#cris morales || visage

[etxrnaleclipse]

((Well.... @radicalrascals and I can't deny that we've kinda created a bit of a web when it comes to our muses....))

[ofmusingsxandmayhem]

[phyrestartr]

Love Is Alright | Sukuna x M!Reader

w/c: 1.9k #SFW, reader is early thirties, sukuna is mid twenties, reader is a uni prof, sukuna is a uni student, DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR PROFS IRL PLS THANK YOU, questionable relationship, fluff, angst, self-deprecating reader, soft sukuna?, sukuna has daddy and mommy issues, TRIED TO EDIT BUT IM LAZYYY, uncle sukuna has entered the chat, ITTY BITTY YUUJI HAS ENTERED THE CHAT

tags: @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork

You distanced yourself after the semester ended. 

It felt like your duty, honestly; your responsibility to Sukuna and his well-being hinged on what you could do to remedy the situation. He was a young man, scrambling to figure life out in his mid-twenties while you were failing at life and happiness in your early-thirties. You weren't a good role model. A worse partner. Terrible teacher. 

He'd get over that stupid fling in no time, anyway. Most of your exes did. You'd leave them, mourn them and the relationship, and then feel your heart break a hundred times harder when you found out they'd already moved on. Gotten married. Had kids. All while you hoped they'd come chasing after you. 

But this time would be different. You were protecting someone, someone you cared about. You didn't want to leave, to walk away for the summer, to let him move on peacefully and realize you were nothing but a kink, a fetishized visage of a man, but you had to–you didn't know what it was you'd done to fool Itadori Sukuna, but you had to save him from whatever it was. Because it was your fault. It had to be. 

So why was he knocking on your door? 

“Fucking finally,” Sukuna sighed. He leaned on the doorframe like he was from some 90s greaser film, but you had a feeling he was trying to stop you from slamming the door on his face. “Took you long enough.”

You cleared your throat and tried to ignore the way your heart did backflips in your chest. “I–uh. What're you–?” 

“I need a hand,” the man admitted. “I got midterms comin’ up and I can't fucking focus.” 

You noticed the rings around his eyes, then. You frowned and instinctively reached up, holding the side of his face to get a better look at him. It was hard to tell if he'd gotten in another fight or if he was just tired, but the way he sighed and leaned into your kind touch gave you your answer. 

“Can't focus?” You repeated as you stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. Apparently, you were still too weak to stand your ground and abide by your morals. “Why not–oh.” 

“Hewwo!” The little munchkin on Sukuna's back screeched (rather, he was sitting in Sukuna's unzipped backpack like it was some sort of baby carrier). He had bubblegum pink hair like the older, and his skin was just as tan, but his eyes were more hazel than the reddish brown of Sukuna's. Was he–could this kid be–?

“His name's Yuuji. Little shit's my nephew,” Sukuna lamented. “I have to play daddy for a while, ‘n not in a fun, sexy way.” 

Oh. Not his kid. Okay.

“Huh. Okay.” You closed the door and locked it, sealing away the chill of the rain from the warm, cozy atmosphere of your home. “For a second I thought your playboy antics had caught up with you.” 

“Tch.” Sukuna rolled his eyes and pulled his pack off, being careful not to send his nephew plummeting. He did, however, dump the boy onto the couch like he was an invincible sack of potatoes. 

“Sukuna, be careful--he's just a kid!” You scolded as you went to the teary-eyed little boy. 

“He cries ‘n shit for attention, trust me,” Sukuna scoffed before sitting down as well. “Besides, kids are made of rubber. He'll be fine.” 

“Mean!” Yuuji hollered, battering Sukuna's shoulder with little fists. “Meanie!” 

“Piss off or I'll punt you into the fucking fireplace.” 

“MEANIE.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” you sighed, breaking up the spat. You looked to the little one and smiled when his big, honeyed eyes turned your way. You kind of related to his hopefulness, to his eagerness to find attention and be loved. 

“Yuuji, right?” You hummed as you went to him. “You hungry?” 

The boy lit up. “Ya!”

“Sukuna's hungry, too,” the older chipped in as he plopped his beat up, sticker-clad laptop onto the coffee table and popped it open.

You rolled your eyes and picked up Yuuji as soon as his grabby hands reached out for you. “Fine, fine. I’ll make enough food for three. You just make sure you do your schoolwork, Sukuna. You're not getting free babysitting just so you can slack.”

“Whatever, Mama,” Sukuna dismissed. 

But, he did what he was told. That was the whole point of bringing Yuuji here anyway; it wasn't just to weasel his way back into your life. He seriously needed a break from catering to the tiny, hyperactive tyrant while he was trying to finish his midterm paper. Yuuji was too much for a worn-out student like Sukuna. 

Still, being here, even though you took on the babysitter role without an ounce of resistance, made it hard to focus, too; you handled the little tot with so much ease and care it made Sukuna's head spin. The way you held him on your hip while you puttered around the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, was way too domestic and natural for a bachelor. Sukuna had to wonder if you'd taken care of kids before, or if you'd only dreamed of having your own.

“Focus, Sukuna,” you called from the adjacent room, sounding so pleased. It'd been a while since he heard you sound like that.

“Just making sure you're not cookin’ the runt,” Sukuna huffed. “‘N quit distracting me, asshole.” 

You laughed. Yuuji giggled. Sukuna tried to focus. 

–

Morning turned into afternoon. Afternoon turned into evening. And Sukuna was still somehow welcomed in your presence.

But the cold press of a beer can against his neck almost made him regret his decision to stay as long as he did.

“You're pretty good at taking care of runts,” Sukuna grumbled as he took the drink from you. You sat beside him, much to his delight, and popped open your own can as you settled on the couch. 

“Yeah, well. I, uh, used to take care of an ex's kid, so–well, I guess it just became second nature.” You smiled a little before sipping at your drink. “Don't really like random kids, though. Boyfriends’ are an exception.” 

“Yeah?” Sukuna asked with a wolfish grin. “‘N so if you like Yuuji, then–”

“Hey, hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves here,” you sighed. “I'm not saying–this isn't–”

“You let me back into your life so fuckin’ easily,” Sukuna said, bulldozing over your words and confidence. His vibrant eyes danced over you like a flame caught in a storm until they eased onto your own, and settled down. “Now you're tryna back out again?” 

You gaped. Your mind scrambled for an excuse, for any sort of reason you could use to push him away again, yet found nothing. Nothing but a spark of warmth left by firelit eyes in the hollows of your chest. 

“When I was your age,” you found yourself saying, dreading the story you suddenly decided to relive, “I dated someone older. A lot older. He was–I thought I was in love, I guess. I don't know. I really needed someone to lean on. He seemed like a good person.

“But, in hindsight, he was too old to be messing around with me. Told myself it'd be alright since we were both legally adults. But it wasn't.

“He was, uh, kinda obsessive and possessive. Made life harder than it needed to be. Made me more miserable than I needed to be.”

You sighed and took a long drink of your beer. “‘N then you came along, and I had to wonder if I was gonna do the same thing to you, y’know? So, I…guess I've been kinda afraid of that.”

Sukuna quirked a brow and frowned “You're talkin’ like you're some kinda fucking villain.”

You laughed bleakly. “I feel like I am.” 

“Fucking hell, just shut up,” Sukuna groaned and ran a hand through his hair, exhausted and frustrated. “You think I'd let you fuck with me, huh? I’m the one who came onto you.” 

“I–well, sure, but I shouldn't be–”

“Shut up.” 

“Sukuna–”

“I'm not listenin’ to you yap. Can it.” 

You pursed your lips and hid as best as you could behind your can. “Uh. Sorry. Maybe?” 

“You're a real dumbass for such a glorified prof, y'know that? Projecting all that shit onto this.” Sukuna shook his head like a disappointed parent and finished off his can before setting it on the coffee table. “I want you ‘cause you thrill me, that's it.”

A fierce heat slapped you in the face. “Oh. Thrill you. That's–wow. Okay. How do I…?”

Sukuna grinned and scooted closer to you on the couch. “You got a nice ass.”

“Wow.” 

“Shut up, not finished,” Sukuna scoffed. “Nice ass, nice face, nice voice. You know way too much random shit for your own good. You have a trashy tramp stamp–”

“Please forget about that!” 

“--you can cook. Fuck, can you fucking cook. Bake, too. You know how to decorate a damn house, how to make me not wanna go.” He paused for a second and slipped his hand to your thigh, just to feel your warmth under his fingertips. “You make settling down sound like less of a chore.”

“N'awe, that was kind of sweet,” you said like he was a toddler confessing his love for you. 

Sukuna leaned in. “Think I might need a lil’ more sugar from ya.”

You hummed and smiled, leaning in as well. “Don't wanna give you a toothache.”

The man smirked and held the side of your face as his lips brushed against yours teasingly. “Think I'll live–” 

“NUH UH!” 

You both jumped and leaned away from each other before blinking owlishly at the tiny tot standing before you both in A-pose. 

Sukuna's eye twitched. “What the fuck, you little–”

“Yuuji, it's too late for you to be awake,” you scolded lightly. “How come you're awake?” 

“Yuuji pwotect,” he bravely declared as he scurried up onto the couch and onto your lap with a throw blanket in hand–the same one you'd used to tuck him in earlier. 

“Oh, protect me?” You asked, pulling the soft blanket up around him. “From your uncle?” 

“Uncle eevil,” Yuuji whispered. 

“I'm gonna eat you alive, runt,” Sukuna hissed. Luckily for the boy, there was no real fire behind the words–not that he had the brain peanuts to realize that as he started snuffling and tearing up.

“E-ead me..” Yuuji whimpered, hiding under his blanket. “Noh…”

“I'll protect you, Yuuji, you're alright.” You gave Sukuna a look as you patted the little one. “Did you have to threaten to eat him this late at night?” 

Sukuna waved his hand in dismissal. “Little shit cock blocked me. It's what he deserves.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” You looked down at the little nugget of a boy curled up your lap, kept safe under the shelter of a blanket. Damn, the little thing really was cute. You almost got ideas. 

“We should clock out, too,” you suggested with a yawn before prepping to pick up the sleepy potato in your lap. “It's late. You won't be able to do much more like this.”

“Ha? You think I'm an old fuckin’ geezer like you?” Sukuna scoffed. “I'm not even–I ain't–” he cut off with a yawn and threw you a middle finger. “Fuck you.” 

You got up with the freshly K.O-ed bundled baby tucked in your arms. “Come on, bed time.” 

Finally, Sukuna sighed, and nodded.

“Alright. Fine.”

[hisui-dreamer]

Hi, congratulations on 1k followers! I love your writing a lot and I was hoping you could do Villainess AUs with Malleus? Like isekai manhwa style? Thank you!!

the gazelle's sweet briar

Pairing: Malleus Draconia x f!reader

Synopsis: your first objective was to avoid the main characters, but it's not easy when you only have the memories of your friend's ramblings to work off of

Tags: cliché isekai plot, reincarnation, fluff, arranged marriage, tw (mentioned): bad parenting, patriarchal society, death

Word count: 1.6k+

Notes: @coralinnii has an amazing series based on isekai villainesses, so i definitely recommend you check out her work too! im so in love with it (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Masterlist

Once upon a time, there lived a villainess of exceptional allure, her visage as enchanting as a moonlit night. However, this bewitching beauty concealed a heart blackened by a singular obsession with appearances.

From the earliest days of her upbringing, her mother, a woman who had managed to step into aristocracy by charming a noble, had instilled in her a cruel belief: that those who were not blessed with physical perfection were destined for lives of relentless mockery and eternal solitude. This twisted ideology consumed the villainess' every thought, blinding her to the virtues of education and morality. She became nothing more than a porcelain doll, admired solely for her aesthetic charm.

The King arranged a marriage between her and Duke Draconia, the enigmatic descendant of the dragons who ruled the northern lands, believing that such a striking bride would surely please the reclusive Duke.

However, the King remained oblivious to the swirling rumours that pervaded the courtly circles. Whispers spoke of the Duke as a hideous man who had never once revealed his face, perpetually concealed behind a forbidding black mask. When the rumours reached the villainess' ears, she threw tantrum after tantrum, vehemently refusing to wed a man whose appearance couldn't possibly match her own.

Yet, a royal decree could not be denied. Reluctantly, the villainess embarked on her journey to the northern realm in bitter acceptance. It had rained the moment she arrived, the castle dark and uninviting, with thorns crawling onto the obsidian walls. The Duke, an oblivious and shy man, did not greet her at the grand entrance. Instead, she was met by the Duke's advisor, a man with a curiously boyish features.

Humiliation welled up within the villainess' heart, for she felt as if she were being played the fool by the entire duchy. On the eve of her arrival, anxiety gnawed at her like a relentless spectre.

As night descended, the Duke, mustering his courage, attempted to approach the vexed lady.

But when the villainess beheld his masked face, terror seized her like a vice. "Stay back! You hideous beast!" she cried out, her voice trembling with fear, and she recoiled, her steps faltering as she retreated from him.

The Duke, wounded by her cruel words, attempted to console her, his outstretched hand beseeching understanding. Yet, her irrational dread overcame her, and she continued her backward retreat until, with a heart-stopping scream, she slipped from an open window.

That was how the villainess' life ended.

you hadn't actually read the book, but it wasn't difficult identifying who you got reincarnated as

especially with how your best friend obsessed over this villainess because, and i quote, "if pretty, why evil, huh???"

you woke up a week before the villainess would depart for the North, but that week alone was enough to make you understand the way she acted

every day, you were fed portions fitting of a child, had your skin rubbed raw as you were bathed, and not a moment of your mother's nitpicking about a sudden imperfection she found in you

in truth, you were more than glad to leave for the North, even if that's where your life would be on the line

the survival plan was simple: maintain an amicable relationship with the duchy until the night the heroine stumbles in to ask for a night of shelter, to which the heroine would heal the emotional wounds of the Duke, and share with him the beauty of love, bringing warmth into his heart

and so, you arrived at the estate, the castle tall and intimidating with the clouds dark and foreboding

still, you stepped out of your carriage (with wobbly legs) and met the advisor (your friend's favourite character, in fact)

the advisor, lilia, though seemed young, was actually the very man who raised the duke in the absence of his parents

he welcomed you as the lady of the duchy, and led you to your quarters

by nightfall, you were quite comfortable with living in the estate

everyone was polite, the food was delicious (and properly sized), and you had no doubt you'd settle nicely here

as a precaution to the death sequence, you decided to take a stroll in the rose garden after dinner

if you were already on the ground floor, you couldn't fall to your death, right?

but unexpectedly, you encountered a lone figure in the centre of the garden

he was incredibly tall, dressed simply, his emerald eyes fixated on the estate

upon closer inspection, you noticed he had long horns as well, perhaps he was a gazelle beastman?

either way, you were curious about what it was that held his attention so strongly that he couldn't notice your presence

"Excuse me, sir? May I ask what is so interesting about the building?" you timidly break the silence of the night.

The man turns to you, his eyes widening in surprise. "... Do you not know who I am?"

You blinked in confusion at his words. His words filled you with a sense of foreboding. You wondered if this person matched any of the characters your friend had so fervently described, but all you could recall was the beautiful villainess and the enigmatic advisor to the Duke.

"My apologies, I'm afraid I do not... May I know your name, sir?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he considered your question. "No... If that is the case, you may call me whatever you wish."

Perplexed by his response, you tried to come up with a suitable name. "Then... May I call you Mr. Gazelle?"

Upon hearing your words, he burst out in laughter. "Hahaha! What an interesting choice. Very well, I accept the name," he said. "In response to your first question, I was observing the gargoyles of the building."

on that night, not only did you learn more about the fascinating functions gargoyles serve, you also made your first friend in this life

strangely enough, you didn't meet the duke at all unlike the novel, which though strange, you greatly welcomed

if you didn't have any ties with him, then it'd be so much easier to just divorce him, get the money, and live a comfortable luxurious life far away from the main characters

though as you say that, you find yourself wanting to spend more and more time with "Mr Gazelle"

despite his intimidating appearance, he turned out to be a very generous person, frequently gifting you little trinkets he's made or bouquets he's arranged

he's started calling you "Briar", after the roses in the garden where he met you

you greatly appreciated the nickname, it felt better to be called that than the name of the villainess, that you could just be yourself and not play the role of a villainess avoiding ruin

you also find that whatever musings you've mentioned to him, they somehow manifest themselves

oh? you wish you could learn about embroidery? the next day there's a basket full of the highest quality threads and fabrics, with a gentle tutor to help you learn

(you still remember how cute "Mr Gazelle" looked when you gave him your first finished product, a handkerchief with an embroidered gargoyle)

what's this? you'd like to try more desserts from the capital you were never allowed to try? say no more! the next day the chef presents you with 10 different choices!

so you assumed he was an advisor of sorts to the Duke, because how else could your requests be granted so easily?

but one day, around two months after you started living in the duchy, "Mr Gazelle" asked you questions about the duke, whether you were afraid of him, would you prefer to meet him, curious questions like that

though surprised by the topic, you answered honestly, saying you don't really believe in the rumours (because you know from your friend he's an ethereal beauty) and yes, you would like to meet your husband

and what do you know? lilia informs you the duke wants to share dinner with you. what a coincidence!! :)

Nervousness held you in its grasp as you stepped into the room. Your gaze remained fixed on the carpet beneath your feet, and your knees bent gracefully as you executed the perfect curtsey.

"Your Grace."

You could hear sounds of shuffling, and then a pair of black boots entered your field of vision. Familiar hands found yours, guiding you to rise and stand upright. "Rise, my Briar," he murmured gently.

With hesitant anticipation, you finally looked up, taking in the obsidian mask that concealed his face. That voice, that nickname, and those enchanting eyes—it was all too familiar.

"Mr Gazelle..." you whispered in disbelief.

His eyes narrowed in mirth as he chuckled. "Although I hold great fondness for that name, I do wish you could call your husband by his name," he said as he began to remove his mask.

"Malleus..." you breathed.

A tender smile graced his lips, and his eyes sparkled with affection as he delicately brushed a stray lock of hair from your face—a gesture he had done countless times before. "My sweet Briar, I implore you to forgive me for deceiving you. I wished nothing more but to know you," he pleaded.

Oh, with how loud your heart was pounding in your chest, you realized that you were irrevocably and hopelessly ensnared in a love story that had deviated far from the original story.

But you didn't feel a single ounce of regret.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[spiritpraisebeauty]

korekiyo & narcissus

In his later FTEs, Shinguji reveals that his favorite myth is that of Medusa; in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (one of the most popular accounts of Greco-Roman mythology), Perseus narrates that Medusa, after being raped by Neptune in Juno’s temple, was given her frightening visage and paralyzing power by Juno, and Perseus himself was able to slay her using mirrors to aid him against a petrification. He used her head to petrify and slay countless enemies until eventually his conquest ended (the myth has many perceived endings) and the head of Medusa became part of Juno’s breastplate. On his report card Shinguji states that in his account of Medusa, the moral is that “humanity can conquer nature, but not death.” Death is something Shinguji regards as almost holy, in that it is both impossible to change by mortal means and the closest he can come to love, in his own eyes.

Though there is a myth that I think fits Shinguji more than Medusa. Ovid’s account of the tragedy of Narcissus describes a beautiful boy cursed from birth (also the child of a rape) to be forever enamored with his own image, if he ever sees himself. The prophet Tiresias warns those close to him of this; he is fated to never love anyone besides himself, rebuffing attractions male and female. Narcissus is a hunter, existing in a nude state of nature uninvolved with anyone besides his quarry. Another nymph called Echo falls rapturously in love with Narcissus, one who had been cursed by Juno after deceiving her using her voice to lose the use of her tongue in anything other than echoing the final aspect of a phrase someone else has said aloud. Echo follows Narcissus, and in a fortunate chain of events she is able to hold some semblance of a conversation with him by repeating him, but Narcissus’s own voice springs from her lips, and when he sees such a voice coming from a nymph that is not himself, he is disgusted, and Echo’s body fades away, still loving the hunter. One such rejection of a particularly vengeful nymph causes the goddess Nemesis to seek revenge on him, deeming him unable to ever be loved by what he loves most, and he soon notices his reflection in a body of water. Unaware that it is him in the pool, he falls madly in love with it, later realizing that it is his own image in the water, and he dies, Echo echoing his last cries of agony in pity, a Narcissus flower growing in his pastoral deathbed.

In Pausanias’s account of Narcissus, however, “it is said that Narcissus had a twin sister; they were exactly alike in appearance, their hair was the same, they wore similar clothes, and went hunting together. The story goes on that Narcissus fell in love with his sister, and when the girl died, would go to the spring, knowing that it was his reflection that he saw, but in spite of this knowledge finding some relief for his love in imagining that he saw, not his own reflection, but the likeness of his sister” (Louise Vinge). Shinguji is the spitting likeness of Sister— he wears her makeup, her uniform, carries her passions just as he did when she was alive.

There are several motifs that exist interspersed within Shinguji’s storyline, the myth of Medusa, and the tragedy of Narcissus; these are the fetishization of death, reflection & mirrors, taboo aspects of sexuality, and hunting/murder.

[stuckyfingers]

Idk what I'm even writing but here is a What If extension fic about Rogers Hood singing. The whole fic is there just for the song.

“Who are you?” Strange drawled, looking at the blue-green clad mercenary looking guy.

He had been stuck in Earth-1602, successfully evading capture by the Sherriff for only so long. T'Challa from Earth-527 was supposed to get him sometime soon, but the wait had stretched into days.

He was in the Sherriff's carriage being grandly arrested by the familiar looking official and his following army of guards, when a gang of tree swinging bandits had surrounded them, forcing them to dismount. A carriage up ahead with a man in a pentagonal hat standing outside, told them that the Bishop was also undergoing a robbery.

The man in the green and blue clothes chuckled. “I’m known far and wide as a legendary outlaw, Strange Wizard!” He dropped his hood with flair, revealing his face. “I am Steven Rogers, or Rogers Hood as people have come to call me.”

“Rogers Hood?” Strange scoffed. “Not surprising though… you do tend to do illegal things in every universe.”

“’Tis the powerful that maketh legality immoral, my friend. To abide thy morals, thou must break the law.” Steve replied unfazed at the mention of universes. His gaze turned rather cold when he looked at the other people from the carriage. "Sherriff Thaddeus Ross. Pleasant morn it is, but for thy presence."

The Sheriff growled. “Thy speech of morals shield not thine acts of disgrace! Thou hast lain with men as thou would with a maiden: it is frowned upon, verily!"

The guy close beside Rogers Hood shed his own hood to raise a haughty eyebrow. The manicured beard was confusing, but it was undoubtedly Bucky Barnes.

Rogers Hood did not seem perturbed at being accused of sodomy but rather, leaned sideways to kiss Bucky on the cheek, smirking at the Sherriff. “So be it! ’Twould be thine own visage that is marred!”

“ 'Tis God’s visage that you mar!” The Bishop cried from a few yards away, rather bravely for someone being searched for coin.

“How little must thou think of Him, that a poor outlaw can change His divine skin!” Rogers cried louder, throwing his hands up like he was on Broadway. “A Bishop, indeed, thy Bishop clothes don’t hide the doubt within!”

“Uhm, Rogers Hood, could you-?” Strange started.

“Interrupt him not!” Another Merry Man with a bow- who looked like Clint Barton- who was Clint Barton, shushed him. Rogers really began singing like he was in a musical- even jumping onto a sunlit tree stump as the Sherriff watched in agony.

“How little must thou believe in thine own self to bring an army: When Merry Men are armed with naught but bows”

“But bows!” The Merry Men added.

“How little must thou find it in thy heart to be more charming: When Merry Men, we zest while in the throes!”

“The Throes!”

"Well, maidens go to Church no more, for we have larger bells!"

"AYE!"

"But we insisted they must trust the Lord!"

"The Lord!"

"And maidens who skipped Synagogues for the reasons much the same, we led them back to their fine carven doors!"

"Doors!"

The Merry Men began chanting as Rogers turned to Strange with a flourish.

"Now this fine old Wizard doth seek to know us well, what ways of ours shall we queintein him with?"

"We spend our days with parties gay under the sunny glades," Sang Bucky Barnes.

"We give the poor what we steal from the rich!" Sang the Leonardo da Vinci looking version of Sam Wilson.

"We hate the King of England and the Sheriff we hate more, the travelers of Egypt* are our kith!" sang Clint Barton.

The trees around them rang with song:

"And maidens go to Church no more, for we have larger bells- hey! But we insisted they must trust the Lord! And maidens who skipped Synagogues for the reasons much the same, we led them back to their fine carven doors!"

The Bishop grew increasingly purple with every reprise of the chorus, like he was going to explode. They actually repeated it three times before Rogers took the stage again-

"And now my sweet Bishop thou seemst burdened with thy gold-"

"Let us free thy shoulders of this weight!" Scott Lang joined in.

"For, O wretched Bishop sitting in thy Bishop clothes, you've become the very thing He hates!" Steve finished with a laugh.

The guards waited for some command from the Sherriff, but the Sherriff was far too occupied with being gagged. Dr. Strange alone was not subject to such treatment.

"Go, now!" Barnes boomed, waving a crossbow at the army. "You don't want to be caught here with us! Return to thy wives before you get arrows up thy arses!"

The guards scattered nervously casting glances at the Sherriff. They couldn't all be punished if they left together, could they?

Dr. Strange started again: "So, er- Rogers Wood, I mean, Hood uhm-"

Steve nodded at him while rounding up the valuables. "I have heard of ye, Strange Wizard... I doth not doubt we are in f'r a delightful conversation!"

"Neither do I." A voice came from across the road. The calm, regal consonance of-

"T'Challa!" Strange cried, half relieved, half really annoyed.

The space pirate revealed himself- not bothering to hide his bootstrap jet boosters from the medieval folk. He was dressed like a Golden Age pirate but with a punk metal twist that was probably lost on the people present there.

"Fie! Fie!" The Bishop wailed, "'Tis the devil! 'Tis the- ack!"

Clint Barton gagged the Clergyman for good and stared at the new arrival. "And who may that be! He flies with fire on his feet, like Hermes himself!"

"And yet his name is T'Challa." Rogers Hood mused, signaling his men to lower their arms. "I know of only one T'Challa- and he is the King of Wakanda. Art thou he?"

Star Lord T'Challa's eyes glimmered with mirth. "Oh well, I'm not him. I just share a name with him, Captain Hood. I'm from another universe, and I am here to collect Dr. Strange."

"Thou art free to take him, if he doth not wish for our protection against you." Rogers smiled.

"How about... we sit down for a drink with them?" Strange sighed. "I don't want your protection, but I do want to get back at this asshole."

"Oh Bast, what slander!" T'Challa gasped mockingly. "Weren't you trying to leave this place as fast as you could?"

"I'm not leaving now that I've found the best part?" Strange shrugged.

T'Challa hopped down merrily to the ground. "Well, one outlaw to another, I would love the company!"

"Outlaw!?" Roger Hood perked up.

"Outlaw." Strange groaned.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Survival/Wilderness Fic & Hair Brushing/Braiding

Happy New Year everyone! It's me, same as yesterday, no rest for the wicked!

@fellowshipofthefics is back with a new monthly event...so here I am <3

Thank you kindly to @cilil for always indulging me <3

Prompts: Survival/Wilderness Fic & Hair Brushing/Braiding

Pairing: Aiwendil x Curumo

Requester: @cilil, my beloved

Words: 1 100

Warnings: sexual innuendo, tension

At first, Aiwendil didn’t want to say anything—he was so happy and proud that Curumo had agreed to accompany him on a foraging expedition that he was afraid that any criticism he might have expressed regarding the outfit and general demeanour of his friend would only end up dismaying the prideful Maia.

Even worse, Curumo could decide that this whole enterprise was too silly for him and return home to his forge and hardy companions, leaving Aiwendil heartbroken and alone.

Usually, Yavanna’s devoted, soft-spoken Maia would not have thought of himself either as a coward or as a disingenuous creature, but—when it came to Curumo—he had to admit that many of his best resolutions and most solid moral principles were insidiously amended and corrupted by the overwhelming desire to please and impress one so accomplished and masterful in his own right.

As they made their way through an increasingly dense patch of wild underbrush, though, Aiwendil’s soft, compassionate heart was no longer able to bear the muted grunts of discomfort and pain his diligent companion uttered time and again.

“Dearest,” he said very softly, lifting a tender hand to express his benevolence and controlling his face to erase even the last vestige of patronising indulgence. “I should have warned you that it would not be an easy trek—forgive me for being so thoughtless!”

Turning around to Curumo, he caught sight of a multi-coloured array of twigs and leaves, deeply enmeshed in the silken strands of his fellow’s unbound hair. Indeed, Aiwendil could retrace their whole path by analysing the entangled layers of greenery and nought else.

“I’m quite all right,” Curumo declared haughtily, but—in a moment of weakness and vanity—he tried nevertheless to extirpate a particularly pesky branch that was dangling mockingly from a lock falling messily into his dour face. “There is no need to change anything to your habits on my account!”

“I am not,” Aiwendil cried immediately, waving his sensitive, soft hands to and fro. “Nevertheless, allow me to take care of your beautiful hair."

Curumo’s face froze into a mask of unequivocal vexation.

“We’re halfway there, and the weather will hold. Surely, you would not deny me a break? Remember, unlike you, I am not used to strenuous physical exertion,” Aiwendil cooed and started moving again, leading his beloved friend, for whom he harboured the most tender, vulnerable, and laughably hopeful affection, to a sunny clearing within a ring of benevolent old growths.

Uttering a deep sigh of feigned fatigue, he let himself drop to the soft grass and looked up at Curumo expectantly. “Join me, please!”

“If you so say so,” Curumo muttered under his breath—his face was high in colour, and Aiwendil would have loved to know whether it had been his offer or the tiring trek through the foliage that had painted that stern, angular visage such a gorgeous shade of sunset pink.

It was not customary for Maiar of different vocations to touch one another in so intimate a fashion if there was no immediate, pressing need for such an intervention, and they were both painfully aware of that fact when Curumo wordlessly slotted himself between the other’s spread thighs.

His back was straight and tense, and his long-fingered, skilled hands were folded neatly in his lap as he waited for the unspeakable to happen.

Overhead, a few birds chirped their alarm.

“You have such a beautiful voice,��� Aiwendil whispered into Curumo’s ear. “Compelling, mighty, enchanting—would it be too impertinent of me to ask for a song? My friends are surprised to find you here, and they would certainly love to hear you sing.”

Unseen—for he still had his back resolutely turned to those soft, pleading eyes—Curumo gave a low grunt of annoyance; he was hardly the kind of being who easily countermanded his dignity by warbling to foolish, feathered creatures.

Before he could make his refusal known, though, warm fingers slid into the hopelessly knotted strands of his hair. With the skill and delicacy of a small critter foraging for berries, Aiwendil had begun the arduous task of freeing Curumo’s head from the manyfold mementoes of their forest walk.

The silence—only disturbed by the demanding chatter of the birds and the muted rustle of discarded greenery—soon became unbearable, so Curumo resigned himself to his unseemly fate of serenading the avian inhabitants of the idyllic meadow while his most cherished friend carded his diligent digits through his messy hair.

Every time Aiwendil’s blunt nails raked across his scalp, Curumo’s harmony faltered a little as he had to bite down a visceral moan of pleasure and illicit greed—Aiwendil, he thought, was far too seductive for his own good.

No doubt, the little fellow thought of himself as being a good, helpful friend even as Curumo battled the least amicably pure thoughts he had ever conceived.

“Will you permit me to braid your hair?” Aiwendil asked, a little breathlessly, when he had finally finished fishing out the last debris. Curumo’s hair ran like a magical waterfall—warm but dry—across his palms, and his heart broke at the mere thought of having to let those smooth locks fall to bony shoulders never to be touched again.

“Braid?” Curumo mused aloud, astonished and discombobulated. He had always admired the intricate hairdos Mairon favoured, and—admitting that Aiwendil probably knew best what lay ahead of them yet—he ultimately agreed.

“I think we’ll take the scenic view,” Aiwendil babbled as he started plaiting with calm, rhythmical efficiency. “It will take a little longer, but at least the path is wide and mostly clear.”

“Thank you,” Curumo croaked throatily. “I think I’d like that. How did you enjoy my performance then?”

He was desperate to distract both of them from the heat flaring in his cheeks and gnawing on his insides.

“I loved it,” Aiwendil admitted with unashamed enthusiasm. “It was beautiful, as everything else about you. There—I am done. If I may say so myself, this is quite a successful tress.”

Fingering the thick braid falling over his shoulder now, Curumo smiled to himself. His hair smelled like verdant plants and wildflowers, and he would relish the scent for as long as he could.

Reconciled and merry, they took up their wandering once more.

“Oh, I just remembered,” Aiwendil then said when they reached a plateau, overlooking the vast valley at their feet. “We’ll soon pass a hot spring…Do you care to take a bath to soothe those sore muscles?”

Curumo pondered an instant. “Will you redo my braid after?” he grinned.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's the first one. 01/01/2024 - I am punctual!

Lots of love from me!

-> 🌟Masterlist 🌟

[alexar60]

L’enfant des fées (2)

Le premier épisode est disponible à ce lien

Sa moustache se dessinait parfaitement sur son visage. Louis venait de tailler les bords, cependant, ses pensées s’orientaient encore sur la petite Jeanne. Il revoyait sa visite médicale auprès d’un médecin appelé d’urgence. Le savant, un vieil homme d’une cinquantaine d’années, à la barbe blanche, restait sceptique face aux ecchymoses ainsi qu’aux brulures sur la peau de la fillette. Il avait beau poser des questions, il n’obtenait que des mots mal articulés dans des phrases incomplètes. Louis fut pris de colère en regardant le corps squelettique de Jeanne. Elle ne mangeait pas à sa faim, c’était évident.

Le docteur s’éloigna dans un coin du cabinet, emmenant le commissaire avant de murmurer à son oreille :

-          Vous me dites qu’elle vient d’un milieu aisé ? En êtes-vous certain ?

Les deux hommes observèrent silencieusement Jeanne. Ses cheveux décoiffés couleur paille, le visage bruni par la saleté, des traces noires et bleues visibles à l’œil nu sur les bras, elle ressemblait plus à un fragile épouvantail qu’à une petite fille modèle.

-          J’ai déjà vu des cas similaires dans les bas-fonds de Glasgow et de Londres, pendant mes études, de l’autre côté de la Manche. Mais ces enfants vivaient dans des taudis…pas dans un château, ajouta-t-il.

En fixant plus attentivement, Louis constata de nouveau la maigreur de la gamine. Ses côtes se dessinaient à travers la peau. Il soupira lorsqu’un cri le ramena à la réalité. Une femme intervint en haussant la voix. Une petite voix répondit en promettant de ne plus recommencer. Le commissaire passa ses bras dans un gilet avant de descendre et rejoindre sa famille.

Dans la cuisine, son ainée, Henriette ramassait les restes d’une assiette tombée sur le sol, pendant que son épouse nourrissait un bambin assis sur une chaise longue. L’enfant sourit en voyant Louis.

-          Papa !

Il ria de toutes ses dents. Peu après, il sortit sans avoir oublié d’embrasser tout le monde, sa femme et ses trois enfants. Il aimait énormément ses petits, même s’il ne les voyait pas souvent.

Ce matin-là, il ne faisait pas beau et il oublia son parapluie. Malgré le crachin, il faillit flâner dans le jardin des plantes. Cependant, il remonta l’Erdre à pieds, jusqu’au commissariat, son lieu de travail. Un agent affublé d’une cape et d’un képi, en garde devant l’ancienne caserne, salua Louis qui l’ignora totalement. Il remarqua la limousine de Dion dans laquelle il était monté trois mois plus tôt. Il reconnut son chauffeur qui attendait sagement, le moteur en marche. Soudain Léon, son second l’interpela :

-          On t’attendait ! affirma-t-il.

Et sans obtenir de réponse, il se retrouva dans la voiture qui démarra à toute trombe, faillant renverser un cycliste en sortant de la cours. Durant le trajet, Louis se remémora sa discussion avec le médecin. Il se souvint comment une nonne, travaillant comme infirmière, aida Jeanne à se rhabiller, lui donnant au passage quelques leçons de dictions. Son regard croisa celui de la fillette. Elle semblait triste et perdue, ne comprenant pas pourquoi on était gentil ; pourquoi elle était si seule. Puis elle sortit entrainée par l’infirmière vers une salle d’eau, avant de rejoindre un orphelinat.

-          Je crains qu’elle n’ait des séquelles, annonça-le médecin. Et pour la procédure ?

Le crachin laissa place à un rayon de soleil. Toutefois la route demeurait mouillée voire boueuse en certains endroits. Léon frotta sa casquette. Assis à côté du chauffeur, il se retourna pour distraire son chef de ses pensées. Il annonça une nouvelle pourtant énervante.

-          Joubert est déjà parti. Il devrait nous attendre !

Louis détestait ce magistrat de pacotille. Leur dernière discussion avait fini par l’humiliation du commissaire. Il se revoyait dans le bureau du juge qui, ne s’était pas retenu pour faire la morale. En fait, c’était un lèche-cul de première auprès des personnes de bonne société.

-          Enlever un enfant de sa famille est une honte ! avait-il hurlé. Ce n’était pas votre rôle de vous déplacer pour une histoire pareille ! Vous êtes au service de l’Etat pour nous débarrasser de la racaille, certainement pas pour discréditer des familles honorables et  exemplaires!

A la demande du père qui était revenu de voyage, Jeanne fut restituée à ses parents. Pour Louis, il était évident que ce fut une terrible erreur, mais son opinion ainsi que celle du médecin ne changèrent rien à la décision du juge Joubert ; Il voulut se faire mousser auprès d’une des plus grosses fortunes de Bretagne.

Le portail était grand ouvert, la voiture entra sans ralentir. Devant, plusieurs gendarmes saluèrent les passagers du véhicule. L’allée sembla plus longue qu’à sa première visite. Louis observa le château grandir, s’approcher. Enfin, le véhicule s’arrêta, il descendit sans attendre l’arrêt du moteur. Puis, il prit la direction du parc, vers les policiers visibles à l’orée d’un bois.

Il connaissait l’horreur de la nuit. Il savait ce qu’il s’était passé. Pourtant, il ne pouvait y croire. Il marcha cherchant des têtes connus. Il comprit en voyant la mine déconfite d’un homme qu’il s’agissait du père. Il était encore en robe de chambre. Le commissaire marcha plus vite. Il approcha du lieu du crime. Son regard s’agrandit. Il porta la main sur sa bouche ouverte. Il était devant l’horreur. Ce qu’il ne voulait pas croire. Joubert s’approcha, il gardait la tête basse sous un chapeau de feutre noir.

-          Je suis désolé, murmura-t-il. Si j’avais su…

Louis dévisagea le juge. La colère l’envahit, toutefois, il rangea le poing sans sa poche. Mais, il souhaitait avoir un moment de discrétion pour le cogner. Le bruit d’un appareil photographique ramena son attention sur le crime. Il avait envie de pleurer.

Les policiers regardèrent le tas de cendre sans savoir quoi faire. Ils demeurèrent impuissants, à la fois pris de dégout et de tristesse, devant le petit corps carbonisé de Jeanne au milieu du bucher improvisé. Ses doigts comprimés laissèrent à penser qu’elle était encore vivante quand elle prit feu. Un officier de gendarmerie, képi sous le bras se présenta. Il claqua les talons.

-          Apparemment, elle a été sortie en pleine nuit par sa mère. Cette dernière l’aurait aspergée de pétrole et l’aurait enflammée. La petite n’a pas pu se défendre.

Un sanglot envahit sa voix à chacun de ses mots. Il déglutit puis regarda au loin. Ecœuré, il cracha au sol pour maudire la femme qui sortait du manoir, encadrée par deux de ses hommes. Ses cheveux longs et bruns pendant le long de son corps et de sa figure, amplifièrent sa folie. A la demande de son mari, elle ne portait pas de menottes. Elle marchait lentement, recouverte d’une robe de nuit et d’un châle sur les épaules. Elle tenait dans ses bras une bûche. Quelques protubérances offraient au morceau de bois une forme de visage.

Louis courut vers elle. Il avait besoin de comprendre comment une mère pouvait tuer aussi sauvagement son enfant. Elle s’arrêta lorsqu’elle le vit. Son visage irradiait, ses yeux brillèrent, illuminés par le bonheur. Elle serra le rondin contre sa poitrine et soupira.

-          Elle est revenue ! Vous voyez, j’ai bien fait de m’être débarrassée du monstre. Ils me l’ont rendue, ma petite Jeanne.

Elle se mit à chanter une comptine, tout en berçant la buche. Les policiers demeurèrent effarés devant ses baisers sur le bois.

-          Je ne t’abandonnerai plus jamais, susurra-t-elle au morceau de bois.

Puis, elle partit emmenée par les gendarmes. Un corbeau vola au-dessus des cimes des arbres. Son croassement effraya les autres oiseaux qui s’envolèrent subitement. Au loin, on entendait une cloche ; le tocsin annonçait la guerre.

En ce trois août 1914, Louis Macé comprit qu’à l’image de Béatrice Grayo de Kersilly,  le monde devenait fou.

Alex@r60 – février 2023

Dessin de Rim Baudey

[alexlacquemanne]

Février MMXXIV

Films

Maigret voit rouge (1963) de Gilles Grangier avec Jean Gabin, Michel Constantin, Vittorio Sanipoli, Paul Frankeur, Guy Decomble, Françoise Fabian, Paulette Dubost, Laurence Badie, Roland Armontel et Jacques Dynam

L’Étau (Topaz) (1969) d'Alfred Hitchcock avec Frederick Stafford, Dany Robin, Claude Jade, Michel Subor, Karin Dor, John Vernon, Michel Piccoli, Philippe Noiret et John Forsythe

Flic Story (1975) de Jacques Deray avec Alain Delon, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Renato Salvatori, Claudine Auger, Maurice Biraud, André Pousse, Mario David et Paul Crauchet

Poupoupidou (2011) de Gérald Hustache-Mathieu avec Jean-Paul Rouve, Sophie Quinton, Guillaume Gouix, Olivier Rabourdin, Joséphine de Meaux, Arsinée Khanjian, Clara Ponsot et Éric Ruf

Air Force One (1997) de Wolfgang Petersen avec Harrison Ford, Gary Oldman, Glenn Close, Wendy Crewson, Liesel Matthews, Paul Guilfoyle, William H. Macy et Dean Stockwell

Bob Marley: One Love (2024) de Reinaldo Marcus Green avec Kingsley Ben-Adir, Lashana Lynch, James Norton, Henry Douthwaite, Sevana, Hector Lewis et Tosin Cole

Sister Act (1992) d'Emile Ardolino avec Whoopi Goldberg, Maggie Smith, Kathy Najimy, Wendy Makkena, Mary Wickes, Harvey Keitel, Bill Nunn et Robert Miranda

Astérix : Le Domaine des dieux (2014) d'Alexandre Astier et Louis Clichy avec Roger Carel, Lorànt Deutsch, Guillaume Briat, Alexandre Astier, Alain Chabat, Élie Semoun, Géraldine Nakache, Artus de Penguern, Lionnel Astier et François Morel

Race for Glory: Audi vs. Lancia (2024) de Stefano Mordini avec Riccardo Scamarcio, Daniel Brühl, Volker Bruch, Katie Clarkson-Hill, Esther Garrel, Gianmaria Martini : Hannu Mikkola et Haley Bennett

Buster (1988) de David Green avec Phil Collins, Julie Walters, Larry Lamb, Stephanie Lawrence, Ellie Beaven, Michael Attwell, Ralph Brown et Anthony Quayle

Laura (1944) d'Otto Preminger avec Gene Tierney, Dana Andrews, Clifton Webb, Vincent Price, Judith Anderson, Dorothy Adams et Lane Chandler

Séries

Affaires sensibles

Présidentielle de 1995 : un scandale d'Etat - Michèle Mouton, le Groupe B et les Finlandais volants - Les Ecoutes de la République - La secte du temple solaire, le drame d’une société secrète - Munich 1972 : destin tragique d'un rêve olympique - Les révoltés des Jeux olympiques - Le crash de la Germanwings - Alexandre Litvinenko, victime d’un permis de tuer - Martin Luther King : la naissance d’une icône - Martin Luther King : du rêve au cauchemar - Dans l'ombre de Gérard Lebovici - Macron 2017, le traitre méthodique - Kurt Cobain, portrait d’une génération - Crash au mont Saint Odile

Maguy Saison 1

Rose et Marguerite, c'est le bouquet - Babar et Bécassine se mènent en bateau - Docteur j'abuse - L'union fait le divorce - L'annonce faite à Maguy - Le coupe-Georges - Amoral, morale et demie - Cinquante bougies, ça vous éteint ! - A visage redécouvert'' - Le serment d'hypocrite - Tu me trompes ou je me trompe ? - Comment boire sans déboires - Un veuf brouillé - Le père Noël dans ses petits souliers - L'emprunt ruse - Tous les couples sont permis - L'amant de la famille - Travail, famille, pas triste - Blague de fiançailles - Macho, boulot, dodo - Mi-flic, mi-raisin - Trop polyvalent pour être honnête - La traîtresse de maison - Les trois font la paire - Un grain peut en cacher un autre - La quittance déloyale - Belle-mère, tel fils - Manège à quatre - Comme un neveu sur la soupe - Toutou, mais pas ça ! - A corde et à cri - Jamais deux sans quatre - L'amant comme il respire - Le chômage, ça vous travaille ? - La faillite nous voilà ! - Le divin divan - Toubib or not toubib - L'écolo est fini - Loto, route du bonheur

La croisière s'amuse Saison 2

Un contrat en or - Le Magicien - Copie confuse - Un travail d'équipe - Accrochez-vous au bastingage - Le Célèbre Triangle - Joyeux Anniversaire : première partie - Il y a si longtemps déjà - Passion - Un coup de roulis - Docteur, vous êtes fou - La Petite Illusion - Donne moi ma chance - Qui vivra verra - Réunion de travail : deuxième partie - Méfiez vous de votre meilleure amie - Vague à l'âme - L'amour est aveugle - Chassé croisé

Downton Abbey Saison 6

À l'aube d'un nouveau monde - Le Piège des émotions - En pleine effervescence - Une histoire moderne - Plus de peur que de mal - En toute franchise - Aller de l'avant - Les Sœurs ennemies - Le Plus Beau des cadeaux

Kaamelott Livre IV

Le Jeu de la guerre - Le Rêve d’Ygerne - Les Chaperons - L’Habitué - Le Camp romain - L’Usurpateur - Loth et le Graal - Le Paladin - Perceval fait ritournelle - La Dame et le Lac - Beaucoup de bruit pour rien - L’Ultimatum - Le Oud II - La Répétition - Le Discours - Le Choix de Gauvain - Fluctuat nec mergitur - Le Face-à-face : première partie - Le Face-à-face : deuxième partie - L’Entente cordiale - L’Approbation - Alone in the Dark II - La Blessure d’Yvain - Corpore sano II - L’Enchanteur - Les Bien Nommés - La Prisonnière - Les Paris III - Les Plaques de dissimulation - Le Vice de forme - Le Renoncement première partie - Le Renoncement deuxième partie - L’Inspiration - Les Endettés - Double Dragon - Le Sauvetage - Le Désordre et la Nuit

Coffre à Catch

#153 : Finlay, le retour ! - #154 : Gloire aux Heels ! - #155 : Les débuts historiques de Sheamus ! - #156 : Les Bella Twins arrivent à la ECW ! - #18 ; CM Punk continue d'impressionner & quelqu'un fait du vélo ! - #12 : Le Push de CM Punk + Bsahtek le Bikini !

Castle Saison 4

Sexpionnage - Jeux de pouvoir - Une vie de chien - Le Papillon Blue - Pandore, première partie - Pandore, deuxième partie - Il était une fois un crime - Danse avec la mort - 47 secondes - Au service de sa majesté - Chasseurs de têtes - Mort vivant - Jusqu'à la mort s'il le faut

Les Brigades du Tigre Saison 1

Ce siècle avait sept ans… - Nez de chien - Les Vautours - Visite incognito - La Confrérie des loups - La Main noire

Alfred Hitchcock présente Saison 2, 6

Incident de parcours - Pièce de musée - Reconnaissance

The Grand Tour Saison 5

Trop de sable

La ville Noire

Première partie - Deuxième partie

Les Petits Meurtres d'Agatha Christie Saison 3

Mortel Karma

Spectacles

Monsieur chasse (1978) de Alain Feydeau avec Michel Roux, William Sabatier, Françoise Fleury, Yvonne Gaudeau, Pierre Mirat, Xavier Vanderberghe, Michel Mayou, Bernard Durand et Roland Oberlin

La Bagatelle (1977) de Jean Meyer avec Amarande, Patrick Préjean, Jacques Balutin, Brigitte Chamarande Bel, René Lefevre, Pierre Aufrey et Didier Roussel

Femmes en colère (2023) de Stéphane Hillel avec Lisa Martino, Gilles Kneusé, Hugo Lebreton, Nathalie Boutefeu, Fabrice de la Villehervé, Sophie Artur, Clément Koch, Magali Lange, Aude Thirion et Béatrice Michel

La Pélerine écossaise (1972) de Sacha Guitry avec Jean Piat, Geneviève Casile, Philippe Etesse, Robert Manuel, Raymond Baillet, Françoise Petit, Alain Souchères, Janine Roux et Ly Sary

Livres

Piège de chaleur de Richard Castle

Spirou et Fantasio, tome 15 : Z comme Zorglub de André Franquin, Jidéhem et Greg

Kaamelott, tome 1 : L'Armée du Nécromant d'Alexandre Astier, Benoît Bekaert et Steven Dupré

OSS 117 : Tactique Arctique de Jean Bruce

Astérix, tome 17 : Le Domaine des dieux de René Goscinny et Albert Uderzo

[bolworth-birthday-bet]

Ask the Mysterious Phantasmo for his invisibility trick

It is one of those special skills of magicians and actors and whatnot to put up their stage and take it down again in a jiffy. You admire it greatly, you do, and you watch with keen interest as the caped and hatted fellow folds this and unlatches that and the whole thing comes down in neat squares. He doesn't look very happy, though. Perhaps it is because his assistant is nowhere to be seen, having slipped away somewhere, and so no-one else is there to do the folding and the unlatching. You settle down, leaning against a wall with a snifter in hand to watch and admire some more. Some of those boxes look quite heavy. Well done for a wiry little fellow like that, really. Topping! 

After he is done, he sits down on one of the boxes, a gentle sheen on his wide, intelligent brow, though the work is really ruining his makeup and his eyebrows are becoming increasingly less dramatic. This seems just the time. You saunter over, rolling the remains of your whisky tonic in its glass. "I say! A swell show, what!"

"Thank you," he says, taking out a square handkerchief and wiping his brow. It comes off slightly orange, and there is now a pale spot on his forehead. 

"Listen, my good fellow, I am in a bit of a quandary, and I believe you are just the man to help… Would you step outside with me for a moment?"

He nods amicably enough and follows you out the French windows into the dewy night. You bum a cigarette off him, but light his in turn, and then launch into your pitch.

You explain your situation in broad strokes that leave out anything too scandalous. There was a bet, harmless youthful fun; a tragic, unexpected defeat; a matter of honour, and so forth; and the long and short of it, you would rather like to know how one becomes invisible. 

As you speak, the man's expression changes, and not into the visage of helpful enthusiasm you had wished for. When you finish, the Mysterious Phantasmo pulls himself, trembling, to his full but not considerable height.

"I have never been so insulted in my life!" he cries. "You ask me for my secrets. Very well, many do. But for this? A dishonourable, foolish, dissolute prank?"

You take a step back and raise your hands placatingly, but it doesn't stop the magician from pouring out his passionate heart. You appear to have offended not only his moral but his artistic sensibilities. 

He has studied with the greats! Spent years mastering his craft! Endured endless humiliation in the hands of unappreciative audiences, but this? This??

"Get out of my sight!" he hisses at last, and you stop stammering, turn, and run--no, ah, walk at a swift determined pace--back into the house, take a stumble at the French windows, and land on the floor with a crash, your glass splintering on the floor.

Your ears are ringing. No, it's not that--it is--the unmistakable peal of Enid O'Malley's laughter, accompanied by Frances Dobson's husky huffaws. "Steady on, Ceddy! How much have you had to drink, and wherever did you find it all?"

Poll 5

[plushdragon-art]

hi all !! i’m starting to post my art here because instagram’s captions were too short for this post specifically, and i imagine i may get similarly carried away in the future. i primarily make mlp nextgens right now. thanks for stopping by!

anyway, IT’S TILLYYYY !!! buckle up because she’s got a LOT going on

when i first designed this character in high school, i didn’t draw her mouth because i didn’t want to ruin the drawing with eraser marks (expressions are hard to nail on the first try, at least for me). this sparked an idea: i thought tilly should be non-verbal, at least in part.

since then, i’ve done some research, and i’ve settled on tilly being selectively mute. selective mutism is basically when someone cannot speak in certain situations due to overwhelm, anxiety, etc. it is sometimes referred to as situational mutism, which is the term i will be using going forward.

often, someone with situational mutism is only comfortable speaking with their immediate family. they may (or may not) also have trouble showing their emotions, which happens to fit with my image of tilly as well (again, based on them not originally having a mouth lol). part of me thinks that perhaps tilly has a stutter as well, which adds to their anxiety around speech. however, this stutter would disappear when singing.

tilly first started really paying attention to singing when they were given music therapy as a child in order to combat her situational mutism. she found that it was the best way for her to express herself to others. music made her feel safe and comfortable when nothing else did. her special talent is not just being a competent singer, but specifically singing with the intention of conveying and imbuing emotions. i haven’t yet decided if she occasionally uses magic to enhance the effects of her songs. probably?

i have an image in my head of tilly being flown by pegasi above a battlefield to sing to her people to boost morale and motivate them towards victory.

it’s quite unfortunate for a royal to be unable to speak to their people, but Tilly has managed well. they are seen as a steadfast symbol of strength, unaffected by even the direst of circumstances (when, in truth, they are constantly petrified). Tilly also serves as an ideal of innocence; she is, after all, the youngest in her family. her unchanged visage in the face of crisis is what everyone hopes for their own foals, to be shielded from tragedy. in a sense, the day tilly cries is the day hope dies. that may or may not be a saying among the crystal empire’s denizens lol.

tilly is present at basically every festival and royal function, which they hate, but they do get to sing for everyone, which evens things out a little. virtually no one outside the royal family knows about Tilly’s condition, primarily because she’s embarrassed about it and would rather it not be mentioned. one day, i think they’ll grow out of this mindset.

but i haven’t even gotten to the coolest part !!! did u know tilly is a Bad Bitch

what i mean by this is that Tilly studies dark magic. nOw she’s not evil (yet), she’s just very curious, and surprisingly pragmatic. she’s gotten very begrudging permission from her parents to do this, entirely because she made some really good points.

Tilly has been told their whole life that dark magic is bad, but few of their instructors could concretely answer why, or how it works, or what can be done to stop it (other than maybe wait for the princesses to figure something out on a case-by-case basis). this was unsatisfactory. Tilly knew that, if dark magic was ever to be safeguarded against, it must be understood, and that would never happen so long as it remained taboo to even THINK about.

so, Tilly wrote up and presented a proposal to their parents. it was challenging to get them to even consider it. after all, the whole Sombra incident had left Cadence and Shining Armor quite untrustful of dark magic. still, they couldn’t ignore how much work and thought Tilly had put into this idea, and although they liked to baby her, they had to admit that she was incredibly observant and intelligent. she had a point.

Tilly started off small, only allowed to study this magic with supervision from their aunt, Twilight. eventually, Tilly would be permitted to study on their own. their insights would prove invaluable over time. one day, i think Tilly will officially be the head royal advisor, a title not often taken up by anyone of the royal family.

i’m not sure how the dark magic will affect her. i think they do a lot of journaling in order to sort out their thoughts and keep sane. their extreme anxiety might make them easily corruptible, but they’re also smart enough to know better than to give in to the magic, so it might balance out. she definitely knows when to take a break.

i briefly considered that perhaps Tilly would be nonverbal because dark magic had removed their mouth, which would be very in line with her original design, but i thought that would be a poor choice. still, i think Tilly probably has a non-zero number of dark magic-induced nightmares in which she has no mouth, which are scary for her, but she can’t help but think “gee, how deep, i wonder what THAT dream was about” when she wakes.

that’s Tilly !! i love them, thank u for reading :)

[etxrnaleclipse]

Cris Morales

Fandom: Crime / Supernatural

Occupation: Detective / Agent (verse dependent)

[usagimen]

                                     @achroanimus :    ❛ you don’t have to be afraid of who you are. ❜ // from fox bestie with a hug &lt;3

               In pouring sunlight, the wisp of a shadow curls tightly, knees to chest && heavy breathing. Echoes, she can hear the restless voices among those who gossip softly; though she makes little sense of their nonsensical ramblings. Every wound has been meticulously cared for, the ache that spreads within the chest, it does not subside. She wonders, when will it end? Pulsing hot, like a white flame && penetrating into the confines of her sternum, wrought iron that twists as if to evescrate the still beating heart. It never served her well to begin with, what is the point? He towers over her, perfect in ivory, albeit slightly marred. Every aunt fawns upon him, cooing && awning in spectacular glory, meanwhile, the depth of emerald hues latch onto gold. “A-ah, you don’t need to check on me so frequently” she hates the fretting, the constant remarks or cries that shriek in a shrill voice, the beloved moon could have vanished. Always a jagged thing, too sharp to love, too cold to possess, even when her love stood shattered into shards - she could never admit it. Lovingly, a set of bandages sits upon a lacquered tray, scissors to cut && the binding begins once more. Arguments break out more than usual, the viper’s shoulders remain heavy, order she urges - order in the midst of tremendous loss, their world will remain unscathed while the rest shall plunge itself into the abyss.

      What is the point of containing a God? Those who challenge utter despair, if the heavenly being is now encumbered, there was no point for an old regime that never served them, never blessed them, they should cut their losses from this vile realm && remain hidden amongst the weeping wisteria. “It’s so unbelievably noisy, for once I should have taken refuge with the Zen’ins, the lot can give less than a damn we’ve lost the Honored One” a clever lie, she wishes to seep into the confines of the underworld, escaping in the midst of an endless winter that felt like home, ice that runs thick within the blood. Shikomi’s with their bland visages, monochrome in colors all speak in timid voices, the question is irritating - will the God Hand recover swiftly? How dare they view her as salvation, an answer to their misguided prayers, holy.

        “You’re quite brazen, showing your face when the objective failed, we know our enemy yet the cost was significant” her tongue lashes out not in ire or boundless fury, grief, overwhelming mourning that cannot be contained && must be spun into a torrent of gritted teeth. He always had an uncanny ability, the most empathetic being she has ever crossed, the cruelest being to ever flash their teeth && peel away bit by bit all she kept secret. Does he know she keeps shattered glass to her chest? Laced in crimson, the wiring has all but been distorted && the memory remains the same; gentle souls cannot thrive in this world, but she was monstrous, even in youth her melancholy laugh echoed, I will be the blade - you will never know suffering while I stand. Dreams of sapphire waters, sea salt brining her lungs, come quickly && vanishing just as fast. She wishes to grab him, unleash a caustic poison, maybe then the eloquently numb sensation would trickle back into the marrow. Instead, her petite form unravels, “I am not afraid, I am lost. Even in girlhood, the notion of delicateness was foreign, but I would not become another idle beauty that ensnared her prey. Instead, I would grow to be steel, sharp as the knife to be held by those who I love” a futile mistake, one she would regret. “They refused && for that, I should have cursed them” scornful, she could never be such a thing, even if she feebly tried to convince him it was possible, her morality would not allow it.

      “The fox survives, fleeing from ruination, yet I am heavy with the knowledge this shall not be the last we know of strife” a few stray tears, they slip down the smoothness where bone should protrude. Bruised hands, battered fingers, thousands of times broken && each one, put back together. They reached for him, fear kept her moving, fear was the only thing that held the thin veil of vice && virtue. “You are always too kind, too warm, would you stay with me?” swallowing the pit within her throat, she laughs softly.

                         “You who is the sun, indulge the moon just this once, the lonesome sky for which I dwell is all too much”

[heloirgan24]

SÉANCE #11 - "Sousveillance citoyenne : un combat contre le capitalisme de surveillance"

Aujourd'hui, nous vivons dans une ère du capitalisme de surveillance. Cela signifie que nous sommes sous le regard omniprésent des algorithmes des GAFAM qui suivent nos moindres actions sur le web. Cependant, dans ce panoptique numérique, nous allons présenter une contre-culture qui ne cesse de prendre de l'ampleur : la sousveillance citoyenne.

« Si vous voulez une image de l'avenir, imaginez une botte piétinant un visage humain, pour toujours. La morale à tirer de cette situation dangereuse cauchemardesque est simple : ne laissez pas cela se produire. Tout dépend de vous. ». Voici une citation de l'écrivain George Orwell, numéro de son chef-d'œuvre, 1984. Ce cri d'alerte datant de 1949 décrit parfaitement notre rapport actuel avec le numérique. Cette botte peut être affiliée aux gouvernements qui surveillent les populations par le biais du numérique ou aux grandes entreprises américaines de la technologie qui exploitent nos présences numériques pour accroître leurs profits. Les géants du numérique comme Google, Meta, ou Microsoft capitalisent sur nos existences numériques, façonnant nos réalités, nos habitudes, et nos interactions sociales selon leurs intérêts commerciaux.

La sousveillance citoyenne est la résistance à cette "botte". Selon Camille Alloing, la sousveillance "désigne alors les capacités données à chaque citoyen de faire usage des dispositifs numériques pour "regarder d'en bas" les différentes formes de pouvoirs étatiques ou commerciaux." Ce mouvement permet l'avènement de héros modernes tels qu'Edward Snowden ou Frances Haugen. Ces lanceurs d'alerte défient ainsi la surveillance numérique des États et des grandes entreprises technologiques, éveillant également le grand public sur les méthodes de surveillance numérique de masse.

Dorénavant, les citoyens s'adonnent à la sousveillance numérique, par exemple en utilisant les médias sociaux pour dénoncer les dérapages de la police. Cependant, ce mouvement citoyen n'est pas exempt de critiques. On peut donc s'inquiéter de la création d'une culture de la méfiance généralisée. Ainsi, établir un équilibre entre la protection de la vie privée et la responsabilité sociétale devient un objectif incontournable.

En fin de compte, on peut constater que la sousveillance citoyenne s'élève comme un véritable contrepoids face à l'avènement du capitalisme de surveillance. Ce mouvement citoyen doit permettre de redonner du pouvoir en tant qu'individus dans un monde hyperconnecté. La sousveillance offre un authentique espoir de liberté, une volonté de reprendre le contrôle de nos récits numériques.

Sources :

https://www.cairn.info/revue-hermes-la-revue-2016-3-page-68.htm

[deadlykissy]

»»———- Park Sunhee. 22 ans ; 15 août ; lion. En couple avec son meilleur ami Idol, Jeongin. Battu par son beau-père, il protège sa mère. Steamer de jeux vidéos, vidéaste. Introverti.

Park Sunhee voit le jour le 15 aout 2001 n'a pas eu une enfance très glorieuse. Son père meurt avant son tout premier anniversaire dans un tragique accident de voiture. Sa mère l'élève donc seule, pendant quelques années, elle gérait le travail, la nounou, l'appartement, rien était évident pour la jeune mère de 20 ans, de se retrouver mère veuve. Après quelques années à vivre seul auprès d'elle, Sunhee développe une relation fusionnelle avec celle qui lui a donné la vie et élevé. Lorsque Sunhee a 16 ans, sa mère se met en ménage avec un homme qui parait parfait. Au départ, tout était rose, tout était magique. Mais un soir, il rentre tard et bourré. Sunhee qui était affalé devant l'ordinateur à jouer aux jeux vidéos entend alors des cris provenant du rez-de-chaussée. C'est là qu'il découvre son beau-père ivre, en rage, entrain de tabasser sa mère. Alors, sans réfléchir, Sunhee intervient pour protéger celle qu'il l'avait protégé toute sa vie. Mais sa mère pardonne car le lendemain il s'excusait auprès d'elle avec un joli bouquet et s'excusait également auprès de Sun avec le dernier jeu vidéo sorti.. Elle pardonnera les nouvelles fois où cela arrivera encore, et encore. Mais Sun n'avait jamais pardonné. Jamais il acceptera de voir sa mère subir de telles horreurs et en subir lui aussi. Il l'entendait la manipuler, la rabaisser, la soumettre, la tuer moralement. Le cliché parfait du pervers narcissique. Il avait le contrôle, et il le savait. Mais Sunhee ne supportera plus ce p'tit jeu diabolique de son beau-père. Un soir, Sunhee en pouvait plus. Des années que cela durait... C'était trop pour lui encore supporter de voir des bleus et des coups sur le visage et le corps de sa maman. Il prend alors les affaires de son beau-père et les jette par la fenêtre de l'appartement et fait changer les serrures de la porte d'entrée. Mais, c'était mal connaitre son beau-père, qui n'avait pas dit son dernier mot, et avait juré de les tuer, tous les deux. Depuis, Sunhee veille sur sa mère, et tente par tous les moyens, de protéger sa mère. Il gagne de l'argent car il excelle dans les jeux vidéos notamment dans les compétitions e-sportive et les streams. Mais il ment à l'amour de sa vie, son meilleur ami, l'idole des SKZ Jeongin.. L'amour qu'il cache depuis si longtemps, parviendra-t-il a lui dire la vérité ? Autant sur ce qui s'est passé que pour ses sentiments ? C'était beaucoup trop dur.

Incarné par Song Kang. En jeu avec : Jeongin - @ Thunderous

[2223architecture]

Vendredi Saint

Il me faut trouver la solution. Une éclaircie s'oriente là haut. Il faut encore attendre. Je comptabilise déjà trop. Année après année . Il faut respirer trouver le souffle. Reprendre la parole. Prendre pied. Démontrer d'un fort aplomb. Tout cela est sans fin. La crise a commencé depuis bien avant ma naissance. Je ne peux plus faire comme avant.

Je suis assis devant mon clavier; je ne perd pas les mots que je note. Je suis indécis. Intraitable et bien avant tout imbuvable. J'emmerde la société. Elle me le rend bien. Je suis prophète. Ma parole est celle d'un prophète. J'attends que l'on me fasse mon compte. Je prédis les malheurs et j'attends le sauf. Après reviendra le printemps. Après, bien après...

Quand tout aura fini, je renaîtrai. Pas avant. La crise, c'est cette interruption du bien, et l'attente du mal. C'est un entre deux. Pas encore naissance, pas encore mort... Tout reviendra quand tout sera passé, pas avant... l’inévitable transition de l'ordre ancien en bordel sans nom. Inévitable retranscription de inélégante incompréhension... Tout s'est perdu en chemin. L'ouest est le déclin du Soleil. La nuit est proche. Je le sens bien. La nuit est tout aussi inévitable.

Que dira le prophète italien? Qui assassinera Dieu lui même cette fois-ci? Qui tachera a reprendre la main du destin bafoué ? Qui enterra le cours de l'histoire un temps ? Qui empêchera la mise en bouche ? Qui sortira de tombeau si on y met personne ?

Cette fois ci tous se jouera ailleurs. Le monde se répète avec humour, la blague suit la catastrophe. Qui est donc le premier ? Le burlesque ou le cri ?

Je ne sais plus. Parce que je ne veux plus savoir. Je peux encore faire comme si tout cela n'existais pas. Je suis seul et pourtant tout tourne autour de moi. Arrêtons la poésie. Arrêtons le crime des crimes. Arrêtons de parler. Il n'est pas encore venu le temps des derniers renoncements. J'anticipe. Je vais plus vite que la musique. Je transcende. Je retiens le sable qui coule. Je suis ici assis au centre de l'univers. J'attends car cela va trop vite.

Tout a déjà commencé , je suis un prophète en retard. Tout est déjà là. Tout es accompli. Il ne reste que les mots. Les mots pour le dire et le faire. Les mots qui s'entendent et raisonnent. Les mots sans morale et sans mémoire. Sans histoires . Des mots neufs venus du Ciel. Des mots perdus dans nos oreilles de nouveaux nés. Vous n'avez jamais rien entendu de tel ?

Ça y est la bombe est lancée dans le jeu de quille. La bombe ! Celle des sans lendemain. Celle qui tape au dessus de tout. Celle qui trépasse... Celle qui ne sert plus à rien. A détruire ? Tout est déjà mort. Radioactif.

Tout est sans retour. Sans limite ni début. La fin finira par recommencer. Sans détour ni contours. Sans frontières ni morales. Sans espoir ni rêve, sans commentaires ni devoirs. Sans péchés. Sans justice. Sans rien qui fait que l'on se sentent mieux. Sans ressentiment ni haine. Déculpabilisant.

Rien ou si peu. Un petit détail quand même, un truc qui ne veut rien dire au départ. Un centimètre de jeu entre deux continents. Une fissure qui s'agrandira. Le début de tout. La nommer serai la violer. La montrer du doigts est impossible . Tout au plus on peut souffler dessus. Et puis faire fi, faire fi des préférences des autres , faire fi de la bienséance, faire fi pour l'instant. Se murer dans le silence. Faire comme si de rien n'était. Se masquer le visage. Et surtout ne parler qu'à celui qui sait.

Toi là tu t'impatiente !

Tu veux aussi en être, de ce club des peu nombreux, heureux membre des vainqueurs de limbes. Toi aussi tu sais. Si tu écoute ce n'est pas pour savoir. Si tu cries c'est parce que tu as compris. Et pourtant là aussi il faut se taire. Le silence est roi, il est le secret des dieux. Il est parmi nous tous … Il respire. Le silence est la loi commune de savants. J'ai trouve la bague perdu. J'ai trouvé le savoir inespéré , celui des vieux temps où rien n'avait d'importance puisque tout était à sa place.

Après le temps du récit vient la poésie. Éternelle est son déploie. Ritournelle. Chanson de geste, déclaration d'amour, épiphanie. Le geste est en un mot. Les mots sont écrits avant d'être dits. Les mots parlent d'eux-même.

Je suis inspiré ce soir.Je sais pas encore où je vais. Je sais tout pourtant. Tout est inscrit dans le force de mon poignée. Je tape ainsi. Je transcrit , j'écris ma propre destiné, ma musique hors de ces quatre murs.

Je suis sûr. Certain que le monde passe sous mes pieds. Certain d'être au centre.

Sans intérêt. Sans calcul. Sans but. Mais avec une direction précise. Un sens, une courbure dans l'espace. Une géométrie bien à moi. Un déploiement, un firmament. Je suis sur d'éclore dans quelques jours. Là ici par dessus , sans dessus, au pourtour des mers , dans les montagnes au delà des campagnes. Partout . Ici aussi.

Je suis un génie. Je suis moi même.Ni plus ni moins.

Et voilà. Les mauvais ricanent. Il transpirent, puent. Ils ont eu leurs doses de ressentiments. L'instinct grégaire ne leur donne pas le choix. Ils sont perdus , en ruts.ils mourront bientôt.

N'en parlons plus. Où tout cela nous mènera-t-il ?

Peu importe.

Je suis un poète sans pouet pouet.

Je suis un artiste qui ne peins plus.

Je suis un romancier sans histoire.

Une putain sans client.

Je suis moi même. Un autre. Je ne fais pas pour agir. Sans but. Ni vocation ni convictions. Je n'ai pas à gagner. Ni à perdre. Je pâtis de vos souffrances et les effaces d'un même geste. Je n'en fous. Voilà tout.

Je ne peux pas en dire plus. Vous me prendriez pour un fou. Ma parole est celle d'un prophète, je vous le répète.

Mais attention. Tout n'est pas inscrits dans le livre. Il reste quelque chose : ta destiné. Je n'écris que pour ça : te rappeler ton libre arbitre.