because I am probably dying or try to remember what you did wrong because I am probably ignoring you on purpose. I do, however, appreciate the slightly silly romanticism of little papers slipped under the door, so I won't hold it against you.

To begin with, I'd like to point out that there's an endless list of people who are jealous of you, your charisma and your professional success, and it's impossible for me to remember all your haters (although it's true that when I saw that name, it sounded vaguely familiar).

Secondly, it's precisely because I'm thinking of your reputation and mine that I did what I did. I know we're in Sweden, and people here are as warm and friendly as literal prison gates, but that doesn't exempt us from observing the basic rules of hospitality, which are to greet people and kiss them on both cheeks like decent human beings. Think of the disastrous consequences if I hadn't said hello to Monsieur Davout: he could have said “your wife didn't say hello to people, she's bad-mannered”, and in Marseille that's enough to ruin a family's reputation. At least now he won't be able to say I'm rude! You can hate people and talk behind their backs, and I'll even pay my cousins in Lambesc to go and beat the shit out of him if you want, but always say hello.

Toodeloo,

Your wife.

PS: I looked lovely yesterday??? What exactly does that mean, that I wasn't lovely on every other day of the year or today? Why yesterday in particular, what does that mean? AAAAH. Now I'm mad at you.

PPS: I know you're going out this afternoon, please bring some bread. But I mean REAL bread, bread made with real flour and baked in a real stone oven, not the disgusting white bread the Swedes eat, bread with which our cooks can prepare a proper bruschetta.

[passionedeperdrix]

Bonsoir, bonjour, salut, etc.

I am Louis-Nicolas Davout, Maréchal of tge French Empire, 1st Prince of Eckmühl and 1st Duke of Auerstaedt.

...As some people may know I am not a fanatic of speaking in public settings, excuse me for that, however I do hope to have good interactions with people here. Except for Bernadotte and some other colleagues.

Be respectful, I will not take offenses lightly, especially in the erotic sense, I have been informed some of you are quite... weird.

L. Davout

it is i… the 3rd horseman of the apocalypse, famine,,,,, (@labellealliance) hiii, pls do expect this blog to be a bit ooc or HEAVY ooc at times… this is for fun ! remember that! as per usual, be nice n respectful, you can send nsfw but be chill. be normal. theres a real person running this shit i will ignore u n publicly execute u if ur a mega weirdo. kisses n hugs

awesome tags:

— #lettres pour le maréchal ; ask box responses

— #mes collègues ; the gang. the besties. ("besties" gulps)

— #mes petits gars préférés ; oudinot, ney, lannes, gudin, etc tag (the ppl he likes basically)

— #how to skin a pig ; bernavout tag