#Ecclesiastes mention | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blueberryarchive · 1 year ago

Text

𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.

୨ৎpairing: cowboy!jm x reader x preacher!jk

୨ৎword count: 5k

୨ৎgenre: smut, horror, angst

୨ৎtw: dead dove do not eat, mentions of death and gruesome details (human and animal), blood, mentions of arms and physical violence, cursing, smut (blood drinking and playing, period sex, rope play, degrading, dub-con, groping, penetration)

An Ewe and the Captive Bolt (a serie)

Today was his birthday, and for the first time in 28 years, the sky looked like a sheet full of spots. He felt ever since he saw Sirius and Canopus in the sky as two little white suns the night before, that this year was going to be different.

What Park didn't know was that what would be different was the pain he felt on the left side of his arm and his chest. The hot, thick blood soaked his shoulder and eye until it covered his eyelashes. The battered hat clutched in both dusty hands as he entered Carmen's diner, a child's shame on his tight lips.

The poor girl behind the counter dropped the key lime pie from her hands, creating even more noise in the place (which Jimin didn't appreciate being in such a state).

"Christ." She murmured, still static.

"Be a doll and bring me a glass of water, would ya'?" Jimin crawled to one of the seats, grunting as he felt his muscles burn.

The girl approached with a small towel and a terrified look.

"Never seen blood before?"

"No, sir." Her brown eyes were like two walnuts bouncing between Jimin's face and arms. She was adorable, her face round and her hair so curly that she reminded him of his sheep. If she hadn't been the sheriff's daughter, he said to himself every time he saw her.

"Are you hurt, sir? I can call my daddy and-"

"No need for that, sweetheart." He raised his hand. The last thing he needed was to have Montrell in his affairs. "It ain't my blood, it's my horse's"

Apparently, that seemed to affect the young woman more. Jimin was a little offended by her reaction.

"Why don't you bring me a piece of that delicious key lime pie you had in hand and two coffees."

There were more questions in her curved eyebrows, but she just nodded and walked away. Park took off his shirt, leaving a tank top underneath it, with the handkerchief that he kept in his jeans, he began to wet his hands and his face.

His fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline. The shrill sound of the car's tires driving away, the heated laughter cloistered behind the smoked windows, the last sharp sigh of his horse before Jimin ended his suffering. He had to find the bastards who ran over his horse. FH-6077, he read the plate in the distance before crossing the curve, and his brain couldn't stop humming the six digits like a prayer.

The sudden hand on his shoulder calmed the waters, the undoubtable smell of myrrh and tobacco from his companion.

"Happy birthday, buddy." His voice was gentle. If Jungkook ever went above a couple of those decibels, Jimin assumed he was going to die. Even seeing Park's bloody hat on the table and Park's bloodstained boots, he didn't flinch to ask.

Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical nature that gave him the confidence that at one time or another, others would fill the silence with their confessions. But Jimin could see in the father's noble eyes the desperation for an explanation.

"Sure." That was all he said. The girl approached the table with the pie and the coffee.

"Goodnight, Father John." She smiled widely.

"Night, Billie. How's your dad?"

"He really liked your mass today. I did too, I really liked the reading." Jimin noticed how the corners of Billie's lips twitched, contorting herself to try to look prettier for Father John. So obvious and adorable, but of course, Jeon would give nothing more than a shrug and the most predictable questions.

The difference is that Jungkook could fuck the sheriff's daughter. What father didn't want his daughter to be in the sacred hands of Father John?

Father Jeon (or John due to the Americanization of Jungkook's family) was tall, wide like a log, and robust like an unhorned bull. Attractive in every sense, but bland, shy until it hurts.

"'M glad, tell him I will visit Missus Davis next week."

"Do you have a smoke? I'm dying in here."

They both looked at Jimin who was just smiling with his mouth smeared with whipped cream.

"You can't smoke here, sir."

Jimin winked at her, grabbing the white stick that Jungkook handed him as he also sat down to end the unbearable flirting.

"I know, pumpkin. It'll be a quick one, I promise."

The girl didn't say anything else, and she walked away. Disappointment in her walnut eyes.

"I'll marry her in two months." Said Jungkook.

Jimin frowned. Jungkook curled his fingers, pointing for his friend to come closer and light the tip of the tobacco.

"Marry her? You can barely tolerate the poor girl."

"I love her." The father stated as he nodded slowly while he drank his coffee. "She's a good girl, I think she likes me, too."

"Are ya sure?" Jimin joked.

"Where's that bad hoss you've been riding since last month?"

Jimin's blood warmed again, the drags on his cigarette even longer.

"Fuckin' punks ran over 'im and broke his ribs. Had to do it." He pointed to the gun under his hat. The bloody clothes reminded him how clumsy he sure looked trying to pamper a horse that was already three steps away.

FH-6077.

"I'll find them tomorrow."

"I'll help you."

"What are you gonna do?"

They both looked at each other, the watery, electric current between them. Ideas undulated and braided between their cruel smiles.

"Haven't changed a bit, church boy." Smoke weaved into Jimin's blonde hair, his devilish smile vaporizing memories of his teenage pranks.

Jungkook drank the last of his coffee, his face falling back into the same bitter sadness that every father held as if he carried the weight of all the souls and sins of Rivermouth on his back. The silence was long afterward, the black night extended to the mountains, to the sky, to Park's own reflection in the glass. The round face with pronounced lips and rude, detailed eyes, sweet when they feel like it. The spitting image of his mother.

"I have some hippies coming to the ranch tomorrow."

Jungkook nodded, the pressure in the handle increasing, the clack of the cup being clenched by his teeth in a sip. Jimin knew he shouldn't have mentioned the hippies, but it was that ecclesiastical power. He knew that Jungkook hated the smell of pot, the long hair, and the colorful t-shirts, which reminded him of his father, previous father John.

God knows what Jungkook had to witness, the carbonic stench that emanated from that charred skeleton. The tongue pressed between two pieces of blackish board that used to be teeth. The fetid fat that ripped and curdled in the organs. There was not a day in which the poor man did not think about that before going to sleep and found himself face to face with the featureless face of his father, with the incinerated bowls pointed at the eyes of his son. Sitting in the chair under the cross that has sat on that wall since Jungkook's birth.

And Jungkook cried. He would close his eyes and every night, he would grab the skull and make it crunch under his thick hands. The body did not defend itself, it let its boy vent as if he were a sacred entity and knew that at the same time, the next day and every other day, he would appear again in that chair, and Jungkook would never be able to exhaust his anger against him.

"I have to go." It was the only thing he said leaving a ten dollar bill in the table. Park understood. "Go fetch a new hat from my house tomorrow, it's about time you threw that shit in the river."

"Hey."

Jungkook turned around. Jimin stopped smiling.

"Take it home in the morning, I'll make you breakfast before the rodeo."

Jeon looked at the floor with uneasy eyes.

"We'll see."

As he left the diner, the fresh wind conquered the father's soul. Nostalgia washed away his stony face and for the first time in years, he wanted to be a child again. Disappear with Jimin and sleep in the old hayfields of the abandoned Hillside.

He put on his black hat and started walking down the dark street, both hands in his pockets.

Today the smell of boiling fat was stronger than ever, the ghost of his father floated in the swirls of Rivermouth dust and, with it, the remains of the children who were later taken from that same cabin.

The white lace curtains let in the yellowish light of the first rays. The unmade bed, the smell of pine in the sheets.

In one corner of the bed, Park was dressing for the day, the muscles in his shoulder had swollen with the hours and makeshift cloths covered the open, bloody sores. Every so often, he hissed and swore under his breath.

The coffee began to gurgle in the kitchen as he finished putting on his boots, it was barely 6:30, but he already had the eggs frying and the beans hot in the pot. It seemed strange to him that his companion was not already sitting next to the window, Bible open and the first cigarette of the morning in his hand.

He turned off the stove just in time and poured himself a cup. Today he felt more domestic than ever, he had spent the night fixing every detail in the ranch, from the dust on his late mother's china to the rifles displayed in the hallway. To be frank, he spent the entire night cleaning every corner, maybe detailing every object in every room so that at the end of the weekend nothing would be missing, or the crash made him remember how little he's done in 28 damn years.

A porcelain jewelry box his mother had placed in one of the rooms was covered in a thin layer of gray dust; it was his mother's favorite piece. He hadn't opened it since the last time he stole a couple of pearls to buy his first rifle, the red stained his face with shame, and the only thing he could do as an apology was turn the house over with his own handkerchief and clean even the windows. He was surprised that the smell of lye and soap hadn't killed him.

Hearing one of his sheep bleating, he opened the window and decided to lower his chivalry a bit and smoke his first cigarette before Jungkook arrived. In the distance, he could see one of his ewes, fat and terribly woolly, walking slowly towards the barn. She was pregnant and Jimin knew that there were maybe 24 hours left, her skin was bulging, and her bleating was painful and whiny, she couldn't take it anymore.

The curtain caressed Jimin's face with the wind that was beginning to warm up, he took a drag of the cigarette and turned his body towards the kitchen. He felt a strange itch in his chest, the kind that bothers him when he senses a spirit floating near him. The greenish branches and the smell of sausages were mixed up with the subtle gallop of a skinny horse and the unexpected smell of myrrh.

He walked to the front door and opened it to find Jeon's promised hat. He sighed as he saw that not only was it one of his black deathly-looking hats, but he had also planted him at breakfast, sure to go see the grandmother of his very unexpected but predictable fiancée.

Long story short, Jimin had to eat four cowboys' breakfast and the whole pot of coffee, and the hat he would wear to the rodeo today didn't match his outfit at all. Dozing was the only thing he could do after loosening the buckle on his belt and putting the hat on his face.

The leather furniture was sinking under his body, the soft song of the river in the distance, and the birds pecking at his roof took him back to his childhood. Sleeping wherever he wanted without any purpose. He dreamed of the gallops of his first horse: Champ, a Tennesee Walking that had belonged to his grandfather, black as coal, glistening in the sun of his student days and running like a devil in a hurry. He dreamed that he was in public showing the animal to auction it.

"How do you encourage a horse to move forward, Sage?" A woman in the audience shouted.

"I don't know, kick his ass or something." Heavenly laughter coaxed him out of his lethargy.

His body sat on the furniture before he knew it, sweat covering his back, veins marked on the left side of his face. He ran with the unconscious weight of his body to the window, pushing the curtain aside with his finger until he saw the circular corral where his star horse, Arrow, was located, with a stranger on his back.

His fingers reached for the rifle lying on the rocking chair.

The blonde girl staggered on top of the animal while her thin fingers held his hair tightly. The horse's sleepy eyes moved from side to side, snorting as he searched for direction.

"Come on, horsie!" The girl snapped her teeth and laughed as the horse curved to one side. "Are you seeing, Hunter? It's moving."

Hunter was smiling foolishly, lying on the grass, his thin, wavy hair fluttering around his ears like a delicate flower. The dark glasses covered his wounded deer's eyes.

"You're such a cowgirl, my love." His voice was sarcastic.

And with a shot into the air, silence muted nature. He silenced the current, the clucking of the chickens that fluttered in the distance. Hunter, Sage, and Blondie turned to the cowboy who walked slowly across the grass towards them. A whistle from the stranger caused Arrow to raise his front paws until Blondie fell with a screech to the hard ground.

"Kitty!"

"Woah, cowboy." Jimin's silky voice approached, placing the buttplate of his rifle on his shoulder, aiming directly between Hunter's eyebrows. "Move slowly, ya wouldn't want to scare an alarmed man any further, now would ya?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

Blondie or Kitty or whatever her name was, rolled her red eyes.

"What the hell are you doing on my ranch?"

"Let's go, Hunter. I'm not going to talk to cornman." Sage was the tallest of them all, her shorts squeezed her thighs until they were overflowing, and her hair was long like a beach princess.

"Watch your fucking language around me, missy." Gritted Jimin removing the safety on the rifle.

"Sage, for once do you want to shut the fuck up."

Hunter raised his hands, sweat beginning to gather on his wrinkled forehead. His eyes shone as he heard the heels slowly approaching behind Jimin.

"Love." He exhaled.

"Is this part of southern charm, Mr. Park?" Coquettish, the dying accent of someone who once lived in these parts, daring, too much for her own good. But still, he lowered the gun, spitting on the ground.

When he turned around it was as if a pink burst of glitter and vanilla had slapped him from the stupor of sleep. The glasses were square and large, they covered almost her entire face, that was the first thing Jimin saw.

"Ma'am, are these your friends?"

"We are your visitors, cornman." Jimin ignored the Californian's irritating nasal whine as the sweet girl in front of him approached little by little with a smile. He felt the itch again, the one that senses a spirit floating nearby, this spirit was the nebulous memory of your face.

"Could you speak again, ma'am?"

"Sorry?" You laughed, and it was like birds were chirping in your throat. "You're Ari's son, right? I really liked the jams your grandmother used to make."

And oh, it couldn't be more obvious. It couldn't be more evident, not even because God had exploded your name in the sky. It was the stunning makeup and hair wax, it was the sequined heels and Patsy Cline songs reverberating from the old speakers. It was your name in the newspaper almost every week.

It was your sailor costume, the jam falling from your humiliated face, it was Jimin's hand caressing the bulge in his jeans that same night on top of the hay, imagining how you ate the strawberry jam that his mother made.

Now you called yourself Love, the name was as obvious as you were. Of course, your hippie name is Love.

"Miss Peaches '57." His voice was soft and trembling. Your eyes opened in surprise.

"Gods, I didn't even remember that title." You put your hand on your mouth, dressed as a Hollywood girl but your loving manners were indelible.

"Excuse me, where are my manners? Jimin Park." He raised his hand for you to place in yours, light and trusting. A chaste kiss to the back of your hand without stopping to see your eyes behind the orange glasses.

"You can call me Love."

"A sight to sore eyes, Love."

"Always." You responded. Jimin swallowed hard, trying to hide that nostalgic smile, 'pure in every way. With that same smile, he invited the four to go through their rooms, the tension subsiding fluidly with each laugh that came from your blessed lips.

It was as if you said one thing and the sun came a little closer, deorbiting out to your echoes, warming the room and Jimin's cheeks.

"Can you help me look for my suitcases?" You touched the shoulder of the cowboy who agreed and guided you to the front door. Like the good boy his mother raised, he opened the door for you, and outside stood a Packard Caribbean: long, yellow, and sleek as a sunflower.

"Nice ride."

"Thank you, it's from Hunter's dad. He gave it to him for his birthday. Isn't it a beauty?"

"Beautiful." His nose scrunched watching your stomach bulge down your cute little top, hard nipples contouring the pink fabric. You still were just good enough to eat.

Examining the car little by little, a detail began to emerge in his memory. Among them, glowing in the heat of that morning were the six digits from the night before: FH-6077.

When it came to religion Jimin didn't have many opinions.

As a kid his mother went to church every Sunday and took him. He saw the statues of Jesus suffering with indifferent eyes, he made his first communion only because they promised to give him a sip of wine with the host, he listened to the stories of death and plagues as if they were cartoons.

God was a very complicated being, the more he thought about him, the heavier his body became.

To his surprise, God was nothing more than a sham, a wall between you and him. The host, that time Jungkook's father offered him, tasted like nothing and the wine went down his young throat tasteless.

"Body of Christ." You said, the music playing crisply on the record player Hunter had brought. The guitars repeated the same riff over and over, he hated it.

Jimin stuck his tongue out where you placed a small square of magazine paper no bigger than a fingernail. Jimin’s eyelashes fluttered, his knees throbbing as he knelt in front of you, your thumb brushing against his lips before sealing them.

"Amen," he sighed.

The host that you offered to his mortal body was as tasteless as the first, but only Jimin knew the euphoria that, like a hurricane's wind, announced the sweet path that awaited the cowboy.

Jimin was not a man who smoked more than five cigarettes a day, seven if it was a bad day. But your siren song in his ear convinced him to drown his morals in your dark waters, your hands took both sides of his tanned face and you threw him without warning to your sanctuary, towards the steepest rocks, to your glorious eyes. And damn, Park could drink the water from your pupils and die of poisoning.

"I missed you so much, I didn't know it until the moment I saw you." His lips said before thinking about it, narrow pupils lying on the grass next to you. You just laughed, it was the only thing you did and he just admired it.

At one point around noon, Jimin took the steering wheel of the Packard. Hunter, Sage, and Kitty were talking about a record, making strange sounds and asking the opinion of Jimin who was driving down the dusty road, making the engine roar so that you would scream next to him.

"Slow down!" You asked. He went faster, he didn't care.

The purring of the car made Jimin's body pulse, his mouth was dry, his arm no longer hurt, and his lips prayed the license plate of the car, over and over again.

I'm going to find it, he told himself. And when I find him I'm going to make them suffer, as the tips of the horse's bones pierced its dark fur, neighing over his own stupid words trying to calm the wounded animal.

Faster, find it.

Like oil, the green branches of summer became watery and greasy in his vision, and the dust was stalactites that bathed the car in yellow.

"Good luck, cowboy." Kitty approached Jimin, somehow he had made it to the rodeo. The horns announced his name on all four corners and people shouted his last name like the idol he was.

Sage and Kitty kissed his cheeks before he climbed on top of Arrow, the weight of his body creating echoes every time he moved.

There was no one in that audience who saw Jimin on his horse who was not surprised by the agility with which the rope rose above his head and created fluid circles to catch the rough calf that writhed with the knot in its thick neck.

Jungkook saw from a distance how the cowboy's smile was so bright, how he rejoiced at the applause and the roses that were thrown at him. His movements were vehement, fiery, and impulsive like a devil without fear of death.

The hat Jungkook had given him had a small, withered pink carnation on it. He stood up as quickly as he could at the end of the show, but before he could talk to him he only saw Arrow galloping thunderously in the distance, one girl was wearing the gifted hat, she grabbed Jimin's waist and with the other, she gave whiskey to the cowboy. The copper thread falls to his chest and settles on his strap.

"The sight of him today was incredible, I had never seen 'im like that." Billie smiled behind Jungkook, her cheeks red, eyes covered with a fine lust that she probably didn't even recognize.

The firmament rose high above his eyes, there was no star that Jimin didn't feel the overwhelming sound of fire burning in his ears. His body was sweating on the grass, and the smell of nicotine was strong after smoking two cigarettes to settle his reverberating body. The high had passed and his body was a used towel.

He doesn't remember much of what happened, but the remnants of the hallucinogen's burn made him understand that he had the damn time of his life. A laugh left his lips, embarrassed by how easy it was to convince him to do that stupid thing. What Jungkook told him was true: you haven't changed at all, cowboy.

"How's my favorite rodeo king?" The angel landed above his head, you were wearing his hat and a flowered dress.

"Roughened up, I guess." Just like after a good fuck.

"Don't get hooked or you'll end up like Hunter." You combed your hair as you walked around him. "He can't last a day without it or else he starts hitting Kitty."

"Why don't you report it?" Jimin stood following your steps. After looking around him for a few seconds, he realized that he was in the rodeo arena, darkness bathed the stadium. The blue moon showed your silhouette walking over the horseshoe tracks.

"Because Kitty doesn't want to, they are going to get married in a few months. He promised to stop doing drugs when they did. It wouldn't be good for a kid."

There was a lightness in the promises the Californians made to others, they nodded seriously, but you could see the consequences in their evasive gaze.

Jimin nodded.

"Are you always so quiet?"

He nodded again, and they both laughed.

"'M better when I'm not ten feet deep in an LSD hangover, I can assure that."

"Yes, but..." Your silhouette approached his body, and you carried the energy of ten bulls on you. Your immortal look, you haven't changed anything. "I asked if you're always this quiet."

Jimin inhaled as he understood your question.

"When I'm in the stadium I'm more vocal." He again evaded the answer you were looking for so much. His chest beat boldly like the time he saw you covered in strawberries and sugar.

"You were a star this afternoon, your eyes were shining."

"Always."

You raised your eyebrow and scoffed. "Sure thing, sir."

Blood surged to Park's neck, his eyelids drooping, his pride tainting his flirtation. Enough of the games.

"Run." He murmured, saliva pooling in his throat.

You frowned with your typical smile.

"What?"

"I asked you to run." His body suddenly lunged and you became alarmed, raising your hands. "As fast and as far from this stadium as you can."

His pupils didn't move, his soft smile was confident. Your skin grew cold with each step, at first slow and suspicious, the darkness of the large arena was intimidating because it felt like you were not moving forward.

You heard how an object created hollow, sharp sounds in the air. It was his lasso.

"No." You muttered, running even faster.

And swoosh, you fell to the ground. The rope squeezed your neck, leaving your body in mid-air, your tongue came out and your eyes bulged from the sudden lack of air; the hat fell away from you. Your body was no longer yours, your stupid fingers tried to loosen the knot, but it was too late.

The boots approached, collecting the rope that was left over around his arm. The silhouette became part of your blurred vision.

"Stand up."

"I. Can't." Your lips emulated as you writhed like a worm in the dust.

"Lemme' help ya'." Jimin snatched the rope for you to stand up, your knees moved up to him where his fingers loosened the knot a little. "Breathe, little girl. We don't want an accident."

Saliva came out of your mouth in streams and fell to the floor. Jimin grabbed your chin and wiped it.

"Don't make a mess now."

"I'm sorry, sir." And now you sounded as helpless and stupid as Hunter did this morning. It was adorable.

You were afraid to look up, your eyes trained on the hat a few meters away from both of you.

"Tell me, pumpkin. How can two ugly sons of bitches like your parents have such a beautiful girl?" He laughed, dragging the rope to where his hat was, you walked behind him with careless steps. With a couple of blows, he blew the dust off his hat and looked at you again, searching for an answer you didn't even know how to articulate or if you should.

His hand wrapped the rope around his fingers until he had you as close as possible, the smell of tobacco hammered your temples, and your eyelids wrinkled to try to wake up.

Great was the surprise when you felt a pair of dry lips resting on yours, his tongue daringly passed over your lips so that you would open, his moans softening your fear.

His saliva was bitter and lovely, his tongue running flat across the outside of your mouth until it reached your chin and the tip of your nose.

"Let's see, open your mouth, sugar. Don't be shy."

You obeyed as the knot tightened around your neck, moaning as his lips sucked on the tip of your tongue and bit your bottom lip.

"God have mercy." He sighed, squeezing your chin with his hand. "How can you taste so damn sweet."

You moaned as you felt his teeth nibble gently at your neck, his fingers piling the fabric of your dress around his fingers.

“Mm,” you squealed, walking away even when it didn’t suit you. "Can't."

"It's a good thing I didn't ask." Jimin brought you closer, caressing your neck again.

"I'm on my days." Shame sealing your thoughts, in your eyes the hope that just the thought of seeing the blood would disgust him.

Jimin raised his eyebrows and slowly kissed you again, this time with the softness of an apology.

"A cowboy doesn't mind a little dirt." He murmured, touching the soaked towel that covered your underwear, two fingers pushed aside and the burning of your pussy collided with his cold fingers drawing a moan from your hurt throat.

"A good cowboy loves to get dirty." He smiled, removing the two soaked fingers from the red viscosity to put it in his mouth with a frown on his eyebrows. "Mm." He grunted, swallowing slowly.

You were speechless, stupefied. Who was this demon?

"Have you ever ridden a bull before?" His blood-tainted lips said, the idea shocking your senses.

You denied it, and God knows that was the stupidest answer you could give.

The animal began to make a mechanical noise beneath both of them, the leather surface pressed your thighs against the mechanical bull that began to move slowly.

Jimin's bestial eyes did not take off from you, the last of the bottle of whiskey went down his throat in long gulps and pushed the glass into the distance causing a roar.

Your legs were above his defined thighs, the bleeding wound between your legs dirtying his jeans but the cowboy didn't seem to mind. The dress already forgotten outside the stadium playing area.

"We'll go slowly because it's your first time on top." His consideration was so minimal, considering the situation. But you were a woman whose details annihilated your logic.

To the front and sides and then a gentle turn, this is how the animal began. Jimin moved his center with the animal, the bulge in his pants rubbing against your pussy.

One of his hands approached the dripping hole and with four fingers collected the blood until it painted his hand.

“Ah,” he requested, sticking his tongue out and you followed suit. His fingers got smeared on his tongue and cheeks until they reached his neck. With his tongue he passed over his lips, like wine he drank you, like sweet he possessed you and rejoiced.

His tongue entered your space again, the strange and bitter taste of your own blood while with his fingers he removed the zipper of his jeans until he showed that he was not wearing underwear underneath him, his tall and throbbing cock moved under his fist.

"Climb on, doll. You're wet enough for me." He laughed taking your body to sit on top of him. You hugged him as tight as you could as the mechanical animal began to move faster.

"We're going to fall." You whimpered. "Hurts".

"Shh, shh. Let me medicate you, it'll stop hurtin' when I dick you properly." One spank and his fingers squeezed the skin of your ass tightly. "You just have to move with me."

To the front, to the sides, two turns. You just had to keep your legs elevated a little, Jimin's cock sliding smoothly in and out with each movement.

"Now you're getting it. Fuck." Jimin hissed, squeezing your waist with his forearm. "You're quite the cowgirl, Love."

You moaned, pressing your forehead to his. His eyes absorbed every curve, from your breasts to your red-painted thighs. You were an angel, a myth that devours men. Your songs of pleasure echoing on the aluzinc walls.

The animal began to attack, abrupt and deeper.

"Does it hurt?" You asked between moans, watching the fabrics covering Jimin's arm begin to dye again. Jimin denied, cuntdrunk.

You removed the knot of cloth from the wound on Jimin's arm, running your thin fingers over the bleeding muscle. Park hissed, and the walls of your pussy tightened.

More, you wanted more.

Your lips sucked on the sores until you felt the metallic taste in your throat, Jimin pressed your body against yours. One turn, two forwards, three up. Your poor body trembled with the desire for the game to end but your pussy still wanted your walls to expand until Jimin's cock was molded inside you forever.

"If I knew you were such a slut." Park grabbed your hair to pull you away from his arm.

"If I knew cowboys fucked so well." The bloody smile of both of you was devilishly erotic.

The bull stopped suddenly, you looked at the man standing on the other side of you, rifle in hand, hot tears burning his cheeks.

"Jungkook? Jeon!" It was the last thing you heard before you fell face first onto the inflated floor, blood flowing warm and your eyelids falling softly.

#—📃: an ewe and the captive bolt #bts imagines #bts #bts fanfic #jimin imagine #jimin smut #bts smut #jimin x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts x you #bts x reader #jimin x oc #jimin bts #jimin fanfic #jimin dark fic #bts dark fanfic #jimin

186 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 4 months ago

Photo

Bible

The Bible takes its name from the Latin Biblia ('book' or 'books') which comes from the Greek Ta Biblia ('the books') traced to the Phoenician port city of Gebal, known as Byblos to the Greeks. Writing became associated with Byblos as an exporter of papyrus (used in writing) and the Greek name for papyrus was bublos.

Although the Bible is often considered a single, cohesive, work, it is actually an anthology of ancient writings by many different authors over many centuries, which were collected in a single book. The Bible contains works of poetry, religious-themed narratives, philosophical musings such as The Book of Ecclesiastes, epistles, and the apocalyptic masterpiece known as The Book of Revelation.

The common thread in all these collected works is the existence of an all-powerful deity who is the creator of the universe and has an interest in the personal lives and final fate of human beings. The books of the Christian Bible were arranged in the sequence one finds them in today to tell the story of the creation of the world by a supreme deity, the fall of man from paradise, and humanity's redemption by the Son of God but these books were not written in that sequence nor would the original authors of the Old Testament works have had that particular story in mind.

The Bible of Judaism (collected and authorized by c. 3rd century BCE) contains the Torah (the first five books of the Bible) and the Tanakh (the stories of the judges and prophets) and makes no mention of Jesus Christ. The God of the Bible in these works is the God of Judaism - a single all-powerful deity - and, prior to the appropriation of Hebrew scriptures by early Christianity, the stories which made up the Bible told the story of God's care for and intervention in the affairs of the Israelites of the Middle East.

Structure of the Bible

In Judaism, the scriptures are called the Tanakh and are recognized as comprising 24 books divided into three categories: The Pentateuch (or Teachings of the Five Books of Moses), The Prophets, and The Writings. Christianity, which appropriated the Tanakh and claimed it as their own early theological history, call it the Old Testament. Early Christian writers, years after the probable date of the death of Jesus, penned the gospels and The Book of Acts. Paul the Apostle wrote most of the epistles which make up the 27 books of the Christian New Testament and whose theology informs the gospels. The Book of Revelation, attributed to John of Patmos, is the last book of the Christian Bible.

It is difficult to accurately date the composition of the books which make up the Bible, but scholars generally agree that the Pentateuch dates to the 10th and 6th centuries BCE and that the Tanakh was fixed as scripture well before the 1st century CE. The books of the Christian New Testament were composed between 60-110 CE (the Gospels), 45-130 CE (the Epistles), and 68-100 (The Book of the Revelation of St. John). Many people of the ancient world, and even today, believe the Bible to have been written by God. It is held to be the bestselling book in history and has influenced religious thought worldwide for centuries.

#History #19thcenturyCE #Abraham #thePatriarch #WHE #[#]

46 notes · View notes

tilebytiles · 26 days ago

Text

infallible beliefs - a.t. (part 2)

summary: as it turns out, professors are actually capable of feeling things, and alex feels more things for you than he'd like to. word count: 5.2k warnings: age gap (reader is 21 and alex is 30), mentions of violence, physical abuse, sexual assault - implied and written a/n: this is LONG awaited and for that i sincerely apologize. i'm testing out writing in all lowercase to see if i prefer it ... it is easier than manually capitalizing everything but we'll see part 1

you silently wished there was some great instruction manual for how to navigate conversations with your professor after having him discover the nature of your abusive relationship. you wished an angel could descend from the heavens, give you a good slap for how you'd let things play out in that stupid dingy bar, then fill you in on mr. turner's exact schedule so you could avoid him at all costs and never speak to him one-on-one again. you even stared down at the beige coffee that filled the plastic cup in your hands, a personal heater for your dreadfully chilly palms, waiting for the streaks of frothed milk to form the answer. but, of course, nothing came — and maybe you were actually insane for expecting anything at all. you were beginning to think god only kept you around because you amused him.

your ecclesiastical theory was only compounded by you nearly running into the wall — a door, actually. you quickly steadied your coffee cup in your hands and looked up, peering at the small name plaque attached to the door. alexander turner, ph— oh, of fucking course. you wondered how much time you had before he would notice your presence, and your left foot was already turning away, your brain drafting up yet another panicked signal to get you the fuck out of there, but it was too late. you locked eyes with him through the tall glass window on the right side of the door, and you watched as he took a whole of 1.5 seconds to register who you were before setting his pen down and standing up from his chair. goddamn it.

the door creaked open, and you were quick to slap on what was, at best, an only semi-falsified smile. it wasn't like you had anything against him, you just ... really didn't wanna see him. "mr. turner!" you said a little too loudly, a nervous laugh serving as punctuation. "fancy seeing you here!"

"this is my office." he rose an eyebrow at your abnormally skittish behaviour. "you were standing outside the door."

"oh. was i?" you laughed again, silently begging someone to run down the hall and shoot you already.

to your relief, mr. turner didn't say anything else on how strange you were acting. he leaned against the doorway, eyeing you for a moment, then asked, "did you need something?"

advice. your schedule so i can never see you again. a gun, maybe? "nothing ... in particular. just, um ..." you glanced to your left, then to your right. the hall was empty both ways, but paranoia still curled up in the recesses of your mind, a slumbering serpent waiting for the right time to strike. "could i come in?"

"of course." he pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped back, giving you enough space to slip past him into his office.

now that you thought about it, you weren't sure if you'd ever been in here. the door gently clicked shut behind you, and mr. turner stepped around you and back to his desk, sinking back down into his chair. all things considered, it was a nice office, at least to you; it wasn't cramped, like you'd always seen in movies, and there were a number of personal touches scattered about the place. the bookshelf against the back wall was full, although the books all seemed to pertain to literature ... or teaching ... teaching about literature ...

a picture on one of the shelves caught your eye, and without giving it much thought, you walked over and reached up, picking up the frame. you held it between both hands as you examined the photo, eyes narrowing. there were two people pictured, a man and a woman, and they had their arms around each other, smiling brightly for the camera. it was a sweet scene, but neither of the people looked particularly familiar, and honestly, you wouldn't put it past your professor to not be arsed with taking the stock image out of the frame. you stared a little longer, pondering where on earth you'd seen those big brown eyes before, when it suddenly clicked — the puzzle came together, and your brain cells rejoiced at their first victory of the day (one that was sorely needed, as far as they were concerned). "is this ... you?"

you looked over at mr. turner for confirmation, and it took him a second to look up from the paper on his desk. you turned the frame in your hands and held it out so he could see what picture you were talking about. he leaned forward, squinted a little, and then nodded. "yeah, that's me."

"you had long hair?"

he smiled sheepishly. "it wasn't that long."

you held the photo up beside his face for comparison. maybe compared to other hair lengths — yours, for example — it wasn't that long, but compared to the length his hair was at now, it was a noticeable difference. "why'd you cut it?"

"did you only come here to judge my past decisions?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, but there was a teasing lilt to his voice. "i cut it because it didn't suit me anymore. plus, it seemed a bit dated. i was about to start teaching, and i didn't need my students making fun of me on my first day, now, did i?"

you mulled it over and shrugged, then set the frame back up on its rightful shelf. "when'd you start, anyway?"

"oh, about ... seven or eight years ago? it's all kind of blurred together at this point, honestly. i went for my doctorate a couple of years in." his eyes followed you as his spoke, watching as you settled into the chair on the other side of his desk. your bag hit the floor beside you with a muted thump.

you wondered if he was just exceedingly disinterested in talking about his own hair, or if he'd been able to see through you before he'd even opened the door. as soon as you appeared to be settled in, he asked, in a lower tone, "how have you been recently?"

you immediately stiffened in your seat. foolishly, you had hoped he would've been able to just forget everything that'd happened — or, better yet, he would pretend he'd never seen anything, pretend he hadn't brought you down from tears in that stupid fucking bar, pretend he hadn't driven you home and given you his phone number as goddamn insurance. you could pretend, too; you'd taken a drama class in high school once with a friend. sure, it'd been for fun, but you had learned a few things, and how hard was it to act, really? on top of that, you were a literature student, and writers were destined to be pathological liars with all the shite they made up for a good story. you could both pretend and have no trouble at all, and each glance thrown at one another, each conversation shared, each accidental touch, wouldn't weigh half as much as they all did now. if you would both just pretend, then maybe you would know peace.

but it was never that easy, was it?

"i've ..." you looked down at your coffee, still in your hand, and wondered if it would unveil its great secrets now. the frothed milk still did not move. his office, spacious as it'd seemed just a few minutes ago, now felt increasingly small, like its walls were closing in on you, threatening to crush you and compact you down into one of those trash cubes from wall-e. "i've been alright," you finally replied, your voice dropping down to a pitiful mumble. conviction had packed its bags and declared an indefinite vacation, and you weren't allowed to come with. "just been ... busy, you know. school and work and all."

"busy," he echoed, as if that was the one, the word that would allow him to sink down into the depths of your psyche and sort through what was really going on. "and how's your boyfriend?"

"he's alright, too."

"just alright?"

"yeah."

"you know you can tell me anything, y/n." you knew — how could you not? how could you forget the day he'd first seen that bruise on your wrist and everything started to crumble? he'd told you his door was always open if you needed to chat, and although your short-term memory had quickly discarded the dialogue, your long-term memory swept it up out of the garbage, dusted it off, and stored it on a shelf way near the back of your mental archives, hellbent on never truly letting you forget it. maybe that was how you'd ended up at his office to begin with; your subconscious had taken the reins and decided you were long overdue for that little chat.

you sighed and took a long sip of your coffee. perhaps the froth would only tell you its secrets if you consumed it. "he's ... mostly forgotten what happened at the bar, i think. he — he acts like there's something wrong, like there's something he's supposed to be mad at me for, but he can't remember exactly what. i think maybe, deep down, he knows? it's little things he does, like ... whenever i mention your class, his mood sours, and he immediately changes the subject." i think he's jealous of you, you thought, but you kept it to yourself. that idea — the possibility of your boyfriend seeing your professor as a competitor for your heart — was one dreadful enough to give you a migraine. imagine how the professor in question would feel!

mr. turner nodded slowly, seeming to mull over your words. eventually, he asked, "has he ... put his hands on you again?"

"once. i'd accidentally smashed his fingers in the door, and he got pissed and said he needed to make it even."

"jesus christ. did he break anything?"

"no, no, he was fine. there was some bruising, but his fingers were all intact. i came out of it with a couple of bruises, too, but ..." you shrugged. "what can you do?"

he let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his face, glancing up at the ceiling as if to plead with god for answers the same way you'd done. you wondered if he was already sick of being a part of your secret. you couldn't blame him, honestly. "are you going to break up with him at any point?"

your gaze wandered off to the photo on the shelf again. now that you thought about it, you were pretty sure that was ms. chung next to him. "i don't know."

"i'm not saying you have to do it today —"

"i know."

"— or even tomorrow, for that matter —"

"i know."

"— but at some point. this relationship is killing you, y/n."

"i know, mr. turner."

you knew, better than anyone.

•••••

you felt it before it came. it was in the loose thread that'd cropped up in your favourite jumper that morning; the defiance of your bedsheets as you changed them, refusing to be perfectly flat against your mattress; the forecast in the weather app on your phone, predicting heavy rain starting at 8pm that night; the lead in your mechanical pencil that kept breaking, taunting you, like you weren't applying the same amount of pressure you always used when you wrote. it was the beginning of the end, a maelstrom of disaster with each incident piling onto one another, one after the other, until the stack went so high it hurt to crane your neck that far back. you tried to go about your day as normal — you brushed them all off as coincidences. you turned a blind eye to it all, walking away from the wreckage, because as far as you were concerned, it couldn't be anything real if you didn't pay any mind to it.

but you felt it. long before it forced you to look.

a thunderclap served as the dramatic entry music that accompanied john's arrival back to your flat. you had been curled up in bed, reading a book you really should've finished ages ago — your "to be read" list was so long, it was embarrassing. as soon as you heard the door shut, you were quick to mark your place, scramble out of bed, and slip out of your bedroom and into the living room. john had always hated it if you didn't greet him; you never really understood why. maybe because it made you feel like a housewife?

"welcome back," you said, giving him a kiss on the cheek that made your soul wither. "how'd it go?"

his answer came first in the form of a burp, one he did a half-assed job of covering with his hand. he didn't even bother excusing himself. "went fine," he muttered, shrugging his coat off. rain droplets clung to it, desperate to get an insider look into your flat. how disappointed they must have been. "it was good seeing 'em all again. 's been too long, you know?"

"yeah." you didn't know — you had no friends anymore. there was a slur tugging on his words, making each syllable a little longer than it needed to be, but he was a grown man and he could drink if he wanted to and you didn't feel like saying anything about it and starting a fight. "did you have dinner yet?"

"no, i'm starving. we still got some of that pasta?"

"we do."

"could you make me a bowl, please?"

"of course." as you stepped away from him to retreat into the kitchen, a firm hand landed on the curve of your ass, making you stiffen. a deep chuckle followed. it would be one of those nights, then.

just a few minutes later, his bowl of pasta was reheating in the microwave, and as you waited and watched the timer slowly tick down, green numbers morphing into each other in the blink of an eye, you leaned against the counter. you'd already eaten at least an hour ago, so he would have to eat alone. eventually, you felt his presence behind you, strong arms looping around your waist as he pressed himself against you. when he wasn't being the violent, angry, possessive kind of drunk, he was the clingy kind of drunk. although maybe the possessiveness explained the clinginess. "i missed you today," he mumbled, his nose brushing your hair out of the way so he could kiss your shoulder.

you almost snorted, but you quickly reeled it in. "you did?"

"i always miss you, babe." he shifted, and his growing erection pressed up against your ass, eliciting a soft groan from him. one of his hands slipped underneath your jumper and travelled up to your left breast, giving it a soft squeeze through your bra. "missed these, too."

normally, you would have just gone along with it; you two had done this rodeo several times before, and you had always been the one to topple off the bull. john was the one that had taken your virginity, and since he was your only point of reference for what sex was supposed to be like, you had just come to the conclusion that sex was fucking terrible and no one should ever do it. it was not fun, it was not enjoyable for both parties, and it was rarely ever consensual. john had quickly given up on trying to seek out your consent early on in your relationship. it was never about your pleasure, only his. and you, in all your stupidity — because you firmly believed you were just a giant idiot — had believed that this was how things were supposed to be. it was never meant to be about you.

you didn't know what possessed you to wriggle out of his grasp, to lightly push him away from you and force his hand out from underneath your top. conviction had just come back from its vacation, and with a renewed vigor you were entirely unfamiliar with, it spoke for you. "i don't feel like it tonight, john."

he froze, staring at you for a few moments, unblinking in a way that greatly unsettled you. "you don't feel like it?"

you shook your head. "i-i'm sorry."

he sighed and shook his head, running his hand through his hair. "no, no, don't be sorry, y/n."

was it really that easy? you felt like a fool for not standing your ground sooner, and you could practically hear your brain cells cheering, preparing the festivities for what they considered to be the greatest accomplishment of the modern age. maybe john wasn't the worst person ever — maybe he could listen to reason, and it was just your fault for not trying to find a compromise, some middle ground you could both stand on without resorting to a shouting match. not even he was susceptible to good communication!

his hand descended upon you, faster than you could predict, and you had no time to move out of the way before you were slapped across the face with a force that sent you straight to the floor.

he scoffed. "when have i ever cared if you don't feel like it? did you really think i'd just let you go like that?"

the microwave began beeping. his pasta was ready. "john, i —"

"shut up!" he roared, grabbing you by the hair and slamming your head against one of the cabinets beneath the sink. for a moment, you were sure your ears were ringing. your scalp burned as his fingers tightened around the strands. the world became a blur of colour as he pulled you up onto your knees, then sank down with you as your face was slammed down into the floor. "fucking bitch — can't do fuck all —"

"stop!" you screamed, the word contorting into a wail as you reached up blindly and clawed at his hand, trying desperately to get his grip to loosen. nails dug into flesh, tearing through layers of skin, and he finally eased up with a howl, letting go just long enough for you to scramble up off the floor and dart out of the room. your head was already pounding, and you felt disoriented, but you didn't give a damn — you needed to leave.

you slammed the door to your bedroom shut and locked it, then began rummaging through the closet for an old suitcase. when was the last time you'd gone travelling? a pink one was the one you found first, and you sized it up for a moment before deciding it'd have to do. you could always get new clothes later. as you stumbled around the room, grabbing whatever you deemed essential with one hand and tossing it onto your bed, your other hand made quick work of your phone, calling the only person you could think of.

riiiiing. riiiiing. riiiiing. click. "hello?"

"mr. turner?"

"y/n?" you heard the rustle of fabric on the other end of the line. "are you okay?"

you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying not to burst into tears in the middle of the call. "no." your voice wobbled a little. "do you still have my address?"

there was a beat of silence, as if he had to take a moment to process the weight of your question. finally, he said, "i'll be there as quick as i can. find something to defend yourself with."

click.

the next five minutes were spent trying to stuff as much as you could into that measly suitcase while also trying not to vomit everywhere. to your surprise, john hadn't come trying to bust the door down — you couldn't really hear him at all, actually. that terrified you.

you unlocked the door and took a deep breath before slowly pulling it open. john was standing on the other side, arms crossed and gaze unforgiving. his hand was still bleeding. "where the fuck are you going?"

"away."

he snorted. "you think i'll just let you go? huh? you'll fucking come crawling back, anyway, y/n."

"no, i won't. we're over, john."

"like hell we are."

maybe that angel had finally come to save the day. his hand shot out, reaching for you, and instead of succumbing to his grasp as you had so many times before, you lifted the suitcase up and poured all of your strength into shoving it square against his chest, knocking him back — and out of the way. you slipped past him and practically bolted through the living room, fumbling with the lock on the front door for only a second before swinging it open and running out of your flat. his flat, now, you supposed.

you had never run so fast in your life.

the lift took you down to the lobby of the block of flats you lived in, the soft music coming from the speaker jarring in nature compared to the sliver of hell you'd just experienced. with a dinging noise, the doors slid open, and you stepped out of the metal prison, suitcase in tow. at least there wasn't anyone else to see you here, not anyone except the oddly dressed fellow by the front —

wait.

"miles kane?" the sound of his name made miles turn, a smile tugging at his lips, as if he'd expected to be meeting a fan. when he was instead met with you, the girl from the bar that now had a busted lip, a bloody nose, what was sure to become a black eye, and a number of yet-to-bloom bruises that not even you were aware of, the smile dropped like a fire being extinguished.

"bloody fuckin' hell, what the fuck happened to you?" he asked, rushing over to help you; you looked like you were on the brink of collapse. an arm came around your shoulders, a tender touch you were entirely unfamiliar with, as he led you over to a nearby sofa, easing you down onto the cushions.

you sighed and tilted your head back, staring up at the lights overhead. "is it that bad?"

"can you not feel it?"

"i can't really feel anything, if i'm being honest." you watched out of the corner of your eye as he settled down next to you. "what are you doing here?"

"i live here. al told me you'd need some help. texted me a few minutes ago and said he's almost here."

you wanted to cry at how thoughtful mr. turner was being — how considerate they both were — but you were too buzzed up on adrenaline to cater to any emotion at all. "i'm ... sorry."

"what for?"

"that you have to put up with this."

he shook his head. "'s no trouble at all, love. just be safe, yeah?"

safe. what did that even mean anymore?

as the adrenaline wore off, you became increasingly tired, and you would have fallen asleep on that (rather stiff) sofa if it weren't for miles jumping up and announcing to an audience of one, "he's 'ere!"

you jolted up from your seat and turned, locking eyes with mr. turner as he stepped through the doors. the sight of you made him falter, and he opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and quickly snapped it shut. he glanced at miles, who nodded and wrapped his arm back around you, grabbing the handle of your suitcase with his free hand and leading you both towards the doors — towards salvation.

it was pouring buckets outside, and with the hurry he'd been in, mr. turner had failed to bring an umbrella. the suitcase was passed off to him as miles ushered you towards the car, popping the passenger door open and helping you inside. the door shut, and you were left alone, any conversation the pair were having being drowned out by the thunderous patter of rain against the top of the car. a part of you was still on high alert, expecting john to burst through the doors at any moment and try to reclaim you, but the rest of you wished so desperately to fall back into the pool of peace.

eventually, the driver's door opened, and mr. turner slipped into the seat, thanking miles one last time before shutting the door. miles waved at you through the window with an apologetic smile, and you waved back, watching as he retreated inside. with a sigh, mr. turner turned the keys in the ignition and let the car roar to life.

you didn't know how long it took to get to his flat; you had, more or less, lost all sense of time. you wondered if john had given you a concussion, but tried not to think on it for too long. you were barely aware of the car parking outside his block of flats; of the passenger door popping open as he offered you a hand to help you out; of the ding of the lift as it arrived on your floor, and the second ding as it deposited you onto the floor mr. turner lived on; of his keys jingling as he unlocked the front door of his flat; of him ushering you inside and muttering something about getting you into some warm clothes and putting water to boil for tea.

it was only when a hand landed on your shoulder that you snapped back to reality, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, whipping around to face him. his other hand landed on your other shoulder, steadying you, and he seemed to hesitate briefly before letting his arms slip around you, drawing you into an embrace that was equal parts warm and comforting and soothing and heartbreaking. "it's over," he murmured into your hair, lips ghosting over your ear.

you had felt it before you had seen it, and now, in the calm of mr. turner's flat, you couldn't run from it any longer. it seized you, peeling your eyelids back and forcing you to gaze upon its existence. you weren't aware you were crying, not until you finally let out a broken sob and succumbed to the emotions that had been building up inside of you like the world's most unsteady jenga tower. you sank deeper into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him, clinging to him like you were afraid he'd let go. he wouldn't — of course he wouldn't. "shh, shh, it's okay," he whispered, beginning to slowly rock you from side to side.

a part of you wished he would be repulsed by your emotions; wished he would pull away and send you back out to face john on your own. it would be easier to resign yourself to that fate than to face ... this. everything. the mess you had become, the mess john had made you, the mess mr. turner had recognised since he'd seen your bruised wrist, the mess you had chosen to remain oblivious to because admitting to it meant admitting that something was wrong, and you hated the thoughts of getting pulled down into that dark and ugly whirlpool and being left with nothing to confront but yourself — and you knew, you knew that you would wash up onto shore and the sky would be grey and there would be nothing, and your chest would be cracked open and your ribs splintered apart so everyone could see your heart, bloody and raw and ugly, as it beat the tune of your secrets to the world.

"do you want to shower?" he murmured. tendrils of vulnerability wrapped around you, tugging at your hands and ankles and forcing you down into the whirlpool against your will.

"no," you whispered.

"okay. let's get you changed, at least, and — we can try to blowdry your hair. it got a bit wet in the rain."

you didn't wear your own clothes that night; he gave you some of his, fresh from the dryer. they were warm and a bit big, but that added to the comfort, didn't it? you wondered why he even had a hairdryer, but maybe his hair was like yours and could never dry in a timely manner when he needed it to, making such a tool an essential in his bathroom.

you were sitting on his sofa now, wrapped up in a blanket he'd given you, cradling a warm cup of tea in your hands. you watched as steam wafted up into the air, dissolving as quickly as it'd come into existence. "i'm sorry, mr. turner," you said quietly."

there was a beat of silence. "alex."

you looked up at him. "what?"

"alex," he repeated, his elbow digging into the back of his sofa as he propped his head up in his hand. "i want you to call me alex."

requesting he call you by your first name was one thing — he'd only called you your last name for formalities, after all, a general air of politeness that followed him wherever he went. but this — this was its own beast, loaded with enough implications to give you several migraines. they were all implications that you, for the time being, chose not to think of.

"okay." you looked down at the mug again. "i'm sorry, alex."

he sighed softly beside you. "don't be."

"but —"

"but nothing, y/n. i was more than willing to help, and i still am." you hated how unused you were to generosity like his.

the pair of you fell into silence that stretched out for the span of a few minutes, broken only by you adjusting your position in your fabric cocoon and mumbling, "it was because of the starry night kit."

he rose an eyebrow. "what was?"

"that bruise on my wrist. we'd argued about it, and he ended up pushing me so i fell and hit the table."

"the fuck did he do that for?" now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him, and he smiled a bit sheepishly when he realised what he'd done. "sorry."

"no, it — it's okay." you offered him a meager smile in response. "it's nice to hear you drop the professional tone."

"i'll keep that in mind. but — really, why'd he do that?"

"it was too expensive for him, and he called me ungrateful, among ... other things."

"how much is it, anyway?"

"a couple hundred pounds, at least."

"hm." he glanced off to the side, staring at something you couldn't exactly pinpoint. you wondered what he was thinking about.

given that you'd lost all of your fight, you didn't think twice about agreeing to his giving you his bed for the night while he slept on the sofa. the pair of you exchanged goodnights, and you slipped beneath the covers, relishing in the softness of his pillow and the warmth provided by the blanket. it didn't take you long at all to fall asleep — and it was possibly the best sleep you'd ever gotten.

you remained blissfully unaware of a wide awake alex on the sofa, sitting in the dark as he ordered the starry night set off the lego website at 12am.

tags: @saintfrancis-ofassisi / @sagegreensimmr / @billyseye / @supernaturalandpain / @not-a-big-slay / @captainwans

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #the car era #arctic monkeys #am #fanfic #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #divider by plutism

50 notes · View notes

latinare · 7 months ago

Note

Hi! A while ago you mentioned that you use ecclesiastical pronunciation and not classical. I have a vague understanding of the distinction, but I've always wondered how much of a difference between the two there are. Like if someone learns ecclesiastical latin, would they be unable to read Cicero? Or if someone learns classical latin would they be unable to understand [famous example of medieval latin]? (I don't know any)

On those lines, when I pull up Google translate for Latin, which one am I getting?

I love this question!

So, pronunciation is strictly about how the words are spoken aloud. The same Latin text can be pronounced ecclesiastically or classically: for instance, the famous veni, vidi, vici in ecclesiastical pronunciation would sound something like "vay nee vee dee vee chee", and with classical pronunciation more like "way nee wee dee wee kee"--but the written form doesn't change. It's not hard to switch between them; it would be a bit like me (Canadian) listening to this--slightly unfamiliar to the ear, but easy enough to understand.

There are differences in written Latin too. Many spelling variations, especially early on, plus a lot of words that only came into use after Latin was technically a dead language, in the Middle Ages or later. I'd compare this to the sort of change English has undergone since Shakespeare's day: potentially confusing at first, but very intelligible once you're familiar with the rules.

The classical period does have some highly stylized forms, especially poetry, that may be daunting if you're more used to Medieval Latin; they are to me, at least.

P.S. You might not be getting real Latin from Google Translate at all; it seems to be pretty bad at it.

#asks #pronunciation

58 notes · View notes

bluecatwriter · 7 months ago

Note

There's a long history of Dracula adaptations clearly made by people who have never read the book.

I think in this fine tradition you specifically should adapt the Beetle without reading it

You are SO right, anon. I am going to direct the movie version of The Beetle upon which all other adaptations will be based! It will full of iconic quotes that are not in the book and I will butcher all the themes and characters!

Initial thoughts:

-Robert Holt will be played by some no-name actor who is putting his entire heart, soul and mind into the performance. The Brick Guy is also played by this guy. The first part of the movie is filmed in a very straightforward period-drama style, with the exception of a Carpet Scene, which is filmed in soft focus like a "flashback to dead wife" scene.

-Robert will also of course be referred to as "Bobert" and wear jorts. Alas, he does not get a GAP sweatshirt or a slushie in this version because there are no Ordinary Solicitors to save him.

-The Beetle will be portrayed as just a beetle of varying sizes, and they will be CGI. Specifically the really low-budget bad CGI of the early 2000s. This is very important for my artistic vision.

-Paul Lessingham will also be CGI.

-The cat will be a real cat, and will be voiced by the guy who voiced Garfield from the 1990s Garfield and Friends cartoon.

-I am open to casting suggestions for Sydney Atherton, although again, I suspect that it would be best to forgo celebrities and cast a guy who has played the comic-relief guy in Oklahoma at community theater one too many times. I will change nothing about Sydney Atherton's atrocities, and will in fact probably add a few more, but all the other characters will say how manly and wonderful he is while he's like beating someone to death with a cricket bat in the background. The movie critics will read a lot into this directing choice.

-I will make Marjorie and Dora both girlbosses™ by giving each of them a sword and a multi-level marketing business. They will contribute nothing to the plot and I will be offended if people think they are bland characters.

-I don't really know the other characters, so they will be played by a gender-inclusive rotating cast, and everyone will keep mixing up their names. The goal is for it to be impossible to keep track of who's doing what at all times.

-The cat still dies but goes to Cat Heaven and there's a whole musical dream sequence (inspired by 1930s cartoons and musical numbers from Gene Kelly movies) about the cat having a really great time in Cat Heaven.

-During some mundane scene with this rotating cast of characters and CGI Paul Lessingham, Bobert will dramatically die of starvation in the background. Nobody notices.

-The train crash will be on-screen instead of off, and there will be a very long monologue from the train themself as they dramatically fall off a broken bridge (this will be a practical effect with a full-sized train). This monologue will be delivered by the same guy who plays the cat, and if the actor isn't crying real tears by the end, we will redo the take until we get it. There will be a lot of montaging and soft focus. We will give the train a tragic backstory, but the train is also kind of accepting of their fate, you know? The book of Ecclesiastes will probably be mentioned somewhere in here.

-I will be diverging from canon by having Sydney Atherton die in the train crash. Not from the train, though, he chokes on a shrimp cocktail moments before the train hits the ground.

-Credits roll

-Epilogue scene: Sydney Atherton ends up in Cat Heaven and all the cats jump on him like the hyenas at the end of Lion King and there's just a giant wriggling ball of cats. Bobert is there too, drinking a slushie in the background. Hard cut to black.

#THE BEETLE!#the beetle weekly #my writing #all right hollywood pony up the money #sometimes my genius... it's almost frightening

80 notes · View notes

coopster3d · 8 months ago

Text

Meet The Reverend! [TF2 10th class OC]

Character Description:

The Reverend is a religious fanatic hailing from Southern Italy, where he was raised in a commune by a group of reclusive nuns. Where, according to him, he was taught the basic necessary skills for life, which include but are not limited to: Small sword combat, butchering, and Ecclesiastical Latin. It is unknown how exactly he was ordained as his denomination remains unclear. He often fails to mention that throughout his travels, he's made some adjustments to the standard Bible, adding his own footnotes, amendments, and even on occasion, pages which he believes are the true gospel, taken from a multitude of other religions, leading to a mishmash of ideals and beliefs full of unexplained rituals. Within the team The Reverend plays a heavily supportive role, serving initially as on-base staff in the form of a “Therapist” to the Mercs, which unfortunately or not, was not clearly conveyed leading to a sacrificial killing in the Intelligence Room. Now, he is a full time member of the Mercenary team!

Character references:

Character Loadout:

Primary: Thurible/Censer

A golden lantern, which, when held, creates an aura around The Reverend. Teammates in range, when damaged, contribute to a shield meter. When full, the user can activate a direction shield [stylized as a building mist which hardens into a thin shield the size of three heavys stood shoulder to shoulder] that protects against projectile damage and protects The Reverend from "Hell-fire" [Pyro's flames] while active. In order to use this effectively, The Reverend has to directly put himself in front of the front line, only properly using this shield when putting himself in a direct line of fire beforehand. When not activating his shield, The Reverend uses his lantern similar to that of a flail, creating a mid ranged weapon which is used to protect himself and others in a select radius around him.

Secondary: The “Mercy Kill” Dagger

Modeled after a sword used in early battles to put soldiers who were suffering grave injuries out of their misery in a quick and efficient way, The Reverend uses it similar to The Medic's Ubersaw. Instead of contributing to the lanterns meter, it instead contributes to its own meter, which, when full, can be used to activate The Reverend's "Dying Wish." [Inspired by Priests being seen as undertakers, guiding souls to heaven or otherwise while on their deathbed.] When used, The Reverend can target a specific teammate under half-health and for a short time grants the target guaranteed Crits, but does not heal the target, nor protect them from any damage type other than the one the target themselves is dealing. [I.e. Heavy receives a buff against bullets, Pyro-fire, and Demo- explosives]

Melee: Bible/Rosary

The Reverend is against the use of guns and prefers to get up close and personal with his damage dealing. [Used as an excuse to personally "send people off" to the next life while praying for their soul.] He either uses his Bible to bludgeon his victims or, on occasion, wraps his Rosary around his knuckles to boost his hand-to-hand damage.

Support Slot: Holy Water Mister

Modeled after a garden mister used for plants, the bottle is instead filled with Holy Water blessed by The Reverend himself. Mechanically used to rid teammates of ailments, such as Jarate, Pyro's Fire, and works to undisguise enemy Spies. [This also has an ammo limit similar to Pyro's flamethrower]

Extra Links!

Below is the link to his Toyhouse! This will have all updated information and a gallery with completed credits, details, ect.

Honestly, take your time getting to him, and if you need the document link, I'm more than happy to provide it, but I'm proud of the Toyhouse. All of the drop downs and buttons work, so feel free to look around when you get the time.

FOR TUMBLR: Check the #the Reverend tf2 tag on my profile

LINK TO THE PAGE: https://toyhou.se/26605018.the-reverend

#tf2 oc #tf2 tenth class #team fortress 2 #tf2 10th class #tf2 ocs #the reverend tf2 #team fortress 2 oc #tf2 oc art #tf2 #coopers art tag

61 notes · View notes

jennelikejennay · 3 months ago

Text

There's an experience a lot of aspec people have where they do like the idea of sex, just not of themselves participating in it. So they get off from porn, erotica, voyeurism, etc but they don't want to be touched sexually themselves. Everything is better second-hand.

I could go on and on about this: about what the appeal is, about why it's so frequently taken as problematic or fetishizing, about how a person who feels this way (cough, me) can have sex in ways that are satisfying to them and the people they love. I even wrote a fic about it (although normally, I'm writing fics because of it, not about it).

But today I just want to talk about the name.

See I mentioned it and somebody said "oh that's called aegosexual."

A: Greek for not

Ego: both Latin and Greek for I

Sexual: latinate suffix meaning, well, sexual. Generally used with reference to attraction.

Not-me-sexual.

I hate it SO MUCH. Not as an aspec person so much as as a classicist. Who is coining these things and have they even been peer-reviewed?!

First off, the a- Greek prefix becomes an- before a vowel, such as in anemia and anarchy. Putting a+e together makes a diphthong ae which is pronounced differently in ecclesiastical Latin (ā), classical Latin (ī), American English (usually ā) and British English (often ē). So faced with aegosexual I simply don't know how to pronounce it. Is this one of those words, like Latinx or m/m, that we readily use online but suddenly hang fire when we have to say it out loud? A word that works in only one medium is nonfunctional. So somebody better decide how we're all saying it or we'll be having a gif/gif debate forever.

Second, there's a general rule that we use Greek roots with other Greek roots and Latin with Latin. Hence why we say astronomy and not stellonomy, stethoscope and not thorascope. I will admit that we break this rule all the time: homosexual rather than similisexual or homoerotic, automobile rather than automaton or ipsemobile. Still, all things being equal I would prefer nonegosexual or perhaps sinegosexual (without-me-sex) just for the sake of smoothness. I'm discounting anegoerotic because of the two vowels in a row problem.

But then I start thinking, why are we defining this thing by what it's not? I don't mean I'm not attracted to myself (I think I'm cute, transporter clones please call me). I don't mean I will grudgingly accept sex so long as it doesn't involve me. I mean I actively am into sex that doesn't involve me. I tried calling it third-person sexuality but in English we can't compound with English roots really.

So let's go back to the drawing board!

The Greek pronouns for self and others are taken: autosexual means you're into yourself, allosexual means you're into other people (as opposed to ace). But the Latin ones are all wide open, and Latin is what I want, to go with sexual.

Latin has tons and tons of pronouns. SO MANY PRONOUNS. Nonbinary Romans would be looking at an absolute banquet. Along with our usual me, you, it, etc, we have a raft of pronouns which work well for distinguishing different subjects in their long-ass sentences. So you have hic, this, but you also have ipse, That, you know, The One, Himself, Her Upstairs. It's mildly emphatic. Then you have iste, which means something like "that over by you," but sometimes also kind of "that one, ugh." When a sentence begins Iste Caesar you know the author isn't a huge fan of Caesar. Like saying "your Caesar, not mine." But it could be more like istud poculum, hey can you pass that cup, the cup over by you? All of these are of course available in all three genders, two numbers, and five cases, giving us 30 forms to learn for each. Yay!

The one I want for this purpose is ille. It's the most general kind of that. Rather than "this by me" and "that by you," ille is "that over there, not near either of us."

So what about illesexual? Attracted to something over there in which neither you nor I am involved at all?

illesexual

What do you think, is it too late to make this happen?

#asexuality #aspec #aegosexual #illesexual #Latin and Greek roots #microlabels #not even getting into the question of the utility of microlabels #or whether they should be vitally identifying nouns rather than occasionally helpful adjectives #for an identifier i really think queer is enough for me

26 notes · View notes

ecclesiasticallatinfest · 1 year ago

Text

Join us!

In our first ever Our Flag Means Non-English Fanworks Fest!

Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it.

As we all know, the Our Flag Means Death fandom community is spread across the globe (Awesome map set up by the RenewAsACrew team and filled in by the fans!)

So how about we celebrate how international we are and focus on non-English languages with a fanworks fest that will run from the 7th of February 2024 until the 15th of February!

And by fanworks, I mean:

Fanfic

Fanart/fancomics

Fanvids

Meta on translation/subtitling/dubbing choices!

Schedule and rules under the Read More:

Schedule:

7th & 8th of February: Write fic in a non-English language OR translate a fic into a non-English language. (If you want to do the latter and translate someone else's fic, check the fic author's profile to see how they feel about translations!)

9th & 10th of February: Make fanart or a fan comic in a non-English language.

11 & 12th of February: Make an OFMD fanvid to a non-English language song. (Hard mode: Don't use Con's French version of La Vie En Rose. Bonus points if you make a supercut of all the different dubs of Oh Daddy for some multilingual awkwardness)

13th & 14th of February: Write meta on the translation choices made when it comes to dubbing and subbing to a non-English language you speak, OR write about meta about the use of non-English in the show.

For example, here is some meta from a while ago on the German dub and how it handles the formal and informal form of address, and here's one that does the same with French.

15th of February: Catch-up day and also AO3's International Fanworks Day!

This is both a catch-up day for posting fanworks mentioned above OR catching up on commenting on those fanworks! And obviously you can also comment on non-English fanworks that were posted outside of the fest!

Rules:

All characters and pairings welcome.

All ratings welcome.

All non-English languages welcome - AO3 supports the following languages.

Please post your fanwork to the AO3 Collection (if possible and if you like) to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

Please use either Ecclesiastical Latin Fest and/or EcclesiasticalLatinFest if you post about it on Tumblr or Twitter or elsewhere to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

You can use a few sentences of English in your fic here and there, same as English fics often have Jim saying some words or sentences in Spanish.

You can start posting your fanwork when it is the correct day in your timezone.

You can participate if you're a native English speaker, so break out your best secondary school/Duolingo German/French/Spanish! There's no foreign language practise like reading and writing fic.

Don't be a dick.

#OFMD #Our Flag Means Death #Ecclesiastical Latin Fest

135 notes · View notes

bupia · 1 year ago

Note

prompts 39, 45, and 3 w/ copia🤭 <3 tysm ily

MIRROR SEX

"I'll take care of you." "Will you let me be your first?" "Is this okay?"

There's a smut under the cut, +18 only, please.

(AFAB!Reader: Copia is a VAMPIRE on this one; mentions of blood; blood drinking; dirty talk; Italian swearing; fingering; unprotected sex; breeding)

Available on AO3

Day 19 | Day 21

Today, it fell upon your shoulders to undertake the responsibility of tidying up Cardinal Copia's quarters. While not the most glamorous task within the Ministry, it was a duty that inevitably needed to be fulfilled, and today, you were the chosen one.

Armed with a bucket and a mop, you ventured towards his quarters, entrusted with these humble tools, a key, and a rather peculiar gaze from the fellow siblings.

You approached the door to Cardinal Copia's quarters, taking a deep breath before inserting the key and turning the lock. The door creaked open, revealing a room with dim lighting and ornate, strange decor. It was a space that reflected the Cardinal's unique taste.

You stepped inside, glancing around at the antique furniture and a dark tapestries adorning the walls, with a silly poster of a cat beside it. The room was a bit cluttered, and dust had settled on various surfaces. You couldn't help but wonder how long this room haven't been cleaned.

With determination, you placed the bucket and mop in the corner and began the task of cleaning. As you moved about the room, dusting and mopping, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. It was an eerie sensation, as if the very walls had eyes. But you brushed it off as mere paranoia and continued with your work.

"Are you the one they sent today?" Cardinal Copia's voice echoed in your ears.

Startled, you spun around, frantically scanning the room from side to side in search of the source of the unexpected voice. You had assumed you would be alone in this task.

"Cardinal, you surprised me," you said, trying to regain your composure. "Yes, I was sent to clean your quarters today."

You responded to him, though uncertainty lingered about the origin of his voice. You continued to search, your eyes darting around the dimly lit room, which offered enough obscurity for someone to conceal themselves in the shadowy corners. As you scanned the room, your eyes eventually landed on a figure emerging from one of the dimly lit corners. It was indeed Cardinal Copia, dressed in his signature ecclesiastical red attire.

"Don't let me stop you. Carry on with your duties."

"Cardinal Copia," you greeted him with a respectful nod, your heart still racing from the initial surprise. "I apologize for not noticing your presence earlier. I was just beginning to clean."

He smiled faintly and approached you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No need to apologize, topino. I enjoy a bit of mystery and intrigue now and then."

You couldn't help but feel a shiver run down your spine at his words, and you wondered what exactly he meant by "mystery and intrigue."

"I'll do my best to be thorough with my cleaning," you replied, trying to maintain your composure.

Copia watched you for a moment before retreating to a nearby chair, seemingly content to observe your work. You continued your cleaning duties, feeling his eyes on you as you moved about the room.

The way Cardinal Copia's gaze bore into you began to make you feel a tad uneasy. While there was a certain allure in having the Cardinal's attention directed your way, it was also an unusual occurrence to see him outside of his quarters, and his intense scrutiny was beginning to grate on your nerves.

"Cardinal," you spoke, turning to squarely face him. "Is there something you require?"

"Me?"

"Yes," you continued, resting the mop within the bucket. "You've been fixated on me, and I couldn't help but wonder if you had something to say or needed assistance with something."

"Sometimes, I find that watching is just as pleasurable as partaking," he said, his voice low and sultry.

Your cheeks flushed as you considered his implications. The room felt charged with an electric tension, and you realized that the Cardinal was making no effort to hide his desires.

"I see," you replied, your voice quivering slightly. "I'll continue with my cleaning, then."

You returned to your duties, more aware than ever of his watchful eyes on you, as you tried to maintain your composure in the face of his audacious advances. Suddenly, you felt Cardinal Copia's arm enveloping you from behind, drawing you tightly against his chest. You froze in place, his grasp unyielding. He inhaled deeply as he positioned his face near your neck, his arm securing you firmly. His nose brushed against your skin, then his lips, and something sharp made contact, followed by the gentle caress of his tongue.

"Do you know why they sent you here today?" he asked.

"N-No..." you stammered.

"Because your Cardinal is hungry," he whispered seductively into your ear. "But don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"I-I... I should finish my cleaning," you stammered, your voice quivering, even as you made no attempt to break free from his grasp.

"Don't worry about it, someone will clean up after I'm finished with you," he whispered, his tone laced with mischief.

Your heart raced as he whispered those words into your ear, and you could feel the sharp sensation grazing your skin again. Despite the fear that coursed through you, there was an undeniable allure to the dangerous situation, as if Cardinal Copia's dark desires had awakened something within you. Your breaths quickened, and your body responded to his closeness in ways you hadn't expected. A mixture of fear and curiosity flooding your senses. You knew this was wrong, but a part of you couldn't deny the thrilling attraction to the forbidden. Your body felt trapped in the web of desire and danger that Cardinal Copia had spun around you.

He tightened his grip on you, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. The sharpness grazed your neck once again, and he inhaled deeply, savoring your scent. You couldn't help but tremble, caught between the urge to escape and the inexplicable pull of his presence.

"Excuse me," he whispered.

And then, you felt it, the sharp yearning at your neck, and the realization dawned on you; Cardinal Copia was a vampire.

The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Your heart raced, pounding in your chest as his fangs grazed your skin. You couldn't help but shiver as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, his lips parting. As his fangs pierced your skin, a mixture of pain and pleasure shot through your body. Your hands clung to his arms, and you let out a soft, involuntary moan. Cardinal Copia's lips locked onto your neck, his tongue flicking over the wound, lapping up your blood. It was an intense, intimate act, and you found yourself torn between the fear of the unknown and the strange allure of his touch.

His hold on your waist gradually slackened as he withdrew from your neck. Cardinal Copia's tongue flicked across the bite mark, and his hands settled on the sides of your body. He kissed the mark, sending shivers coursing through you, and you whimpered softly. His hands explored your form, caressing every contour as if he were savoring your essence, worshipping your body. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, his face pressed against your neck, his tongue licking you again, prompting another soft whimper. He repeated the act, as if waiting or testing your reaction, and you couldn't help but moan softly.

"You have an exquisite taste," he whispered. "Your body radiates warmth, teeming with life... Your scent is intoxicating, your heat is driving me wild," he continued to murmur, his hands continuing their journey across your body. "And I can feel it, especially between your legs. What a sinful delight."

"Cardinal, please," you whispered, torn between the need to push him away and the overwhelming desire that made you want to pull him closer.

"Have you ever been touched, topino?" Cardinal Copia inquired, his voice a sultry whisper.

"N-No..." you confessed, your voice quivering with anticipation.

Your breaths quickened, and you couldn't help but respond to his caresses. When his fingers traced down to between your legs, you gasped, your body trembling with longing.

"Can I touch you here?" he asked.

"Yes... Please..." you breathed, your desire palpable in your response.

You moaned softly as he began to explore your heat above your underwear. Your body writhed with pleasure, and you clung to him, lost in the whirlwind of sensations he was unleashing. His fingers danced skillfully, igniting every nerve ending. Your moans grew louder, and your desire intensified with each passing second.

"Is this okay?" Cardinal Copia inquired, seeking your consent as he continued.

"Cardinal... Oh, Cardinal," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. "Yes... Yes..."

"Look at you," he murmured. "Look at yourself in the mirror."

Your eyes turned to the mirror in front of you, revealing only your reflection. Cardinal Copia had no reflection, and you saw yourself with a visage of pleasure etched across your face. As you gazed at your reflection, you turned your eyes to see him standing behind you, a wide grin on his face. He slid his fingers inside your underwear, causing you to gasp, and you obediently shifted your gaze back to the mirror as he had instructed.

"Molto bene," he praised you.

You remained transfixed by your reflection, watching as Cardinal Copia continued to pleasure you, his fingers expertly exploring your wetness. The sight of your own face, twisted with ecstasy in the mirror, only intensified your arousal.

"Cardinal," you moaned, "Please, don't stop..."

"I won't," he promised, "Not until you are satisfied."

His words sending a shiver coursing through your body. You whimpered, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand's ministrations. A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips, his fingers never ceasing their tantalizing dance. You continued to whimper, your hips moving restlessly against his skillful touch.

"Oh, Cardinal..." you groaned, your eyes fixed on the mirror.

His fingers quickened their pace, and your breaths came in rapid gasps. Lost in the overwhelming sensation, your body writhed as his skilled fingers caressed your clit. You hissed and bent forward, pressing your hands against the walls on either side of the mirror. With his other hand, Cardinal Copia lifted your habit, reaching down to pull your underwear down to your knees. His fingers then found their way to your entrance, teasing and circling it.

You couldn't help but look back at him above your shoulder, his eyes fixed on your reflection with a devilish glint. Your body felt hot and needy as his fingers continued their tantalizing dance. Your hands gripped the mirror's edges, your knuckles turning white with the pressure, as you tried to hold yourself up.

"Please... Inside..." you breathed.

Cardinal Copia didn't need further encouragement. His fingers slipped inside your aching core, and a wave of pleasure surged through your body. You moaned loudly, your legs trembling as he expertly pumped his fingers in and out of you. Every thrust seemed to send electric shocks of pleasure through your entire being, and you couldn't contain your desire.

"Yes, yes, Cardinal... Yes...!" you moaned softly.

Your reflection in the mirror was a vision of pure lust and ecstasy. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, your lips parted in a sultry moan, and your body writhed with unbridled passion. Cardinal Copia watched your reflection with rapt attention, a wicked grin playing on his lips

"Oh... Cardinal... That feels so good," you moaned.

"Does it now?" Cardinal Copia's voice was seductive and filled with amusement as he continued to pleasure you.

His fingers worked their magic inside you, and his thumb rubbed circles over your swollen clit, intensifying your arousal. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, increasing the tempo, and your body writhed in pleasure. Your breathing became erratic, and your moans grew louder. You couldn't take your eyes off your reflection in the mirror, where your lust-filled expression mirrored the intense sensations building within you.

"Cardinal... Oh, Satan..." you groaned. "Please, fuck me... fuck me...!"

"You want me to fuck you, topino?" he asked, his voice filled with desire. "Will you let me be your first?"

"Yes, please, I need you," you begged. "Please, just fuck me."

Cardinal Copia grinned with a look of satisfaction in the mirror. He pulled his fingers out of you and you whined in frustration. He chuckled at your reaction, stepping back for a moment to undo his pants. Then, he pressed himself against your wet folds, his hardness throbbing as it met your hot, waiting entrance.

"Are you sure?" he teased.

"Yes," you whispered softly.

You spread your legs a little further, arching your back, pushing your hips against him, grinding yourself against his length. He teased you with the tip of his length against your folds before finally thrusting into you, filling you completely.

"Ah!" you exclaimed, feeling a bit of discomfort as you adjusted to him inside you.

"Can I move?" Cardinal Copia inquired.

"Yes," you whispered, giving him permission to continue.

Cardinal Copia held onto your hips as he began to move inside you. His thrusts were slowly, but powerful and rhythmic, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body. You moaned and whimpered, your body responding to his every move.

"Cazzo!" he exclaimed. "I've just discovered something even more enticing than your blood." He lowered his body on top of yours. "What a delectably tight pussy you have."

"Ah... Ah! Cardinal... Yes..." you purred, lost in the feeling of the moment.

He held you firmly, his hot breath caressing your neck as his thrusts grew more intense. Gasps and moans filled the room as his length plunged deeply into you with each motion. Your arousal had made you slick, allowing him to glide effortlessly inside you.

"Merda, how can a pussy be that good?" Cardinal Copia questioned, his voice strained with desire. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he continued to thrust deeply.

As Cardinal Copia's words of praise washed over you, your body quivered with delight. You clung to him, feeling your pleasure build with every relentless thrust. Your walls tightened around his length as he thrust his member in and out of you with long, deep strokes.

"How can your pussy be that tight and wet?" he mused, his breath hot against your neck. His hips moved with a relentless rhythm, each thrust making you gasp.

He continued to move within you, his thrusts unyielding, and the ecstasy he was driving you toward grew more intense with every passing moment. Your cries of pleasure filled the room, mingling with his own fervent groans.

"Is this because of me, topino?" he inquired, his voice husky.

"Yes... yes, yes, yes, yes!" you gasped in response, your body arching in pleasure, meeting his every thrust with fervor.

You straightened up your body, your back pressed against him, and you began to meet each of his thrusts with one of your own. The incredible sensations overwhelmed you, and you surrendered completely to the passionate rhythm, savoring the feeling of his length penetrating you. Each stroke brought you both closer to the edge, and you could sense him growing even harder inside you with every movement. Your walls clenched tightly around him, intensifying the pleasure for both of you.

"Cardi...Ah!" you whispered. "You're so big! It feels so good!"

His lips descended to your neck, kissing you with fervor as he devoured your skin hungrily. His hot breath on your neck sent delicious shivers through your body, intensifying the pleasure. His hands shifted from your hips to your thighs, gripping them firmly, causing you to clench around him once again.

"Giuro su Satana... Your pussy feels even better than your blood," he moaned in your ear. "Satana blessed you with this, and gifted me with you today." His words dripped with desire and reverence for the moment.

He pounded into you relentlessly, the intensity of his thrusts driving you both closer to the edge. Your bodies moved in perfect unison, a symphony of passion that echoed through the room. His moans filled your ears, spurring you on even more.

"Mmm... Cardinal..." you moaned, your voice laced with lust. "Fuck me... Fuck me hard!"

Cardinal Copia eagerly complied, his thrusts becoming faster and more forceful. You responded by pushing back against him, your breathless moans filling the room. Your gaze remained locked on the mirror, where you could see the pleasure etched across your face, your body undulating with each passionate encounter. You yearned to witness his reflection too, to see your bodies entwined as his movements grew more urgent, the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting echoing throughout the room.

"Yes, Cardinal... Oh Satan, yes!" you cried out in ecstasy. "You're going to make me cum... I'm going to cum..." The intense pleasure building within you was reaching its peak, and you could hardly contain yourself.

Your moans grew louder and more urgent as Cardinal Copia's relentless thrusts pushed you to the brink of ecstasy. The pleasure surged through your body, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to tumble into the abyss of release. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your movements to match his rhythm as he relentlessly drove into you, each stroke sending you closer to the climax you so desperately craved.

"I'm going to make you cum now, sì?" he said. "And when you do, I want you to look into the mirror."

Your heart raced in anticipation as his hand reached down to your clit, his fingers working it fervently while he continued to pound into you with unrestrained abandon. The combined sensations of his thrusts and his skillful touch sent you hurtling toward a powerful climax. He grunted, and suddenly you felt his length throbbing inside you.

"I- Cazzo! I'm going to cum," he growled, relinquishing your clit and concentrating solely on thrusting into you.

He gripped your hips tightly as his own orgasm overtook him, filling you with his hot release. The pulsating waves of pleasure from his climax and the rhythmic movements of his fingers against your clit sent you into a mind-shattering orgasm. Your vision blurred, and your body convulsed with ecstasy. You both moaned in unison as you rode out the waves of pleasure together.

Copia's hand gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to the mirror. You watched your entire body tremble with pleasure, your face a picture of ecstasy, until the sensation reached its climax, leaving you feeling utterly relaxed and weak in the knees. Copia held you securely in his arms, gradually lowering you to a more comfortable position, his gentle hand soothing your flushed face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a concerned tone in his voice.

You nodded and managed a smile, meeting his soft gaze as he looked at you with tenderness, his concern reflecting in his eyes. Gently, he lifted you up and carried you to his bed, laying you down there and sitting beside you.

"Mi dispiace, I guess I was a little too rough and drank a certain amount of your blood," he expressed with remorse.

"T-That's... Okay," you replied weakly.

He offered a gentle smile. "Rest now."

You nodded and closed your eyes slowly, taking deep breaths to regain your strength.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered softly, his presence a comforting reassurance as you drifted into a well-deserved slumber.

184 notes · View notes

tf2occontest · 1 month ago

Text

Akari Tanaka/Aoki Aojima (The Chef) VS The Reverend

(Full matchup list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboards and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes gets to move on, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your next contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

Akari Tanaka/Aoki Aojima (The Chef)

@mg-dango

Image credit: @/mg-dango

Ah, food… ¿Who doesn't love food? Even better… ¿Who doesn´t love making food? Because believe it or not, a team with an empty stomach is a lost cause, and that's when the chef comes in to the rescue!

Akari and Aoki, two ex-ninjas currently wanted in Japan and several countries for multiple charges, including murder, manslaughter, mass poisoning with sushi, terrorism, accidentally breaking a government-owned light pole, and much, much more. But despite those silly insignificant details, Chef remains optimistic and dreams with one day becoming a well known and respected Itamae on the demanding gastronomy world, maybe even one day opening their own 5 star restaurant, which is the main reason they took parts on the gravel wars as the 10th class, money has to come from somewhere, right?

Chef's task in theory is simple, they aid their teammates by throwing and feeding them sushi mid-battle, attack enemies with kitchen knives by distance or just directly stabbing, they use smoke bombs made of wasabi to mess up the aim of the enemy snipers and sentries, and last but not least, Chefs have the main ability to jump ridiculously fast to the point human eyes can't see it at first glance, a secret skill taught to ninjas.

¿Why you should vote for my chef? The main idea that came to my mind on their early designs was "Kiriko Overwatch but she's a sociopath" and from there. more and more traits from their personality came out. Chef could be defined in a few words as the trope of a living weapon that found their family and a community with a bunch of mentally unstable and insane people like them, but with a hint of sushi and ninjas of course.

If you think chef can make it on their dream of becoming a well-known chef by questionable methods, well… Vote for them! You might be getting free sushi in return :D

The Reverend

@coopster3d

Image credit: @/coopster3d

#tf2occontest2024 #poll #round 1 #the chef #the reverend #mg-dango #coopster3d

23 notes · View notes

anotherhumaninthisworld · 8 months ago

Note

Could you talk about Robespierre and Brissot??? Or maybe more about Brissot, I'm really curious about him!

1789-1792 In his memoirs (written 1793), Brissot writes the following about his activities as a law student in Paris around 1774:

Before leaving the subject of Nolleau’s chambers, […] I must recall the fact that chance gave me there, as second clerk, a man who has since played an amazing part in the Convention, but against whose future celebrity I should at that time have been prepared to bet anything. Ignorant, without knowledge of any scientific subject, incapable of conceiving or expressing an idea of any kind, he was eminently fitted for a career of dishonesty.

Though Brissot doesn’t state it outright, the second clerk and future member of the Convention mentioned here was at first identified as Robespierre. When Claude Perroud published an edition of the memoirs in 1912, he did however dismiss the idea entirely, considering the fact that in 1774, there would be another four years before Robespierre even began to study law in the first place.

If connections between Brissot and Robespierre before the revolution is something we’re in other words lacking, once we’re into it, it doesn’t take long before the former starts to mention the latter’s name. This in relation to describing interventions made by him during the sessions of the National Assembly and the Jacobin Club in his newly founded journal Le Patriote Français. Based off volume 6 of Oeuvres complètes de Maximilien Robespierre, I find Brissot to have mentioned Robespierre’s name a total of 26 times throughout 1789 and 1790, the very first being in number 17 (August 27 1789). As the journal was more concerned with giving a neutral summary of the sessions, as opposed to spreading the author’s own opinions, most of these cannot be used to determine what Brissot’s personal stance on Robespierre was. Sometimes, the overall neutral tone does however give way for a bit more colorful adjectives:

M. Roberspierre [sic] wanted us to adopt this truly noble formula: ”Louis, by the grace of God and by the will of the Nation; King of the French: To all citizens of the French Empire; People, here is the law that your representatives have made for you, and to which I have affixed the Royal seal. He wanted to develop his thoughts, but he was stopped from doing so. Le Patriote Français, number 66 (October 10 1789)

M. de Robespierre claimed that martial law should not be imposed in the critical circumstances in which the Nation finds itself plunged, and he produced a great impression, with an idea that is imposing and sublime at first glance but which lacks accuracy. Le Patriote Français, number 76 (October 22 1789)

MM. Roberpierre [sic], Biauzat, and Chapelier easily shattered this diplomatic erudition and proved that it was not a question of the rights of the Province of Cambrésis but of a crazy deliberation of an unconstitutional body. Le Patriote Français, number 105 (November 21 1789)

M. de Robespierre defended good principles, he showed that the executive power had an interest in increasing the number of wars, while the interest of the legislative power laid in avoiding them. He concluded that it was dangerous to entrust the law of war to the former. Le Patriote Français, number 184 (May 19 1790)

...There is, however, an article touched by M. Robespierre which has aroused murmurs. This ardent orator made it understood that priests must belong to society through the first of bonds, that of marriage. There is no one who has reflected a little on the cause of ecclesiastical corruption, who has witnessed the good effects of the marriage of priests among Protestant sects, who is not convinced of the necessity of this reform. But although all good minds are convinced of it, although all are convinced of the possibility of combining it with Catholic doctrine, not all also think that this is the moment to propose this idea; they are stopped by the fear of increasing the effervescency among the ignorant: it is perhaps only a false terror... In any case, we must at least prepare the minds, and that is what M. de Robespierre had not done. Le Patriote Français, number 197 (June 1 1790)

M. Robespierre responded very well to the prepositions, by proving that the legislators of a people that succumb under the weight of taxes and debts, can not lend themselves to sentiments generous enough to leave to the prelates their immoderate powers. Le Patriote Français, number 320 (June 14 1790)

M. Robespierre courageously defended the true principles against M. d'André. Le Patriote Français, number 474 (November 25 1790)

In his memoirs, Brissot writes that Robespierre in July 1790 brought him a copy of a letter to Desmoulins to insert in Le Patriote Français — ”I remember on this occasion Robespierre with his fears and his scruples which he could not dissimulate. Desmoulins' thoughtlessness alarmed him; he didn't know what to think of it.” Brissot did however ”think it agreeable” to Desmoulins to insert neither this letter, nor the response the latter wrote in return and which was also given to him. In December the same year, both Robespierre and Brissot signed the wedding contract and attended the wedding ceremony of said Desmoulins, who in a letter to his father reported that everyone present had been driven to tears during it, after which they all went over to have dinner at his place. These are the earliest confirmed meetings between Brissot and Robespierre that I’m aware of, though it’s far from impossible they had had contacts prior to this as well.

Brissot continues to bring up Robespierre in his journal throughout 1791. He mentions his name or debates which he has taken part in around 50 different times, calling him things such as ”a vigorous defender of liberty” (number 525, January), ”a friend of principles” (number 571, February), ”an enlightened patriot” (number 600, March), ”a vigorous patriot” (number 608, April), ”[someone with] rigorous principles” (number 646, May), ”[someone] favored by eternal principles and sound politics” (number 659, May), and ”a good patriot, firm in principles, deaf to considerations [and] the most implacable enemy of the aristocrats” (number 676, June), and openly showing his support for his stance on topics such as the colonies/the rights of men of colour (number 646, May, number 671, June, number 777, September), the self denying decree (number 608, April), the right to bear arms (number 630, April), the dismissal of army officers (number 673, June) and other smaller affairs (number 586, March, number 591, March, number 592, March). On April 2 1791 Mirabeau passed away, and the following day, Robespierre proposed to the Assembly that the honors of the Pantheon be given to him. In his memoirs, Brissot claims that ”Pétion reproached [Robespierre] for this the same day, he reproached him for it in my presence.”

On June 18 1791, Adrien Duquesnoy attacks both Brissot and Robespierre in number 30 of his journal Ami des Patriotes — ”We are, moreover, on the eve of reaping the fruits of the infernal spirit of system which torments MM. Robespierre, Brissot, etc. They have shouted so much against the distinction of active citizens.” In number 682 of Patriote Français, Brissot responds to his charges and at the same time clarifies that he and Robespierre don’t have any private contacts:

What more will I say about the connections you tie between me and M. Robespierre, and about this infernal spirit that you attribute to us both, about this party over which you make us preside? I have always liked to pay tribute to the inflexible patriotism of M. Robespierre, but I do not share all his opinions; but I don't see him; more than a month has passed since I last had the pleasure of servicing him (de l’entretenir). Party leaders who form a coalition see each other, I believe, a little more frequently.

The number was released on June 21 1791, the same day Paris woke up to the discovery that the royal family had fled the capital during the night. In her memoirs (1793) Madame Roland claimed to in the afternoon have seen both Robespierre and Brissot at Pétion’s house discussing these most recent events:

I was struck by the terror with which [Robespierre] seemed to be overcome on the day of the king's flight to Varennes; I found him in the afternoon at Pétion’s; where he said with concern that the royal family would not have taken this course without having a coalition in Paris which would order a Saint-Barthélemy for the patriots, and that he expected to be dead within twenty-four hours. Pétion and Brissot said, on the contrary, that the flight of the king was his loss, and that it was necessary to take advantage of it; that the dispositions of the people were excellent; that it would be better enlightened on the perfidy of the court by this approach than it would have been by the wisest of writings; that it was obvious to everyone, by this fact alone, that the king did not want the constitution he had sworn to; that it was time to ensure a more homogeneous one, and that it was necessary to prepare minds for the Republic. Robespierre, sneering as usual and biting his nails, asked what a Republic was!

One month later, July 16 1791, both Brissot and Robespierre are found signing the same adress as two of 24 members of the Jacobin Club’s Committee of correspondence. This is the third time Brissot is listed as taking an active part at the club as far as I can see, and the first time he and Robespierre are mentioned during the same session. The day right after, in number 707 (17 July) of Le Patriote Français, Brissot is found agreeing with Robespierre in the big discussion regarding what’s to be done with the king following his capture at Varennes and return to Paris the month before:

…It is very true that to have the king judged by the legislative body would be to violate principles. Also their defenders, Robespierre and Buzot, constantly asked that this great trial be referred to the nation. In that way, we don’t make one power dependent on the other.

The same day this number was released, the massacre on the Champ de Mars took place. Three days later Brissot defends Robespierre against allegations he would be responsible for what had just happened in number 710 of his journal:

Let patriots in all parties stop accusing each other of being the authors of this terrible catastrophe. How did one have the audacity to suspect even the purest virtue? How did one have the audacity to suspect and circulate that MM. Buzot, Pétion, Robespierre were at the head of this uprising? How did one try to raise the national guards and the people against them? Have we therefore already arrived at the unfortunate times of demagoguery, when Socrates and the Phocians [sic] were made to drink the hemlock?

Unlike many other journalists who had to quit their journals in the wake of the massacre due to arrest or going underground, Brissot managed to avoid any repercussions and could stay in Paris and keep his running. In number 774 (September 23 1791), he does however make it clear that, following his election to the Legislative Assembly on September 14 (a place which he surely had the by Robespierre proposed self denying decree much to thank for), he will have to occupy himself much less with Le Patriote Français and leave most of the editing in other hands, but nevertheless continue to give it his ”full attention.” If it would thus appear his role in the editing continued to be considerate, I don’t know how to measure just how much responsibility Brissot is to take for the things that appeared in the journal following this moment…

A week after Brissot’s announcement, the National Assembly was closed down, and yet another week later, October 16, both Robespierre and Brissot are listed as two of twelve jacobins appointed to take part in ”conferances on moral and constitution.” The former did however soon thereafter leave Paris for a visit back to his hometown. He was back in the capital in late November, after which it didn’t take long before a wrench was driven between him and Brissot.

It all started on December 16, when Brissot, after a two month long absence from the Jacobins, showed up and there delivered his first speech in favor of France going to war against German princes (Discours sur la nécessité de déclarer la guerre aux princes allemands qui protègent les émigrés). After the speech was finished, Robespierre, who had shown his opposition towards the idea of war already on December 9, 11 and 12, when brought up by Carra or Réal, suggested the printing of it be adjourned. Two days later, December 18, he responded to Brissot with a speech of his own (Discours de Maximilien Robespierre sur le parti que l'Assemblée Nationale doit prendre relativement à la proposition de guerre, annoncée par le pouvoir exécutif…). After he had finished reading it, Sillery rose to support Robespierre’s position, while Brissot asked to obtain the floor to speak against him during the next session. On December 21 and 25, Carra, Machenaud and Simonne all spoke in favor of going to war, while Desmoulins on December 26 instead took Robespierre’s side with a speech against it. Four days later, Brissot held his second speech in favor of the idea (Second discours de J.-P. Brissot, député, sur la nécessité de faire la guerre aux princes allemands). Journal des Débats de la Société des Amis de la Constitution reported the following in regards to the session:

M. Brissot reads a very long speech, frequently interrupted by applause, on the necessity of an offensive war. He ends with an exhortation to true patriots to submit to the law and never allow themselves to attack the constitution in any way. This exhortation appears to MM. Robespierre and Danton a criticism and an indictment made to the speakers and writers of the Society, because of the kind of affectation which appears to them to be there. They rise to demand the change of this passage in the printing made of this speech. The greatest warmth spread throughout the Society during this discussion, in the midst of which M. Brissot, giving the most striking testimony of the attachment the Societies and M. Robespierre have for the constitution, undertakes to correct the end of his speech in a way so that it won’t leave any doubt regarding his intentions. The sitting is ended at eleven o’clock.

Three days later, January 2 1792, Robespierre held his second long speech on the subject. Unlike his first one, where he had just spoken against going to war in general, here he rather chose to mainly speak against the arguments Brissot had used for it in his speech on the 30th.

…I will try to fulfill this purpose by responding mainly to the opinion of M. Brissot. If general features, if the brilliant and prophetic portrayal of the successes of a war ending with all the peoples of Europe fraternally embracing one another, are sufficient reasons to decide such a serious question, I will say that M. Brissot has perfectly resolved it; but his speech seemed to me to present a vice which is nothing in an academic discourse, and which is of some importance in the greatest of all political discussions; it is because he has constantly avoided the fundamental point of the question, to raise his entire system on an absolutely ruinous basis.

According to Journal général de France, there were however still no hard feelings between Robespierre and Brissot, who ended up embracing each other after the speech:

A great split has just taken place among the Jacobins. M. Robertspierre [sic] has always maintained that we should not wage war: it places in the hands of the executive power means that it could use against the constitution. M. Robertspierre's [sic] obstinacy in maintaining his opinion had made him quarrel with M. Brissot; but they solemnly reconciled, and the club applauded with enthusiasm the embraces they lavished upon each other. Today, M. Robertspierre [sic] is fighting against MM. Brissot, Guadet, Vergniaud, Grangeneuve. The ascendancy of Mr. Robertspierre [sic] still makes success uncertain.

Robespierre had ended his speech promising he would come with further clarifications a few days later, which he also did on January 11. A week after that, January 18, he and Brissot got into a controversy regarding a letter that would have praised Lafayette and expressed doubt over the patriotism of the inhabitants of Metz, printed in number 891 of Le Patriote Français, that had been released the very same day:

Robespierre […] was surprised to have seen a patriotic newspaper, Le Patriote français, expressing doubts about the patriotism of the inhabitants of Metz, and praising La Fayette.

A member asks to make a point of order, and observes that this letter had been inserted the day before in the Moniteur.

Several voices: You’re attacking the patriotism of M. Brissot.

M. Brissot: I declare to the assembly that I was unaware of the letter which was inserted in Le Patriote français by my collaborator. M. Robespierre seemed to cast doubt on the authenticity of this letter. I just saw M. Roederer, who assured me that he had seen the original, and who guarantees it to be genuine. Mr. Robespierre seemed to attack my silence. The painful task that I have imposed on myself prevents me from contributing to the journal assiduously; yesterday I once again spoke for an hour at the National Assembly, and the people can judge whether I am abandoning their cause.

M. Rouyer: Messieurs, I render justice to the patriotism of M. Robespierre and M. Brissot; I am angry that we discuss people when the public good needs us. I am guarantor of both; I ask the Society to move on with the agenda.

M. Robespierre: I declare, in particular, that I am very pleased that M. Brissot was unaware that this letter had been inserted in his journal; I am far from thinking that he wrote it, since the title states that it was inserted in the Moniteur: it is because it is in a newspaper which enjoys a great reputation that I thought it necessary to speak; I have never attacked M. Brissot, our principles are the same; I only refuted his opinion. I come back to my point: I say that the National Assembly must display great character, that it must bring order to the kingdom, that it must never protect the impunity of ministers, that it must exhaust all the good that legislators can do, and then it can declare war.

M. Rouyer climbs to the rostrum and makes some observations in favor of war.

M. Louvet reproaches Robespierre for not seeing the danger where it is, for denying it elsewhere, and thereby incurring a very great responsibility.

The sitting ends at ten o’clock.

In number 893 (January 20) of Patriote Français, Brissot’s collaborator Girey-Dupré responded to Robespierre’s charges, writing that the letter, which had been printed not only in Patriote Français but other ”patriotic journals” as well, had only been an extract from the Moniteur and did not contain any praise of Lafayette. ”As for the suspicions that M. Robespierre tried to spread against this paper,” Girey-Dupré adds, ”I have disregarded the slanders of the aristocrats and the ministers, I can well endure the bad mood of a patriot.”

At the session of the Jacobins held the very same day, Brissot held his third speech in favor of war, where he chose to mainly respond to the arguments laid out by Robespierre most recently, just like the latter had done with him on January 2:

I’m now arriving at the arguments Robespierre made against me at this tribune that I still haven’t answered. […] It is very strange to today see M. Robespierre walking on the same line as the ministry, nevertheless maintaining that he is on the opposite side, and claiming that those who support him are actually against him. […] Certainly, we will not accuse, despite these connections, M. Robespierre of being in concert with the minister; but he should at least believe that this concert does not exist between this minister and those who openly fight him, who vigorously denounce the vices and abuses of his administration. This idea brings me back to some insinuations on the purity of my intentions, which distort M. Robespierre's speeches. They are foreign to him, I like to believe; for I have seen him, I have known his soul, and wickedness never came near him. If there are disguised poisons in his speeches, I will only attribute them to the suggestions of men against whom he is not sufficiently armed with distrust.

When the speech was over, Brissot and Robespierre were made to embrace each other yet again:

M. Brissot justifies himself in response to the insinuations thrown at him by Robespierre in a previous session, and implores him to put an end to a dispute which can only be agreeable to the enemies of the public good.

M. Dusaulx: All the patriots of this club have long been suspended in the course of a discussion which seemed to compromise two good patriots who must love and esteem each other; something would be missing after what M. Brissot said before leaving this assembly, it is the duty of these two generous men to embrace each other.

No sooner had he finished than MM. Robespierre and Brissot were in each other's arms, amid the unanimous applause of the Society, moved by this touching spectacle.

M. Robespierre: By yielding to M. Dusaulx's invitation, I only gave myself up to the impulse of my heart, I gave what I owed to the confession and to the fraternity and to the feeling depth that I have of a man who enjoys the greatest consideration and who must render the greatest services to the fatherland; I will prove to M. Brissot how much I am attached to him. This should in no way change the opinion that every man should have of the public good; it is to do all that will be in me, and what I believe necessary for the public safety, that I will ask to answer in another session to the speech of M. Brissot. (speech 3?)

M. Rœderer: I ask for the floor to point out an oversight which, no doubt, escaped M. Robespierre, and that is to request the printing of M. Brissot's speech. I ask for it in his name.

Robespierre did however think this gesture had been a stupid one, as revealed through a letter he wrote to Antoine-Joseph Gorsas, author of the journal Courrier des 83 départements, eight days later. He also safeguarded his own position on the war (that he by then had already held a third speech against on January 25), which he meant Gorsas had gotten wrong when describing the session on the 20th in the latest number of his journal:

I noticed in your number from today an error which deserves to be corrected. When summarizing the latest session at the Friends of the Constitution, the article of which I’m speaking supposes that I have renounced my principles on the important questioned which today agitates all the spirits, since one feels it holds onto public safety and the maintenance of liberty. I would consider myself little deserving of the esteem of good citizens had I played the role this article ascribes to me. What is true in this recital, is that, after a speech held by M. Brissot, on the pathetic invitation of M. Duseaux, the two of us cordially embraced, applauded by the entire club. It is also true that I went through with this action with much pleasure, that the important discussion where we had embraced holding different opinions, had not left any bitterness in my soul; that I am far from viewing as particular quarrels debates that interest the fate of the people, and where I have never held any passion other than that for the public good. Also, far from thinking that neither the fate of the big question which occupies all of France, nor my particular opinion could in any way be subordinated to my sensibility and my personal affection for M. Brissot, I immediately mounted the tribune in order to manifest this sentiment in the following way: ”I just fulfilled a duty consisting of fraternity and of satisfying my heart; I still have an even more sacred debt to pay to my homeland. The profound sentiment which ties me to it, neccessarily supposes love for my fellow citizens and for those with which I have the closest of bonds: but all individual affections must give way to the sacred interest of liberty and of humanity: I could easily reconcile it here with the attachment, with the respect that I have promised to all those who have served the homeland well, and who will continue to serve it well. I embraced M. Brissot with this sentiment, and I will continue to combat his opinion on the points where it differs from my principles, by indicating where I agree with him. May our union rest on the sacred base of patriotism and virtue, let us fight like free men, even with energy if it’s needed, but with respect, with friendship.” Robespierre.

Robespierre didn’t hold more speeches purely about being against war following January 25, but continued to show his opposition at the Jacobins regardless throughout the following months. On February 10, he held a speech with the title On the Means to save the State and Liberty, ”that is to say, (he underlined) to stifle civil war and foreign war, by confusing all the projects of our internal enemies.” On February 24 he spoke out against the club’s committee of correspondence for having stated that the club was in favor of the war, and that those who had supported the opposite party had changed their mind — ”As for me, it remains for me to prove that I have not renounced my opinion in favor of a party that I consider to be the most dangerous for the homeland and for liberty.” Two days later, he demanded that a circular meant to be sent to the sister clubs in the provinces regarding the question include a table containing the reasons put forward by different speakers for or against war, as opposed to stating the majority of the society was for it. Brissot on the other hand retreated back to the Legislative Assembly to continue pushing his agenda there instead, supported by people such as Louvet, Gensonné, Vergniaud, Isnard, Guadet, Manuel, Roederer, Bangal, and Cloots. Number 963 (March 30 1792) of Le Patriote Français contained an article titled ”On the new tactic of the enemies of liberty” and, while not naming Robespierre by name, suggested that those that were against war had ulterior motives for doing so — “any opinion against the war can only be very disastrous, and we understand that it must be used by this Austrian committee, which wants to give its friends time to prepare to attack us.” The article is not signed by Brissot and as mentioned above, he had by this point in large part handed over the editing to others. Regardless, it can probably be concluded that such an article appearing in what was technically still his journal did no miracles for his and Robespierre’s relationship.

In February, Desmoulins released the 60 page long and influential pamphlet Jean [sic] Pierre Brissot démasqué, which acted both as a denounciation of Brissot, treated, if not yet as a full blown traitor and counterrevolutionary, at the very least as a fool and an object of ridicule, but also as a defence of ”my college friend” Robespierre. In Choosing Terror (2014), Marisa Linton writes that Robespierre ”may well have been involved in [the pamphlet’s] production,” probably basing this on the fact that we know he had had a hand in other of Desmoulins’ works. If we’re lacking any tangible evidence for this in the case of Jean-Pierre Brissot démasque, Desmoulins did himself nevertheless claim that ”[Robespierre] sees me as invulnurable after the proof of incorruptibility that I produced in my latest writing to Brissot” in a letter inserted in Journal de M. Suleau not long thereafter.

On April 20 1792, Brissot and his allies finally had their way as France declared war on Austria. The very same day Robespierre spoke at the Jacobin club, saying that, now that the dice had been rolled, he too was in favor of ”conquering Brabant, the Netherlands, Liège, Flanders, etc” while also stating that ”now is above all the time where we must supervise the executive and the constituted authorities.” Three days later, April 23, he asked the Jacobins to for the opportunity to share his thoughts on “a civil war plan presented to the National Assembly by one of its members” during an upcoming session. But before that could happen, on April 25, Brissot showed up at the Jacobins for the first time since January 20, when Dusaulx had made him and Robespierre embrace, and delivered a long speech where he defended himself against accusations that he would have nominated ministers, been allied with Lafayette and Condorcet and dined together with Narbonne and Madame de Staël, and, while not naming Robespierre by name, warned of ”agitators” seeking to divide the society in the time of war:

Their (aristocrats and agitators) conduct is the same; like the friends of the court, the agitators denounce and seek to divide the patriots; like the friends of the court, they cry out against war, when war is wanted by the majority of the patriots. [applauds]. Certainly, I will not imitate my adversaries' ease of slander, I will not rely on rumors that they are paid by the civil list; I will not denounce based on rumors that they have a secret committee to influence this Society; but I will say that they follow the same path as the supporters of civil war. I will say that, without a doubt, they do more harm to patriots. At what point do they come to divide this Society? At the moment when external war and internal war threatens us. Ah! Gentlemen, why, for several months, have one been trying to hijack the agenda here? The most important questions demand your attention. When all the Societies of the kingdom expect you to solicit a host of decrees favorable to the people, the sanction of which is easy in the present state of the ministry, you let slip an opportunity which perhaps will never arise again; It is time to occupy yourself with the discussion of the objects which interest the National Assembly, and which we want to make you lose sight of. I ask the Society to give explanations on this, and I conclude that, denouncing the denunciations that I have refuted, we move on to the agenda.

Right after this, Robespierre tried to take the floor for a point of order, but this request was refused and instead obtained by Guadet, who started denouncing Robespierre, calling him an ”imperial speaker” who would only talk about himself — ”M. Robespierre had promised to denounce a civil war plan formed within the National Assembly itself, I summon him to do so. I denounce a man who constantly puts his pride before public affairs, the position to which he was called. I denounce a man who, whether ambition or misfortune, has become the idol of the people.” Robespierre then took to the floor, declaring that ”my most ardent adversaries are not MM. Brissot and Guadet” but nevertheless requesting time to properly respond to them, something which he was given. Two days later, April 27 1792, he could deliver a speech by the name of Réponse de M. Robespierre, aux discours de MM. Brissot & Guadet du 25 avril 1792. Robespierre criticized both of the in the title named men, before nevertheless asking for peace — ”I only want to give you proof of moderation. I offer you peace on the only conditions that the friends of the homeland can accept. On these conditions I gladly forgive you for all your slanders.”

But just three days later, April 30, Robespierre complained to the Jacobins that the printed versions of the speeches Brissot and Guadet had held on the 25th matched badly with what they had actually said. His objection did however not gain any support from the president Lasource. A little more than a week later, in number 1003 (May 9 1792) of Patriote Français, we find an article titled ”On the war of M. Robespierre,” signed by Brissot and with the following content:

M. Robespierre continues to wage war against me, to denounce me, and to have me denounced to the Jacobins. I won't bother to answer him; this war is a scandal, and can become a source of calamity for liberty. Despite all the advantage that my adversaries give me over them, I consider it a real crime to continue it. The pain of true patriots, the joy of feuillans, and the interest of liberty, command my silence. Moreover, this war will fall by itself, I like to hope, because it is only about absurdities, and the people do not pay for absurdities for long. The trial between M. Robespierre and me will be judged by our common conduct. He deserted his post (as public prosecutor), without being able to give a single good reason; I am and will be faithful to mine. It is by faithfully fulfilling my duties, and not by eternally denouncing that I will respond to him. I expect him at the end of the legislature; I will produce my actions, we will examine his, and the public will be the judge of our patriotism. Agendo non dicendo was Cato's motto, and it is also mine.

A week after that, May 17, the first number of Robespierre’s new journal Le Defenseur de la Constutition was released. Just six pages in he takes a dig at Brissot and Condorcet, questioning their conduct in the aftermath of the Flight to Varennes and Massacre on Champ de Mars the year before. He remarks how these two men ”up until then known for your connections to La Fayette, and for your great moderation; long-time spectators of a semi-aristocratic club (the Society of 1789)” suddenly started waving the word ”republic” around, Condorcet by publishing the treatise De la République, ou Un roi est-il nécessaire à la conservation de la liberté ?, Brissot by founding a journal by the name of Le Républicain, while their friend Duchatêlet put up posters preaching the same ideals on all the walls of Paris. Robespierre considers the timing for this to have been counterproductive at best:

With all the spirits fermented; just as much as the word republic caused division among the patriots, gave the enemies of liberty the pretext they were looking for, to publish that there existed in France a party which conspired against the monarchy and the constitution. They hastened to attribute to this argument the firmness with which we defended in the Constituent Assembly the rights of national sovereignty against the monster of inviolability. It was with this word [republic] that they misled the majority of the Constituent Assembly; it is this word which was the signal for the carnage of peaceful citizens, slaughtered on the altar of the homeland, their whole crime having been to legally exercise the right of petition, enshrined by constitutional laws. Through this name the true friends of liberty were disguised as factious by perverse or ignorant citizens; and the revolution regressed by perhaps half a century.

He also brings up the fact that it was Brissot who had been the author behind the petition that asked for the the removal of the king ”at a time when the faction was only waiting for this pretext to slander the defenders of liberty” which was then presented on the Champ-de-Mars. While Robespierre is quick to underline he doesn’t think the intentions of Brissot or Condorcet were ”as guilty as the events were disastrous,” dismissing the thoughts of other ”patriots” who have suggested the two were secret allies of Lafayette, he also writes that ”I only want to see in their past conduct anything but impolitic sovereignity and profound ineptitude” and warns them that ”anyone who bases ambitious projects on new errors of the monarch, who dares to start civil war, at a time when foreign war is being provoked, would be the greatest enemy of the homeland.” The number also contained a copy of Robespierre’s Réponse to Brissot and Guadet from the month before.

In number 3 of Le Defenseur de la Constitution, which can be dated May 31, Robespierre also published an article by the name of Considerations regarding one of the main causes of our ills, where he attacked Brissot once again, designating him and Condorcet as the most famous leaders of a faction that also included ”other deputies of Bordeaux, such as MM. Guadet, Vergniaux, Gensonné...”(he justified going against his former stance to not focus on individuals by rhetorically asking ”how to reveal the factions, without naming Claudius, or Piso, or Caesar? How to fight the Triumpirs [sic], without attacking Octave, or Antoine or Lepidus?”). For 22 pages, Robespierre examined Brissot’s ”faction,” listing several charges and taking from it three truths:

The first [truth] is that, as members of the legislature, they have violated the rights of the nation, and labored mightily to imperil liberty; the second, that they have employed pernicious maneuvers to deprave the public spirit, and make it deviate towards the principles of despotism and aristocracy; the third, that they have done everything in their way to corrupt patriotic societies, and to make of these necessary channels of public education, instruments of intrigue and faction. […] Justice, common sense, civil and political liberty, you have sacrificed everything to the interest of your ambition and to cowardly vengeance; you had to complain about one of the denounced writings; and you were not ashamed to be accusers, judges and parties at the same time. With your heart full of cruel and vile passions, you invoked the public good and the sacred name of the laws.

Robespierre ends by declaring:

…it seems to me that it has now been proven that your patriotism was neither sustained nor true; that the scattered features, by which it seemed to announce itself, can well fool the eyes of unreflecting men, but not redeem the great faults that you have committed against the nation: that in general they do not relate to the public good and to the cause of the people; but to a system of intrigues, and to the interest of a party. I don't need to know whether it's the court or some other faction you serve; it is enough to see that it is not liberty. It is even clear that your conduct can only promote the triumph of the court; and that it is up to it to take advantage of it. If you are strangers to it, you are not so to any other party. However, any party is harmful to public affairs, and it is in the interest of the nation to stifle it, as it is the duty of each citizen to reveal it.

In the aftermath of the publication of both these numbers, sections with the title Why? (Pourquoi ?) appeared in Le Patriote François, the first in in number 1014 (May 20), the second in number 1032 (June 6). Each paragraph of these sections began with the mantra ”Why do M. Robespierre and his partisans [do this/that]. We don’t know, but [something that implies Robespierre has ulterior motives for doing it].” None of these articles are however signed, so there’s no way to know if Brissot was the author (I have my doubts that would be the case for at least the second article, since Brissot in that case would be referring to himself in third person). Throughout June 1792 we also find other numbers of Patriote Français where Robespierre gets mentioned in hostile terms (number 1035 (June 10), number 1036 (June 11), number 1042 (June 17)).

But on June 28 1792, Brissot and Robespierre were shortly reunited after the former had held a speech at the Jacobins denouncing Lafayette, who on the 16th had written an open letter to the Legislative Assembly where he had suggested shutting down all political clubs in order to retain order.

M. Robespierre: When the danger to liberty is certain, when the enemy of liberty is well known, it is superfluous to speak of a reunion, because this feeling is in all hearts. As for me, I felt that it was in mine from the pleasure that the speech given this morning to the National Assembly by M. Guadet gave me, and from that which I have just experienced by hearing M. Brissot. (Applause.)

The journal La Rocambole des journaux, even claims Robespierre wanted to embrace Brissot once again:

I agree to this with all my heart, replies Robespierrot [sic], and to prove it to you: come here Brissot, let me embrace you; let us think only of crushing Lafayette, and of having him indicted; but first, each citizen must denigrate, tear apart, defame this conspirator with all his power so that before being judged by the national high tribunal, he is condemned in public opinion.

Of course, the reunion didn’t last for long, already a month later, July 29, Robespierre did for the first time openly show his support for overthrowing the king and the Legislative Assembly and replacing them with a convention tasked with carrying out major changes. He also argued that the selfdenying decree he had put forward a year earlier be used again, barring the members of the Legislative Assembly (obviously including Brissot) from sitting in the Convention. The next day, July 30, Le Courrier du Midi reported the following:

The club of 300 legislators was held today, in the former Jacobin barracks, near the club of friends of the constitution. Mr. Isnard has just caused a major split there, by declaring that he was going to denounce MM. Antoine and Roberspierre [sic], former constituent deputies. The latter had declared on the 30th [sic] that the current legislature was incapable of saving national sovereignty, and in the hands of intriguing legislators. Roberspierre [sic] spoke with rare energy; and the club ordered the printing of his speech, fortunately improvised. Mr. Isnard is therefore awaiting this civic harangue, to make his denunciation, tending to send the two constituents to the high court of Orléans: his motion was supported by the tartuffe Brissot, who showed the same commitment. Patriotic deputies left the insidious session and tore up their cards; they came to reveal this cowardly plot to the Jacobins; and the publicity of this uncivil act will undoubtedly cause Isnard and Brissot's project to fail.

During his trial a year later, Brissot claimed to not remember this incident. Regardless, the day right after it, August 1 1792, it was spoken of at length at the Jacobins, with energic attacks being made against Brissot. Robespierre was present at the session but chose not to mention Brissot or Isnard, confining himself to repeating his wish of convening a national convention meant to last for a year. ”This effective way to keep all intriguers away from this constituent assembly seems to this speaker sufficient to save the homeland from the dangers that it owes only to weakness and intrigue.”

The very same day, news of the Brunswick Manifesto begun to sweep through Paris, and before the Brissot and Isnard controversy could get any too drastic follow-ups, it was overshadowed by the Insurrection of August 10 which brought and end to the Legislative Assembly. Two days after the insurrection, August 12, Robespierre began to serve on the Paris Commune. On September 2, during the end of which the so called September massacres began, he is recorded to have done the following during the evening session of said commune:

MM. Billaud-Varenne and Robespierre, developing their civic feelings, paint the deep pain they feel over the current state of France. They denounce to the General Council a plot in favor of the Duke of Brunswick, whom a powerful party wants to bring to the throne of the French.

The next day, Brissot could report the following:

Yesterday, Sunday, I, as well as parts of the deputies of the Gironde, and other equally virtuous men, was denounced at the Paris Commune. We were accused of wishing to hand over France to the Duke of Brunswick, of having received millions from them, and of having concerted ourselves to go to England to save ourselves. Citizens, I was denounced at ten o'clock in the evening, and at the same time they were slaughtering in the prisons… This morning, around seven o'clock, three commissioners of the Commune came to my house… for three hours, they examined, with all possible care, all my papers.

If this had been a naked attempt to get Brissot murdered in prison is hard to know for sure. Historians willing to give Robespierre the benefit of the doubt have suggested he may not have learned of the massacres yet when denouncing Brissot. Though I wouldn’t say his case is much helped by the fact that, when explaining his actions during and attitude towards the massacres in a speech held November 5 1792, he denied he had even been present at the Commune the days before and during them (which is obviously false) as opposed to admitting he had been there and said what he’d said, while asseverating he had not had any evil intentions…

In his Discours de Jérôme Pétion sur l’accusation intentée contre Maximilien Robespierre (November 5 1792) Pétion recounts the following conversation between him and Robespierre which took place just one day after Brissot’s house was searched, and where Robespierre confirms his suspicions regarding Brissot having connections to Brunswick. Like Brissot one year earlier, Pétion too underlines that no personal relationship existed between the latter and Robespierre:

The surveillance Committee launched an arrest warrant against Minister Roland; it was the 4th (September), and the massacres were still going on. Danton was informed of it, he came to the town hall, he was with Robespierre. […] I had an explanation with Robespierre, it was very lively. I still made him face the reproaches that friendship tempered in his absence, I told him: ”Robespierre, you are doing a lot of harm; your denunciations, your alarms, your hatreds, your suspicions, they agitate the people; explain yourself; do you have any facts? do you have proof? I fight with you; I only love the truth; I only want liberty. ”You allow yourself to be surrounded,” [he replied], ”you allow yourself to be warned. You are disposed against me, you see my enemies every day; you see Brissot and his party.” ”You are mistaken, Robespierre; no one is more on guard than I against prejudices, and judges with more coolness, men and things. You’re right, I see Brissot, however rarely, but you don’t know him, and I know him since his childhood. I have seen him in those moments when the whole soul shows itself; where one abandons oneself without reservation to friendship, to trust: I know his disinterestedness; I know these principles, I assure you that they are pure; those who make him a party leader do not have the slightest idea of his character; he has lights and knowledge; but he has neither the reserve, nor the dissimulation, nor these catchy forms, nor this spirit of consistency which constitutes a party leader, and what will surprise you is that, far from leading others, he is very easy to abuse.” Robespierre insisted, but confined himself to generalities. ”Allow us to explain ourselves, I told him, tell me frankly what’s on your mind, what it is you know.” ”Well!” he replied, ”I believe that Brissot is with Brunswick.” ”What mistake is yours!” I exclaimed. ”It is truly madness; this is how your imagination leads you astray: wouldn't Brunswick be the first to cut his head off? Brissot is not mad enough to doubt it: which of us can seriously capitulate! which of us does not risk his life! Let us banish unjust mistrust.” Danton became entangled in the colloquy, saying that this was not the time for arguments; that it was necessary to have all these explanations after the expulsion of the enemies; that this decisive object alone should occupy all good citizens.

In Histoire générale et impartiale des erreurs, des fautes et des crimes commis pendant la Révolution française (1797) Louis Marie Prudhomme also claimed that, on September 3, Théophile Mandar proposed creating a dictatorship in order to stop the massacres to Pétion and Robespierre. Robespierre then cried out: ”Be aware! Brissot would become dictator!” ”O Robespierre,” Mandar said to him, ”it is not the dictatorship that you fear, it is not the homeland that you love: it is Brissot that you hate.” ”I hate dictatorship and I hate Brissot!”

A little more than two weeks later, September 21, the first session of the National Convention was held. Robespierre and Brissot had both been elected deputies, the former representing Paris, the latter Eure-et-Loi. In the pamphlet J. P. Brissot, député à la Convention nationale, à tous les républicains de France; sur la société des Jacobins de Paris, released less than a month later, Brissot writes that before the opening of said Convention, Danton, in the hopes of sorting out their differences, organized a meeting between the three. But as might be expected, it didn’t bear any fruit…

Before the opening of the National Convention, Danton, trying to bring together what he called the parties, sought me out, and I did not refuse explanations, because I have always had a horror of divisions. I attested to the consideration that I for a long time had held for Robespierre and his faction, although constantly harassed by them. Danton asked me some questions about my republican doctrine; he feared, he said with Robespierre, that I wanted to establish a federative republic, that this was the opinion of Gironde. I reassured him. Robespierre was informed of this, and Robespierre continued to spread the word that I wanted a federal republic.

Just two days after the opening of the Convention, September 23 Chabot came to the Jacobins and announced that in number 1140 of Patriote Français, released the very same day, ”Brissot or his croupier said […] that the Convention appeared to be divided into two distinct parties; one of which is a disorganizing party. This seems to me to be one of the intrigues that people play to keep the deputies sent from the departments to the Convention away from the Jacobins: they will be told that it is in this Society that this disorganizing party resides. […] I therefore denounce this intrigue that seems to me to have been made in order to depopularize Danton, Robespierre and Collot, and I say that, if Brissot does not explain this article in his journal, he is the biggest of scoundrels.” When Brissot hadn’t yet appeared to give an explanation on October 10, the jacobins struck him from their list of members, and other ”girondins” followed suit the very same month.

On September 25, a stormy session played out between girondins and montagnards within the newly opened Convention (as would be the case for almost every session the following time as well), that among other things included Osselin claiming that ”a party of Robespierre” existed within the Convention, Robespierre denying this to be true, saying that ”it was when I loudly demanded the dismissal of Lafayette before the war, that it was said, in these public journals, that I had had conferences with the queen, with Lamballe, and that my resignation as public prosecutor was the result of this infamous transaction; and it was at the same time that a patriotic but inconsiderate writer (Brissot) accused me of aspiring to dictatorship: and it was at the moment when the National Convention was about to begin its work that these miserable imputations were reproduced,” Brissot asking what right there is for issuing arrest warrants against deputies, and Verguiaux developing on this by accusing Robespierre of having implicated him, Brissot, Ducos, Guadet, Condorcet and Lasource in the complot favorable to the duke of Brunswick denounced at the commune on September 2.

On October 29 1792 Brissot released the pamphlet J. P. Brissot, député à la Convention nationale, à tous les républicains de France ; sur la société des Jacobins de Paris where he, after having accused Robespierre of secretly working with the Austrian committee during the Legislative Assembly and hiding out during the Insurrection of August 10, once again came back to what the latter had been up to during September 2:

Robespierre accused me, at the rostrum of the Paris Commune, of having sold France to Brunswick. He had, he said, proof, striking documents. He promised to show them. Readers, do you want to know this striking evidence? Here it is: I got it from Pétion and Danton, to whom Robespierre did not blush to entrust it. Brunswick, he said, would not have entered France if he had not had a deal with the Gironde faction and me to deliver Paris to him. And where was this deal? In Robespierre's head. Without doubt I could refute, with a thousand arguments, this profoundly stupid accusation, were it not profoundly atrocious. I could retort, with advantage, against Robespierre, this pleasant logic, and prove to him, perhaps, with more plausibility that he himself and his accomplices were in concert with the Prussians; but disdaining such an easy victory, I move on to other considerations. And, I ask my readers, what idea should one form of a man who, on a hypothesis, on a reverie, publicly dishonors representatives of the nation, already surrounded by slander and daggers; who delivers them to the people. What will I say to the brigards who took on the name of the people; to the brigards ready to strike, at the sole signal of the first slanderer who presented himself. And it was on September 2 that Robespierre resounded with this slander! It was the day when the surveillance committee, dripping with blood, issued arrest warrants, or rather massacre warrants, against the deputies of Gironde and against me! It was the day when the scoundrels, who triumphed in Paris, piled up their victims at the Abbaye prison, because they had made the Abbaye a butchery, a tomb for their victims...! Yes, Robespierre was obviously either a monster, or the imbecile instrument of monsters. He was accused of aspiring to dictatorship, to the tribunate. His conduct would seem to prove it, if the mediocrity of his means, if the terror of death, which constantly surrounds him, did not keep him from this perilous post: a dictator must include among his risks that of a violent death; and to brave death, you need some courage. Whatever his secret intentions, when I remember all the circumstances which preceded, accompanied or followed the awful day of September 2 [he then spends two pages listing these circumstances] I cannot help but believe that this tragedy was divided into two very different acts; that the massacre of the prisoners was only an accessory to the grand plan; that it covered and was to bring about the execution of a conspiracy formed against the National Assembly, the ministry and the most intrepid defenders of liberty; that its authors lacked only the courage to execute it, and to mount the tribunate on the corpses of Rolland, Guadet, Vergniaux, Gensonné, etc. and on mine... […] ”I know it,” said Robespierre naively one day to a deputy from Gironde who accused him of having ordered the assassinations. ”I know, that neither you nor your friends would have had an aristocrat assassinated.” This trait paints the spirit of the band.

The next part in the reblog.

#robespierre #brissot #frev #frev friendships #maximilien robespierre #jacques pierre brissot

51 notes · View notes