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doyou000me · 1 month

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Fandom Peeps to Get to Know Better:

Tagged by @lurkingshan - thank you for the tag!

3 Ships You Like:

Luca and Vincenzo. They're my rare pair hell ship and I'll keep it afloat singlehandedly if I have to. Luckily I don't, because there's two of us holding up the fort on Ao3, and @ristique-xy and I are basically feeding each other at this point.

For those of you who haven't seen it, Vincenzo is a Korean drama from 2021. Vincenzo is the main character and Luca has like 5-10 minutes of screen time in the entire series. Nothing can convince me that they're not murderous lovers for life.

Yoh and Mizuki from My Personal Weatherman. I watched it, moved on, and then was reminded of it after a certain picture and discussion with @candidamay, which made me go back and rewatched MPW and now I'm trying to write a fic for them. It is resisting me but I shall employ stubbornness and persevere.

Kinnporsche. Again, I watched the show when it came out and moved on. Now incredible fanfics (go read Bad Bet by @luckydragon10 and The Power In The Taking by @iffervescent. Both are excellent and very NSFW - proceed with caution and heed the tags) and tumblr in general are slowly making me slide down the slippery slope into the fandom. Can't say I'm putting up any resistance. The Kinnporsche plotbunnies are breeding in my already overpopulated head.

Honorable mentions: PayuRain and PrapaiSky. Need I say more?

First Ship Ever:

My first ship must be something like 15+ years ago, so I really don't remember. Also, I don't think I've ever been big on exclusively shipping one pair of characters, so OTPs aren't really my thing. I tend to pick one favourite character and then ship them with pretty much any other character depending on what dynamic I want in the moment. I still do, but now I've started entertaining the idea of just throwing them all together in one big poly relationship.

Last Song You Heard:

Wonder by The Rose has been playing on and off in my head the last few days

youtube

Favorite Childhood Book:

The Redwall books by Brian Jacques.

Currently Reading:

Nothing. I tend to read in short, intense bursts (like a book/long fanfic in 1-2 days), and then I read nothing for a while.

Currently watching:

Love is Better The Second Time Around

Deep Night The Series

Bingeing:

Bloodhounds (rewatch with a friend)

Sandman (watching with a friend)

Currently consuming:

Yoghurt and musli with banana. It's breakfast.

Currently craving:

Juice.

Tagging @ristique-xy @functionalasfuck, @cryingatships, @candidamay, @7nessasaryevils because I'm curious about what's going on in your heads! Do it if you feel like it, ignore it if you don't :)

#tag game #kinnporsche #my personal weatherman #vincenzo #fanfics #Youtube

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isobelleposts · 1 year

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“Eat The Rich” — My Favorite Genre in Film

by Isobelle Cruz [February 1, 2022]

The Menu (2022) dir. by Mark Mylod

The phrase in the title comes from political philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s quote, “When people have nothing to eat, they will eat the rich.” The last film I watched that had me surprised they did not literally eat the rich was The Menu by Mark Mylod.

This film never took itself too seriously despite its center around the wealthy and the lengths they go to just to experience the finer things in life. It is fully aware of its bizarreness and adds bits of humor here and there, making it enjoyable despite mostly taking place in one setting.

As the first film I had seen this year, The Menu truly sets up expectations and a fresh path to more of what the industry has in store for the rest of the year. Moving on, here are four more films to see if you enjoyed The Menu:

Triangle of Sadness (2022) dir. by Ruben Östlund

Starting off strong with one of my final watches of 2022 that had me saying “what the fuck?” under my breath every few minutes is Triangle of Sadness directed by Ruben Östlund. What initially caught my interest in watching this film was a clip in the opening part wherein we see a bit of the modeling industry and its quirks, or so, ridiculousness. What I didn’t know, and certainly wasn’t prepared for, was what I would witness next.

I went into this film after refraining myself from spoilers or even a hint of what it could be about, preparing myself to be either disappointed or pleased with what I was about to be met with. And that is exactly what I suggest to you as well. Ditch the synopsis and logline and head straight into this experience. Just know that you’ll be met with great dialogue, delicate cinematography, and a whole lot of shit—both figuratively and literally.

Parasite (2019) dir. by Bong Joon-ho

Behind my little song to the clouds to tuck its raindrops away, a certain thought would always lie at the back of my head while growing up. As we celebrate a class suspension and give thanks for the chilly weather in the desert-like heat of the Philippines, I wonder what life is like for those living by the rivers, whose roofs are made with cheap iron or yero and whose walls are made of thin wood.

It hasn’t occurred to me before how important these thoughts were until I encountered this film a few years back. Parasite presents its audience with the rich’s ignorance of their surroundings and several contrasts between the everyday life scenes of a wealthy and poor family.

Parasite is precise, well-written, and surely deserving of its multiple awards.

Knives Out (2019) dir. by Rian Johnson

Whodunnit—-they say that when you see them once, you’ve seen them all. And that may be true, but Knives Out’s fast pacing and quick cuts from past to present still kept my eyes glued to the screen. It’s a classic murder mystery, encouraging the audience to say things like “It’s too early on for such an obvious clue.”

This will keep you thinking throughout its length, asking questions again and again in your head, eager to beat the ending before the killer’s reveal. Though predictable for some, Knives Out nonetheless offers a fun view into the world of a money-starved family and their deceased father, along with a bunch of odd and entertaining characters.

The Handmaiden (2016) dir. by Park Chan-wook

Of course I found a way to sneak The Handmaiden into this list.

The film follows Kim Tae-ri’s character who falls in deep romance with Lady Hideko, the woman she works for. Just when you think it is about to finally end, a sharp turn comes and it’s as if the story had only begun then—this happens thrice, by the way.

As we go further along the story we encounter money’s play in the wickedness of men and are left with our mouths agape after another unexpected revelation or scene.

The Handmaiden is not only a story of forbidden romance between two women but also a showcasing of comradeship and care for another in suffering. Looking past its long length and adult scenes is a mind-boggling and thoroughly written story accompanied by excellent direction, camera work, and acting.

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diaryofamadsunwukongfan · 16 days

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It's wild how CRWBY based SSSN of Kpop groups but didn't think to make them a boyband. Having hunters also be entertainers also does makes logical sense with how Grimm are attracted.

P.S. The stuff you're doing with Adam is cool. Actual intrigue? Who would've thought?

No what really kills me is that Weiss is a singer who has concerts and you really mean to tell me that Jacques wouldn't turn her into an industry plant to make money while also giving the SDC company free PR?

What was the point of even making her a singer if it was only ever going to come up in the story twice???

#rwde #thanks anon!#weiss schnee #rwde weiss

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rxgirlie · 10 months

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Magic In The Hamptons

Pairing: Lukas Matsson x f!reader

Summary: Lukas is shocked to see his new GC’s Instagram feed after she heads back home to NY for a week. (Heavily implied that reader and Matsson have NOT slept together... yet)

Warnings: literal phone sex, dubious content if you squint, mentions of alcohol/drugs, sexual themes, bodily fluids, etc. MINORS DNI!

Word count: 2033

Notes: absolutely no one requested this but I’m about to join the ranks of everyone else suffering from Matsson brain rot. I’ve been silently writing a fic involving Matsson/f!reader/Kendall and this is me testing the waters to see if anyone would even entertain the idea of reading it. This all unedited as well, so please look over any mistakes!

“Lukas,” Oskar bellows from across the room. Once again, he’s moonbeamed on edibles. The entire room is buzzing on something. Oskar holds his phone up, shaking it back and forth, “have you seen what your new counsel is posting on insta?”

Lukas looks around, quirking an eyebrow. “Should I have seen it?”

Lukas is quick to break away from the crowd of people surrounding him. Finding a small corner, he leans against the cool tile as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. He opens Instagram and there you are- happy and loose and alive. Something you hadn’t felt when you’d been in Sweden. He doesn’t take it personally. He knows it shocked your system when he asked you to come to Sweden to assist with the legalities of laying off upwards of a thousand people. With the WayStar acquisition and merger in its early stages, the both of you have been tense. Moreover, the sexual tension between the both of you seemed to hit an all time high before you were called back home for a family friend’s wedding.

“Too bad she won’t let loose like that with all of us,” Lukas looks up at Oskar who peers over his phone and watches as he scrolls through the slides.

Amongst the curated feed, the newest post stands out from its tailored predecessors. Gone are the days of a carefully monitored feed. Gone are the days of Logan Roy. The first photo is innocent, it’s you and a group of friends clinging to one another. You're tanned, practically glowing, he notices. The next one is a panoramic of the estate he assumes you’re staying at for the wedding. The well curated lawn, hedgerows, and statues meticulously placed along the sprawling grounds screams ‘old money’ and a quick click of the tagged location lets him know you’re in The Hamptons. He’s back on the slides again as he thumbs over to the third photo. You’re lying back on a lounger by a pool. The smallest bikini covering the most intimate parts of you, with the rest on full display. The first thing he notices is the Jacques Marie Mage sunglasses you’re wearing. If he had exquisite vision and the capability of zooming far beyond anything an iPhone offers, he would be able to make out Kendall’s initials on the right sided temple. You’ve had them for years, an old pair Kendall had given you when you lost yours in the ocean. Things may have soured between you and Kendall but his sunglasses were your favorite amongst your precious collection. The most peculiar thing about the photo is the reflection in the lenses. Lukas zooms in further and sees, what he assumes, to be a man leaning towards you. He’s smiling down at you in an appetizing way. Like he’s going in for the kill. The next slide is a Live Photo of you letting smoke billow from your slightly agape mouth. Your eyes are glazed and slightly rolled back. The first thing that comes to his mind is vivid. He imagines this is how you look when you cum. He thinks of his thumb on the crest of your tongue as he rolls his spit around your mouth with the pad of his finger, your doe eyes staring up at him as you come undone. He swallows the lump in his throat. He secretly wishes you were here with him. The next photo is of you sitting in a corner booth. The lights are dim, except for a small amount of candlelight spilling across your face from the centerpiece. There’s a man, someone he can’t place, sitting beside you. He looks like him. Same build, same profile. His face is brushing against your cheek, arms snaked tight around your waist. Your arm is wrapped equally as tight across his shoulders, your right hand tangled around his arm. He notices no one is tagged. No matter, he thinks, he will find out who he is regardless. The next photo stops him in his tracks totally. Your front is pressed against a marble wall, back completely bared for the photo, a slinky dress hanging off your waist. Your fingers splayed out in your hair, pushing it upwards, away from your face. You don a smirk. The one he wants to fuck right off your face. There's a small hint of a tattoo spanning the length of your right side. As much as he zooms, he’s unable to make it out. He wonders what you were thinking when the photo was snapped. Specifically, he wonders who took the photo. Without another word, he slides his phone deep in his pocket and takes off upstairs. He sits idly amongst the deep cushions of the couch spanning the wall of his bedroom before he slides his phone back out. He finds your contact with ease and initiates the call.

It rings four times before he dejectedly pulls it back from his ear.

“Hello?” Your sleep laden voice calls out before he can end the call.

“What’s that tattoo on your side?” He sets off into the conversation. No need for formalities.

You sigh loudly into the receiver, “it’s three in the morning, Lukas.”

“Show me.” He insists.

Another sigh leaves your lips. “It’s a sword.”

You tell him.

“I’m a visual learner,” he says lowly, “show me.”

Another loud sigh and he hears your phone being shuffled around. His phone vibrates against his ear and he slides it down, opening your highlighted name in his Notification Center.

No face at all, just your left hand covering your breasts, right arm hovering above your form to snap the photo. Your stomach is partially bared to him from your position on your side with your lower half wrapped in a deep green down comforter. He pays attention to everything but the tattoo.

It’s his turn to sigh now.

“Did you fuck him?” You’ve begun to notice how his accent slips through when he’s turned on or worked up. This isn’t his first time getting riled up around you. You figure it won’t be the last either.

“I did.” you admit. Lukas notices more shuffling from your end.

“Tell me about it.” He pushes you further. There’s a certain longing in his voice. He lays his phone on his chest and taps the speaker icon as his hands come to rest on his hip bones. He pulls his cock free and it springs out, slapping against his belly, resting just below his belly button. He’s hanging on your every word.

You inhale deeply.

“We drove out to the beach a few days ago,” you tell him. “Just for a little while to get away from the wedding chaos. I climbed over once he parked the car and fucked him right in the driver’s seat of his Audi.”

A groan manifests deep from his chest. He has a firm grasp on his cock now, his pointer finger and thumb rolling over the swollen head repeatedly.

“You let him cum inside you?” His question comes out breathy.

You chuckle lightly, almost sardonically, “I didn’t.”

The phone is pressed tightly against your ear as you imagine what type of state he’s in.

“Would you let me cum inside you?” He asks. You clench at the mere thought. His breath hitches and you can tell his hands are no longer idle.

On the other line, he throbs viciously in his hand. He slows his movements as he waits for your answer, a tight grip around his thick base.

“Do you want to?,” you suck in a gasp of air, “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“Mmm,” you muse, “maybe if you ask nicely.”

“I don’t ask,” he growls out, “I take.“

Against your will, a light moan flies out of your mouth. The sheets are clinging to the edge of the mattress as you squirm and writhe around, squeezing your thighs shut for any sort of relief.

“Yeah,” he questions with a tinge of a chuckle, “you like that?”

“I do,” you admit, “I thought about you the entire time I fucked him. I closed my eyes and imagined it was you.”

There’s no response to that. The only sound you hear is flesh on flesh. A slapping noise that echoes around the room and straight into the receiver.

He’s working himself viciously on the other end. Thinking about you tight and slick around him, a silken vice, fucking you until you forget anyone else has ever fucked you. He imagines being deep inside you, filling you up to your belly, fucking you so good, you don’t walk right for days.

“You like that?” It’s your turn to taunt him.

“Yeah,” a murmur of a grunt slides out of him, “I am going to ruin you.”

You don’t doubt it. You anticipate it.

You can tell he has met his end when a few strangled grunts pour out of him, followed by a dull, scratching sound reverberating from his side of the call. You hear him sigh loudly, chuckling as his voice comes back into earshot.

“Dropped you.” He says with no indication of what has just transpired between the two of you. The casualness in his tone, as if you’ve both just spoken about the weather.

You only laugh in response, squirming around in the bed, pulling yourself up to rest on the mountainous pillows.

“I am tired,” you whisper out, “still a little drunk.”

"Let me see you,” and before you can tell him ‘absolutely not,’ your phone vibrates with an incoming FaceTime from him.

You reluctantly answer, squinting briefly before adjusting to the light filtering in from behind his face.

“You look like shit,” he tells you and you laugh, nodding in agreement.

“When did you go to bed?” He asks and you glance at the time pinned in the corner of your phone.

“An hour ago?” You shrug, “if that.”

It’s obvious he is no longer paying attention to you, rather doing god knows what else on a different tab. You take the moment to glance at your reflection in the small window hovering beside his face. You’re missing an earring, your eyeliner has bled down onto your cheeks, and your hair is wild. You tuck the duvet further under your arms, making a mental note to search for the earring amongst the sea of sheets.

And then he’s back, staring at you as you disassociate to the view out the french doors across from the bed.

“There’s going to be a car there to pick you up at eight,” your phone vibrates with a text from him, “just sent you the details.”

You swipe down to see he has scheduled a meeting with you for later this afternoon.

“A meeting?” You groan, “The only meeting I want to have is with a pillow.”

He is up and moving now and you can tell by the new surroundings, he is in his bathroom. He has placed his phone down on the counter, crooked, and you watch as he grabs a tissue, wiping it across his lower stomach.

He shoves the cum filled tissue close to his phone.

“All for you, baby!” He maniacally laughs out. He takes his shirt off and tosses it haphazardly in the corner.

You grimace, turning the deepest shade of red. “You are disgusting.” You don’t mean it. In a sick way, you’re almost flattered.

You inhale sharply, suddenly aware of what has transpired between the two of you. The gravity of the entire situation weighs heavily on you as you shift in bed.

“We can’t make this a thing.” You tell him, “there’s work to be done.”

“I know,” he assures you. He’s on the move again, only stilling when he plops down on his bed, “but the way I see it is either we fuck it out or we fight it out.”

‘And I don’t fight fair,” he continues, “and I know you don’t either.” He smiles at you knowingly.

“I will see you soon,” he says and you’re back on your home screen. You lock your phone with a groan and roll over.

#lukas matsson x reader #Lukas Matsson imagine #succession x reader #succession imagines #Kendall Roy #female reader #lukas matsson fanfiction #succession fanfiction #succession fic

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beatricebidelaire · 24 days

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i don't really do jacques/ernest much and like it's hard for me to read them that way, but then i was playing around with ideas and put netflix!J into it instead of book!J and then i suddenly thought, hmm i might be able to do netflix!J/ernest. idk. im not sure. but netflix!J has this vastly different vibes from book!J that i just ……………. anyway. anyway!

implied jsjs

well, he promised esme he would make an effort. not that promises to esme ever meant much to him, he can promise her many things and still not make an effort for single one of them, claiming that it wasn't he who promised her anyway. or that he changed his mind. or whatever.

but still, ernest is sort of bored right now and things at the hotel has fallen into some kind of - routine. he aches for something exciting to happen, but hopefully something not on a wide-level that would affect the balance of the schism. just something on a personal level, to spice things up a little.

so, he says to jacques snicket, the heroic agent of vfd. the james bond type, "are you simply making up scenarios in your head, imagining jerome squalor in distress, just so you can heroically save him from his situation, be the hero you would always like to be?"

the problem with jacques snicket is that he's much too dashing for his own good, and quite aware of it himself. an even bigger problem is that jacques snicket is ridiculously attractive, so much that even things that would've sounded completely idiotic coming out of the mouth of a less attractive man, sounded somehow charming when he says it. ernest is aware of jacques snicket's flaws beneath his charming, dashing, heroic image that could've made him the secret agent protagonist of action films. ernest has no illusions about jacques snicket.

ernest also has no history with jacques snicket (like olaf), nor harbored any crush on jacques snicket (like some of the volunteers who he will graciously not name), but he's willing to admit that jacques snicket is not without his charms, that objectively speaking jacques snicket is quite attractive, and ernest is not a man without any appreciation for aesthetics. jacques snicket is stupidly heroic and has ideas about vfd that ernest pities him for, but he is dashing, objectively speaking. in a secret agent protagonist of an action film away. he looks at jacques snicket and feels like this guy walked straight out of a movie. he's entertaining. ernest is certainly entertained. at this hotel, one has to know how to find entertainment for oneself to survive the routine.

ernest has no delusions about jacques snicket, has no nostalgia about jacques snicket, has no history with jacques snicket, has never had a crush on jacques snicket and not about to start now. that said, jacques snicket is the very definition of adventurous and ernest is bored right now and wouldn't mind some low-stakes adventure, just for one afternoon, something that wouldn't change the balance of things between sides.

and he can trust jacques not to do any actual harm to him or take advantage of him because jacques snicket is, deep down, beneath his dramatic flair and heroic gestures and secret agent abilities, a noble person at heart.

so, ernest continues on, "you need jerome to require saving, so you can swoop in and save him heroically, but does he really need your saving? or do you just yearn to play hero too much? you've been enjoying this role too much and you can't stand the idea of he might not actually need your help -"

jacques' eyes flash dangerously. he grabs onto the collar of ernest's hotel manager uniform. "keep. jerome's. name. out. of. your. mouth."

"possessive much?" ernest grins sharply. "only you can use his name? jerome squalor, love of your life -" the grip on the collar tightens, and ernest's words got cut off for a moment. his mouth twists a little, partly in pain, partly in amusement, and he takes few seconds to compose himself - as much as his current position would allow him to, and says, "it must pain you that you're not able to act out the action hero fantasy with him. but you don't always need to be saving fragile millionaires from their wives to feel dashing and heroic, you can also be tackling a villainous villain to the ground and teaching him a lesson - after all, i hear that's what heroes do." he smiles, tauntingly. brilliantly.

the dangerous aura surrounding jacques seems to dissolve the more ernest goes on, morphing into an amused expression. which is about to be expected. jacques may be completely oblivious to certain sides of vfd, but he gets around too much to be oblivious to a bold invitation like this.

"why," he murmurs, in a low tone that makes ernest almost shiver. "are you offering, E?"

ernest denouement's boring afternoon is about to turn into something deeply satisfying.

#jacques snicket #ernest denouement #jacques x ernest #vera.txt #netflix!J #jerome squalor (not pictured)

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total-drama-takes-the-squeakquel · 3 days

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I have a rant I want to go on. No season has ever reached the same level of insufferability as RR. None. Not even All Stars. And it’s all because of the idiot duo that is “”The Best Friends.”” Dishonorable mention to the Daters as well, but 23 episodes oh my god. 23 episodes of the same shit. I was moaning and groaning after ONE. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t entertaining, it lasted way too fucking long, both characters are total nothing burgers and worst of all IT WAS JUST THE SAME JOKE OVER AND OVER AGAINN UGHH. I feel like that kid ranting about sonic right now but they just piss me off so bad. The best friends turned what would’ve been an easy A tier season into a C. Josee seriously carried the whole season without her I would have just dropped it. (Honorable mentions to the Sisters and the Goths too) Actually, I was gonna put this in a different confession but Josee deserves way more appreciation for what she did for RR. Like i like Jacques a lot too but without josee he would lose a lot of his appeal, plus him telling her he wanted to ditch her while she was scared left a bad taste in my mouth. I normally hate using arguments like this but I really feel like if Josee was the man she would be the more popular one. No shade to Jacques though I still love him. Ok, rant over. -🍟

#total drama #the ridonculous race #character hate #long post #fry anon

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sarahlizziewrites · 2 months

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OC Kiss Week 2024 - Day 5 - "Darkness"

In which Silas Chrissie has a friendship tested on the Western Front. (1389 words) WIP: Chrissie’s of London (pre-canon) Characters: Jacques de Éloïe, Silas Chrissie Taglist: @novel-emma, @tabswrites, @mrbexwrites, @hippiewrites, @vacantgodling, @imsoveryveryconfusedatlife (+/-) Content warning: war

'Nerves of steel' - that's a phrase that Silas taught me, not long after I came to England, back when we were young men just starting out at university. I soaked up his idioms then, learning the things that can't be learned from schoolbooks.

In theory, I could literally replace my nerves with steel. Remove all the soft human parts of me that feel fear and make them something else; something stronger. Certainly, an accomplished autotransmuter could manage it.

But metal has always been difficult for me. And I'm better at changing the parts of me I can see. If I was better at changing the parts inside of me, I would have replaced my heart with a wooden one a long time ago - or a heart of steel, perhaps: something inorganic that can’t feel hurt.

And there is no transformation that can save me from these shells, the ones that whistle overhead and shake the ground.

In terror, we have all retreated to our dug-outs. A few metres deep, they offer the best available protection, while at the same time, being almost useless against a direct hit. Each shell that whistles close sounds like it will be our fate. Each strike that lands near enough to rattle our teeth in our skulls very well may have just killed a fellow soldier or a friend.

The electric lights went out long ago, before nightfall, when the first round of shelling began. Now, it's darker than pitch, because neither of us has thought to light a lamp. Probably no point anyway. The only thing in this world that I am certain of is the way Silas is pressed up against my body, his arm around my shoulders as I lean into him. Even in the darkness, he is warm and solid.

If I replace my nerves with steel, will it stop me shaking? If I did, could I put a firm hand on his chest and save him from the terror, too?

As it is, all I can do is grasp his fingers, let them feel my shaking. I came here to protect him, not the other way around.

"Silas?"

"Yes, Jacqui?"

"Have you slept at all?"

"Not a wink."

There's a slight smile to his voice, even now. I can envision his face: moustache twitching to a smile, the faint spark of smooth-spoken mischief that alights in his eyes at even the slightest joke.

It's one of his better smiles. If asked, I could catalogue them. There's his wolfish one, the one that flashes when he speaks of sex, or alludes to it. That one sets an uneasy rhythm to my heart, knowing that while his attraction doesn't seem to discriminate between women and men, it also doesn't seem to extend to me. And if I’m being honest, I don't want it to, if all I'll get is one of those smiles.

Then there's the one that's bright as sunshine, whenever he gets a letter from his sister in America. There's another, like the relief of a cool dip on a hot day, that he used to flash in our uni days when he would get to go home to London.

Then there's yet another, softer smile. One I get when we're alone, and he doesn't have other people to entertain. The one he uses when he speaks of his mother. It is a bittersweet smile of utter heartbreak.

Outside, the shelling has calmed a little, or perhaps it has just moved to a different part of the front. In some ways, it's more terrifying to hear the rasp of our breathing, the pounding of our hearts in our ears.

"Silas?"

"Yes, Jacqui?"

"Are we going to die?"

"Yes," he says, and the frankness of his own answer bubbles a laugh from him: a tiny thing, gone in an instant. "But not tonight, God willing."

He squeezes my fingers where he holds them. It's all wrong. I came here to protect him.

In the darkness, I rip my hand away from his and attempt to find his cheek. The tips of my fingers brush against it, right on the mark like they're magnetised. If one or both of us is to die tonight, it pains me that it will be without having seen his face one last time. I'll have to settle for mapping it with my fingers.

His cheeks are rough with stubble - he must have forgotten to shave this morning. I imagine it: the dusting of fair hair across his cheek and chin, perhaps only visible in the right light or up close.

Then, my thumb traces over the thick hair on his upper lip. Normally smooth with wax, now it is untidy and rough. We’ve touched each other before; distant, furtive, unsatisfying events. I’ve never kissed him. The moustache would tickle, I think, against my own skin.

I can't go the rest of my life not knowing whether it would. And the rest of my life might not be long.

"Silas?" The shells are still far away.

"Yes, Jacqui?" His words are a puff of damp breath across my thumb, quieter than before.

I move my thumb to the place where he said my name: a plump lower lip, bitten with worry.

"Forgive me, I just need to–"

Then without another thought telling me not to, I crowd close and satisfy my curiosity, claiming those worry-bitten lips with my own, feeling his sandpapery stubble against my palm and his pulse hammering in his neck.

For a second, he freezes, and it's long enough for a different kind of fear to seep in. But the fear is gone in an instant when he opens up, a groan in the back of his throat, kissing me back.

It's delirium, being kissed by him at last. I hardly think about what the moustache feels like for the sake of his urgent kisses, the taste of his tongue brushing up against mine, hot and slick. As an afterthought, I note that the hand that had been around my shoulders is now in my hair, tugging me close.

The collar of his jacket had been opened at some point, and my hand hungrily seeks the cotton of his shirt, hoping to find some warmth, some evidence that this is not a dream. He is warm there, and I want so badly to strip him bare and feel his skin. Beneath, I know, there is the same fair hair in curls across his chest - I want to run my fingers through it, watch it clump with sweat.

We're alone, in this dugout. On this bench, I would let him have me, have anything. Everything.

A shell rattles the earth, a little too close once again. It rumbles us apart, enough space for a few breaths to fall between. His breaths cool the dampness on my lips, making me shiver.

Another shell. The world is ending, but there's a singing in my blood: at least I get to spend it with him.

I push back towards him, but his hand stops me - no longer in my hair, but at my collar, insistent.

"Jacques - no."

With those two words, I wish more than ever for my heart to turn to something inorganic, that doesn't hurt.

"You don't want–?"

"...no."

I can still feel his pulse, the dampness of his ragged breathing. Foolish me - I should have known. He has never wanted me the way I want him. Never reciprocated anything other than my friendship. Envy burns at the back of my throat - he’s had all those others: what’s so wrong with me?

How many more times am I going to let him break my heart?

In the darkness, another shell trembles the earth, and his arm slides back to my shoulders. Despite his words, he holds me tighter now, as though the shaking ground is a current that will drag me away from him. I’m powerless to do anything other than lean my head on his chest and let the wardrum of his heart lull me into something approaching sleep. As the shells fade into the distance, and his arm continues to grip my shoulder like a lifebuoy, I fall asleep knowing I would let him break this soft, human heart of mine as many times as he wants, for the rest of our lives.

If you liked this, there is a companion piece of sorts from OC Kiss Week 2023 here!

#ockiss24 #ockissweek #ockiss #a man lives rent free in my head and he is called silas chrissie

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formulatrash · 11 months

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thoughts on jacques villeneuve? I know almost nothing about the guy but he irks me everytime he appears on camera in wec or f1. This is solely based on vibes though, I'm waiting for your (def more qualified) opinion

oh this is a fun one. where do we start.

so, firstly: nepo baby. one of the og nepo babies, like Damon Hill and neither ascended to the heights of their dads' careers but then, maybe their dads wouldn't have in modern machinery etc and every era of F1 is distinct.

anyway. Jacques Villeneuve is an uhhhhhh divisive character due to having a disease many of us suffer from called Can't Shut The Fuck Up. sometimes this is Very Annoying and sometimes it is the funniest thing in the entire world, so who's to say what's good or bad.

he was a good F1 driver and he won his title on merit. he was also a dickhead on and off track throughout his career.

ever since then, he's been doing little bits with varying degrees of how funny he either a) intended them to be and b) actually are. making a really terrible album? go off, king, it's your art. turning up in Formula E, looking utterly confused for two races and fucking off? mixed results. talking trash 24/7 until Max Verstappen accuses Nico Rosberg of being the new version of you in a surprisingly apt former Williams driver who is nepo baby comparison that he may or may not have intended? on balance, iconic. taking up sim racing in lockdown because didn't all of us but refusing to make himself into an idiot with a proper rig and sitting at the kitchen table using a Playstation controller? life your life, girl.

so yeah, he's equal parts incredibly annoying and entertaining and to be fair, there should be more of that.

#jacques villeneuve #f1 asks

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hyperions-fate · 9 months

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Every night, after supper, we read some part of a small collection of romances which had been my mother's. My father's design was only to improve me in reading, and he thought these entertaining works were calculated to give me a fondness for it; but we soon found ourselves so interested in the adventures they contained, that we alternately read whole nights together, and could not bear to give over until at the conclusion of a volume. Sometimes, in a morning, on hearing the swallows at our window, my father, quite ashamed of this weakness, would cry, "Come, come, let us go to bed; I am more a child than thou art."

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions

#Rousseau #Confessions #Literature

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plumslices · 4 months

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do you watch any cooking shows?

:) i grew up watching julia childs jacques pepin anything on pbs really and the food network. I love cooking competition shows now, americas test kitchen is good for technique and some product recommendations. I still consume a lot of cooking content online which counts imo. Chopped still gets me inspired about thinking on my feet. Top chef is kind of a unicorn how they’ve been able to have like legitimacy in the culinary industry + the people theyve had on there. i always learn things watching but its more like….serious which i dont watch as much tbh. Theres shows to watch about food and entertainment shows about food i think both are entertaining

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maggiec70 · 8 hours

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Maréchaux d'Empire: La gloire pour destin

Quelle horreur!

On the other hand, this book will keep me alternating between guffaws and serious eye-rolls for days.

The "replacement" for David Chandler's anthology, Napoleon's Marshals, published in 1987 with each of the 26 mini-bios written by for-real scholars [and not just Americans, either] is this November 2023 anthology edited by Francois Houdecek, who holds forth at the Sorbonne, claims to be a "disciple" of Jean Tulard [I believe M. Tulard has thousands of those!], and is involved in all sorts of activities and scribblings involving Naps. He is also responsible for gathering and organizing vast quantities of Napoleon's correspondence, so kudos for that.

However--and oh, my! what a huge "however" this is!--the 26 contributors range from the marginally average Pierre Branda to the apparent dregs of French scholarship whose names have never resonated outside the borders of Gallica. Each of these articles is depressingly cardboard, flimsy with details, utterly bereft of any attempt at analysis or understanding of the individual's character, talents--or lack thereof--and other useful and expected details, even in an anthology. These contributors apparently competed to see who could write the most drivel using the fewest sources. Naturally, I went straight to the entry about Lannes, and by the time I reached the end, I had permanently dislocated my eyebrows. The "author" of this travesty is Jacques-Olivier Boudon, whose credentials, on paper, are impressive but whose knowledge of Jean-Boy is worse than passing; it is non-existent. The reason for that is based on M. Boudon's sources:

He cites Lannes’ “official dossier” in the SHD, which I copied before I left, so I know every page and every sentence in it, and I know you won’t find squat that is useful unless, of course, you care how much putting on Mozart’s Requiem cost, and who sang the tenor solo.

High on the hit parade list is Regis de Crepy’s smarmy bio of the Lovely Louise, another book I can quote endlessly. Boudon used one letter from that.

Boudon also took bits and pieces from the three more recent French biographies by Dammame, Zins, and Willette—although the latest was published in 1994—and explained what I thought about them in a previous blog.

The absolutely most hysterical “source” is the 2002 historical fiction by a lovely 93-year-old woman, Penelope Le Fers-Dupac, who lives in Lectoure and who I know [I also know the biographer Jean-Claude Dammame, but that’s another story]. This novel is called “Le Mousquetaire de Napoleon: L’autre vie du marechal Lannes.” Make of this what you will, but it is the wonderfully entertaining, hilarious, and fictional tale of Jean-Boy’s first marriage.

I am appalled that this person didn’t do justice to Jean-Boy in an anthology where he would have shone at the top in capable hands. I know who's the real expert here, and I certainly don’t mind if someone also chooses to write about My Guy. But he or she had damn well better get it right, and this French morceau de merde massacred his subject.

BTW, joachimnapoleon, have you encountered Vincent Haegele? He did Murat no favors here, either. Thanks for reading the rant. I feel better.

#jean lannes #don't bother #napoleon's marshals #truly terrible french writng #non-history #who are these idiots?

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itsupermanti · 1 year

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Gingaman Remnant, Opening 1;

(Cue “Let’s Just Live” by Casey Lee Williams, RWBY Volume 4 opening)

It used to feel like a fairy tale

A group photo of teams RWBY and JNPR during their time in Beacon is shown.

Now it seems we were just pretending

The image of a smiling Pyrrha catches fire, burning the photo away to reveal the untransformed Gingaman and their allies gazing out into space.

We'd fix our world

Remnant being turned to Stone is shown as Ruby bangs against the glass while screaming.

Then on our way to a happy ending!

Jaune is seen holding up his sash while Ruby holds onto her cloak.

Then it turned out life  Was far less like a bedtime story~

The Gingaman are seen drawing their StarBeast swords and transforming.

Than a tragedy  With no big reveal of the hero's glory~

Oscar is seen holding up his helmet and gazing into the black visor as Ozpin is shown looking back at him in its reflection.

And it seems we weren't prepared~ For a game that wasn't fair~

Salem is seen sitting on her throne while using a Seer to view the Gingaman fighting her Grimm.

Do we just go home?

GingaBlue is shown reaching out to his sisters as they get overwhelmed by Grimm.

Can we follow through?

GingaGreen and GingaYellow are seen falling into a dark pit as Nora and Emerald reach their hands out to them in shock.

When all hope is gone,

GingaRed is shown holding onto GingaPink to steady each otherin, his visor cracked to show one of his blue eyes as Cinder’s reflection appears in the uncracked portion.

There is one thing we can do~

The Morphing Emissaries are shown looking upon them as their allies come running towards them.

Let's just live!

Akared is shown fighting a group of aliens, constantly shifting his form into other Red Rangers every time he spins to fight a different opponent.

Day by day and not be conquered by our sorrows!

Nick is shown fighting Tyrian with his sword, as Blanche fires at the mad faunus, forcing him to back off.

The past can't hold us down

Taiyang is shown wielding metal gauntlets as he punches Grimm in their bone masks, leaving cracks while Qrow swings his sword at the camera.

We must break free~

Whitley gazes at Jacques’ image in a mirror before punching it, as he is shown punching an alien as GingaBlue.

Inside we're torn apart~

The Gingaman are seen kneeling without their suits.

But time will mend our hearts!

Their friends appear and lift them to their feet as they become the Gingaman in a flash of light.

Move onward not there yet!

The StarBeasts are shown roaring, before quickly combining into GingaiOh in a flash of light.

So let's just live!

The Gingaman are shown striking their team pose, their friends and family smiling besides with GingaiOh standing tall behind them.

(End song)

Author’s note; A little “something something” to keep you all entertained as I finish up Chapter 2. I’m already halfway done with it, so it might not take me much longer. I’m also working on a closing, so look forward to that! They’ll be included in Chapter 2, and just so you all know, I will be changing the opening and closings for some chapters.

#rwby au #super sentai #power rangers #seijuu sentai gingaman #power rangers lost galaxy #rwby #gingaman remnant #super sentai crossover au #opening #Let’s Just Live #casey lee williams

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cardinaldust · 10 months

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For those of yall who don't have or haven't seen the new Noel's Lament, don't worry. Here's the new lyrics (yw) :)

Btw, I will be putting some stage directions and script calls in pink, but definitely not all of them. I also won't be adding the "OOOS" and "AHHS" behind Noel's lyrics

DISCLAIMER: NEITHER THESE LYRICS, SCRIPT DIRECTIONS, OR THE SONG BELONG TO ME! ALL ARE PROPERTY OF "RIDE THE CYCLONE"

In my life, I was Noel's Gruber who worked at Taco Bell in Uranium City, Saskatchewan. But... in my dreams... I played a different role...I was Monique Gibeau, from France, a traveling chanteuse dangereuse... entertaining the crowds by day, and swindling them by night...

A CARNY, WITH A HEART.... OF BLACK CHARCOAL

WELCOME TO THIS WICKED FESTIVAL

WE'LL SING AND DANCE, AND THEN DELIGHT IN CRIME.

MEET AMÈLIE, AMORAL ACROBAT

PIERRE WILL PICK YOUR POCKETS, HE'S A MIME.

JEAN-JACQUES', A JUGGLER WITH A NASTY STREAK

LAST FOOL WHO CROSSED US FADED QUICK TO BLACK

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE TO FIND HIM OFFICERS

BUT IF YOU DO,

PLEASE MENTION THAT,

WE'D LIKE TO HAVE RETURNED THE PRETTY KNIFE

THAT WE STUCK

TEN! TIMES! IN! HIS! BACK!

FOR I SING SONGS UNTIL THE BREAK OF DAWN

I COMMIT A NEW CRIME EVERY NIGHT

MY LIFE'S ONE NEVER-ENDING CARNIVAL

KIDS:

A WORLD OF BOOZY, FLOOZY FLASHING LIGHT

NOEL:

I WANT TO BE UNE FEMME BRISÉE

(Accordian riff into a panto dance between NOEL {as Monique} and MISCHA {as Jean-Jacques}. It feels like an old black and white silent film... France, tango, juggling...)

NOEL:

FRÉDÉRIQUE'S IS A FIRE SWALLOWER

WHO DABLES IN SOME ARSON NOW AND THEN.

THE DANCING MONKEYS NAME

IS POMPIDOU

SHE'LL CRACK A SAFE BEFORE YOU

COUNT TO TEN

FOR I SING SONGS UNTIL THE BREAK OF DAWN

I COMMIT A NEW CRIME EVERY NIGHT

MY LIFE'S ONE NEVER-ENDING CARNIVAL

KIDS:

A WORLD OF BOOZY, FLOOZY FLASHING LIGHT

NOEL:

I WANT TO BE UNE FEMME BRISÉE

SO NOW I TRAPISE THROUGH

FRANCE...A BROKEN GIRL

MY LIFE OF SIN IS CACTHING UP WITH ME

I'M ARRESTED AT MY FINAL SONG

THEY LOCK ME UP AND THROW AWAY

THE KEY

EIGHT MONTHS LATER, I CATCH TYPHOID FLU

THROUGH BARS I SEE THE UGLY LIGHT OF DAY

DYING IN MY CELL, A PRIEST KNEELS

DOWN TO ME

RICKY(as priest, French accent):

My child, do you have any final words to the lord you'd like to say?

NOEL(as Monique):

Oui, tell him that like him, I choose to burn out rather than fade away...

FOR I SING SONGS UNTIL THE BREAK OF DAWN

I COMMITT A NEW CRIME EVERY NIGHT

MY LIFE'S ONE NEVER-ENDING CARNIVAL

A WORLD OF BOOZY, FLOOZY FLASHING LIGHT

FOR I SING SONGS UNTIL THE BREAK OF DAWN

I COMMITT A NEW CRIME EVERY NIGHT

MY LIFE'S ONE NEVER-ENDING CARNIVAL

KIDS:

A WORLD OF BOOZY, FLOOZY FLASHING LIGHT

NOEL:

I WANT TO...

BE UNE FEMME BRI-SÉE

UNE FEMME BRISÉEEEEEEEEEEE (~6 times and riffing)

GIRLS (tracked under previous lyric): (Guys repeating "HEY")

BROKEN HEART, A LIFE OF SIN

TATTOOED WITH A SAFETY PIN

RACETEERING, BRIBERY,

EXTORTION, FRAUD, AND FORGERY

SUPER CRUSTY, HOLY TERROR

WILD EYES AND BLACK MASCARA

BROKEN HEART, A LIFE OF SIN

TATTOOED WITH A SAFETY PIN

RACETEERING, BRIBERY,

EXTORTION, FRAUD, AND FORGERY

SUPER CRUSTY, HOLY TERROR

WILD EYES AND BLACK MASCARA-AH

NOEL:

IF I COULD HAVE JUST ONE DREAM

ENSEMBLE:

IF HE COULD HAVE JUST ONE DREAM

NOEL:

ID BE UNE

FEMME

BRI-SÈE!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Juneau

Ahahauqj- this took a while..

Also, I type this on a tablet, so sorry if the formatting is weird.

#ride the cyclone #noel gruber #monique gibeau #ride the cyclone monique #ride the cyclone noel #rtc #ride the cyclone script #noels lament

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lafcadiosadventures · 10 months

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Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book Two, Chapter XV

Featuring this week:

The Portrait of a Nobleman as a Well Dressed Criminal Beyond Legal Punishment

further fleshing out of Fitz-Harris, an atypical court jester/manservant-as-comic-relief

Clarissa surprised by Lovelace, from a series of illustrations after Stothard for Richardson's Clarissa.

Last chapter closed with a brief line about Fitz-Harris’ having the act of talking as the focus of his “monomania”. This was a 19th century medical term (defined by the littré as a “madness or delirium concerning a single object”) (readers of Balzac will be familiar) Fitz-Harris being portrayed as an irrefreinable, almost ""pathological"" chatterbox, and the choice of the scientific term is interesting to me because:

1)It possibly ties Fitz-Harris with a previous famous working class “monomaniac of talking”, (although Diderot does not call him that iirc) of French Literature, one that Borel was familiar with: Diderot’s Jacques the Fatalist. In Jacques’s case, being a chatterbox is not a negative trait. (and Jacques, although occasionally morally ambiguous, is more of a positive character than Fitz-Harris) Although he’s not always control his loquacity, it reveals Jacques’ a narrative fecundity, how his brain engenders infinite stories. (The Master finds this trait both entertaining when he’s bored AND upsetting when he wants quiet, because he thinks of Jacques not as a whole person, but rather, an appliance: sometimes a radio, a bodyguard, a manservant) however, Diderot has the assertive, formidable Jacques apologize for his excessive chatter once or twice, illustrating how it is something he cannot always control, and can cause him discomfort.

2) Why use the word monomania? As we hear Fitz-Harris speak directly in chapter 15, we see his talk is peppered not only with jokes and word play, and puns, but also with scientific jargon (he knows some botany, he talks about naturists). He is a kind of shakesperean court jester to the marquis de Villepastour, (although he never abuses the man, he certainly speaks in a bolder manner than usual for a mere soldier talking to his aristocratic superior) but he’s up to the modern scientific lingo as well.

We have talked before how Borel mocks phrenology in the 1st chapter of this book, how he laughs at the archaeologists trying to study the Druidic vestiges through a far removed, theoretic approach while ignoring similar customs still in practice in neighbouring countries of shared Celtic origin... Borel seems to have many problems with the uses of science of his day. Fitz-Harris goes on about the naturalists, the classifying of plants, dissecting the marquis’ metaphor to render it meaningless. He uses scientific jargon to divert and distract, which, could be another jab at the role of science. Of course Fitz-Harris is half heartedly trying to divert the talk away from Debby, or pretending to want to do so, but nothing forced Borel to pick science as Harris’ special interest.

(We get our 1st mention of the titular Character, Madame Putiphar. Swans of the wrong color / court swans. I feel like cygnes de la cour is an allusion to something but I have no idea to what and I have a feeling I am missing the joke here?)(cam suggested the swans are pure while the court is corrupted but it seems that it’s not a preexisting clichéed phrase)

We finally meet Villepastour as well, whom Borel has been mentioning briefly in the last couple of Parisian chapters. He is a solidly built character character, completely nasty of course, but keeping it all behind a polite, refined façade. He is a poem on the trope of the depraved nobles of the 18th c (their credo extensively portrayed by sade, laclos, etc). Keeping a polished appearance is of utmost importance, while still indulging their worst impulses and getting away with it.

So, when Fitz-Harris complains to his superior (alla Jacques the fatalist complaining to his master that he is more than just a "Jacques". Fitz-Harris is possibly a perversion of Figaro as well, 18th c french lit seems to feature some amount of servants suddenly asking to be treated as humans) that it's HIM who is being disrespected -a bold claim from a pleb to a noble- because after all, Villepastour is treating him, Fitz-Harris, like a lowly pimp, he is completely correct. However, Fitz-Harris is very enthusiastic in earning his superiors approval and ruining Patrick, and depriving him of whatever advantages he has that Harris doesn’t enjoy (a wife, the admiration of Villepastour)

A bit on Villepastour’s admiration. Again, didn’t Almaviva admire Figaro? As a servant, he did! But he also believed servants are his appliances and playthings, so he sees no contradiction in taking Figaro’s wife-to-be’s virginity, benefiting from his droit du signeur. The same happens with Villepastour, he respects Patrick’s integrity, he understands he is a capable and honorable professional soldier, but the breach separating nobles from plebs is too vast, he knows Patrick is his subordinate, his instrument, and he can take his wife for fun if he wants to because these people are either his playthings or his tools.

Villepastour is also completely aware that what he is doing is wrong and plays holier-than-thou with Harris, accusing him of betraying his brother, his beloved Pylades, his friend in a foreign land, Patrick Fitz-Whyte. And this is of course, completely true as well, as per the narrator filling us in on how jealous and envious he is, how ready he is to badmouth others -AND himself, which is interesting, possibly adding to the jester aspect-. He certainly did try and make Villepastour lose his admiration for Fitz-Whyte, all while wearing the mask of friendship for his fellow compatriot.

After the dialogue we get Villepastours’ proper introduction by the narrator (remember how Borel used to introduce his characters -escept perhaps Fitz-Harris- letting us hear them speak before, and giving us “objective” biographies after the reader had had a chance to make up their mind about their personality via dialogue)

We are told he was born during Philippe d’Orleans Regency, a period thought of in the 1840’s as one of sexual freedom, and or “depravity” (“(...)tu es très Régence mon vieux ! Voilà ce que c’est que d’être trop bel homme !” says Vautrin to his henchman Paccard, nicknamed fameux lapin, possibly implying he is fond of having sex, and lots of it. Earlier, in Splendeurs as well we get:“elle était franche dans sa dépravation, elle avouait son culte pour les mœurs de la Régence.” regency -> possibly romantic shorthand for a period of -ugh how to word this. Aristocratic Excesses and Debauchery)

So of course there has to be a sexual scandal in Villepastour’s Regency Origin Story. He is rumoured to be the fruit of incest, so his blood is thought of as being extremely purified and refined (these gossips had possibly not heard of Habsburg lips?) He was backed and protected by a shadowy hand of possibly royal origin. He owes this protector being a colonel at age 25, we are told. (again, there’s no illusion of a meritocracy in the ancien régime Paris of Madame Putiphar)

Villepastour is also a hunter, but a gentleman hunter. That is to say, he pursues sex at all cost, but has some restraint and decorum his Regency predecessors didn’t. What does this decorum entail? We will soon see. He also stuck to traditional definitions of Right and Wrong, of Justice and Injustice “I don’t dare say (he stuck to) feelings (of right and wrong/justice injustice)”, the narrator says. That is so good, once again, it’s all about seeming, rather than being moral. He sticks to the correct forms that make himself look good to others.

These concepts were inculcated by his preceptor, a man from the old court of Louis XIV, the “grand règne”, -XIV’s government usually seen as the pinnacle of french monarchy- but they only managed to give Villepastour a patina of morality, making of him nothing more than “some kind of hypocrite” a false, ridiculous and perfumed biped form of Dupaty’s Voyage en Italie or The Letters to Emilie on Mythology by Dumoustier. (My copy's translator informs on the footnotes both books are rather sappy, sentimental literature from the 18th c)

So, the narrator sums up, Villepastour is completely satisfied with Harris’ debriefing, he merely pretends to be cross and appalled at his dishonour because he does not want to show gratitude to a man incapable of showing restraint (again, it’s all in the form, acting proper, having manners while pursuing sinister purposes)

That very Sunday, armed with Fitz-Harris' intel, Villepastours gets ready to accost Debby at mass. He wears springtime green, simbolizing his amorous hopes (like the green knight of Youth did in the poem/prologue)(the association of green with desire as seen in the expression vert-gallant, Richelieu’s fabled green velvet seduction outfit, the song Greensleeves and surely more, seems to be lost nowadays)

So he wears green, he douses himself in perfume, he wears All of the Lace, to seduce Debby. And forth he goes, completely ignoring the fact that a) Debby is not into him b) she is seriously religious and actually at church to pray, c)is incredibly uncomfortable because she doesn’t want to bring attention to herself by loudly rejecting him -which sadly shows that Debby is not completely devoid of the bad aspects of feminine gender role conditioning-

The man is disgusting and relentless, touching her, stealing her glove, whispering flirty phrases in latin -because he is ~classy~—interestingly, women were not usually taught latin and it was used to be able to get away with rude/sexual expressions in front of supposedly unsuspecting women—the latin here however gets translated we don’t know if by villepastour or by the narrator-, into her ear, and Debby endures all of this rather than make herself the focus of attention by standing/changing places/leaving mass early. She is incredibly uncomfortable, but she doesn’t show it. She looks like a statue. Cold and un-responsive. But once she’s outside the church she dares talk back, and asks him to leave her alone. He tries to guilt trip her instead, asking for mercy, as such passion inspired by her excessive beauty can only be cured by being sated, etc etc. Debby asks of him merely to stop dishonouring her, she is in danger of having her reputation ruined. And for a man as concerned with appearances as Villepastour, invoking HONOUR works like a spell. Yes, he claims to care for her honour -to him that means, her keeping an appearance of respectability- so he lets her go, but. Of course he follows her discretely to check her address. Once he confirms where she lives, he strolls away, with a content, almost playful air.

#madame putiphar #long post #text post #q

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