#Bustes de Femmes

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Jules Blanchard (French, 1832-1916) Buste de jeune femme, 1861 Musée Antoine-Lécuyer, Saint-Quentin

[clairity-org]

Pablo Picasso, Buste de femme, Portrait Bust of a Woman, 1938, Oil on paper, 3/11/23 #mfah #artmuseum by Sharon Mollerus

[leloupdebout]

[topcat77]

Matisse

Buste de jeune femme nue, 1950

[terminusantequem]

Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973), Buste de femme au chapeau (Dora), 1939. Oil on canvas, 55 x 46,5 cm

[fashionlandscapeblog]

Pablo Picasso

Buste de Femme (Dora Maar), 1938

[uzumaki-rebellion]

A.N.: Content Warning, violence, slave lynchings, blood, sex.

"Know that you are loved

Even if you don't love yourself

Know that you are loved

Even if you don't love yourself…"

Cleo Soul – "Know That You Are Loved"

Celeste washed away blood, tissue, and pieces of teeth from her hair that once belonged to three men she tried to help get home.

Sitting in her tub, she let the showerhead rain warm water down on her, creating steam that enveloped her in warmth. The last trickles of blood that soaked her locs ran down the drain in pink rivulets. She raised her knees to her chest and hugged her legs.

She couldn't stay in Marigny anymore.

Vampires, ghouls, and gargoyles knew where she stayed, and she felt like a lighthouse for supernatural entities to fuck up her life even more. She couldn't take a chance staying with her parents, grandparents, or older brothers and their families. Bringing danger to them had to be avoided at all costs.

She wiped her face of tears and let the shower water wash it away. Celeste needed to activate a new state of mind. One that moved in the world with intention.

Celeste scrubbed blood from the side of her car and used carpet cleaner to clear away the dark splashes that stained her passenger seat. Afterward she dropped her car off at a dealership to replace the busted window. She slept most of the day and returned to work at the chicken processing plant using an Uber. The news of the disappearance spread around fast, and she feigned shock at the news that Hector, Shorty, and Quentin disappeared with everyone else. Police detectives wandered about the facility interviewing workers that shared the same shift the previous day. She answered questions concisely and never gave up info that she was with them during their last hour. Celeste kept her head down and pushed through her work. She clocked out and used the turn of events as fodder to get a few days off from the elder care facility.

It was time to dig into Miss Irma's boxes.

Celeste fixed herself a turkey and bacon sandwich and hunkered down, opening every box she brought home. Miss Irma's meticulous organization of her private papers and photos helped her separate the records into neat piles. At the bottom of a box filled with several thick books on history, the occult, and supernatural symbolism, she found a small plastic case filled with flash drives loaded with archival images, more family photos, and copies of folders with Miss Irma's travel photography for over the last five decades. Personal correspondence, postcards, and holiday cards shared by her friends and former work colleagues were tucked inside clear plastic bags.

She spent half a day piecing together the story of Terrence Richmond Guidry, a former enslaved human and leader of a little known Black and Indigenous uprising in the swamps of Opelousas, Louisiana.

Celeste had to stop almost every twenty minutes to get up from her sewing room desk to absorb the incredible story of the man who knocked her up.

Terry had been descended from enslaved Creoles way back, the kind that negotiated plaçages and attended quadroon balls to link wealthy white men with femmes de couleur to create free-born octoroons like his mother. His family upheld the caste system and pretended to be white for years until Terry's birth threatened to expose them. Considered too dark, too curly-haired, and too full-featured to pass as white with his unwanted throwback genes, even with green eyes, his land-owning white-passing Black father didn't send him off to Paris to be educated like his fairer male siblings. His father sent him to New Orleans at fourteen to learn a respectable trade as a shipbuilder, but slave catchers captured and sold him to a sugarcane plantation. News reached Terry two years later that his own father sold him to pay off a gambling debt and to amend back taxes due on their plot of land. His mother died of grief over it. None of his older brothers tried to save him. They married white women and diluted the bloodline back to unsullied whiteness and never returned to America. Celeste closed her eyes and wept for him. Family betrayal cut the deepest.

His owner was a strict Catholic who took a liking to Terry. Allowed him to marry an enslaved woman named Delilah. They had three children. Two boys and a girl born in bondage. The daughter died of smallpox when she was three. The conditions on the sugar plantation were harsh, yet somehow Terry and his wife survived with their two sons.

Celeste jumped up from her seat and paced in her sewing room. He lied to her about having children because they came before he turned into a vampire. She drank tea and snacked on some fruit, letting her mind sit with the man's past as an abused slave. What other atrocities had he endured? She entertained the idea that it may have been a relief to become non-human in order to get away from the banality of white evil. There were more than a few times she stopped reading and cried for him.

After writing about smallpox passing through his plantation like a deadly wildfire killing one third of the enslaved population, Miss Irma's historical biography veered off the rails and entered the domain of what would be considered speculative fiction in the real world. Terry blended in with a group of newly arrived Haitian captives and saltwater Africans who had been illegally brought into the south to replace the lost human property. It was against the law to import slaves into the United States after 1808, and the influx of Black people from the Caribbean and the Western Coast of Africa secretly continued on Terry's plantation during his time there in the 1850s. Slaves were bred as Black gold for the small farmer and large plantations, often sold in lots to turn profits quickly as cotton became king of the southern economy. The devastating loss of so many able-bodied field hands made it impossible for wealthy planters to wait around twelve to fifteen years for a new crop of humans to be bred and physically capable of picking cotton. Illegal importations saved them with a fresh influx of free Black labor immediately without a long-term profit loss.

Terry learned Haitian Creole and taught his diaspora brethren the Franglais he grew up with mixed in with the Cajun dialect of the overseers who beat him constantly. Under Miss Irmas's pen, Celeste became intimate with the fierce mindset of Terry in the past.

Somehow Terry convinced the handful of Haitians, Chitimatcha Native people trapped on their own stolen land, and his own mixed African population of homegrown pre-Black Americans to rise up and kill the masters on their plantation and two others nearby. Seventy-five enslaved men and women used machetes, pickaxes, and shovels to bash in the brains and slice the bodies of white men, white women, and their white babies. Slaves who tried to snitch were slaughtered right beside their masters.

Miss Irma copied an archival photo of Terry's former plantation, and Celeste gasped at another startling photo of Terry among other unnamed slaves. The look in his fiery eyes showed how ready he was to kill if given the chance to take retribution.

On a final chapter of Terry's pre-vampire life, Miss Irma documented how Delilah and his sons were spirited away to safety by free Black abolitionists in another parish. The uprising ended when a militia used firearms, attack dogs, and horses to outrun and overpower the enslaved rebels on their defiant march toward another parish.

The militia caught Terry fleeing with five other slaves, two of them Native, who escaped capture toward the end. Days later, the militia surrounded them in a hot, mosquito-infested swamp, where they evaded gators and poisonous water moccasins that slithered on top of the brackish swamp water.

All six slaves were lynched from giant oak trees covered in drooping Spanish moss on a sweltering summer night. Celeste's eyes stayed riveted to the typewriter ink on yellowing sheets of paper. She cross-referenced the lynchings with a Google search and also looked it up in one of the old books Miss Irma kept on slave rebellions in the southeast. The event was known as the Opelousas Rebellion.

Celeste's fingers shook while reading.

The authorities buried five of the slaves' recovered bodies in a mass grave, and the lynch mob that cornered Terry and his cohorts met mysterious circumstances, resulting in their murder. Their bodies were found stacked neatly, showing ripped throats and shredded wrists. Every drop of blood in them drained. Only one witness escaped to alert others and he eventually went insane after sharing a chilling tale of night demons attacking them. Miss Irma's historical recollection of the official record switched over into what had to be Terry's personal statement as a firsthand witness and survivor.

A roaming pack of vampires came upon the lynching and slaughtered everyone they could find…except for Terry. He had been the last one hung from the tree, his body jerking in the throes of approaching death, dangling like strange fruit until a vampire turned him into one of their own, saving what insignificant life he had left.

Miss Irma had no further details other than Terry finding his way back to his family a year later and living through centuries, reinventing himself as a son, grandson, great-grandson, and so on with each generational loss. At the bottom of the last page, Miss Irma wrote a handwritten note to herself: Check on the background of T'ewati Kobebi, the Aksumite Empire, and look up biblical notes on why the mention of tattoos only occurs once in the bible from Jesus.

Scribbled below the word 'tattoos' was a hand-drawn depiction of Terry's tattoo with a complete circle. Miss Irma drew the bottom half in black ink and shaded the top half with pencil lead. Between the typed manuscript, she had inserted two folded sheets of white copy paper. Celeste unfolded the sheets to find over fifty mystical symbols of chakras, magic circles, and pentagrams. She recognized a rudimentary ankh symbol, and several Christian Coptic crosses. Most of the magic circle images were underlined or had an asterisk next to it. Several had some configuration of an eight-pointed star symbol in the center. One looked eerily similar to Terry's tattoo that she circled in red ink.

Celeste spent the rest of her time in bed looking at the gargoyle pictures from Miss Irma's various flash drives on her laptop. She smiled at how young Miss Irma was in the fifties and sixties, traveling around the world, snapping photos of ugly relics. Her looks back then reminded Celeste of Lena Horne with the silky hair and button nose. A tattered journal explained the differences in gargoyles based on their country of origin and mapped out their locations worldwide. There was a lot of biblical scholarship research on Satan and the Book of Revelations, angels, demons, and the decline of the American church. Miss Irma had a keen interest in proving that ancient myths and folklore were real. Celeste shivered in her bed. Miss Irma listed many fantastical creatures that existed alongside the few Celeste had encountered in person. It would take months, maybe even a year, to read and decipher all the written research from that brilliant mind.

With her eyes exhausted from reading and scrolling images, Celeste fell into a deep sleep. Nightmare visions of the vampire attack caused her to toss, turn, and shout in her sleep. Dark dreams of holding a brown baby with fangs woke her up with a pounding headache…and a pounding on her door. Her cell phone vibrated on her nightstand. She answered it.

"Hello?"

"Duchess, I'm outside your front door," Micah said.

His voice sounded stressed with worry. She climbed out of bed and let him inside her home.

"I've been calling you all day. Why aren't you answering your phone?" he asked.

Celeste plopped down on her sectional and covered her eyes with her hand. Micah sat next to her.

"My life is fucked up, Micah."

She glanced at her cousin. His handsome face openly conveyed how much he loved her and cared about her well-being.

"I'm pregnant. Terry is the father."

Micah squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together in a disappointed line.

"I told you not to—"

"Stop! Please! I don't need you making me feel worse than I do."

"How far along are you?"

"I'll be ten weeks in a couple of days."

"Okay…okay…what are you going to do? Are you keeping it?"

"I don't think I can because…."

Celeste looked at her cousin. She chewed on her bottom lip, stopping herself from saying the word vampire out loud.

"I'm thinking of going to California to have an abortion."

Her stomach muscles cramped, and she rubbed it, letting out a breath as the pain went away.

"I can go with you. My job owes me some extra off days for covering people."

She nodded.

"I haven't told anyone except you, and I don't want others to know."

"Will you tell him?"

"I don't know where he is. We haven't spoken in person or over the phone since he left here."

"Decisions like this are hard…especially a second time. I think you should go talk to Father Mbenga."

"Confession? Why would I tell Father Mbenga about this? He'd see it as a sin and talk me out of it."

"I didn't say do a confessional…I meant seek counsel from a spiritual advisor you trust. I can see in your eyes that this is painful, and spiritual counsel always helps you, Duchess. Your voice is saying get rid of it, but your eyes…bay-buh…your eyes are full of doubt. When we were teenagers, the thought of you having a baby so young hurt me, because I knew that nigga who did it to you was bad news. We rushed you through it because it was the right thing to do for you at that time."

"What about this time?"

"You're a grown woman who wants children…a family. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise."

"I never wanted to be a single mother, Micah."

"Well…if we find that green-eyed pussy bandit, maybe you won't have to be."

"I thought you were pissed about that man."

"I am, and he needs to face his responsibilities either way."

"There'd be no point telling him about it if I don't keep it."

"You want to keep it."

"I can't."

"Listen, we can go over to the church, and you can just talk about the stress you're under…nothing about being pregnant. God always has a way of showing the way when you really need it."

Celeste teared up and wiped at her eyes.

"I'll get dressed," she said.

Micah waited for Celeste outside of the church.

She walked inside, crossed herself in the vestibule and made her way toward the space worshippers were in while the church was still being worked on. She genuflected in front of a pew and then sat down. The stillness within the sanctuary humbled the anxiety in her chest. She folded her hands across her stomach and pondered her situation quietly. As a little girl, she often imagined herself having a baby to carry inside of St. Augustine's for a christening with all of her family around, celebrating her own little bundle of joy wrapped in a soft, white lace Christening gown.

Sadly, Celeste could only see herself carrying a baby that would probably sizzle in pain if Father Mbenga poured baptismal holy water over her head. It wouldn't be right to bring a child into the world that would only face the horrors of a lonely vampire existence like her father.

She stood up quickly.

"Sister Celeste?"

Father Mbenga approached her from the back of the pew.

"Did we have an appointment?" he asked.

"No, Father Mbenga, I just…"

Celeste's lip trembled, and she closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her face.

"Sit…sit…oh, what troubles you?" he asked.

Father Mbenga slipped in next to her on the pew and Celeste choked out her words.

"I find myself in a situation that was avoidable, but I think maybe I wanted it too, and I don't know how to move forward."

She wiped a dangling teardrop from her nose.

"I came to talk to you about it, but I don't think I'm ready to do that yet."

"God is with you, no matter the problem you face. When you are ready, come back. The church is your spiritual backbone for whatever storms you may have to weather."

"Thank you," she said.

He stood with her and walked her to the exit.

Outside, the bright sun and muggy heat greeted her. Micah jumped out of his car.

"You're done already?" he asked.

"No. I changed my mind. I'll come back another time when I feel stronger…braver. I want to walk around."

"I'll come with you."

They took a slow trip around memory lane and Micah pointed out spots where they played as children or snuck out to meet boys and girls for street fights, or smoke out sessions. Her cousin made her laugh and remember what it was like to be young and carefree. An hour later, they strolled to their grandparents' home so Celeste could urinate and hear the comforting sounds of Big Chief and Grand-mère enjoying their Saturday afternoon. They ate leftover beef stew with white rice and Big Chief showed them sketches for his new Indian suit.

She left her grandparents' house with a full belly and sprinkles of love cast over her.

"You look better," Micah said.

"I feel a little better. Still a lot to think about, though."

"I'll take you home. You can think some more and call me when you want to talk it out. I would hang with you longer, but I gotta get ready for work later."

She linked her arm around his.

"Thank you for supporting me…as always," she said.

They ambled back around to his car and he drove toward her house. Her phone chirped and the auto dealership mechanic left a text stating that they had to order a new window for her and the Charger wouldn't be ready until Monday or Tuesday at the latest. Celeste sighed and didn't worry too much. She had time off from work and hadn't planned on working Sunday either. Her little fetish side hustle videos covered the elder care facility income for the Lord's day.

"Well, I'll be damned," Micah stated loudly.

Celeste's heart swelled in her chest and she gripped the door handle of Micah's sporty Lexus coupe.

Seated at the top step of her stoop was Terry. Clothed in a simple orange T-shirt and comfortable tan cargo pants, he raised his head and stood immediately the moment he noticed Celeste.

"You want me to stay?" Micah asked.

"No, I need to talk to him alone."

"Call me if it goes south, okay?"

"I will," she said.

She stepped out of the Lexus and Micah watched the both of them without leaving, making sure she was truly okay.

"Hey," Terry said.

"Hi."

"It's been a while, and I wanted to see you. Sorry for not giving you a heads up that I was coming back down."

"You stopped communicating with me. I thought maybe…maybe it was for the best since we're living in two different places."

In the sunlight, his eyes held the color of balmy Caribbean waters. No blinking meant his gaze pierced into the deepest part of her. All she could think of standing there in front of her house was that his Black father had sold him into slavery. Terrible white men strung him up in a tree…all because he wanted to free his people. Did it matter if a strange vampire pack saved his life so he could watch over his loved ones for centuries? He didn't act like a feral beast. The man loved his family. Loved her.

Her chest shuddered. Tears sprang out too fast to cover up her emotions. Terry wrapped his muscular arms around her.

"I'm sorry I had to leave. It's been difficult being away from you, Duchess."

She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to express openly everything she'd experienced since his absence. It made no sense to be terrified of him and in love equally. She pushed back from him and averted eye contact.

In the daylight, they were safe. However, she didn't think it was wise for him to know that she was aware of his lineage. She had to play it close to the vest.

"How long are you here for?"

"A couple of days and then I have to get back. I got a room at a hotel…I just needed to see you again. Baby, I miss you."

Celeste's stomach flip-flopped and she climbed the steps to her front door. Glancing around, she noticed Micah still parked in front of her place. She nodded her head for him to leave and he made a 'call me' hand motion before he pulled away from the curb.

Terry followed her inside the house.

"I'll make us some tea," she said, needing an excuse not to look at him directly.

In the kitchen she fumbled with the tea-making, spilling sugar cubes everywhere and nearly breaking a saucer for the cups. She focused on keeping her hands steady as she carried the cups and saucers out into the living room.

They sipped together in silence, the tension between them thick like the roux in her grandmother's cooking pot.

"This place still feels cozy," he said.

He put his drink down and reached for her hand. She pulled back, keeping a polite distance.

"You have every right to be mad at me for not keeping in touch, or at least telling you I couldn't see you again right away."

"Things happen. We had fun. I was upset for a minute, but I'm over it."

So many questions ran races around in her brain. What did he do while he was gone? Did he hunt people and just stay low key, hiding in trees or stalking victims near clubs? Were there others like him? Daywalkers who other vampires depended on? The Deacon said Terry was an apex predator, and yet she never picked up on anything violent about him except for when he punched those white men two months ago on her behalf.

The Deacon and his pack wanted Terry. Once the night time came, they would probably know he was there with her. What if they pretended to be nice to her just to lure him back for nefarious reasons?

Celeste didn't know what to do.

"Duchess? Why won't you look at me?"

She played it off.

"I'm still upset with you, so I don't even want to look at you. I think you should leave. What we had is over, and it's best if we both move on."

The words sounded corny and cliché flowing out of her mouth, but it was the best she could come up with. She didn't know for sure if she was protecting him or herself. Maybe both.

"If you want me to go, I will. But I want you to look me in my eyes and say it…so I'll know it's real."

Don'tdoitDon'tdoitDon'tdoit…don't…

She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to look at him.

"Be mad, but please…don't shut me out. You're all I have left," he pleaded.

Celeste rocked forward in her seat and fell apart. The pain of being alone wafted off of him and she couldn't resist touching him again. She threw her arms around him and he rested his chin on top of her head. His body trembled against her and she was so close to spilling her secret and his. She clamped her mouth shut.

He cradled her chin with his hand, and she still refused to look at him. Celeste didn't want him to read her mind or do any of the things vampires could do to break her will.

"Why won't you look at me?"

"I can't…I don't wanna fall for you again."

He pressed his forehead against hers.

"I still love you," he said. "Being away hasn't changed my feelings. Tell me you don't love me anymore and I'll go away…never to bother you again. Je t'aime tellement, j'ai besoin de toi dans ma vie. Je veux être avec toi… all your life, Duchess."

Celeste gasped. He loved and needed her in his life. Wanted to be with her for as long as she lived. She glanced at the clock on her living room wall. They had a little over five hours before the sun went down.

Celeste looked directly into Terry's eyes. If he was brazen enough to read her thoughts in the past, would he do it now?

He only sighed in relief and kissed her lips gently once.

"Your eyes tell me you still feel the same about me," he said.

She balked for a second. He didn't invade her thoughts. Terry lifted her right hand and kissed her palm.

"I want to take you somewhere special to me."

"Where?"

"Mémé's house. You can think of it as a vacation."

"Why didn't you take me there before?" she asked.

"I thought it might've been too soon, especially after her death. Time away from here has given me a chance to think."

"I've done a lot of thinking too…and we need to talk…about a bunch of things. My life is different now—"

He kissed her.

His lips covered her mouth completely, and she gave in to the passion he conveyed for her.

She loved him.

Felt sorry for him.

Feared him.

Every emotion within her became tossed about, muddying the waters of discernment. Clarity. Down…down…down she went, drowning in his kisses and his tongue sliding in her mouth. She gave back hungry kisses, too. No human could understand what it felt like to be kissed and touched by a vampire. The man knew every spot on her body to break her down further, from licking the side of her neck to plunging his tongue in her ear.

He groaned her name into her skin. She folded like a losing poker hand.

She wanted him. He wanted her. Was that so wrong? A human and a vampire feeling desire for one another? Miss Irma said he loved her, and would a ghost lie?

Terry made her feel things that she'd never experienced with a human man before. Cherished and protected. Love overflowed from him and poured into her and she was willing to be damned by it if it meant she could have that feeling forever in his arms.

He lifted her from the sectional and carried her into the bedroom. She let him undress her. It didn't take long to unbutton her summer blouse and pull down her skirt. She kicked off her sandals and watched him take off his clothes, his eyes never leaving hers.

He kissed every part of her and took his time fondling her breasts. Her nipples were sensitive and a simple flick of his fingers had them stiff. He sucked on them far longer than she expected, and she gazed at the ceiling. The light of day looked even more magical with him in her arms. His fingers slid across her locs and he played with them like they were just as sexy as her breasts. The full arousal of his dick slapped against her legs and she ignored it, knowing it would have her laid out soon enough. Once Terry put that hammer on her, wasn't no sane reason on earth to try and keep a rational mind.

He rested on his side, hugging her close to his naked warmth. His thick fingers stroked her cheek. She luxuriated in the shivers running across her skin.

"I want us to stay like this for days and days on end," he said.

She traced an index finger around his right nipple, and it hardened. Puckering her lips, she forced him to lower his head to kiss her again. He shifted his position even lower and kissed her vulva, paying close attention to the arc above her clit. She felt the thumping under her clitoral hood and moaned his name when he licked all over her inner labia. After a time, he rose with shiny, wet lips. Celeste made minimum effort to respond in kind. She remained a pillow princess and let him put forth all the effort in lovemaking. Her goal was to remain alert and experience his affections without losing herself to the lust.

He gave more effort to engage her, going so far as to place her hand on his erection, forcing her to please him. She slid her hand up and down with his hand covering hers, helping her keep on task, never going further than the thick ridge under his tip. Pre-cum spilled out, and he reached for a bottle of lube on the side table. He squeezed the dark blue plastic bottle and the odor of vanilla became strong to her nose as the sticky lubricant coated his dick, helping her hand slide with a slick pressure on his length. Rubbing some around her opening, he stared at her face, drinking in the intoxicating way he made her feel with his lovemaking prowess. Love shined in his eyes and glowed all around his face. Her heart wanted to confess about the pregnancy, but her mind fought back to keep that hidden from him. She still wasn't sure what to do, and telling him wouldn't help her. It would just add more pressure and cloud her judgement.

Terry repositioned Celeste on her side. He lifted her leg and pushed the tip of his dick against her opening.

"Terry," she murmured.

He kissed her and penetrated in two places, her mouth with his tongue, and her pussy with his dick at the same time. She gripped the sheet on her bed and braced her back against his chest. Terry made that dick move in her pussy. He dug deep in her walls and the lube had her pussy slippery to accommodate his size. She stretched around him well enough, but her lips twisted up, letting out little yelps and squeals, unable to process how good it felt to have that dick back where it belonged.

He squeezed and played with her tits, enjoying the way they bounced on the bed as he rocked into her with a steady pounding. A minute later, he lifted her right leg and kept it suspended in the air, using it to balance the thrusts he gave.

"Goddamn, this shit stays so tight around me," he moaned. "You missed me, huh?" he teased.

She smiled and reached back to touch his hair.

"Pussy gonna have me making a mess all in it…keep squeezing this dick like that and you'll have a problem on your hands."

She laughed, and he kissed her, still pumping that thick dick into her depths. Her passive energy excited him more, perhaps making him feel like he had to prove himself to her again. He grunted, kept her leg up, and complimented her sugary walls with each slap of his balls on her ass. Between thrusts, he stroked her clit, edging her so good she started getting blurry vision.

He fucked in the same way that got her pregnant and that excited Celeste, causing her pussy to spasm before she was ready, her orgasm rippling all across that heavy dick.

"Cum on my dick…keep cumming on my…dick…yessss…just like that…taking this dick like the good girl you are…ooh shit, you're still cumming…you want me to nut, don't you? Make a big mess all in this pussy…that's what you want…I can feel it…look how you're doing all this dick…all this dick…fuck all this dick…"

His mouth slammed down on her neck, and this time, Celeste was aware of everything, the initial pain, the deep sucking to snatch away her blood, the pressure of teeth that became unnatural inside her throat. She could even feel her heartbeat thrum in time to his sucking—

Terry froze.

His thrusts abruptly stopped. He dropped her leg onto the bed. His tongue and lips no longer stole her lifeblood.

Slowly…ever so slowly…he pulled his teeth out of her neck. His dick pulsed inside her pussy and she had no control over the final contractions of her orgasm. He pushed her chin, making her look at him.

She nearly screamed.

His eyes glowed with the inhuman reflection that he shared with The Deacon. His canine teeth and premolars were long, sharp, and dripping with her blood. Even with the feral gleam in his eye and the vicious, sharp teeth exposed, Terry's beauty became enhanced in his full vampire glory.

How dumb and blind she had been!

This was his true self.

"You can't be," he whispered under his breath.

He licked her blood from his teeth and around his dripping lips.

"Impossible!" he yelled.

He pulled his dick out and they both could see how close he was to cumming. His pre-cum still spilled out.

Celeste shrank into herself and stayed in a tight ball on a corner of the bed, pulling the sheet over her breasts.

"A girl…" he whispered, his eyes staring off into space.

Celeste nodded and he jumped off the bed as if she had the plague.

"Vampires can't breed with humans."

There.

He said it out loud. Naming what he was to her face.

"I know what you are," she said. "But you got me pregnant."

His eyes watered, and he bared his teeth at her threateningly.

"He called her a dhampir. Told me she was priceless," she said, rising to her knees on the bed.

"He?" Terry said, his eyes narrowing.

"The Deacon—"

Terry had her by the throat and pinned against the wall above the headboard before she could finish another word. She tried prying his hand away from her throat.

"I can't breathe…Terry…"

"When did you see him?!"

His harsh tone scared her. She burst into tears.

He dropped her back on the bed and stepped away from her, staring down at her like she was a cursed thing. She rubbed her throat and left the room. Padding into her sewing room, she grabbed a manilla folder. She returned to the bedroom and tossed Miss Irma's biography about him on the bed.

"I know all about you, Terry. How you became a slave. Your lynching. Your re-birth as a vampire."

Terry touched Miss Irma's tome and shut his eyes. He opened them back up and looked at her naked body.

"When did you see Abai?"

"Abai?"

"That's his real name. The Deacon is just something I used to call him as a joke between us."

Terry's voice sounded tired. Celeste folded her arms across her breasts.

"He came here looking for you with four other female vampires a week ago. They saved my life the other day. Another group of vampires attacked my co-workers when I helped change their tire. Abai, he knew I was pregnant. He cut my hand and tasted my blood, told me I was having a girl."

"You let him feed from you?"

Terry's nostrils flared, and his sharp teeth looked more menacing.

"I didn't let him…it happened during the attack, and I was…protecting myself…protecting what's inside me. Miss Irma…Mémé…she came to me as a ghost while I was at work and told me I was pregnant first. She knew it was a girl…she told me to look in her papers to know your story."

"Dhampirs are not real. None have ever existed. It's a myth. Humans and vampires are two different species incapable of reproducing anything."

"Nigga, I didn't think you were real either, but I've seen two different types of vampires and a ghost. Go fucking figure!"

She stomped out of the bedroom and locked herself in the bathroom. Angry and full of tears, Celeste ran the shower and cleaned herself off. She pulled on her bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door.

"You don't have to worry about me keeping this mythical fetus. I'm going to fly out-of-state to get it taken out of me!" she shouted.

A fiery pain burned in her chest. This was the outcome she expected from him finding out. Denial. Negative behavior. The typical lame male response of not wanting to take responsibility for his part in the mess. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked wet and her eyes were red and puffy from crying in the shower.

"You can leave, Terry. I'll take care of everything. Let's just act like we never met. No one would believe me about vampires anyway, so don't trip about your secret."

She flung open the bathroom door, and he was right there, bigger than life, waiting for her to come out.

"I don't want you to take care of anything," he said.

"What?"

His eyes were wet with tears and full of longing.

"Maybe…maybe this is a miracle for us, Duchess…maybe this was meant to be. I have endured the loss of so much for so long. Do you think the god you love so much took pity on me?"

"What are you saying?"

"I want to have this baby with you.

Chapter 13 HERE.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

@nayaesworld

@notapradagurl17

@4pfsukuna

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@comfortzonequeen

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@hrlzy

@theglamclosetsl

@liquorlaughslove

@teeresaresa

[random-brushstrokes]

Paul Antoine de la Boulaye - Jeune femme en buste en costume médiéval (1883)

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Lies and Alibis

Part 2, Previous, Next

Nikolai/Plus Size F!OC

This one's a bit longer! Nothing to scary, but their is some violence. Again this is a bit silly and very self indulgent, please enjoy!!!

banner by @/une-femme-de-lettres

Life or death situations really do sober you up, which is really handy considering very big men with very big guns were now looking for her. She tries not to tremble too badly as she scans the bathroom for something, anything really to help her.

Best case scenario, she escapes with all her limbs intact. Preferably. 

Worst case scenario, they bust in and simply kill her then, a quick bullet to the dome. There were certainly more worse scenarios…but there was no time to line all those details out. She shudders. 

Think think think.

Locking the door would only make her presence inside more obvious. 

Find a weapon? She's seen broads in movies use the ceramic back of the toilet as pretty solid weapon before, she knows if she clocks someone just right it would at least knock them out. 

She peers into the stall, and of course there isn't one. Stupid automatic flusher. 

She turns again, eyes the small windows lining the far wall and nearly curses. She couldn't even fit her tits through the opening let alone the rest of her. Who the fuck even makes a window like that?

She can hear more yelling outside, and her heart pounds. She wasn't going to make it out. Not without someone seeing her.

She’s desperate, mind racing as a very hairbrained thought occurs to her.

If she was going to die cartoonishly, her fat ass wasn't going to be shot to swiss cheese hanging out of window she most certainly was going to get stuck in. Instead she works the glass pane open, pushing it as far as it could go before peeling off her heels and tossing them haphazardly onto the floor below the opening. 

With the clock ticking she scampers on bare feet into the handicap stall, leaving the door open a crack and climbing onto the toilet in the far corner. She was thankful that nicer bathrooms didn't have a crack a mile wide between the frames. She hunkers a bit, feet on the bowl with her ass resting against the wall to brace her. 

This was stupid, really.  Beyond stupid, suicidal even. But her mama did not raise a quitter. 

The door opens and her heart catches in her throat. She holds her breath as a pair of footsteps echo against the pearly tile. One set coming closer as the other kicks open the other closed stalls ahead of her. Oh god. She was going to die like this. On a toilet, Elvis style. She almost starts to cry, clutching her hands over her mouth to stifle her trembling breaths.

I escaped, I escaped. 

A voice rings out in the quiet, disbelieved barking.

“Blyat, Sbezhal!!”

What.

More cursing. A frantic phone call, and hurried steps out of the bathroom follow.

She waits. That…that seriously worked.

Holy shit. That worked.

She climbs down on shakey legs and puts an ear to the door, listening carefully for any more noise. The commotion must have cleared the place, and she cracks the door into the dead quiet. She'd planned to bolt, hit the door and run for her fucking life, but she thinks of her knight in glittering gold jewelry.

She doesn't know why now out of all times she feels guilty for a random russian mobster. He couldn't have been too much better than these other men, and for all she knows if it was his business she was poking into he would have had her murked too.

He helped you.

For reasons unknown, or perhaps even nefarious, but she didn't know that, just like he didn't know having her on his arm would get him a gun stock to the face.

Her eyes flicker between the door to her escape and the long hallway they'd taken him, and she sighs, long and ill suffering. 

-

This is beyond stupid, she grouses inwardly, crawling her way underneath another set of hallway length windows in an effort to not get her head blown off by the rifle toting jarhead she'd seen walking the perimeter. 

She didn't have much besides “Grab Nikolai and Leave”. The details around even that fuzzy, not to mention the man may or may not be dead…or at minimum very angry with her. She pauses dead for a second, a little spinning wheeling flashing in her mind's eye as she slowly works that problem out.

…maybe he won't be so mad if she helps him. He could at least get them out of there and hunt her another day. 

Too late to go back now. 

From what they could tell they were searching the woods for her. What remnants of the dinner party left long gone in the aftermath, with just a few men and her knight left. 

She continues following the trail of blood and black skid marks from well polished shoes down fancy tiled corridors. Pausing around the corner as the sound of wet thuds and pained grunts hit her ears, followed by more seething russian.

Words so snarled she can barely understand. Something about her, betrayal, stupidity. Their captive rasps. Feigning ignorance.

No, not feigning, telling the truth. As the familiar voice definitely belonged to Nikolai, a light edge to it despite his predicament. Her heart pangs with guilt. This was definitely her fault.

She's fully prepared to play the waiting game, find a place to hide until at least one of the guards leaves the room. That is until she hears the light tap of a shoe on tile far too late, turning just in time to catch the pistol careening with her face.

-

Fucking, ow. 

Her head bounces off the marble and she sees stars, body laying limply on the floor as she attempts to reboot.

He'd definitely busted her head open, hopefully she wouldn't need stitches, but probably considering she could already feel the blood slipping into her hairline. 

And as she takes stock of herself, she realizes that he definitely thinks he's knocked her out, judging by the way he bitches, grumbling about her weight before unceremoniously grabbing her ankle and dragging her along.

She bites her tongue, forces herself to fall limp despite the radiating pain in her skull. Cracking like lightning as her head thunks between the grout. 

Eventually she's stopped, her thick leg flung hatefully to the floor as a door slams behind her. She keeps still. Listening. There was another, ragged labored breaths. She dares to crack her eye just a smidgen, taking in the blurry visage that was Nikolai, his limp black locks hiding his face from her view.

Okay. Target located. She hadn't necessarily planned playing possum to get there but hey, a win is a win. 

Win number two, a knocked out fat girl was apparently not threatening enough to justify security. Her arms and legs left splayed lifelessly beside her and undisturbed.

The door clicks again. Followed by heavy footsteps.

New problem.

She cracks her eye again, watching the guard stalk back and forth through the blurred slit of her eyelids. His back, thankfully toward her. 

He's yapping again, yanking Nikolai back by the hair to sneer. Monologuing as power hungry idiots are wont to do.

Her eyes scan the room fully now. She can make this work. He's bigger than her but she's got enough ass to swing hard if she needs to. Enough pressure in the right place can knock anyone out. Jaw, temple, base of skull, she lists. 

Her eyes search, lamp, chair, paperweight, all doable but loud….her eyes fall just above her. Pretty velvet curtains tied back neatly with thick, golden tasseled chord. Bingo.

Keeping her eyes glued to her chatty assailant she reaches upward, fingers barely grasping at the silky strands before tugging it down the length of the curtain, catching it swiftly before it could thunk against the floor. 

She'd needed to be quick for her next trick. She eases herself up. Wrapping the chord around both palms, steeling herself for what could very well be the worst decision she's ever made. Cut off blood supply, crush his windpipe. She pictures the anatomy in her head, and before she can bitch out she lunges, throwing the chord around his throat and yanking.

There's a choked gasp as she twists, turning her body 180 and pulling down sharply, attempting to use her own weight to assist in strangling the man. He thrashes against her back, nearly toppling them both over.  She's too short, his legs still able to scrabble against the ground.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She twists again, maneuvering her arms to twist the makeshift garrote around his throat into more of a noose. They both stumble in the struggle, falling to the floor in a heap. 

Absolutely fucking not.

She scrambles, keeping the chord pulled taut around the guards neck as she kicks her feett out, planting them both against the man's shoulders and yanking with all her might. Keeping her legs stiff and holding onto the chord for dear life, palms straining as she simultaneously pushes and pulls.

He really flails now, legs kicking and eyes bulging. Dull nails drawing blood against her calves and ankles where he fights to claw her off. She'd be impressed with his tenacity had she not been fearing for her own life. How fucking long did it take to strangle someone?

“Pull harder, zaychonok” a voice rasps over the gurgling and choking in the room. Nikolai.

And she does, grunting with the effort as she pushes with her knees, keeping the chord pulled tight against her chest, whole body beginning to tremble with the effort. 

“pull, keep pulling, more, more”

The man at her feet tries to howl, frothing and flailing desperately before there is a sickening pop. His body falling limp and silent. She sags, panting harshly, letting her cheek rest against the cool tile of the floor. Her hands throbbed, burned and bloodied from the rope, but she was alive, blessedly alive.

Which could not be said for the guard. 

She shoots up, flinging the chord viciously from her hands and stares at him. He's dead alright, head cranked at an unnatural angle, dead eyes bulging and painted red from broken vessels. His neck painted in varying shades of red and purple. 

It makes her stomach churn. 

She stares at the body, her memory carving his corpse into the inside of her skull. It’s not that she hadn't seen a dead body before, she's seen plenty. She's just…never been the direct result of a dead body. The words Do No Harm, echoes in her brain. 

“Zaya”

She flinches, eyes bouncing to Nikolai who watches her carefully.  “Fetch me his knife” he instructs, and his voice is soft, surprisingly gentle given the situation. She follows, moving on autopilot to flip the thug over and snag the knife from his belt. 

She stumbles toward him. Clumsy like a newborn foal as she cuts the zip ties from his wrists with trembling fingers. Vehemently ignoring looking at the dead man on the floor. 

Nikolai makes a little relieved sound, rubbing his aching wrists as she circles back around. He carefully tugs the knife from her hands, never taking his eyes off of her as he slides it against his belt.

“Good job” he murmurs, hooking a hand a bit to roughly against her shoulder. Shaking her from her thoughts again. The poor man looks rough, they both do. Thankfully it’s something she thinks a few stitches and a bath couldn't fix. But something else occurs to her.

“You speak english.” she deadpans, staring at him with exhausted eyes, and this mad bastard has the gall to let out a small wet laugh.

“Very observant” he chuckles, patting her shoulder moving across the room on stiff legs. He plucks a handgun from the desk drawer and checks the magazine. Satisfied , he slides it into his belt, bending again to pick up the guard’s fallen handgun making the same check. He eyes her with a raised brow.

“Can I trust you with this?”

She swallows hard, nods. It’s been a while, but she knows how to use it. 

He approaches, quickly going over the safety, how to clear it, before pushing it into her hand. His warm palm slides over the metal, gripping her wrist securely. He folds his chin to his chest, looking into her eyes. Holding her attention. 

“Stay close to me, keep your hand off the trigger, we will survive.”

“Da” she repeats, preening just a bit as he smiles at her.

[europeansculpture]

E. Boudry - Buste de femme endormie, 1935

[mrsines]

C’est à moi.

À la demande de @sayresse17 j’espère que ça va le faire 👀

23« Est-ce ma chemise ? »

Lilia X reader

Reader était une jeune orpheline de 25 ans, marquée par des années de vie en famille d'accueil. Elle avait toujours rêvé d'une vie stable, mais chaque nouvelle maison ne faisait qu'accentuer son sentiment d'instabilité. Aujourd'hui, elle avait décidé de fuir ses parents adoptifs, ne supportant plus leur indifférence.

Elle avait trouvé un petit travail dans la boutique de Lilia, Lilia avait tout de suite remarqué la douceur et la détermination de Reader. Avec le temps, un lien s'était tissé entre elles, si bien que Lilia avait proposé à Reader de s'installer dans sa chambre d’amie.

Cela faisait maintenant quelques mois que les deux femmes cohabitaient. Leur quotidien était rythmé par des rires, des discussions autour d'un café, et des soirées passées à lire ensemble. Reader se sentait enfin chez elle, entourée de chaleur et de compréhension. Pourtant, au fil des jours, un sentiment troublant commençait à s'installer en elle. Plus elle passait de temps avec Lilia, plus elle réalisait qu'elle l'aimait d'une manière qu'elle ne pouvait pas contrôler.

Reader se surprenait à la regarder plus longtemps, à apprécier chaque geste, chaque sourire de Lilia. Elle se sentait coupable de ces pensées, consciente que ce lien affectif pouvait être dangereux. "Je ne devrais pas ressentir ça," se répétait-elle en silence, mais son cœur avait déjà pris le dessus sur sa raison. Les moments passés ensemble, les éclats de rire partagés, tout cela la rapprochait d'une affection qu'elle n'avait jamais connue auparavant.

Reader avait enfin terminé de faire le ménage dans la maison, un sentiment de satisfaction l'envahissant. Elle se dirigea vers la salle de bain, impatiente de se plonger dans une bonne douche bien chaude. L'eau chaude coula sur sa peau, apaisant toutes les tensions accumulées de la journée. Elle ferma les yeux, profitant de chaque goutte, laissant la vapeur envelopper la pièce.

Après un moment de pur bonheur, Reader sortit de la baignoire, se sentant rafraîchie et revigorée. Elle s'enroula dans une serviette douce, absorbant l'humidité de sa peau. Une fois sèche, elle se mit à chercher ses vêtements, le cœur léger. Elle commença à enfiler son pantalon, soudain, un frisson de surprise la parcourut

. "Oh non, j'ai oublié de prendre un haut !" s'exclama-t-elle, réalisant qu'elle était restée là, à moitié vêtue, sans rien pour couvrir son buste.

Reader se sentit soudainement prise au dépourvu. Elle ne pouvait pas sortir ainsi, et la panique s'installa un instant. Ses yeux parcoururent la salle de bain, cherchant désespérément une solution. C'est alors qu'elle aperçut une chemise de Lilia accrochée au porte-manteau. "C'est mieux que rien", se dit-elle en l'enfilant rapidement, se sentant un peu plus à l'aise.

Elle attacha rapidement ses cheveux en un chignon désordonné, essayant de donner une impression de calme avant de sortir de la salle de bain. En marchant dans le couloir, elle espérait que personne ne la croiserait. Malheureusement, au moment où elle tournait le coin, Lilia apparut, surprise de la voir ainsi vêtue.

Reader se figea, le cœur battant. La gêne l'envahit, et elle ne savait pas quoi dire. Ses joues prirent une teinte rosée alors qu'elle cherchait des mots, mais rien ne venait. Elle se contenta de sourire timidement, espérant que Lilia ne poserait pas trop de questions sur sa tenue improvisée.

Lilia se tenait dans l'embrasure de la porte, un sourire malicieux sur le visage.

"Est-ce ma chemise ?" demanda-t-elle, un coin de sa bouche se relevant en un sourire espiègle, ses yeux pétillants de curiosité.

Reader, encore un peu gênée par la situation, baissa les yeux sur la chemise ample qui flottait autour d'elle.

"Eh bien, je… je l'ai empruntée sans vraiment demander," commença Reader, sa voix hésitante trahissant son embarras. Elle se gratta la nuque, cherchant les mots justes. "Je n'avais rien d'autre à mettre, et je me suis dit que ça pourrait faire l'affaire le temps que j’aille chercher quelque chose dans mon placard.."

Lilia, cependant, ne semblait pas se soucier de l'explication. Ses yeux parcouraient le corps de Reader avec une admiration inattendue. Elle se rapprocha lentement, ses pas légers sur le sol.

"Tu sais," dit-elle, son regard ancré dans celui de Reader, "je trouve que ça te va vraiment bien."

Reader sentit son cœur s'emballer sous le compliment, ses joues s'empourprant légèrement. "Tu penses vraiment ?" demanda-t-elle, surprise mais flattée.

"Absolument," affirma Lilia, un sourire sincère illuminant son visage. "Garde-la, elle te va bien. Tu devrais porter des chemises comme ça plus souvent."

Reader, touchée par la gentillesse de son amie, ne put s'empêcher de sourire. "Merci, Lilia. Je vais réfléchir à ta suggestion," répondit-elle, se sentant à la fois gênée et heureuse.

Lilia lui fit un clin d'œil complice avant de s'éloigner, laissant Reader avec une nouvelle confiance, réalisant que même les moments les plus embarrassants peuvent se transformer en compliments inattendus.

[childmagazine]

louisbever Joey and Kiana in 2000 France Away Shirt and 1998 Brazil Training Jacket recreating Pablo Picasso's 1929 'Buste de Femme' in my flat.

[colorel11]

Au dire d'Ovide:"je ne peux suivre la mode, chaque jour introduit un style nouveau, une mode nouvelle"

Pour les femmes du peuple la coiffure de tous les jours est simple,elle se complique comme en témoigne cette collection de bustes pour les dames nobles.

Ainsi,Pour son mariage la jeune mariée avait une coiffure compliquée composée de six bourrelets surmontée d’une couronne de fleurs, elle avait préalablement teint ses cheveux avec une teinture a base de safran.

La femme utilise pour réaliser sa coiffure de cérémonie, des filets, des postiches, des perruques, des tresses, des épingles a cheveux, des bouffants, des crépons, des sert têtes,et fait usage de poudre colorée

sources:photo:Pinterest

texte:"De la racine à la pointe" manuel de la coiffure historique

[womblegrinch]

Georges de Feure (1868-1943) - Femme de buste fumant en profil

Graphite, gouache and watercolour on paper laid down on canvas. 21.25 x 16.75 inches, 54 x 42.3 cm.

Estimate: €30,000-50,000.

Sold Christie's, Paris, 17 Oct 2024 for €52,920 incl B.P.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

I decided to try this but for the girlies instead.

Are you sure want to click on ”keep reading”?

For Pauline Léon marrying Claire Lacombe’s host, see Liberty: the lives of six women in Revolutionary France (2006) by Lucy Moore, page 230

For Pauline Léon throwing a bust of Lafayette through Fréron’s window and being friends with Constance Evrard, see Pauline Léon, une républicaine révolutionnaire (2006) by Claude Guillon.

For Françoise Duplay’s sister visiting Catherine Théot, see Points de vue sur l’affaire Catherine Théot (1969) by Michel Eude, page 627.

For Anne Félicité Colombe publishing the papers of Marat and Fréron, see The women of Paris and their French Revolution (1998) by Dominique Godineau, page 382-383.

For the relationship between Simonne Evrard and Albertine Marat, see this post.

For Albertine Marat dissing Charlotte Robespierre, see F.V Raspail chez Albertine Marat (1911) by Albert Mathiez, page 663.

For Lucile Desmoulins predicting Marie-Antoinette would mount the scaffold, see the former’s diary from 1789.

For Lucile being friends with madame Boyer, Brune, Dubois-Crancé, Robert and Danton, calling madame Ricord’s husband ”brusque, coarse, truly mad, giddy, insane,” visiting ”an old madwoman” with madame Duplay’s son and being hit on by Danton as well as Louise Robert saying she would stab Danton, see Lucile’s diary 1792-1793.

For the relationship between Lucile Desmoulins and Marie Hébert, see this post.

For the relationship between Lucile Desmoulins and Thérèse Jeanne Fréron de la Poype, and the one between Annette Duplessis and Marguerite Philippeaux, see letters cited in Camille Desmoulins and his wife: passages from the history of the dantonists (1876) page 463-464 and 464-469.

For Adèle Duplessis having been engaged to Robespierre, see this letter from Annette Duplessis to Robespierre, seemingly written April 13 1794.

For Claire Panis helping look after Horace Desmoulins, see Panis précepteur d’Horace Desmoulins (1912) by Charles Valley.

For Élisabeth Lebas being slandered by Guffroy, molested by Danton, treated like a daughter by Claire Panis, accusing Ricord of seducing her sister-in-law and being helped out in prison by Éléonore, see Le conventionnel Le Bas : d'après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve, page 108, 125-126, 139 and 140-142.

For Élisabeth Lebas being given an obscene book by Desmoulins, see this post.

For Charlotte Robespierre dissing Joséphine, Éléonore Duplay, madame Genlis, Roland and Ricord, see Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834), page  76-77,  90-91, 96-97, 109-116 and 128-129.

For Charlotte Robespierre arriving two hours early to Rosalie Jullien’s dinner, see Journal d’une Bourgeoise pendant la Révolution 1791–1793, page 345.

For Charlotte Robespierre physically restraining Couthon, see this post.

For Charlotte Robespierre and Françoise Duplay’s relationship, see Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 85-92 and Le conventional Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1902) page 104-105

For the relationship between Charlotte Robespierre and Victoire and Élisabeth Lebas, see this post.

For Charlotte Robespierre visiting madame Guffroy, moving in with madame Laporte and Victoire Duplay being arrested by one of Charlotte’s friends, see Charlotte Robespierre et ses amis (1961)

For Louise de Kéralio calling Etta Palm a spy, see Appel aux Françoises sur la régénération des mœurs et nécessité de l’influence des femmes dans un gouvernement libre (1791) by the latter.

For the relationship between Manon Roland and Louise de Kéralio Robert, see Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 198-207 

For the relationship between Madame Pétion and Manon Roland, see Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 158 and 244-245 as well as Lettres de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 510.

For the relationship between Madame Roland and Madame Buzot, see Mémoires de Madame Roland (1793), volume 1, page 372, volume 2, page 167 as well as this letter from Manon to her husband dated September 9 1791. For the affair between Manon and Buzot, see this post.

For Manon Roland praising Condorcet, see Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 14-15.

For the relationship between Manon Roland and Félicité Brissot, see Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 1, page 360.

For the relationship between Helen Maria Williams and Manon Roland, see Memoirs of the Reign of Robespierre (1795), written by the former.

For the relationship between Mary Wollstonecraft and Helena Maria Williams, see Collected letters of Mary Wollstonecraft (1979), page 226.

For Constance Charpentier painting a portrait of Louise Sébastienne Danton, see Constance Charpentier: Peintre (1767-1849), page 74.

For Olympe de Gouges writing a play with fictional versions of the Fernig sisters, see L’Entrée de Dumourier à Bruxelles ou les Vivandiers (1793) page 94-97 and 105-110.

For Olympe de Gouges calling Charlotte Corday ”a monster who has shown an unusual courage,” see a letter from the former dated July 20 1793, cited on page 204 of Marie-Olympe de Gouges: une humaniste à la fin du XVIIIe siècle (2003) by Oliver Blanc.

For Olympe de Gouges adressing her declaration to Marie-Antoinette, see Les droits de la femme: à la reine (1791) written by the former.

For Germaine de Staël defending Marie-Antoinette, see Réflexions sur le procès de la Reine par une femme (1793) by the former.

For the friendship between Madame Royale and Pauline Tourzel, see Souvernirs de quarante ans: 1789-1830: récit d’une dame de Madame la Dauphine (1861) by the latter.

For Félicité Brissot possibly translating Mary Wollstonecraft, see Who translated into French and annotated Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman? (2022) by Isabelle Bour.

For Félicité Brissot working as a maid for Louise Marie Adélaïde de Bourbon, see Mémoires inédites de Madame la comptesse de Genlis: sur le dix-huitième siècle et sur la révolution française, volume 4, page 106.

For Reine Audu, Claire Lacombe and Théroigne de Méricourt being given civic crowns together, see Gazette nationale ou le Moniteur universel, September 3, 1792.

For Reine Audu taking part in the women’s march on Versailles, see Reine Audu: les légendes des journées d’octobre (1917) by Marc de Villiers.

For Marie-Antoinette calling Lamballe ”my dear heart,” see Correspondance inédite de Marie Antoinette, page 197, 209 and 252.

For Marie-Antoinette disliking Madame du Barry, see https://plume-dhistoire.fr/marie-antoinette-contre-la-du-barry/

For Marie-Antoinette disliking Anne de Noailles, see Correspondance inédite de Marie Antoinette, page 30.

For Louise-Élisabeth Tourzel and Lamballe being friends, see Memoirs of the Duchess de Tourzel: Governess to the Children of France during the years 1789, 1790, 1791, 1792, 1793 and 1795 volume 2, page 257-258

For Félicité de Genlis being the mistress of Louise Marie Adélaïde de Bourbon’s husband, see La duchesse d’Orléans et Madame de Genlis (1913).

For Pétion escorting Madame Genlis out of France, see Mémoires inédites de Madame la comptesse de Genlis…, volume 4, page 99.

For the relationship between Félicité de Genlis and Louise de Kéralio Robert, see Mémoires de Madame de Genlis: en un volume, page 352-354

For the relationship between Félicité de Genlis and Germaine de Staël, see Mémoires inédits de Madame la comptesse de Genlis, volume 2, page 316-317

For the relationship between Félicité de Genlis and Théophile Fernig, see Mémoires inédits de Madame la comptesse de Genlis, volume 4, page 300-304

For the relationship between Félicité de Genlis and Félicité Brissot, see Mémoires inédites de Madame la comptesse de Genlis, volume 4, page 106-110, as well as this letter dated June 1783 from Félicité Brissot to Félicité Genlis.

For the relationship between Félicité de Genlis and Théresa Cabarrus, see Mémoires de Madame de Genlis: en un volume (1857) page 391.

For Félicité de Genlis inviting Lucile to dinner, see this letter from Sillery to Desmoulins dated March 3 1791.

For Marinette Bouquey hiding the husbands of madame Buzot, Pétion and Guadet, see Romances of the French Revolution (1909) by G. Lenotre, volume 2, page 304-323

Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

[fashionlandscapeblog]

Pablo Picasso

Buste de femme au chapeau (Dora), 1939

Oil on canvas.