#Saint Denis Cemetery

[roamingtigress]

Yeehawgust - Day Ten - Undead Cowboy

(Dutchy got into the special effects and thinks he's a movie star. Hosea tried telling him that it's a little early for Halloween but he wasn't having any of it.)

[ghosttownoutwest]

"Devi aiutarmi prima..."

(You must help me first...)

The grave robbers in my City... They don't pay me tribute. .. perhaps you two can collect it for me.

But I also hear of a Golden revolver... Quite rare.. but

Also cursed...

aliveafterdark.tumblr.com

[solitablvd]

Read My Mind

**Minors DNI**

chapter two

read chapter one

Masterlist

Pairing: Demon!Javier Escuella x Female Reader

Warnings: NSFW, pure smut tbh, unprotected p in v, cunnilingus, female reader, brat Javier Escuella idc

Word Count: 3.1k

AO3 Link

chapter two:

“Is everything alright?” Your father asked, breaking you from your trance as you had been pushing the food around on your plate aimlessly. 

You straightened in your seat, “Yes, sorry, I’ve just been… thinking.” 

Thinking indeed, as your mind had been consumed with the prior night’s impure events. You had woken up late and with a stir. Your lower half had felt raw. You had conflicting emotions all day. 

On one hand, you were containing a sense of want and need. The man from last night said he would see you today, and when you woke up to an empty room you couldn’t help but wonder where he was. You ached for more of him and the persistent pulsing you could feel in your lower half was a confirmation of this.

 On the other hand, this feeling was completely new to you, and you had felt guilty for even thinking these sinful thoughts and ashamed of the premarital intimacy you engaged in with the man. 

“Always in your head,” Your father muttered quietly. “When did you get that?” He asked, gesturing to the locket on your chest. 

“Oh,” Your hand clasped over the necklace, forgetting it was there, “Yesterday.” Your father nodded quietly. 

The thoughts continued to gnaw at your mind; you couldn’t take it anymore. All you could think about was the man’s touch; how he felt as he shoved his huge—

“I need to get to the church.” You said quickly, standing from your seat and grabbing a shawl to wrap around yourself before heading to the door. Your father made no protest as you left the home in a rush. The cold air outside hit you as you walked quickly through the streets. 

As you approached the church, you saw a man leaned against the front gate. As the cigarette smoke left his lips, you knew it was him. 

“Oh you made it,” He spoke, flashing a smile at you accompanied by a quick wink, “I was wondering when you’d get here.” 

He stood straighter as you approached him, “I’m sure you’re wondering who I am, or even what I am. I’m—” 

“Leave me alone.” You pushed past him, walking quickly as you ignored the butterflies that filled your stomach to enter the gates of the church. He remained outside the gates, his gaze following you as you rushed up the stairs and through the large doors. 

Once inside, you stopped to catch your breath. You crossed yourself as you approached the wooden pews, finding an empty spot to kneel away from the other strangers also there to confront their own sin. 

You rubbed your temple as you tried to erase the image of his body over yours and the way his cigarette hung loosely from his lips. You fold your hands neatly and rested your head against them, begging God to forgive you for your ever so sinful thoughts. 

When enough time had passed, you took a deep breath and stood to leave the church. As you walked down the stairs you could see another puff of smoke coming from just outside the gate. You closed your eyes and breathed deeply before continuing. You exited the gate, heading towards the direction of your home as the man matched your pace beside you. 

“—Javier.” He spoke, making you look at him with a perplexed expression before he continued, “That’s my name. Figured you’d want to know. Look, I can explain everything, but I can’t do it here.” He gestured to the busy street. 

Your walking seized as your curiosity got the better of you, you did want to know more about him. 

As if sensing your surrender, Javier smiled at you, “This way,” he guided. 

He led you towards the Saint Denis cemetery, an isolated area of the city. You followed behind him wearily into the cemetery, heading towards a secluded corner before he turned to face you. 

“I’m not sure how else to say this,” He began, “but I’m what you would call— a demon.” 

Your eyes widened and your brow furrowed in confusion, “What? But you— you’re—” 

“I know right,” He gave a flattered smile with a wink, bringing back the mixed feelings you had earlier. 

You shook the feeling off, “But you look… human.” 

He rolled his eyes and gave you an unimpressed look, “Oh sorry, let me just walk around in a city full of people in my true form.” 

Your mind wracked at his words. A demon. That would explain the fire that came from his thumb, and the way he was able to make objects —including his clothes— vanish. 

You stood there, stunned, grappling with the fact that you’d been intimate with a supposed demon. The worst part was you enjoyed it— no, you more than enjoyed it, you craved for it again. Even as he stood in front of you, you couldn’t ignore how irresistibly attractive he was. 

Javier chuckled softly, “This might be a good time to mention I can hear your thoughts.” 

You flushed at his words, looking away from him quickly. You took a moment to recollect yourself and pushed away the memories of last night. 

In your silence, Javier continued, “I was summoned… by that.” 

You backed slightly as his hand came up to point at the locket hanging from your chest. Your hand clasped over the locket, looking down at the jewelry in confusion. When you popped open the locket, the garnet stone inside was no longer clouded.

“The locket attracts those with strong desires.” He explained, “There must be something you want.” 

Your mind jumped to every book you read, to every dream you had, to every time you sat at your window and watched couples walking by as you wished to experience what they had. You wanted someone you could spend your life with, to cherish and to look forward to. You wanted love. 

“Woah,” Javier raised his hands in mock surrender, “Let’s slow down. How about we get you on a date first?” You glanced down, suddenly embarrassed, realizing he could hear your every thought.

He laughed slightly, shaking his head “You humans and your notions of love.” 

“So… you’re here to help me?” You asked, he nodded in response. “But… you’re a demon.” 

Javier gave a pondering hum, “Yeah, but every demon specializes in one of the seven deadly sins. Lust happens to be my specialty. Which is kind of like love I guess.” He shrugged. 

You nodded slowly, still trying to grapple with the situation. 

“Hey, we’re at the cemetery,” Javier said, gesturing around, “Perfect place to find love.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. Love and cemeteries didn’t seem like a good mix. 

“Look,” Javier pulled you by the wrist down a row of tombs. “Right there.” 

He pointed to a man who had a solemn expression, standing with a bouquet of red roses in front of a tall tomb. 

“What? He looks like he’s grieving!” You whispered exasperatedly. 

“So? The grieving are easy to bed. Just make him feel good about himself.” Javier ushered you. 

“No I— I wouldn’t even know what to say.” You admitted. 

Javier froze for a moment, thinking of a line to feed you, “Okay tell him, you come here often? ” He chuckled quietly at his own words. 

You sighed and looked down at the floor hopelessly, for a second you thought he’d actually be of help. 

“Hey it was a joke,” Javier defended himself, leaning down to catch your gaze, “Just speak from the heart.” 

You met his gaze. He gave you an encouraging smile that would’ve seemed sweet if he wasn’t sending you into a lion’s den. He proceeded to take you by the shoulders, spinning you around and ushering you towards the man while he remained hidden behind a tomb. 

You approached the man cautiously. Just speak from the heart , you mentally repeated. As the dirt beneath your shoes crunched the man looked up. He looked around your age, with dark short hair and sad eyes. 

“Hi,” You started, the sense of dread sat at the bottom of your stomach like a rock, “Um, do you… come here often?” The words fell out of your mouth like vomit. His perplexed expression only made the rock heavier. 

“What? Do I come here often? ” The man asked, growing upset, “Only every Sunday since my wife died. Can I get some privacy here?” 

You stared with your mouth agape as he gestured to the tall tomb in front of him, “I am so sorry sir— really I’m– I’m so sorry. May she rest in peace.” He nodded slowly, his lips pressed in a tight line as you backed away, retreating to the exit of the cemetery. 

You mentally beat yourself up as you exited the gates of the cemetery towards your home. Upon turning Javier appeared, using his hand to cover the grin on his face. You ignored him, walking past to make your way home. 

He gave a protesting smack of his lips, “Come on, don’t give up after one try. How were we supposed to know it was his wife that’s dead? I was hoping it was his grandmother.” 

You kept walking, annoyed at how he was making a joke of the situation. It was strange how he had completely changed from his demeanor the night before. 

Last night he —took your virtue— slowly and even asked if you were okay; today he was laughing at how you failed miserably at flirting with a stranger. 

“That’s because it was your first time.” Javier interrupted your thoughts. You froze in your step, sighing frustratedly that he was still reading your mind, but also slightly embarrassed that he knew it was your first time. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” He smiled kindly, continuing to match your pace as you continued to walk home, “I thought it was great, but believe me, I’m usually rougher.” In the corner of your eye you could see him wink at you, but you ignored it, still annoyed with his actions. 

You stopped as you had finally reached the gate outside your home. Javier stood beside you, looking up at your large home, then at you expectantly. 

“Can..” You began, “...other people see you?” 

Javier looked at you unimpressed, “I’m a demon, not a ghost.” He opened the gate to your home and walked towards the front door. 

“Wait,” You stopped him, “My father. I can’t have him see you.” 

Javier slowed to a stop, “Okay,” he shrugged, “I’ll see you upstairs then.” 

With that you continued up the stairs to your front door, turning back to see Javier had completely vanished. You entered the house and now that he was gone you sighed with your back against the door, allowing your mind to be free. 

His presence persistently poisoned your thoughts. The sound of his grunts sounded in your mind, sending a pulsing feeling through you briefly, you shook off the thought as you remembered how he had laughed at your attempt at flirting. 

“How was your day, sweetie?” Your father asked from the living room. 

“It was good.” You replied calmly, grabbing a book and sitting on a chair near him, choosing to stay in the living room to avoid going upstairs where Javier was sure to be waiting.

The two of you sat in silence as you both read by the fire. Reading your romance novels calmed your mind and comforted you after the day’s embarrassing event. 

Finally, your father had called it a night, encouraging you to go to bed as well. You begrudgingly headed up the stairs. You closed your room door behind you. The candles in the room were recently lit, by his thumb you were sure.

Turning, you saw Javier sitting on the couch with an annoyed expression. 

“Maybe I should’ve explained this better, but I exist in that.” He pointed at the locket on your chest as you walked past him to the washroom to get dressed in your nightwear.  

“So I go where you go.” He continued, calling out in an annoyed tone as you continued to ignore him. 

“Even if you can’t see me, I’m here.” He had suddenly appeared in front of you out of thin air. You jumped with a yelp at his sudden appearance, covering your body with your chemise quickly. 

He chuckled at your fright, “So don’t go thinking you can avoid me. I can still hear your thoughts and see you, even if I’m not in a physical form. You’re lucky I didn’t pop up downstairs in front of that father of yours.” 

“What? But this morning, you were waiting for me by the church.” You corrected, moving past him back into the bedroom. 

“No,” He shook his head following you, “I appeared to you in front of the church. I’ve been with you all day.” He pointed to the locket again. 

You nodded, still not fully comprehending how this all works; it felt like there was so much you were still learning. 

“That being said,” He continued in a more playful voice, “I heard what you were thinking about down there.” 

Though you could feel yourself clench at his words, you continued to give him the silent treatment, hoping it would teach him a lesson about making fun of your flirting skills. 

“Oh come on,” He complained, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind as you stood against your bed, “You can’t still be thinking about that. You can try again tomorrow.” You sighed, moving to speak before he interrupted. 

“Lay down,” He whispered in your ear, “I can make you feel better.” 

The words sent a jolt through your body, making you subconsciously arch against him, feeling him already growing in his jeans. You wanted him so bad. It had been in the back of your mind all day, and now was your chance. Turning to face him, his hands still on your waist as you sat on your bed and laid back slowly on your elbows. 

He slid his warm hands up your thighs, working to remove your undergarments. You expected him to insert himself or even insert his fingers, but instead he sank to his knees at your bedside. 

He wrapped his arms under your legs, pulling you closer to the edge. Before you could even register what he was going to do, he pressed his mouth against your heat, kissing it tenderly before flicking his tongue against the area. You gasped at the new sensation. 

You could feel his smile against your skin as his hands traveled up your body to grip your center, holding you in place as he began to messily delve his tongue into you.

You melted against his mouth, letting him have his way with you. He moved one hand to softly rub against your clit, making you arch yourself and throw your head back in pleasure while his other hand snaked its way up to grab your breast. 

You moaned aloud as he continued to rub you in circles, not letting up as he continued to suck against your skin hungrily. You bucked your hips and held them in the air, gripping at his hair as the area became more and more sensitive. 

Your body jolted as a wave of ecstasy like no other crashed against your entire body. Javier kept going, helping you ride out your high while you ran your hands through his hair. Your knees closed instinctively as the area had become raw with sensitivity and he stood from his spot, wiping his mouth off.

“Feel better yet?” He asked with a cheeky smile. Through flushed skin you gave him a small nod, not being able to contain your own small smile at his words. You looked up at the ceiling breathlessly before letting your knees spread open, giving him a sign that you were ready for even more. 

He hummed contently at your movement, snapping his fingers lightly to rid him of his clothes. This time you looked him over as he stood at the edge of your bed. His body was almost glistening in the candlelight and his throbbing cock had completely hardened by now. He rubbed himself slowly as he looked down at you. You bit your lip at the sight. 

“You think you can handle it faster this time?” He spoke, making your eyes flicker back up to him. You nodded eagerly in response. He smirked down at you before pulling your hips closer to him, letting his cock rub against your wetness before guiding himself inside of you. 

You gripped at your bedsheets behind you with a needy moan as he filled you up completely. He didn’t start off slow like the night prior, instead he began to fuck you quickly, making a string of moans tumble out of your mouth in the process. He used his thumb to continue rubbing you in circles and the sensitivity would’ve been overwhelming if it didn’t feel so good. He set a quick rhythm for himself, pounding into you with a curated pace that left you feeling weak.

He then took your legs and lifted them to rest on his shoulders. The switch in positions made you cry out as he felt even deeper than before. He didn’t let up, he held your legs above his shoulders as he thrust himself into you, sending you into a whirlwind of pleasure. You desperately cried out beneath him as he kept pace. 

“Fuck,” He let out under his breath, his pace beginning to falter as he grunted above you, getting closer to his own high. He pounded into you hard and fast, digging his fingers into your hips for support. He let out a final groan before he pulled out of you, grabbing himself and flicking his wrist quickly as he came all over you. 

He tiredly leaned over you, pressing a small kiss against your breast as he tried to catch his breath. You weakly threw your head to the side. You momentarily wished you could stay in this pool of pleasure with him forever.

Javier lifted his head to look at you, his eyebrows furrowing for a split second before he stood up completely. 

In routine, he made the mess that laid all over you disappear and his clothes quickly reappeared. 

“You should get some sleep,” He spoke neutrally, turning to head back to his position on the couch. You were so spent that you only nodded, getting under the sheets and blowing out the candles beside your bed, leaving you in the dark as you nodded off to sleep.

[oonajaeadira]

Hi! Just wanted to send an impulsive ask: Did you really go to the Paris Catacombs?? Holy crap how spooky was it???

I did!!!! And in autumn, so prime vibes time. But I wouldn't say it was too spooky. Although you also have to remember that is coming from a girl that regularly hangs out in cemeteries and is very death-positive.

You can only go down there on a tour, so it's not like you're alone and wandering, and you actually only see a portion of it--the one that's most decorated and researched. The tour puts the bones in context and why they were put there and arranged so. It had a lot to do with the revolution and just plain running out of space in the churchyards. It was getting unsanitary to keep filling up mass graves or charnel houses within the city, so they found a better place for them. Since bodies were buried in mass graves, a lot of times they didn't know what bones belonged to each other, hence the more efficient stacking of skulls or femurs all together. And it wasn't uncommon at the time for art to be made of human corpses or bones--it was the true momento mori: "Remember that I was once as you are now and you will one day be what I am." Life is short now but it was shorter then and while the bones were respectfully laid to rest, the art that is also made of them is meant to be a celebration of the life of those folks. The fact that they didn't know who or how many whos....it's the ultimate tomb of the unknown, and thereby, all of us. Which I find rather beautiful--everyone is the same in death. And I can't really be afraid of a skeleton...not when I'm carrying one around with me all the time! They were people. And now they're gone. Except the bones that took a whole human life to grow.

They make it very very clear that you are not allowed to touch any of the bones and they actually carefully check your pockets and bags on the way out to make sure you are not removing human remains from their resting place. They also ask for silence or low voices out of respect for the dead and out of respect for the tour guide so they don't have to raise their voices. It's not an echo-y place; in fact, it's actually quite sound-dampened and everything is much quieter down there. Anyway. It's all set up to be very respectful of those buried there and those who created and tended to the catacombs. And those who still tend to it.

The scariest thing to me is how far underground you have to go. With every step I was reminded of just how much dirt was over my head and that the earth can be temperamental and shift anywhere and anytime it wants to. Paris could just decide to become a giant sinkhole and squish me like a bug. But while that's an actual fobia of mine, it's obviously not strong enough to counteract my love of holy human places or I never would have ventured below.

As it was, it was one of the highlights of my Paris trip. That and Père-Lachaise Cemetery (especially with the autumn leaves falling). And Marie-Antoinette's grave up in Saint Denis. And maybe the Louvre at night. So many nights at the Louvre....

[angelicadamposting]

Evangeline - Adam’s Third Wife

(winner!Eva)

Evangeline-Juliette Antoinette de France

first look at my oc (started as a s/i for my f/o but evolved okay)

art by @w0nderous !! (tysm again <3)

I really want to post some of my writing/fan fiction about her and Adam but I don’t know how embarrassing it would be. character sheet below tho :3

Additionally I do have two timelines for her ! This one & one where she falls and becomes a ‘sinner’ but I need to commission art of her sinner form !!

CW: d3ath mentioned, uhh historical fiction,

Basic Info

Name: Evangeline (Formerly Evangeline-Juliette Antionette de France) Species: Angel / Divine Soul (Formerly Human) Physical Age: 22 Birth Date: November 26, 1780 Death Year: 1802 Height: 4'11 ft or 150 cm MBTI: INFJ

Likes

Reading

Adam (Duh)

Sweets

Bread

Ballroom Dancing

Helping/Supporting Others

Cooking (Despite Failing)

Music (Listening)

Singing

Fashion

Shopping

Dislikes

Being Kept in the Dark/Lied To

Senseless Violence

Being Alone

Surprises

Silence

Spicy or even just Unfamiliar Foods

Being Belittled or Disrespected

Cemeteries

‘Ugly people’ - adam

Insects

Clutter

Overview/Backstory(before heaven)

Evangeline was born as a peasant in France, her parents each working beneath King Louis VXI and Queen Marie Antionette. At a young age, Evangeline and her elder sister were chosen to become Marie's daughter's playmates. A common practice for nobles of the ra to find a commoner to befriend their child to socialize with them, however, the Queen chose to do this to teach her daughter empathy. After several years of spending day after day at the side of the Princess, her mother passed away. Stricken with responsibility and a heart bigger than the public knew, Marie Antionette adopted Evangeline and her elder sister. Quickly moving the two into the Palace of Versailles and giving each of them new names based on her favorite books, Evangeline now being called Juliette by her adopted mother based on 'Les Lettres de Juliette Catesby (1759)' by Marie Jeanne Riccoboni.

Despite being treated with the same maternal care and affection as Marie's biological daughter, Evangeline nor her elder sister were ever granted titles. Instead, the two were often referred to by others in the palace as 'the girls who always accompany Princess Marie-Therese.' This never bothered Evangeline, the young girl only thankful for the affection and opportunity within the palace. Her new mother gave her access to literature, teaching her to read as soon as possible, and teaching her daughter how to love books just as she did. It was at this time that Evangeline began to read the bible and learn other languages.

When the political unrest within France grew and the royal family attempted to flee, Evangeline and her sister were sent to the countryside to live with their biological father until the family returned shortly after failing the attempt. The unrest only grew, however, resulting in the Queen instructing another member of the French Court to take Evangeline and her sister to safety. The two living with the Mackau family during the height of the revolution and during their adopted parent's executions, their biological father shortly following in their footsteps due to his association with the King.

It wasn't until age 17 that Evangeline was released from legal guardianship, and permission to use the pension from her deceased adoptive parents as she wished. For the first time, the young woman was on her own in the world, and her name had been changed back to match that of her biological parents instead of the royal family. She moved to Saint-Denis in Paris to live close to her sister, the only person she even knew anymore.

For years, the young woman lived alone, unsure of what direction her life was meant to go in. Everything had been set up for her, prepared for her since she had been adopted. Things were always taken care of for her, a future decided for her even when she was under legal guardianship by the Mackau family. Near overnight everything changed, her whole life flipped upside down and every adult with a parental role in her eyes was gone. She spent her days reading, visiting with her neighbors, and feeding the strays while her sister began a family, at least being married off. It wasn't until 1802 when a group of soldiers traveled through her city, ones she just had to run into on the street, unknowingly spread yellow fever throughout Saint-Denis.

Early winter that year, Evangeline passed away in her home with no one but her faith and sister at her side. Without even a good story to tell, the young woman went to sleep to never wake up in the mortal realm again. However, she instead awoke before the pearly gates. She was greeted by St. Peter, who quickly checked his book to find her name, and brought through the gates quickly. Passing through the gates, Evangeline's senses were overloaded by the bright aura that emitted off the grand, beautiful structures softly sat atop the clouds. Almost causing her to miss the other angels themselves, as her eyes danced from billboard to fountain and so on. (that ended up longer than intended, maybe 2 many details)

Notable Relationships

Adam: The First Man Evangeline initially wasn't the biggest fan of Adam when they first met, as crude and obnoxious as he was, although over time she began to notice herself laughing at his annoying comments instead of cringing. She was probably the one to fall for him first, much to her dismay; Although she wouldn't be the first to make a move. Internally and externally she denied the fact she'd grown to care for him, enjoyed his crass humor, and couldn't stand how quiet things were when he wasn't around. After several months of relentless seemingly one-sided flirting from Adam, Evangeline relented, eventually reciprocating his advances. Although, due to her embarrassment she attempted to keep their entanglement a secret, which did not last long, when Lute opened the door of Adam's office one evening and caught the two getting heated. After this, the two made their relationship official and it became known within heaven among both the angels of lower and higher status. Despite her initial uncertainty, after what felt like no time the couple engaged before being married in 'holy matrimony.' Due to Adam's history regarding Eve and Lilith, Evangeline vowed to always stay by his side as his wife and support him. She never wanted to turn out like the two who hurt the only man who ever made her laugh or feel loved since she died before ever finding someone in life. The biggest problem within their relationship arises 200 years after they marry, due to the fact Adam kept the exterminations a secret from her their entire marriage. Truthfully, the only reason she ever learned of them was by chance and staying up 'overnight' during the yearly extermination, a night she had always viewed as the one day Adam took work seriously. This was why she stayed up late, waiting for him to get back with Lute so she could see him and ask how it went, even if she didn't know truly what it was his 'job' was. While waiting, she heard the door open followed by the voices of Adam and Lute. The two were happily chatting about slaughtering hundreds of souls, sinners specifically, but still. The revelation that her husband and someone she'd considered her closest friend were capable of such acts horrified Evangeline and caused her to rush toward them with a million questions. Lute pretty quickly excused herself, claiming this was Adam's problem, and leaving the couple to argue in privacy. They went back and forth on the ethics of it, the purpose, and how it could possibly be justified. 'It's to protect us! To protect Heaven and all of us angels here! Those sinners and demons want to uprise, you don't even get it-' All of his excuses seemed to fall onto deaf ears, as Evangeline shook her head in denial and led the argument until daybreak. Eventually, she began to kind of understand his supposed perspective. Thinking of the revolution and uprising that caused what she had always known to be a loving family to be torn apart, she chose to trust Adam and the other angels who made the decisions regarding the exterminations.

Lute Evangeline met Lute at the same time she met Adam, in fact, she walked right past Adam to introduce herself to Lute with a warm smile and handshake. Lute was apprehensive at first, uneasy with what seemed like sickly sweet kindness that radiated off the new angel. However, once she viewed how she reacted to Adam and was nearly forced to spend time with her; Lute began to consider Evangeline a friend. The two often spend their free time away from Adam together, whether that be talking shit or shopping. The second of the two options was less of a favorite of the exorcist angel, although she seemed to enjoy the food portions of their shopping trips. Often times one will try to invest the other in one of their own hobbies, like Evangeline's singing or Lute's combat practice; Each resulting in humorous situations for the friends. When Evangeline learns of the exterminations, and about who/what Lute really is, she's initially hurt by the fact her only actual friend had kept such a secret from her. (even if it was ordered and literally a part of the rules.) A wedge nearly being thrown between them, until Lute finally explains the fact there are rules regarding the exterminations and how only the exorcist angels and seraphim really know. While this explanation makes sense, Evangeline accepts this and tries to move on. In the end, learning the truth caused the two women to become better friends now that Lute truly could open up to someone else and not have to rely on Adam as the only one who knew the truth. - Okay, this was way longer than intended !! if you actually read all the way to here, thank you for taking the time !!

[intriguingpeoplebyangelafloyd]

LOUIS XVII

LOUIS XVII

1785-1795

Louis XVII was the son of King Louis XVI of France and Marie Antoinette. I read a book called The Lost King of France by Deborah Cadbury (2022); it was one of the saddest books I’ve read. The French Revolutionists abused Louis XVII in every sense in the word and he sadly died from disease and mistreatment at the age of 10.

            Born Louis Charles at the Palace of Versailles, he became heir to the throne when his older brother died in 1789, a few weeks before the French Revolution started. In 1789 the royal family were imprisoned in the Tuileries Palace, Paris. In 1793 Louis XVI was executed, and Louis XVII became king in the eyes of royalists.

            Louis XVII was taken away from his mother and was imprisoned in a cell and tortured daily. The Revolutionists made him sign a charge of sexual molestation against his mother and his mother was executed in 1793.

            In 1794, the Revolutionists had Louis XVII placed in a dark cell which was much like a cage for a wild animal. Food was passed to him through the bars and he continued to live in dirty unhygienic surroundings. He was neglected, secluded, and lived in absolute silence. The only people he saw were the guards who abused him.

            He was visited by three commissioners who couldn’t get a word out of him and observed that the child was seriously ill. Louis died alone on 8 June 1795, aged 10, from scrofula associated with tuberculosis. An autopsy was conducted and the doctor was shocked at the sight of all the abusive scars all over his body.

            Louis was buried in Sainte Marguerite cemetery but wasn’t given any marker. His heart was smuggled out and was kept in a crystal vase at the royal crypt at Saint Denis Basilica the burial place of his family. In 2000, DNA testing was conducted which proved that the heart was his.  

            The only surviving member of the royal family was Louis’s older sister Marie-Therese who married her cousin in 1799 and moved to England. She died of pneumonia in 1851, aged 72. The next king of France was his Louis XVIIs uncle, Louis XVIII from 1814-1824.

 

#LouisXVII #LouisXVI #marieantoinette #deborahconway

[conjuremanj]

Marie Laveau. Voodoo Queen.

Marie Catherine Laveau (September 10, 1801 – June 15, 1881) was a Louisiana Creole (free women of color) practitioner of Voodoo, herbalist and midwife who was renowned in New Orleans. Her daughter, Marie Laveau II (1827 – c. 1862), also practiced rootwork, conjure, Native American and African spiritualism as well as New Orleans Voodoo. Her daughter was to me the most powerful one.

Her Real Story. Her house was probably on St. Ann St. She would have lived in a creole cottage similar to the one in this picture but probably not as clean.

She did have kids with her husband but there's no record of them as adults so they probably died young. Her and her husband did get married at St Louis cathedral he was a Haitian man. Then sometime around 1825. Jacques Perry her husband so called disappeared they tried to make it a big mystery but in all honesty people back then didn't really report that loved ones death. After St Louis cathedral burned down they lost all the records so later on she started calling herself the widow Perry which gives the idea that Jacques did die. The story of her actually being a hairdresser there is no record her being a hairdresser there was a book that was written by George Washington Cabal in 1880 who wrote about a voodoo priestess who was a hairdresser and people later on assume that he was speaking about Marie Laveau which I think is a cool story to keep her memory alive. There is only one article that mentions her and voodoo but we don't know a 100% if she did practice it or not, I think she did as well as being a root worker. Now there was also another man Kristoff Glapion and one of the stores that they have of him is that he was born a free man of color but records show that he was actually born of two white parents. She wasn't married to this man kristoff because at that time a black woman could not marry a white man but she did stay with him and lived their with him until his death. The historian believe they stayed together for probably around 30 years. She did pout him in the Perry tomb. After kristoff died she was in so much financial debt they had to sell off the house on Saint Ann Street to pay for his funeral and anything else that needs to be paid off. So she didn't have a place to stay until one of their family friends name Crocker bought the property and let her stay there until she died.

HER FATHER'S ETHNICITY : She was born Marie Laveaux, as her father was Charles Laveaux. Many sources are in error stating her father was a White plantation owner. He in fact was a Mulatto grocery store owner, born a free man of color. He is allegedly the son of Charles (Don Carlo) Trudeau and an unknown Laveaux.

Legend.

The legend of Marie Laveau it runs deep through the veins of New Orleans. The Voodoo priestess was believed to have been born free in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana, about 1794, the daughter of a white planter and a free Creole woman of color.

The source of this power was the Voodoo religion and its queen, Marie Laveau. She was worshiped at the same time she's was feared by people of all races. Some people believe that her powers were actually based on a network of informants. Being a hairdresser, she was able to lesson to her clients (mostly white) gossip. She used this inside information to influence and instill fear in her believers. Whether or not the legends of this Voodoo priestess are true, it cannot be denied that she has left her mark on the city. She was buried in Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans in 1881. Her daughter in St Louis cemetery no. 2

MARIE LAVEAU II MYSTERY: There is myth and mystery behind a named Marie Laveau II. No document listed a Marie Laveau II as Marie Laveau's daughter, but the name sure does have a crazy story behind it, claiming that Marie Laveau had magically become Marie Laveau II so she could live on forever. Truth is, Marie had a daughter named Marie who was a devout Catholic as well as Marie-Heloise who did not turn to Voodoo and died in her 30s. Any of those Maries could have been twisted into the stories, by name only, as none of them were Voodoo practitioners as far as we know.

To this day her and her daughters tomb continues to attract visitors who unlawfully desecrate it by marking three “X”s (XXX) on its side, in the hopes that Laveau’s spirit will grant them a wish. Ok, let me say first no one who practices Voodoo whenever desecrate a grave of writing on it second she isn't a voodoo spirit since Louisiana Voodoo is part Haitian and African she's not a elevated spirit. She's a woman that is well known and well respected within our city. What she really is in voodoo. She's a conjured spirit similar to a saint she is called upon to do a specific task.

Here is a pic I took of the largest international Marie laveau shrine in the US.

BECOMING A DEVOTEE: these days Marie Laveau devotees are no different they still believe in Jesus and saints, just as Madame Marie did. They go to church, pray the rosary, and work the gris gris. Some voodooist here in New Orleans believe Marie Laveau is one of the Lwa (Loa) in Voodoo tradition. She is not a elevated spirit but is a folk saint. She is honored on many altars and shrines through New Orleans. People pray to her or even make wishes to her. Understand who she was and what she did for people and the city. The rituals and blessings she preformed like the St John's Eve blessings. So get to know her.

BUILDING AN ALTAR Building her altar isn't complicated a statue or pic of her. You can add flowers. Candles white, blue or red or even add her veves. (symbol) (normally she wouldn't have the symbol because she's not a voodoo spirit but she's important so they made one for her anyway)

OFFERING: This can be flowers, mini liquor bottle, cigarettes, cigars. Money she's not picky.

Your relationship with spirit will be different from the next person’s. The connection you make with Marie Laveau will be unique to only you.

This video I took of her shrine in The Healing Center. In New Orleans.

If your in the city check it out on St Claude in the building is the Island of Salvation Botanica own by priestess Sally Ann.

[prochatter]

Saint Denis Cemetery Comes Alive on Halloween Night!

[khazadspoon]

blonco + touch prompt #5?

5 - feeling their pulse

—

Somewhere along the way, between deserts and cemeteries, under a sky as vast as any in the whole world, Tuco was changed.

It wasn’t much of a change, no one would write songs about how he became a saint after so long a sinner, but the change was enough that he noticed it. But he found himself hurrying the horses as he worried at his lips and cast glances to his quarry. Blondie was in a bad way. His skin was marred, burned and dry, blistered, a far cry from the too-pretty perfection it had been before. The breaths he took were laboured, Tuco listened for them over the pounding of hooves and rattling of wheels.

Each night he stopped for an hour or two. He didn’t rest. He climbed into the back of the carriage, ignoring the stench of the dead and the dying, and tried to keep Blondie alive. A dab of water on his lips, a damp rag on his chest and arms, avoiding the burns as best he could.

He had done this. Tuco had made a choice and that choice had been revenge. He didn’t regret it, but something inside him was sorry for it. The promise of riches was part of that, he couldn’t deny it, but seeing Blondie in such agony was…

Tuco was changed.

As he climbed back to join the injured man, he wondered on that change. He drew Blondie gently into his lap and took the man’s hand. Carefully, slowly, he rolled up the cuff of one ruined sleeve. His fingers found the delicate skin of Blondie’s inner wrist and waited.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Slow, weak, definitely and defiantly there.

Tuco was no doctor. He didn’t understand the inner workings of the body, didn’t know how the heart pumped blood around to keep a man alive, but he knew that thump was the only hope they had.

He felt for that struggling pulse every chance he could - at night, when he stopped to let the horses rest, when he couldn’t catch the sound of the struggling breathing.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

His fingers felt each beat as though it were some holy relic, a small touch of God and the Saints offering him peace through Blondie’s stubborn desire to cling to life. The skin was warm and spared from burns. Tuco raised it to his face, pressed it to his lips, tasted the life still running through Blondie like a trickling stream after a drought.

He prayed to that pulse with his fingers and lips, prayed that Blondie would pull through instead of haunting him forevermore.

[mothmiso]

Arrondissement de Villefranche-sur-Saône (2) (3) (4) by Denis Gounelle

Via Flickr:

(1) Fin de journée sur la chapelle de Saint-Laurent d'Oingt. End of the day on the chapel of Saint-Laurent d'Oingt. (2) Vue depuis Belmont d'Azergues. View from Belmont d'Azergues. (3) Promenade en Beaujolais. Walk in Beaujolais. (4) Lever de lune sur le cimetière. Moonrise over the cemetery.    

[ghosttownoutwest]

But the stories say, Marie might be in here.

[dailyanarchistposts]

The Storm Rages

“Fuck May ’68, fight now!” –Unknown

On May Day morning, as is customary, several small morning gatherings occurred before the classic massive demonstration in the afternoon. That morning, no fewer than five different actions were planned. Around 10 am, traditional unions and organizations (including the CGT, FO, FSU, Solidaires, and UNEF) gathered at the Père Lachaise cemetery in front of the “Mur des Fédérés”—the wall where many of the last participants in the Paris Commune were executed. (Although the Communards died fighting as revolutionaries, they have been dead long enough that these legalistic organizations can risk keeping company with them.) At 10:30 am, a morning demonstration took place in Saint-Denis, a northern suburban city. At 11 am, after leaving their own traditional morning procession, some people gathered in downtown Paris in memory of Brahim Bouarram, a 29-year-old man killed on May 1, 1995 by supporters of the French National Front after they left the National Front May Day morning procession. At noon, as usual, the traditional annual anarcho-syndicalist march left Place des Fêtes to walk to the departure point of the afternoon procession. Finally, around 1 pm, people were supposed to meet at Place de la Bastille for a lively gathering to support the ZAD.

In view of the threats of the authorities, we decided to play it safe and joined the anarcho-syndicalist march to get a sense of the situation in the field. Once we reached Place des Fêtes, some of us decided to redecorate the police station with personal messages and posters about the Haymarket affair and the origins of May Day. As more and more people arrived, it was already apparent that a lot of autonomists, anarchists, and other radicals had decided to join the morning festivities before the afternoon march. Throughout the crowd, we could hear people speaking in French, Italian, German, and English. International call or not, some comrades had decided to visit France and spend May Day in Paris with us.

The morning march finally started. Everything went smoothly; trade unionists and families walked alongside autonomists and newer generations of anarchists while police remained almost invisible the entire time. Some of us took this opportunity to take action: banks and insurance companies saw their front windows smashed and colorful messages appeared on the walls. As we were approaching Place de la Bastille, the departure point of the afternoon procession, tension and apprehension were palpable. Would the police actually stop and search everyone attempting to join the May Day demonstration? Not at all! As the anarchist procession passed a group of policemen in plainclothes (members of the anti-criminality brigade, the BAC) and insulted them, we reached the Place de la Bastille. We had entered the belly of the beast without a hitch!

When we arrived, the Place de la Bastille was packed. Thousands of people already thronged the streets, making their way through the numerous food trucks, traditional organizations, political stands, and balloons. As in 2017, we decided to leave traditional organizations behind us and hurried to catch up with the front of the procession. Along the bassin de l’Arsenal, hidden by the blossoming trees, the colorful crowd progressively changed color. Waves of black appeared among the leading procession. Once everyone was properly changed and equipped, we all moved forward to reach the first lines of the march, already located on the Austerlitz bridge. Once on the bridge, we realized that we would not be at the front of this May Day demonstration, as another crowd of activists was already walking ahead of us.

The beginning of the demonstration was quite strange. While we waited on the bridge, a line of journalists separated us from the front of the procession. All the corporate media outlets wanted to have their own footage of the impressive bloc that was occupying the bridge. For long minutes, we remained completely static; several smoke bombs and torches were lit and the banners at the front formed a perfect line. To us, this entire situation was unproductive and somehow narcissistic, as it seemed that part of the bloc was completely at ease with having their pictures taken by photographers. We felt that they were actively participating in the political spectacle of May Day by playing their role and posing so the media could broadcast their sensational images. In the end, when people were tired of waiting, fireworks and large firecrackers were thrown at journalists to push them back. After several unsuccessful attempts, the bloc charged them and thus finally managed to cross the bridge.

Once we reached the other riverbank, we found police forces and water cannons waiting on both sides. This created confusion in our ranks. For several more minutes, no one knew what to do or what we were waiting for. Would police forces try to split the procession and carry out an enormous mass arrest before the march even started? While the bloc paused again, indecisive about what to do next, the journalists recreated their line in front of us, taking more shots of the famous “black bloc” while preventing us from reaching the other group of demonstrators ahead of us.

Then things began to accelerate. Someone climbed a post and started to smash a city camera with a rock. As the journalists continued filming us unrelentingly, we were finally compelled to respond by smashing or spray painting every single camera in our path. It was time to put out the eyes of the state; in such a situation, rather than being neutral tools, cameras are connected directly to the apparatus of repression. Then the first advertisement billboards were smashed, along with some bus shelters. It seemed that we had finally found our pace.

We entered the boulevard de l’Hôpital, passing the Jardin des Plantes (a large public park) and the rue Buffon, where additional police units were already blocking the street, until we reached a McDonald’s. The storm broke. Activists took out all the front windows of the fast food restaurant while others enthusiastically decorated the walls. As the windows fell to the ground, others entered the restaurant, destroying and looting everything inside. At the end, someone threw a Molotov cocktail inside. Other activists extinguished the flames, as inhabitants living in flats above the restaurant started appearing at their windows. (As lundimatin put it, “Finesse was not the theme of the day.”)

From this point on, nearly every window display was smashed and every wall spray-painted. The march continued thus, destroying everything in its path, until it reached two car dealerships. Again, some activists ran to the front windows and shattered them. Others entered the premises of one car dealership, wrecking everything inside. Finally, they pulled two cars out onto the sidewalk and set them on fire.

On the other side of the street, not far past the Austerlitz train station, several activists were breaking down the barriers around a construction site. Behind the fencing, they found an excavator. This, too, was set on fire. As the flames consumed the machine, someone took the time to spray-paint “ZAD everywhere” on it. Whatever happens at Notre-Dame-des-Landes, the ZAD will survive! Perhaps not in its current form—as the process of normalization seems to leave fewer and fewer breaches open for experimentation—but its spirit continues to inspire us in other struggles, as this tribute action demonstrates.

At this point, we looked ahead and saw that we couldn’t go any further: police forces were waiting with anti-riot fences and water cannon trucks. They were blocking the route of the demonstration, probably to prevent us from reaching the district police station located a little further ahead on our right. At the same time, confrontations with police broke out at the construction site near the train station. It seemed that police were located inside or near the station, behind additional fences. Law enforcement units answered our projectiles with showers of tear gas canisters, which created a great degree of confusion. As reported by lundimatin:

“Then, we witnessed the most absurd scenes of the day. Dozens of activists in black threw hundreds of stones over the fences at an enemy that was completely out of reach. Others threw stones at a machine in flame, others at a McDonald’s that would no longer cause any harm to anyone. Actions that showed that the static but overwhelming and ubiquitous police presence was about to win, that is to say, to diffuse powerlessness. There was certainly a lot of will and determination during these events, but it ended being compressed in a restricted space where in reality frustration and fear prevailed.”

Little by little, the police trap was closing. While we were distracted by the confrontations near the construction site, the police lines blocking the boulevard ahead of us took the opportunity to move forward with their water cannon trucks, then filled the streets with tear gas. Our only option was to retreat. We were pushed back near the ruins of the McDonald’s. There, we were blocked between the thick clouds of tear gas, the closed fences of the park, and a disoriented and panicking crowd. Facing the jets of water cannons and uninterrupted showers of tear gas canisters, some of us tried to resist with Molotov cocktails and stones, but without any real success. As the intensity of confrontations escalated, people began to escape by climbing over the fences of the public park. Eventually, realizing that the increasing panic could lead to a potential tragedy, firemen decided to open the gates of the park. A breach was opened, and some of us took this opportunity to exit the confrontations. Shortly after, police units fanned out to attempt to arrest people inside the park.

Those who stayed on the boulevard de l’Hôpital continued retreating as the water cannons were now in full use. They ended up crossing the bridge we had departed from and then tried to start several actions by taking other routes. Some joined the march of the CGT, others went back to the bassin de l’Arsenal in order to bypass police lines and harass them. For the occasion, a huge barricade was built to slow the police while others were attacking another car dealership and several stores. Then, as police reinforcements arrived, activists dispersed into the nearby streets, only to gather again a bit further away to begin another spontaneous demonstration. Several Autolibs—electric car sharing vehicles owned by the Bolloré industrial group—were set on fire during the action. Later, the Place de la Bastille was occupied by police, who repeatedly tried to surround people in order to carry out additional arrests, while other small groups of activists were blocked in a nearby boulevard by other law enforcement units. The authorities cleared the entire square of any potential activists.

Once the afternoon demonstration was definitely over, people began to converge around a bar located at Place de la Contrescarpe, in the Latin Quarter, the same district where most of the confrontations of May 1968 had taken place half a century earlier. The main objective of this event was to gather people from different political horizons in order to meet, debate, and create new connections. Unfortunately, police forces were already on site when the first groups of people showed up at the square. As more and more people arrived, police left the square so people could occupy it, but not without stopping and controlling some groups that wanted to join the gathering. Clashes erupted, with police repeatedly beating and pepper-spraying the crowd. The rest of the night witnessed an ongoing cat-and-mouse game between activists and police forces, involving several reoccupations of the Place de la Contrescarpe.

During these events, several spontaneous demonstrations took place. In one case, activists succeeded in escaping police units by entering an already occupied building of the EHESS, the School of Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences. Fascists and neo-Nazis armed with gulf clubs were patrolling the Latin Quarter at the same time. They assaulted several activists who were on their way to the gathering, injuring at least one individual.

[robespapier]

@frevandrest and I have made a sad discovery: Before Jacques Maurice, the Duplays had a little boy who didn’t survive. He was named Gabriel Maurice and born in 1771, between Victoire (1770) and Elisabeth (1772/1773). He died at around 3 months old, while he was with a wet nurse in Chalifert (in the East countryside of Paris, 35km away from his parents’ home rue Saint-Honoré). 

The year 1771, the 19th May, was buried in the cemetery of the ?? by me, the undersigned priest, Gabriel Maurice, deceased today at the home of Denis Maillet, where he was for wet-nursing, aged around 3 months, son of Maurice Duplay, carpenter in Paris on Saint-Honoré street, parish of Saint Roch, and of Françoise Eléonore Vaugeois, his father and mother absents, [the declaration] was made in the presence of said Maillet, who has signed with us. 

source: the link won’t take you to the exact page; it’s page 193, in the middle of the left side. 

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (January 16)

Nothing of Marcellus' life before his papacy has survived the centuries.

He became Pope at the end of the persecutions of Diocletian in aound 308-309.

The persecutions had disrupted the Church so much that there had been a gap of over a year with no Pope.

Once he was elected, he faced several challenges, including reconsituting the clergy, which had been decimated and whose remnant had practiced their vocation only covertly and with the expectation of martyrdom.

He worked hard to recover and welcome back all who had denied the faith in order to keep from being murdered.

When a group of the apostacized, known as the Lapsi, refused to do penance, Marcellus refused to allow their return to the Church.

The Lapsi had a bit of political pull, and some members caused such civil disruption that Emperor Maxentius exiled the Pope in order to settle the matter.

Legend says that Marcellus was forced to work as a stable slave as punishment, but this appears to be fiction.

However, we do know that he died of the terrible conditions he suffered in exile and is considered a martyr because of that.

He was initially buried in the cemetery of Saint Priscilla in Rome, but his relics were later transferred to beneath the altar of San Marcello al Corso Church in Rome where they remain today.

[slavicafire]

the fragment comes from an interesting publication on Les Halles, the historic - and now historical - market right next to the cemetery in question.

Les Halles was a perpetual carnival. It was also the ultimate countersite of what Michel Foucault called "heterotopia," a place of otherness and alternate ordering. Traders and secondhand clothing dealers unlawfully sold their wares outside the walls. Buying and selling spilled into the adjoining Cemetery of the Innocents, where illicit trade and general debauchery formed a danse macabre among the tombs and decaying detritus that boiled up from the fetid soil and communal graves. The vast necropolis of Saints Innocents welcomed the dead from every parish in the city. Human decomposition mixed with the blood and guts of the market, with piles of rubbish to form a putrid stench, a dangerous effluence that made Les Halles an axis of infection and disease. The flotsam and jetsam of the city wound through Les Halles' dull, narrow, filthy streets. This was where new migrants to Paris found cheap housing and where criminal elements openly operated. Vagrants and beggars haunted the labyrinth of lanes. Cemetery whores prowled the night, and streetwalkers plied their trade on the rue Saint-Denis. The district's night life was a gaudy and sinister spectacle.

[Fascinating Les Halles. Rosemary Wakeman, French Politics, Culture & Society, Vol. 25, No. 2 (Summer 2007)]

reading about death and graveyards again - it is monday today, after all - this time in a more hygiene-related context, public health and all. burying the dead has always been a pesky matter (and grew even more so with the appearance and growth of towns and cities) and both that fact as well as associated anecdotes have more or less seeped into the mainstream pool of what's understood as general knowledge. the european mind comprehends quite well that there used to be times when all it took was two weeks of solid rain for the remains of great-granny to flow gleefully down the main city street, right by the bright window of your local bakery.

but! reading Oględziny i grzebanie ciał zmarłych: ze stanowiska hygieny publicznéj podług dzieł doktorów M. Lévy, Fr. Oesterlen, L. Pappenheim i innych, a quite pleasant polish publication from 1873, brought up the topic of toxic gases accumulating in the soil underneath the parisian Cimetière des Innocents (yes, the very one where Armand's coven resided when Lestat first met them). this, in turn, led me on quite a nice exploration of associated publications on the subject: alas, what gas, and what its dangers might be? and when we talk of overpopulated cemeteries, what numbers do we actually have in mind? all that tying nicely in a final ornamental bow that is the creation of the parisian catacombs.

what I would like to bring to your attention, however, is the fragment on the Holy Innocents' Cemetery that is not only beautifully written - you will see in a moment - but also paints a picture quite baffling (if only more fascinating through that bafflement) to the modern mind. of the graveyard as a cursed place - yet not because of the presence of the dead but through the presence of the living.

[charlotte-balfours-garden]

cemetery flowers 🌸