#Georges sorel

[gregor-samsung]

" [Giacomo Matteotti] Non ostentava presunzioni teoriche: dichiarava candidamente di non aver tempo per risolvere i problemi filosofici perché doveva studiare bilanci e rivedere i conti degli amministratori socialisti. E così si risparmiava ogni sfoggio di cultura. Ma il suo marxismo non era ignaro di Hegel, né aveva trascurato Sorel e il bergsonismo. È soreliana la sua intransigenza. La concezione riformista di un sindacalismo graduale invece non era tanto teorica quanto suggeritagli dall'esperienza di ogni giorno in un paese servile che è difficile scuotere senza che si abbandoni a intemperanze penose. Egli fu forse il solo socialista italiano (preceduto nel decennio giolittiano da Gaetano Salvemini) per il quale riformismo non fosse sinonimo di opportunismo. Accettava da Marx l'imperativo di scuotere il proletariato per aprirgli il sogno di una vita libera e cosciente; e pur con riserve poco ortodosse non repudiava neppure il collettivismo. Ma la sua attenzione era poi tutta a un momento d'azione intermedio e realistico: formare tra i socialisti i nuclei della nuova società: il Comune, la scuola, la Cooperativa, la Lega. Così la rivoluzione avviene in quanto i lavoratori imparano a gestire la cosa pubblica, non per un decreto o per una rivoluzione quarantottesca. La base della conquista del potere e della violenza ostetrica della nuova storia non sarebbe stata vitale senza questa preparazione.

E del resto, troppo intento alla difesa presente dei lavoratori, Matteotti non aveva tempo per le profezie. Più gli premeva che operai e contadini si provassero come amministratori, affinché imparassero e perciò nei varii Consigli comunali soleva starsene come un consigliere di riserva, pronto a riparare gli errori, ma voleva i più umili allo sperimento delle cariche esecutive. Non ebbe mai in comune coi riformisti la complicità nel protezionismo, anzi non esitò a rimanere solo col vecchio Modigliani ostinato nelle battaglie liberiste, che per lui non erano soltanto una denuncia delle imprese speculative di sfruttatori del proletariato, ma anche una scuola di autonomia e di maturità politica concreta nella sua provincia. Così procede tutta la cultura e tutta l'azione di Matteotti, per esigenze federaliste, dalla periferia al centro, dalla cooperativa al Comune, dalla provincia allo Stato. Il suo socialismo fu sempre un socialismo applicato, una difesa economica dei lavoratori, sia che proponesse sulla "Lotta" di Rovigo o nella Lega dei Comuni socialisti dei passi progressivi, sia che parlasse dall' "Avanti!" o dalla "Giustizia" a tutto il proletariato italiano, sia che come relatore della Giunta di Bilancio portasse nella sede più drammatica e travolgente il suo processo alle dominanti oligarchie plutocratiche. "

Piero Gobetti, Matteotti, Piero Gobetti Editore, Torino, 1924, pp. 25-27.

NOTA: il brano è tratto dall'opuscolo pubblicato alla fine del luglio del 1924, nel vivo della crisi politica ed istituzionale scatenata dalla tragica scomparsa del deputato Matteotti. Il testo riproduceva integralmente un lungo articolo comparso un mese prima con lo stesso titolo sulla rivista di Gobetti La Rivoluzione liberale, così come erano tratti da questa pubblicazione i Cenni biografici sullo scomparso posti in calce all'opuscolo.

[lounesdarbois]

[raisongardee]

"Les codes prennent tant de précautions contre la violence et l’éducation est dirigée en vue d’atténuer tellement nos tendances à la violence que nous sommes conduits instinctivement à penser que tout acte de violence est une manifestation d’une régression vers la barbarie. Si l’on a si souvent opposé les sociétés industrielles aux sociétés militaires, c’est que l’on a considéré la paix comme étant le premier des biens et la condition essentielle de tout progrès matériel : ce dernier point de vue nous explique pourquoi, depuis le XVIIIe siècle et presque sans interruption, les économistes ont été partisans de pouvoirs forts et assez soucieux des libertés politiques […] On peut se demander s’il n’y a pas quelque peu de niaiserie dans l’admiration que nos contemporains ont pour la douceur ; je vois, en effet, que quelques auteurs, remarquables par leur perspicacité et leurs hautes préoccupations morales, ne semblent pas autant redouter la violence que nos professeurs officiels. P. Bureau a été extrêmement frappé de rencontrer en Norvège une population rurale qui est demeurée très profondément chrétienne : les paysans n’en portent pas moins un poignard à la ceinture ; quand une querelle se termine à coups de couteau, l’enquête de la police n’aboutit pas, en général, faute de témoins disposés à déposer. L’auteur conclut ainsi : "Le caractère amolli et efféminé des hommes est plus redoutable que leur sentiment, même exagéré et brutal, de l’indépendance, et un coup de couteau donné par un homme honnête en ses mœurs, mais violent, est un mal social moins grave et plus facilement guérissable que les débordements de la luxure de jeunes gens réputés plus civilisés.""

Georges Sorel, Réflexions sur la violence, 1908.

[leecouchette]

Pendant la Terreur, les hommes qui versèrent le plus de sang furent ceux qui avaient le plus vif désir de faire jouir leurs semblables de l'âge d'or qu'ils avaient rêvé, et qui avaient le plus de sympathies pour les misères humaines : optimistes, idéalistes et sensibles, ils se montraient d'autant plus inexorables qu'ils avaient une plus grande soif du bonheur universel.

Georges Sorel

[hidrogenio-incandescente]

"Dugin merece crédito por ter levado para a Rússia, ou melhor, para a cultura acadêmica e popular russa, autores profundamente ocidentais e considerados 'indesejáveis' pelo então regime soviético nos anos anteriores, pensadores de vários tipos que se tornaram pontos de referência para ele em sua formação filosófica e política: da Alemanha, Friedrich Nietzsche, Martin Heidegger, Carl Schmitt, Gottlieb Fichte, Friedrich Hegel, Ferdinand Lasalle, Ernst Jünger, Ernst Niekisch, Oswald Spengler; do Reino Unido, Halford Mackinder; da França, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Alain De Benoist, Georges Sorel, Marcel Mauss, Serge Letouche, Roger Garaudy, Christian Jambet, Jean-Claude Michéa, René Guenon; do Brasil, Darcy Ribeiro; da Romênia, Mircea Eliade; da Itália, Nicola Bombacci, Antonio Gramsci, Curzio Malaparte, Julius Evola, Costanzo Preve, Massimo Cacciari, Giorgio Agamben, Diego Fusaro. Essa lista ampla, embora incompleta, de pensadores das mais diversas épocas, geografias e orientações era quase estranha ao mundo russo da produção cultural devido ao filtro ideológico imposto pela União Soviética, deixando inacabado o trabalho de metabolização, interpretação e comparação que pertence a toda cultura, especialmente no mundo globalizado". - Lorenzo Maria Pacini (Dugin e Platão)

[jeanetjeannepatin]

Mercredi 24 juillet 2024 à 19H, la Petite Boutique Fantasque retrouve la carrière d'Agathe, lecture d'un extrait de Francion de Charles Sorel. Où l'on voit que l'on peut vendre le pucelage de sa nièceplusieurs fois.  La phrase du jour est tirée du morceau Optimise mon âme de Fernand Bernadi : "On ne devient pas quelqu'un d'important en sifflant les pin ups au passage".

Programmation musicale : 1) Optimise ton âme (Fernand Bernadi) 2) S'abreuver (Dora / Caroline Champy) 3) Musette walz (John Zorn)  4) Allégresse des vainqueurs (François Couperin) Scott Ross 5) Les Bagatelles (François Couperin) Scott Ross 6) Le voyage (Raoul Dugay)  7) Veronika (Jean Pax Mefret)

+ lecture d'un nouvel extrait de Françion de Charles Sorel, sixième partie de la carrière d'Agathe par Pascale Rémi

Pour ceux qui auraient piscine indienne, ou toute autre obligation, il y a une possibilité de rattrapage avec les podcasts de la PBF : https://www.mixcloud.com/RadioRadioToulouse/a-quoi-sert-toute-cette-viande-creusée-la-petite-boutique-fantasque/

Sus aux Philistins !

Toile de Marcel Gromaire 

[letterboxd-loggd]

Strange Illusion (1945) Edgar G. Ulmer

August 5th 2024

[laurent-bigot]

CHAIR DE POULE - Julien Duvivier (1963)

A la suite d’un cambriolage manqué où le propriétaire est mortellement blessé, Daniel Boisset est condamné à la place de son complice Paul Genest. Il réussit cependant à s’évader avant d’être emprisonné et trouve refuge chez un garagiste, Thomas. Mais la femme de celui-ci découvre le passé de Daniel et va l’obliger à dépouiller son mari qu’elle n’a épousé que pour son argent… Chair de poule est…

[oneforthemunny]

candy caned |dom!eddie munson x sub!reader|

prompt: you’re desperate to make eddie’s trailer more festive for the holidays. you bring over decorations, but eddie is only interested in one- a long, plastic candy cane.

apart of the twelve days of dom!eddie's christmas

contains: smut. 18+. dom/sub themes, hints at brat tamer/brat themes. spanking with implements (candy cane lol). role play-ish?? not really established but kinda alluded to it a little. aftercare. minors dni, read at your own discretion.

A cloud of smoke left Eddie’s lips, corners of his mouth pulling up into a half lipped smirk. Your car propelled over the gravel of the trailer park’s makeshift road, a playful beep of your horn. Eddie gave a small laugh, the air in front of him clouding at the contrast. He could hear the droning of George Michael’s Last Christmas, muffled from your car stereo but a reminder of why you were here. 

Eddie bummed the cigarette when you turned off the ignition, the radio silencing but that didn’t stop you. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heeearrrttt.” Your door swung open, voice trilling out into the quiet, rainy park. Eddie grinned, shoving his hands in his utility jacket, starting down the groaning steps of his trailer. 

“But the very next day,” You wiggled your brows at Eddie playfully, a toothy grin on your face that made his chest fill with a surge of heat. “C’mon, Ed, you know it!” You pouted playfully. 

“Yeah, I do. Everyone on planet fuckin’ Earth knows it.” Eddie snorted, heavy work boots nudging your own Sorels. His hands found your cheek, pressing a soft, full lipped kiss to your warm skin. The nicotine on his breath made your head spin, melting into his touch. 

Eddie’s lips quirked, fighting back a smile. “Still not singing it, though.” He muttered, fingers squishing your cheeks together playfully, pivoting towards your trunk. 

The huff you gave did make him grin. “Such a Scrooge.” You clicked your tongue in disapproval. “No holiday spirit at all.” 

Eddie waited by the trunk, eyes shining in amusement while you unlocked your trunk. His eyes widened, gaping at you in disbelief. “You’re shitting me.” 

“What?” You frowned, reaching for the bundle of lights, tangled from the half-hearted place in your apartment’s pitiful storage. 

“Baby,” Eddie blinked, positively confounded. When you’d suggested bringing some decorations over, he expected a few knick-knacks, maybe a tiny tree. Not the trunk full of Christmas decor, looking like something straight out of a Macy’s display window he’d pass in the city. 

“There’s… This is a lot.” Eddie tried not to sound as horrified as he felt. 

You frowned at him over your shoulder, hauling the tote bag with your Zellers Christmas Village in it over your arm. “You said you didn’t have anything.” 

“I don’t.” Eddie nodded, scanning over the tubs- tubs, plural- of ornaments. “But-But you didn’t have to bring all of this. What about your place?” 

You rolled your eyes lightly. “I barely stay there.” It was true, you’d slowly migrated into Eddie’s space over the months, staying more and more. “And you have more space. More decorating room.” The smile you gave him was bright, dazzling and excited. 

Eddie’s was… less enthusiastic, a mix between a grimace and dread. Still, he grabbed the box of stacked ornaments, the glass rattling as he walked up the stairs, following your giddy steps into the trailer. 

“No! Not so close to the edge!” You shrieked, Eddie nearly dropping the snowman figurine in his hand. 

He’d been a good sport, he really had. Eddie didn’t complain when you handed him the tangled lights. He kept his snarky comments to himself when you had him fluff out the tree branches to the plastic tree. He’d come close to snapping when you busted out the Elvis Christmas album, but he didn’t- he tuned it out, focused on anything else. 

The trailer was transformed, a Christmas wonderland, complete with the final touches of the snowmen and Santas on the window ledge. You pushed the snowman back, tilting it to your satisfaction, nodding with approval. 

Eddie let you. The two of you had established a ‘system’- he’d put it out, and you went behind him and fixed it how you wanted it. “What about these, baby?” Eddie hummed, picking up the bundle of plastic, long candy canes. “These go on the tree?”

“No,” You shook your head, placing the last figurine on the window. “They go outside. We can do them when it’s not raining.” 

Eddie turned the candy canes around in his hand, thin and spindly, intertwined plastic red and white that were long. He pulled one out by the hook, shaking it gently- testing it. Eddie brought it down, the swoosh whistling just barely over the music from his boombox. 

“Don’t break them.” You frowned, twisting an ornament so it faced forward. “Just put them to the side. We can do them tomorrow if you want.” 

Eddie stayed quiet, brows pinched together, tongue rolling over the inside of his cheek. You paused, watching him carefully as he studied the cane. 

“You know what?” Eddie hummed, his eyes still on the red and white cane in his hand. “I think I have an idea.” 

“What?” You looked at him, scanning the room for any spare place for the decoration. 

“I can think of something better to do with this.” Eddie’s lips curled, intriguingly dark. “It would really get me in this whole most wonderful time of the year mood.” His tone animated, dark and mocking the way it was when he played DND with his friends, when they were about to be presented with a dangerous risk of a choice. It made your heart skip.

“What?” You repeated, brow quipping, waving your hand for him to continue. 

Eddie’s eyes lit up, twinkling with excitement under the glow of the colorful strands on the tree. He lifted the cane, cutting it through the air with a satisfied swish!, holding your gaze with a darkened look of desire. 

Your tummy flipped, heat rushing through your core, thighs pressing together at the insinuation. 

Eddie lifted a brow. “Think you need it. Probably on the naughty list. Aren’t ya, baby?” He purred, spinning the cane in his hand. You squirmed under his gaze, fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater. 

“‘M not.” You shuddered, shrinking under Eddie’s greedy gaze. “I’ve been very good this year.” 

Eddie sucked in a dramatic breath through his teeth, stalking towards you until he was towering over you. “Hmm, that’s not what I heard, sweetheart.” Eddie muttered, nose nearly touching yours. 

Your knees tightened, wobbling with excitement. “Good news is,” Eddie started, letting the candy cane slide through his hands, brushing over your own. “It’s not too late. Can correct you now. Teach you a lesson and make sure you’ll be extra good.” 

This wasn’t exactly what you were expecting after decorating. You had hoped the decor would maybe bring some holiday spirit to Eddie, and in a way… it did? 

“I want to be a good girl.” You squeaked, tiny and breathy tone that had Eddie’s cock twitching in his jeans. 

“Yeah? I can tell.” Eddie nodded, hands clamping around the plastic decoration. “I can make sure you are.” Eddie’s hand reached for your jaw, fingers splaying over your cheeks, pulling your gaze to him. “You just gotta ask me.” 

You whimpered behind closed lips, the throb between your legs growing and growing. Eddie tilted his head, curls silhouetted by the tree’s lights. He looked nearly angelic, so pretty- it was so deceiving. 

“C’mon,” Eddie rasped, thumb stroking over your cheekbone delicately. “Ask me to help you be a good girl.”

You squirmed in his touch, eyes casting down. His hand caught your jaw quickly, pulling your gaze to him. “Please…” You swallowed, heart thumping from the thrill of anticipation. “Please, help me be a good girl? I wanna be a good girl.” 

Eddie smiled, satisfied. A gentle, affectionate squeeze to your cheeks. “Alright, I’ll help you.” He nodded, stepping back from you. His arms crossed over his chest, candy cane in his left hand, dangling loosely in his grasp. 

“Strip for me.” Eddie nodded, tongue running down his cheek, taking in your frame. Your red sweater, cropped and positively festive. 

Your hands quaked with anticipation, unbuttoning your jeans carefully, shoving them so they pooled at your sock clad feet. Eddie watched you, leaning cooly against the couch, eyes roaming your frame until you were just in a high cut, cotton thong and lacy bra- his favorite. He had helped you pick it out, snuck in the dressing room when the snobby lingerie store manager stepped away so you could model it for him. 

You looked at him, arms down by your sides, the way he’d taught you to. Eddie lifted a brow, head bobbing at you. “C’mon, keep going.” 

“All of it?” You whined. “Eddie, can I keep my panties on please? You know I hate the cane-” 

“-All of it.” Eddie snapped firmly. “You wanna be good? You’re not acting like you wanna be good. Still acting like a brat. Still acting like a naughty girl.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks, lip jutting out in a pout that had Eddie’s abs clenching at the throb in his cock. You knew what you were doing, giving him your most pitiful, pouty look to drive Eddie wild. It was working. 

Eddie’s brow lifted, a final warning that he was done arguing, eyes flicking down to your panties, heart skipping when your fingers hooked around them, pulling them slowly down your legs. 

Your hands found your sides again, palms twitching with excitement, smoothing down the top of your bare thighs. Eddie waited until your eyes lifted to his, holding your gaze for just a touch too long- long enough to have you squirming with anticipation. 

“Bend over the couch for me. Hands in front.” Eddie nodded, his voice dropping into that dark rasp it always did when he’d step into this domineering role with you. 

The faded green carpet lacked it’s usual softness, coated with glitter from the decor and you hadn’t got a chance to vacuum yet. The usual crocheted blanket was folded over the arm of the couch, a reindeer throw pillow next to it. You set the pillow in front of you, so you’d have something to grab onto, bending over the arm of the couch. 

Your eyes stayed forward, Eddie’s hum of approval muffled out by his heavy soled footsteps moving closer to you. “Hm, how many strokes does a naughty girl deserve?” Eddie sighed animatedly. He was putting on a show for you, for him too. 

“What do you think?” Eddie tapped the side of your hip lightly with the cane, dragging the cool plastic over your ass.

You shuddered, the hook of the candy cane ghosting over the crack of your cheeks. “I don’t know, sir.” You grit, eyes closing, fighting the quake in your voice. “Three?” 

“Three?” Eddie scoffed, halting his movements, the hook side of the cane pressed against the fatty flesh under your ass. “Try again, sweetheart.” 

“I don’t know.” You whined, toes wiggling into the carpet. You were throbbing, dizzy with the desire for Eddie to touch you, spank you, fuck you- do something to you. 

“Hm, better watch it, naughty girl.” Eddie hissed, eyes narrowed in on your ass. He pressed the cane up, lifting your cheek so he could sneak a peek at your puffy lips, already slick with your own arousal. “Can see why you got on the naughty list. Little bratty thing, aren’t ya?” 

“‘M not.” You pouted, chin dropping into your outstretched arms. 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” Eddie tsked, the cane moving closer and closer to your pussy. “And I think you should get a stroke for every month you were naughty this year. Twelve.” 

You squirmed, hips wiggling and rocking in place. Eddie grinned, smoothing a hand over your spine. You jumped, relaxing under the familiar touch. “How’s that sound?” Eddie muttered, tapping your shoulder blade gently. 

You turned back, chin hooking on your shoulder to meet his gaze. “Twelve?” Eddie asked, his hand still rubbing over your spine soothingly, like he did every night to lull you to sleep. 

It made your heart swell with a warmth that had your cheeks burning with tingly heat. “Yeah.” You whispered, squeaking at the small squeeze Eddie gave your hip. 

Eddie’s hand rubbed back down your spine, setting the candy cane on your upturned ass, shedding his sweatshirt slowly. “Think you’ll remember to be good this year after this?” Eddie questioned, tossing his sweatshirt on the chair behind him. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You know what happens next year if you’re not good, right? If you’re on the naughty list again?” Eddie grabbed the cane slowly, dragging it over your ass and thighs. 

“No, sir, I don’t.” You choked out, clenching the pillow in front of you. 

“You get double.” Eddie said surely, bringing the cane down behind you. You felt the air on your skin, knees tightening with expectancy, the lingering threat looming closer and closer. “After that, I’ll just have to come down here every month. Cane you and make sure you get a monthly reminder to be good.” 

You whined behind closed lips, hips lifting at the threat. Eddie grinned, lining the candy cane up to your ass. “And believe me, if I have to come down every month, take time outta my schedule to teach you a lesson, I won’t be as nice as this. You better consider yourself lucky this time. Better learn from it.” 

“I will.” You panted, arms shaking from how hard you were clenching them. “I’ll be good from now on. I promise.” You sounded so sweet. Tone so airy and pouty and adorable, that tone that made Eddie’s vision blurry with desire. 

“Good.” Eddie nodded, tapping the cane against your ass. “I’ll make sure of it. Count ‘em out for me, baby.” 

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in through your nose. The cane pulled back, a whoosh! filling the air before it was snapping into your skin, a biting sting from the plastic spreading in a line across your cheeks. Your hips jumped, a tiny huff of a whine leaving your lips at the shock. It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as the wooden cane Eddie used in the past, but still uncomfortable. 

“One,” You breathed out through gritted teeth. 

Eddie lined up the cane again, higher this time, before it was pulled back and sailing onto your bare skin, harder. Hard enough to have your head snapping up, toes bouncing off the carpet. 

“Two!” You squeaked, Eddie’s hand on the small of your spine to steady you. 

He watched you carefully. If this was the normal cane, you’d be crying by now- sniffly in the least. He lined it up lower, where your ass met your thighs. He lifted his hand, bringing the cane down with the type of strength he used with his hard soled slipper, hard and quick, pulling the sound he was looking for right out of you. 

The yowl, punched straight out of your core, back arching and hips wiggling away. “Ow! Ow! Three!” You hissed, a white knuckled grip on the pillow. Your nose burned, tears brimming in the corner of your eyes now, the sting was searing now, leaving a sizzling sting that had you bouncing from foot to foot. 

Eddie smirked in satisfaction, stilling you again with his hand firm on your lower back. “You learning your lesson?” Eddie grunted, the candy cane falling back down again, that white line imprinting your skin before disappearing, your cry following like clockwork. 

“Yes!” You whined, and the petulant, bratty foot stomp that followed had Eddie’s cock lurching. “Four!” 

“You’re gonna be really good this year, aren’t ya?” Eddie growled. 

Swish! 

“Yes! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” You groaned, a watery, pathetic wail. “Five!” You bounced from toe to toe over the couch, hips shaking like you could possibly shake the sting out that way. The ache between your legs was blinding, rivaling the sting growing furiously on your backside. 

Another stroke came before you were ready, quicker than the last time but just as unforgivingly searing. You cried out, a bubbling sob that tore from your throat. “You gonna make me do this again? Gonna be on the naughty list again?” 

“Noooo,” You cried out. Your face rubbed against your arms, snotty cries from a burning nose and throat that you tried to soothe. 

“What number was that?” Eddie tapped the cane lightly against you. 

“Six.” You muttered, so pitifully sweet it made Eddie’s heart burst. The sniffle that followed was even more piteous, wet and snotty and somehow still bratty. 

“Hm, ‘s not lookin’ great, baby.” Eddie teased, the cane snapping against your sore skin. “Already forgettin’.” 

“Se-even.” You sobbed, head pressed into your arms, slack over the couch. 

Eddie was nearly drooling, watching the way your hips rocked onto the arm of the couch for friction, catching glimpses of your pussy. 

“You wanna be on the nice list.” Eddie nodded, striping you again right across the middle of your ass.

“Eight.” 

 “You know what nice girls get?” Eddie pressed, watching your shoulders shudder before he caned you, higher this time. 

“No!” You hissed, knees buckling and legs quaking after the hit. “Nine.” 

“Good girls who are on the nice list,” Eddie leaned forward, hovering over your squirming frame. “Get their pussies eaten out.” You whimpered, hips grinding down harder on the arm of the couch. “They get my tongue used on them as a reward for being so good.” 

“Please, Ed, please.” You babbled, throbbing, needy, and your mind already numbed with the overwhelming sensation of pleasure and pain. “Please.” 

“Nuh-uh-uh.” Eddie tsked, shaking his head at you. “You haven’t been good.” His hand rubbed over the hot skin of your ass, tickling just above your hidden pussy, grinning at the whine you gave. You stomped, huffing into the couch. There she was, the little brat he loved to play with.

“If you were good,” Eddie grunted, swinging the cane back and forward into your burning skin. You wailed, hand slapping into the couch, clawing at the cushion to keep yourself from reaching back. “You’d get eaten out.” 

“T-Ten.” You whimpered, a pouty sound. Eddie could practically see your face- brows creased in a frown, lip jutted, tear stained cheeks and a runny nose. 

“I’d use my tongue on you,” Eddie purred. You whined, nasally and desperate, hips swiveling down for friction. “I’d make you cum over and over and over.” 

You gasped when the cane cut into your ass with an unforgiving snap, an inflamed imprint left in its wake.  “Eleven.” 

“I’d even let you sit on my face so you could grind down just like that.” Eddie teased, tapping your rocking hips with the cane lightly. “Let you do that on my face instead of on the couch, rubbing your pussy all over my couch like that when you’re getting spanked. Seems awfully naughty, if you ask me.” He tutted. 

Your toes curled, his words were cruel, teasing, made your body burn with embarrassed heat- yet you were so close. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna be very good this year. Don’t know if I believe you.” Eddie shook his head. “You’re supposed to be getting punished, not enjoying this.” 

“I-I’m not.” You panted, shaking your head furiously. 

“You’re not?” Eddie scoffed, setting the cane to rest on your ass. His hand dipped between your thighs, fingertips sliding through your sopping folds easily, smirking at the gasp that tore from your throat. 

Eddie’s finger sunk into your soaking hole, pumping in and out at an agonizingly slow pace that had your head lifting, eyes pinched in pleasure. You were close, he could feel it, feel it in the way you clenched and strangled around his finger. He pulled away just as quickly as he put them in, your eyes flying open at the loss. 

“What-” 

“Look at this,” Eddie commanded, his fingers coated with your sticky arousal, pointer and middle finger spreading, webs of your slick forming with ever widening of his fingers. “You think someone not enjoying this would have that? Hm? Look at it.” 

Your cheeks were scorching with heat, lifting your gaze shyly to his dangling fingers in front of your face, shaking your head lightly. 

Eddie hummed in satisfaction, pulling his hand back, wiping your release over your burning ass. You yelped, jumping at the burn of his touch on your sore skin. Eddie’s lips curled, grabbing the candy cane off your hips. 

“Last one.” Eddie muttered, lining the festive decoration up against your skin, tapping gently. “You ready, baby?” 

“‘M ready.” You sighed, cheek pressed into your outstretched arms. 

Eddie was sure he was about to bust at the sight of you- glassy eyed, sniffling lightly, whimpering with every roll of your hips. Oh, it was too fuckin’ much. 

Eddie brought the cane down hard- hard enough he thought it might snap in half. The final blow that had you gasping, a strangled whine huffing out of your chest in a gasping heave before your body tensed, quivering at the sensation the impact left. 

“T-Twelve.” You whimpered, cheek pressed against your arm, so spacy in ecstasy you were dribbling out of the corner of your mouth. 

Your ass was stinging with that itchy, red-hot irritation that had you desperate to rub it out, only you knew it would only make the ache worse. You were throbbing between the legs, slick and frustrated, desperate for him to touch you. 

Eddie’s hand skated in a feather light touch over your ass, passing so delicately over each of your lips, coated with your own slickness. “You learned your lesson?” Eddie hummed, swallowing the spit that filled his mouth at the sight of you, presented so perfectly over the arm of the couch for him- for him to fuck you. 

“Ready to be a good girl? Be on the nice list?” His hand didn’t stop, sliding down the inside of your thigh, pushing lightly so you’d spread your legs. 

“Yeah,” You sighed, airy and a little pouty, cheek still pressed to the couch pillow. 

“Yeah? Look at me, baby.” Eddie patted your thigh gently, hovering over you. 

You blinked, looking up at him with sweet, glassy, rounded eyes. “You alright?” Eddie asked, scanning your features carefully, testing the waters of where you were. 

“Yeah.” You hummed, lip jutting ever so lightly. “I’ll be good now.” 

“I know you will.” Eddie nodded. “Are you alright? You with me, baby?” 

“Yeah.” You nodded, shimmying your body so it contorted and angled towards him. “I’m ready to be good, so you can fuck me now.” The bluntness of your words mixed with the light, breathy tone, so deceivingly sweet- it made Eddie’s head spin. 

“Yeah?” He grinned, dimples creasing. “I was gettin’ to that, baby.” 

“You can get to it now.” You hummed, slipping out of that hazy fog that he always got you in, back into your bratty ways. Eddie’s lips twitched, biting back a smirk. “‘M ready for it. I’ll be really good this year.” 

“Alright, you earned it, I guess.” Eddie teased, pulling you by the small of your waist back up the arm of the couch. “How you want me, babe? This good?” 

“Yeah, just let me-” You snatched the pillow in front of you, pushing it under your chest. “Ready.” 

“You sure are, holy shit.” Eddie muttered, eyes glued to your parted thighs, your sopping cunt making his head reel  at the sight. “You gonna be a good girl? Be my good girl?” 

“Yes,” You whine, hips wiggling back further to him. “I’ll be good, so good, please.” 

Eddie slipped two fingers into your sopping hole, pumping in and out just as slow as before. Your toes curled, body jolting with that euphoric, white hot bolts of pleasure. A small whine, quiet but pathetically desperate slipped from your lips. 

Another whine followed, huffier this time, more demanding. “Alright, alright, I gotcha.” Eddie gritted, pumping his shaft slowly, smearing his own pre-leakages over his head, down his shaft. “I gotcha. Relax, baby.” 

Your vision blurred at the feeling of him pushing into you, that achingly familiar stretch, your walls tightening with every slow roll of his hips further and further into you. Your ass was raw with the still fresh strokes of the cane, Eddie’s hips and groin snapping into the irritated skin with a purposeful punch of his cock inside of you. 

Tears brimmed your eyes, of pleasure or pain or both, you weren’t really sure. The sensation was enough to have you mindless, cheek smushed into the couch cushion, whimpering. “Fuck, you gonna be my good girl? Be my-my nice girl?” Eddie hissed, eyes half-lidded, hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock with every roll of his hips. 

“Yeah.” You whined, a ghosting of a whimper tailing on your words. 

“Yeah.” Eddie grunted in a mocking tone, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips. “Holy fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good. You know that? ‘Course you know that. This feel good? Am I makin’ you feel good, baby?” His hand fell on your ass, a stinging hand print left in its wake on your already sensitive skin. 

You yelped, head snapping up at the impact, red manicured nails curling around the needlepoint pillow, grappling at the loopy stitches while Eddie plowed into you from the back. Fingers bruising your hips and waist from the way Eddie was using your body to fuck himself, until he finally halted, heavy breathing gasps of pleasure. He pulled out, a thick stream of his own release drooling out of you and towards the faded floral upholstery. 

Somehow, the lights on the trees and strung along the walls seemed brighter now, with you curled into his neck. Eddie blew the smoke away from you, towards the chilly night air that crept in from the open window. 

“I think I kinda get it.” Eddie muttered, a hand rubbing down your back soothingly, pulling you out of your post orgasm hazy state. You hummed, nuzzling into his chest, curling into his body for warmth from the breeze that swept in. “Get why you like all this stuff.” 

You lifted your gaze, eyes still glowing with the remnants of emotion, but rounding in the sweetest way. “Yeah? You gettin’ in the spirit, Munson?” You giggled softly. 

Eddie snorted lightly, rolling the cigarette between his pointer and thumb over the ashtray. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “You lettin’ me spank you with a candy cane really got me in the spirit, babe.” You laughed, head dropping to his shoulder, eyes batting up at his. 

The candy canes lined the path to Eddie’s trailer the next day. You helped him put them out in the freezing cold, occasionally rubbing your tender ass when he’d swish the decoration playfully, eyes dark and dazzling at you. One lone candy cane stayed inside, hanging on Eddie’s bedroom door knob to make it look more festive, or so he said.

[queersrus]

request for cottagecore + sad-ish? id pack? please + thanks!

here's my attempt!

assuming id pack includes more than just the usual npts i'll throw in a few cottagecore and sad related labels i found

(nick)names:

ambrose, amos, ansel, acacia, ada, adelaide, arwin/arwen, ava, avery/averie, aviva, amaranth, able, arbor, art, arty/artie, asher, ainsley, acheron, adalia brandy/brandi, branwen, billie/billy, bryony, bill, banner, booker, bram

barley, brion, brian, bryce chloris, chandra, cyrene, cayenne, cade, clyde, chester, cliff denna, diana/dianna, diona, donna/dona, derby, dallas, danica, daphne, dixie, dawn, dylan

edmund, elenore, elodie, eudora, elenore/eleanor, ebony, erica, eila, eira, eve, eithne, everlee, elize, eliza, elizabeth, everlyn, elwood, emerson, elowen finnegan, freddy/freddie, frederick, fallin/fallon, florance/florence

fable, frank, frankie/franky, franklin/franklyn, faine, filbert, finneas ginny/ginnie, gale, georgia, george, georgina, granger halcyone, hana/hanna/hannah, harriet, harry, hayley/hailie/hailey, halie/hallie, heather, harlowe/harlow, harrow, hadar, hawl, hayes,

huck, holden, huso ilana, illiana/iliana, ingrid, ivory jane, janet/janette, jesse/jessie, josie, jose, jack, jackie, jackson kingston, kodi/kodie, kodiak, kylan

lupin, lian, liana/lianna, liane/lianne, linc, linden, lyle, lucius maisie, matilda, maude, mabel, merle, marin, mica/mika, mason/macon, martin, miller, miles nellie, nyssa, ned, nick, ness

opholia, oliver, olive, olivia, oleander, odell, oriel, oscar paisley, poppy, posie, phineas, parker rose, rosemary/rosemarie, rosy/rosie, rory, rosette, rosetta, rue, rosabel/rosabell/rosabelle, rosa, rosabela/rosabella, rosella, rosaria,

rosario, rob, robert, ray, reed, ridge, ryland, rowan, roan shiloh, sharon, scarlet/scarlett/skarlett, sam, samantha, samuel, sunny/sunnie, sawyer, shaw, shay, steve, stevie, stevia, sorell/sorrell, seb, sebby/sebbie, sebastian, saddie/sadie, sade

theodore, theo, tori, toria, tamie/tammie, tawny, terra, timber, tim, timothy, tanner, teddy/teddie, trevis/travis, trevor, tyler, tristan/tristin, tristah/trista, trystia verginia, vicky/vickie, victor, victoria, viola, violet/violette,

violeta/violetta, valerian, vernon winnie, willa, winston, winifred, winslow, will, william, willow, wade, wagner, warren, watts, watson, wilhelmina yvonne, yves zephyr/zephyre, zara, zinnia, zion

surnames:

appleyard, ashton, ashwood baker, brookstone, butterfield catkin, cobbler, cooper, copper, copperwood, copperfield, crestfallen dogwood, direwood, direbrook, direfield, desperfield, downyard

doleman fenlon, falkner, forlorn greenwood, greenfield, golding, goldwood, goldfield, griefman, griefwood, gardner

hilbrook, holbrook, heath, horsewood, horsefield, hawksley, harrowing, hawkswood, hawthorne, hawkner, hawkfield, holloway, hallowood

larken, limewood, lockhart, lovejoy mourner, mournwright, mournman nettleship

plowman, penrose, penwright redbrook, rosedale, redwood, rosewood, redfield summerfield, sweetnam, seawright, sorrowfield, sorrowbrook, shamewood, shamewright

thacker, thatcher westfield, wainwright, write/wright, wagonwright, woodsman, wyrmwood/wormwood, winterwood, winterrose, wretchwood, wretchman

system names:

the cottagecore *system, the sorrowful system, the melancholic cottage system, the mourning flowerbed system, the gloomy garden system, the tearful system, the harvest system

1st p prns: i/me/my/mine/myself

ci/cotte/cottagy/cottagine/cottageself hi/he/hy/harvestine/harvestself gi/garde/gardy/gardine/gardenself si/sade/sady/sadine/sadself si/sorre/sorry/sorrowine/sorrowself mi/me/mely/melancholine/melancholyself

2nd p prns: you/your/yours/yourself

co/cottager/cottagers/cottagerself ho/harvester/harvesters/harvesterself go/gardener/gardeners/gardenerself so/sader/sadders/sadderself so/sorrower/sorrowers/sorrowerself mo/melancholer/melancholers/melancholerself

3rd p prns: they/them/theirs/themself

co/cottage, cott/age, cot/cottage, cot/tage, cottage/cottages, cottage/core har/vest, ha/harvest, harv/est, harvest/harvests gar/den, gar/garden, garden/gardens, garden/core farm/core sa/sad, sad/sads, sa/ad, sad/sadden, so/sorrow, sor/row, sorr/ow, sorrow/sorrows, sorrow/sorrowful mel/melancholy, mel/ancholy, melan/choly, melancholy/melancholies, melancholy/melchancholic

titles:

the weeping gardener, the mourning farmer, the sad cottage dweller, the melancholic planter, the sorrowful woodsman

**one who lives a sad cottage life, one who mourns within ones cottage, one who weeps amongst ones gardens, one who copes with sadness through cottage life

book titles:

the sad little cottage, a melancholic villager, the weeping willows, the mourning garden, the sorrows of an old cottage, a pitiful harvest

genders:

buncottagecoric(link),

cottagegoric(link), cafdreamian(link), cottagecrittean(link), cottagecoric(link), Cálidatierramielgender(link)

epuisetristic(link)

gendersob(link)

Sadnostacatgender(link)

orientations: (n/a)

other:

cottagecore bpd(link)

many can be found by searching cottagecore genders/mogai/liom as well, there are many versions of cottagecore flags especially for lgbt related labels so they should not be hard to find if you feel like looking!

*system can be replaced with any alternative (ex. cluster, collective, hoard/horde, etc)

**one can be replaced with any prn

[crazy-so-na-sega]

I monumenti valgono per lo spirito che gli è stato dato dall'umanità che li ha costruiti: la loro morte arriva nel momento in cui il loro simbolismo diviene incomprensibile per le masse; in quel momento le grandi costruzioni trapassano nella condizione di rovine.

-Georges Sorel

[raisongardee]

“La facilité avec laquelle tous les inventeurs des remèdes nouveaux trouvent une large clientèle dans la bourgeoisie, montre que les croyances les plus absurdes peuvent obtenir du crédit, pour peu qu’elles se donnent une apparence scientifique.”

Georges Sorel, Les illusions du progrès, Lausanne, 1908.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Anti-militarism

There are two obvious ways of taking direct action against war— a mutiny by those who fight, and a strike by those whose work supports those who fight. In fact a mutiny against war is scarcely feasible. Mutineers have usually been protesting against their standard of living rather than their way of life, against those who give them orders to kill rather than the orders themselves. Mutiny is after all a rebellion of armed men, and armed men don’t lay down their arms (see Serjeant Musgrave’s Dance). A soldier, said Swift, is “a yahoo hired to kill” and once he has let himself be hired (or conscripted) to kill it is hard for him to stop killing and become a man again— if he does, he immediately ceases to be a soldier, and his protest is no longer mutiny. Exsoldiers are often the most resolute pacifists, after they get out of uniform. “If my soldiers learnt to think,” said Frederick the Great, “not one would remain in the ranks.” But soldiers are very carefully taught not to think. And even if they did, mutiny would scarcely be the way out— how can violence be destroyed by violence?

A strike against war is more feasible, since the working classes aren’t already committed to war and they have a long tradition of strike action. But the hard fact is that the Left— socialist, communist and anarchist— has a pretty shocking war record. People who are quite prepared to lead workers into strike after strike for wages are not willing to strike against their rulers for peace, and most wartime strikes have been intended not to prevent war but to prevent rulers and employers from using war as an excuse to increase discipline or decrease wages. When a strike is clearly against war, it is almost always against that particular war, not against all war; and even when it is against all war, it is almost always against national war and not against civil war as well. But they are both war— a vertical war between social classes is just as much a war as a horizontal war between separate communities within a single society. War is only a name for organised mass violence. But left-wing disapproval of horizontal war is usually in direct proportion to approval of vertical war, and vice versa: while a diagonal war is easily disguised as a patriotic or class war, whichever is approved. The man who won’t fight the enemy abroad will fight the enemy at home, and the man who won’t fight the enemy at home will fight the enemy abroad In the event the Left will fight just as willingly as the Right, and as often as not they end by fighting on the same side. Most people oppose the use of violence in theory, but most people use violence ia practice, and no one who deliberately uses violence really opposes war. As Thomas k Kempis said, “All men desire peace, but very few desire those things which make for peace.”

The strongest left-wing opponents of war used to be the antimilitarists, who before 1914 were very close to (and often the same as) the anarchists and revolutionary syndicalists as well as the more libertarian socialists. Their proclaimed weapon was the general strike against war, but this turned out to be as much of a myth as the general strike described in George SoreFs Reflections on Violence (1906) — except that Sorel meant his to be mythical, while not only moderate leaders like Bebel, Jaures and Keir Hardie but even the really determined anti-militarists deceived themselves as well as their followers, and were genuinely surprised when the Labour Movement first let the Great War begin and then actually joined it. Only a few hard-headed realists like Gustav Landauer knew the true weakness of left-wing anti-militarism, and no one imagined that passionate anti-militarists like Herve” and Mussolini would themselves lead the Labour Movement into the war effort.

In fact anti-militarists have had very little anti-militarist influence on the official or unofficial Labour Movement, whatever other influence they had, and even that little influence melts away to nothing when the political temperature rises (consider Keir Hardie, George Lansbury and Aneurin Bevan in this country alone). For all their fine talk at international conferences in peacetime, most social democrats become social patriots when the blast of war blows in their ears, and even the brave few who refuse to take up oars with the rest also refuse to rock the boat. “The lads who have gone forth by sea and land to fight their country’s battles,” said Keir Hardie a few days after the Great War began, “must not be disheartened by any discordant note at home.” Among socialists, only the Marxists stood firm in 1870, and even Marx thought Bismarck was fighting a “defensive” war; only the extreme Marxists and some other extreme socialists stood firm again in 1914, and of course the Marxists began fighting ferociously four years later.

In 1939 only a few very extreme socialists still stood firm, while the Marxists made themselves thoroughly ridiculous.

The anarchist record is better, but many sincere comrades followed Kropotkin in 1914 and Rudolf Rocker in 1939. And even if all the anarchists and revolutionary syndicalists and anti-militarists had stood firm, war would still have come in 1914 and again in 1939. For militarism is stronger than anti-militarism, nationalism is stronger than internationalism, conformism is stronger than non-conformism— and never more so than in the middle of a war crisis. A general strike against war before the State has caught the war fever demands a revolutionary intention that seldom exists; a general strike against war after the State has succumbed demands a degree of revolutionary courage and determination that almost never exists. The Left is reluctant enough to challenge the State when all the circumstances are favourable— how much more so when the circumstances are completely unfavourable! Once the State is down with the fever, it is already too late to protest or demonstrate or threaten strike action, because the fever is so infectious that the people catch it before anyone quite realises what is happening; and by the time war actually breaks out it comes as a relief, like a rash following a high temperature. Then there is no chance of doing anything except in the case of defeat.

The problem is partly one of simple timing. Randolph Bourne, the American liberal pragmatist whose observation of the Great War drove him to anarchist pacifism, pointed out in his unfinished essay on the state [1] that “it is States which make war on each other, and not peoples,” but “the moment war is declared, the mass of the people, through some spiritual alchemy, become convinced that they have willed and executed the deed themselves;” with the result that “the slack is taken up, the cross-currents fade out, the nation moves lumberingly and slowly, but with ever-accelerated speed and integration, towards the great end,” towards “that peacefulness of being at war” (a phrase he took from L. P. Jacks, the English Unitarian writer). Although Bourne didn’t belong to the Labour Movement, he had far more insight into the nature of war and its relationship with society and the State than most anti-militarists who did. “War is the health of the State. It automatically sets in motion throughout society those irresistible forces for uniformity, for passionate co-operation with the Government in coercing into obedience the minority groups and individuals which lack the larger herd sense.” For war isn’t only against foreigners. “The pursuit of enemies within outweighs in psychic attractiveness the assault on the enemy without. The whole terrific force of the State is brought to bear against the heretics.” Of course, “the ideal of perfect loyalty, perfect uniformity, is never really attained,” but “the nation in wartime attains a uniformity of feeling, a hierarchy of values culminating at the undisputed apex of the State ideal, which could not possibly be produced through any other agency than war ... A people at war have become in the most literal sense obedient, respectful, trustful children again.” Nor, alas, are the working classes immune to “this regression to infantile attitudes,” so “into the military enterprise they go, not with those hurrahs of the significant classes whose instincts war so powerfully feeds, but with the same apathy with which they enter and continue in the industrial enterprise.” People whose highest ambition is to capture the State for themselves can’t be expected to destroy it.

[aurevoirmonty]

« […] la force a pour objet d’imposer l’organisation d’un certain ordre social dans lequel une minorité gouverne, tandis que la violence tend à la destruction de cet ordre. »

Georges Sorel, Réflexions sur la violence (1908)

[wonder-worker]

“...The custom of calling [Agnès Sorel] the first “maîtresse-en-titre” or the first “official royal mistress,” as the expression is typically rendered in English, make it is easy to overestimate her visibility during her lifetime. But despite the claims of modern historians, the expression “maîtresse-en-titre” was manifestly not invented for Agnès Sorel. No contemporary document refers to her in that way. Indeed, the word “maistresse,” to designate a beloved woman whom one was courting or hoping to marry, begins to appear only later. [...] The composite expression “maîtresse-en-titre” becomes common only around the mid-eighteenth century as a general way of designating a favorite or current mistress, used to refer to the king’s favorite mistress but by no means restricted to this use.

Agnès, then, is never referred to as anything like official mistress. The titles that she held were associated with the properties given her by the king: she was the Dame de Beauté, Roquecezière, Issoudun, and Vernon-sur-Seine, although it is not clear that she actually exercised any real control over these towns. Another thing that the documents do not say is that Agnès was publicly acknowledged as the king’s mistress; it is not true as one historian writes, that in 1444, the king “publicly designated Agnès Sorel as the first official royal favorite” during a joyous entry. There is no trace of such a presentation in any document. Nor was she ever mentioned as the center of attention at any festival [...]

Still, chroniclers were aware of Agnès, and the attention that she receives from them far surpasses that devoted to any other woman of comparable rank of her time. As a basis of comparison, we might take the mistress with whom Charles VII’s father, the insane Charles VI, was supplied to protect the queen from the abuses that he showered on her. Odette de Champdivers figures in exactly one chronicle and then not even by name. The chroniclers who mention Agnès and were either rough contemporaries or active within about fifty years after her death and therefore able to consult people who had known her include Thomas Basin; Jean de Bourdigné; the Bourgeois of Paris; Jean Chartier; Georges Chastellain; Jean Le Clerc; Jacques Du Clercq; Mathieu d’Escouchy; Robert Gaguin; Nicoles Gilles; Jean Juvénal des Ursins; Olivier de La Marche; Thierri Pawels; Pope Pius II, Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini. With one exception, Jean Chartier, who claims that the king never touched Agnès below the chin, they affirm that Charles VII loved Agnès madly, that she was beautiful, and several note that the king bestowed inappropriate material favor upon her.

For a hint of her political activity we can turn to Olivier de La Marche, Burgundian memoirist and chronicler, who writes in an entry about negotiations that took place in May and June 1445 that the king had recently taken up with a beautiful lady and that she did much good for the kingdom “by bringing before the king young men-at-arms and excellent companions, by whom the king has since been well served.” This suggests that she was able to influence the king’s appointments. In addition, we have mentions of her influence over the king in three depositions, each related to court factionalism and plots to overthrow the king along with Pierre de Brézé, his righthand man and the dauphin’s nemesis. One recounts, for example, that Pierre de Brézé controls the king through “that Agnès who serves the queen.” In another set of depositions relative to a different bit of political intrigue, the deponent refers to Pierre who has the king’s ear partly through the help of Agnès, “from whom Pierre has whatever he wants.” The same document says that the deponent had been instructed to inform the king that the dauphin was so upset with the king that he, the dauphin, was going to put things in order himself and chase Agnès away. In addition, the deposition lists code names for members of the court. Agnès’s is Helyos: Héloïse? The sun?

Agnès unexpectedly joined the king in Normandy in January 1450, having crossed France, pregnant, to tell him, according to one chronicler, that he was about to be betrayed by some of his people and turned over to the English. She then fell mortally ill of what we now know was a sudden ingestion of a massive amount of mercury. Certain chronicles reference the dauphin’s hatred of Agnès and a handful of sources suggest that he had her poisoned. Simply the fact that contemporaries thought that the dauphin might have done her in indicates a perception that she was influential.

The evidence adds up to what may have been clout with the king, but a profile so low that no ambassador was ever given instructions to seek her out, or, at least nothing indicates that any ever did. Nor is her presence ever mentioned at festivals, something that would have suggested her importance. Ambassadors to François I’s court, for example, routinely mention that François’s most significant mistress, the Duchess of Étampes, was present at court festivities, often mentioning where she was seated and with whom she spoke. But Agnès’s presence at such events was never noted.

-Tracy Adams, "Queens, Regents, Mistresses: Reflections on Extracting Elite Women’s Stories from Medieval and Early Modern French Narrative Sources"