#J’ai

[spiritual-core]

Sometimes our emotional « breakdowns » are just like crazy jazz solos where you wonder to yourself: where the hell is this going? Did the musician perhaps even lose the plot?…

Until it all comes back together and we are blessed with a triumph of musical experience, a resolution.

The breakdown is just one part of the song… be patient enough to not overfocus on this one aspect of the song… move through it and you might be surprised what comes after.

[memorizerbunny]

it doesn’t matter

it probably never did

and that’s beautiful

and infuriating, right ?

I broke the record

for decibels a human scream could reach

the angels covered their ears

second hand embarrassment from above

for loving you with a heavenly consistency

unconditionality, flesh oriented divinity

I extrapolated your intellect

from the empathy and patience you gave me

I confused quiet for understanding

silence for contemplation

you are bruised, contents of a shaken box of fruit

and I am empty

a shelf

how sturdy

with nothing on me

so useful

so useless

believe me, I expected this

prophesized the genre of your betrayal

before seeing the girth of your deceit

but I’m shellshocked on my own mercy

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[firstfullmoon]

in her introduction to albert camus & maria casarès’ correspondence, catherine camus wrote that their letters made the earth larger, space brighter and the air lighter just for having existed. & in one of his last letters, camus wrote that a single heart had beaten within them so that it would still be heard in the mystery of the world even after both of them had vanished

[chum-rum]

balade

[cloud-makers-make-pollution]

real

[technically-a-kiwi]

Okay so hum… oh god… it’s, huuuuuh I- I-I need help guys 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

shitty drawings up ahead ⬇️

here’s the angel faker’s first concepts

an artificial life born from a single feather

basically being this AU’s shin godzilla

first form

second (can’t fly, only crawls and barely keeps itself together, high chance of just collapsing upon itself):

and then THIS SHIT

I need help to brainstorm some ideas because again I’m not satisfied with this design

some other stuff, to help settle the character.

I’m counting on you Fake Peppino enjoyers, remember he’s NOT friendly, it’s meant to be terrifying. Please give me ideas I’m so lost 😭😭😭

I’m also cringing a little ‘cause those drawings UGLY man…

[the-bibrarian]

Paris, yesterday (03/23/23). This is an excerpt from a video by journalist Amar Taoualit posted on twitter

This is what they’re doing to a peaceful, registered-with-the-proper-authorities march.

You can hear protesters shouting “children! there are children!” and “that’s my grandfather! my grandfather is on the ground!”

I think some families felt safe going because traditionally, union-backed, “registered” marches are peaceful and the riot police waits until they officially end, when only the more radical protesters are left, to attack. Not saying that is fine, but there was a tacit agreement for peace during the first hours of a protest. (That’s exactly what happened in Lyon yesterday, and there were also a few kids among protesters. It ended up being fine but it made me very anxious to see them, and it looks like I was right to worry.)

Things turned extremely violent in the night. I don’t feel like chronicling it, but suffice to say there were more that 900 fires in Paris. I don’t know what to think of the overwhelming silence from international media on the subject.

Anyway, I know that in principle we should all be able to protest and the police shouldn’t attack, and we’re supposed to be a democracy and we shouldn’t bow down to wanna-be autocrats that want to suppress our voices, etc.

La réalité c’est que pour quelques temps en tout cas, il faut laisser nos enfants à la maison, et que si vous êtes âgé, malade (asthmatique !), déjà blessé, personne handicapée, etc. il vaut peut-être mieux passer votre tour pour ces manifs-là. Il y a d’autres façons d’agir.

Notamment, je suis sûre que les syndicats ont besoin d’aide logistique et d’argent, et LFI, dont les députés sont sur le terrain, sur les piquets de grève, a certainement toujours besoin de plus de militants (j’ai pas ma carte chez eux pour être claire, mais je pense que c’est le parti qui soutient le plus sincèrement le mouvement).

Les députés LFI Louis Boyard (au centre) et Carlos Martens Bilongo (à droite), dans une manifestation le 20 mars. Photo de @teamroscoes (merci !!)

La député LFI Mathilde Panot au piquet de grève des éboueurs de Vitry-sur-Seine le 16 mars (photo de son twitter)

^ these are pictures of lawmakers from the leftist France Unbowed party participating in protests.

[ahalliance]

qétoiles n qbagz’ convo about his code arm + fun banter from last sunday :] english subs + transcript below da cut

[Video transcript:

Etoiles: But yesterday when he [Forever] talked to me, he was so frightened, basically he was like, ‘But one day won’t you lose your shit and want to kill the Eggs with the Code, and everything?’ Though I was telling him, ‘But the fact is, I know the Code very well’—

Baghera: Oh, so you told him you joined—?

Etoiles: No, no, no, not at all. It’s just that he has these assumptions that I’m really allied to the Code because—

Baghera: I think it’s due to your Code tattoo, also, it gives off the impression you’re in the process of transforming into a Code, Etoiles, let’s not lie.

Etoiles: That’s it, that’s it. But, basically I told him that I’ve had it since—

Baghera: But you don’t give a shit? You’re taking it well?

Etoiles: Well, yeah, I don’t give a shit because I know he’ll never beat me. Basically I—

Baghera: But you don’t give a shit about the code literally popping up over your body?

Etoiles: Well, yeah, because it’s a part of me now. It’s normal.

Baghera: How?

Etoiles: Well, after— after fighting someone 17 times, you start— you start creating links. But those links—

Baghera: But— you know that’s not how things work. Like— look, we cross paths. Right now we’re crossing paths. You see? We’re crossing paths. I kick your ass. Like, for free. You see? I see you, I’m like, ‘Bro, I don’t like his face,’ so I kick your ass.

Etoiles: But no! Because if you tell me ‘Good fight’ at the end—

Baghera: I see you again— wait, I’m not finished. I see you again like 12 times, and I tell myself, ‘Hey, I’ll do it again,’ I kick your ass again. After a while, Rayou, I won’t get diabetes!

Etoiles: Well, maybe you will, huh.

Baghera: Yes, but it’s not— it doesn’t work, like— there’s no correlation, you see!

Etoiles: You know you won’t have those cells anymore, you know, it’s possible.

Baghera: But— no— what I mean is— Etoiles! That’s now how it works! It’s worrisome! It’s normal for us to worry!

Etoiles: Well, yeah, but, uhhh. Basically, you’re all used to talking with me on the island. And you understand very well that there’s nothing able to corrupt me.

Baghera: That we don’t know, Etoiles! Because— if it’s— I know that your morality, and your enormous brain, and your big body, won’t get corrupted. But if there’s suddenly— well, what I mean is that we don’t know what all the possible systems of manipulation on the island are.

Etoiles: It’s true. No, it’s true. But for the moment I’m doing well.

Baghera: Yeah, well, so much the better. But—

Etoiles: For the moment I’m doing well!

Baghera: If you feel any change, Etoiles, mention it, okay?

Etoiles: Oh, I’ll talk about it. But for the time being I’m doing very well.

Baghera: So I can understand peoples’ fear upon seeing you LITERALLY transform into a Code and who tell themselves, ‘Oh, strange, maybe there’s a thing with the Codes.’

Etoiles: It’s true but who can better know the dangers of the Code than someone who’s confronted it his whole life? Instead of someone who—

Baghera: I’m well aware.

Etoiles: No but it’s— it’s— it’s for that reason that I told Forever. I totally understand the fear and everything, it’s normal. You see a dude turning into a Code, you ask yourself, ‘What’s the guy who sent him doing?’

Baghera: Well, yeah, there you go.

Etoiles: Like, ‘Who sent him?’

Baghera: But you don’t feel any different? Nothing?

Etoiles: Absolutely not, no. Everything is going well. I still hate the Code whenever I see him, I still want to kick his ass. Everything’s fine. Even if right now I want him—

Baghera: But you join up with them when he suggests it, yeah. Well, it’s to get the shield back.

Etoiles: It was just for the shield, believe me. Believe me, if I run into them again- if I run into them again and they don’t offer me things to save the Eggs and everything, it’s goodbye. And considering what I’ve prepared— considering what I’ve prepared, I objectively think that 5 Codes won’t be enough to kill me. There’ll need to be 10 of them.

Baghera: They might bring 10, huh.

Etoiles: Yeah, well, then again, we have time.

Baghera: Well, in any case, they don’t want to kill you anymore since you’re working with them.

Etoiles: Well, in fact, we’re not really— actually— I don’t really know what he’s thinking. Because the last time we talked I told them, ‘But if you lay even a finger on the Eggs, I’ll kick your fucking asses, you sacks of shit.’ And they left, and they didn’t answer me.

Baghera: Then again, they’re a bit cryptic, the Codes, you know.

Etoiles: Yeah, but normally they— I managed to talk with them a bit, so— so I don’t know. Personally, I’m telling you—

Baghera: Okay, no, what I mean is that I understand why when people see you they think, ‘Maybe it’s possible he’s getting a little bit corrupted by the Codes.’

Etoiles: No but yeah, yeah, I totally get it. But honestly, never. Never in a million years.

Baghera: I believe you! I trust you. But if there’s— if once you feel any difference or something of the sort, you mention it, okay? To whomever you want, but you mention it.

Etoiles: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (10000x)

Baghera: You know you’re not very reassuring when you say that, as an answer.

Etoiles: That’s true. But I’m telling you there’s no problem. And— actually. The moment I start feeling strange, I’ll put numbers. And so you’ll have to come get me.

Baghera: Okay, okay. I’ll remember that.

Etoiles: Just that. But I— I— yeah. I whisper in the Code’s ear.

Baghera: The day you start talking to me in binary, there’ll be an issue, basically.

Etoiles: The day I say, ‘10001’, that’s it. But actually, I’m telling you, I could never be corrupted because I have AVAST, my wool block which blocks viruses.

Baghera: That’s real, that’s real.

end video transcript.]

[perduedansmatete]

tiens tiens macron qui dissout l’assemblée pile poil quand le rn les fachos gagnent des élections bah c’est très intelligent ça je me demande bien qui ne va pas avoir de majorité absolue qui va encore monter et ce qu’il va advenir des rangs de la gauche comme les gens sont cons et racistes

[robinregulus]

Capricorn moon (me)

Helene in detriment

Wait Mercury in 5h Aries happened and I spent thirty minutes journalling about my baby names, how I’ve got them all figured out! Mercury is retrograding on 28* Leo btw. The thing about 4-7* Aries…………..

…well, if you have to ask, you’ll never know. Clearly haven’t been paying attention! God am I mysterious or just high?

Anyway. Capricorn moon, euhhh… oh yes. We experience our emotions with the same intensity as a Cancer, 180* away. Cardinal water, cardinal earth; “opposition” implies distinction, but these signs exist on a thematic axis. It is not so much that we Capricorn moons are unfeeling, cold, logical creatures — we feel so intensely and deeply that it hurts and the smarter more practical thing, for our own self-protection, is to get over it. Suppress and succeed.

#mountainclimber

[manglechan1204]

Avant d’avoir les résultats et qu’on ait tous envie de crever, j’ai voulu faire un tour des fanfics sur la politique française ( a des fins scientifiques bien entendu ) et oh boi y’a des trucs à dire

Sur Wattpad :

-Il y’a plus de 270 fanfics Bardella x Attal ( Les gars ?? Je comprends amour haine tout ça, mais wsh )

-J'en ai trouvé aucune sur le Front Populaire ou la gauche en général ( ce qui est une bonne chose ? je suppose ? )

-Par contre j’en ai lu une ( pour la science toujours ) où ils sont des persos secondaires 🤷‍♂️

-Antoine Daniel a fait des dégâts irréparables au milieu des fanfics shitpost /pos

AO3 :

-Y’a un tag populaire " RPF Political " ( Je dois vivre avec cette info maintenant )

-La tendance est beaucoup plus au ship Macron sur ce site bien que tjr pas mal de Bardellattal ? *Ugh*

-Toujours aucune du Front Populaire mais j’en ai trouvé avec Mélenchon qui datent toutes de 2017/2018

Voila

Si vous vous voulez plus de détail hésitez pas 👍

[memorizerbunny]

you’ll make yourself love me,

while I metamorphasize and become anew

transfigure myself into someone worth loving

someone who won’t bend break distort and shapeshift, for you

you’ll make yourself love me

despite my new face

because I made myself love you

despite your disgrace

I twisted your flaws like pipe cleaner and twine

from junk to an art piece

from cruelty to curious paths worth my exploration,

inquisition

you let me be play armchair shrink,

I can intellectualize and then eroticize all your toxicity

because I gave you a pass, forgiveness and a clean slate

but you felt the weight of replaced shame

that’s manipulation

you feel free and adored

but I have subjugated you into a patient

you’re so tainted

I see heaven in your eyes

past all your lust and fury

I see redemption

like i’m the prophet and you the harlot

Oh Mary! I forgive you

oh magdalene, they’d have skinned you

imagine all that entitlement on a woman

you’d be dead by now

but you’re beautiful, too

you’d think it easy to bend break distort and shapeshift

you think they’d love me anyway

because you think you will love me anyway

I can be the bellowing beast in all your nightmares

you’ll still dress me in white and give me a crown of thorns

oh her salvation, oh the whore is my mother

oh the whore is a virgin saint

she opens her legs and I am free

she opens her legs and sees all of me

blisters boils bite marks and toil

tufts of hair stolen from your scalp

scream at me rage spit slap choke

you are not brave

you are broke

soul empty desolately begging at my stoop

you loved me with everything you could

it wasn’t much

you loved me with everything you could

and this is how I repay you

condescending literature for the pretentious and the masochistic

I have a headache

I have a death list.

[majoraajoram]

I literally never post my art on Tumblr but I really like the colors on this one AND BAGHERA DESERVES SO MANY FANARTS OK JE L’AIME C’EST LA MEILLEURE JE VEUX QU’ELLE DOMINE LA SCÈNE INTERNATIONALE 💕

[firstfullmoon]

Letter from Agnès Varda to Jacques Demy after his death and addressed to the Montparnasse cemetery. It starts with “dear ♡” and ends with “if the beautiful and red-haired Yvonne had refused to become Madame Dame, I rather liked being half of a Demy.”

[winnienora14]

Wait what about Evan being Quebec French

Hear me out

So we know the Black Brother’s first language is not French.

They learned French because it’s part of the Black’s family tradition but their first language is actually English. So, the Black Brothers speak traditional French (from Europe).

And just imagine the Black Brothers arguing in French in their first year and a random kid(Evan) just comes and asks

-‘’Vous parlez français?’’(you speak french?) with a huge Quebec accent

And then Regulus just says

-‘’Oui et tu devrais vraiment travailler sur ton accent.’’(yes and you should really work on your accent)

And Evan just being like ‘’Bitch, this is my first language’’ with a huge accent because he’s speaking in English

And the Black Brothers just look at each other dumb founded like ‘is are accent really that bad’.

But Evan kicks in and says with a sigh ‘’it’s Quebec French’’

Evan hurting himself and going ‘’tabarnak’’ and Barty just dying because ‘damn why is that so hot’

Regulus laughing 24/7 at Evan’s accent and Evan laughing 24/7 at Regulus’ accent

Evan correcting Regulus because he sometimes makes weird constructed sentences(French is his second language after all) and Regulus getting his ego heart and saying stuff like ‘’shut up! You take half the words out of sentences when you speak asshole!’’

Evan making references that no one get like ‘’J’ai jamais touché à mes filles, sauf une fois au chalet.’’ Then getting mad because his jokes flop miserably since no one gets them. He’d say stuff like ‘’you uncultured assholes’’ or ‘’I can believe this! Pandora would have pissed her pants.’’

Pandora and him would aggressively celebrate the St-Jean Baptiste and all of their friends would look at them like they’re crazy for the entire day.

Also, Evan would totally listen to Les Colocs. He told me he does actually. You didn’t hear this from me though.