#vengeresse

[corinneecrivaine]

SHANIA ANGE DE JUSTICE - Chapitre 8 (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1355170596-shania-ange-de-justice-chapitre-8?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=CorinneEcrivain&wp_originator=Sy3mteoFutZ8ZU5EBBXqanPhx1ervaobxqV9ukYMvCqZfZm0%2FTisJ9TGDeE3tdB7l7JofiLQ7tWSc1r6XQnKfK8%2ByGumqVuaSbbXW4OWxFKKxpfAEnvNwAuSAXKCL%2FPJ Selwyn, et Zaîna, couple princier, ne pouvant avoir d'enfant, pris par le désespoir, acceptèrent un marché avec un jeune couple d'une grande beauté qui frappa à leur porte, un soir d'orage. En échange du gîte et du couvert, ils leur proposèrent de concevoir un enfant. En accord avec son époux, Zaïna passa la nuit avec cet inconnu. Elle tomba enceinte et eut un magnifique bébé : une fille qu'ils nommèrent Shania. Dès la naissance du bébé, le jeune couple disparut dans les ténèbres non sans que la jeune femme n'ait prononcé ces dernières paroles qui résonnèrent aussi violemment que l'orage qui persistait depuis plus de 9 mois. « Le moment venu il viendra réclamer son dû ». Afin de protéger sa fille, Selwyn, demanda à un chamane et ancien assassin, Adjib de veiller sur elle au péril de sa vie. Le jour de sa 5è année, Shania vit la destruction de son village et le massacre de ses parents. Depuis, elle est hantée par d'horribles cauchemars ressassant cette terrible journée et le visage de ce monstre qui plongea sa vie dans l'horreur. Recueillie par Adjib, elle grandit l'arme au poing et devint une redoutable et impitoyable guerrière. Assoiffée de vengeance et animée par la haine, elle ne vit que pour traquer l'assassin de ses parents et le tuer. Adjib connait le secret de sa naissance. Un secret qu'elle découvrira tout au long de sa longue quête qui la mènera vers bien des chemins et des rencontres voire l'amour. Cette aventure la mènera bien plus loin, au plus profond de son âme. Elle devra choisir, laisser surgir sa part sombre ou combattre ce démon qui sommeille en elle.

[uroborosymphony]

"So. These savages tried to own you and in return you killed your husband for cheating and holds the entire clan by the tip of their pathetic little dicks? I like your style, Akina Mori. What do you need?"

       @wellfell liked for a short starter.

[elementalxfury]

As some of you might've noticed

I have a new oc. I was originally gonna put her on my main multimuse

But given she's a witch I'm gonna add her here

Her name is Thora Godiva and she is my new Gworl.

[ernestinee]

TW su*cide

Tu sais quand tu vois des gens dans la rue, parfois peut-être que tu leur imagines une vie rocambolesque. Là on est près d'une sortie de métro, en haut de l'escalier, on voit Daphné qui a raté deux fois sa ts et à côté d'elle c'est Martin. Elle l'a embauché pour la tuer et il l'a confondue avec une autre. Maintenant elle n'est plus sûre de vouloir mourir et Martin ne la tuera que si elle retrouve ses certitudes.

C'est le pitch d'"Accident de personne", ça parle de dépression, d'envies d'en finir, de maladie incurable, de masculinité toxique, de neuroatypie et de psychopathologie. Des sujets sérieux et profonds mais dans un style décontracté et piquant, qui rend la lecture fluide, j'ai lu ce livre en deux fois, je l'ai juste posé pour dormir.

C'est le premier livre de Florence Mendez, il y a des petits indices qui traduisent cet effet "premier livre", l'envie d'en dire beaucoup, l'envie de placer telle ou telle réflexion, et ça n'alourdit pas le style parce que c'est sa voix qui parle, la femme vengeresse, incisive et terriblement sensible qui souhaite passer un message. Ça ne conviendra pas à tous les lecteurs, et tant mieux.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

[lounesdarbois]

Mais vous avez perdu les pédales ? Quand on est une association qui s'appelle "Notre-Dame de CHRÉTIENTÉ" on produit ça comme communication externe pour exprimer la Tradition? Un putain de spot de BDE féministe dans une École de Commerce de 2005? Le vêtement, le phrasé, l'élocution, sans parler du reste, où sommes-nous exactement ? À la caisse du magasin d'une aire d'autoroute ?

Rien n'est plus ringard que d'essayer de "faire jeune". Ce pèlerinage qui était une belle procession grave de gens d'élite, aux corps exercés, aux vêtements appropriés, est devenu une kermesse de hurleuses vengeresses dans une ambiance de bordel de merde. La fréquentation a doublé oui mais à quel prix?

[the-paintrist]

Léon Choubrac - Advertisement for the serialization of "Germinal" by Emile Zola in the magazine "Gil Blas" on 25 November 1884.

Émile Édouard Charles Antoine Zola (; 2 April 1840 – 29 September 1902) was a French novelist, journalist, playwright, political activist, the best-known practitioner of the literary school of naturalism, and an important contributor to the development of theatrical naturalism. He was a major figure in the political liberalization of France and in the exoneration of the falsely accused and convicted army officer Alfred Dreyfus, which is encapsulated in his renowned newspaper opinion headlined J'Accuse…!  Zola was nominated for the first and second Nobel Prize in Literature in 1901 and 1902.

Germinal is the thirteenth novel in Émile Zola's twenty-volume series Les Rougon-Macquart. Often considered Zola's masterpiece and one of the most significant novels in the French tradition, the novel – an uncompromisingly harsh and realistic story of a coalminers' strike in northern France in the 1860s – has been published and translated in over one hundred countries. It has also inspired five film adaptations and two television productions.

Germinal was written between April 1884 and January 1885. It was first serialized between November 1884 and February 1885 in the periodical Gil Blas, then in March 1885 published as a book.

The title refers to the name of a month of the French Republican Calendar, a spring month. Germen is a Latin word which means "seed"; the novel describes the hope for a better future that seeds amongst the miners. As the final lines of the novel read:

Des hommes poussaient, une armée noire, vengeresse, qui germait lentement dans les sillons, grandissant pour les récoltes du siècle futur, et dont la germination allait faire bientôt éclater la terre. Men were springing forth, a black avenging army, germinating slowly in the furrows, growing towards the harvests of the next century, and their germination would soon overturn the earth. — 1885 translation[

Gil Blas (or Le Gil Blas) was a Parisian literary periodical named for Alain-René Lesage's novel Gil Blas. It was founded by the sculptor Augustin-Alexandre Dumont in November 1879.

Gil Blas serialized novels, such as Émile Zola's Germinal (1884) and L'Œuvre (1885), before they appeared in book form. Numerous Guy de Maupassant short stories debuted in Gil Blas. The journal was also known for its opinionated arts and theatre criticism. Contributors included René Blum, Alexandru Bogdan-Pitești, and Abel Hermant. Théophile Steinlen and Albert Guillaume provided illustrations.

Gil Blas was published regularly until 1914, when there was a short hiatus due to the outbreak of World War I. Afterwards, it was published intermittently until 1938.

In addition to Germinal, Gil Blas serialized the Zola novels L'Argent, Au Bonheur des Dames, and La Joie de vivre.

Gil Blas critic Louis Vauxcelles's phrase "Donatello chez les fauves" ("Donatello among the wild beasts") brought notoriety and attention to the works of Henri Matisse and Les Fauves exhibited at the Salon d'Automne of 1905. Vauxcelles' comment was printed on 17 October 1905[4] and passed into popular usage.

[uroborosymphony]

“I’m bleeding.”

Ara first answered, her eyes connected with Annie’s.

"I know, I know, Again."

She then added with that signature smirk of hers knowing she got herself into trouble once again. There was no wincing, no signs of pain through her facial expression. It wasn’t that she was insensitive to her own injuries, yet used to them, used to handle them, wear them, keep them as scars that made what her skin was : marked porcelain, tainted purity. It was her path to follow, a path in the night, of bruises and blood, of taken hits and returned ones. Though the fighter she became knew how to defend herself, it was never without a memory or two left on her carnation. Annie was the only person of trust she had when it came to patching her up, one of the rare who knew that Ara by night was turning into someone else.

“Oh it’s nothing too bad love, I just can’t go back to the boys like this, can I?"”

The boys meaning the Black Fang Gang - they all were highly protective of Ara and would start an urban war if they saw this. Especially Taiyang, she knew that. She wanted to appear strong however, undestroyable on this illegal scene filled with men, she did not want to be the Underground Princess to keep safe but a Queen with already patched up wounds like they were nothing but a little scratch. It wasn't the first time they would meet since Annie came back to the continent and each time, Ara could feel it, the heart pinch she felt when watching her friend. It was disturbing to witness : the shell of a woman Annie became. If one was proudly wearing her physical injuries as a shield, a carapace of scars and fights, the other seemed trapped in a realm of a different type of injuries, ones printed down onto her psyche. The former psychiatrist in devenir could see it, the change, the weight on Annie's shoulders, the shadows in Annie's eyes, the signs of post traumatism. If Ara's degree was unfinished, her analysis mechanisms never left her. She did not know however, not a single word about what truly happened, they never had the talk. Her steps lead her further inside, one of her hands covering the wound that was dripping from her shoulder blade, tainting the fabric of her shirt in darker reds. They used to be close yes. Closer, in that past of their younger years, lazy picnics on the stairs in the summer not too far from the dorms, thrift shopping to spoil each other after one successful exam and sleepless nights at the library. The gap of social classes always prevented Ara to want any sort of connection with the others - not that she was ashamed of her story or her status but every single one of them seemed to only see that when they looked at her. Envious. Of how brilliant she was, excelling and yet, a simple survivor. Annie was a survivor, too. Survivors who now have lost so much and found each other again right here, licking their wounds of a life that's never been tender on them.

In a sharp move she removes her tainted shirt, grimacing slightly as her shoulder wasn’t so easy to motion after all, leaving it exposed, in a white bra, in her blue jeans. "On my way here it was quite the show, I didn't know how to hide it anymore. The sight of blood frightens more than it should. It’s not necessary a sign of distress and pain I believe. The more I bleed, the more I learn a little something new you know?” Her voice is calm, echoing in the silence of the walls they are in, just the two of them yet this tenderness Ara has in her eyes whenever looking at Annie. She wanted to hold her, she wanted to keep her close, tell her everything would be okay no matter what it was that changed her, to connect the way they used to - Ara wasn't the demonstrative type however, in all her charismatic and strong aura, she was the type who wanted to speak with her fists, to protect with her violence, to embrace through her social wars and surprisingly turned a little shy when having to wrap her arms around someone she truly cared about. She then pushes a strand of bra down as Annie was now reaching for Ara's shoulder blade, her fingers exploring the wound. Is that what happened to you Annie? Have you seen too much blood? Was the question crossing the vigilante's mind, in silence, her intense gaze observing each sign of Annie's demaneor, her eyes, the pace of her breathing, her unease. Perhaps it wasn't fair to ask the other for help again it's just, Ara had no choice.

“It all stays between us right?” She questioned, her eyes searching for Annie's as she accepts the kit offer with a nod of the head. It – the injury. It – the story behind it that Annie probably won't ask about but that Ara did not mind sharing with her.

"I trust you."

"And... You can trust me, too."

context: your muse is injured; do they want her to treat them?

"You...you're bleeding." Or so Annie states as a fact, rather than a question. She's seen something like that before once...she thinks. They're blurry these days, these memories of BEFORE although asking them if that part of her life ( her mother tells her she was studying to be a doctor once- it's hard to imagine nowadays ) was real or not probably isn't a good idea.

Swallowing the question, she reach for the person's arm to look at it. Glazed eyes inspect the injury as her fingers creep towards the edge of the wound. It doesn't look too deep, but basic first aid won't be enough here. At least that's what instinct is telling her. Perhaps in the past, she wouldn't have taken no for answer, but now? She looks up at the person, this person who she's seen around long enough. Long enough for them to know who she is, even if she knows she's not.

( The 'mad girl'. )

"Do you want me to treat it? I have a KIT in the back."

[corinneecrivaine]

SHANIA ANGE DE JUSTICE - Chapitre 15 - Eclats de Feu et Liens Indissolubles (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1438290718-shania-ange-de-justice-chapitre-15-eclats-de-feu?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=CorinneEcrivain Le jour de son 5e anniversaire, Shania fut la témoin de la destruction de son village et du massacre de ses parents. Depuis, elle est hantée par d'horribles cauchemars rappelant cette terrible journée et le visage du monstre qui plongea sa vie dans l'horreur. Elevée par Adjib, elle grandit l'arme au poing et devint une guerrière redoutable et impitoyable. Ignorant le sombre secret de sa naissance, Shania nourrit une soif ardente envers l'assassin de ses parents. Les combats qu'elle mènera la plongeront dans un tourbillon de violence, développant son côté démoniaque. La poussant à se perdre dans les abîmes de son enfer. Partagée entre sa part sombre et son humanité, les choix qu'elle fera détermineront sa destinée. Laisser émerger son côté obscur ou combattre le démon qui sommeille en elle.

[uroborosymphony]

"Look Sweetie ( @hatesdogs ), I gotta be real with you. I dream of getting arrested, nothing like a little cage fun, spicy jail time and dramatics, life is my Stage but I have things to do before that day, so we have to talk about your bike."

[elementalxfury]

Thora Godiva is a witch in Dacian's coven. She's remained hidden and is using her magic behind the scenes to get revenge for the lost members of the coven. Thora and Dacian used to date before the trials and broke up for safety reasons. She was heartbroken after Dacian vanished but knew it was better than him being dead.

[uroborosymphony]

Fast, furiously, obsessively, madly in love would see and think all the eyes and minds resting on them. The devotion, the adoration. Ara could feel it and so could the world. Always. In his eyes connecting with hers, in the gentleness of his touch on her skin, of the way he would let a room get filled by her presence and her presence only no matter what the universes around were made of. Taiyang was her sun, the heart to her solar system, and in all his fires he made her the center of his galary. Every day was a celebration of love for them - in their own way. On tranquil mornings through their domestic loving little gestures to one another, on in the core of the night back to back their fingers linked around the blade of a knife tainted with blood. A date on Valentine's was the cherry on top truly, and every year, Ara loved to taste every single piece of it with him.

Her red dresses were a signature of hers by now - of a different flavor depending on the occasion. Tonight, it was a long one, the type that flows down her legs, marries her curves, flatters her waist and widdens her hips while exposing her delicate shoulders. Tai adores her, and even more in red she can tell. It wasn't just her color, with time it became theirs. The color of passion, and desire and blood. As the car was running through the city, it brought them back to their very first neighborhood, the area where it all began. The buildings were changing, from the high standing ones they bought their new appartment in, and now under their eyes, the lower middle class was appearing again, the wide open dumpsters down the streets, the damaged cars parked by the side of the road, the sketchy seven elevens that became selling points of all types of trafficking. Ara's head was resting against the seat of leather, her eyes traveling from the view - caressed by the lights under the bridges - to the sight of him. A sight she adores to contemplate when on adventures, him behind the wheel, her by his side. Her fingers were reaching for the back of his head, exploring his strands of hair gently.

"Why does it feel just like yesterday, yet at the same time like an eternity since the last time we were here?"

Her voice almost felt like a whisper, a tender nostalgic smile on her lips.

"It does feel like home in a strange way. As in... Even if it's not where I grew up, it's here that I was born, with you. This feeling of returning to what the hearts knows."

She keeps on speaking, memories of their years together floating. Their favorite restaurant was one of these center pieces of the stories of their past, another tradition. And as Tai was sitting in front of her for dinner, smiling her, brushing her hand while stealing her dessert, she couldn't help but grin, pretending to try to get the piece of her cake back yet letting him devour him to then catch the cream at the corner of his lips with her fingertip. Engrossed was the right word to describe them from the outside, oh it was the way she was watching at him, similar to the way she watched him every time. In the back of her head, a film was playing, one about them celebrating all their valentines and yet evolving through the years morphing, growing in who they are today. The first dates were when they were barely able to afford a meal and yet Tai, absolutely wanting to take her out, would bring her here. It felt like the old couple owning the place knew, stuffing their plates and even giving them some leftovers "on the house" as a silent way to help. Ara always wondered how it would have felt like, to grow up with parents such as them, who would take care of her, feed her properly, watch over her. A thought she would share with him, laying down into Tai's arms by night. Have you seen how she looks at me... Mrs. Yu, like, I could be her daughter. Do you think she misses her? Her own daughter, the one who lives overseas. We never see the girl. How can you never visit... When you have a mother like this one. And little by little, tales were being written, tables were turning, Tai and Ara became the ones with enough money, enough power to help the modest eldery couple. At the end of dinner, the scavenger hunt felt like a consecration. The two were sneaking in the kitchen, running around, placing the bills in all the first places they could think of. "The freezer, put them in the freezer!" She would half whisper half exclaim in hurry and suggestion as he was a little faster than her, in her dress and heels. And so they hurried to hide while she was holding her giggles as they were contemplating the scene from afar : of the husband finding the bills, taking them. This was the manifestation of what they were standing for after all : stealing from the rich, to give to who deserved it truly, honest, hardworking, humble people. It was a sacrifice in a way and it will always be, to taint their own souls and bend their morals in order to put a smile on the face of the people. Her hand was laced with Tai's while they were watching, contemplating, and she couldn't help but smile. In a way, this gift to the man was also a gift to her, a reminder thanks to Tai. It was almost juvenile, the way she laughed out of excitment and of course he did notice. Cute - He said as her nose was cruching when he kissed it, wrapping her arms around his neck, her eyes linked with his, tiptoing lightly on her heels. "Oh yeah you like when I'm being a good girl? More than with my fires and knives on? Mmm, should I press one or two under your neck tonight, would you like me more when I'm bad?" She teases, her lips toying with his, not kissing him but brushing their mouthes together as she keeps pressing her body against his, her grin never fading, her canine catching the pulp of his bottom lip. Oh she knows he loves all sides of her, both Ara and Quinn, in all their good and bad lights. It was the same for her and adoring every single piece of his soul. He was so tender, when playing good, a sun - her heart would be overwhelmed with the sight of him on days like these. And whenever he would switch, be the new leader he became, show this authoritarian unleashed side of his, even more when it came to protect the gang, protect his territory, protect her : it was driving her crazy, hungry for him, she could eat him alive.

His next announcement of course caused her to laugh. "Completely different? Mmm Where are you taking me that could be completely different?" He did not answer and escaped instead, which made her enter the game and of course run after him, the sound of her heels clicking down the concrete "I'm coming, I'm coming!" The night feels like restrospective in a way, their past at the restaurant, their present in this car dressed the way they are anchored in their new selves and soon, their future : with that view on the top of the hill he took her at. The wind was cool, making their fabric of her dress, and the length of her hair dance slowly as they stand together, hand in hand. Their eyes finally rest on what seemed to be his plan, a target : this gigantic white house they were looking at from above in disdain. Intrigued - she is. A heist? Oh she would love that. And so as soon as he pulls out a box, she more and more believes a heist is coming. Her eyes are forming crescent as soon as they rest on the necklace, it's Vivienne Westwood. He knows too well her fascination for designers. It has birthed through the years and all began when they were younger and he would surprise her using remaining money from their successful heists to spoil her. Her fingers rest and lace through his as soon as he's placing the jewerly around her neck, the free hand pushing her hair to the side, to let him a full access to her collarbones. "You know me too well, every single piece of jewerly you've picked for me is absoltely gorgeous God I love it." She speaks as she then wraps her arms around his neck. "The perfect foreplay because yes I know exactly whose house this is." Foreplay she says - not knowing what he has in mind is even bigger. Tai knew - Ara did keep track on every single powerful scumbags this city had in its core. Scumbags she liked to call the Persecutors, these untouchable figures that could decide of fate of today's society without society being powerful enough to do anything in return. It was an uneven battle, one they have lived for too long. Her eyes were staring at the house from afar, listening to Tai's voice as her brows were slightly frowning. "There must be something so twisted down men's guts like him. A rotten, disgusting pleasure, pride - Yes, it's with pride that they are abusing the powerless and getting away with it... " She pauses, letting out an almost deranged yet deeply disgusted snicker. "Children without a family, without a Home in order to build himself a billionth house. I can't say the world surprises me anymore, my Love, I just, day by day realize that it's over. That, the persecutors of this world have their hearts turned so fucking rotten, there is no way back. The law huh? Justice? Look at how justice is served, in the end it's still the destitute and the working class paying for this piece of shit's hot tub." Ara adds as her eyes come back to Tai, a smile then gracing her lips. "What are we stealing from him? A safe? Evidence"

Her question gets an answer as soon as he places the lighter inside her hand. It was silver, a Vivienne Westwood, just like the necklace around her neck. It was a this instant that her eyes widened, in both surprise and fascination. It wasn't a heist but fire. Her hands slowly lower to wrap around the present, to feel the metal against her skin. And her grin widens into a smirk, her eyes then leaving the object to link with his. There is a slight light, is he catching on it, the light of something darker growing within her yet not spreading just yet, something creepling under her skin like the pyromaniac she actually is.

Justice.

That was her last gift for her, the justice this society couldn't give because of garbage man like this, They would deliver it. Oh how much he knew her, in all her chaos and softness and ruthless idealism. His fingers are entangled in her black locks and his eyes are deep inside of hers. Her heart is hammering, in adrenaline, in adoration.

"You got under my skin, Taiyang Theodore Tseng."

She speaks in the same velvet voice she always speaks to him in answer to his honeyed one. It's a Yes, a yes, as she closes the distance between their faces, her fingers bringing his jawline to hers, her lips catching his in a kiss of love, of devotion. It is a celebration he offers her now. And soon, her heels are left behind, abandonned in the cold grass as, hand in hand, they hurry down the hillto reach the house. Like cats - they were. Breaking into any house felt like something they were born for.

"The old fashion way?"

She questions as indeed, they are in their date apparels and her, barefoot, none of their sophisticated tools and ways when it came to cut the security cameras but indeed, the old fashion way. It was amusing to her - she was having fun and it showed, as soon as he helped her through the living room's window of this big house, her steps were already guiding her furthur inside the palace. It was quiet - Staycation my ass she thought - not only the man's sentence was inexistant, he probably was off to some dirty deed or secret party and won't face any consequence of breaking the law Once Again. The lights are now turned on with her delicate finger pressing on the switch, but dimmed. The place was indeed gigantic, beautiful, the typical house of a man who did something wrong to live in such wealth. Ara's hand is then traveling down the wood of the expensive furniture, fingers reach a turntable with an old vinyle that was on. Pushing the stick on the disc, for it to start spinning, for the music to start playing.

Sweet, Sugar, Candy Man.

As soon as the first notes are heard, her head turns towards him and she starts dancing. In this sensual, hypnotizing, almost deranged way, her hips swaying and her arms as well, above her head, her fingers playing playfully with her hair and she swings, left and right, with her hands extending. She closes the distance between their bodies, catching him, dragging him in.

"My love ! Come ! Dance with Me !"

And tell me what we're going to burn first."

She peaks on this haunting voice of hers, the black of her hair swaying around her exposed shoulders are she's now dragging him furthur into her manic dance, her eyes not leaving his. " Should it beee, this awful portrait of him on the wall OR~ This very expensive carpet I'm dancing on, mmm the trophies on the chimney or ALL of IT?" She questions in a deranged laughter, still dancing in pure bliss and euphoria.

a Valentines date with Taiquinn, @uroborosymphony your local trouble-maker vigilantes in love ~~ ( aka I was supposed to send a smol Valentines ask, but Tai muse got soo carried away with the dATE & it became so long that I had no choice but to turn it into a drabble. or, self-para ??? a self-para, I think, bc I can't write other people's muses, it scare me-- so i think self-para. but idek what the definition of those are, rly asjajj. anyway, i now RELEASE THE HOUNDS CATS -- )

he has to admit: when you've tasted a love like theirs-- a dark, brimming passion that could singe the world, if stoked-- all the simple, classical acts of romance that traditioned Valentines Day... they fell just a little flat, for him. he couldn't bring himself to give her nothing but heart-shaped candies, oversized plushes, or bouquets of flowers. there was nothing wrong with them, but they failed to represent his feelings for her. of course, no gift, no card, ( and no combination of words strung together, no matter how artful ) really could come close to expressing the depth of his feeling for Jung Ara …

but, never one to be bested by a challenge, and in the spirit of the holiday of LOVE ( and his never-ending quest to assure her of his utmost adoration and devotion to Ara, and Ara alone … ) he had planned for them a grand Valentines DATE !

it had started with all the makings of your typical St. Valentines' evening: all dressed up for a late night, intimate dinner at a restaurant. it was nothing overstated: a small local spot, a hidden gem that they didn't even need a reservation to get into on this busiest of busy nights-- it was that under the radar. and what kept it there was only it's 'undesirable' location: it was on the other side of town, the side where Tai and Ara had lived in their old, tiny apartment... and on their lazy no-cook nights, this had been one of their favorites places to patronize for a warm meal. the owners were a sweet older married pair, with two adults kids-- one that passed away tragically, and the other living overseas, with little time to visit their ma and pa. their shoes were old and worn, and the kitchen equipment was outdated, but their food was the nevertheless the best. they had gotten to know Tai and Ara by name and well-recognized their faces; always kind and paternal to the two regulars, even giving them extra food from their kitchen at no charge. and they never accepted a tip, no matter how many times Tai tried to foist one on them as a thanks… so, he'd once told them he'd invite them to his and Ara's future wedding as a gracious thank you, instead-- mostly because he wanted to see her reaction. would she laugh? would she blush? or was she down to go to the courthouse RIGHT THAT SECOND? because Tai was.

but those were the dates of the past. tonight, red lilies decorated the table, and coy looks were exchanged from across it. he steals a bite of her dessert, but mostly as an excuse to brush hands with her. and from the outside, they probably don't look all that different from any other couple out on the town that night. ( maybe more expensively dressed for the area, more effortlessly glamorous, but otherwise, one of many young lovers engrossed in one another… )

but when the meal is done, he motions for his beloved date to follow him to the back door. effortlessly, the two sneak in, and with hushed smiles, he leads her on a reverse scavenger hunt: he has stacks upon stacks of 50,000 Won bills, every one brought for them to hide in the backrooms of this cherished restaurant of theirs. he stashes paper bills in the cleaning closet, the freezer, hidden among big bags of dry goods on their shelves… it was enough money for the elderly couple to go into early retirement, if they wanted to. a little 'thank you' for all the good memories they'd made here; and another day of Tai and Ara putting money into the hands of the modest, hard-working people who actually deserved it…

evading detection with the stealth they'd mastered, they watched as the old man found a bill they had dropped in the kitchen-- asking himself out loud where it had come from. had he dropped it? after some contemplation, he pocketed it absentmindedly-- thinking nothing more of it, completely unaware of the bounty that awaited him. Tai and Quinn snuck out the back in fits of laughter, giddy from their good deed…

in the dark, dimly lit night, he pulled her into his arms to press a kiss to the bridge of her nose. he was still grinning with delight. " you're so cute when you're being good, and not scaring people with knives… " he was warmly and affectionately joking, and it's clear from his tone that he likes her just as much when she's 'good' and when she's 'bad'. it was true: she was cute when they were playing Robin Hood together … but she was also hot when she was defending their turf.

" . . . and now for something completely different ! " he announced with a dramatic flourish, like the ringleader of the circus that was their crazy life. leading her by the small of her back to the car-- almost excitedly, urging her onward with a gentle push. the sound of her heels clicking against the concrete was strangely exhilarating to him. " come on, come on-- you're gonna love this next spot. " it would be a long drive across the city, but never boring. the car glided down the highway late at night on relatively empty streets, enriching the mystery of what their destination would be. it became clear, however, that they were heading into the ritzy-RICH part of Seoul, all glitzy and beaming with white lights.

but when the car was stopped and parked, they were secluded. like they were hiding. nearby was a hilltop, grassy with sparse trees. he lead Ara up the hill by the hand-- a bit of a long walk, but they were used to this sort of thing. scoping. it would be obvious to Ara that they were scoping out a place: somewhere he intended to break into, most likely. ( they'd done this very thing a million times together, always hand-in-hand like this, and with adrenaline pumping in his blood. ) when they come to a stop near the cliffside, a huge sprawling white mansion is in view below them. he observed it ( with subtle disdain ) for a few moments, before turning to face Ara. he smiled at her. back to the good old Valentines classics, he pulled a giftbox out of his pocket. inside was a necklace, a heart-shaped design from Vivienne Westwood: silver, pretty, and dripping with modern luxury... he doesn't really explain why he got it, just clasps it around her neck admiringly. it does look good on her, but what doesn't? when the necklace was fastened, his palms drifted from the nape of her neck to the front, where her pulse beat in her throat. the delicate, vulnerable skin that it takes trust to let another person touch, and his hands massage affectionately.

" so, do you know whose house this is... ? " she might, he thinks. few would recognize it as anything more than a random mansion in Seoul, but she's the cleverest person he knows, and she probably keeps track of guys like him... " he's that stock executive who was in the news a couple weeks ago… and not for something good, like winning the world record for most hot dogs eaten. no… this is the douchebag who stole money from that orphanage in Sinchon. he set up a 'charity' in their name and took donations for the kids, but really, it was all a big tax break for him; it was a scam. the orphanage only got scraps of the money, and the rest… well, I guess it probably went into building this monster of a house. worst part is, he got away with it, pretty much. the judge gave him house arrest-- the guy's related to some high-up there politician, so you know how that goes… " it's how this city was: corruption, from the top down. this man had basically stolen candy from babies, and because of who he knew, he didn't have to do a damn thing to pay for it… " i mean, how bad can house arrest even be in a house like that ? " he looked it's way: the pool could be visible from where they were standing. big glass windows suggested luxurious insides. house arrest? more like a STAY-CATION...

Tai turned back to Quinn, taking out the last of his gifts. he placed it gingerly into her palm, let her examine it. it had a similarly branded design to her necklace, but it didn't exist only to be pretty; it was practical, too. a lighter. made of silver, but the flame flickered gold when you lit it up. Tai's grin sparkled in white. was she catching his drift?

him, her, fire, a rich piece of garbage in a house that was just begging to be burned to the ground…

he thinks he knows what gifts Quinn would covet the most. jewelry was nice… flowers were pretty... but JUSTICE was better. he could give her that. he could give her all three, and he would.

digits tangled into the strands of silky black hair at her nape, eyes lost in hers. in love with everything that she was: her chaos and her softness, her ruthless idealism… she was perfect. his voice had turned to a conspiratory, honeyed whisper. " what do you say, Valentine ? want to finish this date at his place? " and when they were done, all that should be left in the rubble where a mansion used to be, would be a paper Valentines' Day card left behind, slowly burning to a crisp. signed with love, from yours truly: Black Fang . . .

[oviri7]

« C’est le lot fatal des démocraties modernes : l’abrutissement général achevé, les derniers bastions de noblesse y sont lentement rongés par le bacille de la vulgarité qu’elles ont lentement mûri dans leurs entrailles. Tout ce qui était grand et beau s’asphyxie sous le poids mort du nombre, tout crève de l’étreinte infantile des foules. Point d’idéal hors de leurs appétits, point de tension vers les hauteurs : fanatiques de l’instant présent, d’énergie essentiellement horizontale, ces hommes sans colonne règnent sur des mondes agoniques qu’ils fantasment en âge d’or. Les plus ambitieux parmi ces médiocres, soulevés sans effort par la force des masses vengeresses, accèdent aux plus hautes sphères qui, vérolées, tomberont bientôt comme des astres morts sur la foule stupéfaite qui ne comprendra pas pourquoi, ignorant qu’elle est le comment. Ils ont tous, en attendant, d’étonnantes liesses où se dilue le peu de dignité qu’il leur restait. Ivres de leurs miasmes, baignant dans le jus putride de leurs cerveaux avachis, ils célèbrent des paradis où tous s’entassent tout vice dehors tandis que leur détracteur naturel, l’individu racé qui répugne de tout son être à servir cet impérialisme de la lèpre, voyant d’autres horizons dans l’oeil humain, reste à l’écart, se sachant véritable humaniste puisqu’il exige pour son « frère » un minimum de tenue et non toujours plus de confort. »

Ariya S.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book Two, Chapter XXIII:

For the first time in this novel where any place can suddenly become a prison*, we enter the first tangible, actual jail in the novel, and it's none other than the Bastille.

*I believe Proust ironized about noblemen becoming the hosts of whichever place they were in. In Borel’s novel, they are imbued with the alchemic power of transforming any place into a jail whether they own it or not.

J.M.W.Turner, Lecture Diagram 75: Interior of a Prison c.1810 based on an etching from Piranesi’s Prima Parte de Architettura e Prospettiva (1743, pl.2)

We follow Patrick, armed with Pompadour’s letter, into the building. Borel compares it with a beast. Patrick is entering its belly to rescue an already semi digested Fitz-Harris. The jail itself is alive, slowly ruminating on and digesting its prisoners in its gut-like cells. The Bastille is a stone bull, a lot like Phalaris’ Bronze Bull, the narrator remarks. This was a terrifying torture device from ancient Greece, the neoclassicists’ model of rationality and measure, imposing the style in repressive official art (for example see Auguste Préault’s Tuerie: a Romantic response to Triqueti’s La Loi vengeresse a previous and official neoclassical bas-relief)

I’d also say Borel is putting us in perspective with this example: it not only casts the horrors of the Bastille in a magnitude of excess worthy of a capricious, self-appointed tyrant from antiquity, it also shows us how this type of power abuse is not specific to a determinate place and time period (although this novel is very much about ancien régime and restoration era France), it has happened in ancient Greece, it has happened in 18th c France, whenever this abysmal power imbalance is allowed to exist these types of abuses will happen. Finally, the brazen bull is also a great metaphor: its acoustic design transformed the tyrant’s victims desperate cries into the bull’s mooing, a final insult to those dying in it, transformed into a gag or entertainment for the tyrant. (also worth noting, Phalaris was established in what now is Agrigento, Sicily, a colony of Greece, coexisting with democratic Athens)(Phalaris was also, like the French tyrants, finally overthrown by the native population, and some say, roasted inside his own bull)(it is a VERY relevant comparison, on so many levels)

It’s also interesting to note how abstract Borel is keeping France’s most iconic prison. Most of his readers would have had a mental image of it I suppose. But think of how precise Balzac gets when depicting the Concièrgerie (or Hugo in his Choses vues, or Dumas with the Château d’If in Montecristo) it’s almost as if Borel, for now at least, is not interested in documentation of a precise space, we are allowed to imagine any prison, we are allowed to go full Piranesi here. [Insert your mental image of an ancien régime prison here] in lieu of ancien régime France’s most iconic prison, because, maybe its horrors exceed a concrete time and space, specific as they are.

We do see the vault Fitz-Harris is locked in, in its tangible side: a dreadful place where you can barely stand upright, humid, dark, freezing; as well as in its psychological dimension, the effect it has had on Fitz-Harris, how different he sounds now, no more cheerfully mean spirited “monomania of speech”. After weeks of sensory deprivation and immobility, probably half starved as well, he’s grown completely paranoid and afraid of his own shadow. He has probably been hallucinating before, since he thinks Patrick is imaginary too, he also fails to react to the sound of his cell’s door opening.

Fitz-Harris’ monomania of speech is not entirely gone, he cannot help and call Pompadour “—L’infâme! La Putiphar!” right within the guards’ earshot. Patrick grows understandably anxious....

(Interestinly Patrick, a relatively recently emigrated man, knows the Bastille by reputation, he mentions in reference to Fitz-Harris’ anti Pompadour outburst, something called citerne-aux-oublis, a place he says, prisoners were thrown into for harsh(er) punishment. I tried looking this up on Borel’s Bastille related sources but had no luck with the exact words or synonyms I could think of... It is possible Borel is referring to the apparently famous “oubliettes” of the Bastille?

“M. Viollet-le-Duc has assured us, quite gravely, that the famed oubliettes (the bottoms of which were shaped like sugar loaves, so that prisoners might have no resting-place for their feet) were merely ice-houses! It is not denied that these cells existed, and those who care to believe that a Mediæval architect built them under the towers of the Bastille as store-chambers for ice to cool the governor's or the prisoners' wine, are entirely welcome to do so. These were amongst the places of torment in which Louis XI. kept the Armagnac princes, who were taken out twice a week to be scourged in the presence of Governor l'Huillier, and "every three months to have a tooth pulled out."

From The Dungeons of Old Paris, by Tighe Hopkins.

Violet-le-Duc’s drawing of the vaults, and explanation of its origin as ice storage here

Whether he means that or something else, it speaks of the Bastille’s infamy as a symbol of terror, mentally torturing the general population in an attempt to keep them in line out of fear.)

Fitz-Harris, maybe out of prison instilled paranoia, or maybe just projecting his own faults into others, thinks this is a trap, Patrick is lying, he falsely claims he is pardoned, but Patrick is actually leading him to his execution. He still follows, because he has to prove he’s not a coward. (this reminds me of the duel and how differently they both understood masculinity and honour... more on that very soon, in a shocking reveal about Pat’s character)

This routine of Patrick begging for FH to follow him, and the prisoner refusing to be set free is pretty interesting.... there’s something Plato’s Cavern to be said about it, surely. However terrible the conditions, a routine is a routine, sudden change is more scary than quotidian incarceration. It is uncertain and stable at the same time (trying to put myself in the shoes of a person who could barely see his surroundings, calculating the passage of time by the irruptions of the guards, once you realize you’re not being moved I imagine you grow calm because it means you get to live, since any abrupt change is seen by Fitz-Harris as the possibility of execution)

However, as F-H is not as far gone yet as to be unable to notice that he is in fact, being released, showers Patrick in praise, abases himself, swears to change for good and live to “earn” Patrick’s friendship, which he has without having really deserved it. But Patrick reveals a dark side to what we before though was his Christlike behaviour. He confesses a rather perverse pleasure in subjugating the one who hated him so much by making him thankful. His revenge is simply not won by the force of an iron blade, but it is a much crueller revenge, he says. Patrick is less of a saint, less of a Christ intuiting virtues in his potential apostles than what we had been led to think before. He of course has never shared this secret source of pleasure to Debby, not even when she thought him mad and too good for this world for helping Fitz-Harris...

(i am including Fitz-Harris’ previous phrase, I bolded a part that seems like it will be relevant in the future, translation by @sainteverge )

“Apologies, apologies for the all the harm I have done to you! My entire life shall henceforth be entirely dedicated to cleansing myself of my crimes towards you. I shall do everything to be worthy of your esteem; for he whom you esteem must be esteemed by God. As for your friendship, do not ever give it back to me, it would be to profane it! Keep it for hearts righter than mine. Oh! you have my eternal gratitude!” “Fitz-Harris, no gratitude. You owe me nothing, I told you I do not avenge myself with a blade; but I did not tell you that I am not capable of revenge; therefore here is mine: a good deed for an insult. This one is more cruel, I think, than the blade, what say you? to force someone who hates you to bless you, despite himself, in the depth of his conscience; to force a man to blush, to die of shame before his fellowman; that is, if I’m not wrong, a revenge! What say you, Fitz-Harris? We are even, I believe?”

I for one, did not expect this from Patrick... his revenge is still, killing them with kindness in a way... but there’s something about his choice of word that is sensuous and almost cruel, that reveals a vanity, and a perverse relishing in other’s subjugation that is surprising from him. He seemed exceedingly good, and it’s interesting for borel to suddenly introduce this mildly sadistic streak in him.

We are denied Fitz-Harris' reaction, but I bet he was surprised himself.

[histoire-glitchienne]

Wild Love <3 (court métrage 2019)

Imaginez, une escapade en amoureux. Paysage idyllique, ciel bleu... Malgré ce rêve éveillé, vous essayez tant bien que mal d'oublier que vous venez de massacrer, accidentellement, une jolie petite marmotte. Oh, bon... C'est juste une marmotte. Ignorant que ces petits rongeurs peuvent cacher, sous leurs airs mignons et inoffensifs, une âme vengeresse et des envies cruelles...

Wild Love est un court métrage jouissif mêlant paysage bucolique, amour, massacre et humour noir: un petit "remake" subtil d'Happy Tree Friends et de Cannibal Holocauste ...

[uroborosymphony]

Yoona's words, Ara listens to them. Hasn't she always? In a twisted way, despite these moments of yelling at her, or making fun of her, or belittling her, Ara has always listened to Yoona, in the same way she always listened to every single one of her members. Could one call that tough love? Could it all really be put in the past just like that? Emotionless, the Dark Quinn is. Yet not insensitive. Yoona is the first person who belonged to her found family that she got to interact with ever since she decided to walk on her own. The path she chose, it's a path of determination, of faith but a path of loneliness as well. Knowing she can call Yoona, knowing Yoona will answer, it makes her feel less... Lonely. It is a difficult field to walk on for Ara, a conversation that's starting to get difficult to have - the best issue for her is to keep going, to stay away from these memories. Right here, right now, her helmet is already in her hands, her figure already by the door as she refuses to dwelve more. It's heavy. The words Yoona speak, they are heavy too, words of her still fighting, this order she gives to Quinn to keep on fighting, too. "Fighting for what?" Is the question that drops out of Quinn's mouth, severe, almost angry at the statement, this cold, set anger she has always carried inside. "Fighting for who?" Quinn now, she doesn't fight for herself anymore - she fights for the voices inside her head, she fights for these hallucinations she has at night, she fights for this world she has built inside her head within a reality that got deformed over and over, twisted, torn and bent. "Why would I keep fighting for myself... When every single soul in this goddamn world never truly wanted to fight for me?" It is a line she wouldn't ever say at loud, ever.

Ara doesn't want to appear weak, she doesn't want to appear broken but she is. A father who never bothered knowing her, a mother who physically and psyhologically abused her before abandonning her in foster, comrades who would think less of her and turn their backs on her, a lover who promised to give his life for her and yet ended up closing the door to her and finally, an entire gang who has stopped ackowledging her. Her demons on the other hand, them, they never gave up on her, they never abandonned her. Yoona's statement about Taiyang makes Ara wonder where he is too. Even if she refuses to care, even if all she feels for him is hatred, she cannot help but wonder... Is he alright. "He abandonned you the way he abandonned me, then." The last time Taiyang and Ara faced each other was quite a time ago, at the very beginning of her ascencion, the very beginning of her army - the memory is half clear, half blur, as in, she never truly is herself anymore with a head decaying, is she. "You could stop caring and leave, get yourself a normal life. A decent job at one of these luxury stores you like so much, who knows maybe start your own brand of scrunchies and handmade bags. Get yourself a decent man who brings enough money and treat you right. Go to bed every night without worrying a gang war will lead to a bullet in your head. Eat well. Have kids... Have you ever thought of that?" Has Ara? "If you do not answer my call, I will not be so upset, I will understand you chose a better life than this one."

[lounesdarbois]

La racaille est un nemesis. Les destructions ont visé pour le moment des marques et des structures qui ont speculé sur la persécution des Blancs depuis 20 ans : - Five Guys (Obama) - Foot Korner (pro-racailles) - Action (produits plastiques ultra-discount sur le modèle americain) - Lidl (regardez la clientèle d'un Lidl) - Chatelêt (sans commentaire) - Macdo - Centres des impôts - Concessions Yamaha (T-Max) - Zoo (symbolique du singe lâché) - Mediathèques (livres débilisants pour enfants lus par grosses dames vengeresses) - Mairies - Écoles (école obligatoire 2023 = gynécée autour d'un octogone de MMA, présence obligatoire) - caméras de surveillance

Voilà. Qui veut bouger pour défendre ces moyens de coercition? Toutefois il faut raison garder. Les récentes algarades nocturnes sont le fait de très parcimonieux dilettantes racailles. Il n'y a là rien qui annonce "la vraie grande pluie qui balaie les trottoirs" (Taxi Driver). Tous ces paresseux se sont excités sur ce qu'ils avaient à portée de main mais ils ne sont pas "allé chercher" hors de leur zone de confort (ce sont des bourgeois) les vrais leviers de vrai pouvoir, et ils n'en n'ont même pas seulement eu l'idée (ce sont des primitifs): - Skyrock - CAF - Sièges de banques agressives style Goldman Sachs, Rotschild - Sièges de partis politiques - Journaux, presse, TV, médias (un seul journaliste de Libé dépouillé de son appareil photo, c'est ça une "jeunesse révoltée en lutte"?) - Les fourrières - Les Influenceurs - Les fauteurs de guerre - Les gens qui ont touché au business de la pornographie. - ambassades étrangères - dépôts de carburant

C'est dire comme ces remueurs de merde estampillés lutteurs pour la justice sont loin du compte. Zéro conscience politique, cent pour cent cerveau reptilien.

Quand à la police lâchée par sa hiérarchie elle a pris grand soin de ne pas abîmer la racaille alors qu'elle mutilait exprès les Gilets Jaunes en visant la tête ("a voté") pendant 2 ans.

Les Gilets Jaunes d'ailleurs, doivent ne surtout pas sortir du bois. Dès lors qu'il y aurait 2 fronts le pouvoir se débrouillerait pour les envoyer l'un sur l'autre. C'est là une des grandes prédictions de Roger Holeindre, Dieu ait son âme: "si on descendait dans la rue le pouvoir armerait les banlieues dans le quart d'heure pour sauver la république", et on peut croire sur parole cet homme dont chaque mot fût payé par des actes dans sa vie, et quels actes!

Il ne faut pas s'affoler pour 3 supermarchés pillés, 2 caméras sciées et quelques infrastructures de parc à bestiaux momentanément endommagées. "Y a tchi" comme on disait à Grenoble. Est-ce cela le chaos? Mais alors l'ordre public est cent fois pire avec sa mort lente unanimement admise, le "bah c'est la vie hein c'est comme ça" de tous les mouligasses qui y sont rois, qui vous imposent leur sale rythme et vous rendent faibles.

L'ordre public, "l'apaisement", pour quoi faire ? Pour que des trans éduquent des racailles dans les écoles ? Pour que des dindes masquées DRH virent des pères de famille de 55 ans? Pour que des prédatrices fanatisées dépouillent par divorces des acharnés réglos bosseurs pacifiques? Tous ceux, police et braves gens qui essaient d'empêcher le nemesis de faire son œuvre, se battront à leurs risques et périls pour la parité, pour le "mois des fiertés", pour les foules sorties du néolithique il y a 2 semaines et qui frappent à la porte, pour le masque et l'asepsie, ils se battront pour ce qui les tue et cela au profit de la syna, des loges, des bourges, et de toute la nomenclature hispano-romagnole "européenne" des Nunez/Hidalgo/Valls/Castaner.

Les masques tombent, y compris ceux des états "alliés" algériens, américains. Lisez leurs récentes circulaires officielles concernant nos malheurs. La manière dont ces fissdep entassés devant le KFC en flammes suent d'impatience de grapiller quelques chicken wings dans la curée promise est le plus merveilleux tombé de masque en plein jour depuis Yalta. Ils n'ont pas compris que l'histoire de France a toujours précédé l'histoire de leurs nations: 1776, 1830, etc. Et l'Allemagne, l'Italie, l'Espagne... s'il arrive malheur à la France ce qu'à Dieu ne plaise toutes ces nations qui la jugent se mangeront l'onde de choc comme sous Bonaparte. La France, faute d'être aidée et aimée, est la nation "seule contre tous" mais tous ceux de l'intérieur et de l'extérieur qui ricanent de la voir sans défense se trouvent un jour fort dépourvus lorsque confrontés à de surprenants nemesis.

"Je vais dormir tranquille maintenant car je sais que mon pire ennemi veille sur moi"