#couillon

[lolochaponnay]

[crashtestvideo]

Petit extrait du live que j'ai fait pour expliquer à la personne qui squattait mon ordi qu'elle était la bienvenue si elle se présentait, on pourrait manger des coquillettes au jambon et se fumer un pétard afin de s'expliquer calmement. On se connait en plus, ce n'est pas la première fois qu'elle vient chez moi.

[renardsruses]

All I can think abt is a Cajun Wolfwood playfully insulting Vash in Cajun French and both of them barely understanding each other bc Cajun French is different from regular French and it just escalates til they give up yeah I’m having normal thoughts

[le-mec-libre]

[superiorkenshi]

Regarder moi manger ma pastabox avec des douillette pour café car j'ai pas de fourchette et que je dois speeder car c'est que ma posé de 20 min car j'ai pas eu la patience d'attendre de finir à 13h le boulot-

[plaque-memoire]

Plaque en hommage à : Marcel Lerouge et Marcel Couillon

Type : Commémoration

Adresse : 179bis rue du Faubourg Saint-Vincent, 45000 Orléans, France

Date de pose :

Texte : A la mémoire de Marcel Lerouge, fusillé par les nazis, Marcel Coullon, mort à Auschwitz

Quelques précisions : Marcel Lerouge (1911-1943) est un résistant français. Résidant initialement à Paris, il trouve refuge à Orléans et s'engage dans la Résistance au sein du groupe Chanzy (d'autres membres de ce groupe, comme les Painchault ou les Rivière, sont également honorés par des plaques à Orléans). Il y participe à la distribution de tracts ainsi qu'à différentes opérations de sabotage. Arrêté en 1943 après une dénonciation, il est fusillé par les Allemands (son nom est ainsi mentionné sur la plaque commémorant les fusillés du champ de tir des Groues). Marcel Couillon (1905-1942), dont le nom est parfois orthographié "Coullon", est quant à lui un militant communiste. Il fut fait prisonnier durant la Seconde Guerre mondiale (dans un établissement pénitentiaire où se tient aujourd'hui le Palais des sports d'Orléans), puis libéré. Au sein du Parti communiste local, il participe lui aussi à la distribution de tracts. Il est arrêté en 1941 puis déporté au camp d'Auschwitz, où il trouve la mort.

[dansmonterrier]

Alors ok, plus le let’s play de Balan Wonderworld avance, plus je me dis que je comprends certaines des mauvaises critiques qu’il s’est pris, maaaaaaaais... plus je me dis aussi que c’est exactement le genre de jeu auquel je risque d’avoir plaisir à jouer, haha !

Ca se dirige de plus en plus vers un achat, cette histoire.

[enbysiriusblack]

sirius is such a nicknamer. never calls anyone by their actual name. so,, his nicknames for people:

james: prongs (in private, it's a secret marauder nickname), jamie, cap (once quidditch captain)

remus: moony (in private, it's a secret marauder nickname), rey, prefect (once prefect)

peter: wormtail/wormy (in private, it's a secret marauder nickname), petey, frampton

lily: nark (before they become friends), red

marlene: marls, partner (once both beaters for the gryffindor quidditch team)

mary: magdalene (before they became friends), mac

regulus: reggie, idiot, couillon

emmeline: emmy

dorcas: dork, cassie

severus: snivellus (obviously)

andromeda: andy, vieille dame (/aff)

narcissa: prissy cissa/priss

bellatrix: trixie, la follasse

[sualne]

wanted to see the progression body type wise

my thoughts were "inconsistent artstyle my beloved" and "i need to get weird with colors Now"

also fighting for my life to restrain myself from adding as much body hair as i'd like, oda really said "yeah he's destined to become a giant bear but first you'll have to see him as a babyfaced hairless twunk for 26+ years, bisous couillon" jpp la souffrance

very transmasc of him tho

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

[crashtestvideo]

Petit extrait du live que j'ai fait pour expliquer à la personne qui squattait mon ordi qu'elle était la bienvenue si elle se présentait, on pourrait manger des coquillettes au jambon et se fumer un pétard afin de s'expliquer calmement. On se connait en plus, ce n'est pas la première fois qu'elle vient chez moi.

[chaotictomtom]

c'est duuur de se mettre à dw classic depuis le tout début jveux déjà arriver aux goofy doctors là il est trop aigris le vioc il déteste tout les humains il fait le zgeg et des cacas nerveux à son grand âge il est insupportable, après the edge of destruction askip il respecte un peu plus barbara + avec le temps il aime un peu plus les humains mais goddamn grognon le boug...... jregarse le slide show qu'est les eps marco polo parce que episode perdu, le gard a vraiment littéralement boudé dans sa chambre pendant genre 3 jours 🧍

[thedemonscrawler]

Gator Glossary

So for Permission Slip I decided to lean into the fact that Monty is meant to be Cajun, as best I can tell from like one voiceline ("Where you at?" but then again Monty only has like 6 voicelines anyway). As a consequence of that I wanted him to actually include some Cajun French in his speaking-- but also now I gotta balance that with reader understanding 8'D So every bit of dialouge with him has me biting my nails of going 'is this too much? is this being obnoxious with it?"

The rules I set for myself are:

No crucial information will be written in Cajun French. This way it's okay if you don't understand one or two words, as they won't be critical to the overall sentence or paragraph.

None of the animatronics (including Monty) swear, so no Cajun French swears either.

But! As totally not a way to procrastinate, here's a glossary of all the Cajun French Monty has used so far in the story.

Couyon - Actually spelled Couillon but I went with the phonetic pronunciation. Means 'foolish' or 'crazy', but not in a really serious way. Monty is basically just yelling "Hey! Stupid-head!"

Mais (May) - But or Well. Just kind of used as a general purpose exclamation to start a sentence. Mentally I always fill in 'Well' when working out the dialogue.

Cher (Sha) - Love, dear

Cho! (Coo-e) - just kind of a general exclamation like "Well alright then!"

T-Soliel (Tee-Solay) - 'Soliel' is the french word for 'sun', and T or Tee is short for 'petite' or little, and is put at the front of names as a nickname. Monty uses this with Sun because they're pretty good friends.

Bête - stupid; C’est bête! - That's stupid

Possede - A bad, mischevious kid. I figured this one looked enough like it's literal meaning (possessed) that it'd be okay, because I really wanted it to be used for Gregory >u<

T’en cas toi! - Why you! Honestly this is one I'm probably going to change to a much less enigmatic "I oughta pass you a slap"

Defan - Sainted or passed away. Hence why Monty always uses it as Defan Bonnie.

make her the misere - Another one where I figured that the subject looked close enough to English (misery) that it could be understood as 'making trouble for her' or 'making her miserable'.

Bonne-Bon - Okay I'm actually really proud of this one? Cos it's a double layered pun.

So 'bonne' is 'good', and in this context it's being used as 'bonne-homme', which literally translates to 'good man', but refers to like, an action figure rather than a living person.

Bonne is pronounced like 'bon', so when spoken the nickname sounds like 'Bon-Bon'-- but it also relates back to how they're animatronics, not human people.

I'll probably update this in the future as Monty appears in more chapters.

[soeurdelune]

pour celleux qui cochent l'avant-dernière case, hésitez pas à raconter quelles étaient les choses à collectionner à la mode dans votre école 👀

[chadillacboseman]

15 Lines Game

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture their character/personality/vibe. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you’re free to include those as well.

I was tagged ages ago by @thesingularityseries I'm just now adding Jesse. Translations at the end.

“Vieux couillon,” Jesse brings his armored fist down into JJ’s face, sending him to the floor with a grunt, “Gettin’ sloppy, aren’t ya?”

"Oh, I did a lot more than that."

“New tech,” Jesse grins as he flexes his arm and the exoskeleton moves along with him, glinting in the moonlight, “thought maybe we could test it out.”

“Tick tock,” Jesse cocks his head and runs his tongue along his sharklike teeth.

"Espérer- we have movement ahead."

“Ça c'est bon!”

"Pauvre ti bête. Go ahead,” he rasps.

"Laissez les bons temps rouler!" Jesse calls, and a resounding chant back of 'oui, cher!' echoes from his men.

"You speak that fancy French, I'm from Louisiana," he drawls out the name of the state so strangely that the man has trouble understanding what he's said.

"Bet the house on the horse, end up homeless."

"I don't work for Kano. Travaillant. Not the same thing."

"Put ten in the ground, I'll hire twenty more," Jesse answers nonchalantly.

"Zirable," Jesse wrinkles his nose at the sight in front of him.

"I go where the money goes."

"Watch your back out there."

Translations: Vieux couillon - Old fool espérer - wait “Ça c'est bon!” - this is good! Pauvre ti bête. - Poor little thing Laissez les bons temps rouler - Let the good times roll oui, cher! - Yeah, you right travaillant - hired hand Zirable - Disgusting

[friendlyfaded]

because work is stressful i’m making a list of my cajun darlin headcanons.

they constantly call asher couillon. he still doesn’t realize it means dumbass.

they can handle spice like nobody’s business. if it doesn’t literally burn their mouth, it’s not hot enough.

leftovers never get thrown away. there’s meat still in the fridge? vegetables? they’ll toss ‘em into a gumbo and feed the whole pack.

they refuse to eat any cajun food that they don’t cook themself in dahlia. it’s not the same unless you get it in lafayette or lower.

a die hard slap ya mama stan. they don’t like tony’s as much because it’s way too peppery. slap ya mama has a better blend of spices and adds depth to any dish, instead of just plain heat.

they use the words “at” and “to” interchangeably. this drives david crazy. he gets so annoyed when they radio in to tell him he’s needed “to the front of the venue” on a job.

is an expert at deep frying and seafood boiling. asher is good with the grill, but darlin is good with a propane burner and tank.

when they’re around sam, their accent starts to come out. if they’re only around sam for an extended period of time, they come to the next pack meeting fully back to their original cajun accent and dialect.

they refuse to pay to get things replaced or fixed. if something breaks, they’re damn well fixing it themself.

they’re an excellent swimmer and refuse to ever wear a life jacket. they also have to be physically restrained from jumping into large bodies of water just to swim, even when it’s cold out.

cannot handle how dry it gets in california. they’re constantly using chapstick, and they have a humidifier in their apartment. they also can’t deal with the cold, like, at all.

if i think of more, i’ll probably add them to this post.