#bastille day press

[jameszmaguire]

GOOD OMENS 1x03 'Hard Times' 2x03 'I Know Where I'm Going'

[ID: Two rows of three gifs paralleling a moment from Good Omens S1E03 to one from S2E03. Both times, Aziraphale is looking at Crowley, first in the Bastille, then in the bookshop, over two hundred years later. He licks his lips, gives Crowley a quick once-over, and then presses his lips together as he swallows hard. In the Bastille scene, Aziraphale furtively glances away after checking Crowley out. He doesn't look away in the present day. Instead, he slowly lets out a deep breath before composing himself. End ID.]

#goodomensedit #goedit #goodomensedits #Good Omens #goodomenssource #Aziraphale #Michael Sheen #usereena #crowleyanthonys #userbecca #maria7potter #tusermyra #userfra #tusermich #good omens spoilers #go s2 spoilers #my gifs #sheen the actor that you are #just. the REPRESSION of it all fhbfgdhjfgbhj

[honeypiehotchner]

Devil's Backbone (Unsub!Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part five

Some of these parts are going to be pretty short as things ramp up, which is why I wanted to do two parts a week! Promise it'll make sense as it goes on 😈

Don't forget to follow @honeypiehotchnerlibrary and turn on post notifications to be "tagged" when a new part goes up!

Five: Don't pin it all on me -- "Blame" by Bastille

Sunlight warmed your cheeks, waking you up slow and sweet. Spring air filtered into the room from the open window, birds chirping on the tree branches just above the house. It was pure peace.

You rolled over and clutched the closest pillow to your chest, inhaling the fresh scent. Your new laundry detergent had a lavender fragrance, but this was something else. Something better.

“Hey, honey,” a smooth voice called from the hallway. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” It sounded so familiar, yet so new.

Your eyes opened as you rolled back over, meeting Aaron’s soft gaze. He wore jeans and a light blue button down, your favorite. You hummed. He looked good. He always looked good.

“You’re not awake yet,” he cooed, his footsteps drawing closer, the swish of his sock feet against the hardwood. “Go back to sleep, honey.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead. You felt it. “I’ll be back later.”

Your mind drifted forward, anxiety swirling. Where was he going? Why was he leaving?

“Wait,” you blurted, your eyes shooting open to find Aaron was already gone. “Aaron?”

You threw the covers off your body, standing up to look for him. You wore one of his shirts, the collar hanging loosely off your shoulder.

Down the hall, into the living room, you searched. But he was gone. It didn’t even sound like he was still outside, getting in his car, cranking the engine. He was already gone. Completely gone--

“Y/N?” an urgent voice called from outside. It sounded muffled, and it wasn’t Aaron this time. “Y/N!” it called again.

“Yeah?” you yelled, walking toward the front door with tentative steps.

It was far away, further away than you remembered. It kept moving. You kept reaching for it, but it kept getting smaller, always out of reach no matter how fast you walked. You tried to jump, but it failed.

“Shit,” you cussed, tripping over the circular rug by your couch. When you looked up again, you were in Aaron’s office at the BAU, facing his window, rain beating on the glass. “Huh?”

“Y/N!” the voice called again, this time sounding like it came from down in the bullpen. “Y/N!”

“Aaron!” you yelled back, spinning around. “Aaron! Wait!”

You lurched forward, reaching for Hotch’s office door, fingers straining, mouth open, ready to scream don’t go please don’t go you have to stay you don’t know what’s out there--

+++

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, it was just a bad dream,” Morgan whispered, his eyebrows pressed together. “You okay?”

You were suddenly very aware that you were in the jet, sprawled across two of the seats with your blanket kicked to the floor. Emily, JJ, Rossi, and Spencer stared at you, various shades of worry covering their expressions. qq

Right. Arkansas. Four women had gone missing, and the first one’s body was found just yesterday. Completely unrecognizable, if it weren’t for a tattoo and dental records. And a fifth went missing this morning, though they weren’t entirely sure she was connected. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. Morgan and Rossi made the decision to head out there.

“I’m good,” you replied, flashing Morgan a smile. “Good. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

Morgan sighed, taking the seat across from you. Everyone went back to their respective menial tasks, but you knew they were all listening in on your conversation.

“You said that yesterday,” Morgan said, leaning forward to keep his voice low. “And the day before that.”

“And the day before that,” you nodded. “I know.”

“You know you can talk to me,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing,” you shook your head, laughing him off. “I’m fine, I’m just…stressed, I don’t know. It’s been hectic here, that’s all.”

“It has,” Morgan agreed. “I know you miss him--”

“I did not say that.”

“Y/N, you whispered Aaron in your sleep.”

“What?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. You did. It’s been hard, we all feel for him, but…” He paused, gesturing toward you, but saying nothing.

“What?” you pressed. He was holding something back, you knew it.

“I know the two of you were…close.”

“Derek,” you scoffed. This was getting ridiculous.

“And listen, I’m not judging, alright? I get it. It happens. But if you need time off, I need you to say that.” This was Acting Unit Chief Derek Morgan filtering in, mixing with his usual Protective Brother act. You didn’t like it. You wanted him to stop being so good at profiling you.

“I’m fine,” you said, realizing you sounded exactly like Hotch before he left. You corrected yourself. “Thank you for checking in, but I’m good. How far away are we?”

Morgan took a moment, but accepted the subject change. “About forty minutes.”

“Okay,” you said, sitting up fully. “Should we revisit victimology?”

“Sure,” Morgan nodded. “Let’s do it.”

+++

Hours away, almost to Washington state, Aaron continued driving.

He hadn’t slept in days. There was no time. If he was to do what he needed to get done, he had to do it quickly.

The files sat in the passenger seat, open to the picture of the unsub. He wore a smile. Asshole.

This case was special. The unsub was nearly convicted, but the case was dismissed last minute. The evidence against him was strong, but not strong enough, apparently. The BAU was asked to appear in court -- Hotch was -- but there was no time. Another case came up, one more urgent than a court appearance.

Hotch should’ve never turned his back on it. He should’ve gone to court and put the unsub away for good. Now he had to make up for it. Now he had to make it right because the unsub had moved away just to continue killing. Because he didn’t show in court.

Maybe. Hotch didn’t know for sure, but he thought so. All he had to do was find the guy, and it would be over soon enough.

He pulled off the interstate to fill up on gas, paying with cash. He grabbed another coffee while he was stopped, and an energy drink from the fridge.

Back on the road, Aaron began to think of you.

He hated to leave you. He really did. But he had to, and he knew that. You would’ve tried to stop him. You did try to stop him. But you had turned him in to Strauss. That was your fault-- this was your fault. If you hadn’t said anything, then he would be back at the BAU right now, doing paperwork until God knows what hour in the morning.

But was that what he wanted right now? He was tired of doing paperwork. Tired of being the boss of it all when it never even mattered. None of it made a difference. It never would.

This, though, this would make a difference. He had to do this. He had to stop them. No one else would. It had to be a him. It always had to be him.

Did it?

He heard your voice in his head, the soft, stay, please, as if that would really work. (It almost did. He almost went to your apartment, almost knocked on your doour, almost made it all different--)

He stopped, slapping the radio dial, wanting music to block out his thoughts. Only it was the news, so all he heard was about the disastrous storm that was behind him, rolling into Washington with his four wheels.

He drove faster. The snowstorm couldn’t protect the unsub, or Hotch, from themselves. It was too late for protection.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #unsub!hotch x fem!reader #unsub!hotch x reader #unsub!hotch x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #unsub!hotch #unsub!hotch fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

[braucherei]

In one of Madame Roland’s letters there’s a section written by Claude Fauchet (most famous for helping seize the Bastille) complaining about Robespierre losing a manuscript he had given to him. The editor of these letters believes it was lost on Robespierre’s way back from Madame Roland’s salon.

“Robespierre lost my manuscript I had entrusted to him on the establishment of these (popular) societies, and another on the liberty of the press. It was the work of several months. I had the courage, a few days ago, to start again.”

The editor also includes an ad from May 17th in the newspaper Patriote français that Robespierre probably placed offering a reward for any patriots who find the manuscript.

“Manuscript lost. M. Robespierre left, in a carriage he took at 9:30 in the evening, Thursday the 12th, on the quay of Augustins, a manuscript on the indefinite liberty of the press and the popular societies. He requests good citizens who may have heard of it to help him find it. He will give a reward to those who have taken to do so.

He can be reached at Saintonge street, Marais, no. 8 or at M. F. Lantlienas, Guénégaud street, hotel Britannique, suburb of Saint-Germain. The last part of this manuscript was read at the Cercle Social by M. C. Fauchet. We hope that patriots will take an interest in ensuring that it is not lost.”

#do these addresses match up with the places we know he lived/worked? #based on this and what charlotte said it seems like dude got distracted a lot #robespierre #frev #madame roland

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.   

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?    

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.   

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.   

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”   

“Only because you insisted.”   

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.” 

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”  

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.” 

“Bollocks.” 

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”   

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.  

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above. 

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”   

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”    

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”   

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.    

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”    

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”   

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”   

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands. 

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”  

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”  

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”  

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”    

England glowers. 

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.   

It's the food, of course. Just the food. 

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late. 

...Should be safe enough, then.  

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold. 

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.” 

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh. 

“Get off,” he groans.  

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”  

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”   

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares. 

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”   

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?” 

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!” 

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux. 

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once. 

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over. 

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?” 

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?” 

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.” 

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.” 

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?” 

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous. 

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.” 

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck. 

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.” 

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure. 

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.  

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs. 

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.   

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back. 

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease. 

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

  —

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds. 

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon. 

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last. 

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise. 

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.  

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.  

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.  

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.  

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

#fruk #hws england #hws france #aph england #aph france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #historical hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #my writing

[littlespoonevan]

catch us in the mirror and it looks a lot like love

6x11/6x12-ish spec (except not really), hurt/comfort, 1.2k

if you saw me use those lyrics as a fic title before no you didn’t!!!!!!! i couldn’t not use another place by bastille for this fic ok it was a necessity. i have been tagged in an abundance of wip wednesdays and seven sentence sundays recently with nothing to show for it (but please keep tagging me ok ily 💖) but nothing like a lightning strike to galvanise me into writing hurt/comfort again!!!! so here is some gentle buddie in the hospital bathroom 💛

-

Buck holds onto the sink with one hand as he tries to shrug his hospital gown off his shoulder. He definitely shouldn’t be out of bed unsupervised yet; he’s only been awake for a few hours and the doctors – or one of his friends – will probably rip him a new one if they find out. Still, he was unconscious for a day and a half and the nurse had told him his scar will probably be all but gone by the time he wakes up tomorrow.

She’d said it with so much reassurance – as if, by tomorrow, no one would ever physically be able to tell what happened to him.

He doesn’t know how to explain that he wants to see it. That he wants the physical proof, even if he only gets it for a day.

Because…because he gave his bone marrow to Daniel and it left so little an impression on him that he’d never even known it had happened. Because he donated his sperm for Connor and Kameron and there’ll be a baby at some point but Buck still won’t have anything to show for it.

Because he keeps giving so much of himself away that sometimes he expects to see an entirely different person when he looks in the mirror.

And at least, just this once, it won’t feel like he’s making all the pain up in his head.

Eventually, he manages to get one arm out of the gown and then the other, letting it pool around his waist and pressing his hips against the sink to hold it in place. It’s mostly a pointless endeavour but he’d like some modicum of decency if someone does come in. At least they’d left on his underwear.

He stare at himself then, at the way the mark starts at his neck and spiderwebs out across his shoulder towards the centre of his chest. Towards his heart.

He’d researched Lichtenberg figures once, after he’d read a book where a character had survived a lightning strike. It doesn’t prepare him for seeing it in person across his own skin. Lifting a hand, he touches it carefully with his index finger, following the path of the mark with a delicate touch. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but that could just be the cocktail of pain meds he’s on.

He drops his hand once he reaches the end of the mark where it peters off between his ribs but he can’t make himself look away from it.

It’s the same place where Eddie got shot, he realises after a beat. And then he wants to laugh because if there was ever an emotional trauma he had nothing to show for, it was that one. Maybe that’s what this is. Some kind of reminder that something irrevocably changed in him that day and he’s never been the same since.

Talk about the universe screaming at you.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Eddie appears in the doorway behind him. He doesn’t say anything as he leans against the doorjamb but his eyes meet Buck’s in the mirror and Buck’s knees suddenly feel a little weak.

He’s still reeling from the dream he’d had while he’d been sedated. It had been the perfect life – everything he’s always said he wanted – but Eddie and Christopher weren’t there.

It’s that, he thinks, that has him blurting out, “We match,” without thinking.

Eddie’s reflection blinks and Buck watches as he pushes off the doorframe and steps further into the room. The bathroom is tiny, just a toilet and a sink and a shower, and Eddie stands so close to his back Buck thinks if he let go of the sink Eddie would catch him.

“What d’you mean?” Eddie asks, voice so soft it makes Buck’s chest ache in a way that has nothing to with the lightning strike or his cracked ribs.

“The scar,” he explains, wetting his lips against the sudden dryness in his mouth. “It’s the same shoulder as your scar from-“

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to when Eddie’s eyes immediately flicker down to where both of their shoulders are lined up, one behind the other. And Buck knows that one patch of skin on Eddie’s shoulder like the back of his hand – has pressed down on it with enough pressure to keep him alive, has covered it with dressing and cleaned it to prevent infection, has rubbed ointment on it to stop it from scarring too bad. Has touched it just because he wanted to remember Eddie’s alive.

“What are we measuring here, Buck?” Eddie catches his gaze again in the mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching. It’s different from the last time he asked that question – tense and frustrated in the back of an ambulance. Now, it’s quiet and fond and filled with that nudging kind of gentleness Eddie always uses on him when he feels fragile.

Everything is different from the last time he asked that question, really.

Buck doesn’t quite manage a laugh but the breath that puffs out of him could be one on another day.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just…”

“I know,” Eddie says and Buck is dying to know what he’s thinking, is dying to ask what Eddie’s been thinking while Buck was unconscious.

“I missed you,” he confesses – because his dream is still clinging to the corners of his mind and he can’t explain the way it’d left a gaping hole in him until he’d finally had Eddie at his side again when he’d woken up.

Eddie visibly startles at the words and Buck watches the way he silently tries to pick them apart before he speaks.

“You were unconscious,” Eddie points out finally.

Buck shrugs, ignoring the way his shoulder twinges. “Still missed you.”

Eddie’s expression softens and he seems to sway forward without realising, until the fabric of his sweater is brushing Buck’s back. “I missed you too,” he murmurs.

Buck gives in then, lets himself let go of the sink and lean back until his back connects with Eddie’s chest. He hardly has to move an inch.

Eddie’s hands land at his sides instantly, as if to steady him, but all he does is let them rest there. Eddie’s temple brushes his own and Buck closes his eyes, feeling something akin to peace settle over him for the first time in too long.

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that but, eventually, Eddie pats his side, his voice low at Buck’s ear. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Buck opens his eyes and finds Eddie staring back at him in the mirror. Wordlessly, he lets Eddie help him pull the gown up over his chest, covering the scar once again. Eddie takes hold of him then, one hand at Buck’s elbow and the other clasped in Buck’s as they make the slow walk back out to the hospital room.

And when Buck is back in bed and Eddie’s thumb sweeps across the back of his hand right before he lets go, Buck thinks the perfect life his dream had tried to sell could never have gotten this right.

#buddie #buck x eddie #911 #911 fic #season 6 speculation #but more like wish fulfilment lol #my fics

[yuzukahibiscus]

Takarazuka Revue Star Troupe Top Musumeyaku Maisora Hitomi Retirement Press Conference “I am overwhelmed with sentiments”

(Source from Nikkan Sports)

Takarazuka Revue Star Troupe Top Musumeyaku Maisora Hitomi has decided to retire in December 2024, and she had her press conference in the Takarazuka Grand Theatre “Espree Hall” on the 8th. In a white dress, Maisora says, “to everyone whom I have met, taught me, guided me, raised me up, and to all the fans so far, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I will continue to evolve every day as a Takarazuka musumeyaku before the last day comes and want to do my best.”

Maisora entered the Revue, ranking first of the 102th class in 2016. After assigned to Flower Troupe, she was known for her loveable appearnace and sharp dancing. In April 2019, she was transferred to Star Troupe and in the same year in October, with Rei Makoto as her partner, she became the Top Musumeyaku. She was the heroine for many overseas musical (adaptations), such as “Romeo and Juliette” “1789 – Lovers of the Bastille”. Together with Rei-san, they are the Top Combi of the firsts. (*Rei Makoto was ranked first of the 95th class.)

She decided her retirement after the closing performance of “ME AND MY GIRL”, in which she admired, and she played the heroine Sally in the performance. “I decided to retire on this 110th anniversary, a turning point in which I feel so content and fulfilled in my heart.” She told this news to Rei-san in the rehearsals for the previous Grand Theatre performance, and (REi Makoto has said), “If that is what Naco-chan (Maisora) has decided, I will suport her fully.”

Her memorable performances were three, including her first role without changes in Flower Troupe’s performance “Hanna’s Florist”, “Romeo and Juliette” to which she described, “how I instantly felt that I was welcoming a new ‘door’ of myself”, “Valencian Passion” to which she played the heroine in Shibata Yukihiro’s play, a director whom she admired.

In the conference, she wore the necklace Rei-san gifted her. “Rei-san said these encouraging words, ‘Even if you can’t do it, that’s fine. As long as you enjoy yourself the fullest on stage’. Such words gave me the motivation to continue moving forward,” she smiled and recalled.

Her retirement performance will be “Hit Me Anyone One More Time -Top Secret- / Tiara Azul -Destino-” which will be performing in the Takarazuka Grand Theatre on August 17~September 22. And after the Tokyo Takarazuka theatre performances on October 19-December 1, she will be retiring (from Takarazuka Revue) after the closing performance.

#maisora hitomi #rei makoto #hoshigumi #star troupe #top musumeyaku #takarazuka #takarazuka revue #舞空瞳 #retirement #graduation

[baldursgrave69]

Promise Me

Summary: Agnes worries about the Urge, what if she can’t control herself? She asks Astarion to do the unthinkable if the need arises.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!durge (named)

Word count: 890

Tags: angst

While writing this I was listening to: Oblivion by Bastille

Find me on Ao3 here

Agnes sat between Astarion’s legs on the rooftop of the Elf Song tavern, his arms draped over her shoulders. They had finally made it to the Lower City. The last few days had been eventful to say the least. Agnes finally knew what she was. Who she was. A child of Bhaal. The sickening Urge within her had a name, an origin at last. That didn’t make it any easier to resist. In fact, she played with the idea of embracing it. Of fulfilling her destiny and becoming Bhaal’s Chosen. The idea of killing her sister Orin and taking her place gave her butterflies. Agnes was still struggling to process her meeting with Enver Gortash. He had revealed to her that not only had they been partners in the planning and implementing of the Absolute, they had been more than that. Enver Gortash had shown her correspondence between the two of them, detailing their story. Their love story. Agnes shuddered, trying to push the thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to think about that night. Or what she had done. Astarion stirred behind her, holding her closer. “What is it, love?” he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder. Agnes let out a huff, leaning against him. “I’m… scared,” she admitted. “The Urge, it’s bothering you again, isn't it?” he asked, shifting behind her. She nodded. He wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her closer to him. “What if I don’t resist it? What if I can’t?” she asked, feeling a knot of worry in her stomach. Astarion frowned, this was so unlike her. She was always confident, always ready to take on whatever horror came next. “Do you want to?” he asked, cautiously, pressing soft kisses to her neck. Agnes paused for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said, hoping it sounded convincing. “Then you will,” Astarion said, leaning back against the cold wall behind him.

“How can you be so sure? What if your confidence is misplaced?” Agnes asked, pulling her knees close to her chest. “I’m rarely wrong,” he sighed, turning her to face him. “Besides, I know you. You won’t hurt me.” he said confidently. Agnes frowned, turning her back to him once more. Astarion sighed, pulling her closer again. He knew she wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, but he also knew that she didn’t always have control. If she did, Alfira would still be here. “You shouldn’t have to constantly watch your back around your partner. You shouldn’t have to worry that I’ll murder you in my sleep. That’s not fair to you,” Agnes started, moving to look at Astarion. “We should just end this now. Before it goes too far,” Agnes said quietly, leaning her head against her knees. “Are we really doing this again?” Astarion growled, leaning towards Agnes. She looked over at him, a wounded expression on his face. “I mean it, Astarion. I don’t want to hurt you,” she hissed, tears forming in her eyes. Astarion rolled his eyes, leaning back. “What, you think I’ll just disappear if you break up with me? Come now, darling. I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” Agnes let out a sigh, a small chuckle leaving her lips. “Gods, you’re stubborn,” she said as she looked up. Astarion smiled at her, a tear running down his cheek. Agnes leaned forward, wiping the tear from his cheek as he pulled her closer to him. “I waited 200 years for someone like you, I’m not letting you go that easy,” he sighed, burying his face in her hair.

“Fine, but you have to promise me something,” she said, suddenly serious again. Astarion pulled back to look at her, a somber look on her face. “If it happens again. If the Urges take over and you can’t restrain me,” Astarion cut her off, hugging her tight. “Promise me you’ll end me before I hurt anyone,” she said quietly as he held her. Astarion held Agnes tight, his mind reeling as he thought about what she was asking of him. Agnes pulled away from Astarion to look at him. He averted his eyes, trying to hide the tears beginning to form. “Remember that first night in camp? You asked me how I’d want you to do it,” she said quietly, pressing her forehead against his. He let out a laugh, wiping a tear with the back of his hand. “You said there were too many choices,” he laughed. He had called her dramatic at the time, he thought she must be insane. “A knife, clean across the neck,” she said quietly, looking into his red eyes. Astarion closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Promise me,” she whispered, placing her hand on his neck, caressing his bite scars. “Agnes, I can’t. Don’t ask this of me,” he pleaded, avoiding her gaze. “I trust you to make the right decision if the time ever comes,” Agnes said quietly. “Alright,” he replied, refusing to look at her. Agnes pulled back from Astarion, lifting his chin so he would look at her. His eyes were rounder than normal, sad. “I’ll keep fighting it, I’ll do whatever I can,” she reassured him. He nodded, his expression still somber. “Enough of the heavy stuff,” Agnes huffed, kissing Astarion on his nose. Astarion wrapped Agnes in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate iii #baldurs gate tav #bg3 tav #baldurs gate posting #bg3 oc #tav bg3 #bg3 durge #the dark urge #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #baldurs gate astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 angst #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x durge #astarion x female oc #astarion x dark urge #astarion x the dark urge #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #durge bg3 #durge posting #baldurs gate durge #durge x astarion #durge oc

[pleasecallmealsip]

it's easy to say "let's not ignore the negatives" about the french revolution. it's not as easy to see just what the "negatives" were.

the french revolution did not bring about a "power vacuum". the legislative assembly was formed as soon as the constituent assembly completed a new constitution and dissolved itself. in the constituent, the legislative, and the national convention, at any time, a president would be elected every 15 days. the word "anarchy" carried with it very derogatory notions, and even marat and robespierre condemned it.

the "if violent, then don't" type of criticism to the frev is reductive, and risky of using double standards. a) it is reductive because "the frev" is a long period across a vast geographical area (if we say the frev spanned 1789-1799, then haiti was not independent during this time). are we talking the potential violence of the louis xvi's german and swiss guards, or the parisian urban poor running to seize arms in the bastille to protect themselves? are we talking the national guard shooting the peaceful petitioners calling to put louis xvi on trial for his fleeing to varennes on 17th july 1791, or are we talking about marat's strongly-worded condemnation of the national guard in response (l'ami du peuple no.524, 20th july, 1791)? are we talking the declaration of pillnitz was on 27th august 1791, where prussian and austrian armies vague-posted about forming a military coalition against the constituent assembly, or are we talking brissot and his friends' eagerness to declare war and even potentially to extend the revolution beyond metropolitan france, or are we talking the consequence of brissot's decision of rushing into war with an army so untrained, so underpaid, so unarmed? you get the idea. to vaguely condemn violence would obfuscate everybody's position, and nullify any discussion of just what course of action to take in order to build a republic from scratch. b) it is risky of double standards, because violence was not an exception, especially not in the late 18th century. before this was the seven years' war. after this was the empire. i strongly recommend reading about the united irish rebellion of 1798 and the british response to that, and see what violent injustice "some of the most famous names" of ireland in the same time period had to face.

as for the "original goal" of the french revolution, more well-read mutuals can brief you on just how many goals the jacobins had alone. the goals of the gironde were a very different set of goals from the very beginning, the goals of the monarchiens more different still. but in any case, the "original goal" was not "independence". france was (and is) an economically strong part of the imperial core. one of the goals of the haitian revolution was independence from france.

that the bourbons restoration happened at all says everything about bonaparte's failure to withstand the coalition wars that came back to him again and again and again, like waves on a shore (see my point on brissot above). it says very little about the Spirit of revolution, which in the end shall save us all. They say revolutions turn out badly. But they're constantly confusing two different things, the way revolutions turn out historically and people's revolutionary becoming. These relate to two different sets of people. Men's only hope lies in a revolutionary becoming: the only way of casting off their shame or responding to what is intolerable. (Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations, New York: Columbia University Press 1995,p. 171, which can be read here, in its entirety.)

just what name should be given to the period of july 1793 - july 1794 is a matter that is still not settled among historians themselves. the word "terror" got its negative notions from tallien, who was very biased, so biased in fact he tried to assassinate his opponents in the convention. tallien did not succeed despite the execution, without a trial, of his opponents (maximilien robespierre, augustin robespierre, aristide couthon, antoine saint-just, françois hanriot, and some one hundred others). he did not seize more power himself. he himself was denounced by his colleagues as complicit in violent excesses. he shifted blames onto his colleagues in turn. his career was more or less ended by the moderates he sought to please. and then the "reign" part was only added when this term entered the english-speaking parts of the world. so this name was both biased and non-universal. it is still biased and non-universal. i genuinely do not wish to tell anybody what to do, but if you say "reign of terror" uncritically, people are going to tell you that you are using a reactionary term, because you are.

#alsip.txt #frev

[blackswaneuroparedux]

“France is in the throes of violent birth”: Thomas Jefferson and the 1789 French Revolution

"The deputies retired, the people rushed against the place, and almost in an instant were in possession of a fortification, defended by 100 men, of infinite strength..."

• Ambassador Thomas Jefferson report on the events on 14 July 1789.

The excerpt shown here is from a letter in Jefferson’s own hand to Secretary of Foreign Affairs John Jay. In great depth, he describes the events of July 14, 1789, including the storming of the Bastille in Paris. The Bastille was a symbol of the old regime, and housed arms, gunpowder, and prisoners.

On 14 July 1789, the U.S. Ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson, was a witness to the events of  a day in Paris that is commonly associated with the beginning of the French Revolution. Jefferson recorded the events of the day in a lengthy and detailed letter to John Jay, then Secretary of Foreign Affairs.

The American Revolutionary War began as a conflict between the colonies and England. In time, what began as a civil disturbance turned into a world war drawing France, Spain, and the Netherlands into the hostilities. France would send troops, ships, and treasure to support the American effort.   During the war, one of the first priorities of the French government and its allies was to raise funds to fight the war.

When the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783, France was virtually broke and on the edge of social catastrophe, the result of decades of war with England and other countries. The poor suffered hunger and privation. By 1789, revolution would come to France.

In 1785, Thomas Jefferson arrived in Paris to replace Benjamin Franklin, who was retiring as ambassador to France. At the age of 81, Franklin returned to the United States where he would serve as President of the Pennsylvania Assembly and also participated in the Constitutional  Convention of 1787.

John Adams was reassigned to London where he would be the first American ambassador to the Court of St. James. Jefferson remained on duty in France until late 1789 when he returned to the United States. While in France, Jefferson reported on developments at the court of King Louis XVI, the country at large, and the rest of Europe.

Jefferson was sympathetic to the revolution, opening his home in Paris to its leaders and assisting his friend the Marquis de Lafayette with drafting the Declaration of the Rights of Man. As the first Secretary of State under the Constitution and George Washington, his support for France and the revolution continued.

His friendship to the Marquis de Lafayette, who served in the War of Independence and lived almost 10 years in the USA, became very important in the beginning of the French revolution. The Marquis was the General of the french forces 1789 and tried to prevent a civil war and turmoil. He corresponded with Jefferson, who came from a country with the same experiences. Jefferson and the Marquis agreed that France was not mature to become a republic but a constitutional monarchy, like in Great Britain. However, this was the decision of the national assembly, of which the Marquise was a member. Jefferson went daily to Versailles to inform himself about the decisions. During Jefferson’ s visits, they passed the following laws:

1. Freedom of the person by habeas corpus 2. Freedom of conscience 3. Freedom of the press 4. Trial by jury 5. A representative legislature 6. Annual meetings 7. The origination of laws

This totally fit to Jefferson’s principles. In addition, there was passed a bill, which was prepared by Lafayette and Jefferson and which abolish any title or rank to make all men equal.

Thomas Jefferson also helped his friend Lafayette to bring the different opinions in his party about the constitution to an agreement. France should become a constitutional monarchy.

However, after this, Jefferson recognised that he is not allowed to interfere in the French domestic affairs and that he should be neutral and represent his country. He left France in the thinking that the Revolution was over and that France would grow to a constitutional monarchy. Jefferson was proud of the achievements in France and after his return to USA he declared: “ So ask the travelled inhabitant of any nation, In what country on earth would you rather live? - Certainly, in my own where are all my friends, my relations, and the earliest and sweetest affections and recollections of my life. Which would be your second choice? France."

For all his francophile fervour, as the chief American diplomatic representative, Jefferson’s Enlightenment had been a conventionally English one, dominated above all by John Locke. And Jefferson’s first impressions of America’s principal ally in the Revolution were not positive ones. “The nation,” he confided to Abigail Adams in 1787, “is incapable of any serious effort but under the word of command.”

The stars of the French Enlightenment - Voltaire, Diderot, d’Holbach - were frivolous and useful only for manufacturing “puns and bon mots; and I pronounce that a good punster would disarm the whole nation were they ever so seriously disposed to revolt.”

The events of the spring of 1789 soon changed all of that before Jefferson’s very eyes. “The National Assembly,” he excitedly wrote to Tom Paine, “having shewn thro’ every stage of these transactions a coolness, wisdom, and resolution to set fire to the four corners of the kingdom and to perish with it themselves rather to relinquish an iota from their plan of a total change of government” had excited Jefferson’s imagination as nothing before.

Even when the Paris mob seized the Bastille and beheaded the hapless officers of the Bastille, Jefferson shrugged it aside as a mere incident, since “the decapitations” had accelerated the king’s surrender. As Jefferson would write later, “in the struggle which was necessary, many guilty persons fell without the forms of trial, and with them some innocent.” But rather than seeing the French Revolution fail, “I would have seen half the earth desolated. Were there but an Adam and an Eve left in every country and left free, it would be better than as it now is.”

Jefferson’s admiration for the French Revolution seemed to increase in direct proportion to his distance from it. And once he returned to America at the end of 1789, one of his chief motives for taking the post of Secretary of State was to observe and encourage the French eruption, when the National Assembly seized and redistributed the lands of the Catholic Church, when the king foolishly attempted to flee France, only to be captured, placed on trial and executed.

And when a Committee of Public Safety began a national purge - the “reign of terror” - Jefferson continued to describe the French Revolution as part of “the holy cause of freedom,” and sniffed that “the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.”

There is no question that Jefferson’s influence in the beginning of the French Revolution was very important. His initial moderate counsels and ideas helped in the beginning to prevent a civil war. His opinion that France was not mature to become a republic is probably right, because after 600 years of monarchy and aristocracy they people were not used to have any rights or take part in political matters. Jefferson thought that a republic had to develop from a constitutional monarchy. When you look to the cruel end of the French Revolution, Jefferson’s assessment was right up to a point.

Jefferson’s time as Secretary of State coincided with the most explosive phase of the French Revolution. What started as an attempt to dismantle the Ancien Régime and institute a constitutional monarchy blossomed into a radical experiment in creating an entirely new republican society. As his correspondence with Minister to France Gouverneur Morris and Minister to the Netherlands William Short during the emergence of the Jacobin Terror reveals, Jefferson responded to the violent radicalisation of the Revolution with enthusiastic support.

His advocacy for the French Revolution did not signify his emergence as a disruptive insurrectionist in favour of purposeless violence, anarchy and unbridled populism. Instead, he advocated for recognition and support of the Jacobin government as a successful international analog to the republican project he wanted to pursue at home at the expense of the “monarchical” aspirations of Hamilton and the Federalists. 

In practice, the parallels he imagined between the ideal Jeffersonian and Jacobin republics were usually more apparent than real, as Jefferson often ignored the reports of Morris and Short in favour of fanciful idealising of his French counterparts – a problem Jefferson would only come to grips with in retirement.

Despite these dilemmas, Jefferson’s impassioned advocacy for the French Revolution proved effective, emerging as a cornerstone of the burgeoning Republican Party’s foreign policy and remaining important well into the early nineteenth century, until the Revolution ceased to be an important political issue. It was not until he became President in 1801 that Jefferson’s views toward France began to cool and became more pragmatic, highlighted by the Louisiana Purchase Treaty.

#thomas jefferson #jefferson #french revolution #14 july 1789 #bastille day #america #france #french #monarchy #republic #history #politics #ideology #jacobin #essay #diplomacy #ambassador #jefferson in paris #paris

[violettduchess]

Hello there Can I request a kiss fir Comte ? Thank you so much Have a nice day :D

A/N: Here you are, lovely Julie!

Word Count: 435

A kiss doesn't always end in fire and flames. It doesn’t always end in a body lit up by fireworks, then falling back to earth in a soft rain of fading sparks. Sometimes, a kiss is the careful touch of the ocean’s white foam on the sand or the sound of gentle rain against a window pane. You thrill for the moments when Comte reaches for you, full of golden fire. But the kisses that stay with you the longest are the ones that glow, not burn.

He notices when your mind is gray, clouded with sadness. He always notices and it shifts his priorities. You rise to the top of his mind like warm air, expanding until your happiness fills every corner of his thoughts.

Somehow, he is there. He slides his strong arms around you, pulling you toward the shelter of his body where you bend, leaning into his strength. One hand begins a soothing, rhythmic stroking of your back. You feel the way your breath steadies, the way the tension in your body unspools for him, as if he were reaching in and wrapping it around his hands like Clotho spinning the thread of human fate. His other hand cups your face, warm and tender. He does not demand you meet his gaze. He demands nothing of you.

The first kiss is placed on your forehead, a gesture of protection, of empathy. It can feel more intimate than if you were standing bare before him. It can feel as comforting as sinking into a warm bath. Without so much as a word he assures you that he is there for you. Your bastille against the slings and arrows of an outrageous world. Your oasis in the drought of uncertainty. You accept his kiss and, like a flower to the sun, tilt your face upwards towards him, silently asking for more.

The second kiss is his lips on yours in a gesture so tender it reverberates throughout the chambers of your heart like the deep resonance of church bells. It is the raindrop that clings to the petal. The gleam of sunshine off a hummingbird’s bright feathers. The press of his lips speaks so loudly of his love for you, his devotion to you now and forever. He loves you through the moments of high summer and the moments of darkest winter. He presses this promise against your lips again and again and again until you are breathless with understanding, with acceptance. 

He is here, right now. 

And he always will be.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @neoqueen-sailorvirgo @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikemen vamp #ikemen comte #ikevamp comte #comte de saint germain #kiss fic #comte x reader #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

[playitagin]

1976-Joachim Peiper

Joachim Peiper (30 January 1915 – 14 July 1976) was a German Schutzstaffel (SS) officer and war criminal convicted for the Malmedy massacre of U.S. Army prisoners of war (POWs). During the Second World War in Europe, Peiper served as personal adjutant to Heinrich Himmler, leader of the SS, and as a tank commander in the Waffen-SS. Peiper personified Nazi ideology as a purportedly ruthless glory-hound commander who was indifferent to the combat casualties of Battle Group Peiper, and who encouraged, expected, and tolerated war crimes by his Waffen-SS soldiers.

As adjutant to Himmler, Peiper witnessed the SS implement the Holocaust with ethnic cleansing and genocide of Jews in Eastern Europe; facts that he obfuscated and denied in the post–War period. As a tank commander, Peiper served in the 1st SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (LSSAH) in the Eastern Front and in the Western Front, first as a battalion commander and then as a regimental commander. Peiper fought in the Third Battle of Kharkov and in the Battle of the Bulge, from which battles his eponymous battle group – Kampfgruppe Peiper – became notorious for committing war crimes against civilians and PoWs.

In the Malmedy Massacre Trial, the U.S. military tribunal established Peiper's command responsibility for the Malmedy massacre (1944) and sentenced him to death, which later was commuted to life in prison, then 35 years. In Italy, Peiper was accused of having committed the Boves massacre (1943); that investigation ended for lack of war-crime evidence that Peiper ordered the summary killing of Italian civilians.

Upon release from prison, Peiper worked for the Porsche and Volkswagen automobile companies and later moved to France, where he worked as a freelance translator. Throughout his post-war life, Peiper was very active in the social network of ex–SS men centred upon the right-wing organisation HIAG (Mutual Aid Association of Former Members of the Waffen-SS).

In 1972, Joachim and Sigurd Peiper moved to Traves, Haute-Saône, in eastern France, where he owned a house. Under the pseudonym "Rainer Buschmann", Peiper worked as a self-employed English-to-German translator for the German publisher Stuttgarter MotorBuch Verlag, translating books of military history.[27] Despite his biography and working pseudonymously, they lived under his true, German name, "Joachim Peiper", and soon attracted the notice of anti-fascists.

The confirmation of Peiper's Nazi identity and presence in France attracted journalists to whom Peiper readily gave interviews, wherein he claimed that he was a victim of Communist harassment due to his role in the war. In an interview (J’ai payé "I Already Have Paid"), Peiper said he was an innocent man who had paid for his war crimes (referring to the Malmedy massacre) with twelve years of prison. He said he was innocent of the earlier Boves massacre war crime in Italy. He also said "In 1940, French people weren't brave, that's why I'm here". These insulting remarks angered the press and residents. It was reported that he and his wife left France and moved to the German Federal Republic due to ongoing death threats.

On Bastille Day 14 July 1976, French anti-Nazis attacked and torched Peiper's house in Traves. When the fire was extinguished, firefighters found the charred remains of a man holding a pistol and a .22 calibre rifle, as if defending himself.[128] The arson investigators determined that person had died from smoke inhalation. The anti-Nazi political group The Avengers claimed responsibility for the arson that killed Peiper; nonetheless, because of the destruction caused by the arson, the French police authorities remained unconvinced that Joachim Peiper was the person found.

#Jul.14.1976 #date of death #Joachim Peiper #German SS officer #history today

[aedesluminis]

The origins of the Italian national flag dating back to the French revolution

Since a couple of days ago our Prime Minister, Giorgia Meloni, was caught unprepared on the meaning of the colours on the Italian flag by the Senior United States senator Chuck Schumer, I thought it could have been interesting to dive more into it, to see if there's something else beyond the three theological virtues, which the flag is attributed to nowadays. And surprisingly there is! Sources dating back to the last decade of the 18th century show a strong link between the Italian tricolour and the cockades used during the French revolution.

According to the archivist and historian Nicola Ferorelli (1877-1951), during the month of August 1789 is some Italian towns, people were spotted protesting against high food prices, wearing green leaves as cockades in an attempt to imitate the parisians who took the Bastille:

"Si sa inoltre, con uguale certezza che, durante il mese di agosto 1789, a Fano ed a Velletri prima del giorno 16, a Roma fra il 16 e il 28, ed a Frascati non più tardi del 30, il popolo minuto commise atti vandalici e compì minacciose dimostrazioni, usando foglie di alberi per coccarda. A Roma si mossero circa ventimila transteverini muniti di armi, recando foglie di lauro al cappello, e chiedendo e ottenendo immediatamente il ribasso del prezzo dei generi di prima necessità col dire che avrebbero imitato i parigini se non fossero stati subito accontentati."

[Eng]:

"Furthermore it is known, with equal certainty that, during August 1789 in Fano and Velletri before the 16th, in Rome between the 16th and the 28th, and in Frascati no later than the 30th, the people committed acts of vandalism and menacing demonstrations, using tree leaves as cockades. In Rome around twenty thousands Transteverians [people residing in Rome] marched with weapons, showing laurel leaves appointed to their hats, and demanding and immediately getting price reduction on goods of primary necessity, threatening they would have imitated the parisians in case their requests hadn't been immediately fulfilled."

-Ferorelli N., La vera origine del tricolore italiano, Rassegna storica del Risorgimento vol. XII (1925)

Moreover Ferorelli gives proof, cockades carrying green, white and red colours were worn by the citizen of Genua, mistakenly believed to be the colours used by the French revolutionaries. The reason behind the misunderstanding relies in the fragmented and sometimes incorrect news the Italian press received from France:

"Si sa per giunta, anche con la massima certezza, che, nel 21 agosto dello stesso anno [1789], gli inquisitori della repubblica di Genova, riferivano in una loro relazione al governo, di essere state viste delle persone passeggiare per la città e con la nuova coccarda francese bianca, rossa e verde introdotta da poco tempo a Parigi."

[Eng]:

"It is known, with the utmost certainty, that, on the 21th of August of the same year [1789], the inquisitors of the republic of Genua, wrote in a report to the gouvernament, that people wearing the new white, green and red French cockades shortly introduced in Paris were spotted walking through the city."

-Ferorelli N., La vera origine del tricolore italiano, Rassegna storica del Risorgimento vol. XII (1925)

A military insigna carrying the green, white and red colours was adopted as official flag for the the newly formed Legione Lombarda (Lombard Legion) in 1796, whose members were Italian patriots and soldiers favourable to Napoleon Bonaparte, but it's with the establishment of the Cispadanian Republic (7th January 1797) that we have the first example of use of the tricolour as symbol for national union. As the intellectual and journalist Giuseppe Compagnoni stated in his proposal on the very same day of the Republic proclamation:

"Si renda universale lo stendardo o bandiera cispadana di tre colori verde, bianco e rosso e questi tre colori si usino anche nella coccarda cispadana, la quale dovrà portarsi da tutti."

[Eng]:

"An universal banner or flag with three colours green, white and red should be set and these colours should be used in the cispadanian cockade, that should be worn by everyone."

-Rossi L., "Origini della bandiera tricolore italiana"

More or less significative variant of the cispadanian flag were used during the foundations of new states in the Italian peninsula, until March 1861, when on the 17th, the Kingdom of Italy was proclaimed, whose official flag was the three vertical-striped tricolour belonged to the former Kingdom of Sardegna, the official prototype of the one currently used in Italy.

#italian history #italy #frev #french revolution #origins of the italian flag #thank you Desmoulins I guess #my posts

[cataboliiicseed]

HELLO please tell me about your cd collection?? i would love to hear about it genuinely

HAIII BELL!!! i am more than happy to talk about my cds!!!

i included pics of my current collection 🕺!

i’ve been collecting them most of my life. i got given a cd player at a young age which is why i started collecting. as a kid it was mostly so fresh & now hits of summer cds that are still somewhere in the house (also alvin & the chipmunks).

these days i collect them because my car is old and doesn’t have aux or bluetooth so cds and the radio get me through. i’ve included pics of my glovebox, the ones that live in a bag cause i have too many to fit in said glovebox & my current listen. i’ll just list them as they appear and where i got them from!!

gorillaz, the now now- bought first hand. at the time i was listening to it almost daily

gorillaz, demon days- actually belongs to my sister. she doesn’t have a cd player so it judt lives in my car for when we go on drives

twenty one pilots, trench- a gift for my birthday last year. i have most of tøps discography and i was obsessed with it when it released (saw them in concert & everything)

my chemical romance, the black parade- found this one in an op shop. there’s a few i got at the same time, some emo must’ve donated their collection in one go. love this album its one i listen to a lot

panic! at the disco, a fever you cant sweat out- also found in the op shop haul!

panic! at the disco, pretty odd- another op shop haul find. i didn’t listen to this album a load back then compared to the rest of their stuff but its one of my faves now

my chemical romance, three cheers for sweet revenge- shocking news, found this in the op shop haul!

bastille, all this bad blood- at some point during my teens i spend my pocket money on this. definitely glad i still have it, there’s so much music on that album & i still love bastille

twenty one pilots, blurryface- another one i spent my pocket money on!!

twenty one pilots, vessel- another pocket money purchase

fall out boy, folie à deux- found in the op shop haul. didn’t even listen to this album at the time & i forgot i had it until way after i fixated on it and then went through my collection again

fall out boy, infinity on high- another op shop find, very fun find!! was a fave at the time

fall out boy, american beauty/american psycho- op shop haul find!!

fall out boy, save rock and roll- op shop haul find!!!

my chemical romance, danger days- my brother found this one in an op shop for me

will wood and the tapeworms, everything is a lot- bought this one online when he dropped the last of the original pressings a few years back. its signed but the signature is rubbing off a bit

will wood, in case i make it- i got this one when i backed the album when he was fundraising for it

the libertines, up the bracket- i think my mum gave this to me, i’ve never listened to it lol

janelle monáe, the archandroid- dad gave this to me. one of my favourite albums of all time

sara bareilles, whats inside: songs from waitress- this was a pocket money buy. i think i bought this before i actually listened to the waitress musical? so it was my introduction to it and then waitress was what made me fall in love with musical theatre

the hush sound, like vines- found this in a record shop. was very excited, i was playing one of their songs on repeat at the time

pulp, different class- mum gave me this one as well

the breeders, cannonball- my dad got it for my brother who didn’t want it and i slid in like hi, yes i love the breeders, this is mine bye.

troye sivan, wild- a pocket money buy. i really wanted blue neighbourhood but they only had this ep so its what i got

sara bareilles, the blessed unrest- another pocket money buy, i had a huge sara bareilles phase at some point in highschool

the scary jokes, retinal bloom- bought this one in one of the packs when the album was about to be dropped. gawd i love the scary jokes

the scary jokes, burn pygmion!!! a better guide to romance- what i listened to todayyy. probably my number one album ever this was a christmas gift!!

theres two fob cds i skipped cause they’re just a compilation & cd that all the songs on are on my other cds.

theres so many more that have come and left my collection but this is where its at now and i can’t waiiiit to find more!! especially w my damn car. NOW TELL ME ABOUT YOURS (please ^3^!)

#ren rambles #music collections #cds

[fizzycherrycola]

It's Bastille Day, have a FrUK WIP

Here u go, a nice WIP for u ❤

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920  Seagulls are crying in the distance, muted by the soft roll of sea surf. England stares, unfocused, at the crosshatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.  Beach sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. Can’t forget that part. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.  Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirms England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?   Ah, right. Bastille Day and such. For the past week, France pestered him into agreeing to this little beach picnic; an excursion that resulted in nothing but wine and sex.  England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it slightly to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. France is guzzling the prized alcohol, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, his back arching upward like a cat as he drains the glass. Upon emptying the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasizing the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.  “Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.  France pauses. Lazy dark lashes blinking open with the most unimpressed expression.   He sighs. “How can you already be in such a terrible mood? We are on a private beach.”  “Only at your insistence.”  France raises one of his perfectly sculpted brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being unfilled.  

#fruk #aph england #aph france #hws england #hws france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #wip #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #my writing #hetalia france #hetalia england

[herrlindemann]

Rock Sound, 2005 - Interview with Till and Schneider

Anyone who’s witnessed Rammstein’s pyrotastic live show will know they aren’t a band to do things by halves. So maybe rock sound shouldn’t be surprised by the surreal trail of events that unfolds during the press day for new album ‘Rosenrot’. Arriving in Paris with some vague instructions to head to the Place de la Bastille and find a double-decker bus, it all fells worryingly like the plot from a bad James Bond film. Luckily, any fears about being unable to follow such a cryptic lead are calmed on spotting a bright red London bus which, in case it wasn’t given away by its conspicuous geographical location, is helpfully plastered with Rammstein album artwork. Today the bus will were a dual purpose; both transporting us to a top secret interview site and acting as a pretty ingenious promotional tool, as we drive through the city past several turned heads and dropped jaws. 

Onboard, journalists from various European countries are initiated into an album listening session that’s shrouded in MI5-style secrecy. After signing a contract, each writer receives a sealed and numbered personal CD player containing a preview version of ‘Rosenrot’. Suffice to say, those who dare to break the seal and peek inside do so on pain of death. Well, probably. And it doesn’t end there. 

Arriving at the interview venue — a boat moored on the bank of the River Seine — it seems Rammstein are intent on having us experience as many branches of the Parisian transport system as possible. It all ensures that the press are suitably bewildered, as well as just a little excited, when the time arrives to interview bands members Till Lindemann and Christoph Schneider. Really, you wouldn’t think it could get much weirder. But it does.

Both Lindemann and Schneider appear oddly indifferent to the day’s set-up, as if they’re old hands at sending journalists into a state of confusion before meeting them. Not that frontman Till really needs to try; he’s already knocked us hacks for six by granting several rare interviews this afternoon, and in person he looks every bit as imposing as his on stage characters. Thankfully though, he’s infinitely more good-humoured, and a listen to ‘Rosenrot’ reveals his increasing skill in channelling that quality into the songs.

The band’s fifth studio album continues to develop several of the themes from ‘Reise, Reise’ — namely the exchange of strict marching rhythms for dynamic rock riffs (‘Rosenrot’, ‘Zerstören’), and a new-fund affinity for ballads (‘Feuer & Wasser, ‘Ein Lied’). Yet it also comes with a few major surprises, most noticeably ‘a party anthem about driving into a brothel’, titled ‘Te Quiero Puta’. As if diverting from their trademark sound with cartoon noises and mariachi instrumentation in this effort weren’t enough, the biggest shock comes from Till, who switches his usually foreboding vocals into Spanish to hilarious effect.

Schneider picks up the story: « Till could never find good lyrics for that song, » he recalls. « It was a bit sad because we always liked it very much music-wise. Then he came up with this Spanish, which I absolutely didn’t like, especially with all the trumpets. But sometimes you have to get used to ideas that you don’t find so cool, because they might have a little potential. »

Consequently, ‘Te Quiero Puta’ is one of the best songs Rammstein have written, not just because it shatters every preconception they’ve built up with previous albums, but also because it’s executed so well. Maybe that’s down to the fact that when Rammstein go off on a creative tangent, they aren’t driven by a need for attention, but by genuine curiosity. Indeed, while ‘Te Quiero Puta’ was inspired by a love of Spanish culture that Till developed while exploring Costa Rica, ‘Mann gegen Mann’ was born from an equally eye-opening experience.

The singer explains: « That’s a pro-homosexual song. It’s based on an experience I had when we went out in Berlin with another band that had two gay members. We went to a gay bard and I was just impressed by how fast they made contact with other men, how there was little bit of communication and then they went home together. I thought it was quite enviable, especially when you compare it to what happens between a man and a woman and all the ritualistic behavior. They just had a one-night stand and nothing more. I thought there was something poetic about that. »

There’s nothing all that unusual about Rammstein dealing in potentially controversial subject matter, as the gory inspiration for ‘Mein teil’ showed. Even so, it’s hard to escape the impression that ‘Rosenrot’ is their most experimental album to date.

According to the band, that probably has something to do with they way in which it came together. The release of ‘Rosenrot’ comes just a year after ‘Reise, Reise’, meaning a significant change to their normal working cycle.

« We’ve never released another album so quickly," says Till. « Usually there’s the album release in summer or early autumn, then we tour through autumn, winter and spring and then go into working on the next release in the autumn. But after making ‘Reise, Reise’ we had four songs left which hadn’t fitted in with the rest of the album. So we decided then that we would make another CD straight after ‘Reise, Reise’ so that we could use them. »

Although they could have released the songs as an EP, there was another obstacle to overcome. During the making of ‘Reise, Reise’, Rammstein decided they would take a six-month « creative break » when they eventually came off the road in 2005. That meant either leaving fans with a long wait before another album arrived, or working incredibly hard to extend those four songs into a full release before disappearing. With Schneider stressing that the leftover tracks were « good songs, not just B-sides », they took the latter option and began work on ‘Rosenrot’ under what he describes as « a lot of pressure due to the time constraints ». 

But with both ‘Te Quiero Puta’ and ‘Mann gegen Mann’ among the new songs penned in that period, it was evidently also a positive time creatively.

« The songs are from two different periods so I think that makes the album a bit outstanding, » comments Schneider. « It’s not like the last two Rammstein albums, but it’s a good album. »

It turned out so well, in fact, that they changed their original plan to call it ‘Reise, Reise Vol. 2’ and graced it with its own title. That title continues their fascination with dark fairytales, echoing both an old story by the Brothers Grimm and a story that Till recalls about « a girl who sees a red flower on the mountainside and tells her lover. He tries to get it for her but he dies ». Nonetheless, the album as a whole also marks the end of an era for Rammstein.

« For me, this is the closing of a chapter for the band, » says Schneider. « Everybody needs a break, they need a bit of distance from this band and time to look forward and ask, ‘Where am I?’ And, ‘What do I want to do?’ We need to find other ways of being inspired. »

Consequently, there will be no tour to support the release of ‘Rosenrot’, as the sextet head their separate ways to recharge and reflect. After more than 10 years of following the same work schedule, the members of Rammstein are looking forward to spending time with family, travelling, and having the chance to recover from an exhausting promotional itinerary. They initially discovered the benefits of taking time out while making ‘Reise, Reise’ — when tensions carried over from previous album ‘Matter’ came to a head and forced them to put work on hold. As Schneider states, it’s vital to the « balance of democracy » within the band that they get away from each other now and again.

However, with this personal time now coming at the expense of a new live spectacular, are they concerned that ‘Rosenrot’ won’t get the exposure it deserves?

« Maybe that will affect something, » allows the drummer. « But we’ve been on tour for almost a year now and we’re tired. Of course our live show is a big part of our promotion, but what can you do? You can’t keep on at the same pace, running and running like a hamster on a wheel. »

A much-needed holiday? The end of an era? You might wonder if ‘Rosenrot’ is shaping up to be Rammstein’s parting shot…

« I have a good feeling, » begins Schneider. « I think Rammstein has the potential to continue. But after 11 or so years you have to be careful. It’s easy to over-do it, for it to get boring and for you not to reach your potential anymore. We’ll see. If it doesn’t happen anymore I’ll do something else. »

Thankfully, Till is more assured about future plans, insisting Rammstein will start work on another album and tour after their break. What’s more, the excited singer suggests we can expect an even greater visual extravaganza on their return — if he gets his way.

« Personally, I’d just sing two songs and then have two hours of pyro! » he laughs.

There’s no doubt it’ll be worth the wait.

#rammstein #till lindemann #christoph schneider #interview #*scans #2005 #*

[operation-priority]

Tankiste during Vehicle Maintenance

This is an impression of a French tank crewman working on their vehicle during maintenance time. Any 'free time' the tank crews had was in the form of vehicle maintenance and ensuring that their vehicle was fully operational for the next fight. While the workshop section within a company was tasked with larger repairs, it was up to the crews to maintain their vehicle in a fit-to-fight state. For this task the crews were issued tank working overalls (modern terminology would call this a coverall) to be worn over the standard light blue uniform. These were either commandeered from the civilian realm or old regulation models, which would result in several different appearances of the same style garment. Some would be one piece like the one depicted here, while others were of a two piece style. Colors also varied, from white, to off-white, to tan, to cachou, and dark blue. After the war in 1919 it was codified that the dark blue variants were to become the regulation model because these would show the least amount of vehicle oil and other debris. This particular variant is in a cachou color and features a left breast pocket, Equipements Militaires buttons, and a standing collar. Two EM buttons on the front of the chest allowed for the placement of a rank tab, denoting the rank of Corporal. The civilian black beret would often be worn during maintenance, as well as the Ceinturon Modèle 1903 modifié 1914 without any gear looped on it. The patches of light blue wool on the coveralls are repair patches due to usage rips throughout the uniform.

The display photos show a Boîte à Munitions (Ammunition Box) which of course would carry the crew's ammunition supply. On the top of the box is five Cartouche de 8 mm Modèle 1886 à balle D for the Renault FT's 8 mm Hotchkiss Modèle 1914 Heavy Machine Gun as well as one Cartouche à Obus en fonte Modèle 1888 which was the most common 37 mm round for the Renault FT's Puteaux 37 SA Modèle 1918 cannon. In the background is a periscope painted in Gris Artillerie and while not issued to tank crews, this type of periscope was an incredibly common sight within the trenches. Beside the ammunition create is a brass Pyrene Fire Extinguisher. These models came standard in tanks out of the factory with every Renault FT equipped with one Pyrene Fire Extinguisher underneath the driver's seat.

The second display photo depicts a Renault FT section maneuver on a small target per doctrine scribed on a chalkboard slate. Many household items like these would be commandeered and pressed into service within the French Army. Behind this is a photograph of Renault FT during the 1919 Bastille Day Parade. This parade would be extensively photographed and many other pictures would feature these Renault FTs moving through the Arc de Triomphe and down the parade route. Further back is a fully intact post-war Renault FT souvenir inkwell. These were very popular inkwells that often made appearances on the more enthusiastic AS officer's desk. While these two items are post-war pieces, both provide a glimpse into how important the AS and the Renault FT was in bringing final victory to the French Army and shows some ways they were celebrated post-war. Finally, behind these pieces is a regulation pair of glasses with its matching case. Regulation glasses could be purchased by the soldiers in military bazaars along with other various small kit items tailored to soldiers.

#history #tanks #renault ft #technology #world war one #reenactor #uniforms #reenacting #reenactment #reenactors