#jacques webster

[cantcatchmeee]

Heroes & Villains features pt. 1

[monsieurharlemboy]

Jacques Webster.

[samtalksmusic]

perfect songs!!

lover - taylor swift

my eyes - travis scott(also TS wow thats so funny)

8 am in charlotte- drake

[unstableproximity]

“posted outside with militia”

@travis-x @travis-xx @travisscottfans @travisscottsworld

[nofatclips]

Tell Them by James Blake (featuring Moses Sumney & Metro Boomin) from the album Assume Form

[netalkolemedia]

Travis Scott arrêté par la police parisienne

Le célèbre rappeur américain Travis Scott, connu pour ses succès musicaux et sa vie très médiatisée, a été arrêté et placé en garde à vue ce vendredi 9 août dans la capitale française. L’arrestation a eu lieu à l’hôtel Georges V, où Scott est accusé d’avoir agressé un agent de sécurité. Selon le parquet de Paris, l’altercation a eu lieu après que l’agent de sécurité soit intervenu pour séparer le…

[alexsmithson]

1 YEAR OF BEYONCÉ’S RENAISSANCE!

🪩 A year ago today, the hotly-anticipated seventh studio album by Beyoncé, RENAISSANCE, was officially released, coming six years after the universally critically acclaimed Lemonade in 2016! 🪩

[infinitesofnought]

Christ was no heroic martyr - Weil had little sympathy for martyrs in general, who she considered too active in seeking their own destruction. Rather Christ was the meeting-point of the divine and the human by being obedient to the laws pertaining to both of them, revealing both the nature of God and the fundamental reality of human nature. God renounced himself in creating the world which was essentially both good and evil and, being pure good, could only come down to earth to become incarnate by undergoing the extremest form of suffering. As for human beings, 'we needs must have a just man to imitate so that the imitation of God does not simply remain an empty phrase; but it is also necessary, so that we may be carried beyond the boundaries of the will, that we should not be able to desire to imitate him. One cannot desire the Cross’. For the Cross was the supreme form of affliction and affliction was, by definition, something which could not be desired.

– David McLellan, Utopian Pessism: The Life and Thought of Simone Weil

“at the very end of Lacan’s late paper, “L’Etourdit,” he says, “we must give up the fascination with abjection.” Abjection makes a hole in the self – which is terrifying, but simply structural — too imaginary, too glamorous, too YouTubeable. You’re giving the hole too much presence versus what would it mean to really write absence, write your own disappearance. What would it mean to write a real hole? It’s so much harder. And I think it’s a more interesting aesthetic question.”

— Jamieson Webster

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Carmen Sevilla (La fierecilla domada/La mégère apprivoisée, La Venganza, King of Kings)— One of the few spanish actresses to really make it in Hollywood. She worked opposite Charlton Heston in the 1970s and reportedly slapped him but that is past the cut-off so you can look it up for yourselves. There's also rumors that Frank Sinatra had a bit of a crush on her and asked her out a couple of times but she rejected him. The woman was just messy as hell in general and an absolute icon. Bless.

Simone Simon (Cat People, La Bête Humaine, The Devil and Daniel Webster, The Curse of the Cat People)— If she turned in to a panther and ate me I would be fine with that

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Simone Simon:

so so so so cute

one of simone simon's best remembered movies is cat people, one of jacques tourneur's great b-horror movies that's secretly a sensitive and tender examination of otherness, seriously i cry every time i watch it a short excerpt from cat people

She’s maybe not super well known to a lot of people but holy hell is she a stunner. I literally have her Cat People poster on my wall - she is amazing in that film, playing this tragic character (please go watch Cat People it’s this amazing tragic story of a foreign woman being caught up in a toxic relationship with a man who doesn’t believe her, plus cats). She’s so beautiful!! Look at her!!

[lostloveletters]

A Long, Lonely Time (David Webster x Reader)

Summary: You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, but when Webster returns to Easy Company, you find it difficult to reckon with the very real possibility of losing him again, maybe even for good.

Note: Gender neutral reader, and no descriptors are used. The draft script of episode 3 provides more background on Webster transferring into Easy Company, which isn’t explained in the show for some reason (a shame because they cut out some pretty great scenes), but I included a handful of the details here. This is based on the fictional portrayals in the HBO miniseries and not the real individuals. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Hurt/angst with comfort. Mentions of Eugene Jackson’s death. Playing with the timeline of episode 8 a little bit. Probably some other historical inaccuracies. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Two days. David Webster had only been back for two days, and you kissed him.

Your crush on him had hibernated in his absence, frozen in a forest with the rest of you. It thawed as soon as you saw him for the first time in months.

The other members of Easy weren’t so quick to warm up to him again. No matter, it just gave you more time to spend with him. You appreciated how from the moment the two of you first bonded over your shared love of literature, he was genuinely interested in your thoughts and opinions, assuaging your fears that you’d be a lackluster companion to the Ivy Leaguer.

He could’ve taken the easy route as others with a privileged background like his had done and allowed his social status to get himself a cushy position. However, he, like Caption Nixon, inexplicably chose the rest of you. Unlike Nixon and yet just as inexplicable, he rejected any promotions. Odd, yet admirable, like when he’d approached Winters in Aldbourne after D-Day, requesting to transfer from Fox to Easy to put his skills as an assistant machine gunner to better use.

None of that mattered to your comrades anymore, but as a medic, you appreciated that he took recovering from being wounded seriously. You told him such, and he smiled, confessing that he had used his stint in the hospital for one selfish indulgence. Later, when the two of you were alone; he pulled a brown paper package from his pack, privately presenting you with a gift he got his hands on for you. Ripping back the wrapping, you beamed when you saw the cover of a brand new ASE copy of The Postman Always Rings Twice.

Your worn copy of Jane Eyre had been waterlogged from the snow and rendered illegible. New books were low priority in the Bois Jacques, so you were left without reading material for longer than you would’ve liked.

The book was the first time in what felt like years you’d received a gift. You had almost forgotten how nice it was, especially something so thoughtful. So you kissed him, impulsively, passionately, threading your fingers through his hair to pull him closer, your other hand gripping the book tightly. 

He kissed you back with a tenderness that had long since become foreign to you and felt almost too overwhelming as a result. His lips were soft and warm compared to yours, chapped from weeks of unrelenting cold, but he was undeterred. His hands held your waist, his fingers gently pressing against the skin that’d been exposed as your untucked shirt had ridden up. You shuddered against him, feeling goosebumps rise on your skin–either the cold air, or his touch. Probably both.

Hearing the clamoring of nearby voices, you reluctantly broke the kiss.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” you lamented breathlessly.

His blue eyes seemed to sparkle when he smiled. “I think we’re even.”

“You know,” you began, turning the book over to glance at the synopsis, “all I ever heard when this came out was that it was dirty. Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Books aren’t dirty. It’s embarrassing that Boston even bans them the way they do.”

“Have you read it?”

“I haven’t, but that’s not the point. They’d ban Shakespeare if he were publishing today.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” you said, suppressing an amused smile, “but I only asked because I thought we could read it together, if you don’t mind the company.”

His expression softened. “I’d love that.”

Smiling, you leaned in for another kiss when the door opened, and the two of you jumped away from each other like the other was on fire.

You relaxed when you saw Roe standing in the doorway. He gave you an almost exasperated look, but that was all. For the moment.

“Webster,” Gene said, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before shifting his attention to you. “Will you sort through those supplies Luz got earlier? I gotta check on Lipton.”

“Sure,” you said with a nod. “Thanks again, Web–David, the book’s great.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

You followed Gene out of the room, walking side-by-side down the hallway until you were a decent distance from Webster and out of earshot from anyone who might otherwise eavesdrop. When your best friend stopped in his tracks, you mirrored him, flattering a bit beneath the weight of his disapproving glare.

“Are you crazy?” Gene scolded.

“He gave me a book. It’s not–don’t look at me like that.”

“However wounded he gets, it’s gonna be a lot worse for you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know. This ain’t the time or place.”

“There might not be another time or place,” you argued.

He sighed, either conceding to your argument or not finding it worth wasting any more breath over. For how long you’d known him, he could be impossibly difficult to read. “Just be careful, alright?”

Gene brought you to the recently delivered boxes of medical supplies, desperately needed weeks ago. Better late than never. You rifled through bandages and morphine, hands shaking a bit as you tried not to think about who might have still been there if it’d come in sooner. But Webster came back, even though you’d long been convinced you’d never see him again. At least if the worst happened, you wouldn’t have to wonder if your feelings for him were reciprocated.

The worst. You weren’t sure what, out of everything you’d seen the past few months, could have been considered the worst. Slow deaths, blown off limbs, or men whose bodies and psyche were trapped in that place between life and death. But you couldn’t let yourself spiral, not when so many people were relying on you. Hope seemed increasingly hard to find, and if indulging in whatever you had with David gave you the slightest bit more, you’d take it.

As if materializing from your thoughts of him, he walked into the room, silent concern etched in his face.

“There’s a patrol tonight,” he said. “We’re going across the river to bring back prisoners.”

“Who all’s going?” You figured if he was breaking the news to you, he’d be included. A sinking feeling dropped in your stomach when he answered, nevertheless.

“Most of 2nd platoon, except Liebgott and Malarkey.”

“It’s always 2nd platoon,” you muttered. “So you’re going as translator, then?”

He nodded. “The Krauts won’t expect us, at least that’s what they say.”

“I’m still gonna worry,” you said softly. “Just got you back.”

“Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I’ll find you as soon as we’re done,” he promised.

“Can I give you a kiss for good luck?”

“I’ll never say no to that.”

You pressed your lips to his, craving the tenderness he’d given you earlier like it was missing from your veins. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it, soft words and tender touches that made you finally feel something other than numb and tired. Desire that would long remain unfulfilled had settled deep inside of you, and you desperately wished you and David were somewhere, anywhere else. 

Holding onto him just as tightly as you were trying to keep your restraint, you went as far as he led you, open-mouthed kisses burning into your skin until a moan escaped your lips, nearly giving the two of you away.

“You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met,” he said, giving you a quick kiss that felt achingly insufficient for what you wanted from him.

“Wait ‘til you get me in bed,” you joked.

He laughed, caressing your cheek. “I mean it. I’ve never known anyone like you.”

“Shame we had to meet this way, huh? But then we probably would’ve gone the rest of our lives not knowing each other at all.”

“That’d be a real tragedy.”

“You’re telling me.”

Far too soon for your liking, though you weren’t sure how much time had passed in all honesty, he made his leave as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder and darkness began to fall. 

You tried to keep your mind off of the patrol, assure yourself that you were worrying for nothing. Sitting on an empty couch, you finally got a better look at the book he presented you with, not having a chance to before. He’d written on the blank cover page, filled the whole thing and then some.

Beneath your name, carefully written in pencil, an inscription, detailing the longing he felt from your absence, his heart growing fonder of you with each passing day but struggling to assuage the loneliness and doubt that began to coil around it. The sound of your voice, your laughter, so vivid in his dreams that he’d wake up looking for you. He’d taken your friendship for granted, he claimed, but though the two of you met during less than ideal circumstances, getting shot was worth meeting you. Your vision began to blur with tears by the time you reached the end of his confession, ‘I missed you before we ever met, and now that we have, I miss you even more.’

You slammed the book shut, choking out a sob. It wasn’t fair. You’d just gotten him back, and in the blink of an eye you could lose him again, possibly for good. In that moment you understood better than ever why medics were supposed to keep their emotional distance, but the pain in your chest, the salty tears that stung your eyes were all worth it for the brief comfort you had found with him. You’d been so lonely otherwise, constantly surrounded by people but still feeling something missing until he returned.

Your name sounded muffled to the ringing in your ears, until Gene sat next to you, putting his arm around your shoulder. 

“Don’t get too stuck in your head. Won’t be able to help no one like that,” Gene said, holding you in the hug. “Don’t think about it.”

“How can I not? It’s all around us–I can’t–”

“Yes, you can. You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t feel like it sometimes. I feel like I’m just–”

“Just one person and it’s never gonna be enough.”

Something had happened in Bastogne, the last time he went back to the town. He never spoke of it, even when you offered to be an unjudging ear to spill his thoughts to, but you could tell it affected him deeply, even still. Knowing he was speaking from experience was an almost painful comfort.

“Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll be up,” he said.

“You sure?”

He nodded. 

When he left, you set the book aside, silently promising yourself that you wouldn’t read it without Webster. If he didn’t return, it’d stay with you, unread until you met your own demise. An unnecessarily dramatic gesture to only yourself, you hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

The following hours found you in and out of sleep, almost unable to discern your erratic dreams with troubling reality. Footsteps and voices muddled together into unintelligible ramblings that you couldn’t help interpret as the worst in your near fugue state. Your worry was laced with frustration at letting the situation cause you so much distress. You were a medic, after all. You were supposed to be prepared for this.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel a momentary wave of relief crash over you when Webster walked into the room.

“Thank god,” you whispered, throwing your arms around him and kissing his cheek. 

His embrace was stiff, awkward, and the far away expression on his face gave you pause.

“David, what happened?”

“Jackson’s dead. It was his own grenade. He didn’t wait long enough. It just…”

“Oh my god.”

“He didn’t die right away.”

“Why didn’t someone get me? Maybe I could’ve–”

“By the time Sergeant Martin got Doc Roe it was already too late. There was nothing Doc could do—nothing you could’ve done,” he said quietly, before adding, “I’m glad you didn’t see it.”

“I’ve seen worse by now.”

“Why add onto it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. That I didn’t write to you, that I didn’t tell you sooner how I felt about you, but it’s no use dwelling on all of that now,” he said. “It can’t change anything, and no matter how sorry we are, it won’t bring Jackson back, or anyone else, for that matter.”

It was settling in, that same bitterness that’d made its home in the bones of your comrades. A taste in your mouth that could be mistaken for blood by anyone else, but you knew it all too well. Your heart ached at seeing it finally get to Webster, too.

“Do you wanna just sit for a while?” you asked.

He nodded. The two of you settled onto the couch, his head in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair, gently tracing the soft lines that ran across his forehead, betraying that despite his closed eyes, his mind was still racing. 

“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of the night with you,” he mumbled after a while, his eyes fluttering open.

“David, it’s alright,” you said, your thumb brushing back and forth across his cheekbone, trying to pull his mind out of the depths you knew too well. “I’m glad just to do this. I’m kind of crazy about you.”

“Kind of?”

“Yeah, just a little bit.”

“What would I have to do to make you a fully-fledged lunatic?”

“Horrible, indecent things that would get me sent home in shame.”

He laughed. “But crazy about me?”

“Absolutely wild.”

He took your hand from his face, kissing your palm before holding it in his. 

You weren’t sure when you’d fallen asleep, but you awoke the next morning with an unforgiving crick in your neck, and the thought of the recently delivered aspirin tempted you for a split second before you realized you’d woken up by yourself.

He probably slipped out at some point, returning to his bunk so neither of you would get into any trouble. It didn’t stop you from asking around for him until you finally caught him alone.

“Hey, where’d you run off to?” you asked.

“Sink wants another patrol,” Webster told you, watching cautiously as your hands balled into fists at your side.

You fought back tears of frustration. “Then I wanna go too. I’ll make sure nothing like what happened last night happens again. Where’s Captain Winters? I’ll–”

“Winters is going to tell him a phony story about how we went back but couldn’t get any more prisoners.”

You paused, your brain taking a moment to process the information before you let out a weak laugh in disbelief, the tears that’d welled up in your eyes rolling down your cheeks regardless. Maybe you were delirious. Or sleep deprived. And your neck still hurt. “That man is a fucking saint.”

Webster smiled, putting his arm around you and pressing a kiss to your temple. “He is. Especially since that leaves me free the rest of the night.”

“You know, this handsome guy just gave me a brand new copy of The Postman Always Rings Twice.”

“Sounds like he has good taste.”

You smiled. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

[cantcatchmeee]

[monsieurharlemboy]

Jacques Webster.

[micamicster]

Bruce Springsteen's eleventh album THE GHOST OF TOM JOAD as Penguin Classics (series): Rembrandt / Ary Scheffer / Henri Regnault / Jasper Johns / Camille Corot / Antonio Sequi / Jacques Louis David / Frank Webster / Andrew Wyeth / Henry Ossawa Tanner / Andrew Wyeth / Gyula Benczúr

[searchingfortheuniverse]

Side B - I Hate To Hear That You're Feeling Low

Part Two (even though it was written first) of my gift for @terresdebrume! The Harnere you wanted! I hope it brings you joy <3

Rated T for swearing, non-graphic descriptions of past injury and imagined death. Like Side A, the title comes from Listen to the Man by George Ezra and can also be found on AO3 :)

Pairing: Bill Guarnere/Babe Heffron, implied Joe Liebgott/David Webster Summary: When Babe dreams about the Bois Jacques, it's always a relief to wake up next to Bill.

It feels like all his dreams are about Bill, now. He goes to sleep and then he's cold and sick to his stomach as the shelling begins. Usually, it's a retelling of a story he knows all too well, reality made vivid in his mind. Sometimes, though, like tonight, there's a change in trajectory that makes it a direct hit instead, and Babe jolts awake having just confronted the possibility of a world without Bill.

His sudden waking makes the shape next to him in the bed shift. He knows there's no way Bill has slept through it; to a man, every one of them who'd made it through is a light sleeper now, as far as Babe knows. Bill sits up more slowly than Babe had, taking his time to limit sudden movements. There's a shift of moonlight making its way through the curtains to hit his face, and there's a lurch of relief in Babe's stomach at being able to see the handsome features even though they're twisted in concern.

"You dreaming again?"

Babe just shrugs. Bill nods once, then swings his leg out of bed, grabbing his crutch.

"Where–?"

"Come on. Coffee."

"Aw, Jesus, Bill, it's the middle of the night. You won't get any more sleep if you get up and get moving."

"Yeah, well, if I know you – and trust me, Babe, I do – you ain't getting any more sleep either way. So I'm gonna sit with you. Now, get outta the damn bed."

If he were less shaken by the imagined image of Bill lying in the snow, eyes unseeing, Babe would probably put up more than a token argument. Instead, he lets himself be shepherded into their shitty little kitchen and watches as Bill busies himself with making coffee. It's been long enough now that there's no hesitation or extra caution when the mug is carried over and unceremoniously shoved into Babe's hands.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping on the too-hot coffee. After the dream, the warmth of it is a welcome contrast to the snows of the Bois Jacques that Babe sometimes wonders if he ever really left. Eventually, the quiet is broken by Bill speaking again.

"Was it the same one?"

"The worst one. Where it wasn't just your leg."

Bill's mouth twitches downward. He's good at making the best of the situation, but Babe's nightmares are one of the things he can't quite keep an upbeat attitude about. He quickly schools his expression out of unhappiness.

"No point in me telling you it didn't happen, since I'm talking to you right now. So come here and drink your coffee."

Obediently, Babe shuffles his chair around the table and lets himself be tucked under Bill's arm as he takes a sip of his drink. It's not comfortable, but it is comforting, and that's the better option right now. He shifts, then flinches as he recalls curling into Spina's side in Bastogne after losing Julian. Bill freezes, letting Babe find another angle which is a little less emotionally fraught.

"Talk to me?" Babe says, once he's settled into as good a position he can.

"Don't know what you want me to tell you," Bill says, even as the words start coming, "I was going to send Malarkey a letter, tell him when we'll be there. Said he's only got the one spare bed, but it ain't like he doesn't know, so we'll say we'll share, right?"

"Mm," Babe hums in agreement, "We're taking a bottle of something, right?"

"Yeah," Bill says, "Was thinking the, uh, y'know, whatever it is."

He's clearly forgotten the name of the whiskey the two of them had tried and enjoyed the other day. It doesn't matter; Babe knows which one he means.

"Yeah, he'll like that one."

"Thought we could pick it up Saturday," Bill suggests. Babe nods, the movement of his head his only real response, and Bill cards fingers through his hair absently. "Great. And, hey, fuck, I didn't get a chance to say before we went to bed, you know Web was looking for Liebgott? He fucking found him, if you can believe it."

"No," Babe says, surprised, "You're shitting me. Seriously? I thought we'd never hear from him again."

"Yeah, well, turns out Web's a stubborn fucker when he wants to be. Chuck told Tab who told Luz who told me that the guy just showed up on his damn doorstep, if you can believe it, asking how recovery was going and looking for clues like some sort of detective."

"Jesus. Bet Liebgott was fucking thrilled when Web actually found him."

"Yeah, well, even if he was goddamn furious it didn't stop him showing back up, because Luz said that Tab said that Chuck said next thing he knew, Liebgott was knocking on the door right alongside Webster."

"And what did Chuck do?"

"Hell if I know, Luz had to hang up so I didn't get the end of the story."

"Any word on if Lieb's going to reach out to anyone else?"

"Well, I would have said no, but I'd also have said there was less chance of Webster finding Liebgott than there was of him finding my fucking leg, so..." He trails off, realising what exactly has them sitting here in the middle of the night.

Babe blinks at him for a few seconds. Then he collapses into helpless laughter.

"Jesus Christ, Bill," he manages to choke out, "Jesus fucking Christ!"

Bill's laughing too now. It takes a minute, but eventually their chuckles subside and Bill drops an absent-minded kiss onto Babe's hair.

"You want to try sleeping again?"

"It's almost time to get up!" Babe points out.

It's true; the room is slowly being bathed in the golden light of sunrise. Bill shrugs.

"It's Saturday. We don't have plans. We've got time."

Yeah, Babe thinks as he lets Bill lead him back to bed by the hand, we've got all the time in the world.

[blimbo-buddy]

I pray we see more Kittypets who are mean to clan cats in the future, Coco (PebbleShine's Kits), Susan, Jacques, Pasha, Ziggy, O'Hara, Riga, Victor, Scarlet, Webster, Duke, you will all forever be famous