#design-diatribe | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anonimusunnoaniswriting · 1 year ago

Text

DEBAUCHÉRIE

⚠️𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐀𝐃��𝐋𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘⚠️

🎀𝐀𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐨 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝🎀

“I'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me, what you'd do to me tonight”

Pairing: Sub!Nanami Kento x Domme!Reader

Genre: Smut, Porn with plot, Happy ending.

Word Count: 4592

Warnings: PWP, soft domme Reader, plus size reader, female bodied reader, no protection, pussy eating, shibari, good ol' sex.

Summary: It was always a dream of Nanami's to be tied up like a good little boy, one that many partners after hearing would recoil in disgust expecting to be dominated instead... Its been too long since Nanami Kento got laid, so long that out of desperation he agrees to accompany his senpais to a sex club. A sex club where he sees you. But can you make his dream a reality?

A/N: At the end.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Lounging on the sofa, directly in his line of view, in the long black dress that hugged every curve of your body, your posture was relaxed, an easy smile on your red lips and a fringe of admirers lapped up your every word. The slit in the side of your dress gave him a perfect view of your leg and the tattoo hugging your calf. Your hands held a glass of red wine that you sipped slowly while your eager devotees tried to stand out to you. Nanami felt like a moth, caught in your fire.

It had been on Geto’s insistence that Nanami Kento agreed to visit the club. Having heard about it from him and Gojo before, he finally swallowed his pride and asked them to introduce him. Debauchérie – an apt name for a sex club, Nanami had mused, remembering the dark red neon sign he had seen when entering.

Gojo had explained to him in detail where they were going; he’d even borrowed an expensive – probably designer – turtleneck shirt of his to wear. It sat snug on Nanami’s frame, the fabric soft and comforting, yet elegant. “You can't wear just anything, Nanamin.” Gojo had warned. “It’s a very exclusive place; it took months before we could become members and bring guests.”

And it was, definitely, no less than thorough. Nanami had had to sign a waiver attesting to his consent and such before even being allowed in. It probably helped that Geto was a “valued” member, given how smooth the process had been.

Seated at the bar, Nanami allowed himself to take in his surroundings. There were small tables and couches all around the room, which, even for a Saturday evening, was not very full. Off to the right, there was a passageway leading to more private rooms, and to the back, there were places for open play that no one had started using yet. However, a lot of patrons had already reached varying stages of undress, and when a very pretty girl wearing nothing but nipple pasties came by and complimented how he looked, asking for his name, the poor man could only choke out a “Ke- Ken”.

The girl giggled and flounced away, but not before throwing him a wink and a flirty, “Nice to meet you, Ke-Ken!” Mouth dry, he resumed scanning the room…and that's when his eyes had fallen on you.

“She’d be a good fit for you,” Geto said in his ear, making him jump. Both he and Gojo had decided not to leave unless he found a partner, and had instead taken seats at the bar with him. “She’s very experienced…and attentive.” Gojo looked over too – his eyes wide.

“Oh, yes.” Gojo backed Geto up. “We had the pleasure of playing with her once. She’s so-o-o-o-o good.”

“You mean…” Nanami looked over at the two men. They nodded slowly and sneakily as he turned back to look at you.

As luck would have it, you chose that exact moment to look toward the bar, your eyes locking with Nanami’s. Realising he’d been staring at you, you gave him a soft smile and signalled a waiter over. Nanami watched as you placed your order; when finished, you looked back at the group around you and said something else, eliciting groans and pouts from most of them. Nanami only understood why when you got up and drifted over to where he sat.

You were even more stunning up close, he admitted to himself. Lips full and plump, painted in a dark red. Eyes framed by long dark lashes and lined in black. You greeted the other men first. “Suguru, Satoru! It’s been a while. Who’s your friend here?” So you were already on a first-name basis with them…

Gojo, almost climbing over Geto, answered, “This is Kento, Mistress. He’s our junior.”

“His first time here,” Geto added, giving up his seat for you to sit by Nanami.

You reached out a hand and ruffled Gojo’s hair. “I’m not your mistress right now, Satoru. You can call me by my name.” The same hand was then presented to Nanami, and you introduced yourself. But all Nanami could think of was that you were already close enough to Gojo and Geto to use their first names, and also how pretty your lips looked with the red lipstick and how much he now wanted to call you Mistress and…

“Nanami? Hello? Earth to Mr. Kento.”

Shit! You’d said something he’d totally missed. Nanami felt his cheeks burn. He pulled himself together, ignoring the throbbing in his ears. “Apologies, I might have spaced out for a moment…seeing your beauty up close caught me off guard.” Behind you, Geto and Gojos eyes widened. They never knew Nanami could be this smooth.

You chuckled – a sound that dripped from your lips like honey – and repeated, “I was wondering if you would like to play tonight. With me.” Nanami’s jaw dropped, but you continued, confidently, “I hope this isn't too forward for you, but we came to a sex club after all so I'll be a bit…forward. I think you’re very attractive, and I’m a Dominatrix who likes playing with pretty boys, so, Kento – I can call you Kento right?”

You cocked an eyebrow and leaned in close. Nanami swallowed and nodded. Your lips widened into a smile. “Would you like to play with me tonight?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Nanami could only nod. But you shook your head. “I need verbal assurance, Pretty Boy.”

“Y-yes. I would like to.”

“Hmmm…” You sat back, smiling sweetly, but crossing your arms in front of you. “Well then, let's go over some basics. You know I’m a domme, so I'm going to take it that you’re subbing for me.” Nanami nodded. “Is this your first time doing something like this?” Nanami nodded again, confirming what you’d thought. “In that case, we can take it soft and slow for your first time, Pretty Boy.”

Nanami blushed.

You led Nanami down a long corridor, entering one of the rooms at the far end. Gojo and Geto had assured him that it was fine and they would not “wait up” for him.

“So…should we continue this in one of the private rooms?”

The room wasn’t too large, but there was enough space for a plush bed covered in black silken sheets, a small black couch and a table with an assortment of toys. It seemed to follow the theme of the club, dark red walls, while most of the furniture was black. The dim lighting made Nanami’s eyes twinkle. This was what you had asked the waiter to prepare for you earlier. Taking a seat on the couch, you patted the space beside you, encouraging Nanami to sit. “We need to establish a few rules and boundaries first,” you began. “When we are playing, you will call me Miss, or Mistress. Is that okay with you?” Nanami nodded, but you shook your head. “From now on, whatever I ask, I need enthusiastic, verbal responses. I will not continue unless I have clear consent from you, Kento.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Your left hand found its place in Nanami’s hair, and you gently raked your fingernails against his scalp.

“Good boy.” Nanami felt his cock twitch. You placed your other hand on his chest. Against him, it looked small, but the command in your fingertips was unmistakable. You ran it along his turtleneck, squeezing at his chest. “Now, is anything off-limits?”

Nanami thought for a moment and said, “Nothing with pee or scat, please. And nothing that will leave any visible marks.”

You nodded. “Alright. I don’t do scat play either and I will not be engaging in rough play with you for your first time, but it is always good to ask and be clear.” Your lips had sneaked closer to his skin during your little explanation, and he could feel the warmth of your breath when you asked him your next question:

“Is there anything you would like to do tonight?”

Nanami blushed. “You don’t have to be shy…” you told him gently. “Tell me, Pretty Boy, how can I make a wild dream come true for you?” You leaned forward and bit your lip.

“I–I—” Nanami could barely hear himself speak as he said the next words. “I want to be tied up and used…would-would you…?”

All the stress of the last few days seemed to catch up with the weary man as his shoulders drooped and he waited for you to be repulsed by his ask, ashamed at how needy he was. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised...you chuckled.

“Is that so, Pretty Boy?” Your tongue darted out licking a strip up your lip.

Nanami's cock twitched again and he let out an involuntary moan. “Oh, do you like it when I call you a pretty boy?” He nodded, then remembered his earlier agreement.

“Yes, Mistress.”

You placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head to make him look at you. His brown eyes were dark, screaming his exhaustion coupled with building need. “Do you have a safe word you’d like to use?”

He shook his head. “I don’t need that, I’m sure I can take whatever you give me.”

You frowned. Your hand still petting his head, you explained, “It is vital that we have one. Regardless of how experienced your partner may be or how hard or soft you play, having a safeword is a basic requirement. If you like, we can use the traffic light system to keep it simple.” Nanami nodded but looked puzzled, so you elaborated. “If you feel like everything is going well and you don’t want to stop or change anything, you can let me know you’re green.” You paused, waiting for him to show you he understood. When he nodded, you went on. “If you like what we’re doing but feel like it's becoming too much or want me to dial it back in any way, you say you’re yellow. I can return to what I was doing previously, or pause and let you have a short break.” He nodded again. You continued. “And if you are very uncomfortable, or hurt, or change your mind and want to stop in any way, you say red.” Nanami couldn’t imagine a scenario where he would have to, but he was grateful for your assurances. He nodded again. “Red means I will stop whatever I’m doing and make sure first and foremost that you are okay. If you’re bound or tied I will release you immediately, if you get hurt you must let me know so I can treat you. I love it when my boy communicates with me.” Saying this, you kissed him at the edge of his mouth, lips barely touching. Nanami blushed pink. You smelled like strawberries and vanilla, and he found himself wanting to bite.

“Red, yellow, and green. I understand, Mistress.” he assured you, itching to start. His cock had begun to harden in his slacks, fed by the ministrations of your hands.

You got up and walked over to the table with the toys. “You’d like to be tied up, wouldn’t you?” you said out loud, then turned to him with a dark blue rope in your hands.

Nanami felt his blush deepen as you strolled over to him. The sound of your black stilettos made a sharp tapping sound on the hard floor as you towered above him. He would do anything for you. “Yes please, Mistress…” His voice was barely a whisper.

You bent down and kissed his head, giving him the perfect view down your neckline. The soft milky mounds of your breasts threatened to spill out of the corset under your dress, mesmerising him. You smirked, hand moving to his crotch. You gave his bulge a gentle squeeze drawing out a deep groan, then ordered, “Get up and strip for me, gorgeous.”

The poor man, caught in the net you cast, immediately followed. His hands fumbled with the belt of his trousers as he half ripped them off his body. He peeled off the turtleneck and folded the garments, laying them on the couch where you sat. He was beautiful. Years of hard training had transformed his body into a wall of muscle. His skin had a light tan and his stomach was tight. You greedily drank in the sight.

He was about to remove his boxers when your voice rang out again, “Stop. That is mine. You can only touch it when I let you. Got that?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now, arms up and legs apart.” Nanami complied, and you rose, circling him slowly. He could feel your eyes taking him in, studying every inch of his body, and he itched to cover himself from your discerning gaze. But even before he could finish his thoughts, your hands were on him, feeling the muscles in his arms, all the way down, body flush with yours. He could feel your breasts pressed against his back., the warmth of your breath on his skin and your nails running down his sides, feeling up his torso. “What colour are we at, Pretty Boy?” you asked raspily.

Nanami responded after a second’s thought, “Green. More! Please, Mistress.” He felt your lips against his back, leaving tiny kisses along some invisible pattern as you complied, feeling every inch of him…except your hand never so much as grazed his crotch, making him pant with anticipation.

You stepped in front of him and picked up the rope off the couch, then unravelled it while making sure he was watching your every movement. The contrast of being so bare – so vulnerable – in front of you was stark. “I'm going to tie you up now, is that alright?”

Nanami nodded, grateful at how gentle and thorough you were. “Please, Mistress.”

You hooked your thumbs on the waistband of his pants and tugged them downwards, allowing his semi-hard cock to spring free. A sharp intake of breath from you made him shy away. Perhaps you would be turned off by his size. But to his astonishment, you kneeled down and gently licked the glans, eyes never leaving his.

“Someone's excited,” you remarked, impressed. Your hands worked deftly – practised movements that hinted at your familiarity with the rope.

Nanami appreciated, when from time to time, you would check in with him, “Is anything uncomfortable?” or “Is it too tight?” and wait for his verbal confirmations

“No, Mistress.” or “It’s just a little painful around the arm, on that last loop.”

You twisted and looped and knotted, and once you were done, you turned him to face the long mirror in the room. Blue vines ran all across Nanami’s chest, crissed and crossed into a five-point star. His arms were bound to his back, but his legs were free. Each line of rope sat snug, not too deep or loose, just enough to make sure that he was unable to move his upper body. The two lines you had artfully drawn against his crotch grazed against his balls every time he made the slightest move. He looked at you, dark pupils blown out in lust. You held his chin, then hooked your fingers onto the rope around his neck and pulled his head to yours, and Nanami’s world exploded. Your lips were hot on his. Your tongue probed for entrance at his teeth, licking his cold cupid's bow.

Reaching down, you trailed a finger up his length. “I want you to kneel for me, Kento.” You had placed a cushion on the floor and Nanami dropped to his knees, looking on in reverence as you stood before him and removed your dress.

The silky fabric fell to the floor in a puddle. You were left in a black laced corset and matching underwear. Taking a seat on the couch, you spread your legs open. Nanami had the most perfect view. “Do you want to see?” you asked him teasingly.

“Please, Mistress.” There was a whine in Nanami’s throat he didn’t even realise he was holding.

“Then take them off.” You gestured at your panties. Nanami fumbled. His hands were tied behind his back, what did you mean…?

“With your mouth, Kento. I want you to use your mouth and take my panties off. And then, maybe – if you do a good job – I'll let you taste me.”

Eager to please you, Nanami crawled over to your cunt and bit the edge of your panties. Desperately, he pulled at the fabric and inched it down with his lips and teeth. He could smell your arousal already, and it made his head heavy. He really wanted to taste you. His cock was now hard, and it bumped your leg. The little friction made him hiss.

“Go on, Pretty Boy, just a little more…” Your encouragement kept him from losing his focus, and he continued to pull the infernal cloth that barely seemed to budge. But with just one more tug, it was around your knees. He stopped and looked at you, pleased with himself.

“Oh that won’t do, Kento. No, you have to take it all the way off.” Nanami’s cheeks burned. All the way off? Down your legs, off your— “Off, come on. And don’t get it stuck on my heels, darling.”

Nanami pulled at the panties again. It was humiliating, being asked to do such a ridiculous task but even more so for the fact that his cock was rock hard and straining. You spread your thighs wide, showing off your glistening cunt. Your skin was smooth. Not that he minded hair but in a moment you would show him why. “Do you want to taste me?”

“Yes please, Mistress.”

“Then turn over and rest your head on the couch. I’m going to sit on your pretty face.” Nanami flipped over and watched as you raised yourself off the couch to straddle his face, your pussy dangling over his mouth like forbidden fruit. A drop of your arousal leaked out, falling onto Nanami’s lips, and he couldn't help sticking his tongue out to lick it. The musky sweet taste of you travelled straight to his cock and he twitched once more.

This must be the nectar of the gods, he thought to himself. His tongue reached out, desperate to taste more of you. “Please, please. Please, Mistress.”

You didn’t torture him further. Sinking your pussy lips onto his mouth, you both let out a sigh of relief. His nose rubbed against your clit, while his tongue lapped at your pink folds. Divine…

A hand in his hair, you pulled him, “Yeah–just like that–good boy...” Your knee was digging into the couch as you pushed your cunt into his face. And Nanami ate your pussy like a parched man. Slurping and lapping up your juices. Sucking on your sensitive bud. He wanted to hold you – to feel the plush of your ass filling his hands; he involuntarily pulled at the ropes that bound him. You stepped back for a moment, allowing him to breathe, then returned to your throne. But Nanami showed no signs of hesitation. His lips found your bud, circling it in his mouth as he started to suck. Loud wet noises filled the rooms along with soft moans from you. “Kento…Such a good boy…Keep going.” You felt his tongue flatten against your cunt, probing at your hole and exploring. His face was messy and wet but he didn’t care. Nothing had ever tasted as delicious as your wet cunt did in his mouth. Nothing had ever felt as good as your thick thighs that squeezed his head between them.

Nanami felt a sharp tug on his hair as you came with a cry, legs quivering. Your head felt heavy and it took you a moment to get off him and look at him adoringly. He knelt at your feet, panting but looking up at you expectantly.

You helped him to his feet and sat him on the couch, placing yourself on his lap. Your hands once again found his soft hair, fingers carding through it. His weeping cock bumped against your dripping core, and you began to move your hips to rub against it. “You’re such a – kiss – good boy. – kiss– following all my orders – kiss – so well – kiss–” Nanami felt a bead of pre-come drip out onto his thigh as you kissed down his neck.

Your pussy lips rubbed against his length as you kissed and licked his mouth. “Let me see you, please…” he rasped, looking down at your corseted breasts. Sounds of his grunts and heavy breathing now filled the room, along with the wet shlick of your skin against his. You undid the front of the corset, letting your breasts spill. A sharp intake of breath from him made you want to kiss him again, but his head dipped down and he took a nipple between his teeth, lightly grazing it before starting to suck at your tit. You pulled his hair back, yanking him off you. “Did I give you permission to suck my tits?”

Nanami’s eyes widened. He hadn’t thought of that. “No, Mistress. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

You continued, “Next time you do something without permission, you will be punished. Understand?”

Nanami swallowed and nodded, burning with desire now; your pussy was right on top of his cock. One thrust and he could have put it in, but he knew that would not be allowed. He begged again, all inhibitions out the window. All he wanted was to feel you on him. “Mistress, please…”

“Please what?” His hips bucked and he forced them down. “Please fuck you?” You cocked a brow, unsmiling. “After what you just did?”

His dick stood now, painful almost, in need. “I’ll do anything,” he begged. “Please, just touch me–” His voice was cut off by a choked sob and to his surprise, a tear ran down his cheek.

“You make the prettiest little sounds, Kento,” you purred in his ear. “Okay, I’ll fuck you like you want.” And you held his cock as you spoke and slowly slid it into your pussy. “You want me to fuck you like this, right? On my tight wet cunt?” He nodded furiously. “Want to feel me squeeze your cock so good?” Another nod. “Okay, but you aren’t allowed to come…”

Nanami let out a strangled cry.

“You heard me. You asked to be fucked. Not to come. Didn’t you, darling?”

You were a succubus, and Namami was a willing victim. Semantics be damned, he was ready to burst, to spill into your warm wet hole, as you squeezed around him. You cradled his head in your arms, holding him close to you as you slid up and down on his cock. Your combined arousal made it easy, even though he was large.

“Fuck, please– Mistress. So good, you make me – haa…” Obscenities fell from his lips along with pleas, over and over. “Mistress, I need –”

You felt him twitch and stilled. Nanami could have cried. He strained against his bonds, desperately trying to hold on to you, but you were already off him. “To the bed,” you whispered and helped him up. It was difficult for Nanami; he had never been denied for this long when release was so imminent. He stumbled to the bed, grateful for your help, but wishing you would just let him come already. The teasing was maddening and he did not feel he had the patience for it much longer. You lay him down, propping him up with two large pillows before sinking onto his cock once again. His hands grasped at nothingness under him as you leveraged yourself on his chest and fucked him now – no holds barred. Your ass hit his thighs with a loud slap each time you came back down, and his cock was reaching deep inside you hitting your gummy walls that held him in a vice-like grip.

“You wanna come for me, Pretty Boy? Wanna come for your Mistress?”

“Please—please—please.” The words fell from his mouth like a prayer. A prayer to you, his Goddess.

“Then come. Come for me, my Pretty Boy.”

And with that, he was lost. Thick ribbons of ejaculate shot into your cunt, painting your insides white. You collapsed onto his large chest and felt his rapid heartbeat slowing, the rise and fall of his chest now gentle…The ropes around his body rubbed against your nipples, hardening them into peaks.

Lifting yourself off him, you helped him sit up before you quickly removed his ties. The skin was raw and red where he’d pulled. You lifted his hand to your mouth and licked at the angry marks, tasting the salt of his sweat. He met your gaze – still hungry. “ I need you. I need more, please,” he pleaded. “Let me eat you out again, Mistress!”

You smiled and dipped your head so that your lips barely brushed his ear, “I have a better idea.” You pushed his chest, laying him down and turned, straddling his face once more; this time, however, your mouth hovered above his cock. Even though he had just come, Nanami was still semi-hard, and only a few licks and he was back at attention. You glided your tongue along his tip, relishing the gentle shiver that ran under you. But the man wasn’t about to stay still.

Taking advantage of the newfound freedom of his arms and hands, he grabbed your ass, spreading the cheeks, pawing at them, pulling you deeper into his mouth. Soft moans escaped you. You were both over-stimulated and needing release. His lips latched onto your clit and sucked and licked, fully lapping up all he could get. Your peak approached, and you felt the telltale twitch of Nanami’s cock as well. He came just after you did, your thighs closing around his head as you gasped and trembled, orgasm hitting you hard. His cock spluttered and he came with a shout, spilling on your face and tits.

You got off him and used a tissue from the table by the bed to clean yourself up, before lying down beside him and opening your arms. Wordlessly, Nanami crawled between them, resting his head on your chest. You left a soft kiss on his head and whispered, “You were such a good boy for me, Kento. I’m so pleased with you. You were such a good boy!”

“Even if I did things without your permission?” he asked tentatively.

You shook your head. “It was your first time; you were learning. I don’t hold that against you. You’re my good boy.”

Something in Nanami’s chest fluttered. It might have been his heart. “Can we…can we do this again?”

You laughed. Nanami didn’t think he had heard a lovelier sound. “Of course, Pretty Boy. Maybe next weekend. I’ll give you my number.”

It had been three months since Nanami had first met you in Debauchérie; two months since he had become yours and you, his; one month since Gojo and Geto had found out and started teasing him about it. The teasing had died down, but his feelings for you had only grown. In your familiar red lipstick and a gorgeous orange sundress, you walked up to him and sat in the chair opposite his, holding out his coffee and sandwich. “Here you go, my Pretty Boy.”

He smiled, “Thank you, Mistress.”

The End

A/N: Dear GOD this was a toughie to write. I kept going back and changing things over and over because I needed this to be some of the best work I've put out. So I changed and changed and cut and reworked and edited. And now here we are. I did it for you Haitch. You beautiful bastard you. I hope you enjoy it. (I agreed to give her whatever she wanted in exchange she would have to turn on boops.) Anyway, thank you so much for reading! A big big thank you to my editor, proofer, beta reader @ominouslywritinginmyhead. Tagging @actuallysaiyan thank you for always supporting me <3

As always hearts and reblogs are much appreciated and comments will earn you a kissie.

230 notes · View notes

physalian · 1 year ago

Text

Humanizing Your Characters (And Why You Should)

To humanize a character is not to contort an irredeemable villain into the warped funhouse mirror reflection of a hero in the last 30 seconds to gain “narrative subversion” points. To humanize is not to give said villain a tragic backstory that validates every bad choice they make in attempt to provide nuance where it does not deserve to be.

To humanize a character, villain or otherwise, is to make them flawed. Scuff them up, give them narrative birthmarks and scars and imperfections. Whether it’s your hero, their love interest, the comic relief, the mentor, the villain, the rival, these little narrative details serve to make all your literary babies better.

Why should you humanize your characters?

To do this means to write in details beyond those that service the plot, or the themes, or the motifs, morals, foreshadowing, or story. These might be (and usually are) entirely unimportant in the grand scheme of things. So, if I wrote lengthy diatribes on pacing and why every detail must matter, and character descriptions and thematic importance, why am I now suggesting go free-for-all on the fluff?

Just like real people have quirks and tics and beliefs and pet peeves that serve our no greater purpose, so should fictional people. Your average reader doesn’t have the foggiest idea what literary devices are beyond metaphor, simile foreshadowing, and anecdote, but they can tell when the author is using motif and theme and all the syntactical marvels because it reads that much richer, even if they can’t pinpoint why.

And, for shipping fodder, these tiny little details are what help your audience fall in love with the character. It doesn’t even have to be in a book – Taylor Swift (whether you like her or not) never fills her music with sexual innuendo or going clubbing. She tells stories filled with human details like dancing in the refrigerator light. People can simultaneously relate to these very specific and vivid experiences, and say “not that exactly, but man this reminds me of…” and that’s (part of) the reason her music is so popular.

What kinds of narratives need these details?

All of them. Visual media, audio, written, stage play. Now, to what degree and excess you apply these details depends on your tone, intended audience, and writing style. If your style of writing is introspection heavy, noir character drama, you might go pretty heavy on the character design.

But even if you’re writing a kids book with a scant few paragraphs of setting descriptors and internal narration, or you’re drawing a comic book – if you have characters you want people to care about, do this.

Animators, particularly, are very adept at humanizing non-human characters, because, unlike live acting, every single stroke of the pen is there with intent. They use their own reflections for facial references, record their own movements to draw a dance, and insert little bits of themselves into signature character poses so you know that *that* animator did this one.

How to humanize your characters.

I’m going to break this down into a couple sections: Costume/wardrobe, personality, beliefs/behavior/superstitions, haptics/proxemics/kinesics, and voice. They will all overlap and the sheer variety and possibilities are way too broad for me to capture every facet.

Costumes and Wardrobe

In the film Fellowship of the Ring, there’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment where, after Boromir is slain by the Uruk-Hai, Aragorn takes Boromir’s Gondorian vambraces to wear in his honor, and in honor of their shared country. He wears them the rest of the trilogy. The editing pays no extra attention to them beyond a split second of Aragorn tightening the straps, it never lingers on them, never reminds you that they’re there, but they kept it in nonetheless. His actor also included a hunting bow that didn't exist in the book because he's a roamer, a ranger, and needs to be able to feed himself, along with a couple other survival tools.

Aragorn wears plenty of other symbolic bits of costume – the light of the Evenstar we see constantly from Arwen, the Lothlorien green cloaks shared by the entire Fellowship, his re-forged sword and eventual full Gondorian regalia, but all those are Epic Movie Moments that serve a thematic purpose.

Taking the vambraces is just a small, otherwise insignificant character moment, a choice made for no other reason than that’s what this character would do. That’s what makes him human, not an archetype.

When you’re writing these details and can’t rely on sneaking them into films, you have to work a little harder to remind your audience that they exist, but not too often. A detail shifts from “human” to “plot point” when it starts to serve a purpose to the themes and story.

Inconsequentiality might be how a character ties, or doesn’t tie their shoelaces, because they just can’t be bothered so they remain permanent knots and tripping hazards. It might be a throw-away line about how they refuse to wear shorts and strictly stick to long pants because they don’t like showing off their legs. It might be perpetually greasy hair from constantly running their fingers through it with stress, or self-soothing. A necklace they fidget with, or a ring, a belt they never bother to replace even though they should, a pair of lucky socks.

Resist the urge to make it more meaningful than “this is just how they are”. If I’m using the untied shoelaces example – in Spiderverse, this became a part of the story’s themes, motifs, and foreshadowing, and doesn’t count. Which isn’t bad! It’s just not what I’m talking about.

Personality

In How to Train Your Dragon, Toothless does not speak. All his personality comes from how he moves, the noises he makes, and the expressions on his face. There’s moments, like in the finale, when his prosthetic has burned off and Hiccup tells him to hold on for a little bit longer, and you can clearly see on his face that he’s deeply uncertain about his ability to do so. It’s almost off the screen, another blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. Or the beat of hesitation before he lets Hiccup touch him in the Forbidden Friendship scene. Or the irritated noise he makes when he’s impatiently waiting for Hiccup to stop chatting with his dad because they have a giant dragon to murder. Or when he slaps Hiccup with his ear fin for flying them into a rock spire.

None of those details *needed* to exist to endear you to his character or to serve the scenes they’re in. The scenes would carry on just fine without them. He’s a fictional dragon, yes, but these details make him real.

Other personality tics you could include might be a character who gets frustrated with tedious things very quickly and starts making little inteligible curses under their breath. Or how they giggle when they’re excited and start bouncing on their toes. Maybe they have a tic where they snap their fingers when they’re concentrating, trying to will an idea into existence. Or they stick their tongue out while they work and get embarrassed when another character calls them on it. They roll around in their sleep, steal blankets, drool, leave dishes in the sink or are neurotic with how things must be organized. They have one CD in their car, and actually use that CD player instead of the phone jack or Bluetooth. They sing in the shower, while they cook, or while they do homework, no matter how grating their voice.

They like the smell of new shoes or Sharpies. They hate the texture of suede or velvet or sticky residues. They never pick their socks up. They hate the overhead light in their room and use 50 lamps instead. They hate turning into oncoming traffic or don’t trust their backup camera. They collect Funko Pops and insist there’s always room for more.

And about a million others.

Beliefs, Behaviors, and Superstitions

*If you happen to be writing a story where superstitions have merit, maybe skip this one.* Usually, inevitably, these evolve into character centerpieces and I can’t actually think of one off the top of my head that doesn’t become this beyond the ones we all know. A few comedic examples do come to mind:

The Magic Conch in “Club Spongebob” and the sea-bear-proof dirt circle in “The Camping Episode”

Dean Winchester’s fear and panic-driven actions in “Yellow Fever” and “Sam, Interrupted”

The references to the trolls that steal left-foot socks in How to Train Your Dragon

I’m not a fan of wasting time writing a religious character doing their religious thing when Plot Is Happening, but smaller things are what I’m talking about. Like them wearing a cross/rosary and touching it when they’re nervous. Having a specific off-beat prayer, saying, or expression because they don’t believe in cursing.

The classic ones like black cats, ladders, broken mirrors, salt, sidewalk cracks can all be funny. Athletes have plenty, too, and some of them, particularly in baseball culture, are a bit ridiculous. Not washing socks or uniforms, having a team idol they donate Double Bubble to and also rub their toes. A specific workout routine, diet, team morale dance.

Other things, too. A character who’s afraid to go back downstairs once the lights are off, or fear the basement or the backyard shed. Or they’re really put-off by this old family photo for no reason other than how glassy their eyes look and it’s creepy. They like crystals, dreamcatchers, star signs, tarot, or they absolutely do not under any circumstances.

They believe in all the tried and true ways of predicting the weather like a grizzled old sailor. They believe in ghosts, vampires, werewolves, witches, skinwalkers, doppelgangers, fairies. They talk to the cat statue in their kitchen and named it Fudge Pop. They whisper to the spirit that possessed the fridge so it stops making all that racket, and half the time, it works every time. They wear yellow for good luck or carry a rabbit’s foot. They’re not religious at all but still throw prayers out to whoever’s listening because, you know, just in case. They sit by their window sill and talk to the moon and the stars and pretend like they’re in a music video when they’re driving through the city in the rain.

Haptics, Proxemics, and Kinesics

These are, for all you non-communication and psych majors out there, touch and physical contact, how they move, and how they move around other people.

Behold, your shipping fodder.

Two shining examples of proxemics in action are the famous “close talker” episode of Seinfeld (of which every communication major has been subjected to) and Castiel’s not understanding of personal space (and human chronemic habits) in Supernatural.

These are how a character walks, if they’re flat-footed, clumsy, or tip-toers. If they make a racket or constantly spook the other characters. If they fidget or can’t sit still in a seat for five seconds, if they like to sit backwards or upside down. How they touch themselves, if they do a lot of self-soothing maneuvers (hugging themselves, rubbing their arms, touching their face, drawing their knees up, holding their neck, etc) or if they don’t do any self-soothing at all.

This is how they shake hands, if they dance while they cook or work. It’s how much space they let themselves take up, if they man-spread or keep their limbs in closer. How close they stand to others or how far. If they let themselves be touched at all, or if they always have their skin covered. If they always have their back to a wall, or are always making sure they know where the nearest exit is. If they make grand gestures when they talk and give directions. If they flinch from pats on the back or raised hands. If they lean away from loud voices or project their own. If they use their height to their advantage when arguing, puff their chest, square their shoulders, put their hands on their hips, or point fingers in accusation.

If they touch other characters as they pass by. If they’re huggers or victims of falling asleep on or near their comrades. If they must sleep facing the door, or with something solid behind them. If they can sleep in the middle of a party wholly uncaring. If they sleepwalk, sleeptalk, migrate across the bed to cuddle whoever’s nearest with no idea they’re doing it.

If they like to be held or like to hold others. If they hate being picked up and slung around or are touch-starved for it. If they like their space and stick to it or are more than happy to share.

Do they walk with grace, head held high and back straight? Or are they hunched over, head hung, watching their feet? Are they meanderers or speed-walkers? Do they cross their arms in front or lace their hands behind them? Do they bow to authority or meet that gaze head on?

I have heard that Prince Zuko, in Last Airbender, is usually drawn sleeping with his bad ear down when he doesn’t feel safe, like on his warship or anywhere in the Fire Nation, or on the road. He’s drawn on his other side once he joins the Gaang. In Dead Man’s Chest, just before Davy Jones drives the Flying Dutchman under the waves, two tentacles curl up and around the brim of his hat to keep it from blowing off in the water.

When they fight, do they attack first, or defend first? Do they touch other characters’ hair? Share makeup, share clothes? Touch their faces with boops or bonks or nuzzles and eskimo kisses? Do they crack their knuckles and necks and knees?

Do they stare in baffled curiosity at all the other characters wholly comfortable in each other's spaces because they can’t, won’t, or don’t see the point in all this nonsense? Do they say they’re happy on the outside, but are betrayed by their body language?

Voice

Whether or not to write an accent is entirely up to you. Books like Their Eyes Were Watching God writes dialogue in a vernacular specific to its characters. Westerners and southerners tend to be written with the southern drawl or dialect, ripe with stereotypical contractions. Be advised, however, that in attempt to write an accent to give your character depth, you could be instead turning off your audience who doesn’t have energy to decipher what they’re saying, or you went and wrote a racist stereotype.

Voice isn’t just accent and dialect, nor is it how it sounds, which falls more solidly under useful character descriptions. Voice for the sake of humanizing your characters concerns how they talk, how they convey their thoughts, and how they become distinct from other characters in dialogue and narration.

If you’re writing a narrative that hops heads and don’t want to include a big banner to indicate who’s talking at any given time, this is where voice matters. It is, I think, the least appreciated of all the possible traits to pay attention to.

First person narrators have the most flexibility here because the audience is zero degrees removed from their first-hand experiences. Their personality comes through sharply in how they describe things and what they pay attention to.

But it’s also in what similes and metaphors they use. I read a book that had an average (allegedly straight) male narrator going off and describing colors with types of flowers, some I had to look up because I just don’t know those off the top of my head. My immediate thought was either this character is a poorly written gay, or he’s a florist. Neither (allegedly), the writer was just being too specific.

Do they have crutch words they use? like, um, actually, so…, uh

Or repeat exclamations specific to them? yikes, yowzers, jeepers, jinkies, zoinks, balls, beans, d’oh!

Or idioms they’re fond of? Like a bat out of hell. Snowball’s chance.

Do they stutter when they’re nervous? Do they lose their train of thought and bounce around, losing other characters in the process? Do they have a non-Christian god they pray to and say something other than “thank God”? Are they from another country, culture, time period, realm, or planet with their own gods, beliefs, and idioms?

When they describe settings, how flowery is the language? Would this grizzled war hero use flowery language? How would he or she describe the color pink, versus a PTA mom? Do they use only a generic “blue, green, red” or do they really pay attention with “aquamarine, teal, emerald, viridian, vermillion, rose, ruby”?

How do this character’s hobbies affect how well they can describe dance moves, painting styles, car models, music genres?

This mostly matters when you’re head-hopping and the voice of the narrator serves to be more distinct, otherwise, what’s the point of head-hopping? Just use third-person omniscient.

If you really want to go wild, give a specific narrator unique syntax. Maybe one character is the ghost of Oscar Wild with never-ending run-on sentences. Just be sure to not go too overboard and compromise the integrity of your story.

In the book A Lesson Before Dying, a somewhat illiterate, underprivileged and undereducated minor has been given a mentor, a teacher, before they face the death penalty. At the end of the book, you read all of the letters they wrote to their teacher. There’s misspellings everywhere, almost no punctuation, and long, rambling sentences.

It’s heartbreaking. The subject matter is heavy and horrible, yes, but it’s the choice to write with such poor English that has a much bigger impact than perfect MLA format.

How to implement these details

Most of these, in the written medium, need only show up once or twice before your audience notices and wonders why they’re there. Most fall squarely under character design, which falls under exposition, and should follow all the exposition guidelines.

These details exist to be random and fluffy, but they can’t exist randomly within the narrative. If you want to have your character be superstitious, pick a relevant time to include that superstition.

Others, like ongoing speech habits or movements, still don’t overuse, especially if they’re unique. A character might like to sit backwards in a chair, but if you mention that they’re doing it every single time they sit down, your audience will wonder what’s so important and if the character is unwell.

And, of course, you can let these traits become thematically important, like a superstition being central to their personality or backstory or motivation. These all serve the same purpose of making your character feel like a real person instead of just a “character”.

Just think about tossing in a few random details every now and then and see what happens. One tiny sentence can take a background character and make them candidates for the eventual fandom’s fan favorite. Details like these turn your work from “This a story, and these are the characters who tell it” into “these are my characters, and this is their story.”

#writing advice #character design #writing tips #writing resources #exposition #writing tools #writing a book

217 notes · View notes

quirkwizard · 10 months ago

Text

I'm in the middle of writing about the ending of MHA. I wanted to include a bit where I talk about the updates the characters have had to their looks and costumes, but felt that it was too long of a diatribe. Instead, I'm throwing it out here. That may be difficult considering how crowded the final shot is and how there is no official colored version out, but I can do my best.

Mineta: Also barely changed barring the little grape vine on his head and a similar design around his writs and he does his waist. It's more cohesive, I guess, but it's still whatever.

Sato: I honestly thought that Sato only had a pair of gloves as his new costume. Still though, I miss the mask as a part of his look. I would say more, but Sato's design has never been interesting, so I'm not disappointed.

Hagkaure: She has the biggest downgrade. Poor girl lost half of her costume during the time skip. She doesn't even have access to shoes anymore. That or she secretly has the best costume and the lighting was wrong.

Sero: Barely anything changed here. His helmet is sharper, which I could take or leave but do prefer the older one, and he's our first example of characters getting wrist bands. Not the more prominent trend, but one I noticed.

Mina: There isn't any notable changes to her costume, except more wrist bands which you think would just be melted by her acid, but I like the longer hair and horns. Even if the fact that her horns seemingly changed positions and shapes bugs the life out of me.

Kirishima: I don't even think there is anything different about Kirishina's costume. Maybe more pronounced teeth on the mask and making his gears more jagged, but that's about it. At least he has the best hair designs out of the new looks.

Ojiro: I like the changes. He got rid of the silly one sided fur on his neck in favor of a full one. He traded out the white gi for a black one, showing he evolved further in his martial prowess. And again, he has the headpiece like a few of the other characters.

Jiro: She exchanged the leather jacket for the vest. It's a fine trade, giver her more of a proper punk rocker look. Once again though, she is the part of the odd trend of giving characters wrist bands, seemingly loosing her arm speakers.

Koda: The character done the most dirty for design. In both panels he's in, his entire costume is covered by text boxes. At least his lost the mask, both showing him being more open and because it was basically useless now.

Shoji: Odd how one of the few students with their own panels has pretty much nothing changed about their look. And his may be a hot take, but I don't like Shoji with longer hair. I just think it looks really weird on him.

Tsuyu: A very minor change to how her headpiece looks, but I like it. It looks like a cute little summer cap instead of hulking headpiece she had before. The lenses looking like frog eyes were certainly a nice touch and adds to the "cute and friendly" look.

Tokoyami: The only change seems to be that Tokoyami now has a scarf on top of his cloak. I don't really get it. It doesn't look good and doesn't have any particular benefits. Was he really taking tips from Square Enix with wanting more cloaks?

Shinso: Shinso grew out his hair. That's about it. I'm mixed on this. It's not a bad design, but it can make Shinso feel more and more like a clone of Aizawa. So much of his design is already based on Aizawa. Could we maybe do something a bit diffident?

Iida: More of a sidegrade with this one. The extra muffles around his head look silly. I like the more cap shaped helmet, more resembling his brother's costume and looking similar to the cap the Greek god Hermes would wear for neat little visual reference.

Aoyama: I'm conflicted. One the one hand, Aoyama's costume does look a more practical with the removal of things like the cape and sliming down the design, but it loses a lot of the personality. Plus his pants are really dumb. I don't care how they are colored, they just look silly.

Denki: He may just have the most improved costume. His disk launcher has been broken down into a smaller version of it, seemingly with darts instead. The lightning patterns on his pants are nice as well to give his look more flavor. And the headphones work with his design.

Uraraka: I miss the space visor. It really brought the whole them of the costume together. Instead we get another pair of headphones. I do like the little bits of Izuku's costume in the look, such as the metal around her neck and the launchers around her arm looking like his gloves.

Momo: Momo has a proper shirt now. I do wish it has some more design to it. Maybe some white accidents around it reminiscent of her old look to make more like an evolution. Maybe she could have taken some visual ques from Midnight's or Magic's costume to show respect to her former mentors.

Shoto. Not a lot changed here, surprisingly. The most there is Shoto having designs similar to Enji on his chest. Which I do hope has more of the red and white as part of it. It'd be a neat way to represent how Shoto is still Enji's kid who incorporated everything he learned from him, but is more then his own person at this point that can be free of the shadow that Endeavor cast over his life.

Bakugou: I don't much care for this new design. While I like how they intergrade more of his winter costume into his standard look, it loses on a lot of personality that the old costume had. Things like the blast shaped mask and grenade bracers were great additions and it really needs more of that orange and green to break up all the black. The little fuse tassels are nice though.

Izuku: Out of the all the characters here, I find myself the most reserved about Izuku's new look. Because it depends so much on the coloring. The look itself I think is fine. A natural final conclusion to his costume. But the colors have always been an issue for me. I'm just hoping the cape and highlights are plain white as opposed to the clashing orange and yellow of his last look.

111 notes · View notes

theflowergothic · 3 months ago

Text

Okay, I'm Back (Kinda)

First lesson of the day is I apparently can't spend a lot of time away from y'all. So I'm back! 😂

I might as well give a recap of what happened for those unaware:

Long story short, one of Kelly's fangirls attempted to dox me. Apparently my work (and promoting said work) hit so hard she decided the next logical step was to try and contact my parents and my job.

Because nothing screams “healthy parasocial response” like going nuclear on someone who made a video essay and wants it to be successful. 🫠

The person behind it is someone I’m familiar with: Elisabeth/ formula1bliz/tothegrandprix. I know it’s her because she uses the same pfp for all her accounts. A truly masterful game of disguise if you want to be found out immediately.

She’s been unhinged about my content for a while now... quote-retweeting me from the shadows, trying to "discredit" my work through by giving long diatribes to out-of-context scenes, and framing public receipts as private attacks.

But I kind of forgot she existed until last week, when she showed up in my Tumblr askbox. 😂

But on Monday, things escalated.

That morning, I officially opened applications for people to translate the full exposé. It got a lot of attention (and a LOT of applications, my goodness!).

What did Elisabeth do? She then posted on her story encouraging people to mass report my accounts. Because of course she did.

(We’ll get to that email later lol)

Let's pause and take this in: she got blocked for boundary crossing behavior, and her response was to… threaten more boundary crossing behavior. And what the hell i she trying to even accomplish here? Prove that I have a public email address where I take YouTube inquiries?

But then... Elisabeth escalated. She posted my last name (which while it's an open secret, is not something I utilize in my public branding), my parents’ names, and my employer. She encouraged people to contact them.

Let me be really clear: this was a deliberate attempt to incite harassment, compromise my safety, and try to silence me through fear. And that’s not activism. That’s not even messiness. That’s targeted cruelty.

Also, remember how I said I’ve been doxxed before? Long ago? Luckily, I knew exactly what to do. I contacted my friends to ask them to report the content, flagged everything I needed to flag, took screenshots, and filed formal reports where appropriate. I didn’t spiral. I didn’t panic. I didn’t let them rewrite the narrative.

And before you say "But you're doing the same thing by operating hate accounts!!!" I'm not. Not even close. What I do is not harassment. It’s not about inciting a mob, revealing someone’s location, or endangering their job or family. I critique a public figure based on public behavior, using public records and public platforms. It’s cultural commentary/media analysis with a hint of performance art. If you can’t tell the difference between that and a targeted smear campaign designed to endanger someone in real life, maybe the issue isn’t my exposé. Maybe it’s your media literacy.

The most ironic thing, at least in my opinion, is their attempt to contact my family over my content. Why? They’re already well aware of what I do! My dad was the mandatory reporter I consulted for the exposé parts detailing Max’s childhood. My brother LITERALLY VOICED MAX IN THE VIDEOS.

Here’s what happened when someone actually tried to follow through on contacting my family: I got a text from my dad. Not because he was shocked about my content, but because people started bothering him directly. He wasn’t upset about what I said. He was worried about the lengths these strangers were going to to silence it. He was worried about how it could affect ME.

But I’m not going to walk away from this just because some insane Kelly fans don’t like the fact I post a lot of samples from my work (alongside other projects). That’s not how I work. The abridged exposé is still coming out as scheduled. The translations are still underway. And I have my future plans set in stone.

I'm slowly going to return to my normal posting schedule over the next week or so. Just know that I'm okay and nothing happened to me or my family.

And a note to anyone else who thinks weaponizing personal information will stop me: all you’re doing is proving my point. You’re confirming exactly what the exposé laid out. You're proving how power defends itself through deflection, coercion, and intimidation.

(PS: The dox did get deleted as far as I know, but Elisabeth then sent me this weird email yesterday morning. Make of it what you will.)

#flowergothic #flowermisc

25 notes · View notes

sgiandubh · 1 year ago

Note

What happened with Barbour ?

Dear Barbour Anon,

My favorite kind of Anon, even if I know the question has recently been asked again and not in this corner. Never mind, I think it's time to talk about it, too.

I bought my first Barbour (entry-level, so olive) Bedale wax jacket 25 years ago, from their (long gone, now) shop on Boulevard Raspail, in Paris. It was a mandatory clothing item to own if you wanted to properly mingle with the law school crowd (it still is) and it ended up being one of my most prized possessions, possibly a part of me. I still have it somewhere, back home. Two more followed, along with a fetishist array of shirts, scarves, beanies and even one of those sturdy crossbody bags you can fit half a house in. So you can imagine my absolute thrill when I found out, very very late, that S had had a rather substantial collaboration with them, from 2016 and until 2019.

I am very bad with timelines, as you probably know and possibly even cackle about, but still: S was appointed as the company's first ever Global Brand Ambassador on July 16, 2016. His mission statement was very precisely defined by the brand and for some reason we'll analyze a bit later, this is important:

(Source, heh: https://www.astonbourne.co.uk/is-barbour-a-luxury-brand-unraveling-the-mystique-of-classic-outerwear/).

A shirt and vest signature collection followed in 2017 and 2018, with the contract being renewed. Advertisement was absolutely gorgeous and designed to shape a very positive image, both for S and the brand. Last autumn's SS Gin promo retained some of that irresistible aesthetic DNA and I discussed it at length.

See for yourself, Anon. The fandom endlessly discussed the first long clip (with the chocolate labrador), but I have no idea if these two have been seen, let alone debated. If they did, let that be my nostalgic mistake.

Spring/Summer 2018:

youtube

Fall 2018:

youtube

And then disaster stroke, with S's trip to Ha-wa-wee 1.0, in the spring of 2019. A short reel, featuring a rather agglomerated boat trip, was posted on socials. Unfortunately for S, it also featured an allegedly horrifying scene involving the 'traditional' bludgeoning to death of a tuna fish. Emotions ensued and as it often happens here, they spun out of control. Many people, including some of the most vocal S haters, tagged Barbour in their diatribes, filled with environmentalist indignation. They suggested this guy (who did not participate to the savagery and I would be even unsure he realized what was going on) was, by no reasonable means, a proper 'embodiment of the brand's identity, values and aspirations' (remember that mission statement?).

Tone deaf as ever in the midst of a serious PR crisis, S put friendship above anything else, and publicly praised the boat's owner, calling him 'the heart and soul of the island', if I remember well. I still would like to think he has no idea what the hell exactly happened. And then, when somebody finally (August 2019) asked Barbour on Insta about their collaboration with S, they got this politely dry, but clear answer:

"We don't have any plans for a collaboration with SH in the near future" means, in my book and to my understanding, "we are never going to work with this guy again". Truly, some people in here who dare to give morality lessons to others, should be proud of themselves: they did it knowingly and in a very organized way, using multiple sock accounts, to give the impression of a collective retching reflex. To cut the story short, the dread of any ad campaign on this planet.

The effort was genuine. The result of that collaboration was very good. Take, for example, this somewhat heartbreaking customer review by an American guy who has no idea who SRH is and who bought one of those jackets from a Barbour factory warehouse, in 2021, with a hefty rebate (70% off). Clearly something Barbour wanted to get rid of at all costs - what a pity and really what a SHAME on all those hypocrites who will never admit to a public assassination by the book:

youtube

This time, I am absolutely not sorry for the length, Anon. This is something that still makes me boil. Unfairness and cheap nastiness simply disgust me.

(Thank you, sweetheart, for the screenshot, always. You know who you are 😘😘😘).

#anon #fandom #shitshow

147 notes · View notes

i-identify-tanks-in-posts · 1 year ago

Text

Okay. So, last night I was scrolling through my news feed and I came across an article with one of the most dogshit takes I've ever had the misery of reading with my own two eyes.

The article in question? From 'The National Interest', "The M60 Patton could never be built today."

So, come with me as we absolutely rip the fuck out of this dogshit article. (Now is your chance to read it.)

So, first, let me say, that I don't dislike the m60. It's a venerable tank, extremely capable for its time, and the fact that it still sees some use more than 60 years after it's creation says a great deal as to its capabilities.

However, I take great issue with some of this article's claims.

First, the idea that the M60 was some revolutionary miracle tank, developed out of the blue, and rushed to the field before it was ready. To be frank, that's a bold-faced lie. The M60 is the result of a long lineage of medium tanks and MBTs, stretching back to the final days of ww2. A fairly common piece of cold-war tank trivia is that the M60 was never formally called the "Patton", it just looked so much like the m48 "Patton", that the tankers never saw fit to call it anything different. (Below is a comparison of the vehicles: from the front, the tanks can be distinguished by the m48s concave frontal armor, while the m60 has a flat wedge.)

M60:

M48:

The m48, itself, was a development of the m46, which was itself an upgrade of the m26 Pershing, the American medium tank used in the last days of the European theater. So, the idea that the m60 was flawed because of its "revolutionary design" not being given time to be tested is, quite frankly, horseshit.

Next up on the chopping block is the claims that the M60 is still in use by nations today. The article states that, throughout the Middle East, you can find nations that use the m60 and its modernization still today, from Egypt to Saudi Arabia. However, you'll notice that none of these nations are exactly military powerhouses, with Egypt not having won a war that wasn't against starving partisan rebels since the British packed up their shit and went home, and Saudi Arabia quickly transferring to the M1, and offloading as many of their Pattons on other nations as quickly as they can manage. And let's be honest, when's the last time you even thought about the Iranian military?

Next, I'm going to directly quote this line, because it's peak comedy. "in 1991, the United States Marine Corps, one of the most innovative branches in the US military, deployed the M60 in battle against Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi Army." Ah, yes, the Marine Corps, famous for it's innovation and openness to change...

The Marines wouldn't know innovation if it grabbed the crayon out of their mouths. They hate change more than H.P. Lovecraft hated penguins and Irish people. So to come out and say that something is amazing because the Marines are still using it instead of a newer thing? It's peak comedy.

Then, the author goes into his highly-political diatribe about how, because the m60 was so "rushed" and "untested", it's head-and-shoulders above any US defense project since, because it still sees some use by tin-pot dictators, outdated militias, and the Marines in Iraq. However, what he fails to mention is that the m60 was the ultimate result of the 2nd generation of MBT technology, building on a lineage of tanks going back to 1945. The idea that the m60 is special in any way other than being the culmination of a generation or armored vehicle technology is ludicrous, and I sincerely hope that not too many are suckered in by this ex-congressional staffer's bullshit.

#tanks #us tanks #military

108 notes · View notes

midwest-dex · 7 months ago

Text

Boxoton, the Round Three Pokemon Boxoton fight primarily with their tusks, using their powerful trunks as a one-two-three punch once their opponents have forgotten it can fight with that as well.

Types: Fighting/Rock Ability: Cool Under Pressure — The process of becoming a fossil has tempered this Pokemon to the elements, halving the damage Ground and Water moves deal to it. Hidden Ability: Iron Fist

A woolly mammoth fossil was something we wanted very early on for this region, but the design had always been hard to come up with anything for. While collecting references for this one, the thing that struck me was the long tusks of prehistoric mastodons being positioned similar to a boxer, their arms just ahead of their face.

One thing I've felt like I've been lacking in designs is... well designs, patterns and details and such to de-blobify Pokemon. So for these two I tried to keep layering on the fighting elements. The back humps are modeled after a fist, the toenails on brass knuckles. Its tusks are wrapped in boxing tape, and its tail the bell, and its even got a cauliflower ear once it evolves. I tried for a long time to get something working with its legs making up a boxing ring, but could never get anything sensible.

Did digging into all of that pay off? At this point I'm still not sure if I went too far, not enough, or landed on it well enough.

#doodle #by-cajun #poke-midwest #fakemon #dex-entry #design-diatribe #boxoton #pachypound-line #fossil #two-stage

3 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 8 months ago

Text

We Could Call It Even

Summary: Newly made and terrified, Elain Archeron's human fiance tells her of a creature that could turn her back and keep them together and Elain will stop at nothing to make rumor a reality.

There is no force that can undo fate. No magic that can unmake a mating bond. And Lucien Vanserra isn't about to let his mate throw herself in the path of certain death on a fools hope. Lucien will be forced, instead, to watch her love another man for eighty brutal, miserable years.

While Elain Archeron will have to contend with a life she hoped to never live…and a mate she never wanted.

“Mr. Vanserra,” Odessa began, sliding into his pub before it was open.

“Why did I give you a key?” he grumbled as she made her way forward, mug of coffee in her hand.

“That’s why,” she said with an easy grin. “Have you heard the rumors?”

“No,” he replied, taking that first sip. Lucien didn’t know if it was the beverage itself or merely the act of drinking something hot that seemed to bring him back to life. “Is Bernard in the harbor again?”

She laughed. “No. He quit drinking, remember?”

“Oh, of course. That explains why he was here carousing all night,” Lucien replied with a bite of sarcasm. “Tell me.”

“Remember the florist?”

No, he didn’t—people seemed to forget that Lucien hadn’t lived here for centuries. Merely eighty something years, the vast majority spent making his little pub profitable. The florist had been gone by the time he came in—she’d simply moved away to be closer to great, great, great grandchildren he thought. Someone had to tell him that, anyway. Still, Lucien wasn’t about to admit all that. It would remind people he was still relatively new despite living there for nearly a century.

“Of course.”

Odessa’s grin told him she knew he was a liar. She didn’t call him on it, which was one of her better qualities.

“Well, she swore she was never going to sell that storefront. I think she was afraid of another pub—she was always going on and on about young people and their drinking habits. She sold it, though.”

“To who?”

Odessa shrugged. “No idea. Someone I’ve never seen before, and I thought she must be from the inland but her accent…sounds awfully familiar.” He narrowed his eyes. “No one from Prythian is coming out here to work.” Certainly no one he knew, anyway.

“Maybe they’re from Rask, then. They’re always sneaking over the border, stealing our jobs—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Lucien interrupted, uninterested in yet another long-winded diatribe on why everyone who wasn’t from their home was an evil. It was a common refrain—everyone thought so, Prythian included. Nationalist sentiment was especially high as one of their independence holidays was nearly upon the city. Flags of cerulean and white hung from nearly every storefront, waving in the breezy, ocean wind. Lucien's shop was no exception, though the whole thing amused him. He didn’t care one way or the other. It was simply good for business.

He did like Vallahan, of course—when he pictured his future, he didn’t see himself leaving. The memories were still far too fresh to return to Prythian, and despite the time that had passed, it seemed very little had changed. His mother was still married to Beron, his brother likely still schemed. Feyre’s oldest son was nearly grown and she still governed as High Lady of Night, her inner circle also unchanged.

She came to visit sometimes, spending an evening in his home above the pub. Rather than the small room he’d once furnished, his home had expanded to three bedrooms, an actual living room, and a full-sized kitchen he spent a lot of time in. One of those bedrooms was designated for Feyre only, dressed up in soft lilac and cream to suit her tastes.

She spent more and more time each visit, telling him of everything he’d missed. It was mostly amusing personal stories or inter-court drama that still amused him. She was careful never to mention Elain. At first, Lucien had thought she was dancing around the subject to spare his feelings. In time, however, he realized that Ferye simply didn’t know. Elain didn’t keep in touch, and Feyre hadn’t reached out.

Sometimes he wondered if the human male had died or not. If Elain had gone crawling back to her sisters, begging for absolution that they’d absolutely give her. Was it wrong to hope that Rhysand, at least, might give her a little hell?

The pain had lessened to a dull ache in his chest. Some nights it pained him more than others but for the most part, Lucien could ignore it entirely. She’d made her choices, and he’d made his. There was simply no road where they might meet again. Elain would return to Prythian, she’d embrace being faerie, and would likely find some new male to torment for the rest of her days. Lucien had no intention of returning unless he could return to Autumn itself.

“Do you have anything else for me?” Lucien asked Odessa, pulling himself out of his depressed thoughts. He took another sip of his rapidly cooling beverage while Odessa continued to grin.

“You’re not going to say hello? I heard she’s very beautiful.”

The thought made his stomach clench. He’d had enough of beautiful females. Sure, when he’d first gotten to Vallahan, he’d made a name for himself, sleeping with whoever interested him to mask his own pain. For twenty years Lucien had acted that way until one morning he woke up miserable, angry, and still in pain. It wasn’t helping. It had never helped. What was the point of moving away if he was going to bring all his same bad habits with him?

So he’d stopped. Sometimes he missed the warmth of another body in his bed, but it passed easily.

“Why don’t you say hello to her for me?” Lucien suggested. Odessa had just as fearsome a reputation with females as Lucien did. Her smile only widened.

“I’m trying but she’s like a nervous little fawn—scampering off anytime someone gets a little too close.”

Lucien only shrugged, draining the rest of his coffee before sliding the porcelain mug over to her. “Sounds like your problem. Not mine.” If there was more Odessa wanted to say, she wisely kept her mouth shut. She took her mug, threw Lucien a rather saucy wink, and sauntered out of the pub. She had other people to make the rounds with, spreading the gossip as far as she could. Lucien promptly forgot as he made the climb back upstairs to fully dress himself for the day. It promised to be warm, and when the weather was uncomfortable, folks retreated indoors for respite and a drink. When it was pleasant, they sat outside drinking and eating and talking well into the early hours of the night.

No matter what, Lucien came out on top.

He took his time bathing before braiding his hair off the crown of his head once the warm air had dried the strands. He dressed casually, leaving the buttons in his shirt undone just below the collar, and a little untucked as well. It made him seem rakish, and Lucien rather liked his reputation, even if it was no longer deserved.

Perception was everything, after all.

Back downstairs, Lucien unlocked the back of the pub so Bernard could drop off meat and the cook could start preparing for the lunch. He made his way to the front to set out chairs, gaze turning to the florist just across the street. There had once been boards over the windows and the yellow paint had been chipping and peeling along the street.

Who had purchased it, and painted it? The peeling paint was gone, revealing pretty limestone washed brick and vibrant, sage shutters thrown open. Planter boxes held swaying flowers and the yellow, rounded door had been thrown open.

Lucien made his way across the street, narrowly avoiding a horse pulled cart filled with sun mellons stacked so high he was certain a few would spill out before they reached the grocer. Knocking on the front door, he called out, “Anyone home?”

Inside was far nicer than whatever had existed before. White walls ought to have been boring and uninspiring, but the owner had hung up pretty, twinkling lights where the wall met the ceiling along with bright floral displays that made the space seem alive. Bright.

Beautiful, he decided.

“One moment!” called a soft, feminine voice. “I—oh, no—” her voice became muffled as the sounds of something crashing abruptly ended whatever she’d been about to say. Lucien hopped over the counter to push open the swinging door where a pair of fair legs jutted out from beneath a pile of heavy looking boxes. The soft smell of honey and jasmine invaded his senses, causing his heart to race.

“Let me help,” he said, pulling that first box of what looked like discarded hardware off her form.

“This is my fault,” she said, pushing at the boxes on top of her. “I knew I shouldn’t…”

Lucien nearly dropped what he held directly back on the woman now staring up at him. Anger bloomed in his chest at the sight of those wide, brown eyes, half obscured thanks to the tangle of hair in her face.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, dropping the items loudly to the floor. He was panting, he realized, his anger warring with familiar desire. His blood was awake, chanting the same word over and over.

Mate, mate, mate, mate—

Elain blinked, bottom lip trembling.

“Oh, here we fucking go,” he muttered, turning his back to her. “Did Feyre send you?”

“No, she didn’t send me. Why? Did she finally realize the error of her ways and exile you?”

He wanted to throttle her.

He wanted to inhale her scent from the crook of her neck.

“Turn around and go home, Elain,” he dismissed, needing to get away from her. He’d lose his mind if he had to live across the street from her, and Lucien wasn’t picking back up and starting over. He’d come here to get away from her and she had no right to encroach on his territory. “Surely your husband needs his diaper changed?”

“Oh, go to hell, Lucien,” she spat.

“I don’t want you here—”

“I don’t care what you want—”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear!” Lucien exploded, his rage betraying him. “Everything has been about what you want since I found myself tethered to you! I bow to your whims and you don’t consider anyone—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” she interrupted, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “Poor, sad, Lucien. Maybe you can write about it in your journal? I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

They stared at one another, jaw set, shoulders squared. It was a fight she wanted? He could give her a fight.

“There are no humans here,” he informed her, making a show of examining his nails. “Just fae,”

She narrowed her eyes. “I know.” Obnoxious. “Does Feyre know you’re here?” He tried a different tactic, desperate to convince Elain to leave before she ruined everything.

“I’m sure you’ll tell her,” Elain replied, her irritation plain.

Lucien wanted to vomit. He could feel bile churning in his stomach, burning a path up his throat. This was all wrong—it had taken him nearly a century to stop dreaming about her, to push her out of his mind and move on. He was happy.

And here she was, come to ruin that, too. Elain Archeron felt owed, and had decided to get back everything taken from her even if it came at his expense. Especially if it came at his expense. Elain would think nothing of staying here, would think nothing of encroaching into the next place he moved, on and on until she’d marked the whole word as hers, and he simply had nowhere else to go.

“If you stay, I will make your life as miserable as you’ve made mine,” Lucien threatened. Elain blinked up at him, eyes watery. If she cried, he thought he might lose it and fully explode with rage.

“I died,” Elain hissed, closing the gap between them to jab her finger into his chest, “and the first thing I heard when I came out was your horrible voice declaring we were mates. I could never make you half as miserable as you’ve made me.” Lucien was unmoved. “Watch me.”

He turned, then, delighted to have gotten the last word, and made his way back into the street where the air didn’t smell like her. Small mercies. His body was a betrayer, heart thudding not with hatred or fury, but excitement. Some stupid part of him wanted to go back into that room and bury his nose in her hair. Instinct, he supposed, that he couldn’t wholly overcome.

Smelling her wouldn’t make him like her any better. Maybe fucking her would ease some bruising ache in his chest, but it certainly wouldn’t ease his aching heart.

Lucien made his way back into his emptied pub, ignoring that it was nearly set up for lunch. Renatta would be in soon to serve while Lucien worked the bar and a few back of house staff cooked and stayed on top of dishes. He wanted to simply close it all down, pack up his things, and continue moving west. Lucien had a life here. A world that made sense, with friends who’d only ever known him as Lucien—not a High Lord's son, not an emissary to a court, or anyone of importance.

Why should he go, he asked himself silently, seething with anger. She should return—surely she had a host of hybrid children that would be missing her? The thought was a punch to the gut, another reminder that he was never going to have that. His whole future had been ripped out from under him not once, but twice. Elain had gotten a lifetime with the male she loved, more than Lucien had ever been given, and still she was unsatisfied.

Spoiled.

Lucien would make her regret it, he decided. She was an outsider, had purchased the business of a well-loved person, and was about to be known as the enemy of Lucien who was loved. For whatever that was worth. Lucien knew everyone and Elain knew no one. A few well placed rumors, a couple pieces of salacious gossip, and she’d become a shut-in. No friends to speak of, no social life, and little business to sustain her. He’d have her back on a ship to Velaris before the first frost bit at his nose.

The thought offered Lucien a small amount of relief. And not to prove Elain right, but before he went back downstairs, Lucien fired off a quick missive to Feyre, furious she hadn’t warned him. Were they friends or not, he asked? How dare she meddle in his life knowing how badly Elain had wounded him. Not all mates were happy pairs. Lucien could think of very few who were happy.

Feyre needed to butt out.

Once his letter was on its way to Prythian, Lucien felt like he could breathe a little. Taking the stairs two at a time, Lucien went behind the bar to wipe down glasses and prepare himself for what he hoped was a decently busy day.

Renatta was there in her long, lacy blue skirt and her cinched top which she swore caused her to receive better tips. Lucien thought it was because her breasts were spilling out over the neckline, in danger of coming out entirely each time she bent low to drop off drinks or pick up plates. He wasn’t going to say that, of course—if nothing else, it would make a room full of half drunk males happy.

She made her way toward him once she was done, leaning up on the counter with a smile on her face. “So,” she began, looking him up and down with an expression he was immediately distrustful of, “there's a new female in—”

“No. Matchmaking,” he interrupted, a familiar refrain he’d repeated a hundred times before.

“She’s so pretty—”

“I heard she had screaming fever,” Lucien informed Renatta, a lie he was well aware of. Prythian had never had a case of screaming fever, to start, and Elain certainly bore none of the tell-tale scratch scars on her face from the ailment. “I heard she was on the run from a High Lord in Prythian.”

Renatta loved gossip—it was what made her so good at serving tables. She’d spread it among the patrons that night under the guise of friendly customer service. Everyone who came through would hear the rumors—Elain, too, who would have to stutter and stumble her way through explanations no one quite believed.

Lucien grinned, turning toward his tap as Renatta stood to seat the first people coming in. Her eyes were bright with excitement, bouncing toward them with a secret she’d get to share. The night passed in much the same way—Lucien stayed so busy he didn’t have time to think about Elain.

He wouldn’t have thought of her at all had she not come storming over that next morning. He’d managed to throw a pair of trousers over his hips, unlaced and revealing a trail of hair that vanished along the waistband. He assumed it was Odessa with his coffee, banging to let him in so they could gossip quietly for the next hour.

It was Elain, arms crossed over her chest, hair plastered to her face thanks to a drizzling rain just outside. Lucien hesitated, suddenly too aware of his body. Lucien was uncomfortable, made worse when her eyes widened in horror, causing her to stumble back a step.

“You—put on a shirt,” she ordered. Lucien’s temper flared.

“What do you want?” he replied, unwilling to do anything she asked, even if he privately agreed with her. Lucien was tired of her face, of her voice, of everything about her that she kept shoving in his face.

“Stop telling people I had screaming fever,” Elain hissed, looking over his shoulder rather than at him.

“I didn’t tell anyone that,” he lied, barely able to suppress a grin. “Maybe I just told them I found you impossibly ugly and they drew their own conclusions.”

Her eyes snapped to his face, narrowed to slits. “You’re a liar.”

He only shrugged. That was well-known. “Is that all?”

“You can’t run me out of this place, Lucien,” she said, unaware that the sound of his name on her lips made his whole body jerk with excitement. Traitor.

“You can’t control everyone to get what you want,” he shot back, venom dripping from every word. “I’ve been here for eighty years while you shacked—”

She slapped him. Lucien saw her hand strike forward, felt her palm collide with his cheek. The string was brutal, filling his mouth with the coppery tang of blood. He grabbed her wrist before she could snatch it back, holding it tight enough that when she tried to pull back, he was certain he was bruising her skin.

Was this the first time he’d ever touched her? Like genuinely touched her? Lucien thought it might be. He’d once daydreamed what it would be like—nothing like reality. “If you do that again, I will make you regret it.”

“I already regret it,” she hissed, yanking vainly again. Lucien didn’t release her, though he should have. He could feel her fluttering pulse beneath his fingers, could practically taste the sweet scent of her. He hated her and he wanted her in equal measure. He didn’t want to let her go because touching her skin was soothing something angry in his chest.

She was going to do far worse than hit him if he didn’t. He’d deserve it, too. Reluctantly, Lucien forced himself to let her go, watching as she cradled that hand against her chest. She looked like she wanted to pummel him. Lucien would like to see it, if only to witness a little spunk from the otherwise docile Elain. Sure, she was constantly telling him off, but those words were toothless. Elain always did what he wanted if he insulted her forcefully enough.

Only, Lucien didn’t want to right then. He suddenly felt exhausted, worn down by his strange life and the female with her heaving chest staring up at him with so much hatred.

“Leave me alone, Elain. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to speak to you. I want nothing from you.”

That ought to have been the end of it. Lucien certainly hoped so, anyway. He reached for the door, but Elain slammed out a hand, preventing him from shutting it in his face.

“Why not go back to Prythian, then?” she suggested silky. His anger spiked again.

“Why not go back to the humans you love so much?” he shot back, eyes trailing to her ears. The tips warmed, turning a bright shade of pink as though she were embarrassed he could see them peeking out from behind her mass of thick curls.

“You don’t know anything at all,” she hissed, turning on her heel to stalk off. “And if you don’t stop telling stories, I’ll start telling stories about you. Maybe I’ll tell them who you really are. Or maybe I’ll tell your brothers. I heard they were looking for you.”

Lucien paled and Elain smiled, triumphant to have the upper hand for once.

“This isn’t over!” he yelled at her retreating back. And to his surprise, she looked over her shoulder and offered him a rather rude gesture with her hand. Lucien would have laughed had he not been so surprised to see it. She vanished inside her little shop, leaving Lucien half naked on the front step of his own.

Game on, Elain Archeron.

Game on.

#elucien

53 notes · View notes

sessakag · 1 year ago

Note

Now all I can think about is Prey!Papa-Naruto because it would be the wildest funniest thing ever! Poor Hinata is probably trying to make sure her kids grow up to be good morally upstanding people and Naruto is just….Yeah 😬. Funnily enough this Naruto probably wouldn’t have as much of a contentious relationship with Boruto because there’s no way he’s putting work above spending time how he wants 😭. And as a Kawaki hater I’m pleased to say I don’t see this Naruto being altruistic enough to take in some random abused kid so really we’ve got my ideal version of the Uzumaki family 🫢. Anyway, I bet parent-teacher conferences and kiddy playdates and birthday parties are gonna be fun times 🤣. Speaking of bday parties happy early birthday! I hope it’ll be a fun one.

Daddy Prey!Naruto is the funniest thing ever, lol.

For sure, Naruto would spend time with his little mini-me. Who would stop him?

I feel like Boruto would be very aware that his father is a homicidal nutjob and spend his time trying to keep innocents out of harms way, but he does it in ways that are just as bad as his father, because of course, the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree, and that he has this huge blind spot to when his own inner crazy is starting to show, lol. And of course, mess with his mom or baby sister, well then, you'll have a hard time telling Naruto and Boruto apart at all🤭he'd justify his violence and the bodies in his closet because Prey!Narupapa taught him that delusion is just another way to say correct, and there's nothing wrong with customizing your own reality when it's convenient. He'd also spend so much time trying to undo Hima's worst tendencies their dad is teaching her in an effort to help his mom out, but ends up making it worse by teaching her "alternative" tendencies that are just as bad but much more slicker than his father's open bluntness, which ultimately, makes Hinata's job harder, lol. Poor lady, I can see her trying to explain the situation to her crazy husband. Hinata: I'm trying to make sure the kids have a moral compass, Naruto Naruto: The fuck they need that for?

I'll be honest, I really don't know all that much about Kawaki since I don't watch the show, but his design is very cool, and the clips I've seen of him on youtube I vibe with🤭but Naruto being altruistic and adopting a poor orphan? Not fuckin likely at all, lol. Prey!Naruto wouldn't care about any kids but his own🤷🏽‍♀️so you're all set for sure, lol.

Parent-teacher conferences would be lit af😂imagine Naruto's big buff tatted up self sitting in one of those itty bitty chairs at a table lower than his knees while the teacher tries to get him to understand that it's not a good thing that his little girl is drawing her classmates with their heads somewhere other than on their shoulders🤣he would be so insulted and have a very scary diatribe about why Hima's work is "art" not a "red flag". The teacher would resign the next day by the time he was done. Omg birthdays🙈One word: Pinata. Take that as you will, lmao!

And omg, I wanna write Prey!Naruto at a PTA meeting, lmao! And you'd think Hinata was the one that dragged him to it, but NO, he'd go on his own because he's a super paranoid bastard that needs to know what is going on in his orbit and that includes his hellspawns, and if he doesn't like what he hears he'll have to retire a few folks to ensure things are being run for the benefit of his offspring😂

Hima's not doing a kiddy playdate, study date, pretend date, any date. Over somebody else's dead body would Naruto allow his baby girl to do any sorta dating🤣hell naw, and don't @ him about it. End of discussion. Why? Because Naruto knows how guys are, and considering the things he does to Hima's mother on a regular basis, he's dead set on not letting any guy near his daughter until she's at least 80 years old, if she's lucky. Teen!Hima good luck trying to date or get a boyfriend😅especially since big brother's not gonna be too keen on the idea either, lol. And thank you for the early birthday wishes!!💕

I feel like this SOL Prey!Naruto family is set in stone to be a thing at this point, lmao. I'm certainly sold on it. I won't say whether or not I plan on Hinata getting knocked up in Prey, ya'll will have to wait and find out but I definitely think this should be a full SOL fic at this point, lol. It's just too good to pass up🤭

#prey!Naruto zaddy #prey #naruhina #crazy runs in the family #naruto uzumaki #hinata uzumaki #boruto uzumaki #himawari uzumaki #kawaki

67 notes · View notes

umbralstars · 5 months ago

Note

Cloud for the hcs game?

Yessss my favorite wolfy guy~ Headcanon A:

Cloud loves taking photos! He doesn't consider himself the most photogenic guy, but he does need a hobby and photography makes him pretty happy. He carries a camera with him while out on deliveries so he can take pictures of vistas he finds beautiful. Reeve does pass him a little bit of extra gil to take more than one so he can track the progress of different regions over time. Cloud complains that Reeve's a friend so he doesn't mind taking the extra photos...but he can never say no to a little bit of gil.

Headcanon B:

Cloud can actually talk to chocobos. Not literally mind you, but he's so in-tune with the birds he understands what they're thinking or feeling. Sometimes he uses this power for good, other times he bullshits things and causes problems on purpose.

Headcanon C:

Cloud has a journal where he houses keepsakes and writes out his thoughts on things. Tifa got it for him sometime after the og game and he used it sparingly before Advent Children where afterwards it became habit. He has design notes for the Fusion Sword and Fenrir in there. Addresses and delivery items to keep himself on track with his job. Notes on Avalanche so he can remember what they like for birthdays and other holidays. He has pictures from his adventures in there. The ones he took of and with Aerith in Cosmo Canyon. Landscape shots from the ones he helped Snaps get; a lot of them have his friends in the background. At least one of Marlene and Denzel's birthday photos. The photo they all took after Advent Day. A photo from Yule. etc etc. He wishes he had any of his mother or Zack. The main reason he has it is because he really worries about forgetting things again. And sometimes it helps to ground him if he's spiraling or in the throws of an episode. There are some pages with haphazard scrawl all over them--some about him trying to untangle himself from Zack and Sephiroth's memories, others written out in paranoia bouts. A few with notes about biological science and then pages down a long rambling note about how he can't figure out how to heal Denzel with black smudges covering the page. The entire journal is written in Nibelig, so have fun trying to snoop on it unless you can read the language and Cloud's shorthand. He can also tie new pages in if he starts to run out of space, and he's got some stored in his room.

Headcanon D:

Cloud speaks multiple languages!! He can speak, read, and write in at least two fluently; those being Junonic and Nibelig. While his head was messed up, he had a harder time with his native tongue Nibelig but he never did lose it. Junonic is the common tongue of the world because of the influence of the Republic pre-Shinra times, and Shinra has use of this language as official company policy (I have a whole diatribe about languages in FF7's world but not now), but Cloud did not speak it at a fluent level until he enlisted in the army and was forced to fluency quickly. He has a bit of an accent. It's different from Tifa's cause she speaks Nibelheim's dialect of Junonic and learned a little bit of Nibelig from her mom and Cloud over time. Cid and him actually get along pretty well cause they both speak Nibelig (albeit drastically different dialect, there's enough mutual intelligibility that they got each other) and can talk shit where no one else can understand. Cloud's been teaching Tifa, Barret, Marlene, and Denzel how to speak it and the rest of Avalanche participates when they can (Nanaki and Yuffie harp on him to learn the Canyon's tongue and Wutanian too) Cloud also knows a little Kamul Gongaga from Zack's memories, but it's entirely functional not fluency.

#ff7 #ffvii #cloud strife #ff7 cloud #ff7 headcanons #ask game #thank you for the ask this is fun!!#final fantasy vii #ff7 avalanche

18 notes · View notes

byneddiedingo · 7 months ago

Text

Hugh Jackman and Ryan Reynolds in Deadpool & Wolverine (Shawn Levy, 2024)

Cast: Ryan Reynolds, Hugh Jackman, Emma Corrin, Matthew Macfadyen, Dafne Keen, Jon Favreau, Morena Baccarin, Rob Delaney, Leslie Uggams, Jennifer Garner, Wesley Snipes, Channing Tatum, Chris Evans, Henry Cavill, Wunmi Mosaku, Aaron Stanford, Tyler Mane, Karan Sonni, Brianna Hildebrand. Screenplay: Ryan Reynolds, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, Zeb Wells, Shawn Levy. Cinematography: George Richmond. Production design: Ray Chan. Film editing: Shane Reid, Dean Zimmerman. Music: Rob Simonsen.

Raucous, rude, and raunchy, Deadpool & Wolverine holds nothing sacred, even the production companies that made it, as the irrepressible Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) teams up with the grouchy Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) to take on the Time Variance Authority, represented by Mr. Paradox (Matthew Macfadyen), and Cassandra Nova (Emma Corrin) in the Void and elsewhere. You might wonder how Deadpool could team with Wolverine since the latter died in James Mangold's 2017 film Logan. It involves traveling through the multiverse and encountering all the various Wolverines that exist in other timelines, including one known as The Cavillrine, a cameo by Henry Cavill. The Wolverine Deadpool chooses turns out to be the worst Wolverine, someone reviled in his own universe for bringing about the deaths of all the other X-Men. The arc of Wolverine's story in the movie turns out to be a quest for redemption. The multiverse trope itself gets lampooned by treating its actors as moving through their roles as if through other universes than the one they inhabit, the Marvel Universe. So there are allusions to Jackman's career as a performer in musicals and to Reynolds's older films like The Proposal (Anne Fletcher, 2009) and Van Wilder (Walt Becker, 2002). Chris Evans's appearance in the film is also a bit of role-switching. Deadpool at first thinks he's Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, until he reveals himself as Johnny Storm, aka Human Torch, the earlier Marvel role Evans played in Fantastic Four (Tim Story, 2005). Evans's brief performance in Deadpool & Wolverine includes one of the funniest speeches in the film, a foul-mouthed diatribe about Cassandra that's so good it gets repeated in the end credits. Thoroughly mindless and thoroughly entertaining, Deadpool & Wolverine is the superhero movie to end all superhero movies. Well, we can dream, can't we?

#Hugh Jackman #Ryan Reynolds #Deadpool & Wolverine #Shawn Levy

23 notes · View notes

anotherhumaninthisworld · 1 year ago

Note

How many times did robespierre get an assassination attempts?

Because I remember his sister Charlotte robespierre says in her memoir maybe? That he had multiple assassination attempts not only Cécile-Aimée Renault who tried her luck.

And who is Cécile Renault and what is her story?

Charlotte speaks of attempts on her brother’s life in chapter four of her memoirs:

Since Maximilien Robespierre perished, a victim of counterrevolutionaries, his enemies’ rage has emerged in calumnies, lies, and furious diatribes against him; but before his death, independent of those means which have always suited them, they had another which was no less worthy of them: the dagger. A great number of assassination attempts were made on him. History has spoken of Cécile Renault and of Ladmiral, but it has said nothing of the many other assassins who came to my unhappy brother’s house in the intention of cutting his throat. We were one day gathered at M. Duplay’s house, when a man came and asked to speak to Maximilien Robespierre. My brother went to him and prayed him to say what he wished. That man replied that he could only speak to him in private; he was then shown into a neighboring room where my brother followed him. Some moments later we heard a violent movement. Right away we suspected the unknown man; we entered the room where he was with Maximilien, and we saw that he had seized my brother around the neck, that he had pushed him against the wall, and that he was strangling him!... the assassin was built like Hercules, and had an easy advantage over Maximilien, who was weak bodily and of a delicate complexion. We cried out piercingly; the assassin then let go his victim and took flight; entirely occupied as we were with succoring my brother, we did not think of cutting off his escape. Another time, two men came likewise to M. Duplay’s house to speak to my brother, who had gone out; we told them that he was absent. They insisted on seeing him. There was something suspicious in their countenances, in their miens, and even in their words; everything about them announced their malevolent designs; they were questioned on the object of their visit, and they cut themselves off, which succeeded in confirming our idea that those two men were nothing but criminals, who wanted to assassinate Maximilien. They said that they absolutely needed to speak to him, and that they would return. They did return, in effect, the next day at dinnertime when we were at the table; they did not enter together; perhaps they had made M. Duplay’s house a meeting-place to execute their crime. The first to arrive seemed embarrassed; he asked to speak to Robespierre in private; we replied that their vile plans had been discovered. At these words, he became troubled, mumbled a few words, and retired in all haste. Only a few minutes passed before his companion of the previous evening arrived. He was not given the same to speak; he was told that his accomplice had preceded him by an instant, that there was nothing more for him to do than to join him, and that their attempt had failed. No more was needed to destroy him; one might have called him a man struck by lightning; he fled as if being pursued. These two events, and many others as well, gave Robespierre the certainty that a gang of assassins had been organized to make attempts on his life.

Lucile Desmoulins also mentions an assassination attempt in a diary entry written December 12 1793, when recounting the events surrounding the Insurrection of August 10th four months earlier — ”On August 8, I returned from the countryside. Already the spirits were strongly aroused, someone had wanted to assassinate Robespierre.” While it’s tempting to assume this is one of the attempts Charlotte is describing above, this sounds unlikely to be true considering she hadn’t arrived in Paris by August 8 1792, yet claims to have been an eyewitness. I think it’s also a bit strange how, aside from the testimonies of the two women, we appear to have no other source for/mention of these three assassination attempts. Especially when we know the Cécile Renault one stirred up so many emotions…

As for her story, as told by Histoire du tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris (1880) by Henri Wallon, she lived on rue de la Lanterne (today Rue de la Cité) in Paris with her father and brothers. Acquaintances would later describe her as ”young, lively and nice, [someone who took] pleasure in conversation and loved finery,” and that her reserved father had a constant concern for his daughter. On May 23 1794, at nine o’clock in the evening, Renault presented herself at the Duplay house on Rue de la Saint-Honoré, roughly two kilometers away from her home, and asked to see Robespierre, claiming to have been out looking for him for six hours. When Éléonore Duplay, who had received Renault at the door, told her Robespierre wasn’t home, Renault got surprised and responded ”that he is a public official and therefore should respond to all those who come to his house.” This got her arrested (it is unclear to me whether Éléonore was the one who called for it or not) and sent to the Committee of General Security. On her way there, the three men escorting her reported that ”[Renault] told us that during the l’ancien régime, when one presented oneself at the king’s, one could enter straight away. We asked her whether she would rather have a king, she responded that she would shed all her blood in order to have one and that these were her opinions and that we were tyrants.”

Once arrived at the CGS, Renault was interrogated:

What is your name, age, profession and recidence?

My name is Aimée-Cécile Renault, I’m twenty years old, I live with my father, paper merchant, on rue de la Lanterne, close to rue des Marmousets, in the Cité section.

Where were you arrested and by whom?

I was arrested at Robespierre’s house by men I didn’t know.

What was your motive for going home to representative of the people Robespierre?

To talk to him.

What did you plan to talk to him about.

That depended on whether I found him or not.

Had anyone ordered you to go talk to him?

No.

Did you have anything to present him with?

That’s none of your business.

Do you know citizen Robespierre?

No, that’s why I asked to get to know him.

What was it that determined you to get to know him?

To see if he was OK with me (s’il me convenait).

I ask you to clearly explain what you mean by these words: ”to see if he was OK with me.”

I have nothing to respond. Don’t interrogate me more.

When you presented yourself at citizen Robespierre’s house, did you not express anger over the fact he wasn’t there?

Yes.

Do you know of rue de l’Estrapade?

No, I don’t know of it and I’ve never been there.

Do you know someone named Catherine Théos [sic]?

No.

Do you know an individual by the name of Dom Gerle?

No.

Have you ever heard Dom Gerle or Catherine Théos [sic] speak?

I have never heard anyone speak.

Did you tell the citizens who came to arrest you at citizen Robespierre’s house that if needed, you would spill all your blood in order to have a king?

Yes, I said that.

Do you stand by it?

Yes.

What are the motives which determined and still determine you to desire a tyrant?

I desire a king, because I would prefer that over fifty thousand tyrats, and I only went to Robespierre’s house to see what a tyrant looks like.

When the CPG searched Renault, two small knives were found on her. It was also discovered that, before going to visit Robespierre, she had left a package to one citizen Payen. The package was opened before Renault, and was shown to contain a full set of women's clothing. The interrogation then continued as follows:

What were your intention in providing yourself with these various items?

Fully expecting to go to the place where I would surely be taken, I would be happy to have linen for my use.

What place are you talking about?

About prison, to from there be sent to the guillotine.

What usage were you planning to make of the two knives that were found on you?

Nothing, I wasn’t planning to harm anybody.

Signed: Voulland, Dubarran, Amar, David, Moïse Bayle, Vadier, Élie Lacoste, Lavicomterie, Jagot, Louis du Bas-Rhin. As for her, she refused to sign.

After this interrogation, Renault was sent from the Committee of General Security to the Conciergerie prison. The following day, May 24, she was interrogated by the president of the Revolutionary Tribunal, René-François Dumas:

What is your name, age, profession and recidence?

My name is Aimée-Cécile Renault, I’m twenty years old, I live with my father, paper merchant, on rue de la Lanterne, close to rue des Marmousets, section de la Cité. I have three brothers, one of which, a 32 year old, lives in the same house, and the other two have left, one with the battalions sent to the department of Eure, the other with the first requisition.

Do you have any particular liasions or associations?

No.

Who are the people who visit your father’s house with the most frequency?

Nobody.

What are your opinions on the Republic and the government?

I want a king, because I’d prefer the power to be in the hands of a single person rather than of forty or fifty thousand tyrants.

How can you suppose that the power of the people, exercised through itself, its representatives or its mandataires to be tyrannical?

I don’t want to share my opinions.

Were your opinions inspired by anyone?

No, and I have no accountability.

Have your manifested your opinions in front of anyone?

No.

Have you in the revolution experienced any loss or been forced into any sacrifice that has been able to serve as a pretext for your opinions?

No, I want a king, I don’t have any other motives.

Do you have the hopes of bringing back a king?

Yes, and it doesn’t matter to me which one.

How do you imagiene the royalty could be reestablished?

Through the success of the armed coalition powers.

Do you have any reports or intelligence that put you in a position to base your hopes on the allied powers on something?

No.

Did you intend to contribute to the re-establishment of royalty?

Yes.

How did you intend to contribute?

I would have contributed with financial assistance and by all means that would have been in my power; I would also have contributed, depending on the circumstances, to destroying the government and those who exercise its power.

Have you made any attempt to carry out your plan?

No.

Have you written any anonymous letter against the government, or know anyone who has done so?

No.

Have you presented yourself at the house of any representative of the people?

I presented myself yesterday at Robespierre’s house, around nine o’clock in the evening.

What was your plan in going to Robespierre’s house.

To talk to him in person.

What did you want to talk to Robespierre about?

I don’t want to give any response or explanation regarding this question.

Do you realize that your answers lead one to believe you had the intention of committing a crime, and that you must explain your intentions?

She does not want to explain further, and adds that she intended to ask him for instructions on the situation and the strengthening of the Republic.

Do you realize that your declarations and obstinacy to not want to explain yourself cannot be reconciled with such a plan, which is why I’m again asking you to explain yourself?

She persists in not wanting to answer.

Did anyone propose to you the plan of going home to Robespierre and did you tell anyone about it?

No.

Did you go to Robespierre’s house several times during the day?

No.

When you went to Robespierre, did you have with you knives, and of which sort?

I had in my pocket two folding knives, one in tortoiseshell and the other in ivory, both trimmed in silver: the one made of ivory was given to me by my brother in 89, having found it at Prés-Saint-Gervais. The other was given to me by my grandmother three or four years ago. It was loaded with rust; I cleaned it and tried to remove the rust by scraping the blade with another knife, eight or nine days ago. I rarely use it.

Do you regularly carry two knives?

I carry the tortoiseshell one regularly, the ivory one showed up in my pocket, I didn’t know it was there.

When you went home to Robespierre, did you have the intention of using these knives to kill him?

No, moreover, you can judge as you please.

When you yesterday left your father’s house, did you tell anyone?

No.

When you left your house, did you carry with you a package containing clothes, and for what purpose had you brought this package?

I had taken this package containing clothes and linen, because I anticipated that by going to Robespierre I would get arrested.

End of the interrogation.

Renault’s house was searched the night between the 23 and the 24. Suspect things found included two paintings “bearing the effigy of the tyrant and his wife” hidden in a cupboard, ”several papers bearing the signs of feudalism” and two national guard rifles belonging to the father and son. Under the bed in Renault’s room was found a banner on which was a crown surrounded by fleur-de-lis printed in large size. In her father’s room was also discovered the following letter to his son:

Paris, January 3, Year II of the Republic. I’ve seen the letter from your good mother, through which you show that the citizens of the province where you find yourself desire that the former king not be condemned to death. As of now, one can’t tell you anything, because nothing is over yet, but I think that, for the sake of the good and calm of the Republic, it would be desired if he was not executed. Renault. To M. Renault, corporal at the depot of the Théâtre-Français battalion, garrisoned in Berlemont.

The father was interrogated on the spot and revealed he had three brothers, two sisters, three sons and one daughter ”who left his house on 4 prairial around six in the evening and who he didn’t know the location of.” Soon, both he, his sister and his youngest son were arrested and seals placed on their belongings. Arrest warrants were also issued against the two oldest sons of the family, but with both away in the armies they escaped the fate of their relatives.

The Renaults’ neighbours were interrogated in order to find out more about them. One femme Papin, who made sure to underline she was not close to Cècile, had the following to say regarding her disappearance:

Citizen Renault, instructed of his daughter’s absence, appeared desolute, and went to his place to check if his daughter hadn’t taken anything with her. He came back saying that the trouble which agitated him robbed him of the ability to see if she had taken anything. Renault then closed his boutique and went to his place. [Femme Papin] went home as well, after having checked, by going home to citoyenne Gentilhomme, citoyenne Bouchot and others, that [Cécile] was not in the neigbourhood. She went to bed, and sometime after having fallen asleep, she was woken up by the son of Renault who asked her to look after their cat. She accepted this without thinking about any consequences, without suspecting that in this moment, Renault was being put under arrest. The next day, femme Papin’s oldest daughter learned from citoyenne Besençon, baker, of the arrest of father and son Renault, and it was also said that fille Renault, having learned of the arrest of her brother and father, had fled the house to save herself from the same fate. Six o’clock in the morning, she found herself at the house of citoyenne Julles, talking with her about this arrest, when citoyenne Prévôt entered and told them that fille Renault had been arrested as well, and this while having wanted to kill Robespierre.

Femme Papin’s fifteen year old daughter also came forward, explaining that, on May 23:

Leaving her work and passing by Renault’s boutique, fille Renault knocked on the window, invited her in, and gave her the task of handing over 16 sols to citoyenne Julles. Then she chatted with her for about a quarter of an hour after which she went up to her place. Then she came back down and went out, saying she would not come back. Renault’s brother, not seeing his sister return, was worried to the point that he fell ill.

A girl who had come over to the Renault house to buy a pen declared that Cécile had told her that she had just bought a piece of muslin worth 25 livres from a dressmaker by the name of Sonnet, something which the latter’s wife confirmed to be true. The Renault’s maid declared that she had a bundle of Indian fabrics to redo a taffeta dress for Cécile, and Barbe-Françoise-Antonine Cruel, femme Martin, a different seamstress, reported that Renault had ordered a muslin dress made for her in secret, urging her to get it done as quick as possible since she had to attend the wedding of one of her cousins and because she could get guillotined before it. To that, femme Martin had responded that ”when one does no harm, one should fear nothing.” The revelation Renault possessed several expensive garments, along with information she had had contacts with a young man by the name of Admirat, believed to possibly be related to the Henri Admirat who had made an attempt on Collot d’Herbois’ life a mere day before Renault’s visit to Robespierre, were the main topics for the third interrogation with Renault, held on May 25:

What does your father give you in order to provide for your maintenance?

My dad provides for me, but he only gives me 15 sols per week for personal expenses.

Is it your father or you yourself who buys your clothes? Does he give you a lot and does it vary between different seasons?

He gives me that which satisfies me, and he was the one who bought them.

Do you consider that, holding the trust of your father and being the one who keeps the house running, it seems surprising that it was your father who bought your clothes; and that in general, these kinds of purchases are a thing of the past for women?

She persists in her former response.

Did you, a little while ago, buy different outfits, and do you in this moment have different clothes at the seamstresses?

I bought six ells of muslin, 25 livres per ell, from Sonnet, a haberdasher, living opposite my dad, and I owe him the price. I gave an Italian taffeta dress to citoyenne Dematin, seamstress, living on l’Île de la Fraternité, I believe in a street near the barracks, opposite or nearby an apothecary, and whose name I do not know, to make a sheath out of it for me. I also gave her a muslin sheath, and the six ells of muslin already mentioned, with the exception of the portion which was taken from it to make the garnish, by citoyenne Gentilhomme, linen worker, living with my father. I gave a pierrot de taffetas to lengthen my petticoat to my friend citoyenne Petit, living in Marché-Neuf, with a locksmith, on the fourth floor. My dad doesn’t want me to see her often, observing that she since about a year has been married to a chariot adjutant whose name I don’t know.

Do you understand that one cannot be convinced that, receiving only fifteen sols per week from your father, and this according to your own admission, he would provide you with such a big and beautiful wardrobe?

She persists in declaring that it was her father who bought her the various effects, except for the muslin, and adds that she owes citoyenne Petit, from Marché-Neuf, around forty livres.

Can you explain how, having only 15 sols per week to provide for your particular expenses, you intended to pay the six ells of muslin which you just declared to have purchased on credit, without your father's knowledge. Isn’t it obvious that you could not pay the price of this muslin without some other special resources?

The confidence the merchant, or better yet his wife, had in me, determined them to make this supply on credit and have me pay it off when I could, in ten or twenty years. I intended to ask my dad for fifty livres when I found the opportunity and give it to them.

Do you remember that in the interrogation held yesterday you declared that you would provide money to those who would help you in your counter-revolutionary projects to re-establish the monarchy in France?

I remember saying that.

How can you reconcile this offer of relief with the shortage in which you declare yourself to be?

I acknowledge the shortage in which I find myself, but I would have sold my belongings to provide for the expenses of the armies allied against the Republic.

How long has it been since you went to confession?

I have no accountability for this. Moreover, churches and priests were suppressed a long time ago.

Who was your confessor when the priests exercised their functions?

I have never been to confession.

Have you been to the house of any priest after they stopped holding office, and has any priest frequented your father’s house?

No.

Have you, since the supression, been at the house of the priest of la Magdeleine?

No, because I knew he was a firm patriot, and that he didn’t share my opinions.

Have you sometimes gone to the curé of Saint-Landry, or had any relations with him?

No, I don’t know him, I only know his name.

Do you know citizen Admirat, aged 16 or 17, who sometimes came to see the son of widow Joyanvad, marchande épicière, rue de la Lanterne, at the corner of rue des Marmouzets?

I’ve seen him five to six times only, but I have never spoken to him. I’ve seen him at my father’s house, which is next to that of citoyenne Joyanval.

Have you been to café Payen?

I have not gone into the café, but I left my package to citizen Payen and asked him where Robespierre lived. He sent me to the guardhouse of the firefighters, who gave me the adress.

Were you not surprised one wouldn’t give you Robespierre’s adress, and did you tell them you were going to see a man who today was a lot and tomorrow would be no more?

I might have, I don’t remember. But speaking to the fireman, I told him: ”Robespierre is somewhere.” The fireman having answered that he was president of the Committee of Public Safety, I replied ”So a king then?”

Have you considered that the various admissions made by you in the previous interrogations, together with those recorded in this one, announce that your visit to Robespierre had any other aim than that of discussing only government affairs?

She persists in her previous responses in this regard.

Are you on the point of marrying?

No.

When did you become a royalist?

I have always been one.

I ask you again what it was that determined you to go home to Robespierre was and what your plan was.

She persists in her previous responses, and adds that she would not say more about this; that moreover, it is up to us to guess the rest. (6 prairial, 6 o’clock in the morning)

Soon, Renault did however start having a guilty conscience over having denied her faith, and seven o’clock in the evening the very same day she gave the names of the two late priests that had been in charge of her communion to a judge of the tribunal. When asked if she since then had performed any religious act and who the persons who had made her do that were, Renault simply responded that that was a secret and she had nothing more to say.

During the trial of public prosecutor Fouquier-Tinville one year later, the registrar Wolff claimed that Renault was stripped of her own clothes, covered in rags and threatened during her interrogation:

To force her to make the confession that they wanted to extract from her, she was applied to a type of questioning so ridiculous that it should have made the justice system blush. As the taste of this young girl, who was quite pretty, was to be well dressed, she was stripped of her clothes and covered with dirty and disgusting rags, and in this state she was taken up to the council chamber where she underwent a new interrogation and where the same demands and the same threats were made against her; to which she replied the same way she had already done, adding jeers and mockery against the judges who had the pettiness to use such a ridiculous type of question against her. She was threatened with taking her father and her entire family with her if she did not confess to this alleged assassination.

As Renault was being interrogated, the city section where her family lived also carried out an investigation against them, and through it, even more compromising details came floating up to the surface. It was reported that the family, after the overthrow of the monarchy, had had the words ”the nation, the law and the king” on a cartridge box (giberne), words which they at first refused to delete, though they would eventually do so with the ”king” part. Renault’s father, speaking of the murder of Lepeletier in January 1793, was said to have had stated ”Well! One also wants the death of the king, that will cost them dearly,” while his son had openly lamanted the king’s and queen’s imprisonment in the Temple while serving as guard there. His statement had been reported to the rest of the guard unit, but he had ignored it, simply saying that he thought what he thought.

Renault’s three arrested family members — father, brother and aunt — were all interrogated on May 28:

Antoine Renault, 62 years old.

Do you know who the people are that your children frequent and have relations with?

I only know of indifferent relations to neighbors or relatives. A sister of mine, a former nun, called sister gray, came to my house and conferred with my daughter, without me remarking anything in particular between them. Said sister is very attached to religion.

Learning that we were writing down this part of his response, he wanted to cut it out.

Does your daughter have any fanatical prejudices and any passions typical for her age?

I haven’t noticed in my daughter any religious affections, she appears rather indifferent when it comes to this subject. There exists no clue she has any passions, on the contrary, she is watched over and never leaves the house alone, except for when she rarely goes to the market. When she goes out, I always accompany her. I add here that my daughter is very attached to her aunt.

How do you provide maintenance for your daughter?

I myself buy what is necessary for her.

Where were you the fourth (23rd) this month?

I stopped working (j’ai descendu la garde) at two a’clock, I had dinner at my place with my son and daughter. Five o’clock, being on the point of going to bed, my son and daughter engaged me to go out to relax. I did so, carrying with me 25 livres that he owed to a laundress. I returned home at eight o'clock in the evening, where I found my son and the fille Pepin (Papin), both in anguish, and the former troubled because my daughter, who had been gone since six o’clock, had not returned. They told me that before leaving, she had told them to wait for her, that she would return, without saying where she was going. I had as my plan to go see if my daughter was at her aunt’s house, so I left my house, but fearing to meet her on the way, I went inside and went to bed, as did my son, and we got arrested in the night. I don’t know what has become of my daughter since this moment.

He is asked about the small pieces of furniture (petits meubles) that his daughter owned.

I know of scissors, a bad knife with an ivory handle, which was given to her by her brother; another knife with a scale handle, from my dead sister. She does not usually carry them and often has neither.

Do you know what your daughter’s opinion is on the revolution?

She is a good patriot, she loves the republic very much.

Does your daughter miss the tyrant and has she shown that she desires to see a king reestablished in France?

No.

Have you yourself, in your house, sought to inspire your children with dispositions contrary to the Republic and the current government?

No.

One shows him the letter dated January 3 1793 written by him to his son, the two portraits of the king and the queen found, the two small knives, scissors and a case that he recognizes as belonging to his daughter.

He responds to questions asked regarding the denounciations of which he has been the object. He has never heard his daughter talk about Robespierre or her plan.

Does your daughter know how to read and write?

No, moreover, my daughter has so little inclination towards fanaticism that she has never taken what is called first communion, and has never approached a priest to make what is called confession.

The same day, Antoine-Jacques Renault, 31 years old.

Did you know that the paintings were being kept in a cupboard?

Yes.

Have you served as guard at the Temple?

Yes, two times.

He denies the conversation attributed to him by a denouncer. He is asked again if priests came to his house and if they declaimed against the Republic?

No.

Do you know Admirat?

No.

When your sister went out, why were you so worried?

As my sister usually doesn’t go out, I was worried over not seeing her again.

Do you observe that the situation in which you find yourself does not indicate simple concern, but deep affection to dreadful events?

He persists in his answer.

Do you know that your sister planned to assassinate members of the Committee of Public Safety, and were you involved in the plot?

No.

The same day Edme-Jeanne Renault, 60 years, former nun, rue de Babylone, 698.

Do you often go home to your brother, Antoine Renault?

I go there at least once every décade.

Which priests do you know?

I haven’t seen one in two years.

Have you had any particular conversations with fille Renault?

I view her as my niece, without particularities.

Do you know someone named Admirat, and do you know that he was known to your niece?

No.

Did you know about your niece’s plan? Were you an accomplice? Do you know who inspired it? Did conversations hostile to the republic take place in your house?

No.

The same day her three relatives were heard, Renault was her too picked in by Dumas for a fourth interrogation:

Eight days before your arrest, did you not strongly press a seamstress to carry out work that you had given her?

Yes, and these works were garments.

Did you say to this worker that you were in a hurry for these clothes, and that you didn't know what could happen, and that you could get guillotined in eight days?

I may have said that.

How is it that eight days before your arrest, you could foresee that you could get guillotined?

I have no idea.

Did your family know that you were preparing for first communions?

Never.

How did you know that Blondeau, priest of Saint-Denis-du-Pas, died last Pentecost?

It is only too true that the good priest is dead, I do not want to say from whom I learned of his death.

Do you want to declare that it was he who suggest to you the plan that you attempted to carry out?

Nobody did.

Do you often see your aunt, the former nun?

About every fortnight, and not as often as I would have desired.

She doesn’t want to make more declarations.

She declares that she doesn’t know how to sign.

Signed only F. Girard.

Renault was not perceived as some ”lone madwoman” by the authorities. Instead, they viewed her alleged assassination attempt as part of a bigger conspiracy, connected first and foremost to Henri Admirat’s attempt on Collot d’Herbois life one day earlier. Admirat and Renault were in their turn believed to be accomplices of Baron de Batz, a royalist and former member of the National Assembly, who had since turned against the revolution and was currently in hiding. According to letter written by the Committee of General Security to the public prosecutor exactly a month before Renault’s visit to Robespierre, de Batz had tried to rescue the royal family from the Temple by pretending to serve a guard there, tried to rally a mob to save the king on the day of his execution, held an Austrian committee directed by Marie-Antoinette, tried to bribe the authorities, and had contacts with both William Pitt, the Vendée, Toulon, Lyon, Marseille and the émigrés, all with the goal ”to assassinate the national representation, the object of his constant rage.” The letter ended by declaring de Batz was officially outlawed and any means were allowed when it came to capturing him.

In the weeks following Renault’s arrest, she would be joined by more people accused of belonginh to this alleged conspiracy, among them de Batz’ mistress, lodger and secretary, a domestic and seamstress, a former marquis and his son, a banker, a confident of Fabre d’Églantine and Hérault de Séchelles, parisian prisoners de Batz was believed to have influenced, and even several men currently employed in revolutionary administrations believed to benefit the enemy. On June 14, the Convention unanimously decided to immediately send the total of 40 accused before the Revolutionary Tribunal, following a report on the conspiracy read by the Committee of General Security’s Élie Lacoste (the total number would however have been bumped up to 54 once the trial began). The main objective of the conspiracy had according to Lacoste been ”the abduction of Capet's widow, the dissolution of the National Convention, and finally counter-revolution.”

The trial started on June 17 and lasted only for a few hours (I’ve unfortunately not discovered the minutes for it). All of the 54 accused, with the exception of Admirat, denied having been involved in any assassination plan. That was however not enough to stop the tribunal from sentencing every single one of them to death. They were executed at four o’clock the very same day, all dressed in red shirts, which the penal code of 1791 had proclaimed all condemned murderers were to wear.

Though Robespierre never so much as saw Renault or Henri Admirat, the assassination attempts are still often seen as a contributing factor to a decline of his mental health in the last months of his life. Already on May 25, he was the author of the following CPS decree, rather panicky in tone, asking Saint-Just, who was currently away with the armies, to return to Paris:

Dear collegue, Liberty is exposed to new dangers; the factions arise with a character more alarming than ever. The lines to get butter are more numerous and more turbulent than ever when they have the least pretexts, an insurrection in the prisons which was to break out yesterday and the intrigues which manifested themselves in the time of Hébert are combined with assassination attemps on several occasions against members of the Committee of Public Safety; the remnants of the factions, or rather the factions still alive, are redoubled in audacity and perfidy. There is fear of an aristocratic uprising, fatal to liberty. The greatest peril that threatens it is in Paris. The Committee needs to bring together the lights and energy of all its members. Calculate whether the army of the North, which you have powerfully contributed to putting on the path to victory, can do without your presence for a few days. We will replace you, until you return, with a patriotic representative. The members composing the Committee of Public Safety. Robespierre, Prieur, Carnot, Billaud-Varennes, Barère.

The next day, May 26, after Barère in the name of the CPS had read a report to the Convention regarding the assassination attemps (calling Renault ”a royalist as fanatical as the most inveterate of couriers”) and using them as a weapon against the English, Robespierre mounted the roatroom and held a fiery speech — ”calumnies, treasons, fires, poisonings, atheism, corruption, famine, assassinations, have all lavished their crimes; there still remains assassination, and then assassination, and then again assassination.” He appeared at the Jacobins the following day but after that he didn’t speak in public again until June 8, the day of the Festival of the Supreme Being. The Convention deputy Joachim Vilate claimed in the pamphlet Causes secrètes de la révolution du 9 au 10 thermidor (1794) that Robespierre during the last months of his life ”spoke only of assassination, again assassination, always assassination. He was frightened his own shadow would assassinate him. One month before his overthrow I had only set foot in his house and was given worried and threatening looks.”

The assassination attemps are also commonly seen as a contributing factor to the creation of to the Law of 22 Prairial, passed by the Convention on June 10, which Renault and the other accused were also judged under.

#cécile renault #robespierre #frev #french revolution #long post #ask #”i wasn’t gonna harm him but i think he’s a tyrant and i want to see the government overthrown.”#girl what kind of strategy is THAT???#either go all in ”yes i was gonna stab him and i’m proud of it.”#or just go ”oh no i had no evil intentions whatsoever i just always carry knives on me. i ❤️ max!!!#also ”oh no my daughter/sister who never leaves the house alone has left it alone without telling me where and i’m super worried”#”well best just go to sleep and hope she shows up eventually”#like WHO reasons like that????

49 notes · View notes