#mere de la mort

[superiorkenshi]

Tiktok essaie de me remettre dans mes Tony stark feels et c'est super efficace

[infosisraelnews]

La mère de Nasrallah est morte ; L'estimation - il n'assistera pas aux funérailles

Le Hezbollah a confirmé aujourd’hui (samedi) que la mère du secrétaire général de l’organisation terroriste, Nahdia Safi al-Din, est décédée. Le Hezbollah a publié une déclaration de deuil pour la mère de Hassan Nasrallah et a noté qu’elle devrait être enterrée dimanche lors d’une cérémonie funéraire dans la Dahiya au sud de Beyrouth. Actuellement, on ne sait pas si Nasrallah sera présent aux…

[janumun]

Painted Red (LaDS Sylus - NSFW ABCs Headcanon]

Rated: NSFW/18+

Words: ~4k

Tags: oral, vaginal and anal sex, usage of toys, fingering, enemies to lovers dynamic/passing usage of guns, bondage, semi-public sex, improper use of Evol, switching power roles, dirty talk, masturbation, mirrors, orgasm denial, praise kink

Author’s Notes: A little treat to myself right before Sylus’ release. Please take careful note of those tags and content warnings before you proceed.

I hope you enjoy your read as much I enjoyed myself writing this!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)   

With the state of indecent disarray one usually ends up in —  quivering, drenched thighs, nerveless arms useless by your sides, a flushed face and an inability to catch your breath — after a single night spent in Sylus’ bed, aftercare is a necessity post-coitus. And fortunately, the man, damn him, knows and understands so, very well.  

And so, he has a pitcher of cold water, prepared well beforehand — even on days your dalliances are not what the two of you intend when you meet — ready and at your disposal by the bedside.  

The moment he pulls out of you, another short one spared to ensure you are still there, with him and well, he’s moving off of you. A clean robe he throws on, loose, over his body before striding over to the nightstand to pour you a glass.  

A cool, pleasant palm he eases against the back of your head to raise, as he encourages you take those big, long gulps of fluid to quench your thirst and replenish your energies. “There you go, well done,” his low baritone settling deep within your belly, your core instinctively clenching in on emptiness to hear his unexpected praise for something so very mundane.  

Truly, you do not know what this man is doing to your body and mind.  

Extra 

Sylus slides into bed with you for the remainder of your night and tucks close under the covers, for your much needed repose.  

Morning afters, you greet with a fresh shower (and on days you insist, with him), a pair of clean towels and a pressed outfit, ready for you to change into and later settle in for a healthy, fulfilling breakfast, whipped up to perfection by his personal chef. All of his house-staff, professional, discrete and well-versed in handling affairs of the Onychinus scion’s household. Whatever the two of you share within the confines of your privacy — animosities or amourous rendezvous —  remains entombed, within that very space.  

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)   

Sylus takes pride within his dexterity, particularly that of his limbs (...particularly that of his hands, his fingers when it comes to matters of the bedroom).  

One would hardly expect a man of his body stature to possess the nimble flexibility that resides compacted within his body. An erroneous judgment that often proves fatal to foolish foes within a fight.  

And with you, he puts that lethal agility to use: within the push of thick digits up into your clenching walls, the roughened pads of them swiftly seeking and pressing up against the spot at your frontal walls that makes you wail, makes you twist. Makes that body of yours gush against his insistent palm in an orgasm vehement enough, you see dark blanket across your eyes for the scarcity of mere seconds. Truly bringing upon you, as they call it, la petite mort. A tiny death.  

Sylus is extremely fond of your face. It’s not because of the way you look, a mere pretty face in the crowd he would simply gloss over; it’s the striking catch of your facial tells that steal his gaze and keep it captive.  

The wary intensity of your eyes the first time you laid eyes on him. 

Or the way your brow knit in firm concentration when you had him tossed to the ground, once. Nearly taking him by something almost akin to surprise, the weight of your gun, incessant, against his chest. Your mouth turning sour in restless irritation when he dared try tease at your sensibilities, a harsh knee you plunged deeper into his torso.  

The quick work of your mind — a testament of its well-endowed intellect and wit, a Hunter of good repute —  channeling brilliance in crisp words uttered from rouged lips, when the two of you, on one certain occasion, found yourselves in a particularly dire situation. One you’d agreed to accompany him to, undercover, as an associate of the Onychinus’ head.   

Truly, he has been snared with your fascinating mien since the day he laid his eyes upon you, your expressions spinning — amusing — as if placed upon a carousel, the longer he spends in your company.  

And from there on, is born a desire to witness even more.  

When you drive him back into the covers with the force of your wet kiss, parting untimely before he has the proper chance to put his tongue into your mouth and taste for himself (there will be further opportunities, he holds himself). 

The way that well-coveted, devious tongue sweeps a slow path against your upper lip —just out of reach — edge to edge. The harsh dash of red, high across your cheeks, the intensity of your breaths, untamed as his. And those beautiful eyes, a riotous mix of vexation and desire so incinerating, it turns Sylus’s cock to unbearably hard stone beneath the cleft of your ass, he bucks up against you just to see that wheeling carousel within your gaze, shift forms for him, watch that mouth swear at the exhilarating stimulation of your combined symphony, he knows, you too feel. Just for him alone.  

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)  

Sylus enjoys the slick feeling of your skin stained by his cum; that exact moment he pulls out of your quivering walls to release himself in thick spurts down the length of your folds. Slips the head of his cock against the smears of his release, before pushing back, slow, once more into your depths.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)  

There is no secrecy or shame involved with a man in possession of as poised a self-assurance as Sylus; his sexual tendencies he not only owns up to and understands but has no qualms about elucidating his wants in great... obscene detail, to his partner, you.  

He wants you to be knowing exactly what it is you are doing to arouse him and exactly how to get him up to that stage.  

His palms curving about your thighs, scaffoldings of heated flesh that climb up and slink slow beneath the cut of your dress. Covetous fingers that trace delicate patterns against the lining of your panties and yet you quiver underneath that feather touch alone. “Such fine lace.” Garnet gaze, sharp, as it meets yours within the tight, much too confined space of his car. 

The chauffeur in front, separated a mere layer away from the two of you as Sylus wrenches you onto his spread lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath as they shift, subtle, to press you deeper against a broad chest.  

Index and middle scouring a hot, glancing path against your clothed slit before withdrawing, leaving you to scramble for purchase against the fine pressed collar of his shirt, creasing it within your hold.  

Your question snipped short with the soft, soughing whisper at your ear, voicing his true intentions. “I’d very much like a memento, to remember our evening by. Your panties...” Devious fingers pinching at the apex of your heat. “They will do well, sweetheart.” 

A moan tumbles past your lips before you can smother the sound —   you break it against the sweep of his mouth, welcoming —  at such a scandalous request, bold, without a lick of remorse. Just as the man himself.  

“I trust you will help me then, yes?” A long, tapered finger, pressing above underwear, right at your slit. Course thumb leisurely stroking its fire against that tight bead of pleasure. A rumbled groan he breaks free against your ear to feel the wanton slick of your arousal, soaking right through fabric. “That’s right, drench them well. I want your fragrance long on my gift, even after your departure.”  

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)  

Sylus has been out and about. He isn’t capricious enough to have changed sexual partners as frequently as the rumors around Zone N109 might paint him to have, but he is certainly no stranger to sex.  

His preference before you, usually having been for casual, short-lived, discrete dalliances, to indulge in bodily pleasures and no more beyond. With a man as committed to his goals as Sylus is, with a clear concept of how he wishes to manipulate the underworld to his liking, he does not spare much attention to subsidiary gratifications. 

With people at large, he is apathetic to that which does not catch his interest. There is very few within this world that truly does.  

And you, now, stand among those rare few treasures that have all of his attentions arrested. 

He finds himself wanting to captivate you, in turn, not just in body but mind. Truly, he finds you a fascinating being.  

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)  

Seated within his lap, cock nestled warm within clenching depths. 

Hair, a spread of wild locks across the coverlet, mirroring the writhing state of your sweat-drenched body underneath his, as he thrusts into you. 

Hungering fingers clawing at the expanse of his chest, down the strength of his shoulders as you furiously grind upon his cock, intoxicatedly chasing an orgasm just within reach. Strong fingers, he rushes down the length of your clenching abdomen, inquisitive palm digging just beneath your naval to feel for the vibrations that ripple across pliant skin with the vehemence of your thrusts onto his cock.  

Sylus relishes the privilege of your private, salacious unravelings, brought upon by him alone, by what he does to you and what you force out of him, for your singular pleasure. Desires heightened to witness you using his body to bring yourself to shattering ruin, it floods his veins with inebriating arousal so heavy, his body aches with the force of his want. 

As such any which way he takes or lets you take, which allows him privy to your raw, unfettered emotions rushing across your face [See above: B, Body Part] is what he enjoys most. Bringing him to completion the fastest when he is able to witness your mouth breaking apart in moans, watch sex mussed strands of hair stick to your temples, mixing in with the sweat of your body, tear-streaked pleasure smeared vivid across your cheeks. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)  

Your sexual escapades are hot, often times competitive and cathartic; an unfettering of strangled desires. Bursting to the surface within the fever of your intimacy. Arduous cravings that are hardly scotched in a singular session. 

Vocal and perverse though he may be in tongue when it comes to your love-making, Sylus is not one for poetic romanticisms waxed within the bedroom. A man of action rather than ornate words. 

His regard for you exhibited in the grip of sturdy arms that clutch you back against his body, feeling for each part of you pressed against his. In the tongue that laves at sweat soaked skin in soothing mercy, from the relentless assault of his hips against your ass.  

Roughened thumbs that swab at tears from red-rimmed eyes, post-coitus, a gentle towel that skates soft down the quivering length of your ruined body before tucking it clean into fresh robes.  

The manner in which he chooses to stay close and warm your bed, instead of leaving right after, even after the fire within your veins has long cooled itself. Foregoing his own personal mandate, to never spare a single trace of himself behind.  

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)  

Sylus takes exceptional care to maintain good hygiene at all times; a man who looks and smells just as good, the pleasant, sharp undertones to his cologne, having you canting your nose into the space of his neck, as you breathe. 

 Right at that tendon wrung taut with the press of your teeth into a harsh bite, to choke the scream that climbs up your throat with the hard propulsions of his cock into your depths.  

Downstairs, he is fairly clean; a shave on the regular, a mere fine dusting of ivory tracing a path from navel, downwards until it disappears beneath the stretch of his pants.  

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)  

[Also see above: G] Choosing to bury his skewed smiles against your wet moans, the bite of restive teeth you sink into his lip, pulling it wider.  The anchor he throws forwards for both your sakes in the entwining of digits, meshing tight against the other to ride out your highs.  

Sinking a bite in farewell right above your left breast before you part, so he knows how that heart bears its frenzied beats for him alone. A reminder he leaves upon your body to ache by, until the next time he finds himself buried within you.  

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)  

Sylus lies in possession of an exceedingly high sexual drive. And herculean, in-humane self-control to boot. Experienced though he may be, due to the course of his sexual history; he’s been able to keep his casual encounters to a minimum due to how well he is able to compartmentalize his needs.  

Overwhelming desires at times, he often spilled within the confines of an oiled fist. At others, tamping down the more primal parts of himself, until he felt it turn a necessity.  

After you, he allows himself release from that tight-fisted restraint more often. Finishing himself in white relief, trickling down his fingers on the days (...hours) he does not have your warm body to sheath into, does not have the symphony of your cries to help him along.  

Your visage in mind, sharp, jagged; he’s already expecting your next meeting with bated pleasure. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)  

Sylus loves the color red on you, appreciates fiercely how becoming it is on you.

Loves to buy you dresses — scarlet as his eyes, as his desires —  to put on, when you let him. Personally ensures, first-hand, they are well-fitted, within the confines of a cosy dressing room. 

When large hands reach to flit past the split of your dress, cup about your ass, fingers drifting about your waist. “A perfect fit.”He praises, to your reflection within the body-length mirror. Skating further up your body to finger the strap of the outfit, skirting it, slow, down your shoulder. Indolent digits, index and thumb, pinching at the hardened peaks of a breast. Curving a hefty palm about the clothed flesh. “You’re a sight to behold.” 

Red, when he curls a palm in between the cleft of your legs, leaves your flesh smarting with the short, pinching grinds against an increasingly swollen clit, stimulated for hours on end. Ruby, to match the flush at your cheeks. Scarlet, down the crescent of your breasts.  

Wine, when you make his color spill with the bite of harsh teeth into his lip, bursting blood in between your mouths, as you withdraw on panting breaths.  Tipping down in willing obeisance — he gifts just to you— with the violent tug of your fingers, directing him back against your mouth. Lapping at his wound, marking him for your own.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)  

Anytime, any place, any where.  

There isn’t an authority powerful enough on Earth to stay his hand, once the two of you decide you want your bodies against each other. Sylus does not shy from an opportunity presented, and if there is none, he makes one.  

In seclusion, or in public— 

Crowds melting away the moment his fingers whip about your waist, stealing you away into private silence. The weight of his Evol has barely scattered from your shoulders, before the strength of his body replaces it, driving you back against a carved pillar. Mouth pulsing against yours in a slow, heavy kiss. Wet, hot; parting from your tongue on a conjoined string of damp pleasure, that bows and breaks under the weight of gravity.  

There isn’t a moment he does not desire you and he certainly has no specious sensibilities to appeal to, when it comes to the chance to indulge you.  

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)  

Curses, nothing quite turns Sylus on than to see you flourish in the place you shine best. When you are dedicated and singular-minded, in pursuit of your target. When you are forced to contend against situations far out of your control, compelled to navigate the perilous dangers that come with your line of work, be it the Tenebrae, Wanderers or something else entirely. And rise above it all, through the sheer drive you possess, a stubborn nature unable to give up on what you believe in. Not unlike his own, a kinship he finds within you.  

A desire to obtain that fire for his own. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)  

There is little Sylus would ever deny you. Certainly, keep from you, briefly; demands he may not fulfill immediately, in the pursuit of your combined pleasures. 

Sharing you with another, however, is a stringent boundary. 

Despite that first impression he settles, of immovable composure, he’s territorial, rather like a murder of crows, over you. Your heart, your sole focus, he desires to monopolize for his own. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)  

Having your mouth on his cock is stimulating. Having your positions swapped and your ass grinding hard against the strength of his jaw, however, is what truly incinerates the blood within his veins. The leverage it bestows within his hold, to have you. Manipulate your pleasure to his liking, set the blood thrumming high within your own body.

Sturdy arms that cord about the plush of quivering thighs, garnet gaze that rolls up to capture yours, accompanying the wicked bite of teeth into the pliant flesh of your thigh. The flat of his tongue running from base to hood, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.  

Relishing his victory in the slow sweep of lids falling shut, the open grin that pulls taut, with the harsh, fluttering pull of your fingers at his hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy. Signaling your utter defeat. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)  

Sylus is in it for the long game. And no matter what it takes, no matter the cost, he sees to it that he gets what he wants.  

Oh, him fracturing from that torturous tug-and-pull you’ve got going on, is but a feverish wish on your part. Sylus lives for the pleasure of your ruination, delights in the number of times he can crest you to your climax. And when not. 

Part desire, part the necessity to have you well and utterly drenched before he even thinks to breach that soft, quivering flesh. Extended periods of torturous teasing foreplay, obligatory if he is to have penetrative sex with you. His size, he understands, not an easy burden to accommodate.  

He often starts out slow; long, deep thrusts into your body as it clenches and moulds against the shape of him. Stimulated eventually enough, you drip copious against him, pleasure over-riding any remaining scraps of  fleeting discomfort entirely until you’re clawing at the sturdy strength of his back. 

Fingernails pulsing at the firm flesh of his ass, his name tumbling incoherent from a parched mouth, until he’s driving into you with the vehemence of an untethered beast. Guttural groans and whispered sighs, splintering against the give of your neck in tandem to your mounting screams. Quenched against the bite of a breast.  

Letting your desires burn in between you until the moment they’re blanketed, hours later, into the dark of night.  

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)  

Sylus does not wait. When he witnesses desire pool within that provoked gaze, watches the fire that burns parched, as you seek for moisture with the slow slide of a pink tongue against your rouged lip.  

Helping you along into a dark crevice, if you’re out in public. Drawing your panties down against your thighs to reach for the place in between your legs. Roughened fingers plucking at wetness, dragging an indolent path from your slit to the apex of your sex. Curving one long, tapered digit into your clenching walls, stroking, until he brings you crashing for him.  

Proud mouth pulsing a kiss in hushed laughter against your temple, as he assists you in putting yourself back in spruced order.  

Sylus never goes the entire way, when the two of you are rushing against the clock. Ample time, he requires — and makes certain he’d have that, later — to unwrap and uncover the entirety of you, piece by piece.  

An early aperitif, however, is one he isn’t opposed to, especially when it is served, as intoxicating as you are. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)  

He’s willing and he’s game; a word from you is all he requires before granting you exactly what you desire, in spades.  

There isn’t a thing you could throw his way to turn him off you, Sylus is the kind of man to take it all in stride.  

[See also: L, N and K] 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)  

Oh, he possesses a generous, infuriating amount of discipline; immovable rock in the face of obvious temptation. That does not, however, imply there isn’t a savage beast caged, restless, underneath that cool, tempered demeanor. Sylus merely maintains inhumane control over the leash of that sexuality beneath. And he knows how well to untether it too, once he allows himself to let loose his inhibitions.  

Infinite stores of stamina (for daaays), an extremely brief refractory period and an overwhelming desire to wring you dry, entirely for himself, make for a terrifying combination.  

Your hips would long break before Sylus’ cock ever begun to lose its vigor.  

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)  

Sylus knows an opportunity when he sees one and the chance to have you utterly devastated, is one he never lets up on, and toys are just a welcome addition to his arsenal.  

Pretty little baubles, the two of you purchased together on one of your dates — a discrete, neat store tucked within one of N109’s infamous districts, the way he’d encouraged your fascinated survey of the store’s à la mode selection of vibrators and jeweled plugs, a vaguely amused smile plucking at his mouth. Pulling up every single toy that sparked your fancy for a detailed overview from the ever-present staff, more than happy to answer all your enthused questions.  

Rounding a firm hand about your waist to tug to his side, at the end of your purchase trip, breathing a sensual promise into the cleft of your ear, to let you try them all out in due time. 

And he fulfills it, in equal enthusiasm. 

Deft fingers that press up to slide against the insistent vibrations of the object settled snug into your wet walls. Toying, indolent, at the intensity of its stimulation with sporadic flicks of his Evol. Your stuttered moans clawing higher the longer he keeps you suspended within this torturous state of denial. Rejecting your babbles to let you come, that he’s been at it for hours.  

“Not yet,” he instructs, slipping a cool hand onto the shell of your hip to hold down your senseless bucking.  

It is only several, excruciating denied orgasms later does he tug free the plug at your ass, pressing his cock in lieu of its emptiness. And the way your hole clamps down in a vice at the base of him drags a shuddered, guttural groan from him. Your body stimulated so beyond sense, it drags an exhilarated laugh from his chest, in conjunction to your lost moans. 

“This is it, lovely. Are you enjoying yourself that much?” Mouth pulling wider at your vehement nods. “Do you desire more?” Sinking three fingers up to the knuckle into your pussy, without warning. A quick tug of them upwards, has his energy tinkering at the vibrator’s intensity, sending it buzzing higher and you wail your curses at him. “Hah.” He shudders above, pressing deeper against your back. “That’s it, I like those sounds.” 

“Sing higher, darling.” 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)  

Oh, his craving for riling you up and goading you is infinite. 

Even when you have him physically bound and at your mercy; the gorgeous, insouciant pull of that mouth into a skewed smile —  a crafted calculation — has you feeling as if he still holds the entirety of a winning deck within those trussed hands.  

Through each singular groan, every heaving breath and grunt, a disquieting, infuriating grin tugs constant at lips that demand further of your cruelty. As if a perverse beast actually enjoying the cage it belongs in.  

The ram of a harsh heel, deep into his abdomen, has his grunting a long, gravely sound, Sylus’ body driving further into the savage crush of your shoe — pleasure so intoxicating in the knot of strong brows, that parted mouth —  it stirs fiery arousal deep within your own belly.  

Traitorous wetness trailing down the length of your thighs, arousal that Sylus convulses against the binds of his shackles for. Manages to dip forwards just enough —  the brute —  to catch the trickle of wetness against an adept tongue, at your thigh, and lap. Garnet gaze seeking and capturing yours in a haze so vicious your fingers fist harsh into his hair, in an unforgiving pull. Your moans, he steals — victorious — for himself.  

“That is surely not all you can manage to do with me, can you, darling?” 

 And you can’t be too dishonest with yourself any longer; your orgasms far more fervid and ruinous when he’s had you both dancing along to his little cat-and-mouse game for hours on end, teasing you both with the pantomime of the act. Until, finally, finally, his cock plunges past aching, swollen folds and into your drenched, clenching walls.  

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)  

Sylus’ moans are low, licentious burrs; throaty whispers he secretes right against your ear, to turn your legs to quivering flesh. He doesn’t require his voice to rise above a certain octave, not when he has you gushing on his face with the vibrations that buffet deep into your pussy, when that pleasured rumble of his breaks right in between your legs. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)  

Sylus does not care much for binding or detaining you — restraining your senses — for personal pleasure.  

He allows you use of your precious fetters and restraints, for what it does for him — an opportunity to maneuver your pleasure — and for the two of you, that is... if you can manage to bring him under, to begin with.  

It merely isn’t something that works for him, in roles reversed, when he finds himself sufficient enough to draw forth the pleasure he can achieve for the two of you, with his body alone. 

He has innumerable ways within his arsenal he can bring you to mind-numbing finish with, and he doesn’t require the comfort of a rope for that.  

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)  

Sylus’ cock is a beautiful, symmetrical thing — rather intimidating at first glance. He teaches your body to take it well, in long, pleasurable lessons. Curving, slight. towards his abdomen. A thick shaft running up into a flared glans that burns in pleasurable penetration the first time you take him in. Numerous, undulating veins along the length, that bump perfect against the surface of your tongue when you swirl around it. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)  

[Incredibly high as detailed at great length in J and S] 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Sleep is the farthest thing from mind when the Onychinus’ head has you tucked at last, exhausted, within his bed. His body — long programmed — hardly permitting the scope of vulnerability slumber brings, in your presence.  

And so, he puts that time to other pursuits. Often nights, choosing to watch over your sleep, carding the occasional stray strand of hair back against your ear. At others, he brings work to bed, spectacled scarlet gaze scouring over lines of text and diagrammatic compilations.  

Not choosing to desert your side, even once, throughout the entire night, protective over your own vulnerability, for as long as it lasts. 

End Notes: Once my fingers actually started on this man, I could not stop even if I wanted to. Sylus has me gripped by my very throat and that worries me greatly LOL.

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[pegasusdrawnchariots]

Lettre VI

@ninadove

1F MADEMOISELLE, J'ay receu vos magnifiques braſſelets, qui m'ont ſemblé tout glorieux de porter vos chiffres; ne craignez plus aprés cela, qu’un priſonnier arreſté par les bras & par le cœur, vous puiſſe echapper.

1A MADEMOISELLE, I've received your magnificent cuffs, which seemed to me proud to bear your code. After this, fear no longer that a prisoner bound by the wrists and by the heart could escape you.

2F Je confeſſe cependant que voſtre don m'euſt eſté ſuſpect, à cauſe qu'il entre preſque toûjours des cheveux & des caracteres dans la compoſition des charmes; mais comme vous avez tant d'autres moyens plus nobles pour cauſer la mort, je n'ay garde de vous ſoupçonner de ſortilege; & puis j'aurois tort de me dérober aux ſecrets de votre Magie, ne m'eſtant pas poſſible de me ſouſtraire à mon Horoſcope, qui s'eſt accordée avec la vôtre, de ma triſte avanture.

2A I confess, however, that your gift was suspicious to me because hair and characters almost always enter into the crafting of charms. But since you have so many nobler means of causing my death, I take care to avoid suspecting you of enchantment, and then I would be wrong to shield myself from the secrets of your magic, as it is not possible for me to evade my horoscope, which is compatible with yours, of my final misadventure.

3F Adjouſtez à cette conſideration qu'elle ſera beaucoup plus recommandable, ſi elle arrive par des moyens ſurnaturels, & s'il faut un miracle pour la cauſer.

3A Add to this consideration that it will be much more commendable if it arrives by supernatural means, and if a miracle is needed to cause it.

4F Je m'imagine, Mademoiſelle, que vous prenez cecy pour une raillerie. Hé bien parlons ſerieuſeſement, dites moy donc en conſçience: N'eſt-ce pas acquerir un cœur à bon marché, qui ne vous coûte que cinq ou ſix coups de broſſe?

4A I imagine, Mademoiselle, that you take this to be mockery. Well, let's talk seriously, tell me honestly then — is it not a bargain to acquire a heart that costs you five or six mere brush strokes?

5F Par ma foy, ſi vous en trouvez d'autres à ce prix là, je vous conſeille de les prendre; car il peut revenir plus facilement des cheveux à la teſte, que des cœurs à là poitrine; Mais n'auriez-vous point choiſi par malice, des cheveux à me faire preſent, pour m'expliquer en hierogliphe, l'inſenſibilité de voſtre cœur?

5A My word, if you find any others at such a price, I advise you to buy them, for hair returns more easily to the head than hearts do to the chest. But wouldn't you have chosen rather mischievously, in making me a gift of hair in order to explain to me through hieroglyphs the insensitivity of your heart?

6F Non je vous tiens plus genereuſe; mais quelque mal intentionnée que vous ſoyez, je confonds tellement dans ma joye toutes les choſes qui me viennent de votre part, que les mains qui m'outragent, ou qui me careſſent, me ſont également ſouhaittables, pourveu qu'elles ſoient les voſtres, & la Lettre que je vous envoye en eſt une preuve, puis qu'elle ne tend qu'à vous remercier de m'avoir lié les bras, de m'avoir tiré par les cheveux; & par toutes ces violences, m'avoir fait, MADEMOISELLE, Votre Serviteur.

6A No, I hold you to be more generous. But ill-intentioned though you be, in my joy, I so confuse everything that comes to me from you that the hands that abuse me or that caress me are equally desirable, provided that they're yours. The letter I send you is proof of this, since I offer it only to thank you for tying me by the arms, for pulling me by the hair, and by all this violence having made me, MADEMOISELLE, your servant.

[francebonapartiste]

Le Maréchal Berthier : Pilier de l'Empire Napoléonien

Né le 20 novembre 1753 à Versailles, Louis Alexandre Berthier est bien plus qu'un simple militaire. Sa destinée est intimement liée à celle de Napoléon Bonaparte, forgeant ainsi une alliance indéfectible au service de la France.

Dès son jeune âge, Berthier se distingue par son esprit vif et son dévouement à la patrie. Son ascension fulgurante au sein de l'armée française le mène rapidement à croiser la route du futur Empereur des Français.

Berthier participe sous les ordres de Bonaparte aux campagnes d'Italie puis d'Égypte et soutient le coup d'État du 18 Brumaire.

En tant que chef d'état-major de Napoléon, Berthier joue un rôle crucial dans la planification et l'exécution des campagnes militaires qui ont marqué l'histoire. Sa rigueur tactique et son génie organisationnel contribuent grandement aux victoires éclatantes de l'Empire, malgré son incapacité à diriger lui-même une armée.

La mort tragique de Berthier en 1815, suite à une chute mystérieuse d'une fenêtre de l'hôtel de son épouse à Bamberg, laisse un vide profond dans l'entourage de Napoléon.

Son décès précède en effet de quelques jours la bataille de Waterloo, où l'absence de cet excellent chef d'état-major se fait cruellement sentir pour l'Empereur qui dira de lui : "Nul autre n'eût pu le remplacer"

Berthier décide pourtant de suivre Louis XVIII lors de la Restauration, et adhére même au décret du Sénat qui exclut Napoléon du trône.

***

L'héritage du maréchal Berthier perdure à travers les pages de l'histoire. Son influence indélébile sur la stratégie militaire et l'administration de l'Empire demeure incontestée, faisant de lui l'un des piliers incontournables de l'épopée napoléonienne.

***

Marshal Berthier: Pillar of the Napoleonic Empire

Born on November 20, 1753, in Versailles, Louis Alexandre Berthier is much more than a mere military figure. His destiny is intimately intertwined with that of Napoleon Bonaparte, thus forging an unbreakable alliance in service to France.

From a young age, Berthier distinguished himself with his sharp intellect and dedication to his homeland. His rapid ascent within the French army quickly led him to cross paths with the future Emperor of the French.

Berthier participated under Bonaparte's command in the campaigns in Italy and Egypt, and supported the coup d'état of the 18th Brumaire.As Napoleon's chief of staff, Berthier played a crucial role in the planning and execution of military campaigns that have left an indelible mark on history. His tactical rigor and organizational genius greatly contributed to the Empire's resounding victories, despite his own inability to lead an army himself.

The tragic death of Berthier in 1815, following a mysterious fall from a window of his wife's hotel in Bamberg, left a profound void in Napoleon's inner circle.Indeed, his death preceded by a few days the Battle of Waterloo, where the absence of this excellent chief of staff was keenly felt by the Emperor who said of him: "No other could have replaced him."

However, Berthier decided to follow Louis XVIII during the Restoration, and even adhered to the Senate decree which excluded Napoleon from the throne.

***

The legacy of Marshal Berthier endures through the pages of history. His indelible influence on military strategy and the administration of the Empire remains unquestioned, making him one of the indispensable pillars of the Napoleonic epic.

[homosexualmanslaughter]

‘You Have Been Weighed, You Have Been Found Wanting’: On Kendall as His Father (Or Not)

This is going to be another long post, so I apologise in advance, but as the world’s premier Kendall Royologist (jk), I had to give my take on where we are after episode four.

I want to start by saying that for me, when it comes down to it, ultimately, none of this is the fault of the Roy kids. For the siblings, whatever happens, wherever they end up, it’s not their fault. They are products of a lifetime of abuse, and I cannot stop having so much compassion (maybe too much, I’ll admit it) for them as they try and survive it, even though they do such heinous things.

I want to talk about Kendall. I say it all the time when it comes to him, but my poor boy. Oh, my poor babe. My heart aches. I spent the entire evening after watching ‘Honeymoon States’ thinking about all the new dark and terrifying avenues that have opened up, and feeling nauseous about it. None of it is satisfying for me, and objectively I don’t even find it to be a glorious, villainous volte-face. I can’t say ‘slay he’s in his villain era’, because it’s so sad to me. It’s just so sad. His behaviour in that episode shows how deeply rooted his trauma is, and how it might actually be an inescapable force. And that’s so sad.

This episode was about the two sides of Kendall. One, true Kendall; and two, the constructed Kendall. Both products of the abuse in different ways. Here they are, contrasted:

It’s so telling that we start and end the episode with these polar opposite moments.

The first, this is the real Kendall. We can see him. So broken, so bereft, so without identity, so lost without the person to whom he was trauma bonded, the person against whom he defined his entire being. What’s going to be easier, confronting that? Or - simply - just going mad? He’s going mad in the Othello and Macbeth sense, befitting for the end of a Shakespearean tragedy. And it’s Logan’s doing, even from beyond the grave. This is what I’m going to talk about in this post.

Kendall wasn’t born a “killer”. It’s not something etched into his soul. It’s something he’s learnt, an unnatural quality that he’s had to develop. When he ‘turns’ at the end of this episode, it’s not “Logan’s DNA showing through after all”. It’s not “he’s in his evil era”. This is a man who is so paralysed by the fear of confronting a life without Logan (due to their trauma bond) that he would prefer to become him as a form of coping, even though it will inevitably kill him.

His smile at the end is not one of liberation, it is the smile of a man who has been utterly psychologically broken.

Yeah, his initials spell ‘KLR’. But this isn’t merely a clumsy way of telling us that he’s a killer. It’s a way of signifying that his identity is so deeply entwined with Logan that he is (or feels as if he is) nothing without him. ‘Logan’ is at the heart of his name - right in the centre. He can’t be free of him, because the chain has been on him since he was named as a baby.

Who knows what was going on in that old man’s head when he edited that letter? I see that the underlined/crossed debate is going to dominate discourse for the week, but I think it’s utterly meaningless.

It does not matter at all what Logan INTENDED to write. It’s what Kendall perceives that counts. La mort de l’auteur, literally.

In that piece of paper, Kendall sees a potential confirmation of everything he ever wanted to hear, and he articulates these desires explicitly to Frank: he needs to believe it was underlined, because that means he was wanted, he was loved, he wasn’t a mistake, he wasn’t a failure.

He pretends to have already known that Logan did sudoku, to kid himself and everyone else into believing that they were close. He’s going mad - like all Shakespearean tragic protagonists are. He’s being driven mad by his need to believe that Logan wanted him.

Personally, I think it was underlined. Not because Kendall was his favourite all along, but because he was the one Logan most wanted to control. The role of CEO is a chain to them, it’s an embodiment of Logan’s hold on them. By dangling it in front of him, Logan can keep Kendall chained and controlled and under his thumb, even after death.

As @kaiyashunyata on Twitter phrased it: it doesn’t matter if Kendall’s name is underlined or crossed out. What matters is the uncertainty of it and how Logan can taunt his children and spark their ruin even after death.

And it’s why capitalism and the family are so intwined, and why it’s admirable that the show does a great job of showing this.

Jeremy Strong articulates this entire dynamic so insightfully and elegantly:

Your father makes you a promise: this is your destiny, this is your birthright. Capitalism promises people the same thing. Both are completely empty and misleading.

But Kendall is so desperate to feel as if his life has meaning, so desperate to know he was loved, that he’s willing to chase the false dream anyway.

Because - ever since childhood - CEO has been held up to all the children (but especially Kendall) as the only thing that gives you worth as a person. And Kendall needs to believe that he has worth in the eyes of his father because, without that, he’s nothing. Or at least he thinks he’s nothing, that’s the impact of a trauma bond.

We know that he’s not nothing. Stewy knows it. Rava knows it. Naomi knows it. His siblings and children know it. But he has been trauma bonded to someone who made his love a rare and valued commodity, and without it, he doesn’t feel like there’s any reason for him to exist at all.

It’s the often repeated metaphor again of Logan’s love as the sun - when you’re in it, you are covered in light and feel invincible. Without it, you are left to die in the dark.

I think that’s why the hug scene is significant but also tragic. It’s the only other time we see Kendall as himself in this episode, and in the company of another person at that. And he only lets it show for a few seconds, before the brave face returns. Stewy is so right when he skeptically perceives Kendall’s run for CEO as “diving into work”. That’s exactly what he’s doing, to avoid confronting the dark realities.

If Stewy’s love could save him, he would be saved already. But only Logan’s love is enough for him.

One of the cruelest things about the will letter is that it makes it so clear that ‘CEO’ is a stand-in for love, approval, acceptance. The kids (well the Strong Dogs at least, Kendall and Shiv) are ready to kill each other over it - days after tenderly holding each other outside Teterboro Airport - because they have been so brainwashed into seeing it as the be all and end all of their entire existences.

Kendall, who loves his baby sister. Who held her hand when she was crying and succumbs to her puppy dog eyes in seconds. Kendall, who is willing - in an instant - to go back to war with Shiv, because that’s all they’ve been taught to do. That’s their purpose. Their reason for life.

And Kendall is severely mentally ill, I think that needs to be made very clear.

Frank sees the danger of it. “You seem so well…” Frank says, and Kendall is for all appearances, for that beautiful bit of time when he’s free of the war.

But of course, despite Frank’s advice and reservations, Kendall can’t help but be drawn back into the war. Because he feels it’s the only way to define his identity now that his trauma bonded abuser isn’t there to do it for him.

And when he blackmails Hugo? When he uses Logan’s style of violent sexual language? This isn’t a new era for him. It’s not villainy. It’s the same Ken we saw at the very start of S1, trying so desperately to ape his father, to be his father, taking ideas right out of Logan’s playbook. But he’ll fail.

And he’ll fail because, at the end of the day, he isn’t Logan.

Kendall manipulates people. He emotionally blackmails Stewy and his siblings (especially Roman). Out of bitterness, he demands that Frank spread lies about two women being sluts and junkies. He withholds important information for his own use later. He threatens to “burn” Greg after showing him kindness. He uses violent sexual language in business settings. He calls the vote of no confidence. He makes the groundbreaking press conference. He goes in aggressive.

These are Logan’s lessons, this is what Logan means when he says “he learnt it from me”. However, they fail. They’ll always fail.

Whatever he does, he’ll never convince.

The sexually violent language is especially interesting, because it never hits the same. Kendall threatens to fuck Lawrence “with a silver dildo”, very similar to the way in which he threatens to use “the strap-on” with Hugo. False penises, artificial implements, unnatural, not part of his body. He threatens to cut Stewy’s dick off, another emasculating act that doesn’t involve him personally penetrating anyone. The only time he physically involves himself in his sexual metaphors is when he viscerally describes giving Lawrence a blowjob.

Like Tom says so succinctly in season three, Kendall is always the one who is going to get fucked.

Kendall isn’t Logan, no matter how much he thinks that achieving that goal will heal him. Kendall wasn’t hardened by poverty, or the suffocating patriarchal norms of the 1940s and 50s. He is sensitive and lonely and emotional and weak and insecure and vulnerable. He is desperate to be none of those things. In trying and failing to be Logan, he’s unwittingly showing who he really is.

But he is a fighter. And that’s the thing Logan always feared. That is the person Logan raised - yes, “the best of all of them”, but also someone with the grit to potentially escape. And that is what was unacceptable and terrifying.

We root for Kendall because we know - we have seen - that he has to ability to break free. We also know, from Chiantishire, that his deepest desire is to be free. To be unchained. To be released from this never-ending cycle of abuse and pain.

We’re terrified of that razor-thin tightrope he walks, because we know that it could (and probably is) going to all go wrong. We’re scared of the prospect that some people are doomed, are beyond help, are beyond saving. As with the best tragic Shakespeare protagonists, we love Kendall, but we know deep down that he can never be free. That is the crushing reality of abuse as a metaphor for capitalism. It’s heartbreaking.

Logan chose Kendall as CEO not because he was his ‘favourite’, but because Kendall was the one he most wanted to control. CEO is the perfect means by which to keep him chained, controlled and enthralled to the empty dream, even from beyond the grave.

For Logan, and for capitalism as a whole, to love is to control.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Robespierre gets likened to a feline compilation

His (Danton’s) face did in fact look like the head of a lion, while Robespierre’s is like that of a cat or a tiger. […] Danton is dead, Robespierre triumphant. The tiger has beaten the lion.  Gazette d’un Parisien: lettres à son frère 1783-1796 (1976). Letter written April 10 1794. Apocryphal?

Robespierre, if you are not a tiger with a human face, if the blood of Camille has not inebriated you to the point of losing your reason entirely, if you still remember our intimate evenings, the caresses you lavished on little Horace, whom you liked to hold on your knees, if you remember you were to have been my son-in-law, spare an innocent victim, but if your fury is that of a lion, come then and take us too, me, Adèle and Horace. Letter from Lucile Desmoulins’ mother to Robespierre, seemingly written April 13 1794. Possibly penned down after the fact when the parable had already been established.

You are still, tiger covered with the purest blood of France, executioner of your country! Anonymous letter to Robespierre

The tyrant had his whole head, except his face, bandaged, because he had received a pistol shot in the jaw. It is not given to a man to be more hideous and more cowardly: he was dull and downcast. Some compared him to a muzzled tiger, others to Cromwell's valet, for he no longer had the countenance of Cromwell himself.  Suite de journal de Perlet number 675 (July 30 1794), describing the robespierrist execution.

His (Robespierre’s) face was very similar to that of the cat, and his handwriting seemed skratched with a claw. Fréron’s notes on Robespierre, written shortly after the death of the latter

Danton had the head of a mastiff, Marat that of an eagle, Mirabeau that of a lion, Robespierre that of a cat. But this figure changed in appearance; first came the restless but rather gentle face of the domestic cat, then the sarouche face of the wild cat, then the ferocious face of the tiger cat. Portrait de Robespierre (1794) by Merlin de Thionville

He is no longer the one who yesterday sowed mourning and poured terror over the entire surface of the French Empire, this man-tiger who had the valor of the army slaughtered. […] But there was a Robespierre in the world, and Robespierre reigned in France: the Tiger had a thirst for the blood of the innocent. […] Thus, it was no longer merely figuratively, but literally speaking, that this Tiger-king slayed his People.  La vie et les crimes de Robespierre: surnommé Le Tyran: depuis sa naissance jusqu’à sa mort (1795) by Abbé Proyart, page 1, 164, 280

Robespierre resembled, it is true, a wild cat; Marat a night owl; Collot-d'Herbois had in his hard and narrow forehead something of the tiger: there are visibly cruel mouths; and how apparent was that of Billaud-Varennes! It was with those fierce eyes, and in that cold and motionless attitude, that he would have attended the funeral of the universe. Le Nouveau Paris (1797) by Louis Sébastien Mercier, volume 6, page 11

Robespierre had the face of a cat; several sparrows wanted to play with him, pecking him with their beaks; he crunched them all one after the other, like the cat crunched his good friend Pierrot. Dictionnaire néologique des hommes et des choses ou notice alphabétique des hommes de la Révolution, qui ont paru à l’Auteur les plus dignes d’attention… (1799) by Beffroy de Reigny (volume 1) page 478

However, there was this great difference between Pétion and me — he had a particular deference for Robespierre, and I had an invincible aversion for this man who had the face of a cat. Mémoires inédits de Pétion et mémoires de Buzot et Barbaroux (1866) page 43

I had seen all I wanted, for I had had a view of what has since been most accurately described as the tiger-cat.[…] Danton had saved both Paris and France. The Girondins surnamed him the lion, Robespierre was the tiger, nay more, the tiger-cat. Was the lion fated to die strangled by the tiger? […] It has been stated that, not content with having seen the victims pass his house, Robespierre had followed them to the place of execution, that he had contemplated them with ferocious satisfaction in the different phases of their agony; lastly, that the insatiable tiger, rendered more blood thirsty by the sight, appeared to be licking his jaws and gargling his throat with the blood flowing in torrents from the scaffold into the Place de la Révolution . […] Death and again death could alone stop in their ceaseless and purposeless course these unmuzzled tigers, whose thirst for human blood was unquenchable.  Memoirs of Barras (1895) page 171, 179, 185

”Pétion was big and fat, good-humoured and talkative, but heavy withal. He talked away, Robespierre said not a word, and I took little notice of him, he looked like a cat lapping vinegar.” The Croker Papers: the Correspondence and Diaries of the late right honourable John Wilson Croker… (1885) volume 3, page 209. Anecdote told by Louis-Philippe in 1850.

Robespierre was a physically puny man, pale in complexion, having the face of a tiger or a fox, and a voice that was toneless, monotonous and harsh, with laboured elocution. Memoires de Louis Marie de La Révellière-Lépeaux (1895) page 120-121

After reading all of this, is there any surprise that Robespierre was born in the year of the tiger?

[nuagederose]

As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Thirty-Seven: Particle Man

ao3 link

Alex’s voice was even warmer and softer once the class period went underway, perhaps more so than before when Christine met up with him before in the cafeteria. It almost felt as though he was seducing her right then and there even though he spoke before the entire class. He had promised her the sense of a cold shoulder when Captain Howdy passed the doorway later in the class period, but he stood before her with one hand rested on his hip as if he brought attention to the space between.

At one point, he took his seat on the stool near the front of the room and rested a hand on his knee. Christine couldn’t help but let her eyes wander down to his crotch and the inseam of his jeans. The soft rounded shape of his belly paired with the snugness of his jeans, and she found it particularly difficult to pay attention to anything else, especially anything that had to do with either reading or speaking anything in French. His French accent was absolutely textbook, to the point she found herself wanting to swim about in the mere sound of his voice.

At one point, he adjusted his weight on the stool, still with one hand on his knee. She couldn’t help but think back to the other night when he taught her that French phrase, especially when he indulged them in a work called Erotism: Death and Sensuality.

“Sometimes I find myself yearning more,” he confessed, and all the while, he kept his gaze fixed upon Christine. “I feel this itch within me that I simply cannot scratch and I feel the need for someone else to scratch it for me.”

“Like when someone scratches that spot on your back that’s hard to reach,” Eric declared, and Christine resisted the urge to laugh at that.

“Yes! Yes, exactly!” Alex chuckled at that, his big hearty chuckle straight from deep within him. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and flashed a knowing glance over to Christine.

“Bataille says that humanity is prone to the most trivial of urges, the most seemingly unimportant of things, things that we don’t really think about often, like hunger, and we do our absolute best to control them or satisfy them. For example, if you’re hungry, the obvious choice is to find something to eat, hopefully something that will fill your belly and give you the strength to carry on for a time. Not to launch into a lecture about sex and sexuality, that would be…” He lowered his voice to a near whisper, and then cleared his throat. “…off-topic, and could potentially make me lose my teaching license. But I will say that the desire for it can be strong, like if you haven’t eaten anything all day long and you feel like you could eat a whole dinner meant for four people. The desire that pools in your belly and between your legs could perhaps become a bit too much if you’re away from it long enough, and once it releases, once you are able to scratch that particular itch, it is so overwhelming that you can’t help but feel as though—” He ran his tongue along his lips at the sight of Christine, who wondered as to how no one in the class caught the look in his face or in his eyes as he never removed his attention from her. “—you’ve died and gone straight to heaven.”

Alex shifted his weight again on the stool, and that time, he erected his spine so his belly merely hung out over his lap like the belly of a Buddha statue. Christine could feel her lips twitching at the sight of him there: how she wished to touch him and feel him, especially with the cold outside. To cuddle up next to him and put her arms around him. His hair cascaded around his shoulders like the finest darkest lace she could ever find for herself.

“Le sens final de l'érotisme est la mort,” he said in a low husky voice, the same voice that he used when he spoke to Christine when he was in the mood. “‘The last sense of eroticism is death’ that translates to. Everything is sex. Death is all around us. It is from that that we learn to live.”

Christine then slowly held up her hand, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Yes, Miss Peck?” he asked her, and the smirk crossed his face all the while.

“Are we going to be reading any Anaïs Nin over the next ten weeks?” she asked him, and a couple of people behind her snickered at that. Alex gave his hair a little shake and kept the smirk on his face as he looked on at her.

“Nous pourrions juste lire quelques morceaux choisis d'elle—we just might,” he assured her, and he nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose yet again. “Her intimacy, her power, her prowess, her agency, all of it, is one to speak to the strongest minds of them all. The strongest minds also make the greatest artists.”

The classroom two doors down released right then, and he turned his head away from her so she had a view of his gray streak and his side profile. His eyes wandered from behind the lenses to the other side of the room. Christine held still with her pencil in hand and her gaze still fixed on the inseam of his jeans. He knitted his eyebrows together as he noticed something about the small crowd outside of the door as they made their way out of Mr. Hansen’s class. He ran his fingers through his hair and continued talking.

“I don’t know… do we have any copies of Bataille’s work in our school library?” he asked the class.

“It’d be worth a look,” Eric proclaimed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“He gets particularly controversial with certain things,” Alex explained, and Christine could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice that he was expecting to find Captain Howdy out there in the hallway with everyone else. “Erotism is sort of… tip of the iceberg.” He returned his attention to the class before him, still with the smile on his face.

“What’s going on out there?” Eric asked him.

“Oh, I just thought I saw someone I know out there,” Alex replied with that lopsided smile and a little wave of his hand. Christine frowned at that, and she knew right then that Eric’s sighting of Captain Howdy was indeed the real thing. “Um, anyways. If you can find anything from him, that’d be great! I’m not going to be one of those teachers who makes you read from a book and write a paper about what you read because what’s the fun in that, right?”

“Right!” Christine declared with a chuckle, and he flashed her a wink,

“French literature is rich and voluminous and filled to the brim of things like philosophy, satire, and sexuality—and Nobel Prizes, too! And not to mention, the language is just sexy and fluid. The way you learn should be the same way as well. You guys should be able to read these things and not get bored with it. Just like with music, I want it to be visceral and physical, but also elegant and balanced so everyone walks away feeling like they genuinely learned something.” He then rubbed his hands together and glanced about the room. “Let’s have more fun next time, shall we?”

“We shall,” the boy two seats behind Eric declared, and Alex chuckled at that, and then he snapped his fingers.

“Class dismissed! Stay warm and dry on this cold snowy night.”

Christine then tucked her pencil into the front pocket of her bag, and then stood up with her bag in hand. She slung it over her shoulder and swished her long ponytail to the side merely to straighten herself up. Eric picked up his bag and tugged his hood over his head.

“I didn’t see her that time around,” Alex confessed to the two of them.

“She switched to my period,” Eric informed him.

“Oh, really?” Alex raised his eyebrows at that.

“Yeah. I kind of knew it was her, too, like she had this look to her and I had this weird hunch, too.”

“Always trust your gut, Sluggo,” Alex told him, and then he turned his attention over to Christine, and the smile once again crossed his face. He then leaned into the side of her face as if to kiss her, even though there were a couple of students right behind him.

“Swing around my place tomorrow or on your next day off,” he whispered into her ear. “Bring your art stuff with you, too.”

“Gladly,” she whispered back to him. Alex flashed her a wink, and then she turned towards Eric so they could begin back to the bus stop. Christine once again felt her face grow warm at the thought of being alone with Alex again, and in the safety and intimacy of his apartment no less. She walked out to the snow with Eric right next to her, and he even went so far as to helping guide her to the bus stop given the snow had thickened enough over the course of the day. They reached the stop just in time, right as the bus lumbered around the corner up the street.

The whole way home, he snuggled up next to her despite the blast of warm air from the vent before them. Christine hunched her shoulders a bit as if she was nervous about the bus veering off the pavement at any given point but the streets of New York had been cleared for the most part.

She hoped that things would remain snowy come her day off the next day, and she knew that he would love her latest drawing for her class, even though she made it based off his appearance.

As she made her way back to her apartment, she thought back to when she and Chris were at the very heart and soul of their friendship. It was such a vague, foggy moment but she could feel it in her bones as she thought back to a day in the backyard at his parents’ house. It was later in the day and during a rainstorm, and they were preparing to return back inside to the back part of the house. When she slipped the key into the lock of her front door, she strove to remember the context.

It was so elusive, so far away, so lost in the fog of her earliest fog bank, that it seemed impossible. Christine entered her apartment and rested the case upon her kitchen table. She still recalled the day that she made her killer nurse costume for Halloween. It was something that she would remember forever, especially when it brought her so much attention that day at school.

Something to remember for years to come.

Christine paused at the side of the table with her hand on the edge of the case. Gingerly, she opened the case and took her drawing pad out of hiding. She turned to that big drawing of the chubby boy with long lush curls. The long curls that looked as though they had been drenched under a spell of rain from the way that they swept over his shoulders. The long curls that reminded her of the younger version of Alex.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, she uncovered the memory. She and Chris had ventured back into the house because of the rain. That warm, late summer rain that fell in droves from the ocean because the last cyclone arrived on the Atlantic seaboard and even made its way up north to Long Island. He stood there in the middle of the grass with his arms up to the sky and his shirt and hair drenching as if he had fallen into the raging waters off the sands of Brighton Beach.

He had pinched his eyes closed against the rain, such that it looked as though he was in agony.

She made a promise somewhere along the way to remember for years to come, and yet she had very little memory of that particular rainy day, only mere crumbs, mere particles.

Her eyes wandered over the drawing, over the pencil scratches and the beginnings of shading all around the smooth shape of his face and his neck, all around his body. If only she could access more memories while she continued on the drawing throughout the duration of the class for that quarter.

Christine rested her fingers right next to the sketch of his face, round and full with a slight button nose. She hoped that she made the eyes well enough as it was difficult to master the liquid look of them as well as the depth of the iris colors. Chris had those rich brown eyes, but their level of brownness escaped her.

She tucked the drawing back into the case and headed off to her bedroom to change her clothes. Another evening alone as Wendy had gone off to visit Kenny down by Coney Island for the second night in a row. She had the thought telling her that they were going to reunite but Wendy promised her that the ship had sailed between the two of them. Nevertheless, it was still something that crossed her mind as she made herself a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich of Havarti and Roquefort cheese.

She thought about Alex and his sense of indulgence. She wasn’t the best cook in the world, and she certainly was not Nelly, but she had a hunch that if she wormed her way into his belly, she could go from there in a way that Captain Howdy could never do for him.

She went to bed that night with her mind on both Chris as well as something to whip up for Alex once she saw him again in the morning.

Christine took the bus down to his neighborhood yet again, where the trees were shrouded in thick white snow from the overnight flurries, and yet she could tell that the bulk of the snow held off for a time thereafter. Carefully, she walked up to his front door and gave a knock on the panel.

“It’s open.” His voice floated through the thick red wood, and she nudged it open with her free hand. Christine was met with a blast of warm air and the smell of his cologne, and she knew that he had just climbed out of the shower.

“Alex?” she called out, and she stepped inside of the apartment. She closed the door behind her and hung her coat up on the hook next to the frame. Alex himself padded into the front room, dressed in a black sweatshirt and snug jeans.

“Oh, hey!” He showed her a sweet smile and open arms: Christine lunged for his body and held him close to her. She wanted that warmth next to her forever. Even with his slightly slimmer shape, he still felt as soft as ever.

“God, you look so good,” she remarked. “At first I was unsure because you lost a little weight.”

“Are you saying you find me attractive at any weight?” he asked her as he pressed his hands to his hips.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” she told him. “I just picture you so skinny, so slender and threadbare in appearance, and I cannot keep my hands off you. I picture you so big and round, and I never want to stop kissing you. You could be a hundred pounds or four hundred pounds, and I will always find you sexy, Alex.”

He bowed his head and tucked his hands into his back pockets. She put her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. Hearing his heartbeat was enough to bring a wave of tears to her eyes.

It wasn’t fair.

Alex held back for a look at the side of her head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her in a gentle voice. She raised her head for a look into his handsome face: he pressed a hand to her forehead to brush her bangs out of her eyes. Though she could feel the tears, she needn’t let them fall right then.

“Reach into that shattered, wounded heart of yours and bring it forth,” he encouraged her. “Did you bring your art stuff?” She nodded her head, and he showed her an encouraging smile. “Let me watch you.”

It was like letting him watch her undress for the first time as she lay her drawing pad on his kitchen table. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and propped his chin up on his hand as she showed him the sketches she had made so far, as well as the big drawing of the boy.

“Wow,” he breathed at the sight of it, and she put her pencil down at the crown of his head to fill in the hair underneath the rim of the yarmulke.

“I worry about messing up the eyes in particular,” she confessed.

“I think that’s every artist’s insecurity,” he assured her with a nod. “They’re tricky to so much as do, and even trickier to get right. But… it looks like you’ve got it. Was this from a reference?”

“Nope, from my imagination,” she said.

“Wow!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, my god, dearest Christine, I underestimated you.” He gazed up at her with a twinkle in his eye as if he had just discovered a brand new element. “You are a true artist, my dear! You have a gift! You cannot afford to hide it!”

Right as the words left his lips, the soft ringing of his phone in the bedroom caught their attention.

“Excuse me one second, please,” he said to her, once again in that soft silky tone of voice. He kissed her on the lips, a gentle peck that she was not expecting in the least, and her face grew warm once he stepped away from her. She brought a hand to her face as she strive to contain her emotions right then.

Perhaps this was her calling after all, to indulge in the arts until she simply had no way of doing so anymore thereafter. Alex’s low chuckle caught her ear right then, and she leaned out of the kitchen doorway for a look at him over at his piano on the other side of the room.

“As a matter of fact, it’s right here,” he was saying over the phone. Her gaze landed on something big and shiny rested upon the lid. “You had to get me a cross and not a Star of David?” He paused, and her heart skipped a few beats. She didn’t have to think twice to know as to whom he was talking to.

Alex propped the cross on the face of the piano, perched upon the lid: the way the daylight shone through the window onto the elaborate shape that lined the arms and body of the cross made her think of a church. Though a beautiful cross, something about that made her skin crawl and her stomach turn to the side.

Alex turned away from the kitchen door with the phone in one ear and his free hand pressed to his hip.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said. “Of course we can do that. Yeah. Yeah. I’ll check my time once I get off the phone.” Though his voice remained down low, he spoke in short sentences as if he was in a hurry. “Yup, it’ll be right here once you come on over,”

Christine turned her head to the left for that view of Captain Howdy’s cross rested on the piano lid. The heavy cross that she bore when she was the one who struck Alex and dragged him around as if he was nothing more than a bundle of sticks used for kindling. It was a nagging sensation that she simply could not ignore even if she tried hard enough.

The feeling that she had lost Chris. She was so close to losing Alex as well, but to the arms of a puppeteer.

Alex tilted his head back. She didn’t have to see his face to know what he was doing. She had a sinking feeling that she was going to have to leave at some point that morning.

“Yeah, I’ll… see you then,” he replied, and he sounded as though he resisted the urge to sigh. “We’ll remember it for years to come. Love you, too.” He hung up and turned back to Christine with a slight blush across his face.

“I really, really hate to do this to you,” he began. “I really do, like I feel bad that I’m having to tell you this, like I would love nothing more than to stay inside of here all day and drink coffee and watch you draw when the snow comes in again. But I can’t stick around today.”

“You can’t?” Her heart sank at that.

“I can’t, no. She’s gonna be here in like twenty minutes.”

It wasn’t fair.

“We have to have time alone again,” she insisted.

“Absolutely,” he assured her as he sauntered closer to her. “We absolutely do.” He nudged a lock of hair away from the side of her face and pressed his lips onto her own once more. Smooth like the outer skin of a ripe fruit, as warm as a fresh dish of kugel on Rosh Hashanah; he stuck his hand into the roots of her hair at the back of her head, but she wore a ponytail and thus, no fingers through the thick of her hair.

“How about the school library?” he offered her.

“The school library on our lunch break,” she added, and he flashed her a wink.

“It’s a plan, my great artist,” he vowed, and he treated her to one more kiss before she returned to the kitchen to fetch her things. As she closed the black case and carried it into the next room, he never moved away from the edge of the piano. She decided to put her coat back on in the meantime, and yet there was a lingering thought in the back of her mind that told her a different story.

“We’ll remember these things for years to come…” She turned her head for a look back at him and the cross on the piano lid. He cradled the cross in his hands as if he had bought another bouquet of flowers, another gift that Captain Howdy would throw to the floor. Christine nibbled on her bottom lip as she thought about the night that she and Eric hid out in his closet, away from her glaring eyes and prying fingers. Alex had his back to her as he held the very top of the cross. So strange seeing a Jewish man hold a Christian cross as if he was about to put it between his legs. A Christian cross that was given to him as a gift.

“Remember for years to come…” The words crossed his lips as if he meant them. Christine scooped up her coat and slung it around her body: she padded past him for her case as well as her purse. She made her way outside to the snow: it was as if he had been caught in a trance, and she had no way of breaking him out of it. Christine stood at the base of the stairs with her hood upon her head and her eye on the front door to his apartment.

Remember for years to come when she wanted to remember her memories of Chris, and when she swore the exact same thing as well on top of that.

“I wouldn’t be so confident about that, Alex,” she said aloud.

[lvladame]

L'histoire de lvladame :

Je suis née six mois après un drame familial (un accident qui a failli coûter la vie à mon frère) un an plus tard ma grand mère maternelle tombera malade (tumeur au cerveau), après son décès j'ai 18 mois et je ne marche toujours pas, le pédiatre est direct :

" Votre fille n'a pas un soucis aux jambes mais au cerveau " le scanner révélera une Paralysie cérébrale de type diplegie spastique. Le Dr sera pessimiste il dira à mes parents : " n'attendez rien de votre fille, elle ne marchera jamais "

Ma mere a pris la main de mon père elle lui a dit " il est hors de question qu'elle soit en fauteuil roulant, on est d'accord " mon père les larmes aux yeux a hoche la tête...

Ils ont proposé une place dans un iem mes parents ont refusé " dites nous ce qu'il faut faire "

L'école publique de quartier a refusé de me prendre, alors ils ont opté pour une école privée et y ont inscrit mes deux frères par équité... Quand j'ai commencé à marcher j'usais 1 paire de chaussures à 500 francs tous les 15 jours... Ils percevaient uniquement l'AEH

Les séances de kiné sont une torture en période de croissance, les muscles sont déjà au taquet sollicité avec la croissance alors avec en plus les étirements manuels c'est horrible, mes parents n'assistent pas aux séances tellement mes hurlements leur brisent le cœur

C'était sans compter mon sale caractère, qui a fait son effet très tôt, un kiné a dit à mes parents qu'il ne pouvait rien pour moi je ne voulais pas me laisser faire...

Ils ont fait alors le déplacement 3x par semaine chez un autre kiné à 50 km de la maison...

En plus de la rééducation j'ai le droit à des attelles de nuit et de jour, puis une magnifique coquille qui va d'en dessous des aisselles aux orteils... J'appelle ma mère la nuit pour qu'elle me retourne. J'ai aussi des plâtres 1x par an l'été bien souvent pr pas louper l'ecole

On m'a dit " tu ne peux pas faire ça " j'ai regardé mes parents, ils ont compris :

- 3 semaines pr apprendre à faire du vélo comme une grande j'avais 7 ans alors que c'était impossible selon les medecins

- 2 semaines pr apprendre à nager à la force des bras (merci les freros)

J'ai connu la discrimination, le rejet, les moqueries, les menaces de mort durant ma scolarité par mes camarades, j ai également des enseignants qui ont été ignoble mais j'ai eu la chance de croiser des personnes exceptionnelles...

Mon enseignante de CE2 m'a tenu la main tout le long de la course de plusieurs kms parce que je voulais le faire comme les copains... On a couru on a marché, elle me disait aller tiens bon on y est... J'y suis arrivée...

On m'a dit que je ne ferai rien de ma vie, on m'a dit qu'il était impossible que je sois intelligente car je suis handicapée... On m'a dit que c'était impossible qu'un homme s'intéresse à moi car je suis handicapée...

Quand je montre une photo de notre mariage à mes collègues j'ai comme réponse : " Ah ouais il est pas mal ton homme " parce que forcément les handicapées n'attirent que les moches...

Quand je revois ceux et celles qui ont tenté de m'humilier et me briser, qu'ils me demandent ce que je suis devenue, quand je leur donne le nom de ma profession, ils disent : " Ah oui t'as réussi quand même "...

J'aurai pu répondre à tout ceux qui ont été abjecte avec moi par la violence, j'aurai pu me lamenter sur mon sors...

J'ai utilisé tous les coups que je recevais pour en faire une force et j'ai démonté un a un tous leurs propos.

Qu'importe l'avis des gens, qu'importe le regard des gens... On est seul à savoir ce qu'on vaut, ce qu'on veut... On peut toujours trouver le moyen de réussir, c'est difficile, c'est épuisant mais ça vaut vraiment le coup...

Je n'ai jamais cédé à la haine, à la violence, j'ai eu une chance inestimable d'avoir été élevé en guerrière, je n'aurai jamais assez de toute cette vie pour remercier mes parents et mes frères...

[skinnylove82]

/!!\ TW SUICIDE ET MORT /!!\

Trigger warning : âmes sensibles s'abstenir, sujet de mort, suicide, violences dont conjugales et sur enfants, menaces de viol et de mort, escroquerie, problèmes de famille ...

Il est mort. Ça y est ! La terreur s'arrête enfin! L'oncle qui a fait tant de mal à ma famille, qui a essayé de tuer femme et enfants (et beaux parents) deux fois, menacé de me violer puis de m''égorger ainsi que mon frère et mes parents. Celui qui a gâché mon adolescence, celui qui nous faisait avoir couteaux ou armes diverses toujours à proximité de main, celui qui m'à fait inspecter tous les visages ou véhicules m'approchant depuis mes 13 ans, m'obligeant à avoir des yeux dans le dos craignant de le voir apparaître....celui qui n'a pris que moins d'un an de prison pour tout ça...

Celui qui s'est mis à frapper sa nouvelle femme (elle même prévenue dès le début des atrocités qu'il avait commises sans un remord et jurait qu'à elle ça n'arriverait jamais 🙃) et (oh si bizarre) qui l'a même abandonnée sur le bord de l'autoroute avec leurs gamines de 8 et 6 ans un jour.

Lui qui frappait sa propre mère y a pas si longtemps (qui avoue elle même être terrifiée à l'idée de rester dans une pièce seule avec lui, mais c'était son fils fils chéri si gentil mdr), qui menaçait de kidnapper ses filles et tuer tout le monde à commencer par sa femme (désormais en instance de divorce depuis plusieurs mois, bizarre 🥴) qui a détruit la voiture de son ex femme (depuis + de 15 ans!) comme ça sans raison récemment et menacé encore de tuer un de ses propres fils... (C'est marrant vu le gabarit de son fils maintenant qu'il est adulte et l'attendait de pied ferme, l'envie lui est vite passée, c'était plus facile quand il avait 15 ans et peu musclé hein pauvre tâche ?!)

Et bien Il s'est suicidé vendredi. Il s'est pendu.

Lui qui n'aura refait uniquement que quelques pauvres mois de prison encore récemment pour les nouveaux faits (principalement pour escroquerie sur personne âgée (pas ma grand mère cette fois ) dont impersonification d'un directeur de banque à cette occasion, pas vraiment condamné pour violence conjugale ne rêvons pas 😂) : merci à notre justice de grosse merde d'ailleurs 👏👏

[ Quand impersonnifier un directeur de banque te vaut quasi autant de mois de prison que des tentatives de meurtres répétées, des menaces multiples de viol, de mort ainsi que de la violence conjugale... 👏 ]

Enfin plus de terreur à l'idée que la folie lui reprenne et qu'il nous retrouve (grâce à la gentille maman chérie de mon père qui lui avait donné notre adresse et nos numéros de tel, et ce à deux reprises malgré notre insistance de les garder secrets).

Plus de peur à l'idée qu'il passe au journal télévisé national pour avoir tué sa femme et ses filles (à défaut de pouvoir rapprocher ses 3 garçons désormais adultes et costauds) voire potentiellement ma fameuse grand mere (elle l'aurait pas volé 😶) et d'autres sur le chemin .

Enfin libres! La Terre est libre d'un monstre de moins!

Et le pire c'est que le mec était encore pendu que les dramas quant aux funérailles avaient déjà commencés... 😂

Et là tout le monde le pleure comme si c'était un sain et un fils parfait (qui non seulement à traîné sa mère dans les escaliers par les cheveux et l'a tabassée plusieurs fois mais l'a aussi dépouillée de son argent depuis qu'il est ado, il l'a ré arnaquée récemment d'environ 7 à 15 mille euros avant de crever!!).

C'était un frère, un oncle, un parrain parfait à les entendre. Ben oui, à une de mes tantes il lui a rien fait voyons. Et puis faut apprendre à pardonner hein. Pis ça va il m'a jamais violée je crois, ni égorgée donc de quoi je me plains hein? Si on peut même plus menacer les gens, tenter de les tuer ou encore estorquer des vieilles et être appelé "quelqu'un de bien" c'est abusé quand même... 😂

Il avait encore juste menacé de tuer sa femme actuelle jeudi ... et il est mort vendredi....

eh après tout, elle l'avait peut être cherché, un homme si bon n'aurait jamais fait ça sans être provoqué hein! 😂😂

"Faut pas lui dire qu'il avait menacé de la tuer hein...puis il a quand même laissé vachement de dettes..." et comme elle à l'air de vouloir les payer...ne prenons pas de risque hein?

Cet homme bon a aussi décidé de faire ça alors que ses filles de 8 et 10 ans allaient rentrer de l'école seules quelques heures plus tard et le trouver en ouvrant la porte si personne ne s'était, par chance, inquiété avant !!! Aucune lettre pour rien que leur dire au revoir. Ni à elles, ni ses 3 fils, ni sa mère, ni à personne. Je comprends que tu aies dépassé les limites et que rien ne soit plus très lucide dans une tentative de suicide mais laisser ses filles le trouver... 😒

Au moins c'est fini, plus personne n'aura à souffrir et craindre pour sa vie à cause de lui. Une fois le choc passé, la vie sera plus sereine pour tout le monde.

Famille de dégénérée. J'espère qu'il brûle en enfer 😄😈

/!!\ TW SUICIDE ET MORT /!!\

[pedanther]

In chapter 102, there's a lengthy passage which the older translation abbreviates. The Buss translation is a lot closer to the original, but appears to have mislaid the bit about the clock:

L'empoisonneuse n'avait plus rien à faire dans cette chambre; elle recula avec tant de précaution, qu'il était visible qu'elle redoutait le craquement de ses pieds sur le tapis, mais, tout en reculant, elle tenait encore le rideau soulevé absorbant ce spectacle de la mort qui porte en soi son irrésistible attraction, tant que la mort n'est pas la décomposition, mais seulement l'immobilité, tant qu'elle demeure le mystère, et n'est pas encore le dégoût. Les minutes s'écoulaient; Mme de Villefort ne pouvait lâcher ce rideau qu'elle tenait suspendu comme un linceul au-dessus de la tête de Valentine. Elle paya son tribut à la rêverie: la rêverie du crime, ce doit être le remords. En ce moment, les pétillements de la veilleuse redoublèrent. Mme de Villefort, à ce bruit, tressaillit et laissa retomber le rideau. Au même instant la veilleuse s'éteignit, et la chambre fut plongée dans une effrayante obscurité. Au milieu de cette obscurité, la pendule s'éveilla et sonna quatre heures et demie. L'empoisonneuse, épouvantée de ces commotions successives, regagna en tâtonnant la porte, et rentra chez elle la sueur de l'angoisse au front.

There was no more to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though fearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she still held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction always exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely mysterious and does not excite disgust. Just then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de Villefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately afterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful obscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half–past four. Overpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way to the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear.

There was nothing further for the poisoner to do in the room. She withdrew with such care that it was evident she was afraid of the sound of her feet on the carpet; yet, even as she went she still kept the curtain lifted, taking in the scene of death, which exercises an irresistable attraction when death is not decomposition but only immobility and, so long as it remains a mystery, does not yet inspire disgust. The minutes passed. Mme de Villefort could not let go of the curtain which she was holding like a shroud above Valentine's head. She was paying her tribute to reflection: but reflection, in the case of crime, should be remorse. At that moment the spluttering of the night-light doubled. At the noise, Mme de Villefort shuddered and let the curtain fall. The night-light went out and the room was plunged into terrifying darkness. The poisoner, fearful at these successive disturbances, groped her way to the door and returned to her own room with her forehead bathed in anxious sweat.

Later, there's a striking description of M. de Villefort's reaction to the bad news, which the older translator apparently thought was a bit too colourful:

M. de Villefort s'abattit comme si ses jambes étaient brisées, et retomba la tête sur le lit de Valentine.

M. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed.

M. de Villefort went down as though his legs had been broken under him and fell with his head on Valentine's bed.

[christophe76460]

ROBERT POWELL, ALIAS JESUS DE NAZARETH ET OLIVIA HUSSEY, ALIAS VIERGE MARIE MERE DE JESUS, POURQUOI AVEZ-VOUS TOURNE CE GENRE DE FILM QUI A ENTRAINE LA PLUPART DES GENS DANS UNE GRANDE IDOLATRIE EN COMMENÇANT PAR LES GRANDS PRETRES DIPLOMES DE L’AVEUGLEMENT ET DE LA SURDITE ?

C’est le 376ème message.

Dans ce monde, j’ai un choix à opérer qui est soit d’ouvrir ma bouche et être ennemi des grands hommes de Dieu de ce monde accompagnés de leurs adeptes qui son premièrement les chefs d’Etats, les chanceliers, les ministres, les diplomates, les gouverneurs, les généraux, les préfets, les procureurs, les grands hommes d’affaires, les directeurs, les stars…, soit de la fermer et être ennemi du Père, du Fils, du Saint-Esprit, des anges, des élus….

Mais, mon inquiétude n’est pas de perdre le pain de Moïse (ce qui entre dans mon ventre), mais plutôt de gagner celui de Jésus (ce qui nourrit mon âme). Ma chair, assassinée ou pas, qu’elle mange et vive bien ou pas, retournera tôt ou tard dans la terre où elle avait été tirée ; par contre, mon âme, si elle ne mange et ne partage pas cette vérité, elle héritera le lac de feu éternel.

Si le sang de Jésus Christ avait coulé dans ce monde pour que la vérité qui affranchit et qui sauve soit connue de tous, combien de fois mon pauvre sang qui doit couler à cause des ennemis de Dieu (sa parole), de la démonstration de la vérité et de la puissance qui éclairent les gens, afin qu’ils soient libérés des tenailles du maître de la perdition.

Robert Powell, alias Jésus de Nazareth, Olivia Hussey, alias vierge Marie mère de Jésus, Réalisateur Franco ZEFFIRELLI, pourquoi avez-vous tourné ce genre de film, encore plus dans cette génération foudroyée par l’ignorance de la connaissance de la vérité de Christ ? Cela a causé des dégâts graves, au point où les grands prêtres, diplômés d’aveuglément et de la surdité, ont fait de vos photos leur dieu, en entrainant plusieurs jusqu’aux petits enfants, à considérer et à dire lorsqu’on leur montre vos photos que Robert Powell c’est Jésus, qu’Olivia Hussey c’est la Vierge Marie ; et plusieurs personnes, en voyant vos images, ne savent pas que c’est un film que vous avez tourné en 1977. Pour ces aveugles, c’est Jésus-Christ ou Marie en personne qui figure sur ces images ; ils ne comprennent pas que vos images se sont présentées 19 siècles après la mort de Jésus-Christ et celle de Marie dans la chair. Et en ce jour, votre film n’a que 38 ans d’âge, mais les gens prennent ces images comme étant des photos véritables de Marie et de Jésus. Voilà pourquoi pour plusieurs, avoir ces photos dans leur maison, porter des médaillons avec ces effigies au cou est une bénédiction ou protection. Mais là où les gens sont tombés dans le grand piège de Satan, c’est en voyant comment les grands prêtres adorent, vénèrent et aiment ces images au point qu’ils agrandissent les photos de ces acteurs et les accrochent dans leurs grands bâtiments de prière ou de messe. C’est en voyant aussi comment ils font fabriquer des monuments avec l’effigie de ces acteurs, les placent dans les endroits où les gens viennent se prosterner, et faire même des pèlerinages. Dans chacun de leurs grands bâtiments, ces images taillées sont présentes. Pour l’image d’Olivia Hussey, alias Vierge Marie Mère de Jésus, elle a même une maisonnette. Comment les gens ne resteront-ils pas inséparables deces images ? Si oui, le jour de leur mort ; et pour certains même, on les enterre souvent avec cette croix au cou par recommandation du défunt qui ne s’imagine pas de ce qui l’attend.

Ces gens connaissent que celui qui est à la tête du bien-être de l’idolâtrie selon l’homme ancien est le représentant de l’apôtre Pierre ; ils portent de grandes connaissances des choses de la terre attestées par les papiers appelés diplômes, et sont entrés dans les grandes écoles de formation biblique appelées séminaires, où ils ont passé plusieurs années. Tout ceci, à la lumière du Seigneur, n’est que véritable diplôme pour un enseignant de l’aveuglément.

En vérité, le Seigneur Jésus avant qu’il ne vienne dans ce monde physique, avait déjà vu Robert Powell, à qui il sera comparé par les hommes de cette génération ; voilà pourquoi il dit : « A qui me comparerez-vous, pour que je lui ressemble ? Dit le Saint» (Esaïe 40/25), et le prophète Esaïe de son côté dit : « A qui voulez-vous comparer Dieu ? Et quelle image ferez-vous son égale? » (Esaïe 40/18).

J’ai beaucoup à dire et à démontrer sur les œuvres du mensonge parce que le Seigneur m’a établi messager sur les nations ; beaucoup de gens disent que je m’attaque aux grands, mais tout ce que je peux leur dire, c’est de demander à Dieu ou au diable qui est peut-être leur maître, de le prier qu’il leur montre la grandeur qui est en moi et que je suis, afin qu’ils ferment leurs petites bouches affamées et assoiffées des vanités.

CHAMPI Apôtre non de la part des hommes, ni par un homme mais par Jésus-Christ et Dieu le Père. La puissance de Dieu c’est la connaissance. Connaître pour éviter de pécher et être affranchi de la mort éternelle. (Jean 8/32)

[jeanfabien]

MUSIC

Arnaud Rebotini • Songs About Death, Life and Truth - EP

(English version below)

Avec “Songs About Death, Life and Truth”, Arnaud Rebotini, pilier de l’électro française, nous invite à un voyage existentiel. Un nouvel EP en six actes qui marque un tournant dans la carrière du compositeur, conjuguant sa signature sonore avec une exploration intime des grandes questions de la vie.

Rebotini, lauréat d’un César pour la bande originale de “120 battements par minute”, délaisse ici les écrans pour un terrain plus personnel. Il compose une fresque sonore audacieuse où les thèmes universels de la mort, de la vie et de la vérité s’entremêlent dans une symphonie électronique captivante.

Dès les premiers instants, l’auditeur est happé par la profondeur émotionnelle de l’œuvre. Rebotini jongle avec maestria entre ombres et lumières, créant un paysage sonore aux multiples facettes. Ses synthétiseurs emblématiques, loin d’être de simples outils, deviennent les narrateurs d’une histoire sans paroles, témoignant de la maturité artistique du musicien.

L’EP oscille entre techno viscérale et électro contemplative, offrant une palette sonore riche en nuances. Les rythmes entêtants s’entrelacent avec des mélodies éthérées, le tout enveloppé dans des nappes atmosphériques qui invitent à la réflexion. Chaque morceau s’écoule dans le suivant, formant un récit musical cohérent qui sonde les profondeurs de la psyché humaine.

Rebotini aborde des thèmes comme la conscience, le regret et la rédemption avec une finesse rare dans l’univers électronique. Sa production, à la fois sophistiquée et accessible, permet d’explorer ces concepts abstraits de manière tangible et émotionnelle.

Limité à 300 exemplaires en vinyle, “Songs About Death, Life and Truth” s’annonce déjà comme un objet de convoitise pour les aficionados. Cet EP marque un jalon important dans le parcours de Rebotini, illustrant sa capacité à se réinventer tout en restant fidèle à son essence artistique.

En définitive, cette œuvre transcende les frontières de l’électro pour offrir une méditation sonore sur la condition humaine. Rebotini confirme ainsi son statut d’artiste majeur, capable de fusionner avec brio virtuosité technique et profondeur philosophique, nous rappelant que la musique électronique peut être bien plus qu’une simple invitation à la danse — elle peut être un miroir de notre âme.

With ‘Songs About Death, Life and Truth’, Arnaud Rebotini, a pillar of French electro, invites us on an introspective journey to the heart of existence. This new EP in six acts marks a turning point in the composer’s career, combining his signature sound with an intimate exploration of life’s big questions.

Rebotini, who won a César for the soundtrack to ‘120 battements par minute’, has moved away from the screen and into more personal territory. He has composed a daring sonic fresco in which the universal themes of death, life and truth intertwine in a captivating electronic symphony. From the outset, the listener is drawn into the emotional depth of the work. Rebotini masterfully juggles light and shadow, creating a multi-faceted soundscape. His iconic synthesizers, far from being mere tools, become the narrators of a story without words, testifying to the musician’s artistic maturity. The EP oscillates between visceral techno and contemplative electro, offering a richly nuanced palette of sounds. Heady rhythms intertwine with ethereal melodies, all wrapped up in atmospheric layers that invite reflection. Each track flows into the next, forming a coherent musical narrative that probes the depths of the human psyche.

Rebotini tackles themes such as conscience, regret and redemption with a finesse that is rare in the electronic world. His sophisticated yet accessible production allows these abstract concepts to be explored in a tangible and emotional way. Limited to 300 copies on vinyl, ‘Songs About Death, Life and Truth’ is already shaping up to be a coveted item for aficionados. This EP marks an important milestone in Rebotini’s career, illustrating his ability to reinvent himself while remaining true to his artistic essence. Ultimately, this work transcends the boundaries of electro to offer a sonic meditation on the human condition. Rebotini confirms his status as a major artist, capable of brilliantly fusing technical virtuosity with philosophical depth, reminding us that electronic music can be much more than a simple invitation to dance — it can be a mirror of our soul.

[infosisraelnews]

Terrible meurtre à Herzliya : la mere qui a tué son enfant et son chien a repris conscience et coopère à l'enquête

De nouveaux détails sur le meurtre monstrueux d’hier à Herzliya sont révélés. Une mère a poignardé à la hache à mort son fils de six ans, et a également tué son chien, puis s’est rendue dans un centre commercial avec une hache et a attaqué un agent de sécurité. Après l’attaque, elle a tenté de se frapper avec une hache. Le mari de la femme était en réserve à la frontière de Gaza lorsque la…

[theogmissg]

La Vie (The Life)

La Vie (Zervos I 179) is a 1903 oil painting by Pablo Picasso. It is widely regarded as the pinnacle of Picasso's Blue Period.

It was painted at a time when Picasso was having no financial success.

The Blue Period (Spanish: Período Azul) comprises the works produced by Spanish painter Pablo Picasso between 1901 and 1904. During this time, Picasso painted essentially monochromatic paintings in shades of blue and blue-green, only occasionally warmed by other colors. These sombre works, inspired by Spain and painted in Barcelona and Paris, are now some of his most popular works, although he had difficulty selling them at the time.

This period's starting point is uncertain; it may have begun in Spain in the spring of 1901 or in Paris in the second half of the year.[1] In choosing austere color and sometimes doleful subject matter—prostitutes, beggars and drunks—Picasso was influenced by a journey through Spain and by the suicide of his friend Carles Casagemas, who took his own life at the L'Hippodrome Café in Paris, France on February 17, 1901. Although Picasso himself later recalled, "I started painting in blue when I learned of Casagemas's death",[2] art historian Hélène Seckel has written: "While we might be right to retain this psychologizing justification, we ought not lose sight of the chronology of events: Picasso was not there when Casagemas committed suicide in Paris ... When Picasso returned to Paris in May, he stayed in the studio of his departed friend, where he worked for several more weeks to prepare his exhibition for Vollard".[3] The works Picasso painted for his show at Ambroise Vollard's gallery that summer were generally characterized by a "dazzling palette and exuberant subject matter".[2] Picasso's psychological state worsened as 1901 continued.

In the latter part of 1901, Picasso sank into a severe depression[4] and blue tones began to dominate his paintings. Picasso's painting La mort de Casagemas, completed early in the year following his friend's suicide, was done in hot, bright hues. The painting considered the first of his Blue Period, Casagemas in His Coffin, was completed later in 1901 when Picasso was sinking into a major depression. Picasso, normally an outgoing socializer, withdrew from his friends. Picasso's bout of depression was to last several years.[5] Picasso's career had been promising before 1901 and early in that year he was making "a splash" in Paris. However, as he moved towards subject matter such as society's poor and outcast, and accented this with a cool, anguished mood with blue hues, the critics and the public turned away from his works. Members of the public were uninterested in displaying the Blue Period works in their homes.[4] Picasso continued his output, but his financial situation suffered:

His pictures, not merely melancholy but profoundly depressed and cheerless, inspired no affection in the public or in buyers. It was not poverty that led him to paint the impoverished outsiders of society, but rather the fact that he painted them that made him poor himself.[6]

[prunelier]

s'il y a bien un moment qui nous prouve que la france résistante c'était un mythe gaulliste d'après guerre et qu'en fait les français sont un sale peuple de moutons lâches & délétaires & CONS COMME LEURS PIEDS c'est bien maintenant

ouin ouin j'aime pas les extremes je préfére voter RN s'ils sont contre la gauche parce qu'il y a lfi VA BOUFFER TES GRANDS MORTS LA CON DE TA MERE aucun d'entre eux a jamais vécu le communisme pourtant ils en ont plus peur que des putains de pétainistes de merde