#forbidden french

[bangbangwhoa]

books I’ve read in 2023 📖 no. 013

Forbidden French by R.S. Grey

“What an arrogant bastard to brand himself on my memory like that, to ensure that he’ll always linger in the periphery of my fantasies.”

[postcard-from-the-past]

Imperial throne in the Temple of Heaven, Forbidden City, Beijing, China

French vintage postcard

[insecateur]

Imma be honest you saying you were French in ur bio explained so much because I am very dumb because I thought you just liked x and y so much you just learned French and it never crossed my mind that French people exist

ASGDASFZEFZDTFZZZSDADGGW

i'm sorry this is so funny. french people are a myth

[mossistyping]

Fun fact. When I wrote I can make it better I had a brief moment where I went "what the actual fuck". I wrote "his tongue mapping out every inch of him."

I had to just sit there. I'm fucking french. Why did I automatically use inches. Dick on AO3 may only be in inches perhaps?

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

love that prebeginner stage of learning a language where youre listening to a bunch of it but dont have any vocabulary or anything yet so your thoughts start taking the shape of the language without any of the,,,,,,content

[grisbleuvert]

[mythological-art]

Pandora

Artist: Alexandre Cabanel  (French, 1823 - 1889) 

Genre: Mythological Painting

Date: 1873

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Walters Art Museum, Baltimore

Description:

Cabanel, a professor of painting at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris, specialized in portraits of "High Society." Here, he depicts the Swedish soprano Christine Nilsson as Pandora, the woman in Greek mythology who opened a forbidden box, releasing all the troubles that afflict humanity.

[appreciatingtokrev]

every day i think abt this tumblr post in which a us-american was incredibly fascinated by two girls they saw who were speaking english & japanese interchangably. because, like, i speak three languages interchangably on the daily. that’s normal to me. i’m not even fluent in french (been learning it at school for 10 years now tho lmao) but there’s enough french words & phrases i use on the daily. if i can’t remember a (swiss) german word/saying/etc while talking in german i just substitude with english because most people i talk to are fluent in both anyways. i greet my little brother in french and then go on to ask if he wants to go and by ramunae with me sometime, in swiss german, in the same breath, and i answer overmorrow when he asks me when because i think it’s a funkier word than übermorn.

i think about that post every day and i genuinly wonder how someone can grow up and never learn another language. how do you live without this? without the pressure to speak at least two of your country’s four official languages? without the pressure of learning the world’s language as a second/third? without ever seeing all the beauty in knowing more than one language, and being able to understand so much more of the world?

[nostalgia-tblr]

[aiglesperch]

Drew a particular scene from Tally Ho... guess which one?

[tippilo]

I decided to expand my story, Shadows of Doubt! I just added a "flashback" chapter in Alastor's POV. Enjoy!

Shadows of Doubt - Chapter 2 - Tippilo - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

As we wind down the first part of The Brightest Star in the Sky, I'll write certain scenes in Reinhardt's POV and post them with those chapters! In between, I'll post a "flashback" in Alastor's POV. It will give you pretty much their entire story.

XOXO - Tipp

[worldsfromhoney]

Vivre Notre Amour

Masterlist

When Melchior enters his rooms, the fire is already lit and a figure sits before it. They’ve gathered up the rugs and formed a sort of nest before the fire, their back to him and seemingly defenceless. Except Melchior’s quarters change every night and not even he knows what rooms he’ll get in his own home till his butler whispers it to him at the end of the night.

There is a moment when Melchior freezes and the call for le corps de garde bubble in his throat. That might be the champagne or the bile that comes when his nerves threaten to overwhelm him and oh mon Dieu—

“Have a fun party, mon bonheur?” The figure says, still stoking the fire. “I could hear your laughter all the way from here.”

Casimir doesn’t turn towards him and flash that boyish grin of his but hearing the man’s voice is enough. Melchior breathes a sigh of relief, tension that’d strung him up easing away as the lasting notes of a song. He hears it now actually, in the form of a hum from Casimir as he keeps on stoking the fires, making them blaze further and draw heavier shadows round the room.

Melchior smiles. “So you were there tonight. I thought I saw you.”

“No you didn’t.”

He chuckles and begins to unbutton his vest. “No. I didn’t.”

Casimir still hasn’t turned round despite the sound of falling clothes on the carpet. Melchior honestly didn’t expect him to. Fire has always been his dear friend’s fascination even when they were young and naïve to beautiful dangers. How times and people change and how those who cling to the past get dragged to depths they could never fathom.

“It was a nice song,” Casimir says after the sound of falling clothes stop and silence dominates. Only then he turns and grins at Melchior, already mischievous. “It would’ve been nicer if we danced to it, oui?

Melchior returned the grin, making his way towards the man. Eyes darkened by the blazing fire followed his every move, tracing every twitch of skin under his gaze and how light and shadow played on his nakedness. Melchior didn’t mind.

How could he when he always ended up in this state one way or another when Casimir came round? What shame is there to feel when such a man as this could not tear his gaze away from an imperfect body as his? He is French—he can turn anything beautiful with just light and shadow. He knows he need only be but an inch away from Casimir to command this man’s very being—his mind, soul and heart.

He doesn’t. He softly kneels and tucks himself in Casimir’s ready embrace, eyes fluttering as another sigh comes from him.

Casimir laughs. It’s a light, heady thing that Melchior could never stop wanting to hear. “And here I thought this monsieur wanted to dance with me. I stuck around to memorise the whole thing, mon bonheur.”

“Really,” Melchior says, smiling despite the confirmation that he’s been tailed and watched the entire night. “Sing a line for me then, won’t you, mon rêve?

“Hmm,” Casimir hums a few notes first, leaning down to breathe in Melchior’s scent. “Tant que cette eau coulera doucement vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie, je t’aimerai—“

He sings the rest of the song with perfect tone and capture of the melody. Hearing him sing just confirms Melchior’s assessment of his friend’s voice—a tenor that’s never wavered and only honed in the past years, successful against the thorns of puberty. And so Casimir sings of a love falsely everlasting and Melchior wonders and wonders and wonders.

It is the night of the 4th of May 1789 and love is in the air. Many proposals had been made during the party, all ending in raucous applause and the sincerest of congratulations the French can give verily. Happiness had been as abound as it possibly could with the sounds of revolution muffled outside Melchior’s walls.

And yet the last song of the night had been Plaisir d’amour with its haunting tune and message of inevitable change that had closed the party. The grand nobility of France had taken their beloved’s hands and pulled them close, eyes seeing in the distance the barricades and fires set alight in their once peaceful city of Paris.

“Why hold a party tonight, mon bonheur?” Casimir asks after his singing voice has gone and he can only murmur now with the sounds of nightly patrols with their ears to the walls. “You of all people know what tonight is—what tonight will become.”

“I am no seer, mon rêve. I do not know how tonight is any more significant than any other night.”

Melchior lies. He lies and lies as he’s always done since the moment he realised the worlds’ worth of distance between him and his love. He clings onto lies as his fingers dig into the fabric of Casimir’s blouse, carefully manicured nails reaching skin just one more inch away. Maybe, just maybe these lies can become truths and then everything will be as it should be again.

Casimir sighs. He untangles himself finger by finger from Melchior till he’s holding delicate hands that had never seen hardship and meets eyes too clouded by false reality.

“Melchior,” He says. “Melchior, oh mon bonheur…Dearest friend of mine, whenever will you open your eyes and uncover your ears? When, mon bonheur, will you choose to hear the cry of your people’s souls?”

Melchior moved to pull his hands away. Casimir’s hold on them remained, strong but never violent no because this was his dear friend and the one who rightly held his heart. And yet violence is what all things come to in the end and the beginning.

His face twists. “Unfair, mon rêve. You are unfair.”

He says this because Casimir of all people should know how much Melchior hears. He should know how much he feels for his people and for his king who lounges in exuberant luxury so unlike his own. So it is truly unfair in how he is forced to be his barest and Casimir remains by his side, clothed and guarded and so unrelenting it makes his love for this man grow more boundless by the hour.

Casimir sees this—is reminded of it and sighs as he tightens his hold on Melchior for a fraction. Then he lets go. This man can never hold onto him for long and for this, Melchior can never find himself to forgive. Why think so little of himself—so weak that more than an increase of touch would make him wildly abandon all his ideals for a mere dream?

Melchior has loved but one man and he is not so weak as that. He is of esteemed French nobility and his standards have always been high—immaculate, even. So even in this time of turmoil and uncertainty, Melchior can be sure of Casimir. He is sure of this man’s strength and nobility unrestricted by traditional definition. He is sure of how this man’s greatest fear are his desires centred around the antithesis to his goal of révolution. They have been together since childhood and yet Melchior still does not know how to make Casimir break.

Remembering the fires lighting up the night in Paris, he does not think he will ever get the chance.

They talk about Gironde. These days, that is all they talk about. Ever since Melchior had to change his rooms every night, the location almost close to a national secret, and since his guards have become eavesdroppers who care not for the presence of his secret paramour but look out for their precarious identity. Ever since all Casimir can do is sneak into the parties he held every night to raise morale amongst the nobles and watch as Melchior dances with anyone else but him.

Gironde is their paradise. It is their Suisse in this time where lines are continuously drawn—and continuously crossed.

“I’m thinking Margaux,” Melchior says. “Vineyards for miles… the smell of wine when we wake up… what do you think?”

Casimir laughs in his ear. “Sounds like the perfect place for a drunkard like you, mon bonheur.”

“Mean.”

Casimir laughs again and holds him close. He doesn’t let go this time. “Just concerned for your health, mon bonheur. Wouldn’t want you to be one of those raving madmen knocking on doors or selling your body just for a drop of wine now, would we?”

“As if anyone can afford the kind of wine I prefer.”

He looks at Casimir just in time to see him wipe away his frown and settle into a neutral expression. His lips are pursed and the easy banter between them now falls into silence. Yet despite this, Casimir doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t let go and Melchior counts that small thing as a victory because soon enough he and so many others will all but lose—

Melchior settles back into Casimir’s embrace. He stares into the fireplace and pretends a similar scene isn’t happening in his home as the hour comes close to May the 5th. He covers Casimir’s hands with his own and simply… breathes.

In. Out.

“What do you think of Blaye, then?” Melchior asks, voice thick because this is too unfair. “Just living on the edge between land and sea… secret maze-like tunnels leading out to the port… it’s yours and my kind of thing, isn’t it, mon rêve?”

He feels more than he hears the shuddering breath Casimir takes before those arms pull him closer and they continue talking about Gironde. Their paradise. Their dream that would remain nothing but whispers in the mind when one is asleep.

It is May the 4th 1789 and two men in love talk about nothing but the future.

Taglist

@wildthingsandmagic @starbuds-and-rosedust @alexsidereus @adorable-bookworm @th3-scr3ens-ar3-watching

Comment/reblog your interest to be added to the taglist if you want !!

[aromanticannibal]

in case yall don't know, cuz i didn't see anything about it, the french minister of education announced that abayas were now forbidden in schools. So one : racist, second : racist + islamophobic because I doubt a white girl wearing a lose dress is gonna get dress coded, and third : ignorant as shit because the abaya, as far as I'm aware, isn't a religious garnement (making the laïcité excuse plain bs) it's just like. a dress. more worn by people from arab countries. so yeah

[hotfuss]

i feel like i got booby trapped into a magazine rabbit hole somehow... not only i splurged money on two rare magazines i found online (plus some clippings that i'm so 👀 bc they could help me credit one mysterious photo) i think i identified the japanese magazine that has a brandon interview from 2005, i also have a couple of contacts who studied japanese i could literally commission one of them to translate the whole thing for me. i just don't know how to order it (and i shudder at the shipping cost from japan)

[hot-celebrity-lover]

It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.

Marquis de Sade