#formes du relief

[aigle-suisse]

ISGM 09/2011 Symposium BAUGES - Les Tours St-Jacques, Allèves, Savoie par Christian Giusti Via Flickr : Sur la géologie de la cluse du Chéran entre la Montagne de Bande au sud et la Montagne du Semnoz au nord, voir : www.geol-alp.com/bauges/_lieux/bange_cluse.html

[nina-ya]

Sweet Like Honey

A/N: Hi!! Two sanji posts in a row?? Im just a fake Law lover someone needs to revoke my card Pairing: Sanji x reader CW: Oral sex (reader receiving), AFAB reader, vaginal fingering, noseblood mention poorly translated french WC: 1.2k • masterlist • ko-fi •discord server •

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sanji’s devotion to you was evident in every languid motion as he was nestled between your thighs, his newest happy place. His lips, the ones that usually curled into charming smiles or crafted complements to throw your way, were now occupied with giving you unrelenting pleasure. His tongue caressed and danced over your folds with a desperate urgency, determined to show you just how much he loves you.

His eyes were half-lidded, the cerulean orbs glazed over with a hunger and desire that made him nearly unrecognizable. Soft, needy noises escaped his throat alongside gentle slurps, breathless sighs, and the occasional groan. He was fully consumed by the task before him, finding complete pleasure in giving you yours.

The mess he was making didn’t phase him. If anything, the whole ordeal just spurred him on. Your own essence, mixed with the maroon of his nosebleed, painted his face and dripped onto the surface below you, but he seemed unaware of the world beyond the taste of you, not that either of you minded. 

"Mon trésor," Sanji murmured between breaths, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive spots. "Tu as le goût du paradis." you taste like heaven.

His hands moved to adjust your position as he draped your legs over his shoulders and pulled you flush against his face, the new angle allowing him to delve deeper into you. Each flick of his tongue was a masterstroke, each and every cell in your body alight with euphoria. He sucked on your clit gently, each pass over the sensitive bundle of nerves drawing choked gasps and mewls of pleasure from your lips. 

Sanji’s mouth worked tirelessly to draw out moans, sighs, shaky breaths, and twitches from you. Each beautiful sound that spilled from your lips filled the air, mixing with his own hums and groans of satisfaction Every drop of your essence was like liquid gold, thick and sweet like honey, driving him mad. 

His hips moved with an almost animalistic rhythm as he rutted into the mattress beneath you. His neediness was palpable, his body aching for any kind of friction, any form of relief from the intense tightness building in his pants. Each thrust against the fabric felt like he was pleading in any way to get some sort of reprieve. His cock straining painfully against the confines, the precum that seeped through the fabric of his pants only adding to the mounting frustration. 

Sanji’s devotion wasn’t just in his touch– it was in the reverence with which he worshipped every part of you. His movements were purposeful and unhurried, he was savoring his perfect dish and indulging in every taste of you. His tongue was a brush that painted you in sensations that were far too profound to name, his lips being the softest silk as they molded to the curves of your body. 

Your legs trembled where they rested on his shoulders, his grip on your thighs tightening as if he feared you may slip away. He buried his face deeper into you and with each slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, your body arched instinctively toward him, desperate for more.

“Mon amour,” he murmured against you. “Je ne pourrais jamais en avoir assez de ton miel.” I could never get enough of your honey.

The words dripped with a longing, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating through you like a current. His hands slid up your waist, warm and firm, before one crept higher, cupping your breast as his thumb circled your hardened nipple. He couldn’t get enough of you. He couldn’t stop at just tasting you, he needed to feel you– needed to feel you come udone under his touch. 

“S’il te plaît… i want to hear you,” he groaned against you, almost pleading. 

The plea sent a crackle of electricity down your spine at his plea, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to hold on and steady yourself against the sensations that had your mind whipped into a frenzy. His lips latched onto your clit once more, sucking gently before his tongue lashed against it, every suck and flick driving you mad until you were teetering, breathless, at the point of no return.

Sanji’s gaze was molten, his lust-darkened eyes glued to the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Each movement you made was committed to memory– the arch of your back, the trembling rise of your chest, the way your lips parted with each desperate gasp. His hands, warm and steady, slid down your stomach before joining the slick mess between your thighs. 

The first touch of his fingers were teasing, as if testing the waters. The wetness that greeted him made his cock twitch in his pants as he spread your slick across his fingertips. The scent of you was intoxicating. Earthy, sweet, and unmistakably you. It filled his senses and made him dizzy with need. 

When he finally slid a finger inside, the warmth of you wrapped around him, tight and inviting, and he couldn’t stop the groan that slipped past his lips. He slowly pumped his finger, letting you adjust to the sensation, and then he added another. His fingers curled just so, pressing into that spot that had you seeing stars. The thrust of his fingers soon quickened, matching the movements of his tongue and soon the obscene sound of his fingers plunging into you filled the air, mixing with the desperate moans spilling from your lips. 

That unbearable tightness coiled in your lower belly, like a spring ready to snap. Your breath hitched in sharp shallow gasps and your legs trembled against him, toes curling as the tension in your core grew tighter, tighter still, until you thought you might break from it. 

Then, the first tremor hit, and it was like you were struck by lightning, a shock violently sending a jolt down your body that made your entire body arch off the bed. Your eyes clamped shut, brows furrowing as your mouth fell open in a silent scream, the intensity of it all stealing your breath. Every muscle in your body was taut, straining with the force of your orgasm as it tore through you wave after wave. 

Sanji groaned against your clit, feeling you clench around his fingers and he couldn’t help but continue his pace, coaxing every last shudder, every spasm of pleasure from your trembling form. The muscles in your thighs quivered uncontrollably as your body surrendered to the overwhelming sensation, your chest heaving as you gasped for air and your heart thumped against your ribcage.

Your hands grasped helplessly at the sheets, knuckles turning white as you rode out the aftershocks. You could feel every throb, every pulse in your core as you tensed up again and again, pulling in Sanji’s fingers with each contraction. 

Your legs, once tense, began to fall limp, muscles weak and trembling from the exertion. That furrow in your brow softened, and your lips formed a soft, contented smile. 

Sanji’s fingers withdrew gently, his lips placing soft kisses on your skin, murmuring sweet praises that you barely heard through the fog of your pleasure still clouding your mind. He savored the taste of your honey, pulling back just enough to watch the effects of his efforts. If you weren’t in such a daze, you would have noticed that look in his eyes telling you that he is far from done.

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (see full series list here)

1995

The house is all commotion the next day. Most of the kids wake up late and this sends Mrs Weasley into a tizzy as she hurries from place to place gathering trunks and belongings and throwing them downstairs in front of the door. You place your own trunk in front of the door, scratching Dubh’s ears as she leaps into your arms and digs her claws into your jumper to hold herself against your chest.

Moody stands at the doorway, both hands on his staff as his magical eye swivels from room to room upstairs. He glances at his watch. “Where is Podmore? We can't leave without him, we’ll be one short.” He taps his foot impatiently.

Mrs Weasley looks up the stairway and clears her throat before bellowing, “WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!”

At once, Walburga Black’s portrait starts screaming and shouting, but no one bothers to close the curtains on her. The noise in the hall will only continue to wake her.

Sirius appears beside you and slips his hand into the back pocket of your jeans, kissing your cheek. “All set?”

You hum, turning to face him. “Hope so. I’m going to miss you so much, you know that?”

He smiles lovingly at you. “I’ll miss you too — I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Talk to Kreacher a lot more, I guess?” You smile cheekily at him.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, it would be hell.”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione come hurrying down the stairs, their footsteps drowned out by Walburga Black’s screeches.

“Harry, you're to come with me and Molly,” you yell at Harry over your mother-in-law's portrait.

“Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage,” Mrs Weasley explains. “...Oh, for heaven's sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

Sirius’ hand leaves your pocket and he turns into his dog form, following you as you clamber over the trunks.

“Oh, honestly…” Mrs Weasley says despairingly, “well, on your own head be it!”

She wrenches open the front door and you step out into the morning sunlight, followed by Harry and Sirius. You descend the front steps of number 12 and they vanish the moment you reach the pavement.

You glance at your watch. “We’d better hurry up, Molly.”

“I know, I know,” she groans, lengthening her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted us to wait for Sturgis…if only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again…but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days…How Muggles can stand travelling without magic…”

Sirius, on the other hand, seems delighted. He gives a joyful bark and runs around you, snapping at pigeons and chasing his own tail. Harry laughs and you can’t help but smile. He’s been trapped inside for far too long.

Mrs Weasley purses her lips disapprovingly.

Dubh keeps her gaze laser-focused on the dog, watching him closely and swishing her tail agitatedly when he comes too close, digging her claws tighter into the fabric of your jumper.

On platform nine and three quarters, students and families bustle from place to place carrying their heavy trunks, owls hooting from their cages.

“I hope the others make it in time,” Mrs Weasley says anxiously, staring behind her at the arch through which new arrivals come.

“Nice dog, Harry!” calls Lee Jordan, waving at Harry.

“Thanks, Lee,” says Harry, grinning, as Sirius wags his tail frantically.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Weasley says with a sigh of relief, “here’s Alastor with the luggage, look…”

With a cap pulled low over his eyes, Moody limps through the archway pushing a cart full of trunks.

“All okay,” he mutters to you. “Don’t think we were followed…”

Seconds later, Mr Weasley emerges onto the platform with Ron and Hermione. You start to help unloading the trunks from the cart and nearly have them all off when Remus turns up with Ginny and the twins.

“No trouble?” growls Moody.

“Nothing,” Remus replies, dusting off the front of his jacket.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” Moody says lowly. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” Remus says, shaking hands all round.

You beam at him when he reaches you and pull him in for a tight hug, laughing. “See ya, Moony.”

“Keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” Moody says to Harry, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“If you need to pass anything on, tell me,” you say as the warning whistle for the train sounds and the students still on the platform start to hurry onto the train. Sirius nudges your hand with his head and you gently scratch the top of his head, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Quick, quick,” says Mrs Weasley distractedly, hugging everyone at random. “Write…be good…if you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on…onto the train now, hurry…”

Bewitching your trunk to fly in the air behind you, you hurry onto the train and make your way past the throes of students greeting you in the corridor, down to your usual compartment in the prefects’ carriage. You set Dubh down on the seat beside you and as you sit down, you feel something in your back pocket and curious, you pull out a slip of parchment and unfold it.

I love you

Tell Snape he looks like a gargoyle

You chuckle appreciatively, putting the paper back in your pocket and feeling your heart warm.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

February, 1977

“Transfiguring something of a larger stature, however, can prove to be more difficult,” Professor McGonagall says, the chalk in her fingers scratching against the blackboard as she writes instructions. “It takes a lot more concentration and practice, so I suggest you use your free time wisely and —”

Sirius sighs in boredom, eyes skimming around the room until he finds the person he's looking for. Across the room, sitting as far away from James as possible, is Lily, and right beside her, you.

You lean over to whisper something to Lily, who chuckles, and Sirius finds himself following your every movement, tracing the line of your jaw with his eyes, the curve of your neck, the way you're swinging your legs under the chair absent-mindedly…

“And then, you put the charm on the ties and I'll keep look-out — hey!”

James slaps Sirius across the back of his head angrily.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“You're not even listening!”

Sirius snaps out of his daze and looks back at his best friend’s angry face, scrunched up beneath his circular glasses.

“Sorry, Prongs, what were you saying?”

James scoffs, folding his arms dramatically. “You were staring at her again, weren't you?” He makes a noise with his mouth like the cracking of a whip, rolling his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“In my defense, she is very pretty — “

“I don't want to hear it!” James snaps. “Y’know, I liked you better before you got a girlfriend. You were more fun.”

“Oh, shut up, James — you're just jealous ‘cause Lily would rather go out with a toad than with you — “

“That's not true — !”

Someone clears their throat loudly and the boys look up to find McGonagall glaring at them from behind her spectacles, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, Potter, Black — we’ll all just wait for you to finish your very important conversation and then I can get back to teaching.”

Quiet sniggers ripple through the room. Lily rolls her eyes as her best friend giggles.

“Sirius was distracting me, miss —”

“James won't stop talking —”

“Enough.” Professor McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Pay attention or it's detention for the both of you.”

“Yes, miss.”

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore after he gets to feet for his start-of-year speech. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.”

You glance down the Great Hall, skimming your eyes around at all your students.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There is a round of polite applause. You crane your neck to look at the new hire of Professor Umbridge: a small woman wearing a fluffy pink cardigan with mousy brown hair and a pair of small, beady eyes. She has her lips pursed and her hands folded in on the table as she looks out at the student body.

“Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

“Ahem.”

Dumbledore breaks off and looks surprisingly at Professor Umbridge, who has gotten to her feet (though it is hard to tell the difference between her height while standing and while sitting), and clearly wants to make a speech.

Minerva glances at you for half a second, her mouth a thin, disapproving line as she turns back to focus her attention on Umbridge.

Her interruption irks you — no one has ever interrupted Dumbledore in the middle of his speech before. It feels quite disrespectful, though Dumbledore doesn't seem to mind as he sits down and gives Umbridge his utmost attention.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she starts, her voice sickeningly squeaky, “for those kind words of welcome.”

She clears her throat again, that same little ‘ahem’. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces smiling back at me!”

You raise your eyebrows, noticing how the faces looking back at Umbridge seem quite far from happy — they actually look highly affronted at the childish tone that she has taken on.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Nobody seems too keen on that idea.

She clears her throat again, but this time her tone becomes more business-like and official. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

She clears her throat again and Minerva’s face tightens as she exchanges a glance with you, her distaste clear on her face.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. Then again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Finally, she sits down, looking expectantly at her audience. Dumbledore claps. You and the rest of the staff start to join in, though you bring your hands together once, maybe twice, before stopping completely.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” Dumbledore says as he stands, bowing to her. “Now, as I was saying — Quidditch tryouts will be held…”

“I suspect we’ll be having an interesting year with her here,” you say to Minerva in a low voice, moving your lips as subtly as possible while keeping your eyes on Dumbledore.

A breath of air whistles out of her nose. “Interesting indeed. The Ministry loves to poke their nose into things.”

You hum in agreement. “You can say that again.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

“Now as you all know, next June you will be sitting your O.W.L. examinations,” you say, leaning against your desk and flicking your gaze from student to student in your classroom. “They are, of course, important — failing certain classes may mean you are unable to continue those classes at N.E.W.T. level next year — but they are nothing to get stressed about. Study well and do your best and you will be absolutely fine, there is no need to panic. Exams are not the be-all and end-all.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as though this notion is completely inconceivable to her. You notice the way she has her parchment neatly laid out on her desk at the ready, her book perched at the top, and her quills perfectly aligned with each other beside it.

Beside her, however, Ron and Harry have absolutely nothing on their desks.

“Those who are interested in taking N.E.W.T. level Astronomy in sixth year, I accept anyone with at least a passing grade in my class. I must warn you, though, that the work and curriculum is increasingly hard and quite a jump from O.W.L. level.”

The students look quite bored.

“I'm guessing you've heard all that before?”

There is scattered murmurs of agreements and nodding.

You sigh. “I’ll be honest with you all — you will be sick and tired of hearing about those exams in no time. Have your classes been hard so far?”

They glance at each other, and you hear Dean Thomas snort and mutter to Seamus Finnegan, “Not Defense Against the Dark Arts, anyway.”

Your ears prick up at this and you raise your eyebrows. “Not in Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Professor Umbridge refuses to let us use defensive spells in class,” Hermione says, frowning.

“What?”

“She's only teaching us theory,” Harry confirms, scowling. “We don't even get to practice the ones we need for the exam.”

“And she called Professor Lupin an ‘extremely dangerous half-breed!” Dean pops up angrily.

This seems to set off the rest of the class, and all at once they start voicing their complaints with vigour.

“What's the point of having a Defense Against the Dark Arts class if we’re not even learning how to defend ourselves in it?”

“You can't learn spells just by reading about them!”

“She's not even a real teacher —”

You wait patiently until everyone has let out their anger before you take a deep breath.

“That’s…ridiculous.”

You pick up your textbook, thumbing through it absent-mindedly as you think of what to say next. “But…if this is what your teacher wants you to do, I should tell you to listen to her.”

Uproar, again — and you hold up an authoritative hand to quiet your agitated students.

“I will tell you to listen to her, but that's not to say you're definitely going to listen to me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “You should listen to me, but not everyone likes to follow the rules…I will tell you not to practice these defensive spells in the privacy of your own dorms because Professor Umbridge does not want you to be performing these spells at all. I will also tell you not to be so open in complaining of your new teacher — you will get into trouble.”

You sigh dramatically, flipping the pages of your book to the first chapter as the students pass mischievous glanced around at each other. “Now, let's get started, shall we?”

⁠After a long day of classes, back-to-school paperwork, and meetings, you relax into your comfy armchair in your office, listening as Minerva talks about how her week went. Your mug of hot tea warms your hands as the typical Scottish rain patters against the castle windows, and Dubh sleeps contentedly on a stack of papers lying haphazardly on your desk.

“I don’t trust that Dolores Umbridge,” Minerva says with a tight-lipped frown. “She sent Potter to my office on Tuesday, for running his mouth.”

You hum. “About her theory-only classes? Yes, I heard several complaints already.”

“Not just about that,” she says. “He told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, which did not go down well, of course.”

“Like talking to a brick wall, I’d say.”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “He’d do well to keep his head down and out of sight after her speech at the start-of-term feast…” She casts a glance at you from behind her spectacles. “As would you.”

You laugh humourlessly. “Believe me, I am. I’ve been avoiding that woman like the plague — thankfully she’s easy to spot from a mile away with those horrible cardigans.”

As though she doesn’t mean to, Minerva lets out a cat-like giggle, before clearing her throat and regaining her composure.

You smile knowingly at her over the rim of your cup, resisting the urge to laugh.

She yawns, adjusting herself in her seat. “I suppose I best be off, I have a few essays to grade for tomorrow…”

She sets her cup down on the table, standing up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” you answer honestly, smiling at her. “Night, Minnie.”

She opens the door to leave. “Goodnight.”

You've never liked that Dolores Umbridge, not since she drafted some anti-werewolf legislation a few years ago that made it impossible for Remus to find a job. You remember the stress it gave Remus, he had very little money and was reluctant to accept any help from you — despite the large sum of gold sitting in your bank, practically untouched.

When you settle down to sleep that night, your mind turns to Sirius: alone in Grimmauld Place, listening to the screams and screeches of his mother’s portrait. The moment you got on the Hogwarts Express you regretted letting him persuade you to come back to school and leaving him, right after you had just found him.

As if she senses your worry, Dubh pads along your covers before settling into the bed beside your chest, purring contentedly and bringing you significant comfort just by being there.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

The next morning you wake for breakfast, sitting as far away from Dolores Umbridge as possible, making absolutely sure to avoid all eye contact with the woman. The last thing you need is a Ministry mole rooting around your business when you are technically harbouring a fugitive in your house.

While you poke and prod at your breakfast, thinking about nothing in particular, owls begin to filter in through the windows bearing the morning’s post. A barn owl makes it way over to you and drops off your usual delivery of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re still reading that?” Minerva asks in surprise as you tuck a few coins into the small sack tied to the owl’s leg as payment.

You hum, undoing the twine wrapped around the paper. “Good to know what the enemy is putting out there, right?” As you unfold the newspaper, your heart drops and you let out a small gasp.

“What is it?” Minerva asks, and you wordlessly hold the paper between you so you can both read the headline article.

BLACK SPOTTED IN LONDON

The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer who killed thirteen people, is currently hiding in London. The Ministry warns the wizarding community that Black is very dangerous and to be vigilant. Anyone with information of his whereabouts must come forward and alert the Ministry immediately.

You look up at Minerva, feeling dread sink down through your body.

“I knew he shouldn’t have came with us,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.

Minerva looks at the article again, her mouth thin. “He will just have to stay in the house from now on.”

You frown. “It’ll kill him.” You glance down the table at Dumbledore, currently talking to Professor Flitwick animatedly. “Maybe I can ask Dumbledore if I can go home, just for the weekend — I can’t bear the thought of him alone —”

Minerva looks at you sharply, her expression serious.

“And how do you think that will look to Umbridge? Sirius Black’s wife leaving without any explanation the weekend after he is spotted in London?”

“I’ll just say I’m going to my parents’ or something, I don’t know —”

“They will not believe you,” she hisses. “They have never believed you before, they will not believe you now. Do you wish to end up in Azkaban?”

You look back at her, biting your lip before breathing a long, defeated sigh. 

Minerva gently pulls the newspaper from your grip, flicking through the pages with mild interest. You push your plate away from you, feeling nauseous and without any appetite. Why didn’t you push more for him to stay at the house that day? You were selfish, letting him come with you because you wanted to drag out your time with him as much as possible and putting him in danger. Where is Kingsley, he’s supposed to be staying on top of this, feeding the Ministry fake information and keeping Sirius out of the headlines. 

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter twenty-nine here!

-> all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

hi everyone, im really sorry for the huge wait!! I know how annoying it can be sometimes to have to wait long periods of time for a writer to post the next chapter, so I really am sorry for that :( I honestly don't really have an excuse, other than writer's block and a busy schedule. You all are the absolute best for your constant patience and support, i love everyone sm <3 Kisses!

a really huge thank you to my taglist loves ♡ :

@mothraantics @wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @devoid-swanky @carpe000diem @mooonyxoxo @hyperspeedo @idkman5335 @elanna-elrondiel @murielisacertifieddilf @penelopied @imgondeletedis @wooyoungsrightsock @jennifer0305 @wolfdragon0424 @lovemesomevesey

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 4, avril 1901, Paris. Mlle Marcelle Lender. Cliché Reutlinger. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Page 18. — ROBE DE BAL (Mademoiselle Lender). — Robe en mousseline de soie mauve, brodée d’argent. — Sortie de théâtre en mousseline de soie bleu pâle incrustée de dentelle Cluny rebrodée de roses blanches en soie formant relief. Autour du col et tombant jusqu’au bas du manteau, jabot de tulle blanc liseré de satin blanc.

Page 18. — BALL GOWN (Mademoiselle Lender). — Dress in mauve silk muslin, embroidered with silver. — Theater cape in pale blue silk chiffon inlaid with Cluny lace embroidered with white silk roses forming relief. Around the collar and falling to the bottom of the coat, white tulle frill edged with white satin.

[vulpixisananimal]

Pains and Patience

TW for self harm/dagger under the cut.

(You are sitting in a chair in the main room of the place you and your family were staying. Bonnie and Nille are around. You asked them to leave you alone for a bit. You can hear them talking in the distance. Your eyes are closed.)

(What does it look like?)

(One breath, two, three, and you're there. This blurry place that feels like a dream yet to be fully formed. Stretching above you so impossibly high was the favor tree. Around you it was pitch black, with stars dotting the skies.)

(It came to your mind naturally. It was... Strange, not a daydream, it was just... There. A place in your own mind that felt so... Real.)

(It's still growing.)

(It is. You turn around and that other part of you is there. Mal Du Pays. It fit here better than you did, it seems.)

(You still can't see the rest of it, can you.)

(No, I can't. You say. It's still the favor tree, just the tree. Where's loop?)

(Hiding, I expect.)

(You're very helpful.)

(I'm trying to keep you alive.)

(You shake your head, that's what it always said. Keep you alive. It was hard to believe when you'd come back to front to find you did something bad that you don't remember.)

(You look out to the stars. This place still felt off, like it was missing pieces. Every time you tried stepping beyond the tree you'd freeze up. Gripped by a fear you had never felt before, was fear even the right word?)

(You'll figure it out.)

(Right. We'll figure it out. We're getting a rest now after all. We'll figure out what's going on with Ramos, figure out why we're still Looping, THEN we'll deal with this disassociating, thing, whatever Odile called it.)

(Odile is not exactly a psychiatrist.)

(She's better than guessing.)

(I will not talk to her. You will not make me talk to her.)

(... Fine, for now, but eventually-)

"'Heyfrin!"

(Your snap to attention, back in reality, Bonnie was leaning in from the doorway. They looked a bit worried.)

"Hey Bonbon."

"Ramos showed up, Nille's distracting them right now."

(Huh?? You stood up.) "Here? Did they do anything?"

(Bonnie shook their head.) "Nuh uh, said they were looking for 'Beau and thought to stop by."

(You breath a sigh of relief.) "Alright, just act like you don't know anything, alright?"

"Duh, I know how to keep a secret."

(Walking to the front room area, Ramos was there talking to Nille. Casual conversation. They looked just as relaxed and cheery as the other loop. They didn't look like a kidnapper or anything, seeing you approach, they waved.)

(Do not get fooled by good acting.)

"Hello! You're Siffrin, right?"

(You waved back, smiling.) "That's me, Nille giving away my secrets again?"

"Your name's not exactly a secret, Siffy." (Nille said sarcasticly. Seemingly, she got the memo to act cool.) "Sorry Isabeau isn't in right now."

"That's fine." (Ramos said cheerily.) "Mind if I stick around untill he does?"

"Sure!" (Nille cut you off before you could say no. Great. Fantastic.)

(Maybe you could learn something.)

(You all headed back to the common area, walking and talking. Ramos making a bad joke and ruffling Bonnies hair, much to their annoyance.)

"So how'd y'all meet Isa?" (Ramos asked.)

"Met 'em a few weeks ago after getting de-frozen from time. Showed up to my place saying lil Bonnie helped save the country."

"YEAH!!! We kicked the Kings CRABBING BUTT!!"

"Language."

(You all chuckle.)

"I met 'Beau running from the curse. Nille told me to run when showed up at Bambouche and I did untill I passed out."

"You must be one tough kid then." (Ramos was smiling.)

"And don't you forget it!!!"

"What about you, Siffrin?"

"Oh, well." (How did it go again...) "I bumped into Mirabelle, Isa, and Odile by chance, off to save Vaugarde and all. They were fighting a sadness and I helped out. Asked me to join after that."

"Woah." (Ramos looked pretty engrosed in the story.) "It must have been real strong, Isa isn't a pushover."

"Oh, well, it was kinda strong." (You shrug.) "Not strong enough though, since I took it out in one hit."

(Ramos beamed, they leaned over and grabbed your hand.) "No way!! That's awesome!! I wish I coulda seen it!"

(You wince, and Ramos releases your hand.) "O-oh, sorry."

"'Frin doesn't like being touched." (Said Bonnie.)

"Ha, it's alright Bonnie." (You replied.) "It just took me by surprise."

(Why was Ramos so.... Relaxed? It didn't make any sense. If it was Ramos who tried grabbing Bonnie, why'd they come to visit? Where you wrong about them?)

(It's acting. Siffrin.)

"How's Isa been anyways?"

"Stupid." (Says Bonnie.)

"A good stupid." (Nille continues.) "Real bumble of emotions from what I've seen."

"Mmhm!" (You nod along.) "He's great, sure saving the country was stresful, but, Isabeau's been there with us the whole way."

"I'm glad!" (Ramos leaned back in their chair.) "Did he mention me at all?"

(You smile, of course he did.) "All the time!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! We went through a lot together, aparently you helped him a bunch? I've honestly been itching to meet you!"

(Wrong.)

(What?)

(That is wrong. What are you doing.)

(Bonnie was giving you a look, what do you mean? Don't you remember?)

"That's, wow!" (Ramos rubbed their neck.) "I didn't, think he'd mention me at all."

"Haha, you left quite the impression."

(Stop talking. You aren't acting.)

"Well, I gotta ask, what was it like? Saving the world."

"It, well, to be honest it didn't go great, not at the end." (Stop.)

"'Frin?" (Bonnie was looking between you and Ramos. Confused.)

(You continue.) "It should have been impossible getting to the King, really."

"Oh?"

(Stop, Siffrin.)

"Well, I shouldn't really talk about this, but if Isa trusts you, then I'll trust you."

(Siffrin, that's enough, stop talking.)

"But, the truth is--"

(. . .)

(. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .)

(It feels like a migrane with no pain. A force of will. A wave of intense, snapping bones. It feels like your brain gets dunked in ice. It feels like a lot of things, all of them hard to explain.)

(But you had to stop Siffrin from talking.)

(You stare at the stranger who's name is Ramos. Whatever Ramos could do, that was it. Siffrin was about to talk about the loops, the wish, everything. All that to an enemy.)

"Siffrin?" (Ramos was staring at you.) "Are you alright?"

(What did you do, Ramos. What did you do to Siffrins little head. You had a cold anger in your soul. Ramos had hurt you. Who are you, Ramos. What are you. You stand up.)

"'Feeling alright, Siffy?" (Nille asks.)

(You open your mouth. You ask a quesion.)

(You see all three of them wince. Nille is conused, Bonnie is gripping their head, Ramos is looking at you, afraid.)

"S-siffrin?? I, uh, didn't quite catch that." (You could see Nille trying to comprehend what you asked.)

(You look at Ramos, they looked confused, and pained. Did they not understand? You say something else.)

"H-hey cut it out, it's giving me a headache."

(Ramos is looking back at you. You can see a fear in their eyes. What do you look like to them right now. Like a monster? Good. You speak again.)

"I, I-I can't understand, please!"

"'F-frin..."

(You open your mouth. You want to hurt them. You want to know what they did. You need to. If they don't understand you, fine then. You'll just keep asking them. As long as it-)

"'Hurts..."

"Siffrin?" (Ramos was staring at you.) "Are you alright?"

(. . .)

(You stand up wordlessly. They didn't know the language. They didn't recognize it. So they weren't from home. So how could they make a wish. Was it dumb luck? Not likely.)

(But, Bonnie...)

(. . . You leave to your room. You ignore them calling after you. It didn't matter anyway.)

(You're tired. You looped again. Yes, it was only a few moments back, though. You could feel the nausea starting to catch up to you, but you forced yourself to continue. You're in your room. You grab your hat. As much as you told Siffrin your skin was sensitive, they ignored you. Thats why you wear a hat, stupid.)

(You Move fast. You go to the window. The jump out isn't that bad. You get up on the windowsil, and jump out. You land solidly, and run for the library.)

(The sprint gave you a chance to think. Ramos did something to Siffrin, and now Siffrin thought Ramos was some friend. It made you sick. What did Ramos do? Touch you? They did touch your hand. Was that it?)

(Why was Bonnie bleeding. Why were they bleeding that shade?)

(You ignore that question, for now.)

(You're at the library. You run inside. There you see Odile, Isabeau, and Mirabelle all about to leave with a couple books. You sprint over.)

"Siffrin?!?" (Mirabelle spots you first.) "What are you doing here? Did something happen???"

(You don't, can't, respond. Instead you go to Odile, who was holding the books, and tapped one.)

". . . What?" (Odile looked confused.)

"Uhh... Are you wondering if we found something?" (Isabeau spoke up. You nod.)

"Ah, well yes we found something. But is everything alright, Siffrin?"

(That didn't matter right now. You shake your head, and tap the book impatiently.)

"Alright alright." (Odile puts the books down on a nearby table and opens one, you follow.)

"Should, shouldn't we be worried??? If something bad happened??" (Mirabelle asked. She was scared.)

"Well, if Siffrin ran all the way here then I bet they're about to loop back anyways." (Isa said confidently. He was also scared.)

"Quite.. Ah here." (Odile got to a page in the book. Looking at it now, it was craftonomy. The page was on different crafts and what kind of tactile response they had with a body.) "This one, a strong scent of mint is often assosiated with potent Mind Craft."

(Mind craft.)

(Odile continued.) "An advanced craft type that's distantly related to body craft; its use is... contreversal. In Ka Bue it is explicitly banned."

"I was taught a little about mind craft at the House, about how it can be used to help with someones memory, or to forget a traumatic experience." (Mirabelle added.) "We weren't ever taught it, though."

"I mostly see it in fiction. Mind crontroll, brainwashing, spooky stuff like that." (Isabeau comments.)

(You keep looking over the page. Strong sense of mint. Confusion. Hard to master. That must be it. Ramos' touch gripped Siffrins mind. You nod.)

"Compared to time craft it shouldn't be hard to undo. Unless it's powered by a wish." (Odile muses.) "Tell the next me about it then, if we don't have time here."

(You nod. It was about time for that then. Your hand slips into your cloak and to your dagger.)

(. . . Isabeau is looking at you.)

(There's an awkward silence. Odile breaks it.) "Er, actually, Mirabelle, Isabeau, there's some complicated intricacies I'll need to explain. Could you go make sure Ramos doesn't disturb us?"

"Huh?? I-I mean-"

"Leave it to us, M'dame!" (With that, Isabeau rushes to the library entrance, Mirabelle hesitated, but followed. You look up at Odile.)

". . ."

(. . .)

(There is a painful silence.)

"I, wanted to ask you something. I did not feel comfortable asking with those two around." (she eventually said. Looking at her face, it was stressed, worried.)

(she continued.) "Siffrin, or, if you want to be called that. Please be honest with me. Do you... Use your dagger in order to loop back."

(Oh Odile, still she surprises you. You tilt your head slightly as if to say "go on.")

"You've had... Moments ever since we defeated the King, and, forgive me if I'm being insensitive, you always seemed to not Care too much about your own wounds." (She paused, clearly uncomfortable.) "That, combined with... With everything, really. It would make sense."

(. . . You nod.)

". . . Is it the only way?"

(You put up a wavy hand. Not sure.)

"Is it the only consistent way? That you know of at least."

(You nod.)

". . . It, does it hurt?"

(You nod. Odile is looking at you, brow creased. She pinches the bridge of her nose. After a moment, and taking a breath, she continues.)

". . . In a next loop. We can, figure out something better than that. If you tell me I promised to keep it secret from the others, I probably will, too."

(You nod, and file that away with Odile's other offer. She was reaching out to you. Why. You don't trust her.)

". . . Thank you, Siffrin." (She takes a breath, and turns her back to you, waiting. Ah, she doesn't want to see.)

(Whatever. It's time. You take out your dagger and. . .)

(. . .)

(It still hurts.)

[saltofmercury]

I sure hope you're taking requests currently if not my deepest apologies and please just ignore this

It's more of a fun idea I had about 141 and König: they have a new teammate who talks very little during the job, but after the missions they like to sit with the team, playing cards? Idk. Anyway König loses a game and swears in German and they answer in German (something like "pass auf was für Wörter du benutzt, es sind kinder anwesend" *points at soap*) and the team looks at them all shocked before they shrug an go "I thought you guys knew I'm German?no? Tja"

Just a few funny team headcanons would be brilliant, thank you! (I just want König to be embarrassed about the reader actually understanding everything he's been mumbling around them lol)

Summary: You speak German to the 141. Ft. Horangi + König

A/N: I just reread this and realized you said headcannons my fuckin bad

“Canasta”

Walking for what felt like miles of pure dirt and sand, the heat stung your bodies.

“It's not the same sun over here.”

Soap walked ahead of you, nagging about the rays, wiping his forehead. Both of you, appalled by the summer heat in this country. The sun beat down on your necks, sweat beads formed from your helmet down the nape of your neck.

Soap and yourself were trailing back to base, relief washing over you both that you had captured (then lost) and the target you were after, but thanks to KorTac was KIA. It would’ve been horrible to continue months of chasing back and forth.

Another mission completed, you could feel the exhaustion pounding down on your body, coming from the months of work your team had handled.

‘Back to reality’ ..you thought in your head. You enjoyed being on a mission. Being on high alert, adrenaline rushing throughout your body. There was more of a need for you. Your teammates had needed you for the mission, reached out, and we’re glad you were there to cover them.

However when it got back to base, it seemed like they didn’t acknowledge you.

It’s not to say your teammates didn’t like you, they respected you but for some reason it became harder to really get to know you because they already had their partners.

Soap had his counterpart Ghost. Gaz had his counterpart — Captain Price, the head of the team.

It just seemed they worked together in pairs and you..you were left as a third wheel. Which you didn’t mind. You enjoyed solitude as much as Ghost did, but to an extent. You did hate being the fly on the wall during gatherings.

This changed with KorTac being contracted into your missions.

You had become good friends with some of the teammates there– König and Horangi

Horangi came in with open arms and plenty of dirty jokes to ease you into friendship. König sometimes spoke to you, but the guy was busy in his own world. He seemed sometimes out of it, constantly following Horangi’s orders needing something to do. You caught him sometimes speaking in German about others. He would look at Horangi and they would smile, then fill you in on their secret joke. As much as they were good of a team together, they never made you feel like the third wheel.

On a mission in Russia, König had let out a couple of remarks about the 141… In German.

“Asshole thinks he’s so scary” König told Horangi when Ghost came on the radio. “Skull faced fuck—” stopping himself when you came on.

“Swear these two flirt over the coms get a fucking channel” telling Horangi again when Soap and Ghost had been on.

Another comment was made about you. You couldn’t really get the full gist of what he said, but something about “keep. safe.” Horangi had jumbled your coms set and told you to keep moving.

Which you admired, because you were a part of their group. They looked out for you.

Until, one night when Horangi was curious as to why you always hung around them.

“Hey uh… how come you’re never with your own team?” Horangi raised his eyebrow slightly. He didn’t mean any harm by it, he was genuinely concerned why these guys didn’t include you.

You felt embarrassed, was this him kicking you out? You searched constantly looking at König and Horangi’s eyes for a decent answer, however there was nothing you could say besides “you guys don’t ignore me like the others.”

König made eye contact with you, then said in German to Horangi “drop it, if they need us as a friend so be it.” You felt so relieved, König at least understood, and you didn’t need to voice the pathetic answer of “everyone’s already paired up.”

Horangi then dropped the subject entirely.

*

It was a cool night. The chill of the air invited Soap to start a small bonfire.

König and Horangi were on base tonight, bringing out their cards and starting their game of canasta.

Horangi saw Soap and had an idea. He told himself it was fairly innocent. The itch that he needed to scratch.

He turned to König, who opened up more cards to play. Spoke in Korean so that he could only understand.

“Let’s play for money? Against 141.”

König looked at him, spoke back,

“How much do you think we can squeeze out?”

Then remembering how fucking awful it is to reinforce his gambling habits…

“Now we gotta teach them the game too?” He mumbled, fixating on how annoying it would be to teach someone canasta.

Horangi continued, “Come on man, easy money right here we have the advantage.”

Soap had already wandered towards you.

“Nice job out there lad, I appreciated you covering me.”

You were taken aback, the first time he had spoken to you in front of König and Horangi.

You reached out to pat his back,

“Yeah no worries”

God it came out awkward.

“Whaddya playin’ over here?” He asked again, looking over at König opening new decks of cards, Horangi bringing out his notebook, and you adjusting the cooler between you three.

Horangi’s eyes widened, it was almost too easy.

“You wanna learn how to play canasta? It's a really fun game.” His voice turned sultry, luring Soap into the trap.

Both you and König stared at each other, scoffing at how Horangi could not help himself.

“Come, we need one more anyway.” Horangi captured Soap in, wrapped his arm around him. “You can be partners with me, for the practice round.” He brought Soap over to his side and sat him down.

*

Soap seemed to get the concept of the game. He picked up the game quite easily, after several practice rounds. He got excited.

“Whaddya say we bring in Gaz and Price in on the game?”

You spoke up, “Well we play on teams —“

“Exactly my point. 141 against you three.”

You winced, he had forgotten you were 141 too.

Horangi basically foamed at the mouth.

“Ohhhhh sure. You know what? We can even make the pot bigger, and play for money.”

König spoke again in German,

“Why don’t you show them how hard you are while you’re at it?”

Your eyes widened, Horangi laughed at König. He really couldn’t help it. Even the smallest gambling had the adrenaline racing through his body.

“Sounds good. Let me go get them.” Soap walked off to go pick up his teammates.

Gaz and Price had come back. Soap started to explain the rules of the game, how to stack cards, which cards to avoid, special rules, and of course how to win the pot.

Gaz spoke, “It’s like, gaining points yeah?”

“Precisely,” said Horangi.

Price cracked open a beer and nodded. “I’ve played this before, let's get in on it.”

Horangi rubbed his hair, unable to stop his hands from itching. He smiled at König and you.

König mumbled in German “Fuckin Horangi… dogshit gambler.”

You laughed next to him, nudged him. He looked at you curiously. Did you even know what he was saying?

*

The game continued for another 2 hours. As predicted, Soap, Gaz, and Price were hooked and started adding money to the pot.

Horangi had beamed. Soap was a bit upset at losing another round, Gaz was trying to make sure he hadn’t missed an opportunity to steal the pot, and Price was quietly taking a peak at people’s cards.

You and König had been trying to help relax Horangi, who looked like he won the lottery.

By the third hour, Soap had deliberately lost at least 300 dollars. Easily being manipulated by Horangi.

“I tell ya…. Somethin’ isn’t right..” He started up.. “You hidin’ cards over there?”

“Oh Scheiße” König muttered. Clearly witnessing firsthand how Horangi was such a cheater.

“The fuck did you say?” Soap said, a little tipsy, angry at losing money.

“pass auf was für Wörter du benutzt, es sind kinder anwesend” (watch what words you use, there are children present) You said, clearly intoxicated and annoyed at Soap for the comment earlier, and being a sore loser now.

It became silent. Everyone stared at you, Horangi laughing uncontrollably.

“I fucking knew it!”

Gaz looked at you, placed a hand on his knee. “All this time you’ve been… bilingual?”

“You speak bloody German?”

Price had put down the beer he was holding.

Maybe it was the liquid courage you had inside you. You could swear it sounded cooler when you responded, oh so casually,

“What you guys didn’t know?” A small burp.

Gaz looked at you, “Fucks sake, you could’ve at least told us something when we were in fuckin’ Germany.”

“Practically translating through König when you’re 141!” Soap shook his head in disbelief.

You had felt the blood flooding your cheeks. You made eye contact with König, who was now not making eye contact with you, but furiously burning a hole into his cards with his sight instead.

“Eine Vorwarnung wäre schön gewesen..” he said quietly. (A heads up would’ve been nice) it seemed toward you, but you weren’t sure.

*

You continued to play for at least a couple hours, the sun soon peaking ahead, clouds above you turning baby blue.

You helped Horangi pack up, as 141 picked up the many beer bottles you all drank. Horangi impersonating an absolute terrible British accent

“Same time next week lads?”

They all groaned but happily nodded their heads.

Walking silently back to base, König spoke behind you.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

You looked up at him, juggling the decks of multiple cards in your arms.

He took a hold of at least 5 decks in one hand.

“Didn’t tell you what?”

“You understood me, you spoke German.”

“I — uh, don’t know.” And you really didn’t. You just assumed everyone had their native tongue tucked away, and nobody ever asked. Your report had even said you spoke and understood many languages. You guessed it just went over their heads.

He calmly collected the cards from you.

“So even on the mission in Russia?”

You blinked, staring up.

“You understood me then?”

“Yes.”

He walked ahead of you, and stopped at his door.

“And you didn’t think of saying anything back?”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. “I didn’t catch it all you know. Just— keep safe.”

“Guess you’ll never know then.” He smiled, winked at you, and entered his room, saying goodnight in German.

You were left there speechless, running toward Horangi’s room.

[girafeduvexin]

Je veux pas critiquer booktok pour critiquer booktok mais je crois que j'ai compris pourquoi certains livres très populaires déçoivent parfois quand on les lit enfin. Je regardais une booktokeuse qui parlait des livres qu'elle aimait et qu'elle n'aimait pas et elle en parlait de manière très émotionnelle : "ce livre va vous faire pleurer", "ça me faisait frissonner" et c'est pas forcément une mauvaise chose ! Je dis souvent à mes élèves de partir de ce qu'ils ressentent pour analyser un texte. Mais après il faut aller plus loin : quand elle parle du style d'un auteur qu'elle n'aime pas "vous verrez en lisant, c'est particulier" en quoi ? C'est froid ? Au contraire, c'est très riche, y a beaucoup d'adjectifs ? En quoi c'est triste, en quoi c'est beau ?

Le problème, c'est que je peux vous montrer trois livres radicalement différents en vous promettant qu'ils m'ont fait pleurer et ce sera sans doute vrai, mais ça ne suffit pas : c'est le détail, la forme, qui va porter le livre, le distinguer des autres. Si elle avait dit : "J'ai beaucoup aimé ce livre car sa structure narrative atypique fait qu'on est porté tout au long de l'histoire. Le style froid de l'auteur, assez neutre, permet de vraiment mettre en relief la dureté de ce monde" etc, on saurait à quoi s'attendre et en lisant ensuite le livre, même si on aime quand même pas, on n'aurait pas l'impression d'avoir été trompé sur la marchandise. Je pourrais me dire "en effet, la structure narrative est atypique mais personnellement, je la trouve confuse" et ainsi de suite. Alors que juste dire "ça m'a fait pleurer donc c'est bien", on ne peut pas cerner l'intérêt du bouquin.

Vous pouvez pleurer en lisant Twilight et en lisant Proust, et c'est légitime dans les deux cas, mais les techniques littéraires ne seront pas les mêmes.

[aziraphales-library]

Hey! I love love love reading unrequited love, and although obvi their love is utterly mutual they don’t necessarily know that sooo

If you know any, could you recommend me some fics were Crowley is ‘pining’ for Azi?

They don’t need to have a happy ending where they get together (might even prefer without) but can do!

Anyways love ur blog tysm :)

These are hard to find! Most are not actually unrequited love. I found a few with hurt/no comfort, and a couple of longer ones where they do end up together in the end, but there is a lot of feeling unloved, pining, and angst before they get there.

i wanna fade away (with you) by Lilyofthevalley26 (G)

Armageddon had come, and Armageddon had passed. They didn’t have head offices to report to anymore. They were free agents. A new emotion joined the others in his chest. It felt like hope.

No Problem by LeotheLionathefootofOrion (M)

No problem, Crowley thinks. No problem at all. Anything for you. Even after two months of radio silence and not even a message on my birthday. No problem. - x - The whole friends with benefits thing really isn’t doing Crowley any favours.

Microcosms by oceantears (G)

“So, Alpha Centauri,” Crowley says, “you never did go there with me. Why? Jus’ not- Not wanting to stick it to Heaven? Still believing in the greater good and all? Not wanting only me for the rest of eternity, afraid you’d get bored of me?” It’s honesty and fear disguised as barely a jab, barely a joke, and they both know it. Crowley can call the stars into existence, but he cannot successfully hide 6,000 years of loneliness and longing and pain. Aziraphale only looks at him for a moment. If he tried, Crowley thinks helplessly, he could find constellations in the angel’s eyes. He could find another universe in them, one entirely untouched by God and Heaven and Hell. One that could be theirs, if only Aziraphale allowed it to be. “Neither,” Aziraphale finally says, “I just- I was afraid. And I… Well. I always found reaching for the stars a rather pointless endeavour when I already have everything I want right here.” Crowley takes a deep, shuddering breath and makes himself say it. Makes his tongue move and form those words they both know so well but have not had the courage to say out loud yet. “But you didn’t,” he forces out, “you didn’t want me. You still don’t.”

Attempts At Healing by alcyme (T)

Imagination can only get you so far. And then there are things not powerful enough to make it to reality. Like feelings of love. Time mends all wounds and that includes a broken heart. After all, what is healing than just reversing time. It would be a shame if The First Healer can’t even heal himself.

Crowley and His Army of Grandmothers by burnt_oranges (NR)

Crowley had impulsively stopped by Artisan Du Chocolate, the next place on Aziraphale’s meticulously ordered list of chocolatiers to sample, and now Crowley wonders--is it too much? He had bought a hundred fucking pounds’ worth of chocolate, of course it’s too much, but would Aziraphale notice that it was too much? That is the question.

Warmth by indigo (E)

Friends with benefits really had to be the very best solution there was for any self-respecting immortal being on Earth. Handy. Convenient. The perfect way to de-stress with none of the hassle of trying to find a human willing to overlook the more demonic parts of appearance. It was reliable. Comforting even. Dependable, emotionless relief. Perfect, Crowley thought. Right up until the point when, well, it wasn’t.

- Mod D

[weclassybouquetfun]

Tonight is the penultimate episode of series two of AMC+'s INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE.

Well, this isn't ominous at all.

Impressed that months later content from the S2 premiere is still being rolled out.

ALL THE SPOILERS FOR Episode 14 / S2E07

It's fine. It's all fine.

If you've read the books (not me) or have seen the movie (me) or just possess the ability to read between the lines, then you knew this day was coming: The death of Claudia de Pointe du Lac de Lioncourt and her companion Madeleine.

Finally, someone chose Claudia.

They actually made a playbill. The nastiest of nasty work.

There is still a lot to be open to interpretation in regards to motivations and the truthiness of various accounts. Maybe we will get answers in the next episode (how much of a willing participant was Lestat in these deliberations? How accurate was Louis' new recollection of begging Lestat to turn Claudia despite Lestat's warnings?) and maybe we won't (at any time have we seen the real Lestat?)

What I do know is that this cast acts their collective bums off.

What I also know?

They will never make me hate you, maître. You've done nothing wrong, ever.

Even though you leveled your coven with one word, I am sure you could not stop them from putting your lover, his sister-daughter and her companion on trial and subsequent execution.

He was helpless to do anything, you just don't understand!!

Armand was able to control everyone's speech and compel them to say "banishment" and just heaves a sigh of relief for the trouble. Meanwhile, Lestat was wan and bleeding from one ear after mind controlling a room of soldiers.

I still stand by you, Armand. I'm just saying...

-I am inclined to believe Lestat's deviations. You can tell what are Sam's words and what aren't by how Santiago responds and also just how true to form they seem from a character standpoint. I could be very wrong, but I can believe Louis threatened to cut Lestat's head off.

This is Louis who threatened his brother with a knife (which turned Lestat's eye to him in the first place). This is a man who lobbed a veiled threat at Grace during their mother's funeral (and you know it's true because that was from Claudia's diary). Louis was furious in that moment so why would he be expected to hold his tongue and not scrap? As he told Lestat, "You start it, you finish it."

Louis castigated Lestat for choking their daughter. I'm not going to remind him what he did to her when she begged him to let her burn Lestat.

So many people last season were raging because their "Brat Prince" was depicted as a domestic abuser and were sure this season would absolve him. But while we get a fuller picture of the fight, Lestat still did what he did. To me it just adds more clarity on why he stayed away for so long.

The biggest question for me this episode was how long did they workshop Lestat's side? Did the coven plunder his mind or did Lestat readily give them information (they knew about the words "come to me", the killing of the priests, the church kiss, Louis' depression and the house being a shambles. We even see on the projection the raccoon that was roaming their house)?

No matter how they found out the Louis/Lestat details, Lestat is not fully a willing participant in my mind. This man was over it from the jump.

Also, he's stubbled and one thing Lestat de Lioncourt is going to do is be well groomed so those theatre nerds have had him locked away until showtime.

They summoned Lestat while he was drinking his chickory coffee and eating beignets. Classless.

Dreamstat in Dubai feels so wrong.

Spoiler filled interview with Delainey, Roxanne and Jacob after episode 14/7.

Interview with Sam.

[codumofr]

Un Rhyton en argent datant de L'Empire Achéménide (-559 à -330 avant Jésus-Christ.). Vase en terre cuite ou en métal mesurant environ 25 centimètres de hauteur qui se présente sous la forme d'une corne à une anse et dont l'extrémité se termine par une tête animale ou humaine. Trois civilisations l'utiliserons dans l'optique d'un contenant pour boire un liquide. Les civilisations sont les Thraces, les Romains et les Perses au cours du 6e siècle jusqu'au 5e siècle avant Jésus-Christ. Il se répandra par la suite dans l'espace hellénistique (grec) qui lui donnera le sens, sa renommée, ainsi qu'une culture autour de lui et une symbolique. La poterie athénienne classique à typiquement des thèmes de la mythologie peint sur eux, telles les vases à figures rouges. Un des thèmes standards est une satyre qui symbolise la débauche avec notamment des Rhyton et du vins à foison. Il est généralement en forme de corne, tandis que les thèmes sexuels et humoristiques, pouvant représenter des organes génitaux masculins semblent être un développement tardif des thèmes apportés. Les Rhytons sont généralement richement ornées et précieusement gravées pour se moquer et apporter ainsi une dimension satyrique de grandes civilisations. Un lien est établi entre les Satyres, le vin et le Rhyton dans l’épopée de Dionysiaca de Nonnus (ou aussi Les Dionysiaques) ayant été écrit entre 450 et 470 après Jésus-Christ. Il y est décrit le processus de fabrication du vin par les Satyres qui piétine le vin et récolte le liquide avec des cornes de bœufs, lorsque cela fut inventé par le Dieu Grec, Dionysos. Les Rhytons étaient utilisés dans la plupart des cas pour contenir des liquides tels que le vin, la bière ou bien l’huile, tandis que certains pouvaient être utilisés dans les rituels de sacrifices d’animaux. Dans le cas d’une utilisation dans un rituel de sacrifice, le sang peut être dilué avec du vin. Ils étaient généralement modelés d’après l’animal qui sera destiné au sacrifice, bien que ce ne soit pas systématiquement le cas. Les Rhytons semblent être apparues d'abord en Anatolie au début du 2e millénaire, à l'époque des comptoirs assyriens et avec les premiers vases zoomorphes (ayant une forme d'animaux) ayant été fabriqués dans cette région. Ce n'est toutefois, qu'à partir du 5e siècle avant notre ère que ce type connaît un succès assez grand et commence à se répandre en Assyrie avec des preuves de sa popularité telle que les reliefs du Dur'Sharrukin, palais de Sargon à Khorsabad. Il est aussi possible d'en trouver dans différents lieux de cultes en Crète, datant de la période Propalatiales (-2000 à -1700) et Minoenne (-6 000 à vers -2600), jusqu'en Corée à l'époque des Trois Royaumes (5e et 6e siècles) en passant par le Moyen-Orient et les Steppes Anciennes.

[claudehenrion]

Notre Dame de Paris

Nous venons de palpiter un week-end comme on en vit peu, dans une vie ! Notre merveilleuse cathédrale, que nous avions eu l'impression de voir disparaître par un triste soir d'avril 2019, est née une troisième fois, des mains de 2000 artistes, talentueux et modestes, au sommet de leur art (chacun le sien, mais tous ensemble) et de la volonté de 345000 donateurs et mécènes. Le monde entier (les dons en sont la preuve) a vibré devant cette catastrophe... Mais l'espoir renaît... Au moment de la réouverture des portes, j'étais au bord des larmes...

Ne nous plaignons pas, et ne boudons pas notre plaisir : le résultat est magnifique, d'autant plus que nous avons frôlé la catastrophe irrémédiable, avec les cauchemars des fantaisies dont rêvait l'actuel président-de-notre-république-en-sursis . Mis à part quelques fautes (que les modernistes ont branché sur la perfection d'origine, tels le maître-autel-bis et le Baptistère en forme de cuvettes, formes arrondies qui insultent l'harmonie, parfaite sans eux !), il ne reste plus que l'affreuse idée des vitraux ''à la mode macron'' qui doit être tuée, avant dégâts irréversibles. Ou encore les choix musicaux du ''réveil de l'orgue'' ! (NB : me souvenant des improvisations ''sortie de messe'' de Pierre Cochereau, sur le Bourdon 32 pouces, j'en aurais pleuré : tirer ces platitudes sans relief d'un tel instrument... il faut presque le vouloir ! Il a fallu attendre, là aussi, l'improvisation finale et la messe du lendemain pour comprendre le joyau inutilisé que les 4 organistes qui se sont succédé pendant le cérémonie de ré-ouverture avaient entre les mains).

Paris, la France et le monde entier --et la catholicité, au premier chef, bien sûr,-- ont récupéré un trésor irremplaçable : un lien personnel et même intime entre chacun d'entre nous et l'Absolu. Tous ne s'en rendent pas compte et un tout petit nombre prétend avoir des arguments pour lutter contre... ce que la Loi de Gauss, dite ''Courbe normale'', prévoit, avec la possibilité de l'existence, parmi tout échantillon d'humains, de 10% d'idiots, de fadas et de cons ! Depuis une dizaine d'années, on a assez perdu de temps avec eux. Laissons-les suivre leur triste chemin, et restons avec notre glorieuse émotion : Notre Dame est de retour... la période noire va t-elle se terminer ?

Une chance unique nous est donnée : la convergence de la déconfiture (attendue, sans être espérée : ne pêchons pas par où ils fautent !) des vilaines gens qui croient que le progressisme peut les (et nous) mener ailleurs que de catastrophe en cassage de gueule, d'une part... et un retour possible, à travers cette renaissance de notre Cathédrale blessée mais sauvée, du catholicisme sous une forme dérivée : sa richesse culturelle, unique entre toutes, complémentaire à sa transcendance consubstantielle : le catholicisme, longtemps seul, puis du christianisme, a en effet été le créateur d'un raz de marée culturel qui a illuminé tous les âges et --pratiquement-- tous les pays, comme le rappelait récemment le cher Bouallem Sansal .

Notre si belle religion, offerte à qui la veut, pas seulement à ses pratiquants, ce qu'elle est seule à proposer --nous en reparlerons) a donné de jolies couleurs à la Vie, à toute vie, à travers la peinture, la sculpture, l'architecture, la littérature, puis la philosophie, toutes richesses dont elle s'est nourrie en retour, imprégnant, le plus souvent sans la moindre contrainte, nos conduites, nos manières d'être, nos visions du monde... et même les mots dont se servent ses ennemis pour chercher à lui nuire : très vite, le christianisme est sorti du cadre rigide et limitant de la seule pratique religieuse pour exploser dans une culture qui est vite devenue une ''civilisation''. Pourquoi ? Comment ?

C'est là que se trouvent les grandes questions qui ont certainement contribué à ce que ce succès indiscutable se transforme, au fil des siècles, en échec (qu'il faut souhaiter temporaire, car si ce n'est pas le cas... tout est foutu : un arbre coupé de ses racines ne peut que mourir). Où commencent (et où s'arrêtent) l'intelligence et la foi ? Où commence le religieux et où s'arrêtent la laïcité et sa fausse jumelle la tolérance devenue intolérante ? La réponse est sans doute que foi et raison, ou que intelligence et religion ne doivent --ne peuvent-- exister l'une sans l'autre et qu'il est bon et sain qu'elles s'entremêlent, se marient, se mélangent, se séparent ... et se disputent, comme le transcendant et la culture qui en naît...

Si le vrai sens --unique et non négociable-- de Noël ou du Dimanche a été perdu en chemin au profit de laideurs insultantes pour notre honneur d'Humains, et n'ont pratiquement plus de signification religieuse, ils en ont malgré tout conservé une : malgré les efforts ridicules des tenants de la mort de tout ce qu'ils trouvent irrationnel chez nous (au profit de ce que nous démontrons facilement être dix fois plus irrationnel, chez eux !), les fêtes --et les vacances qui les escortent-- ont conservé leur vrai nom originel : Noël, Pâques ou la Toussaint pour les premiers, et ''le jour du Seigneur'' (dimanche vient, de loin, de Dominicus Dies) pour le second.

Notre société est certes largement déchristianisée (et même polythéiste, à en croire Laurence Devillers, la grande spécialiste des interactions ''homme/machine), et la responsabilité de ce ''laisser filer'' aux conséquences dramatiques est à chercher dans l’appauvrissement de ce que nous avons gardé pour le transmettre. La trahison impardonnable des clercs et notre passivité à tous (profiter du moment... sans se prendre la tête, ''Carpe diem'' devenu Carpe horam) ont bradé puis détruit l'héritage commun. Sous le prétexte mensonger de l'actualiser, nous l'avons dilué jusqu'à n'en conserver que ... ce qui ne vaut même pas la peine d'être transmis. Le message était trop beau, trop ambitieux, trop à contre-courant des slogans mensongers (creux mais ''fastoches'' : il n'y a qu'à se laisser glisser !) : la mode ne serait pas, disent les propagateurs de ces absurdités mortelles, à l'élévation de l'homme, à la quête d'une dimension prophétique, et à l’exaltation du sacré''... Foutaises !

La renaissance de Notre Dame et la résonance de cette prouesse dans le monde entier démontre (s'il le fallait !) que la Foi n'est pas une simple abstraction ni un joli patrimoine à conserver dans un musée : c'est une réalité où se mêlent le sens et la croyance, le matériel et le divin, le court et le long termes, ''l'avoir été'' et ''le devoir être''. Cette idée ''sur le retour'' est une idée nouvelle infiniment plus moderne que leur faux modernisme dépassé et leur progressisme mortifère.

Cette année, les USA ont décidé de tourner la page de la médiocrité agressive et de l'erreur promue ''Institution'' et de ''revenir dans la course '' : Trump est à Notre Dame et, Elon Musk aidant, le pays repart conquérir la Lune, et puis Mars... se ressaisir, chasser les idées noires (non, je ne suis pas raciste !), reprendre les bonnes vieilles pratiques qui avaient fait des américains... ce qu'ils étaient : les meilleurs en tout ou presque. Mais personne n'a rapporté que, en parallèle, les illuminations de Time Square sont, pour la première fois depuis longtemps, exclusivement destinées à l'Histoire Sainte et à un vrai Noël, autour d'un enfant nouveau né, le tout surmonté (dominé ?) par une grand croix lumineuse, avec les vrais chants de Noël dont la France (la pauvre !) a égaré jusqu'aux partitions. On se met à espérer que, folie pour folie, le soleil va se mette à se lever à l'ouest ! Notre Dame, priez pour nous...

H-Cl.

[smokin-symbiotes]

October Horror Movies #2

'Don't Look Now' (1973)

Summary: A couple losses their daughter in a sudden accident. While in Venice for work, they recieve signs their daughter is trying to contact them from the other side. But is it real? Adapted from the 1971 short story by Daphne du Maurier.

Entry 2/31 of my October film series. Some spoilers ahead.

It's a testament to the strength of a movie's screenplay where you can read a summary about it and still be caught off guard through most of the movie. The back half of the film is particually anxiety inducing, where husband and father John Baxter (the late, great Donald Sutherland) is left alone in Venice, chasing phantoms of his wife, Laura (Julie Christie), and daughter, Christine (Sharon Williams), as a serial killer is on the loose.

It's not just the unfolding plot that keeps you on edge. It's the surreal editing, the labryinthian layout of Venice, the uncomfortable confrontations between a grieving couple as they come face to face with seemingly supernatural forces. The horror of the film is derived from the crushing reality of the death of the child and the unknown of the paranormal.

The movie is focused on the seemingly never-ending search for closure after the death of a loved one, trying to get "the full picture" of the circumstances of their passing. You're given the impression that even months after their daughter's death the couple is still coping poorly: John has thrown himself into his work, and is unable or unwilling to be vulnerable with Laura about the subject. Laura is more open about her feelings, as she's the only one of the two parents who tries to connect with their surviving son, Johnny (Nicholas Salter). However, she is immediately wrapped up in the supernatrual after a chance encounter with a blind clairvoyant (Hilary Mason) and her sister (Clelia Matania).

It's interesting how the movie plays with typical gender roles, i.e. men are stoic and rational, women are emotional and irriational. On the surface the movie seems framing Laura as "weak" and John as "strong," but John's inability to be truly vulnerabe is what leads him to ruin. Meanwhile, Julia finds kinship in the sisters and is finally able to make real progress in processing her grief. Laura achieves some form of closure: John cannot, and will not.

Interestingly, the movie is preoccupied with duplication and doubling. Two supernatually inclined sisters, Christine's doppleganger roams the Venetian streets, John's an architect that restores churches, where he dupes mosiacs and statues to bring the church back to life. I think this doubling reflects the desire to recreate life as it was after a loved's one death: you want things to go back to the way they were (Laura even says she wishes she could forget what happened to her daughter) but you can't. The last few minutes of the movie drive the point home that it's better to move on rather than go back.

I think the title of the film plays into that theme. In the short story, the title is dropped as soon as the story starts:

"'Don't look now,' John said to his wife, 'but there are a couple of old girls two tables away who are trying to hypnotise me.'"

I don't know the thematic importance of the title for the short story—I have yet to read it—but for the movie I think it's a command. "Don't look now"—for closure. Closure isn't something to be chased, it comes naturally, sometimes suddenly, sometimes with the passing of time. Laura suddenly recieves closure in the form of the clairvoyant: John rejects this, believing he can seek closure in what's real, what he can see. He chases his daughter's doppleganger through Venice, beliving that by somehow confronting her, he can get some kind of relief or explanation. Of course, in his quest, there is no relief to be had...

[c-comme-chat]

Je suis la, assise devant l'eau qui coule. Au bord du fleuve. J'aimerais que tu voies ce que je vois, que tu ressentes ce que je ressens. J'imagine le calme, la sérénité, de savoir que tu contemples mon visage pour t'en souvenir comme d'un instant de ta vie. Ce paysage c'est tout ce que j'ai la tout de suite, et il a tes formes, il porte ton rire, ton expression, dans toutes ses perspectives. L'eau glissante dans le lit de la Seine, c'est comme le temps qui s'arrête quand on se touche. Il y a l'éternité dedans. Le pendant, l'avant, l'après. Ce paysage il a ton mystère, il est la devant mes yeux a portée de regard, mais il garde toutes ces profondeurs, ces reliefs qui paraissent si lointains que je ne peux les atteindre que par le rêve. Alors j'imagine, des histoires, toi et moi, dans ce bois, mes bras t'enlaçant, tes bras. Mon flanc que tu effleures, et qui s'éveille. Ton regard dans mon regard, je sais. Et même si on pouvait, revenir en arrière. Est ce qu'on y arriverait?

[liviavanrouge]

Mates

Ruko: *Walks down the halls of Pomefiore, looking curious*

Vil: Ruko!

Rook: Roi du Beauty!!

Ruko: Hm?

Epel: You need to talk to Ekeko!!! COME ON!

Ruko: *Flinches as Vil and Rook hurried him down the hallway* Huh?!

---

Rook: *Pushes Ruko into Ekeko's room and shuts the door* Good luck!

Ruko: HUH!! WHAT?!

???: Who's there...GET OOOOOOOUUTT!!

Ekeko: *Huffs, gripping his hair* They went and got you..I said DON'T!

Ruko: *Flinches, his eyes widening, shocked that Ekeko was speaking full sentences*

Ekeko: *Grips his hair, half his body in its snake form* Get out...GET OUT!!!!

Ruko: *Shrieks a vase smashing against the wall beside him*

Ekeko: GET OUT! NOW!! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!!!

Ruko: *Stares, shuffling forward* Ekeko...

Ekeko: Get away...please get away from me..I can't...I can't hurt you, please...

Ruko: *Places a hand on Ekeko's cheek* Ekeko...

Ekeko: *Grabs Ruko, pulling him down*

Ruko: *Gasps, struggling to free himself* EKEKO?!

Ekeko: When you touched the scales on my next, you became my lifelong partner...only you can calm me down when I rampage...

Ruko: *Turns over, facing him*Oh...

Ekeko: Please don't leave me...I'm sorry yelling..

Ruko: I won't...I promise...

Ekeko: *Sighs, closing his eyes, his lower body turning human* Thank you...

---

Vil: *Cautiously opens the door and sighs in relief when he found them asleep* Thank the seven...

Rook: I felt guilty leaving Ruko to face him alone..

Rozzie: Thank the seven above that they're both alright

Amber and Sean: Yeah!

Pin: Pin here was worried..

Epel: I was as well

@anxious-twisted-vampire @yukii0nna @writing-heiress @marrondrawsalot @abyssthing198 @zexal-club

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 28, 12 juillet 1896, Paris. Collet et chapeau pour dame d'un certain âge. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Ce collet très élégant est fait en lacet de soie noire, imitant les points de dentelle. Le contour extérieur du lacet est bordé d'une fine ganse de soie; on remplit les intervalles intérieurs des feuilles et des fleurs avec des points de fantaisie en soie cordonnet, des brins tendus, des anneaux festonnés, etc. Le dessin ajouré se détache en relief sur la doublure en soie noire. Le col droit se compose d'un ruban de faille disposé derrière en plis creux, fermé devant par un nœud.

La passe du chapeau faite en paille de fantaisie jaune clair, est entourée d'une guirlande de pensées en velours, entre laquelle on dispose des feuilles de violettes. Sur la calotte plate, faite en tulle, est posé un morceau de dentelle crème, en forme d'étoile. On place sur le côté droit une aigrette élégante dont la base est entourée de pensées sans feuillage. Brides étroites en velours violet.

—

This very elegant collar is made of black silk lace, imitating lace stitches. The outer contour of the lace is bordered with a fine silk braid; the interior spaces of the leaves and flowers are filled with fancy stitches in corded silk, stretched strands, scalloped rings, etc. The openwork design stands out in relief on the black silk lining. The straight collar is made up of a fault ribbon arranged behind in hollow pleats, closed in front with a knot.

The hat strap, made of light yellow fancy straw, is surrounded by a garland of velvet pansies, between which are placed violet leaves. On the flat cap, made of tulle, is placed a piece of cream lace, in the shape of a star. We place on the right side an elegant egret whose base is surrounded by pansies without foliage. Narrow purple velvet straps.

[martial-maurette]

 « BONNARD ET LE JAPON » Hôtel de Caumont, Aix-en-Provence 

« BONNARD ET LE JAPON », visite du 30 Juillet 2024 à l’Hôtel de Caumont (Aix-en-Provence) Bien nous en a pris d’attendre, cette fois-ci, calme et tranquillité loin, très loin, du « surtourisme » en début d’expositions précédentes. Donc de quoi prendre le temps de bien lire les cartels (pas toujours bien alignés) et le dossier de presse ; Hypothèse de la commissaire d’exposition Isabelle Cahn : « …l’influence de l’art du Japon sur Bonnard (Japonisme), jusqu’à la fin de sa vie en 1946 ! P.B. dessine, peint ou *photographie et collectionnera des estampes japonaises … » Excellente idée scénographique : la sélection d’estampes japonaises provenant de la prestigieuse collection Leskowicz. Pierre Bonnard : « J’avais compris au contact de ces frustes images populaires que la couleur pouvait comme ici exprimer toutes choses sans besoin de relief ou de modelé. Il m’apparut qu’il était possible de traduire lumière, formes et caractère rien qu’avec la couleur ». Je note sur la tendance dite « Japonisme » : « …l’impact du Japon sur les arts occidentaux. Le mode de penser des artistes de l’ukiyo-e. Le terme japonais ukiyo désigne un monde flottant en accord avec le principe bouddhiste de l’impermanence, ukiyo-e signifiant images du monde flottant. Sa peinture exprime le caractère éphémère des phénomènes, la beauté mystérieuse de la nature et des êtres, le charme subtil des choses. » Aparté photographique : *Marthe Bonnard sous l’objectif de Pierre Bonnard (1867-1947) https://dantebea.com/2013/11/07/marthe-bonnard-sous-lobjectif-de-pierre-bonnard-1867-1947/

Pierre Bonnard, La Promenade des nourrices, frise des fiacres 1897, Paravent constitué d’une suite de quatre feuilles lithographiées en cinq couleurs 45,3 x 114,3 (chaque panneau) Le Cannet, musée Bonnard © Musée Bonnard/Yves Inchierman

"…Dans les années 1860, suite à l’ouverture commerciale du Japon avec la France, les gravures ukiyo-e, méprisées par les Japonais pour la légèreté de leurs sujets, servent à caler les produits manufacturés dans les caisses d’expédition…" Extraits DP

Pierre Bonnard, Femmes au jardin : Femme à la robe à pois blancs ; Femme assise au chat ; Femme à la pèlerine ; Femme à la robe quadrillée, 1890-1891, Détrempe à la colle sur toile, panneaux décoratifs, 160,5 x 48 cm (chaque panneau), Paris, musée d’Orsay

Pierre Bonnard, Projet d’éventail Femmes et fleurs, 1895, gouache, aquarelle et encre de Chine. Van Gogh Museum, don de la Triton Collection Foundation

Katsushika Hokusai, Sous la vague au large de Kanagawa, série « Les Trente-six vues du Mont Fuji » Signé: Hokusai aratame Iitsu hitsu Editeur: Nishimuraya Yohachi (Eijudô) vers 1830, oban yoko-e, 25,5 x 37,7 cm Collection Georges Leskowicz

PIERRE BONNARD (1867-1947) La Revue blanche. Affiche. 1894. Lithographie. [582 x 778].

"…Les portraits de femmes d’Utamaro, les paysages d’Hokusai et d’Hiroshige ou encore les acteurs de Sharaku atteindront le statut de chef d’œuvre en Occident et de nombreux artistes du tournant du siècle seront fascinés à leur contact. Les estampes avec leurs couleurs posées en aplats, leurs voisinages chromatiques audacieux, leur stylisation décorative ou leurs vues à vol d’oiseau, vont bouleverser les certitudes académiques des artistes occidentaux…"

"Groupe de chien dansant" Projet de meuble, 1891 Aquarelle, plume et encre Coll. particulière

"…1872, Philippe Burty forge le terme de japonisme pour définir l’impact du Japon sur les arts occidentaux, dans un article publié dans Renaissance Littéraire et Artistique…"

…un arrêt du temps, l'instant présent… Très photographique tout ça. "Pierre Bonnard, photographe" (Relié) https://www.amazon.fr/Pierre-Bonnard-photographe-Fran%C3%A7oise-Heilbrun/dp/2904057242

"…Bonnard ne peint pas seulement pour le plaisir sensuel que le nu lui procure. Il considère ce sujet comme l’un des plus exigeants en raison de la fascination qu’il provoque et de l’interaction du modèle vivant avec l’environnement. Ses modèles évoluent dans des espaces complexes, traités de manière décorative, qui permettent de transformer le réel…"

Paul Verlaine "Parallèlement", poème Seguidille, 1900. Livre illustré de lithographies en couleur, Pierre Bonnard, Coll. Particulière

"…Dans l'intimité de leur vie quotidienne, par obsession ou par plaisir, Marthe aime à passer du temps à sa toilette. Ce rituel devient l'occasion pour l'artiste de scruter le jeu des reflets, des lumières, des couleurs. Il fige le bonheur de l'instant en peinture, mais aussi en photographie…" https://panoramadelart.com/sites/default/files/filesPanorama/FA224-02-bonnard-marthe-tub.jpg

"…Nabi : Mot d’origine hébraïque signifiant « prophète ». Il désigne un groupe d’artistes postimpressionnistes, à la recherche d’une peinture nouvelle. Rassemblés à partir de 1888 autour de Paul Sérusier, les nabis partagent une esthétique faite de formes épurées, d’aplats de couleur, de contours, et parfois un certain sens du symbolisme et de la religiosité. Par ses écrits, le peintre Maurice Denis ne tarde pas à en devenir le théoricien. Sa formule, « un tableau […] est essentiellement une surface plane recouverte de couleurs en un certain ordre assemblées », traduit bien l’esprit de synthèse qui anime les nabis…"

à lire aussi : Un Nabi très japonard https://www.musee-orsay.fr/fr/agenda/expositions/presentation/pierre-bonnard-peindre-larcadie

Le "spectacle" virtuel, partout, pour tout, pour tous. Terriblement XXIème s.

"… l’exposition présente de nombreuses œuvres exceptionnelles de Bonnard, jamais ou rarement vues en France comme Les deux caniches, Le Bar, L’Omnibus, La Place Clichy, Le Jardin de Paris, Conversation provençale, La Nappe blanche, Le Dessert, Le Nu gris de profil…"

Hôtel de Caumont 3, rue Joseph Cabassol (Portail à carrosses) Quartier Mazarin, Aix-en-Provence