#should have called it French invasion

[justanotherdrfan]

Welcome again to DTS BREAKDOWN!

Spoilers below to proceed with caution!

S6E8 (Forza Ferrari) 🏎️

Producer: ‘I’m gonna ask you some questions’ , Fred: ‘Okay, but I’m not in the police station.’ (Hahahaha Fred my man what have you gotten yourself into before for that to be your default response) ☠️

They did not start talking about Ferrari in Italian culture and show Charles face superimposed on Jesus! 😂

Fred asks if he has to be serious? Producer: no be yourself. Fred immediately proceeds to blow a raspberry (GIVE THIS MAN HIS OWN SHOW STAT)

Will: You could have a less serious person running Ferrari and he’s not even Italian! (This episode makes up for the bullshit McLaren one)

And he doesn’t speak Italian makes it 1000 times better

We made mistakes. Cue mistakes montage

Ahh the best looking teammates on the grid (for now until Lewis rocks up)

The fact he does his interviews in French is fucking hilarious 

Nawww mama Sainz 🥺

Frederica from sky Italy is absolutely beautiful

Pole at Monza but we all know it’s Max GP week in week out in 2023

Will: if you don’t convert pole to a win it’s the biggest failure (don’t say that in front of Charles)

Omg the woman clutching a Charles Jesus photo to her chest watching the Monza race

Oh wait there there’s an even bigger photo of his at the bar next to the tv they are watching from

Max on the hunt is honest prime content

The collective groan of the Tifosi watching Max take it rightful place in 1st

Ohh Checo finally did something right and overtakes both Ferraris (but in front of the Tifosi) 😬

Here we go DTS trying to make out like Ferrari are fighting but newsflash they both said in the post race interviews that was one of the funniest races they both had

The Tifosi are outraged at them fighting on track

Don’t mess with the Tifosi they are brutal

Fred, Carlos and Charles lunching about working as team and Carlos goes let’s do it at Singapore (excuse me was this recorded before or after the fact because it smells fishy set up to me)

Ohh look someone in an ice bath at Singapore (wait it’s Kevin sorry not interested)

‘A rare mistake by the Red Bulls’ in qualifying (um no it’s a weekly event with Checo please get your facts straight)

Ohh look the week the car ‘Rocky’ wasn’t feeling well and let Max down

Using Charles as a sacrificial lamb (very Jesus like)

To the window to the wall (a Logan story)

Ahh not Ferrari once again fucking up a pitstop for Charles

To the window to the wall (a George story)

Carlos P1 in Singapore (cue smooth operator)

Poor baby Jesus Charles

Fred on the podium (things we love to see)

Ohh look all of the Tifosi are changing their tune about Fred (Italians are easily swayed given the year that was)

[darlingmbappe]

The Loneliest [Epilogue] | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Epilogue]

Summary: A glimpse into your life with Kylian Mbappé.

Warnings: Smut, oral (male and female receiving), cussing, crying, pregnancy, badly google translated french, super cheesy (sorry not sorry), I feel like I got a little preachy at the end there but I feel like it fits, so it stayed in, 10.8k words so read when you have time to spare lmao. Let me know if I missed anything! – English is not my first language –

Masterlist

"You seriously need to get out of this place." Kylian grunted as he wiped his hands on a dirty hand towel, sweat shining on his forehead.

You scoff. "You're telling me." You leave the fruit you were slicing on the counter to lean over and quickly peck him on the lips. "Thanks for fixing the AC, babe."

"Don't thank me yet. I don't even know if I did any of that right." He chuckles, stealing a peach slice from the cutting board and popping it in his mouth.

Fair point. Though you felt the air finally blowing coolly on your sweaty neck, Kylian was absolutely not a handyman. But all you had to do was bat your lashes and he was game, taking his shirt off with a wink and throwing it at you jokingly.

Even after almost seven months of living in this shoebox, your landlord had only come once to replace your doorknob which promptly fell off the next day. Besides being absolute dog shit at his job, he's a creepy man. Always with a lingering stare and invasive questions. Kylian met him one time and assured you you didn't have to call that guy ever again, that he'd take care of any maintenance issues. You laughed out loud when he told you this which bruised his ego, but he's kept his word.

So far, he's successfully captured and released a rat, unsuccessfully repaired your ceiling fan, and more recently, accidentally sprayed himself in the face with a vicious stream of water while trying to fix your drippy kitchen faucet. He was pissed, but only for a second. Your unstoppable laughter cut right through his bad mood that was sure to explode out. Instead, you both shared a moment of wheezing, clutching your stomachs and clinging onto each other for balance.

It had been a good six months officially back together. Better than good. The relationship itself was easy. Of course it was easy… you knew him inside and out, and vice versa. You’d tried to keep your guard up, truly... but, whenever Kylain wrapped his large hand around your waist like he was now, you melted into him.

You continue slicing peaches and berries, Kylian's sweaty and shirtless body pressed behind you to look over your shoulder, resting his chin on your bone, placing only one kiss to the side of your neck to hear you giggle. The sweet sound was his absolute favorite since the moment he met you. The spot where your shoulder met your neck would scrunch into his face when his lips landed there — a useful piece of information he took advantage of ever since he discovered it.

“I have a knife in my hand, you know.” You warned playfully, making him squeeze you affectionately.

“Wow, I’m very scared.”

“You should be.” You set the knife down and turn in his arms, facing Kylian, only a couple inches away from his face. “I’m deadly.”

“That, you are.” He mumbled in a sultry tone, pressing forward to kiss you without hesitation, letting his hands begin to move on your hips, pulling your body directly into his.

You wrap your arms around his neck and move your mouth against his, careful not to touch him with your sticky fingers. He smiles against you, walking your entwined bodies backwards until his leg hits the couch, bringing you both down onto the soft cushions.

“Kylian!” You chuckled delightedly, pulling away from his face as you straddled his lap, his hands resting on your ass comfortably. “I’m making a tart.”

“Let’s make out first.” He dictated, biting his lip as his stare became needier.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with an adoring grin. “It won’t take me long to finish.”

“Me neither.” He joked, wiggling his eyebrows, defensively laughing as you smacked his arm at the comment.

You still haven’t had sex, not since before the break up. It wasn’t a precaution or punishment you intended on keeping for this long, but you wanted the timing to be perfect. You understand that this is quite a large amount of pressure to put on one single moment, but it’s a part of you you didn’t want to give away just yet. A safety net, of sorts. It had been almost eight months since that dreary night of your birthday. To some, that might seem like a long period to not have sex — but to you, the broken intimacy extends far past the parameters of time. You’d do it when you were sure you were ready.

Thankfully, Kylian accepted your decision and respected it, but refused to hold back his affections. Physically, he didn’t think he could. You were just so cute, so sexy, and exclusively his again.

You climbed off his lap, tusking at him as you walked away back into the kitchen. Not a far walk, but Kylian enjoyed the view nonetheless.

He wanted you so bad. Obviously, the amazing sex wasn’t even close to the sole reason for wanting you back… but he was just a man. An impressive man, yes. But still only a man. He could whine about it as much as he wanted to, but this was still your timeline and his fuck up.

You were stuck in a daydream as you began to roll the dough out. Your shitty oven preheated fourteen degrees hotter than your recipe called for, but the heat mechanism inside was as old as Paris itself. You’d had one too many under baked dishes until you finally figured it out. You made sure the line was drawn for handyman-Kylian when he needed to stick his head inside of an oven.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when the oven started to click. Now, you’re no expert, but that’s not something an oven should do. You and Kylian both locked eyes, a furrow of concern growing on both your faces as the clicking turned to rattling. Then, it began shaking, shaking until it plopped itself open like in a cartoon, the oven door breaking off completely and clanging on your floor, sending a wave of strong heat straight to your face.

“Jesus!” You jumped back and Kylian was pulling you away toward the front door in a millisecond.

“Stay there!” He yelled running back to the kitchen, carefully stepping around the heated door on the ground while avoiding the scorching air from the oven, turning the knob to turn it off hurriedly. He sprinted back to you as you both watched the oven calm itself, the laser red heaters inside slowly dwindling.

You stared at your kitchen with tears of frustration brimming your eyes, uniting your apron and throwing it down. “I fucking hate this place!” You crossed your arms, well aware your pout looked like a third graders.

Kylian hooked his arm around your shoulder, bringing your crying figure into his chest. “I know, amour. I know.”

Kylian felt waves of guilt in moments like these, knowing that if it weren’t for him, you’d be comfortable in your shared home, lavishly living like he wanted you to. Like you were meant to. He’d offered many times to at least let him pay for an upgrade, but the scowl alone let him know that he was not to do that. You made it clear that your life and his were to be separate until further notice. Even offering to buy you a new shower head was crossing that line, no matter how badly you wanted one that didn’t feel like you were being pissed on by an elderly man.

“How ‘bout we finish your tart at my place?” He murmurs, tilting your head up, wiping the tears away carefully. You nuzzled your nose back into his skin, nodding and sniffling.

He helped you place everything neatly in Tupperware containers while you made yourself an overnight bag.

You kept disposables at his place; toothbrush, extra face wash, makeup wipes… the sort of things that were replaceable in case anything went awry. But recently, you’d notice you’d leave your charger there accidentally, a couple of nice shirts or jeans. Though you scolded yourself for the carelessness, a part of you was happy your subconscious knew you’d be back there. The possibility of everything going to shit again wasn’t anywhere in sight, but you didn't want to jinx it.

His place always smelled the same. Woody, slightly floral, airy like the windows were always left open. Your place, on the other hand, always smelled of mildew, no matter how long you’d let fresh air in, how many candles you lit, how many air fresheners you bought. His home was evocative. Comforting. The perfect place to finish your tart.

“Can I help?” Kylian asked, taking yet another peach from your tray.

“Yeah, how about you stop stealing my ingredients?” You poked, sifting more flour on his countertop.

“But they taste so good.”

“Don’t care. Chef’s rules.” You shrug, pulling the bowl of fruit away from Kylian.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly as you focused on making your desert, continuing to roll the dough out like you had been trying to do for the past hour. Suddenly, you felt a sharp whip on your ass.

“Ah!” You squeal, turning around and seeing Kylian wearing a shit eating grin and holding a kitchen towel innocently. “You whipped me!” You try and hold back a grin, but it slipped through.

Kylian shrugged. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Oh, you wanna mess with me?” You shake your head, taking the towel that was thrown over your shoulder and twisting it menacingly, instantly sending Kylian on defense with his own towel.

You both were set in position, just waiting for the other to make a move. You tried your luck and it worked, whipping him right on the leg.

“Putain!” He curses, immediately retaliating but missing when you step back. You tried again, hitting him in the butt as he attempted to run away, laughing when you heard his playful scream. “Oh, now you’re really gonna get it, mon chérie.”

You both psyched each other out on opposite ends of the kitchen island, giggling at every move you made. This was Kylian's game. Having professional practice at this daily, he caught you when you tried to make a run for the living room, strong arms wrapping around your waist.

“No!” You cackled, doing your best to hit him with the rag as your limbs went weak with joy, letting him carry your full body weight down to the couch, your head landing on the cushion as he straddled you. He poked your sides, successfully tickling you into a silent laughing mess, big intakes of air were few and far between until you could pull yourself together enough to wave your white flag. “Okay! Okay! I give up! You win!”

He stopped, chuckling at you who was still calming down, arms protectively covering your stomach. Kylian was absolutely filled with adoration at this moment. He loved seeing you so happy, so candid, so full of life. He loved knowing he played a part in that. That he made you laugh. He was responsible for the now subdued giggles that found their way up from your chest by their own accord.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and kissed your lips so sweetly that it made him dizzy… it made you dizzy. You placed your gentle hands on his face, pulling him in deeper, scratching the nape of his neck and pulling back enough to watch the goosebumps flood his skin.

“You still love when I do that.” You mumble, voice quiet and wispy.

He hummed, turning his head to kiss your wrist. “I just love you.”

Your heart thumped at his affirmation. It did every time. “I love you too.”

With nothing else left to say, you pulled him back into you, letting the passion take over as your leg wrapped up and around his waist to pull him closer.

He might as well have been devouring you, soaking in every ounce of love you presented him with. His tongue lapped yours, hands roaming up and down your sides, feeling the hums you sang in his entire body like electricity.

His hips began to grind gently on yours, lost in the sweet kisses you bombarded him with as he moved down your neck, leaving purposeful hickeys on it as proof that he was there. Proof that you were his. He began to get hard, something he’d usually try and hide to not make you feel bad about the no sex thing, but he didn’t this time. He was too caught up in this moment with you.

Without much warning, you flipped both of your bodies around, now straddling his taken-aback figure. You leaned down and pressed one single long kiss on his lips before pulling off completely, standing and walking away.

You left Kylian on his back, a disappointed look on his features as he caught his breath, your body nowhere near his anymore. He wanted to fully feel you again so badly, already making a plan to excuse himself to the bathroom for approximately 5-10 minutes to take care of himself.

Before he could, a piece of clothing landed on his body. He looked at it confused, leaning up and over the back of the couch to see you standing halfway up the staircase, topless, a flirtatious smirk dancing across your features. Once you saw the realization hit him, you giggled and jogged up the stairs.

He only let himself sit in shock for a second before he jolted up, making long strides toward the staircase, following the trail of clothing. Your shorts, your socks, until he reaches the doorknob that you hung your bra on. He took them all in his hands, slowly opening the door.

There you were — revealed, laying with your arms propped up, facing his direction in nothing but a pair of underwear, your figure shining in the afternoon sun that was steeping through the open window. The backlighting provided a luminous halo around your head, eyes traveling down to your hardened nipples, your navel, your legs — you looked completely angelic. His limbs lost the ability to hold up your strung clothing anymore, letting them drop to his feet as he exhaled, eyes hooded with need.

“Shut the door, baby.”

He does as he’s told, closing it with his foot so he wouldn’t have to turn away from your practically naked body. As he walked to you, he shed his own clothing, leaving himself only in boxer briefs when he reached you, laying on top of you. He wastes no time kissing you, showing you how desperate he is for this moment to go on.

His left hand held his weight up as his right traced a gentle path from your thigh to your neck, pulling your face ever closer to his, noses smushed against each other.

You whimpered, feeling wetness pool between your legs, moving your hips against his now obvious erection. You placed your thumb under the hem of his boxers, tugging them down as far you could until he rolled over on his back and pulled them down the rest of the way, erection slapping his stomach. His eyes were wide as you straddled him again, placing your warm hands on his bare chest.

“You’re so sweet to me.” You praised, voice like candy but extremely sultry. You pecked his bicep. “And patient.” You kissed his chest. “And thoughtful.” Just above his belly button. “You’re… everything to me.” You sigh, kissing almost the base of his wanting member, keeping eye contact as you grab it, kissing his red tip.

He whined at the contact, caressing your hair. “Bébé…” He wanted to say so much more, but when he saw your lips wrap around his head, all he could do was throw his head back into the pillow and lift it just as fast, not wanting to miss a second of this moment.

You took him down slowly, twisting your hand up and down with slight pressure, tracing the familiar veins as you went on. His moans were pure filth, just getting filthier the deeper you took him. You were proud of yourself for not losing your deepthroating abilities as his tip went down your throat and your lips met his base, massaging his balls as he groaned into the air.

You pulled back and flattened your tongue against his slit, using the tip of your tongue to circle around it stiffly. “Mon dieu…” He hissed, breathy and laced with unadulterated pleasure.

Finally, you gave into your craving – fully realizing how much you’d missed having him in the palm of your hand like this. Taking the entirety of his length all the way back in without warning made his hips jolt into you, causing you to gag but not pull back. His eyes were fixed on yours and how tears formed on your lashes. Your mouth is so full of him, bursting at the seams as your lips touched his base. The way you tried to take him deeper with a slow shake of the head… it all drove him mad. He felt like he was under your spell.

The shallow breaths and whines Kylian sounded out made you soak your panties even more. You felt as if he were close, but you didn’t want him to come. Not yet.

You pulled him out with a pop, wiping the corners of your mouth as he wasted no time sitting up. His gaze didn’t falter as he watched how you stood on your knees on the bed, straddling his legs, looking down at Kylian who made eye contact as his hands were placed flat on the outsides of your thighs. Slowly, he pulled your panties down. He was practically face to face with your pussy but felt the need to look at you, your eyes, the way you bit your lip. He finally looked forward and groaned appreciatively at the sight, seeing you glisten for him.

“You’re perfect.” He said almost to himself, putting his hands on the round of your ass to get you to shuffle into his face. Once you were close enough, he buried himself in your slit immediately as you grabbed his shoulders and dug your nails in.

He tilted back to get the perfect angle for his tongue to meet your clit, expertly moving his tongue back and forth, up and down, every direction with consistency and pressure. He couldn’t get enough of your taste, feeling like an addict who’s relapsed on his drug of choice.

He couldn’t be positive that this wasn’t another wet dream as he watched your chest heave above him, the light now hitting you directly. It illuminated every goosebump, every divot, every curve, every stretch mark, every bit of your skin. He didn’t even know if he was blinking, taking a mental video of the way you looked right now for later, whenever he was alone.

Your legs shook as he added a finger up into you, then another to accompany it. “Holy… fuck… yes!” You couldn’t keep the moans in if you tried, your mind blank from anything but the thought, why the hell did I wait this long again? You’d know the answer in a heartbeat if Kylian hadn’t begun scissoring his digits, curling them like he had a map telling him exactly where to go.

“Oh, god… Kylian… yes! Right there… feels so good, baby.” You blabbered, maybe not as coherent as you meant for it to come out, but Kylians ears perked at any noise he could get out of you, pressing his face lower and deeper into your pussy. He continued to eat you out, fingering you mercilessly. His own moans were blubbered, sending the vibrations through you anyway, amplifying the sensation of him being tucked between your legs.

“Ky… fuck!” Your voice shook along with your legs as you neared your climax. “You’re gonna make me cum so hard, baby.” You grabbed the back of his head and pushed it harder against you. He wanted to tell you how he wanted to feel you cum all over his face, on his tongue, on his fingers… but couldn’t find it in him to pull away from your sweetness.

Instead, he laid down on his back, doing his best to pull you with him to not break his movements. You let him pull your body down to effectively sit on his face, eyes rolling back at the increased pressure as he tugged you deeper.

“Holy shit.” You groan, grabbing the headboard with a white fist, peeking down at Kylian who had his hands wrapped around your upper thighs, his eyes the only visible portion of his face from where he drowned himself in you.

His long, long fingers were relentless at speeds you’d only attribute to him, tongue lapping perfectly in sync, brutally abusing your sensitive bundle of nerves over, and over, and over, and over…

“Oooh, fuuuck!” Your high pitched voice elongated and wobbly as your orgasm nearly brought spots to your eyes, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You shook uncontrollably as Kylian continued to lap up everything you gave him, fingers still working inside of you until you instinctively used any strength left in you to pull off of him, moving your hips lower until your upper body rested completely on top of his.

Kylian breathed heavily on his back, feeling so accomplished and satisfied, no matter how painfully hard he still was. He was surprised he didn’t blow his load watching and listening to you scream his name. Even now he could cum with the feeling of your wetness bare on his skin and your lazy kisses on his peck, shaking fingers reaching down to tangle your hands together.

Without saying anything, you pulled yourself up, shifting your weight until you were lined up with his cock, pressing your wet core down on it and grinding against him.

“Ah…” He groaned, shutting his eyes at the friction. “I really am not gonna last if you do that, bébé.”

You bit your lip and smirked lovingly down at him, untangling your hands and used them to run up and down his bare chest. Feeling his muscles flex and heave was so intimate, wanting, needing to feel every inch of his skin with your own.

You lifted your hips once more, using one of your hands to line up his girthy member to your weeping core, letting it prod you open like he has hundreds of times before. The tightness from your last orgasm, the slick mix of his own spit and your cum, the feeling of finally getting to bury himself inside you once more… to think it all felt elusive to him just six months ago. To think he could have lost you forever.

His brows furrowed as you took him to the hilt, resting there to let yourself adjust to his massive size. Kylian looked to where your bodies connected, biting his lip to keep from moaning at just the sight. His hands grabbed your ass cheeks as you slowly began to move. The stretch was perfect, the pain from it even heightened the sensation of the intimate act.

“Fuck.” Kylian breathed as you found a slow rhythm, bouncing up and down on his dick.

He began to meet you halfway with his thrusts, hypnotized by the way your tits bounced in his face as you leaned forward. He hummed in pleasure, reaching out in front of him to grab two handfuls of your breasts, tweaking your nipples under his fingers, tugging at the supple skin.

The sun beamed on you like a goddess, as he continued to watch you in perfect clarity. The noises in the room were filthy, moans and grunts, skin slapping together, low curses that groveled out straight from your chests.

Your legs became tired and you leaned forward more, bodies pressed up against one another completely as you moved your hips against his, feeling your second orgasm beginning to brew inside your lower belly.You buried your face in Kylians neck as he held your body tightly, hugging your torso as you continued to move back and forth.

He could tell your muscles were sore from riding him, so he shifted his hips up slightly. “You’re so amazing.” He praised into your ear, kissing your shoulder as he propped his legs up. “I love you so much.”

Kylian, though not on top, wanted to have some of the control. Make you feel so good. He positioned himself perfectly to fuck up into you… and he did.

The first thrust was deep and hard. “Oh, Ky… oh… fuck!” You moan out, pulling back from his neck to look him in the eye. The second thrust was the same. And the third. And the fourth. His pace was ruthless and tender, perfectly rough as the drag of his dick going in and out, poking and poking that spot that made your toes curl into themselves.

You cussed out, moaned out his name — the vibrato of your moans matching the continuing thrusts into you that didn’t falter, didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. Not even when you saw the familiar scrunch between his eyebrows raise up.

“You gonna cum inside me, baby?” You heaved, not knowing how much longer you’d be able to hold your own climax.

He screws his eyes shut, trying to form a word but just grunting instead, nodding quickly. You leaned down and kissed him, gently biting his lower lip and tugging it.

He held you tighter, leaning up to press his forehead to yours, lips and noses brushing against each other, breaths becoming one as your opened mouth pants fanned the others face. “Cum with me, amour.”

“Mhm.” You hummed out a moan of agreement, actual words being much more difficult.

Staring dotingly into the eyes of the man you love, letting him make love to you… Bare and vulnerable together. Tethered to each other through years of good humor and solid devotion. In that moment, you two felt unbreakable. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter. Not even a little bit. You’d weathered the storm and found out it was impossible to survive it without the other. That feeling of true love translating into a physical act, knowing that the emotions you held for each other were authentic and reciprocated was a feeling you’d carry with you for the rest of your life.

You felt the warmth spread in your lower abdomen as you curled into Kylians sweaty body. “I’m gonna cum,” you pant, bracing his shoulders.

“Me too. Fuck.” He cursed, not wanting this moment to end. He continued his thrusts, watching the pleasure and torture grow on your face by the second. He thrusts again, again, again, again, until he knew he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “Cum for me, bébé.”

You cried out into his mouth. He did the same, squeezing your body against his so tightly. Simultaneously, your orgasms ripped through your bodies. Your walls shook around him as he spurted his hot seed inside you, effectively painting your walls white as he fucked it deeper into you. He did his best to keep his eyes open, needing to see how you fell apart… It was magic.

His thrusts slowed until they halted altogether. Your ears rang at the silence that followed the passion, slowly regaining the ability to listen to the synchronized breathing, the rapid heartbeats that thumped loudly against the others chest, the faint ambiance of the outside world you both had forgotten about, only focused on the one true love in front of you… in front of him.

“Kylian?” You heaved after a moment of basking in each other's presence, feeling his hand move up and up your bare back to hold the back of your head against his chest.

“Yes, mon amour?”

You paused, smiling and kissing his chest tenderly. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna finish that tart.”

Five months later

“Okay. Fine. I’ll hand it to you.” You sigh, hand resting on your hips as you try and catch your breath. “This was definitely worth the hike.”

Kylian blew a raspberry as he set the blanket down on the tall grass. “That was barely a hike.”

“It was a steep hill.”

“You didn’t even carry anything.” He pointed out, setting the basket down and gesturing to it. “That shit is heavy.”

“You packed it.” You respond, walking over and sitting down on the checkered material and shuffling through the items in the wicker basket. “Oh, damn. Ky. I thought this was going to be like… ziplock baggies and canned wine kind of picnic.”

“Canned wine?” He repeated, shocked and almost offended.

“It’s a thing.” You shrugged, pulling out the glass tins full of food, opening them, spreading them around neatly as he sat next to you and helped by lighting a candle he brought to keep away the bugs.

He pulled out a bottle of cabernet, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Tonight is for real wine.” He stated, uncorking the bottle with the corkscrew.

He really thought of everything.

You thanked him as he handed you a stemless glass full of red liquid. “You’re so cute.” You mumble, watching him as he opened the container with pastries, neatly organized, somehow unaffected by the long drive and trek up to this spot. A light laugh escaped his lips, shy under your loving gaze. You squeeze his hand for a second before you request, “let me take a picture of you, honey.” 

It obviously wasn’t a suggestion as you shuffled opposite of him, positioning yourself behind your cell phone.

Kylian smiled, squinting slightly at the direct sunlight of the lowering sun. The captured moment couldn’t be more sweet, feeling a goofy giggle rise from your chest looking at your man digitally captured. It couldn’t possibly compare to the actual sight, but it was a close second.

“Adorable.” You go back to your spot, now leaning some of your body weight on his shoulder. “Let's eat. I’m starving.”

He chuckled, having heard that from you the second he began driving from the small rental cabin in the French countryside to this spot. A secluded hillside facing west, painted with wildflowers and tall grass. He felt around discreetly in his pocket, finding that the small box was still secured safely in there.

He handed you a cloth napkin when he saw you devouring one of the finger sandwiches and using your hand as a plate. You thanked him with a giggle, not even embarrassed about the glob of mustard you felt at the corner of your mouth.

You both carried casual conversations while you munched on the packed dinner; listening to his stories about the team, asking about family members, laughing at inside jokes, gossiping about people at your work… domestic conversations that flowed like a river downstream.

The way you gently brushed away a crumb on the corner of his mouth… how you’d take a bite of his pastry even though you had your own…  watching your nose scrunch up and your head tilt back when he made you laugh… when he shielded you from the gentle spring breeze and you tucked yourself deeper into him until eventually, the pair of you might as well have combined into one. It was all so comfortable.

He noticed as you became distracted from the conversation, the clouds in the sky whisking together as the colors change catching your attention more than his locker room story.

“It's so beautiful here..." You mumble softly, trying to conserve this serene moment. You romanticized this kind of life; settling down in the French countryside; acres of open land and rolling hills, living off of homegrown vegetables and freshly squeezed lemonade.

Kylian pulled your shoulder down into his body, letting you use him as a headrest until you shuffled your way in between his open legs, falling into his warm embrace as if it was chiseled just for you by whatever higher power was out there.

He wrapped a snug and affectionate hug around your waist, pressing his cheek to the side of your head. Solely your presence in this time was enough to make him yearn to grow roots; plant himself deep into this soil with you in his embrace. The old oak trees that were scattered across the land were calling him to settle down with them. They reached toward the sun, strong and tall, branching out with leaves that danced happily in the sporadic gusts of air, content in their growth, their place, their permanence.

Ever since he'd known you, he knew you had a thing for sunsets. You would point them out so frequently as if it were your first time ever seeing one. His fondest memory is winning your love back while watching the long rays of sun break through the clouds in his Paris home, the home you finally share again. Well over a year has passed, but he remembered every detail like it just happened the day before. That's why this was the place he'd ask you – again – to marry him. This time, he'd see it through. He'd watch you walk down the aisle. He'd kiss you after declaring his love in front of everyone. He'd spend the rest of his days cherishing you, growing a family of your own, reminding you how perfect you are to him.

He kissed your temple, warmth spreading when you pressed into his lips, hearing you take a deep breath in. He took one also, preparing himself for what’s to come. "Come on. I gotta show you something."

He stood up and helped you along, grabbing your hand and entwined your fingers, leading you down the hill, walking hand in hand for a couple minutes. You saw it immediately, even from yards away; the field of wildflowers that sprung up from the ground, invading the land for miles was impossible to ignore. The untouched area leaves them at peace to grow and be beautiful, insusceptible to the wrath of lawn mowers and weed-wackers.

As their petals reflected the gold rays of the sun, the light changed the colors of your skin. He couldn’t focus on the deep warming hues above him like you were, completely distracted from the sight. The sun kissed the horizon and he could see its mirrored image in your eyes. He decided that was a much better way to experience this.

“Kylian.” You breathed, your voice airy and dreamy. Your eyes couldn’t be torn away as you walked into the field of flowers, feeling the stems tickle your ankles. Kylian stayed in place, your hands parting when you walked too far away. “Look at the sky.”

He found himself in this situation before, having to disobey your request once again as his eyes were preoccupied. He wished he was a painter so he could recreate this scene and look at it forever; put it up in a museum with a silver plaque that told everyone how much you mean to him — though he was sure that even with the largest of vocabularies, the words to truly explain the way you made him feel didn’t exist. It was allconsuming. Overpowering. Unreal.

He thought about the last time he was in this position – with a ring burning a hole in his pants pocket. The sweat beads on his forehead were obvious that night, having to use his suit jacket’s sleeve to keep them out of his eyes. He remembered how all of your peers cheered when you said yes, the rooftop restaurant rented out for only your close friends and family. It was nice experiencing that blissful moment with others, but today felt calmer. Like the eyes of the world couldn’t reach you. The pressure of it all was still heavy, but his soul was still as water in a pond, only riddled by the distant worry of the inevitable day's end — healed rapidly by the knowledge he’d have you in his arms every day after.

You faced the horizon still, back turned to him when his knee had found the earth below him, his fingers clutching the pocket sized box. He should be nervous now like he had been all week, overthinking every integral moment of the rebuild of your relationship — but he knew right now, in this moment, in his heart, it’d be you and him forever. Just as the universe intended.

“Isn’t it perfect?” The words escaped your lips just as you twirled around, not expecting to have to look down to meet your lover's adoring gaze. You gasp, putting your hand on your chest at the man on one knee.

You two shared a second of silence, throats clogged with weeps that waited patiently to break free inside your throats, hearts beating at the same pace, bound to each others’ without the promise of a ring.

“In all my years, I’ve found many things that make me happy in this life. But none of them compare to you.” The emotion of it all brought tears to his eyes, matching your glossy ones. “From the first moment I saw you, I was yours. Every day since, I fall deeper in love with you. I promise you, I will fight for our love until my last day on earth. I’ll work hard to keep a smile on your face, because no one can make me smile like you can. I’m so in love with you. I can’t wait to grow old with you. To grow a family. To spend the rest of our lives by each other's side. The good and the bad.”

Your hand covered your mouth, but he saw the smile reach your eyes, trails from your crying running down each finger. You sniffled into your palm, Kylian's beaming and hopeful smile radiating brighter than any sunset ever has.

He flipped open the box, still fixated on only you, and you only him. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life.” His voice cracked as the words escaped him, speaking directly from the deepest part of his soul. “Will you marry me?”

You clutched your heart once more and stumbled toward Kylian, getting down on your own knees to be at his level. You grabbed his face softly, staring into his sparkling irises, giggling happily through the tears, wiping his own with your thumbs.

“Yes!” You rejoiced, words laced in pure honey, kissing his lips aimlessly. “Of course I’ll marry you, Kylian.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, both your faces fitting delightfully in the crooks of each other's necks, wetting the skin with the endless waterfalls that fell freely.

You pulled back, kissing him once more. He kept his head close to yours as you both finally looked down at the ring inside the box.

“Oh my god, Ky.” You gasped, allowing him to take your left hand in his. “It’s gorgeous.”

His eyes wrinkled at the corners as he kissed your ring finger before sliding on the band, fitting perfectly.

“They’re the same diamonds.” He explained, referring to your first engagement ring while you took in every detail of your newest and most permanent piece of jewelry. “It didn’t feel right to give you the same ring but I couldn’t get rid of it, so...” 

He had spent months with a designer figuring out the different cuts and bands to symbolize a second beginning for an eternity with you.

“It’s perfect.”

You both stood together, heads leaning into each other until the trees turned to shadows. The moon's faint blue light provided no guidance for finding your way back to the car, yet neither of you grew any concern over it, finding security in entwined fingers and shared laughter.

Seven years later

“I’m definitely balding.” Kylians voice echoed from the hallway over the soft music playing.

You shake your head with a chuckle, arms tired from rolling and kneading a ball of dough. “No you’re not. You’ve been looking at the back of your head too much, hun.”

He saunters into the kitchen holding his phone out at arms length toward you. “Look.” You stare at his screen displaying an awkwardly self-taken picture of the crown of his head, only slightly less hair on the top than a couple years ago. “See?”

You shrug at him as he continues to analyze the image, pinching it to zoom in. “I think the back of your head looks just as handsome as the day I met you.”

He clicks his tongue, setting the phone down as if that’ll make him stop thinking about his inevitable aging. Kylian leans against the counter next to you, obviously eyeing the strawberries you’d just washed inside a bowl in the sink.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it.” You read his intentions, Kylian being a notorious and shameless ingredient thief.

A playful smirk found its way to his lips as his hand inched closer to the pile of fruit, watching and waiting for the reaction that he craved to get from you.

“Kylian…” You warned in a whiney tone as he snatched one by the stem, bringing it to his grinning lips. He made a whole show of taking a bite of it, humming and closing his eyes like it’s the best thing he had ever tasted, even rubbing his belly comically for dramatic effect. You sigh, biting back a grin that would only fuel his shenanigans. “I’m gonna have to start putting out decoy ingredients covered in hot sauce, or something.”

He smiles wider, showing off the creases in his face that are now permanent. Though he felt insecure at times about his aging skin that portrayed wrinkles even in his most relaxed state, you couldn’t love them more — a souvenir from decades of laughing and happiness. Proof of a joyous life. It’d formed your semi-new habit of kissing the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, loving how it made them more prominent as he’d grin at the simple act of adoration.

Kylian extends the other half of his bitten fruit to your mouth, feeding you the rest of the strawberry, feeling your lips brush against the pads of his fingers.

You hummed at the sweet juice, savoring the flavor. “I don’t know how your mom’s strawberries always taste so perfect.”

“I’m pretty sure she gives us the best ones.”

“She’s so cute.” You praise, washing the flour off your hands. “When are they getting here, again?”

Kylian looks at his watch. “Uh, like seven, I think.”

You nod, seeing that you’re cutting it close on timing to finish the tart, but it should give it enough time to chill once the crust is cooled off. Kylian made himself a snack as you put the crust in the oven, immediately beginning the clean up of the mess you've made with a big sigh.

While munching on a sandwich, your husband helped you by putting away the refrigerated items. You’d gotten used to the little things after all these years, like him cleaning the kitchen with you. He hated cleaning but simple things like that show love and respect. He never expected gratitude when he did these things, but you always showed him anyway.

Sometimes, you'd get to thinking about all the small acts like those that add up to keep you both feeling like equals in the relationship. Your heart just fills up, usually leading to you roughly grabbing Ky’s face and smushing your lips to his cheek, dramatically smacking loud kisses onto him with a flooding wave of appreciation for your significant other. It’d take him by surprise at the most random of times, but looked forward to your next smooch attack every time. When you’d get to looking at him for too long, sentiments you’ve collected through the years take over your brain like wildfire, needing to express your love in some physical manner before you explode. 

Kylian’s more immediate with his affections. He’d have one thought and would have to share it with you that instant. Ranging from easy compliments when he’d wake up before you, claiming “I love your nose” from the deepest part of his soul; to “you’re really turning me on right now” when you ran your hands down his chest post-shoulder rub after his training. His affections poured out of him into you.

You hummed along to the music mindlessly, songs you haven’t heard in years shuffled on your mass playlist. The beat had your hips moving and head bobbing as you began wiping down the counter, but you found yourself grinning down at the marble when the soft piano began to play through the speaker.

“I haven’t listened to this in forever.” You mumbled, not looking up to see your husband trying to contain his smile behind you at the familiar and lovely tune. 

Kylian pressed two warm hands at your hips, kissing your cheek from behind you. “Me neither.” He slowly swayed your movements to sync with his, moving his hands to wrap around your stomach loosely. “You know, I almost cried when we danced to this at our wedding.”

“Yes, I know.” You giggle, collecting some crumbs on your hand and tossing them in the sink next to you, wiping your palms with a rag. “You’re a big softie.”

Though the version you had at the wedding was much different than the original, the words still rang true. The lyrics to La Vie en Rose begin to take over the kitchen.

“Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche. Voilà le portrait sans retouches de l'homme auquel j'appartiens” A gaze that makes me lower my own, a laugh that is lost on his lips. That is the un-retouched portrait of the man to whom I belong.

“Dance with me.” He whispers, stretching his fingers over the material of your shirt.

You chuckle like a schoolgirl, looking down to try and hide your love-struck timidness. “You’re so cheesy, Ky.”

“I don’t care.” He walks your bodies away from the counter, turning you around to show you his dimpled face, looking absolutely content to just be there with you. “I want to dance with my beautiful wife.”

You gaze up at him like he hung the moon, already over yourself as you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him pull you close by the small of your back.

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras, qu'il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose. Il me dit des mots d'amour. Des mots de tous les jours, mais moi, ça me fait quelque chose.” When he takes me into his arms, He speaks to me softly, I see the world through rose-colored glasses. He speaks words of love to me. They are everyday words, but they do something to me.

He touches his forehead to yours, closing his eyes just for a second before lending them back to you. The eyes that made you feel seen so many years ago are making you feel seen, still. 

Some fights and rough patches you thought you could never get over… but you could. You did. Sure, time heals all wounds and all, but earning forgiveness takes a lot out of a relationship. Both of you had to set aside your own agendas and get over useless spurts of bitterness, grudges; forcing yourself to put aside your pride because your heart just can’t go on without the other. Love isn’t about forgetting mistakes, but growing past them together. Love is about mutual respect and security. Having a companion through it all. It’s about commitment and feeling safe in that commitment. Allowing them to see the lowest lows and trusting that they’re right there with you. 

“Il est entré dans mon cœur. Une grande part de bonheur, dont je connais la cause. C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie.” A bit of happiness that I know the cause of. It's only him for me, and for me, only him, for life. He told me, he swore to me, for life. 

You nuzzled your face into his chest, letting your arms wrap completely around him as he did the same. To be loved by him was fulfilling and exhilarating and placid and right. The feeling of your family home, familiar in ways you can't describe but can only experience through the nostalgia of fond memories. 

You didn’t even need to say the words anymore. You both just knew. Always. 

The song ends and Kylian pulls his head into the crook of your neck, needing to feel the crinkle of your skin when he places his kiss there, smiling dopily when he gets his wish. “Mon coeur.” My heart. His breath tickles you more when he whispers into you, but you just hug him tighter, feeling your devotion for him heighten in every nerve in your body.

You scratch your fingernail on the spot you have been for over a decade. The reaction not as prominent anymore. Not as it was when you were only a young couple, but it meant more to both of you than just a reaction. It was a form of saying I love you, that you know him just as he knows you, that your affection for him still lives in you just as strong as your fidelity. 

He puffs out some air with his giggle, feathering your neck again with the sudden gust as he pulled back just to take another look at you, brushing his nose with yours. 

He places his hands on your stomach once more, looking down at them as he caressed the tiny forming bump. “Number two can’t get here fast enough.”

“You can’t call it number two when they're born.” You say, voice soft to match his. “Especially not around Meline. She already has only child syndrome and she’s barely three.”

“My baby Meli is perfect.” He defends instantly. 

You shake your head, pulling away from his warm embrace. “That girl really has you wrapped around her tiny little finger.”

“She got that from you, didn’t she?” He always knew how to make you blush, even after all this time.

Kylian was head over heels for his daughter. They were attached at the hip, similar in so many ways that it frightened you. She looked just like him despite everyone saying she got your nose and smile. It was the eyes. The dark chocolaty brown, the deep set almond shape that caught the attention of anyone in their line of vision. You knew you were in trouble when you caught the first glimpse of them after she was born, already finding it difficult to say no to Kylian when he’d bat his lashes at you. Now there were two of them, getting away with their tomfoolery like masterminds, abusing their built in god-given charm. 

A nice shower and some quick tidying up later, you realized that your crust was fully cooled and you hadn't even started on the filling yet. It sat on a rack that you eyed as you finished off the pear salad. 

It’s any second now until Fayza and Wilfried arrive with Ethan to bring Meline back home. It was nice that she got to spend so much time with her grandparents. They’d pick her up in the morning and drop her off at night, sometimes she’d beg to stay at her pépé and mamis house.

Planting roots in Paris was the best decision you both could have made for your family. Kylian had explored different teams, different cities, but when you found out you were pregnant the first time around, Kylian made sure that the family had a steady base under their feet.

Kylian was marinating the chicken thighs as the grill out on the patio warmed up. You giggled as you watched him through the window, sporadically swatting at a bee that buzzed around him. It kept coming back for as long as he was out there, visibly spooking and frustrating him when it got too close to his ears.

“Stupid bee.” Kylian mumbled under his breath as he walked back in, tongs in one hand, a dirty dish in the other.

“Hello!” You hear Ethan's familiar voice bounce through the home, three sets footsteps clicking closer until the family appeared in the kitchen. Meline squealed when she saw you two, wiggling out of Ethan's arms as she reached out as far as she could for one of you to take her. 

“Mon canard!” My duckling! Kylian cooed out her nickname as he clattered the dishes in the sink to whisk her out of his brother's arms, kissing her cheek repetitively as she giggled.

You greeted your in-laws and Ethan with big smiles and hugs, taking Mel's overnight bag from Fayza. “Was she good today?” You ask as you lean over to Kylian to plant a big smooch on your daughter's chubby little hand. “Were you good for pépé and mami?” You direct it playfully at the toddler.

“I was! I pwomise!” Mel claims almost defensively, balling Kylian's grilling apron into her small fist. Everyone giggles at her. She immediately won everyone over, bringing a bright light of joy to any room she was in. “Me an’ Teetin even did clean up time.” 

Teetin is what she calls Ethan. When she was first learning to talk, Ethan constantly crowded her, trying to make her say “Oncle Ethan” since she had referred to everyone else as some sort of coherent name for days at that point. One day, she blabbered “Teetin” and he went nuts, boasting about how he finally got her to say his name. Turns out, she was saying “teetee”, as in, she was teetee-ing her diaper while he held her on the sofa. The nickname stuck, though Kylian called him piss baby for the following month.

“Yes, she was an angel, as always.” Fayza confirmed, still making googly eyes at Meli. 

You set the table outside with the help of Fayza, serving iced tea and chatting with her. Kylian and Wilfried stood together by the grill and Ethan and Meline rolled around on the grass, your baby girl giggling so joyously it warmed your heart. 

Crap, the tart.

“I’ll be right back out.” You mumble to Fayza and speed walk back in, getting all the ingredients out to make the filling, pretending you’ll be okay if it doesn’t fully chill like it’s supposed to. You’ll just have to pretend you’re okay with the tart not being firm. It was a sudden frantic feeling that hit you as you stood alone in the kitchen, overwhelmed by the raw ingredients in front of you.

Kylian was posted up at the grill with his dad, talking football as usual when he felt a tug on his jeans. He looks down at his little girl with wide eyes.

“I have t’ go teetee.” She disclaims, bouncing slightly. 

“Okay, mon canard, let’s go.” He scoops her up in his arms, feeling like they should move fast after seeing her potty dance, a tell-tale sign she waited too long to ask. “Give the thighs another minute or two before you take them off.” He instructs his father, handing him the tongs before walking back inside.

She was off of diapers and was usually good at not having any accidents, but lord knows once that little girl gets distracted, tinkle time gets pushed to the back of her to-do list.

He walks past you in the kitchen, you give him a knowing look as he scurries into the bathroom, getting her on the toilet just as she began to fuss about not being able to hold it anymore. 

“Remember, Meli, let papa know as soon as you gotta teetee, ‘kay?” He reminds her as he holds her up to the sink so she can wash her own hands. 

“Okay.” She promises, but Kylian knows her well enough to deduct that this will still happen every day. Even if you ask her if she needs to go potty she’ll say no because it’s not about to burst out. 

Ky and Mel walk out of the bathroom hand in hand into the kitchen. You were almost frantically mixing together your ingredients, puffing hair out of your face. “Need some help, maman?” Kylian questions.

“Um,” you look around at the cluttered countertop. “yes, please. Can you slice these?”

Kylian smirks as you hand him the bowl of strawberries. “It’ll cost you one strawberry, mon amour.” You give him a warning look. “We’ll share it.” He points to his daughter making grabby hands at the fruit.

“Pick a small one.”

He did not. 

Kylian picked out the biggest one in there, making sure you were too distracted with mixing your concoction than on the cheeky pair. Kylian cut the berry, handing his daughter the bigger half as she sat on the counter, legs dangling down and swinging back and forth as she sucked on the sweet fruit. It was an effective distraction from begging Kylian to let her help with the slicing. No knives for her just yet.

Kylian saw the look on your face, brows furrowed. You seemed distraught as you added the jam into the bowl, hands almost shaking. “Relax, bebe. You okay?” 

“What? Oh, yeah. I’m good.” You fake smile. “Allll good over here.”

He raises his brows, not believing you at all. He wiped his hands and put Meline back on her own two feet, leaning down to her level. “Meli, baby, go show grandma your strawberry.” He whispers. She nods, running back through the open door to the patio. Kylian watches as she holds the strawberry up to his mother, a wash of pride taking over his body for his baby girl.

Then, he walks right next to you where you were beginning to sweat from the vicious manner of mixing. He places his hand over yours holding the spatula, taking it off of the utensil. 

“Kylian, come on. I have to finish this tart.” You whine, upset at him for making you stop. 

“Relax.” He soothes as you try and break free from his grip.

“I am relaxed.” You groan. “Just let me finish this tart.”

“Forget the tart. This isn't about the tart.” He points, effectively taking your attention away from your mixing bowl, though you weren't happy with him about it. “Tell me what’s wrong. What are you thinking right now?”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead as if it would clear your mind. “I think…” You stop, toying with his fingers as you look down at them. “I think I’m just a little freaked out about having another baby.”

Kylian hums, then goes quiet. You seemed so excited the first time you found out. He remembered how you jumped in his arms when the two lines showed up on the pregnancy test, how you’d already begun decorating their room, how many baby name books you’d gotten out of storage and kept on your nightstand. 

“Freaked out how?” He gently asks.

“I don’t know… just... yeah, just forget it." You grab the spatula again. "Because I really do have to finish this tart or else we won’t have dessert. It’s already going to suck because it won’t have time to cool and your mom always loves my desserts but this time she’ll hate it and I’ve been planning this since she gave us these strawberries but now it won’t even go how I thought it would. So, now, you’re all just gonna pretend to love it, but I know it's gonna be soggy and it won’t be firm and it’ll be embarrassing, so please. Just help me finish it quickly. Please.” You rant mindlessly, roughly folding the mixture together. 

Kylian's eyes are wide as he watches you. He had no idea you’d been carrying this worry about another baby but he’s seeing it simmer out of you, hoping you won’t blow your top completely. 

Slowly and silently, Kylian stands next to you once more, slicing the berries into slim pieces one by one. He lets the silence sit for a little to let you calm down and gather your actual thoughts before he speaks again.

“I’m a little freaked out, too.” 

You look up for only a second and look back down. “...You are?”

“Sure.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I mean, I'm excited, yes. But babies are a lot of work. Meli didn’t make it easy on us. Remember, she was such a night owl and wanted us with her all the time. She would literally cling onto us in the rocking chair to make sure we wouldn’t leave. Oh, and remember how scared of leaves she was for a couple of months? That sucked. Also balloons... God, that birthday party was a nightmare.” He recalled. These stories send a grin to your face as you wondered where the time went. She was so big and only getting bigger every day. Soon, she wouldn’t even need your help to reach things on the table or tying her shoes. 

“I can’t believe she’s three.” You sigh, tasting the filling and feeling your shoulders relax when you realized the consistency and taste was just right. Kylian finished slicing, now leaning against the counter to continue the conversation.

“She already told me what she wants for her next birthday.” He scoffed and you shook your head. Her third birthday was only last month. “A real life purple hippopotamus. But it has to be tiny enough for her to hold it.” You laugh at her request as you begin filling the crust. “She has a name for it already, too.”

“Oh, does she? I bet I can guess it. Monsieur purple hippo?” 

“Close.” He laughs. “Monsieur petite purple hippo.”

“That’s a mouthful, but very on brand for her.” You point out, scraping the last bits from the bowl. You begin to place the berry slices neatly on top of the tart, much calmer and relaxed. Your hands weren't even shaking anymore.

Kylian kissed your temple sweetly, helping you put the finishing layer on. “It’ll all work out. I promise. It’s scary, but nothing our family can’t handle.”

Your heart swells. He’s so right for you. The way he easily noticed and eased your racing mind made you focus on your left ring finger, feeling the weight of the bands that wrapped around it. They’ve been on for so many years that it just feels like part of your body, not uncommon to overlook their beauty or forget the promises they hold in your daily life. But it's simple moments like these that you remember the words engraved on them. Always pressed against your skin, never failing to stay close to you. Mon cœur t'appartient was the promise he’s kept for years, and you have as well. My heart is yours. 

Though you thought you messed up your dessert, you now look down at the finished product, and it’s perfect.

Dinner went long, caught up in conversations and hilarious stories that embarrassed Ethan and Kylian. You looked around at the family you’re a part of, physically feeling the love from every single one of the humans sitting under the dim shine of the string lights in the gazebo. With good food and better people, time slips too quickly. 

Life is short, moments graze by like a freight train passing a station. You never know what could happen tomorrow, the future is in no one's hands. Things can happen in the snap of a finger. You say your last goodbye without even knowing. You can wish to control the clock. You can wish that you could turn it back and do some things differently. You can wish you could jump forward and prepare for what’s to come. But all this wishing would do is drive you insane, because everyone lacks control when it comes to time. Appreciate the moment. Live in it. Dwelling on the negative will only comfort the pessimist that lives inside of you. Worrying about the future will only hold you back from the journey you take to get there.

So, for now, you sit sipping wine in front of empty plates while your daughter slowly falls asleep on your husband's shoulder, your mother in law's sweater drapes over your cold legs, the stars are left alone to shine brightly without a cloud in sight. Everything was just as it should be. Everything will be okay.

All this escaped time allowed for your dessert to chill. 

Finally, your tart was finished.

A/N: Officially the end of this fic, and if I do say so myself, it's satisfying. I had so much writers block through this so I'm sorry I haven't updated in over a week. I wanted to make sure this one was good after all the love that I got from this fic. Love you all so much! Thank's for reading!

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[absolutebl]

I Feel You Linger In the Air

You ready for this?

The quickest of quick thoughts: I loved this show and hated the ending, but not for the reason you think.

This is gonna be one of my big meta beast-sized posts, skip to the end for the final review.

Some Historical Context for I Feel You Linger In The Air - Thailand 1925-1932

I love history and so here's some info that any Thai watcher would likely know, but the rest of us might not... ready?

The Historical Stage:

Burma (now Myanmar) to the west is occupied by the British.

The French hold Vietnam to the east.

Everyone is bickering over what would become Cambodia & Laos.

China occasionally gets involved from the North (also, lots of immigrants from China at this time accounting for a large percentage of the merchant/middle class)

Eventually, Japan would invade during WWII.

In part, The Kingdom of Siam was kept a "neutral" party because none of the surrounding colonial powers wanted to risk offending any of the other players in the area.

Siam re-negotiated sovereignty in 1920 (from USA) and in 1925 (from France & Britain). But during the time of this show (late 1929) it was back to it's customary type-rope balancing act of extreme diplomacy with the allied western colonial powers that surrounded it.

Recognizing that Thailand was never colonized (although it was invaded), it's boarders were constantly nibbled at and it was "ambassador-occupied" off and on by westerners whose military backing and exploitive business concerns simply outmatched the monarchy, especially in the technology department (as well as by reputation on the global stage at the time).

In other words, the farang in this show (James & Robert) were always gonna be both the baddies and the power players of the narrative. (Farang is the Thai word for non-Thai's of European descent, the word means guava.)

The king of Siam at the time (Vajiravudh AKA Rama VI) was initially somewhat popular but also regarded as overly extravagant since Siam had been hit by a major postwar recession in 1919. It should also be noted that King Vajiravudh had no son because he was most likely gay (which at the time did not much concern the Siamese popular opinion, except that it undermined the stability of the monarchy leaving it without an heir).

He "died suddenly" in 1925 (age 44) with the monarchy weakened and succession handed off to his younger brother.

In 1932 a small circle of the rising bourgeoisie (all of whom had studied in Europe, mostly Paris), supported by some military, seized power from the monarchy in a practically nonviolent Siamese Revolution installing a constitutional monarchy. This is mentioned in IFYLITA in the last few episodes but did not (apparently) appear in the original novel.

Siam would then go through:

dictatorship,

WWII,

Japanese invasion,

Allied occupation,

democratic elections,

military junta,

the Indochina wars,

communist insurgency,

more democracy and popularization movements,

multiple coups,

more junta,

more monarchy,

eventually leading us to the somewhat chaotic insanity of Thai politics we have today. (Which is, frankly, a mix of monarchy, junta, democracy, egocentric popularism, and bribery.)

The Filming of I Fell You Linger in the Air

The director if this show, Tee Bundit (Hidden Agenda, Step by Step, Lovely Writer, TharnType), has never particularly impressed or offended me as a director. I would have called him simply "workmanlike" in execution: not offensive, serviceable.

So much so that I spent some time hunting for info on IFYLITA's cinematographer (who remains uncredited on MDL) because this one, of all Tee's pantheon, is ultra stylish. It, frankly, felt too good for him.

Specifically, there is a repeated visual motif in intimacy scenes of either Yai or Jom being filmed from behind a screen/drape/curtain making them seem more translucent, like a ghost or spirit. While the other half of the pair is filmed with sharp clarity. In the first half of the series this is more likely to be Yai (an unknown and mysterious element), as the show progresses, it's more likely to be Jom (the person outside of place and time, destined to vanish all together). This cleverly conveys story, tension, and foreshadow (future shadow?)

Occasionally we shift over so they both become obscured and then clear again.

This stylized version of dirty framing and filters is used to foreshadow and then constantly remind us about that Jom slipped (and is slipping) through time and the disconnect that causes to his sense of reality and purpose, and to his burgeoning relationship.

For example, the scene where Yai is drunk and asleep in his bed. The first time Jom is sitting in a chair drawing him. Yai is blurry behind the screen while Jom is solid and sharp.

This filming technique combined with dirty and peekaboo framing is being used to give the watchers the impression of looking at something we maybe shouldn't, like we are being creepy and intruding on their private time. After all, they can see EACH OTHER clearly, it's only us who have the visual impairment.

This gives us a sense of doom and discomfort and slight sensation that we shouldn't be there. We shouldn't be watching. But ALSO that we too are outside of time, filtered by the future.

In other words his sense of displacement is being used to trigger ours visually.

It's all quite clever.

It's both beautiful and atmospheric and discomforting and touch stressful. Meaning that it is ALSO a visual vehicle to drive narrative tension. As effective as scary music, perhaps more so in this show (since I personally found the musical motifs and refrains somewhat overused.)

Linguistic corner

The word for reflection and shadow is the same in Thai.

Note on the por/phor/phô honorific in Thai

I have not encountered it before in BL. I am indebted to @embraceyourfandom for the following information;

Phô is a paternal honorific, luang phô is used for respected monks. It basically means father. And is oft seen as male honorific for village elders. It's also used as a male prefix in the names of several occupations like:

พ่อครัว phô khrua (khrúa= kitchen -> chef)

พ่อค้า phô khá (khá= trade -> merchant)

พ่อมด phô mót (mót= person of occult knowledge -> wizard)

พ่อบ้าน phô bân (bân =house -> butler) - most relevant

So, Yai's use is probubly foreshadowing that Jom will be a butler for his house, and is primitively referring to him with this title.

All that said, phô can also be used by a "man who is older/higher on hierarchy to refer to a younger/lower on hierarchy man with intimacy and/or affection."

I think all this has to do with Jom's demonstration of education. Yai figured out early on that one of the reasons Jom doesn't belong and cannot fit in with the servants is that he is more educated than a peasant (of this time period), which for Yai adds up to him being originally from a higher status and possibly wealthy family, especially since Jom speaks English and has travelled (he has a non-northern accent).

There is very little Thai middle class at the beginning of the 1920s since trade is being dominated/dictated by the West, or Chinese merchant operations, and Siam is a monarchy. So for a nationalize Thai citizen educated means military, landed gentry with trade operations (like Yai), royal/political/diplomatic connections, or... none of the above. This changes, especially in the south, throughout this decade (as it did in other parts of the world). So there is a rising bourgeoisie going on in the background but it's not that obvious in Chang Mai at this time.

What Jom's educated lack of status means to Yai is that Jom's family either got wiped out or politically disenfranchised possibly as part of the 1912 attempted coups (or even WWI)? This would be mystifying for Yai because Jom doesn't act like he comes from a military family at all. So his background and status is very confusing for Yai, but Yai does know one thing...

Jom is NOT lower class by the standards of Yai's temporal worldview and existence.

For a young man to be educated and yet entirely alone is very dangerous and suspicious. Also, let's be clear, Jom doesn't look or act like a laborer. He red flags "cultured" all over the place.

Yai is paternalistic and caring towards Jom out the gate because Yai has a big ol'crush but also because he recognizes "his own" is trying to survive while isolated and scared.

Yai wants to rescue Jom. Yai is an ineffectual 20 year old gay intellectual. But poor thing sure tries.

Let's Talk About How I Felt About I Feel You Linger in the Air

The historical aspect was great.

I adore historical romances and we almost never get them in BL. I was always gonna be biased towards this show. (As indeed I am towards Nobleman Ryu's Wedding, Tinted with You, and To Sir With Love.) Aside from some classic Thai BL production issues (less than normal, this is very high production value for Thailand) and my issues around the sound track and repetitive repriens (which frankly were more noticeable because I binged the last half) I have no complaints on that score (heh heh).

The surrounding support cast were all quite good and we even got us some lesbians!

The emotional and narrative tensions were excellent.

Any issues I had with pacing came from focus on characters that didn't interest me, but probubly did interest others. I wasn’t wild or particularly interested in the family drama or the side characters/couples, but they were necessary to make this a fully fleshed story with historical context and to give Yai much needed characterization. Also this use of a ensemble cast is very close to Thailand's lakorn heart, even thought this one had way less scenery chewing ludicrous soapy drama (thank heavens).

I was delighted that external threat, stressors, and conflict drove this plot. That's refreshing in BL.

I have no arguments with the chemistry and kisses and sex scenes were tasteful and lovely, occasionally even heart-wrenching, and it's nice to see Thailand especially use physical intimacy to drive plot, and not the other way around.

I love historicals partly because every tiny touch can have such lingering significance, they're very elegant in their chaste physicality. This show didn't need to move into higher heat, but I'm grateful it did because even that was very well done. Thai BLs can often feel clumsy around intimacy, but not this one.

The final sex scene before Jom and Yai separate forever utilizes the ubiquitous director's-favorite-romantic-moments-flashbacks (required of all Asian romance dramas) but with acceleration and tension driven by the noises of sex, which I've never seen/heard done before. In other words: climax of sex = climax of the romance story, I see what you did there, Tee. Clever. Very clever. Bit on the nose… erm… on the… well you know what I mean.

Like all Thai BLs this wasn’t perfect, but for me this is as close as Thai BL gets to high quality romance and that’s what I want the most from my drama watching experience (if not necessarily my Thai BL experience).

But... and you knew the but was coming didn't you?

I absolutely hated the ending.

It wasn't sad, don't worry, but it also wasn't good.

There is a long drawn out separations sequence and then Jom returns to the present, drowning from a car accident. Jom is "rescued" by an moustachioed iteration of Yai from the distant past (who we met once before) and then wakes in hospital. Some time later, Jom returns to the house in Chang Mai where Yai turns up and they reunite.

The end.

There is a stinger featuring Jom once more hurled back in time, only further, meeting the warrior mustache Yai once more.

Okay, that's all I knew and all I saw.

Confused? So was I.

If this had been a regular time travel romance: Yai would have been the EMT or doctor attending Jom when he woke up and their "this time period" romance would commence. With either shared memories, or not.

Had this been set up for audience comprehension in line with the original novel, we should have had flashbacks from both Present Yai (he's not the same one, as it turns out) and deep-past Moustache Yai interwoven throughout the series. Preferably with some focus on Present Yai's quest for reunion with Present Jom AND Present Yai's own experience with visions and memory of his past lives.

A full explanation of the ending is here. This explanation of the 3 different Yais makes me like our ending more. But I shouldn't need to read Cliff's notes from some random y-novel reading fan on Tumblr to understand what's going on in a series!

There is supposedly a special happening with Jom + Present Yai.

There was unquestionably a failure in adaptation in the finale of this show.

As a fan and watcher, what I actually felt was deeply confused and hurt.

I also felt that this was a disingenuous un-earned throw away happy ending, since I had no idea who this new Present Yai was and no investment in his character. I simply didn't believe he was the same Yai (Bright is too good an actor, he was clearly a different older personality).

So the fact remains that past Yai, our Yai, the 20 year old boy we grew to understand and love, is abandoned in the past to suffer alone for the rest of his life. And THAT is an unhappy ending for one half of my beloved pair. Yes Jom gets a new Yai in the present day, but it's not the same Yai. They have no developed relationship, and Jom is doomed to leave even this new Yai and slide into the past once more. That's barely even happy for now for Jom's character.

As a result of my deep sadness for 20-year-old Yai in particular, I'm not going to be able to rewatch this show. The whole thing was rendered not just confusing but the opposite of comforting by the final 15 minutes. I'm tempted to dock it two whole points - one for the ending and the other for the lack of rewatch potential.

But the first 11.5 eps were SO GOOD.

This is one of the only times where I am actually hoping for a second season, while simultaneously being wary of the screen writing and production team's capacity to give us a satisfying one.

Industry wise? I honestly don't think we can hope too hard for a full season 2. This was an expensive show with flawed/limited distribution and little sponsorship. I don't see how they'll get funding for a second season. Unless we see this show up on like Netflix or Viki, I urge you not to hope too hard and be disappointed.

In all honestly?

I started typing up this blog post thinking Thailand was finally, after 5 years, going to earn another 10/10 from me but I just can't in good conscious give it that. It's been days and I'm still upset about that last episode.

And Now My Quick Pitch Review

I truly loved this time travel romance. IFYLITA is an exquisite BL, from filming techniques to narrative framework (much like Until We Meet Again). Steeped in history and family drama it edges into lakorn (but no as much as To Sir With Love and with way less scenery chewing). This is an elegant and classy BL... from Thailand which normally doesn't even try for classy. The main couple (both as a pair and individuals) were excellent, particularly Bright (Yai) whose eye-work acting style is a personal favorite of mine. Pity about the ending. Oh it wasn’t that sad but it wasn’t good either. This show should easily have earned a 10 from me except that it fumbled the… erm… balls. Argh. Whatever. 9/10

(source)

This post is also in My Drama List as a review.

[french-mcyt-are-everywhere]

Hello guys and welcome to france @french-mcyt-are-everywhere!

In honor of the first ever french MCC team losing this bad and finishing in last place, and in honor of the aurelien_sama anon (i love you), i'm going to put all of them in place they shouldn't be

Don't worry, france is great! you'll love this invasion, i guarantee it!

Since this blog will probably have less subs than my biggest one (at least i hope) i guess i'll introduce myself!

You can call me ama/amastelaire (my main is @amastelaire) I go by any pronouns so go crazy with them! you may recognise me from being the main admin on the crackships brackets (@the-mcyt-crackships-brackets)

You can send in ideas of who and where i should put the french via my asxbox, and i hope we'll have fun!

PS: I'm 100% doing this because i have way too much fun seeing random where-is blogs pop up on my dash from time to time

#found the french <- french mcyters in locations

#french not found <- anything else

[scotianostra]

September 9th 1513 was a sad day for us Scots, we lost our King and thousands more fellow countryman at The Battle of Flodden.

The Battle of Flodden Field was undoubtedly the most famous confrontation between the English and Scots ever fought on English soil. It took place eight miles to the north west of Wooler near the village of Branxton, Northumberland.

The year before sought to renew the ‘auld alliance’ and assist the French by invading northern England, should England wage war on France, which they duly did.

Money and arms were sent to Scotland from France in the following months enabling King James to build up an army for a large scale invasion of England. On the 22nd of August a great Scottish army under King James IV crossed the border.

For the moment the earl of Surrey (who in King Henry ViII.’s absence was charged with the defence of the realm) had no organized force in the north of England, but James wasted much precious time among the border castles, and when Surrey appeared at Wooler, with an army equal in strength to his own.

Now I don't know how accurate this description is so don't shoot me, but it does have a feel of authenticity, it is from Robert White who describes the Scots army, in the Cambridge History of the Renaissance: “The principal leaders and men at arms were mounted on able horses; the Border prickers rode those of less size, but remarkably active. Those wore mail, chiefly of plate, from head to heel; that of the higher ranks being wrought and polished with great elegance, while the Borderers had armour of a very light description. All the others were on foot, and the burgesses of the towns wore what was called white armour, consisting of steel cap, gorget and mail brightly burnished, fitting gracefully to the body, and covering limbs and hands. The yeomen or peasantry had the sallat or iron cap, the hauberk or place jack, formed of thin flat pieces of iron quilted below leather or linen, which covered the legs and arms, and they had gloves likewise. The Highlanders were not so well defended by armour, though the chiefs were partly armed like their southern brethren, retaining, however, the eagle’s feather in the bonnet, and wearing, like their followers, the tartan and the belted plaid. Almost every soldier had a large shield or target for defence, and wore the white cross of Saint Andrew, either on his breast or some other prominent place. The offensive arms were the spear five yards in length, the long pike, the mace or mallet, two-handed and other swords, the dagger, the knife, the bow and sheaf of arrows; while the Danish axe, with a broad flat spike on the opposite side to the edge, was peculiar to the Islemen, and the studded targe to the Highlanders.”

The English commander promptly sent in a challenge to a pitched battle, at Millfield, an area of flat ground three miles north of Wooller, which the king, in spite of the advice of his most trusted counsellors, accepted.

On the 6th of September, however, he instead took up a strong position facing south, on Flodden Edge. Surrey was unhappy for the alleged breach of chivalry. This was at the end of the medieval period, I have pointed out before, battles, in the main, were fought to a code, breaches of which were rare,and so it was a second challenge to fight on Millfield Plain was sent. When Surrey’s herald arrived at the Scottish camp, James refused to meet him and instead sent word that he would not be dictated to by a ‘mere Earl’.

The English commander, at 70 years old was a veteran of many campaigns, then executed a daring and skilful march round the enemy’s flank, and on the 9th drew up for battle in rear of the hostile army.

It is evident that Surrey was confident of victory, for he placed his own army, not less than the enemy, in a position where defeat would involve utter ruin. On his appearance the Scots hastily changed front and took post on Branxton Hill’, facing north. The battle began around 4pm and Surrey’s archers and cannon soon gained the upper hand, the Scots, unable quietly to endure their losses, rushed to close quarters. Their left wing drove the English back, but their reserve corps restored the fight on the auld enemies side.

In all other parts of the field, save where James and Surrey were personally opposed, the English , gradually gained ground. The king’s corps was then attacked by Surrey in front, and by Sir Edward Stanley in flank. As the Scots were forced back, a part of the English reserve force closed upon the other flank, and finally charging in upon the rear of King James’s corps. Surrounded and attacked on all sides, this, the remnant of the invading army, was doomed. The circle of spearmen around the king grew less and less, and in the end James and a few of his nobles were alone left standing. Soon they too died, fighting to the last man.

Among the ten thousand Scottish dead were all the leading men in the kingdom of Scotland, and there was no family of importance that had not lost a member in this great disaster. The “King’s Stone,” said to mark the spot where James was killed, is at some distance from the actual battlefield.

Scottish dead included twelve earls, fifteen lords, many clan chiefs an archbishop and above all King James himself. It is said that every great family in Scotland mourned the loss of someone at the Battle Of Flodden. The dead were remembered in the famous Scottish pipe tune The Flooers o the Forest.

Here is a partial list of those that died, those that know even just a wee bit of our history, through my posts, will recognise the names, if not of the actual knights themselves, but the families that have played such a part in our history.

Sir George Seton, 3rd Lord Seton Sir John Hay, 2nd Lord Hay of Yester George Douglas, Master of Angus Sir David Kennedy, Lord Kennedy and 1st Earl of Cassilis Sir William Graham, 1st Earl of Montrose Sir John Stewart, 2nd Earl of Atholl Sir William Leslie, 3rd Earl of Rothes Sir Archibald Campbell, 2d Earl of Argyll Patrick Buchanan, 16th Chief of Clan Buchanan Sir Robert Erskine, 4th Lord Erskine Sir John Somerville of Cambusnethan John Murray, Laird of Blackbarony Robert Colville, Laird of Hiltoun Sir Matthew Stewart, 2nd Earl of Lennox.

Add to theT, most of their Eelder sons were slain, what is extraordinary though, that of this wee snapshot, none of the lines ended, so there must have been plenty more offspring in Scotland! Let's not forget the thousands of ordinary Scottish soldiers that died on the battlefield that day.

You can read a more detailed account here https://www.britishbattles.com/anglo.../battle-of-flodden/

[sissa-arrows]

I've completely given up on Morocco rn tbh, that country is dead to me now, like i was shocked beyond belief but it was a needed reality check.

Macron goes to visit Morocco, right? Okay, who cares, not our business , it's like he said they had always been thick as thieves and nothing can ever come between them, we already knew that; imperialist colonizers stick together. But apparently they want to make it Algeria's business bessif lol, both the French&Moroccan media and lobbies relating everything to us. Moroccans seem very proud of the visit of the ex colonizer that we are pratically ghosting at this point (after we cut any kind of link with their country mind you)

It's ridiculous when you finally see the content of the visit, Macaroni declared -under parlement applause- that Israel has the right to defend itself against Hamas's terrorist attacks since the 7th of October (Morocco has the center of the Quds committee), that Morocco spared itself from the Indochina and Algerian war, he even called it WS not MC and just said they should stick to UN decisions (the US having not long after lobbied against WS just when a huge file dropped in their favor at the international court)

The whole joke of a colonizer legitimating other colonizations aside, the hypocrisy of the media is shocking, the same people who were lynching Algeria for receiving Macron much more coldly, are now happily sharing cute clips of Macron eating Tagine or walking among ppl or receiving gifts. They attack Tebboune for going to Egypt when you know what he said there, while ignoring what that french bitch said? Yes, proves again how nuts they sound and the Hamas bit proves why those relations need to stay cut, i think we need to do more actually as a community. What is happening is very concerning, i'm mortified, i think now more than ever Morocco needs to be boycotted, we need to ignore Moroccans like pest and not engage anymore as a people because it is giving them the effect they want.

(and yes i'm not talking only about the governement, the people are completely indocrinated, if you engage they'll try to convince you the opposite and it'll just be a waste of time.)

Anyways, sorry for rumbling, Free Palestine, Free WS.

When I saw that Morocco accepted Bernard Henri Levy’s presence I realized that this country is beyond saving.

When a diplomatic visit like this one happens it is customary to give a list of the people who will come. It means that Macron asked if he could bring Bernard Henri Levy and Morocco said yes.

For the record BHL said that the hijab was “actually an invitation to rape women” because it’s hard for European men to consider a hijabi as human so it’s harder to respect her and to not rape her. He also showed support publicly to actual pedophiles and rapists. He insisted on how right now is the worst timing for France to recognize Palestine and how he was happy that the vote failed. He constantly supports “Israel” in its genocide against Palestinians. Last week before going to Morocco he was tweeting about how all the horrors happening in Gaza are actually staged and fake. In October he was also supporting the ground invasion on Lebanon saying “Israel is freeing Lebanese people”

Macron wanted to bring this man with him and Morocco happily accepted like the lapdogs and colonizers they are.

And Algeria wasn’t giving a flying fuck about it all we were not even involved but the medias in France and the Moroccans online feel the need to bring us into it because we live rent free in their heads. Like French medias saying that Morocco is “more welcoming with us French people than Algeria is” and that “Morocco is more open to conversation thanks to their normalization” and the Moroccans online who are celebrating and bragging?! Sweety being praised by the colonizers is nothing to be proud of.

Western Sahara will be free just like Palestine will be free and these normalizers and colonizers will pay for their behavior in front of Allah.

P.S: As usual if you wanna talk to be about fitna you will have to provide me with links to your posts where you call out Moroccan fitna when they normalized and then let “Israelis” officials threaten Algeria from Morocco. Or your posts calling out the fitna when they call us Algerians “children of rape” or when they insults our shouhada. Or your posts calling out the fitna when they use “Israelis” drones to bomb the Sahrawi people. Or your posts calling out the fitna when they rape Sahrawi women. I’m nice so you have loads to chose from but if you don’t have a post calling these things fitna but come to my post to accuse me of fitna you’re a hypocrite and a piece of shit.

[todaysjewishholiday]

26 Menachem Av 5784 (29-30 August 2024)

The 26th of Av is the yahrzeit of the Polish-French Jewish communist Szmul Cecel Tyszelman (Shmuel Cecil Tischelman) known to his friends as “Titi”, whose execution set off a cycle of militant Resistance actions and violent Nazi reprisals that raised the brutal repression of the Nazi occupation of France to new levels.

Szmul was a Jewish refugee in France who had, at the outset of the German occupation, joined several Resistance groups, including the Youth Battalion of the French Communist Party. While communists generally eschewed national emblems in favor of internationalism, France’s communists viewed the legacy of the French Revolution as fruitful material for organizing, and even immigrants like Tyszelman saw themselves as fierce patriots. Since the Nazi invasion and armistice between the Vichy government and the Nazi occupiers in 5700, display of French national emblems in the occupied zone was especially charged.

On the 23rd of Av 5701, Szmul Tyszelman helped to lead a peaceful demonstration with approximately a hundred other members of the Communist Youth Battalion. They marched under the tricolore of the revolution and French republics, and sang La Marseillaise, Frances’s revolutionary national anthem. Members of the crowd also shouted “Down with Hitler” and “Long Live France”. German soldiers treated the marching youth, mostly in their teens or early twenties, unarmed and nonviolent, as a direct threat, and opened fire on the crowd. Tyszelman was shot in the leg. The demonstration ended in chaos with most of the youth outrunning the German soldiers and French police who attempted to round them up. Szmul Tyszelman and another demonstrator, Henri Gautherot, were among those arrested.

The next day the commander of the German Occupation banned the French Communist Party entirely and declared that anybody caught participating in communist demonstrations would be charged with aiding the enemy— a capital offense under the Nazi occupation. Despite the proclamation having occurred after their arrests, Tyszelman and Gautherot were tried by a Nazi military tribunal, and then executed by firing squad on the 26th of Av. Tyszelman was only twenty years old. Posters announcing their execution were plastered across the city of Paris.

The executions were a shock to the young communists, who had up until that point emphasized peaceful demonstrations and the distribution of leaflets against the occupation. Friends of the murdered men called for a militant stand, and many in the movement concluded that if even marching was to be punished with death, fighting was needed. Several days later one of Szmul’s friends shot a German soldier in the Metro, declaring that this was revenge for Titi. When Hitler was informed of the incident, he demanded that a hundred French prisoners be executed in retaliation. The Nazi commander in France, hesitant to lose the support of the Vichy government with too much brutality, asked for ten hostages who would be shot in response to any further Resistance militancy, and then executed eight communists included five more of those arrested at the demonstration led by Tyszelman. De Gaulle, leader of France’s government in exile, heard of Tyszelman’s execution and its aftermath and declared in a radio broadcast to the French people “French killings of the German occupiers are absolutely justified. If the Germans don’t want to be killed, they should have stayed home and not gone to war with us.”

The next four months saw an additional 243 executions by the Nazi occupation, with sometimes as many as fifty at a time, in response to any militant act by Resistance forces. Communists and Jewish prisoners in particular were targeted because the Nazi regime claimed that they were fundamentally guilty regardless of what they’d been arrested for. 154 gentile communists and 56 Jews were among those murdered. The executions were intended to cow the French populace into compliance with the occupation— instead, the killings had the opposite effect, uniting a majority of those under the occupation, many of whom had been skeptical of the value of militant action, with the Resistance as horror of the Nazi’s brutality increased. The Vichy government’s cooperation and complicity with the reprisal massacres also soured much of the public on the Vichy government’s stance that they were simply protecting France by cooperating with the Nazi occupiers. Szmul Tyszelman had burned with righteous indignation, determined to stand against the slaughterers of his people and occupiers of his chosen home. He was unjustly arrested and unjustly killed. His death ignited a conflagration of resistance which his murderers were unable to quench with any amount of bloodshed.

Today is also Erev Shabbat. Prepare to welcome the Shabbos Queen tonight with candles and song. May the peace of the holiest day in all Jewish tradition settle upon your heart and bring you rest.

[sesamenom]

eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree

-

since in the last poll you decided that in light of a potential invasion the humans become Eru's problem (the elves have all been evacuated via swan-ship on day 7), here we have some very angry FA/SA ladies (and Morwen's cows)

Now that we're getting to a whole string of fun days:

[esotericas-sims]

From the journals of Florence Spectre,

Day 2.

Beautiful view from my balcony. I woke up early, spent the morning with my phrasebook. Hoping to be able to converse properly at breakfast.

Mme. M. must have had the porters unpack some of my things. I found my books already out on the balcony shelf. Invasive but convenient. Not sure if I should confront her about it. She called for breakfast at about 9:00.

Variety of other guests at breakfast, mostly people working on the site. I met: - Jonah & Miranda Keene: Project financier and his wife, American. - Marcos Rosales: Local, helping hand for the dig. - Vanesa Abascal: Mme. M.'s daughter-in-law. Had her eye on Rosales. - Rodrigo Sanchez: Project leader, Colombian.

I concluded Sanchez was the one to ask about my job on the site. We spoke after breakfast. Rough transcript below.

Florence Spectre: Disculpe; Francés? Inglés? [Excuse me; French? English?] Rodrigo Sanchez: Yes, I speak English. FS: Oh, very good! I'm sorry, my Spanish is still clumsy. I'm Florence. We met briefly over breakfast. You're the one running the dig, right? RS: We did, didn't we? I am, yes! Are you interested in my dig? Or, I should say, in the dig? FS: I am! I've actually come here in hopes of working on it. I know I'm young, and I don't have much experience, but I've read a great deal. I think I could be helpful.

RS: A girl your age, here alone to work? ¿Eres huérfana? [Are you an orphan?] Are you sure that's wise? FS: I'm seventeen, Señor Sanchez. I'm grown enough. I would like to work. I have come all this way to do so. RS: Very well. I will give you a day or two, to see how you do, before we decide. But you must be careful, some of the men on this team may not be so kind with you. FS: I understand. Gracias, Señor. [Thank you, sir.] I won't let you down.

Playing with  SeveralPerson’s Ultimate Decades Challenge Rules

Started: 1800s

Current decade: 1910s

Family tree

Spreadsheet

CC Finds

[a-room-of-my-own]

There's been a bit of news coverage about the 80th anniversary of D-Day here in the US, and I was wondering how it's covered in France.

Since it's unlikely there will be any surviving veterans to tell their stories for the 85th or 90th anniversaries, it's important to record their stories and commemorate the sacrifices of those who fought and died that day while there are still survivors.

I couldn't find an English transcript of Macron's speech, but when I compare Biden's speech with King Charles', Biden's comes off as very political by involving Russia's attacks on Ukraine. I don't disagree with the sentiment, but time and place! Especially since there are still surviving veterans of D-Day in the audience.

I think the difference is because the United States is only 248 years old, and WWII, in general, has become foundationally important to our national myth. In the US national story, WWII started because the US refused to intervene in Europe's affairs but it eventually got so bad that we had to swoop in and save the day world. WWII has became so important to US identity that both the left and the right use it in their rhetoric: The right generally focus on the atrocities committed by belligerent dictators in allusions to the Holocaust, and the left focus on the authoritarianism of domestic politicians. The Invasion of Normandy is seen as the day that we stepped up to our 'responsibility' of being the world's police superhero.

I think that US politicians use D-Day and the associated imagery as a platform to reaffirm their commitment to this national story and the ideals they feel that story represents, which is why Biden felt it was appropriate to call out Russia during a memorial at a cemetery and Charles and Macron did not (at least I'm assuming Macron did not).

In comparison, France has over 1,100 years of shared history and identity. WWII was obviously horrific and the Nazis needed to be defeated, but was D-Day itself a drop in the bucket of French history?

Compared to all the other battles of WWII by Free French forces and members of the Resistance, how is D-Day seen in modern France?

I’ve been living at the office these last few days so I didn’t watch the news but usually it’s rather positive. And it’s definitely not seen as something akin to an anecdote, on the contrary I think everyone is still extremely grateful. It’s really presented as our allies swooping in to save us.

Even if historically, if you look at the cold facts, the US and UK pretty much intended to occupy France, change its money and put a candidate they had chosen as the new president - all that didn’t happen basically thanks to De Gaulle - the average soldier didn’t know that and that’s not why he fought. And first thing first, the UK and US still had to kick the Germans out and then move as quickly as possible towards Germany or all of Europe would have been in the USSR.

At the end of the day, what the American and English soldiers did was extremely brave and for most of them selfless. And as much as it hurt our collective pride, we do still very much need the US. Europe is still a conglomerate of small, old sovereign nations in a world that is increasingly globalized.

Russia is comprised of many different people, so is China, so is India. In Europe, the EU’s jurisdiction is already seen as too heavy. We’re literally unable to speak with one voice. Nobody recognizes Ursula Von der Leyen as our president for example. And we don’t have an army or a way to associate our armies under one command.

When you look at what’s happening in Ukraine, it’s basically Europe, as an entity, being unable to defend its borders and needing heavy military aid from the US to stall the Russian invasion. The fact that Putin wants to bring back the USSR should worry us but we’re too busy with our own internal affairs.

The problem isn’t that the US acts as the world’s police per se but that the world savior mythology was used to invade and destroy sovereign countries, or to interfere in local politics to the point of supporting dictatorships that made thousands of victims.

[wonder-worker]

"If anonymity was required [for reconnaissance and espionage] the woman going about her business, between markets, was the perfect messenger. The Compaignon's news was taken to Lille by a female courier. Writing to the English government on the eve on a projected Scottish invasion Sir William Bulmer was interrupted by the arrival of the wife of one of his spies who had come because 'hir husband was suspect, so that he durst not come hyself. . .'. Equally, Sir William reported that among his spies in Scotland in 1523 he numbered one he called 'the Priores'. In the border war of intelligence it was reported, two years later, that the Scots had lost a female spy at Durham where she was captured and interrogated. There should be little surprise at this, for as Philippe Contamine points out women were much involved in medieval warfare and were employed as messengers and spies throughout the Hundred Years War. But again it is to Edward IV, and the great crisis of his reign, that we must turn. With Warwick and Clarence in France allying with Margaret of Anjou, the king sent Lady Isabel Neville one of her servants bearing an offer of peace. The woman's real business was to plead with Clarence not to be the ruin of his family, and to remind him of the deadly feud between York and Lancaster. Did he really take Warwick at his word when, having done homage to Henry VI's son, he said he would make Clarence king?* The choice of this woman was made because of her shrewdness and because she could gain access to her lady, and thus Clarence, quicker than any male agent."

-Ian Arthurson, "Espionage and Intelligence from the Wars of the Roses to the Reformation", Nottingham Medieval Studies (1991)

*The source for this is the memoirs of Philippe de Commynes, who later served in the French court and was very cognizant of espionage in contemporary politics and warfare. It's not proven or disproven by any other source.

[zvaigzdelasas]

France is finally releasing its long-awaited policy on the charged issue of the restitution of cultural property. The government will tomorrow make public an 85-page report on the subject by Jean-Luc Martinez, a former director of the Louvre. The report was commissioned by President Emmanuel Macron and the government has already implemented some of its recommendations, most notably a bill on art looted by the Nazis, which will be discussed by the Senate on 23 May. And a further two laws will be passed in coming months, according to the culture minister Rima Abdul-Malak. One could apply to items from the former colonies of Western empires, which the report defines in global terms, rather than just Africa and its former French dominions. The other pertains to human remains.[...]

He has come up with two main criteria as the basis for restitutions: "illegality and illegitimacy". For example, according to French law at the time of France's colonial invasion of Algeria in the early 19th century, weapons can be legally seized from an enemy but cultural goods had to be returned after battle. So the books and clothes of the rebel leader Abdelkader ibn Muhieddine (commonly known as Abdelkader) should have been given back to him when he surrendered, making their status in France "illegitimate". Likewise, if an officer handed looted goods to a French museum, as was the case for many objects looted from the Kingdom of Benin, the donation should be considered "illegal because such personal war booty is not allowed." A key recommendation of the report is that requests for restitution be studied by a bilateral scientific commission which will publicly provide an opinion before the final decision of French courts.

Martinez says that despite the apprehensions of curators, very few works held by French museums will fall under these definitions. "Out of the 85,000 objects examined by the Quai Branly museum in Paris, only 300 are problematic and could correspond to these criteria". [...]

This report comes nearly six years after Macron publicly called for the “return of African heritage” during a state visit to Burkina Faso.

27 Apr 23

[sophieinwonderland]

I might get a lot of hate for this, but instead of endos stealing the word "Tulpa" from other cultures for their own systems what if they just called them an "imaginitive?" Not that we agree with their term of tulpamancy but why would you take someone else's culture and twist it? Just call it something else. You imagine it up until it's "real", call it an "imaginitive."

I mean, what you're describing is no different from how language naturally tends to evolve. How it's always evolved. The word Hurricane was adapted from a Native American term that referred to storm gods of the storm. The modern American zombie depicted in zombie movies has little resemblance to the creatures in Haitian folklore.

Our planets are named after Roman gods. Our days of the week are named after Norse gods.

The reasons for these evolutions in language often have long and complex stories. And the tulpa is no different.

To your confusion, "endos" didn't "steal" a word here.

In the early 1900s, French Buddhist convert Alexandra David-Neel was an explorer who went to Tibet. She learned of the religion and culture of the Tibetan people and brought it back to the West, with the aid of people like Lama Kazi Dawa Samdup who served as translator, helping to exchange complex ideas from one culture to another.

It should be noted that the tulpa that arrived in the West back then is very different from the modern variation of the sprul-pa practice used in Tibetan Buddhism (to the extent that practice exists). It's honestly unclear why these differences exist. One theory is that it was influenced of Kazi Dawa Samdup's own interest in the esoteric, and that this led to translations leaning into this. Another blames David-Neel alone for the misinterpretation. But yet another possibility is that the presentation of the tulpa was actually accurate to that particular temple's practice and the specific practice was just lost to time and war. 🤷‍♀️

I mention the last point because, after China's invasion of tibet, many of their old books and religious works were intentionally destroyed by their conquerors.

We actually have no way of knowing if ADN's tulpa was wrong, or if she was just recording one single sect of a vast religion, and one that saw all documentation of their variation of the practice destroyed.

Regardless, the tulpa took on a life of its own in Western pop culture, making appearances in shows like X-Files and Supernatural. This pre-tulpamancy Western tulpa also made its way back to the East, with instructions for tulpa creation appearing in Japan in 2007.

What we call tulpamancy started in 2009 on 4Chan. I believe it was about three years later, in 2012, when tulpa.info and r/tulpas were created.

The reason terms like "imaginitive" weren't used (besides that term sounding way too much like like "imaginative") was because this early tulpamancy community was completely divorced from the plural and endogenic community. They drew on the concept of the tulpa in pop culture, and based their practices on that. Much as the Daemians base their practice on the Phillip Pullman books.

During this time, a ton of guides and resources were written for this new practice of tulpamancy. And much of it with little interaction with other plural communities.

And tulpamancy communities are still fairly insular. While tulpa systems are endogenic, the tulpamancy community isn't as closely tied to the endogenic community as other groups. Which is why no amount of trying to get tulpamancers to change our language on this website is ever going to be effective. And change at this point in time would risk both dividing the community, and potentially even derailing academic research into tulpa systems.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Hello! I wanted to ask if you knew what where the Montagnards views on Cosmopolitanism and foreigners like! Also was Orientalism as strong (? Popular? I don’t know if that is the right word sorry! My English is a bit wonky) in the late 18th century as it was in the 19th century? Thank you so very much <3

It’s hard to talk about montagnards/girondins/thermidorians etc as holding a collective view on something, as these groups were not like modern political parties with a firm set of goals and values neatly presented in a party program. But looking over the Constitution of 1793, which it must be said was mainly worked out by montagnards, we find the  following part, which suggests that, at least ideally, the montagnards held a positive (or at least not negative) view on foreigners:

On reports between the French Republic and Foreign Nations

The French people are the natural friend and ally of free people

It does not interfere in the government of other nations, even if other nations interfere in their own. 

It will offer asylum to foreigners banished from their fatherland for the sake of liberty. It will refuse this asylum to tyrants. 

It will not make peace with an enemy occupying its territory.

The key word here is of course ideally, as this constitution was never actually never put into place due to the situation France was currently in. And on April 16 1794 we instead find Décret sur la police générale de la République: du 27 germinal, l’an II de la République française une et indivisible which declared that any foreigner (with a few exceptions, like children and elders) from nations France was currently at war with should get out of the country’s urban areas if they knew what was best for them:

No ex-noble, no foreigner from the countries with which the Republic is at war, can live in Paris, nor the strongholds, nor the maritime towns during the war. Any noble or foreigner in the above case who is found there in ten days is outlawed.

The idea that every counterrevolutionary within France was actually a paid agent of a big foreign conspiracy was of course also a thing (and not only among the montagnards). Though this still might be best viewed as ”mistrust of foreign nations you’re currently at war with” (which at one point was basically all of Europe) rather than ”mistrust of foreigners in general.”

As for Orientalism in the 18th century, according to Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978): ”What is distinctive about the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, which is where this study assumes modern Orientalism to have begun, is that an Oriental renaissance took place. […] This awareness was partly the result of newly discovered and translated Oriental texts in-languages like Sanskrit, Zend and Arabic. It was also the result of a newly perceived relationship between the Orient and the West. For my purpose here, the keynote of the relationship was set for the near East and Europe by the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt in 1798, an invasion which in many ways was the modem of a truly scientific appropriation of one culture over another, apparently stronger one.” (page 42)

In Said’s view, what we today call Orientalism did in other words not really exist until the late 1790s, which leads me to believe it was not strong during the 18th century overall… On the other hand, I’m far from an expert when it comes to the concept, so I don’t know if this is a controversial issue or whatever. The same thing goes for cosmopolitanism, though I did find an article and a blog post about this topic specifically in relation to the French revolution.

[scotianostra]

Donald Currie Caskie was born on May 22nd 1902 at Bowmore, Islay, his exploits during WWII earned him the nickname "The Tartan Pimpernel"

Dr Caskie was the minister at the Scots Kirk in Paris when the Germans invaded France in 1940 and frequently denounced the Nazis from the pulpit which meant he had more to fear than many after the invasion.

He was repeatedly urged to return home and after the Dunkirk evacuation he locked the church on the 9th of June of that year and joined the mass exodus of Paris, heading south.

The crofter's son from the inner Hebridean island of Islay, said to have had the Celtic gift of second sight, endured weeks of hardship to get to Bayonne but in the end rejected the chance of safe passage on the last ship bound for England on the grounds that his place should be given to a wounded man instead.

He walked to a village called Cambo les Bains where he met friends from Paris purely by chance and they all drove to the port city of Marseille - leaving just hours before the Germans arrived.

Dr Caskie believed that God had commanded him to stay in France and help stranded British subjects and he was warned that he must only engage with civilians and would be arrested if he assisted servicemen.

He ran a Seaman's Mission but was living a double life and secretly helped airmen, seamen and soldiers, under the noses of the Vichy Police, escape the country across mountains into Spain or by sea in a submarine or ship.

Dr Caskie, a Gaelic speaker whose codename was Monsieur Le Canard – Donald Duck – was eventually recruited by British Intelligence officers and was told that his mission was the last link of a chain of safe houses that they had set up, which stretched from Dunkirk to Marseille.

One of the soldiers Dr Caskie helped was Captain Derek Lang who was captured at St Valery-en-Caux in Normandy along with 10,000 soldiers from the 51st Highland Division, mostly Scots, 81 years ago this weekend.

He managed to escape the Germans and fled to Marseille where he recalled meeting a "courageous and fearless" Church of Scotland minister.

"Evil in war produces heroes and Donald Caskie is one of these," wrote the army officer in the forward to the Tartan Pimpernel – a book he said moved him to tears.

Caskie spoke Gaelic to confuse German spies and inquisitors, but was betrayed by an English double agent. He evaded the firing squad and then restarted his activities in Grenoble. There he again repeatedly escaped the clutches of the Nazis until he was sentenced to death - when the intervention of a German pastor had his sentence commuted and he saw out the war in a PoW camp. His awards were: OBE, MA and O.C.F.(an honour bestowed by the French government). The OBE was awarded by the king for services to his country.

The medal, along with other personal artefactcs, is on display in the church. at Bonore. His autobiography, The Tartan Pimpernel was published in 1951.

[ourdreamsareneon]

Piggy backing off my last post, if much like in 2016 you're going "I should just move to New Zealand" head my warning, little yanky

People are not going to like you. People will hear the accent and either think you're a Trump supporter or a stereotypical stoner valley dude with half a brain cell.

Learn a bit of Te Reo Maori. You don't have to learn a lot, just your basic greetings, but you should learn place names and pronunciation

There was a huge cover-up in 1948 when a group of American service men tried to stop Maori bar patrons from coming inside. Naturally, both white and Maori patrons beat the shit out of them. The fight involved hundreds of people. As far as we know, two people died in the Battle of Manners Street, both Americans. This was during an event called the American Invasion, where Aotearoa asked for British aid during the war and were sent Americans instead. Americans who were documented as mostly sitting around, being incredibly racist, and assaulting our wāhine. So maybe don't walk down Manners Street at night. It might be haunted, I dunno.

While you're looking at Te Reo, look a bit into Tapu and Noa. This is about things that are considered sacred, but it also just gives you good kiwi manners, like taking your shoes off when you go into someone's house and not sitting on tables.

Learn how to tō waha - shut up. All I hear from the Americans I've met living in Aotearoa is that the second they go home, they realise how loud Americans are. Take a deep breath, listen to nature, and lower your voice

Did you know ANZUS is no longer a mutual agreement of power because America got upset that Aotearoa is nuclear free and so didn't allow any US naval ships into port after 1984 because they had a policy of not confirming or denying if they have nuclear weapons on board? They're still kinda holding a grudge against us for it and disolved a whole allyship over it! All that to say, in 1987, we formalised our anti-nuclear stance, so whether travelling by air or by ocean, please keep all your W.M.Ds at home! (Bill Clinton reinstated our allyship in 1996 and gave us the status of "Major non-NATO ally" but that's the year my sister was born so I don't acknowledge it)

It's crazy that America is so anti-terrorism but when the French sunk the Rainbow Warrior in July 1985 and everyone, including their 'besties' Australia were like "yo bro the French just did a terrorism on New Zealand...that's like not cool right?" America refused to acknowledge it. Only in September, after France admitted guilt did America go "we hate terrorism grr" I don't know what my warning here is I kinda just remembered and went "huh." Don't do terrorism, but if you do it's okay because America will be chill with it?

While the two older halves of the ANZUS polycule were sending military forces into the Vietnam war, New Zealand just sent economic aid and medical aid. We're lovers, not fighters (#FreePalestine). We did, uhm... supply Agent Orange... but that was after America was like, "We'll kick you out of the polycule again," and that's just so much work. Peer pressure works on us. We're people pleasers.

There you go! Those are all my tips for relocating to the Better DownUnder! I could go on, but my therapist said I should avoid thinking about Bill Clinton and the Big Bad War on Terror if I want to make it to 30 ^_^ I hope this was helpful!!