#Jean Jacques imagines

[honeydazai]

୨୧·࣭࣪̇˖ 𝆬  ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ — ᴊᴇᴀɴ ᴊᴀᴄqᴜᴇꜱ ᴄʜᴀꜱᴛᴇʟ 𝆬 𓏸

content: f!reader, jealousy, biting, blood mentions, nsfw content

notes: this was commissioned by the lovely @shot-tothestars! Thank you so very much again!! 💜

Jean-Jacques who is utterly enamoured with absolutely everything about you, and how could he not be? He can relate relatively well to your shyness, and it's a topic that certainly makes him feel more connected to you, like you two relate in some experiences. Despite being rather shy, you've opened up beautifully to him and so has he to you; really, he's told you more about himself than he has anyone ever before. He's convinced you know his soul in and out, as he does yours. 

Jean-Jacques who is in love with how sweet and caring you are, with your gentle smile and with how you manage to get along with literally everyone. He's convinced it's some magical skill of yours, given how he's never before seen anyone be quite as good at it as you. 

Jean-Jacques who eventually realises that, unfortunately, this is exactly where the problem lies — the fact that you get along well with literally everyone is as much of a blessing as it is a curse, given how, this way, you're not purely his at all times. 

Jean-Jacques who, even though he tries not to come across as possessive, given how he doesn't want to risk scaring you off, intends to show you that he's the only man able to make you happy at all times and in every way possible. He's planning to take you out on a date to see you smile, to cook for you so you get to compliment his skills, your attention entirely on him once again. 

Jean-Jacques who honestly doesn't think it's his fault for getting jealous. It's merely natural to protect one's territory, is it not? He can't help the sudden urge to mark you up, to suck hickeys into your skin, high up on your neck where no high collar could hope to hide them, his claim on you displayed for everyone to see, to acknowledge. 

Jean-Jacques who, honestly, cannot do anything but moan softly against your skin when his fangs sink into the soft skin of your inner thigh, your whole body flinching a little at the sudden pain, though he's always rather careful when feeding from you, especially from sensitive places such as this or your forearm. 

Jean-Jacques who, with a smile on his lips, gladly pushes two of his slim fingers into you, making you arch your back, your lips dropping open in a moan, while he feeds on you, providing a pleasant distraction to the mild pain when he stretches you open, preparing you for what's yet to come,

and Jean-Jacques who, when he finally sinks into you, his narrow hips flush against you, moans into a kiss, the taste of iron, of your blood, on his lips when you squeeze tightly around him, your wet walls all but sucking him in, welcoming him home, and he's certain no one else could make you feel quite this good when you mewl as his thumb feathers over your throbbing clit. 

“You taste delicious, darling. Your blood and your sweet little noises make me never want to stop again. Ah, but I don't have to, do I? You're mine, after all.” 

tags: @cupxfcxffee @jodidann @marina-and-the-memes @Happymoon16 @yumidepain @janeinerz @aaronthegreatestsimp @fanfiction-waifu @KimxKiba @fiannee @Morigumy @villainouspotential @babypickleclamfish @nikolaisgoofyahhhat @ItsSara-chan @dei-lilxc @disa-ster @aspookyscaryghost @nikolaisboner @polish-anon @arisu-chan4646 @eroscastle @somnobun @birbysaur @c4xcocoa

#honeydazai writes #Vnc #Vanitas no carte #jean jacques chastel #Jean Jacques Vanitas #Jean Jacques x Reader #Jean Jacques smut #Jean Jacques headcanons #Jean Jacques imagines #Jean Jacques fanfic #Jean Jacques Chastel x reader #Vanitas no carte x reader #Vanitas no carte imagines #Vanitas no carte headcanons #Vanitas no carte fanfic #Vnc x reader #Vnc x you #Vnc x Reader #Vnc headcanons #Vnc imagines #Commission #writing commissions #Writing comms #Comms open

[philosophybits]

When alone, I have never known what it is to feel weary, even when I am entirely unemployed; my imagination fills up every void, and is alone sufficient to occupy me.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions

#philosophy #quotes #Jean-Jacques Rousseau #Confessions #solitude #imagination #creativity

[ripempezardexerox]

Dices Merzbow, yo digo Justin Beiber

Dices Boredoms, yo digo Katy Perry

Dices Gerogerigegege, yo digo Skrillex

Dices Coil, yo digo Lady Gaga

Dices Throbbing Gristle, yo digo Black Eyed Peas

Dices Whitehouse, yo digo Taylor Swift

Dices Nurse With Wound, yo digo Bruno Mars

Dices Einstürzende Neubauten, yo digo Maroon 5

Dices Brainbombs, yo digo Drake

Dices Egor Letov, yo digo One Direction

Dices Death in June, yo digo LMFAO

Dices Current 93, yo digo Beyonce

Dices La Monte Young, yo digo Carly Rae Jepsen

Dices Moondog, yo digo Kelly Clarkson

Dices Lou Harrison, yo digo Coldplay

Dices Henry Cowell, yo digo PSY

Dices Luigi Russolo, yo digo Imagine Dragons

Dices Popol Vuh, yo digo Lana Del Ray

Dices Fishmans, yo digo Ellie Goulding

Dices Jean Jacques Perrey, yo digo P!nk

Dices Les Rallizes Dénudés, yo digo Owl City

Dices Rainbow Caroliner, yo digo Carrie Underwood

Dices Taj Mahal Travellers, yo digo Christina Aguilera

Dices Fushitsusha, yo digo Ariana Grande

Dices Peter Brötzmann, yo digo Rihanna

Dices John Cage, yo digo Jennifer Lopez

Dices Scott Walker, yo digo Ed Sheeran

Dices Unwound, yo digo Mumford & Sons

Dices Dead, yo digo Tyga

Dices Frank Zappa, yo digo Shakira

Dices Morton Feldman, yo digo Macklemore

Dices Captain Beefheart, yo digo Big Time Rush

Dices Pharoah Sanders, yo digo Akon

Dices Albert Ayler, yo digo Foster the People

Dices Ornette Coleman, yo digo The Weeknd

Dices Alice Coltrane, yo digo Panic! at the Disco

Dices Arnold Schoenberg, yo digo Florida Georgia Line

Dices Pierre Boulez, yo digo Big Sean

Dices György Ligeti, yo digo Gym Class Heroes

Dices Karlheinz Stockhausen, yo digo Miley Cyrus

Dices Nang Nang, yo digo The Lumineers

Dices Thinking Fellers Union Local 282, yo digo Jay-Z

Dices Nara Leão, yo digoCharlie Puth

Dices Basic Channel, yo digo Mac Miller

Dices Raymond Scott, yo digo Twenty One Pilots

Dices Delia Derbyshire, yo digo Harry Styles

Dices Daphne Oram, yo digo Charli XCX

Dices Noah Howard, yo digoBTS

Dices Terry Riley, yo digo Iggy Azalea

Dices Peter Sotos, yo digo John Legend

Dices Lula Côrtes e Zé Ramalho, yo digo OneRepublic

Dices Boyd Rice, yo digo Migos

Dices Mahmoud Ahmed, yo digo Logic

Dices Henry Flynt, yo digo Bastille

Dices Kazumoto Endo, yo digo Five Seconds of Summer

Dices David Tudor, yo digo Pentatonix

Dices Aporea, yo digo The Chainsmokers

Dices Half Japanese, yo digo Fall Out Boy

Dices Mega Banton, yo digo David Guetta

Dices Secret Chiefs 3, yo digo Greta Van Fleet

Dices Keiji Haino, yo digo Alicia Keys

Dices Ramleh, yo digo Kanye West

Dices Otomo Yoshihide, yo digo T-Pain

Dices John Zorn, yo digo Lizzo

Dices Joe Meek, yo digo WALK THE MOON

Dices Robbie Basho, yo digo Cardi B

Dices Phil Spector, yo digo EXO

Dices Faxed Head, yo digo Solange

Dices Harry Partch, yo digo Lil Nas X

Dices Wesley Willis, yo digo Disclosure

Dices Fred Frith, yo digo Sam Smith

Dices The Residents, yo digo Michael Buble

Dices Sun Ra, yo digo Paramore

Dices Sun City Girls, yo digo Linkin Park

Dices Hans Krüsi, yo digo Florence + The Machine

Dices Royal Trux, yo digo Rascal Flatts

Dices Jandek, yo digo Eminem

Dices Yat-Kha, yo digo Chance the Rapper

Dices Loren Mazzacane Connors, yo digo Mariah Carey

Dices Pärson Sound, yo digo Snoop Dogg

Dices The Dead C, yo digo Adele

Dices Comus, yo digo Shawn Mendes

Dices Cromagnon, yo digo Chris Brown

Dices Eliane Radigue, yo digo Camilla Cabello

Dices Arthur Doyle, yo digo Halsey

Dices Shizuka, yo digo The 1975

Dices The Red Krayola, yo digo Billie Eilish

Dices Henry Cow, yo digo A$AP Rocky

Dices Magma, yo digo Dua Lipa

Dices Opus Avantra, yo digo Kendrick Lamar

Dices Pan.Thy.Monium., yo digo Nicki Minaj

Dices Murmuüre, yo digo Madonna

Dices Ksiezyc, yo digo Britney Spears

Dices Gong, yo digo Post Malone

Dices Cukor Bila Smert', yo digo Jonas Brothers

Dices cLOUDDEAD, yo opino que te calles

Dices Muslimgauze, ¡¡ YO GRITO POP!!

Dices Kaoru Abe, y te parto la madre

El 92% de la juventud está escuchando Avant Garde Noise. Si eres parte de ese 8% que aun escucha música de verdad, comparte este post a tus contactos de facebook.

¡¡¡¡ No dejes que el espíritu del POP muera !!!!

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: take me as your wife

You reached for my glass to pour me some wine, and in doing so, brushed my hand for a half-second with your ring finger. Only, it was not the back of my palm that you brushed, but my sloping knuckles; this is when I knew that it was the cut of my jaw you really wanted to touch, that you had chosen to indicate you wanted it with the finger used by many to display the glinting vow of marriage. You poured, and I watched, and the tranquil waters of your eyes stilled their rippling before me, and you were swiftly and silently taking me as your wife. At long last and yet far too soon, only for tonight and yet once and for all, in a century which was at once so impatiently modern and so soothingly traditional. Or: In the 1750s, Crowley stumbles upon Aziraphale at a country inn, away from the hustle and bustle and the prying eyes of London town. The most romantic of afternoons ensues.

Length: 1,931 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Best for: At Home, After Dark, Romance

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy

*Minor Spoilers* So I knew Sam was writing a fic for my birthday, but I didn't expect to end up sobbing once I had read it. I couldn't compose myself for an embarrassingly long time afterward. I am so touched and grateful for this new friendship, and I felt a little overwhelmed by the love and quality of this piece.

Please, before you read this, set the stage with the recording I prompted for this fic. It's a piece by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, read by Michael Sheen, reminiscing about a past meeting. Sam took this prompt and soared. It perfectly captures the atmosphere, the longing, the desire, and the intimacy of the reading.

We join Crowley as she (can be read as either male or female presenting Crowley, but I'll use she/her pronouns here) recounts a night spent at an inn with Aziraphale. To me, it feels as though I am reading a letter or diary entry by Crowley, as she speaks directly to Aziraphale, telling him her thoughts and desires. Her longing is so intense that she imagines herself as part of every morsel he consumes, envisioning it’s her body he’s touching, not merely the napkins; it's her thighs he’s parting, not just a soft loaf of bread. Crowley (like with the ox ribs) finds her desire in watching Aziraphale’s indulgent consumption, her need for release growing unbearable and distracting. But this is not just Crowley being turned on by innocent actions. She is reacting to Aziraphale’s intentional signals. It is an unspoken conversation, a promise of what’s to come. He tells her with the barest of touches, and slightest subtext, that she is his. Finally, when she assumes that the night will soon be over, she is instead handed a key. "A key to a room downstairs." Barriers and doors unlocked, they will consummate their unspoken vow to each other. Their need and devotion temporarily greater than the threat of Heaven, Hell, or God herself.

This story is not only erotic but gorgeous. One of my favorite qualities of Sam's writing is how he gives us languorous poetry then snaps back into unabashed smut, like a kiss that suddenly bites. This is vivid imagery and prose, yet still has a dreamy haze to it. Like a romanticized version of Crowley's memory. A friend described it to me as a hot summer’s night, the smell of grass and rain, a restless yearning. It’s a memory that craves. Longing for the moment they will reunite. And of course they will, they’ll always belong to one other. I love this story so much. And sure, I may be very biased because I love Sam. But I truly and genuinely believe in this story. And because it's my birthday fic you all should read this. Birthday girl rules sorry. Thank you Sam, you are such a talented writer, and a wonderful person. I'm so honored to receive this gift.

Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #good omens fic rec #aziraphale x crowley #take me as your wife #ineffabildaddy #short #at home #after dark #romance #four flames #canon timeline #femme character

[snaxewhisper]

I don't have a title for this but it's regarding whether Noé will or will not drink Vanitas blood

I'm sure most people in the case study of Vanitas fandom have agreed on the fact that Noé will, most likely, drink Vanitas blood before he will inevitably die. This short post is just me stating "evidence" regarding the matter.

So, as we all know, Vanitas does not want Noé to drink his blood because he is an archiviste. Makes sense. Besides the fact that it's to keep Vanitas mysterious in general, he himself has stated in an extra chapter (they were discussing the Birthdays of the main cast) that he does not like such information to be revealed to strangers, if I remember correctly. Now, I know that Noé and Vanitas are far from strangers, but it's Vanitas we are talking about here, come on.

Now, I know that in some animanga it's just an artistic choice to have the characters speak about the present as if it's the past, but Mochijun never does something without a reason behind it. So far, I think there have been three occasions where Noé spoke in past tense (of which I only have screenshots of two of them.)

Number one:

the first chapter. It is revealed that Noé will kill Vanitas, but it spoken about as if it happened in the past. Now I know, artistic choice, but hold on.

Number two:

In chapter eleven (I think??) It happened again. Noé is talking about Vanitas passing.

What I am trying to get at, is that the whole story of case study of Vanitas is portrayed from Noé's point of view and it only (or mostly) contains scenes where Noé was present. Except for a few scenes with domi and flashbacks of Vanitas past. Now what do the two of them have in common based on this post? Both are the people Noé has drank or will drink the blood of.

Dominique is obvious and Vanitas just makes sense.

Maybe during Vanitas's "dying breath", Noé thought of what jean-jacques said here

and wanted to remember Vani as best as he could, not wanting to forget him but also wanting to understand him, even (or especially) after his passing.

Or Vanitas thought about it and, deep down, wanted someone to remember his story. The complete story.

Now Imagine Vanitas in Noés arms, slowly dying (maybe bleeding out), Noé viewing Vani's memories and during Vanitas dying breath, Noé whisper his real name. Damn now I made myself sad.

So yea, that's about it I think?? I know this is all pretty obvious, but I still wanted to get it out of my system. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or language errors, it is the middle of the night and english is not my native language.

#vanoe #case study of vanitas #vanitas no carte #i am too tired for this #this is a what if #and a cry for help because please Mochijun make VaNoe canon #i didn't know whether to write this or not because i thought it's pretty obvious but i have never heard anyone address it?? #vannoe #vannoé #vanoé

[drunkinchicago]

coriolanus snow x lucy baird

Chapter 1: born king

prodigal (comparative more prodigal, superlative most prodigal)

Wastefully extravagant.

(by allusion to the New Testament story commonly called "The Parable of the Prodigal Son", Luke 15:11–32) Behaving as a prodigal son:

Having (selfishly) abandoned a person, group, or ideal.

Returning or having returned, especially repentantly, after such an abandonment.

“A born king is a very rare being.”

― Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract

The first thing he thought upon the discovery of her death was, at least I don’t have to hear her sing anymore.

It was a morbid thought, a perturbed one, arguably even disgusting. This was a concern Coriolanus mulled over as his chef placed a platter of raspberry clafoutis before him, no condolences accompanied. The private hire was an Avox, retrieved and funded by Strabo Plinth. Even if he had sorrows to express, he couldn’t, but it was in that way that Coriolanus preferred it. In fact, his highest preference was when the saucier wasn’t in the room at all. He detested eating before other people. The art of consumption had become such a contrived behavior when presented with an audience. Years and years of pretending to be full, knowing when and how to laugh just as his stomach began to growl - Coriolanus could only comfortably eat in solitary, the singular setting where he could convince himself to stop performing.

In such fashion, Coriolanus saved his first bite until the male Avox had headed toward the pantry, arms full of bread and other leftover ingredients wrapped in wax paper. It was a strange concept, that the Snows’ pantry would be full of food, that a meal could even be prepared, let alone in excess. As Coriolanus watched the figure of the chef retreat, he realized he didn’t know the name of the man who had spent the last three days serving him. And who could Coriolanus ask? Certainly not the Avox himself. Strabo Plinth hadn’t bothered to introduce the culinary staff, nor the rest of the help he had sent to the penthouse days prior. In fact, Coriolanus hadn’t even known they were coming. He and Plinth had discussed the idea in passing, with Coriolanus still feeling too bashful and prideful simultaneously to directly request such a thing. But here they were, a three-meal chef, a sous chef at lunch and dinner and two maids, far from the first people the Plinths’ had paid for on his behalf. There were the movers, the custom furniture builders, the painters, the realtor they had to pay off to repurchase the apartment in the first place - it was an endless laundry list, but so were their funds. It seemed to bandage the weeping wounds left by the loss of their beloved son Sejanus, and these were wounds that they believed Coriolanus to share, the kind of devastation a person feels when he loses his closest companion. Strabo had referred to their heir arrangement as the only thing Ma Plinth had left to live for, and naturally, Coriolanus leaned into it. How could he not? He was wounded, just not in the way they thought him to be. He had been the one with the gun, may as well have been the one holding the noose. But they didn’t have to know that.

Upon the staff's initial arrival, one of the haggard maids had handed Coriolanus a note simply saying:

For this hard time (and after).

-SP

Coriolanus’ face burned as he read the letter. He knew he should be thankful. This was the treatment he faintly remembered from his early childhood years - an opulent household with quiet faces to wait on him. This was the life of a Snow. For the first time in a long time, Coriolanus was starting to see the walls before him match the seemingly imagined home he’d missed. He spent hours waltzing up and down the grand hall leading to the bedrooms, running his hands along the red velvet trim of the walls and breathing in the scent of deep mahogany. Be happy, he told himself scornfully. Be happy. At the hands of a man from the Districts, it was difficult. He was not new to the feeling of insecurities implanted by the war-found success of the Plinths’, but he was now reliant on them. He didn’t assume that Strabo and Ma would rebuke support - in fact, he was almost entirely confident that they wouldn’t. Unless they found out about the impossible, Coriolanus was as sure of their dependable nature as he was that the sky was blue. That was not the concern. The worry manifested itself in the depths of the night, burrowing into Coriolanus’s hard chest - you’re not a real Snow. He thought of how ashamed his father would be that he was taking checks from the hands of people born in District 2, that he was nothing without it. Where the Plinths had risen in the wartime, the Snows had fallen. It felt like losing all over again to find himself in a position without self-sustenance in the slightest. The name Snow had once been associated with exclusivity and the highest prestige. They wouldn’t have needed help or given it. All they had were one another at the top.

He knew that no one else was judging him because the arrangement between the Plinths and him was private. To the outside world, Coriolanus was the Capitol’s own prodigal son - damaged and heartbroken, strong at the hands of great suffrage, returning on his hands and knees to serve the Capitol, his beloved and righteous home. He had come back from his stint in the Districts exteriorly hardened by the world and impressed the public with his immediate enrollment in University thanks to Dr. Gaul. There were already rumblings of Coriolanus being offered apprenticeship as a Gamemaker for the 11th Hunger Games, as he was receiving top marks in his studies of advanced military strategy. Just like your father, Tigris had purred over tea the week before. Coriolanus couldn’t tell if she meant it as an insult or a compliment.

The misfortune was that as much as it mattered how others perceived him, his inner thoughts consumed him even more, and they weren’t pleased, or surprised, or inspired. Coriolanus found himself flickering the lights on and off in his bathroom, scaring himself with the gaunt, blank expression on his face. Blood rushed from his cheeks as he shaved, carelessly nicking himself and watching as the water in the sink turned a pale pink. The voice in his head reminded him that he wasn’t enough - he was a bottomfeeder, a try-hard, an actor before an unamused crowd, all of which shared his own face with a different expression. And his wasn’t the only voice in his head.

-

The funeral was short and of low attendance, as Coriolanus had expected and as Grandma’am had wanted. She’d asked for her ashes to be buried in the soil of the roses planted upon her rooftop garden, an act Tigris had selflessly committed wearing black lace gloves. Aside from his cousin and himself, Pluribus Bell was the only attendee. Pluribus had played a large role in the final year of Grandma’am’s life, housing her and Tigris in some rooms above his nightclub while they ironed things out. Had Coriolanus invited the Plinths’, he knew they would’ve come, wearing the same black suits they’d had custom made for Sejanus’ funeral. Coriolanus had repeated his outfit as well. He was standing at the front row of funerals often as of late, if not singing in them. Singing.

When he closed his eyes, feigning mourning, he could hear his grandmother practically screeching the verses of “Gem of Panem”, and there it was again, that guilt-inducing feeling he had of thankfulness that he would never again wake to the sound of it. The night of Grandma’am’s passing, which was peacefully in her slumber, Coriolanus had held Tigris as she rocked back and forth, rattling with sobs. He didn’t cry, and he wasn’t sure why. He loved his Grandma’am, certainly he did, didn’t he? She had practically raised him. Yet every time he attempted to conjure sadness, his heart only drummed with anger, recalling the fears he’d had of her spouting about his potential presidency to his peers, the gratefulness he was for a broken elevator that kept her locked away from the world. Worse, he felt a sense of unease as his brain looped his Grandma’am’s comments about her like a broken record - hardly a girl, his grandmother had said. Hardly a girl.

If only. At the thought of her , Coriolanus brought the precious orange silk scarf he’d been clutching to his face, pretending to weep into it. Instead, he breathed her in, practically choking on it. How funny, this scarf had once smelled like his mother. Now, it was only her. Lucy Gray, wrapping it around her shoulders, looking like the best thing he’d ever witnessed, of a finer quality than anything wealth could fabricate. If he tried hard enough, he could almost taste her, feeling the way he kissed her like he was hungry and hadn’t before eaten in his life, crawling along the dirt until he landed at her feet begging, satiate me. Satiate me. I’m so starved, Lucy Gray, feed me. Because nothing else had satisfied him and nothing could, not in the way she did. He woke sweating at night from dreams of her, whimpering at the coldness on the other side of his bed, cursing the cashmere and goose feather dressings. His own hand paired with thoughts of her calmed him for only a minute, because what was pleasure worth if she wasn’t giving it to him? His wanting grew violent at times, when he recalled how he’d felt with his knees in the pines that morning she’d left. He wanted to crush her skull with his own hands, spilling her brains onto the tile floors of his bedroom, the most expensive and divine flooring the world had ever known. Could he study every cell of her then, find the thing that made her so desirable and vaccinate himself with it, so that he could go on alone? Because he couldn’t for much longer, he was convinced. His breaking point was ahead, looming like a mountain beyond, and he wasn’t sure if there was snow on the top of it anymore.

authors note: (this is from my ao3 account but i always try to crosspost on here too, worked well on my old tumblr w my wednesday fanfiction so yeah cool)

feeling really inspired and excited by this project. it's an alternate ending/universe of sorts set after the ending of the ballad of songbirds and snakes during which lucy gray baird does not remain a mystery and we can explore coriolanus snow's life in the aftermath, including his *severe* inner turmoil. it will(is?) dark and intense but that's what i love about their dynamic. looking forward to working this out and i hope you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated, thank you in advance.

#the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #thg series #thg #tbosas spoilers #coriolanus snow #snow #president snow #snowbaird #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus x lucy gray #lucy gray baird #lucy gray x coriolanus #suzanne collins

[scriptwriters-network]

The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.

- Jean-Jacques Rousseau

#scriptwriting #screenwriting #amwriting #writing #writingquotes #writingadvice #writinginspiration #writing quotes #writing advice #writing inspiration

[palafoxiana]

Voilà donc le thème de ce blog. L'érotisme et la pornographie à travers les mots. Des auteurs divers, certains récents, d'autres beaucoup plus anciens, quelques uns au style soigné, la plupart sans intérêt littéraire, tous chantent le plaisir (surtout celui de l'homme). Leur imagination est sans limite.

A l'issue de chaque extrait, vous trouverez un lien vers le roman afin de le télécharger si vous souhaitez mieux le découvrir

Table des liens :

Les défis de Gordon - Émilie J BRAND, Gordon

On ne naît pas soumise, on le devient - Manon Garcia

Golden Boys lintégrale - Fleur HANA

La vie sexuelle de Blanche-Neige - Etienne Liebig

Confession de mes 7 péchés capitaux - Julie Bray

Contes pour petites filles perverses - Nadine Monfils

L'érotisme arabe - Malek Chebel

Gamiani ou Deux nuits d'excès - Alfred de Musset

Fille à vendre - Dïana Bélice

Pouvoir et soumission - Caralyn Knight

La maison sur le Nil ou les apparences de la vertu - Pierre Louÿs

Les vierges et autres nouvelles - Irène Nemirovsky

Les pornographes - Traduit du japonais par Jacques Lalloz

Haikus érotiques - Jean Cholley

Golden boys 5.2 Final - Fleur Hana

Aphrodite (mœurs antiques) - Pierre Louÿs

La femme du notaire - Esparbec (les interdits)

Jean-Jacques Pauvert - Editeur en roue libre

Lectures amoureuses - Jean-Jacques Pauvert

Pybrac - Pierre Louÿs

Le plan Q - Jean-François Bayart

Poèmes érotiques - Paul Verlaine

La bourgeoise - Gil Debrisac

Baisée par mon prof - Valérie Delatour

Les exploits d'un jeune Don Juan - Guillaume Apollinaire

Baise-moi - Virginie Despentes et Version femmes plurielles, relire Baise-moi de Virginie Despentes - Nadia Louar

Le livre de cul dont vous êtes l'héroïne - Aurélie Stefani

La photographie érotique - Klaus Carl

Le rideau levé ou l'éducation de Laure - Honoré Gabriel Riqueti de Mirabeau

Il a fait de moi sa poupée de chair - Clotilde A.

Histoire de l'œil - Georges Bataille

Anthologie de la fellation en BD - Nicolas Cartelet

Monsieur est servi - Esparbec

Dictionnaire érotique - Alfred Delvau

Les onze mille verges ou les amours d'un hospodar - Guillaume Apollinaire

Dressage d'une secrétaire - Alégarec

Histoire d'O - Pauline Réage et Pour une lecture narratologique d'Histoire d'O - Muriel Walker

Trois filles et leur mère - Pierre Louÿs

Les yeux de Pandora - Manara - Cerami

Manuel de civilité pour les petites filles à l'usage des maisons d'éducation - Pierre Louÿs

Anthologie de la sodomie - Bernard Guerin

Comment draguer la catholique sur les chemins de Compostelle - Etienne Liebig

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[torterrachampion]

Chloé and Jeanne's relationship is everything to me actually.

Does Jeanne know? Does she know that when Chloé was in the deepest depths of despair the only thing she wanted was to see her again? Doesn't it make you feel insane!? And in a series like vnc Chloé wanted to die with Jeanne next to her or at Jeanne's hands!?

Even more, she ultimately decided not to make Jeanne carry the burden of her life when she saw how much pain it was causing her. But Jeanne carried the burden anyway! She's a tool for killing and she couldn't even take Chloé's life when she asked for it! Saving her was beyond Jeanne's imagination, but when given a second chance she at least wanted to be the one to kill her as she once wished.

The fact she failed the first time is in itself so foul. Jeanne's deathly afraid of someone else getting hurt because she disobeys orders but who did she have to care about but Chloé? Was there even anyone else left for her to fear losing at that time? There probably wasn't anything worse than Chloé dying.

She wanted to save Chloé so much! That latent desire is probably the only reason Jean-Jacques survived her. The second she receives the support she so badly needed Jeanne puts her all into saving her! Jeanne started the arc feeling like she made a mistake not killing her and ended it feeling like she made a mistake not trying to save her!

The fact that Jeanne reaching out to Chloé was given equal weight to Jean-Jacques means so much to me. Their relationships to her are very different but they were both just as necessary to save her. There is no hierarchy when it comes to how and why they love her. Jeanne and Jean-Jacques were both necessary to get Chloé to get through to her in the way she needed.

I can't be normal about them. They carried their affection for one another for over a century based on a short, almost insignificant period in each of their lives. The small kindnesses and company they offered one another was enough to form a basically unconditional bond between them.

Also absolutely insane that Jeanne ends the arc helping Chloé find the strength to keep living then immediately turns around and reaffirms Vanitas's promise to kill her. Truly a woman of all time.

Anyway, best female friendship in a mochijun manga.

#hi I'm thinking about vampire women at midnight how are you #talk to me about chloé and jeanne talk to me about chloé and jeanne #vnc #if this is incoherent keep it to yourself as I said it is midnight #vanitas no carte

[entheognosis]

The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

#jean-jacques rousseau

[my-deer-history]

Francis Kinloch in the Müller-Bonstetten letters: Part 2

My translations here, German and French originals below the cut.

[Undated, 1776]

Did you know that Lord Dunmore has imitated the billets d'état of the Americans, and thereby enticed them to provide the loyalists with what they needed from their own supplies? This ruse has left them in terrible confusion. Kinloch envies Colonel Cunningham, who is marching against Charlestown with 2,000 regulars under His Majesty’s standard?

[At the end of Müller’s letter is this addition from Kinloch:]

It is not enough my dear sir, to tell You, que je Vous embrasse de tout mon coeur [that I embrace you with all my heart]; that is but a futile French expression, invented in order to express a nothingness of sentiment in a decent manner; no rather let me say that I wish for nothing more than opportunity of manifesting to You how much, how sincerely I esteem You. 

Pour les manières et les Graces [For politeness and the Graces.]. You will not be astonished at our friend Muller's having made the progress he boasts of, when I inform You, that we have had the courage to read Lord Chesterfield's letters, though swelled to the size of two volumes in quarto, and filled with continual repetitions and inculcations of principles every way different from those that a Man of honour flatters himself has lodged in his bosom. 

We have lived a life this Winter as happy as the warmest imagination could have traced out. We have read a great deal, talk with rapture very frequently of those happy days spent under this humble roof in Your company. 

Good night. I ask Your pardon but I can not refrain from telling from time to time how much I esteem you. 

Kinloch.

[undated, 1776]

I must ask you for advice. You know my destination for the summer. Next winter, either Italy or, without a doubt, Genthod. But considering the future, I see many challenges in seeking a position as a tutor. Parents in England do not know me; would they trust their son to me? And when they ask to see me, would they then trust me, with my young face, without any mentorly traits? What do you think, should I get Kinloch to write to his tutor? Trembley to his friends? or should I leave it to time and chance?

13 April 1776

I feel what the union of two hearts like ours wants to say. I feel no gratitude for everything I have received from you, for Geneva, Genthod, Kinloch, because my gratitude is intertwined in my friendship.

April 1776

I have not often thought and felt so much in such a short time, as in the 4 divine days with my friend. I now know how I must live to properly develop my mind: alone, or with you. The noble American earns all my love, nor am I in debt to the friendship that he has for me, but you stand out above everyone in my heart, because I believe myself to be alone when I am with you.

“Monday”, 1776

Write to me urgently - on which day shall the society meet at Schinznach? Perhaps Lord Clive, Mr Fraser, Kinloch and I will also go. You will understand how urgently I need to know this.

“Early May” 1776

I can barely read anything. I spend 3 hours organising and thinking; the rest of the time I spend collecting. I read Montesquieu and Horaz with Kinloch. So I have about one hour left every day; I then read Heloise, or The Essay On Man, or Tristram Shandy.*

*”Heloise” is probably La nouvelle Heloise, an epistolary novel by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. An Essay on Man is a poem by Alexander Pope. Tristram Shandy is a satirical novel by Lawrence Sterne.

6 July 1776

I read your letters about Italy with Kinloch. They are excellent; if I were not covetous, I would tell you that they deserve to be read by the public.

I do not know if I am wrong; but to my eyes, Winkelmann* is so incomparable, so elevated, so profound, so entirely a man of genius, so genuinely Greek in his feeling, of such energy, in sum so perfectly, in my view, what a writer should be, that I dread to read Sulzer** after him.

*Johann Joachim Winckelmann was an archaeologist and art historian who revolutionised the understanding of classical art; he was also known to be homosexual, even in his own time.

**Johann Georg Sulzer’s Die Theorie der schönen Künste.

16 July 1776

Kinloch is leaving in September, probably towards the end, then I can come to Baleares for a week, or what would be better, if it’s at all possible, to take off for a week and come to the Lac de Joux; we could spend seven heavenly days there. In August, perhaps! I don't know if Kinloch wants to visit his relatives, but if so, I would visit the closest kinsman of my soul.

2 Aug [1776]

I saw, heard and felt Lekain* in the role of Tancrède, and on Tuesday, I will see him play Zamore. Everything that stirs my soul reminds me of B.** I could have cried at the theatre, because cruel fate does not allow me to feel, to sigh, to cry at my friend’s side. Why did I not lie sprawled next to you on the grass with the Aeneid? Our souls, dearest friend, are sweet and gentle; our spirit sympathises wonderfully; our taste is susceptible to the beauties of nature and genius. Every day I become more worthy of you; and so you will love me more than before. Pour the full stream of feelings into your letters. Do not hide anything from me, my dear, and allow me the divine pleasure of rejoicing with B. and feeling sorrow with him. Let me write my reflections, then the whole world will see whether I am worthy of you, and then we will see each other for longer and more often. Write to me, I beg you, as often as possible. Do away with the frustrating error that you never answer my letters. Comfort me, I grieve that Kinloch is leaving in two months. He is the noblest, the most amiable, the most virtuous youth: his faults themselves are amiable and the faults of a noble man.

*Lekain was a French actor, one of Voltaire’s favourites.

**Bonstetten

8 Aug 1776

Lekain in Tancrède entranced me; as Zamore* he disappointed me; the latter feels and speaks with liveliness, has a noble open countenance, is the most amiable and greatest character in all of Voltaire’s work; [...] Aufresne** would have done it better; but I do not want to see Zamore played by anyone other than you or Kinloch.

*Zamore is an Incan prince in Voltaire’s play Alzire, ou Les Américains.

**Aufresne was a Genevan actor.

[Undated, 1776]

Wissen Sie wohl, daß Mylord Dunmore die Billets d'état der Amerikaner nachgeahmt, und hierdurch sie verführt hat, aus ihrem eigenen den Königischen das Nothwendige zu verschaffen? Diese List hat sie in eine entsetzliche Verwirrung gesetzt. Kinloch beneidet den Obrist Cunningham, welcher mit 2000 Königischen unter dem Standart Sr. Majestät gegen Charlestown angezogen ist?

[undated, 1776]

Rathen Sie mir. Gür den Sommer wissen Sie meine Bestimmung; für den Winter, entweder Italien oder ohne Zweifel auch Genthod. Betreffend ferneres; so sehe ich viele Inconvenienzen, um eine Gouverneurstelle zu schreiben. Die Eltern in England kennen mich nicht, werden sie mir ihren Sohn anvertrauen? Und wenn sie mich sehen wollten, würden sie mir ihn alsdann vertrauen, mir mit meiner jungen Miene, mir ohne alle Mentorszüge? Was meinen Sie, soll ich schreiben lassen — den Kinloch an seinen Vormund? Trembley an seine Freunde? oder die Zeit und Zufälle abwarten?

J'ai des conseils à vous demander. Vous savez quelle est ma destination pour cet été. L'hiver prochain, je projette un voyage en Italie, ou un séjour à Genthod; mais il faut penser à l'avenir, et je vois beaucoup d'inconvénients à chercher une place de gouverneur. Personne ne me connaît en Angleterre: quels parents voudraient me confier leur fils? Et quand on demanderait à me voir, obtiendrais-je plus de confiance en montrant une mine si jeune et si peu convenable à un Mentor? Qu'en pensez-vous? Dois-je faire écrire Kinloch à son tuteur, Trembley à ses amis, ou dois-je m'en remettre au temps et aux circonstances?

13 April 1776

Ich fühle, was die Vereinigung zweier Herzen, wie unsre, sagen will. Ich fühle keine Dankbarkeit für alles, was ich von Ihnen habe, für Genf, Genthod, Kinloch, denn meine Dankbarkeit wird von meiner Freundschaft verschlungen.

Mon cher et noble ami! ce qui distingue notre amitié, c'est qu'elle domine sur tous nos autres sentiments. Je ne sens aucune reconnaissance pour tout ce que je vous dois, pour Genève, pour Genthod, pour Kinloch; ma reconnaissance se perd dans ma tendresse pour vous.

April 1776

Ich habe selten in so kurzer Zeit so viel gedacht und gefühlt, als in den göttlichen 4 Tagen mit meinem Freund. Ich weiß nun, wie ich leben müßte, um meinen Geist recht zu entwickeln: allein, oder mit Euch. Der edle Amerikaner verdient alle meine Liebe, auch bleibe ich ihm nichts an der Freundschaft schuldig, die er für mich hat, aber Ihr zeichnet Euch in meinem Herzen vor allen aus, indem ich allein zu seyn glaube, wenn ich mit Euch bin.

“Monday”, 1776

Schreiben Sie mir nächstens, an welchem Tag die Gesellschaft zu Schinznach sich versammle? Vielleicht gehen Lord Clive, Mr. Fraser, Kinloch und ich auch dahin. Sie begreifen, wie nothwendig ich dieses bald wissen muß.

“Early May” 1776

Lesen kann ich fast nichts. 3 Stunden ordne und denke ich; die übrige Zeit sammle ich. Mit Kinloch lese ich Montesquieu und Horaz. So bleibt mir täglich ungefähr eine Stunde; ich lese alsdann Heloise, oder the Essay on man, oder Tristram Shandy.

6 July 1776

Ich habe mit Kinloch Eure Briefe über Italien gelesen. Sie find vortrefflich; wenn ich nicht geizig darauf wäre, so wollte ich Ihnen sagen, sie verdienen vom Publicum gelesen zu werden.

Ich weiß nicht, ob ich Recht habe, aber Winkelmann ist so unvergleichlich, so hoch, so tief, so ganz Mann von Genie, von so griechischem Gefühl, von solcher Energie, so recht wie ein Verfasser nach meinem Sinn seyn soll, daß ich fürchte, Sulzern nach ihm zu lesen. 

J'ai lu avec Kinloch, vos lettres sur l'Italie. Elles sont excellentes, et si je n'en étais avare, je vous dirais qu'elles méritent d'être connues du public.

Je ne sais si je me trompe; mais Winkelmann est à mes yeux si incomparable, si élevé, si profond, si entièrement homme de génie, si vraiment grec et antique dans sa manière de sentir, enfin si parfaitemént, à mon sens, l'écrivain tel qu'il doit être, que je crains de lire Sulzer après lui.

16 July 1776

Kinloch reiset ab im September, vermuthlich gegen das Ende, alsdann kann ich auf eine Woche nach Baleires kommen, oder was besser wäre, wenn es nur möglich ist, sondern Sie sich auf eine Woche ab, und kommen Sie an den Lac de Joux; da könnten wir sieben Göttertage zubringen. Im August, vielleicht! Ich weiß nicht, ob Kinloch seine Verwandten besuchen will, dann besuchte ich den nähesten Verwandten meiner Seele.

2 Aug [1776]

Ich habe gesehen, gehört und gefühlt den Le Kain Tancred vorstellen und am Dienstag stellt er Zamoren vor. Alles, was meine Seele rührt, ruft mich zu B. zurück. In der Comödie hätte ich weinen mögen, daß das harte Schicksal mir nicht erlaubt, neben meinem Freund zu fühlen, zu seufzen, zu weinen. Warum lag ich nicht neben Ihnen hingegossen aufs Gras mit der Aencide? Unsere Seelen, liebster Freund, sind lieblich und sanft; unser Geist sympathisirt wunderbar; unser Geschmack ist für die Schönheiten der Natur und des Genies empfindlich. Täglich werde ich Ihrer würdiger; so lieben Sie mich dann auch mehr, als vormals. So ergießen Sie denn im vollern Strom Empfindungen in Ihre Briefe. Verschweigen Sie mir nichts, mein Lieber, und gestatten Sie mir die Götterlust, mich mit B. zu freuen und mit ihm zu betrüben. Lassen Sie mich meine Betrachtungen schreiben, dann wird alle Welt sehen, ob ich Ihrer würdig bin, und dann werden wir uns länger und öfter sehen. Schreiben Sie mir, ich bitte Sie, so oft als möglich. Legen Sie einen verdrüßlichen Fehler ab; den, daß Sie meine Briefe nie beantworten. Trösten Sie mich, ich traure sehr, daß Kinloch in zwei Monaten abreiset. Er ist der edelste, der freundschaftlichste, der tugendhafteste Jüngling: seine Fehler selbst sind liebenswürdig und die Fehler eines edlen Menschen.

8 Aug 1776

Le Kain im Tankred hat mich entzückt; als Zamore hat er mir mißfallen; der letzere fühlt, spricht mit Lebhaftigkeit, hat eine edle offne Miene, ist der liebenswürdigste und größte Charakter im ganzen Voltaire; [...] Aufresne hätte das vielleicht besser gemacht; ich aber möchte Zamoren von niemand spielen sehen, als von Ihnen oder von Kinloch.

#francis kinloch #johannes von müller #karl viktor von bonstetten #18th century history #queer history #french translation #voltaire

[honeydazai]

୨୧·࣭࣪̇˖ 𝆬  ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ 𝆬 𓏸

feat.: Vanitas, Noé Archiviste, Dante, Johann, Lord Ruthven, Jean-Jacques Chastel, Antoine de Sade

content: nsfw, rough sex, marking and biting, possessive behaviour, edging, overstimulation

VANITAS tells himself he doesn't get jealous. Really, he has no reason to — so what if you're talking to another man who's so obviously hitting on you it hurts to watch? That's not his business. Right?

Nonetheless, he eventually can't deny anymore that his good mood is ruined and his usual smirk has been replaced by an unhappy pout. He's the type to try and gain your attention back, though if that doesn't work, he distances himself until you notice you've been neglecting him.

That night, he really makes you work for his cock; if you're not bouncing up and down on his dick with tears welling up in your eyes, your cheeks flushed while you're begging him to please help you out, to please take you and fuck you harder, he's not satisfied.

“Hm? Oh, no, if you want to come today, you'll have to work for it, mon amour. You didn't seriously think I'd help you after that stunt you pulled today, did you? Come on. You were acting like a common whore, now ride me like one, too.”

At first, NOÉ isn't quite sure why his chest feels tight when he sees just how well you get along with Vanitas; Vanitas, who is unashamedly hitting on you, his usual flamboyant smirk in place, his jokes and sarcastic comments making you laugh, your cheeks flushing.

He doesn't want to be possessive of you, but he can't help it, either; despite the faint feeling of guilt accompanying him, Noé tries to keep you closer by his side from now on. He does his best to make sure you don't notice any changes in his behaviour, though.

When he's finally alone with you, however, he's on you immediately. He's all but pounding into you at an uncharacteristically rough pace while his fangs pierce your skin, his tongue lapping over the bite mark proudly displayed on your neck, and you're not complaining; you're mewling in pleasure, your cunt clenches around his dick, and Noé isn't above absolutely overstimulating you that night; he wants you to remember he's the one making you feel this good. You're his and he's yours, after all.

“It's too much? What do you mean, dear? I'm only trying to make you feel good. Aren't you close again already? I'm sure you can give me one more, my love. Cum for me, will you?”

While DANTE gets jealous quite often, he's not actually possessive. He feels like he doesn't have the right to be — he's already lucky you're with him at all, and he doesn't want to possibly risk losing you. Honestly, he wouldn't be able to handle it well if you were to suddenly break up with him.

Still, he's not fond of it whenever you get this close to Noé — Noé, who's not even actively trying to hit on you, but he's such a natural flirt that his intent doesn't really matter. Dante can't help but grit his teeth together in what he hopes is anger instead of sadness.

Later that day, his pent-up frustrations show themselves through the hard pace with which he pounds into you. The bed is creaking as it rhythmically thumps against the wall, you're mewling and moaning, and your thighs shake from where they're closed around his waist. And, honestly, Dante just can't help himself when he leans down and sinks his fangs into your skin; he whimpers at the sweet taste of your blood and at the way your cunt clenches around him.

“Fuck, your blood tastes so good, ah—, and you get so damn tight whenever I bite you. Hey—, ah, not to make this awkward, but you're mine, aren't you? Yeah? Tell me, please, baby—”

For less than a second, JOHANN's face twists into a grimace when he notices the way some vampire has his arm around your waist. He's much too close to you, and Johann's smile is cold when he pulls you away with a half-hearted excuse.

Whenever simply leaving doesn't work, however, his usual calm and teasing demeanour is replaced by crisp sarcasm and snide mocking comments. His sudden passive aggression is a tell-tale sign he's getting jealous, as well as the subtle touch of his fingers on your mark or his lips against your throat. Johann definitely isn't afraid of public displays of affection.

Whenever Johann is in a bad mood, it's safe to say you're getting teased to hell and back that same night. He's smirking while you're sobbing, tears dripping down your flushed cheeks as you beg him to finally let you cum, please, though he denies you once again as he pulls his fingers out of you with a lewd squelching noise. It's the fourth time you've been edged now, and you're not off the hook yet. You're lucky if he'll allow you to reach your orgasm at all that night.

“Oh? You want me to let you cum? You can't take it anymore? Oh my, that's just adorable, my love. Too bad I'm still quite annoyed by your antics this morning, though I assume I can be convinced if you continue begging this prettily.”

While LORD RUTHVEN is scary on the daily, he's absolutely terrifying whenever jealous. Most people most likely don't even realise he's feeling possessive, but you do, and his quiet seething anger is lethal.

Jealousy is beneath him, but he's horribly possessive nonetheless, and he can't help that he wants to keep you by his side even more from now on. While his mark is always on display for everyone to see, clearly showing you off as his, there's always some idiotic vampires who just can't seem to get the hint and still try to talk to you. He's not having it.

It's also his ownership over you that he's demonstrating by making you warm his dick during a senate meeting, your cunt hot and pulsing around his cock. He's quite pleased by how obedient you're being, staying quiet and muffling your mewls and moans against his shoulder — those noises are only for him to hear, after all.

“Shush, little dove, you wouldn't want everyone to hear you, now would you? In my opinion, there's too many vampires who want a taste of you already.”

JEAN-JACQUES is a terribly jealous man; he even admits so himself. He's absolutely possessive of you — to him, it's obvious you belong with him and him alone, which is why he doesn't get why you're happily chatting with a stranger. His mood visibly changes for the worse, and he's not above outright threatening to kill the guy until he leaves you alone. Afterwards, it takes quite a bit of affection from you until he stops sulking.

Later that day, his fangs sink deep into your throat while he pounds into you, his hips slapping hard against the plush curve of your ass, and you can't do anything but take whatever he's willing to give you, your whimpers needy and high-pitched. His mood switches between terribly aggressive and desperate; he needs to know you're his, please reassure him.

“You're all mine, aren't you? Come on, say it, please—, I want to hear it, my love, I beg you. I'm the only one who can fuck you this well, who can make you feel this good, right? I'm the only one who's allowed to drink your blood, am I not?”

It's not easy to make ANTOINE jealous, mainly because he knows it's sheer impossible for you to get with someone who's better than him. He's intelligent and handsome, rich and has a lot of influence — really, what more could you want?

He is, however, quite possessive. You're his lovely wife, his pet, and he doesn't like it whenever other vampires get too close to you. It's safe to say he'd willingly end a life if someone even thought about biting you. To ensure you know your place is by his side, he puts a collar on you; one with his name on the tag, connected to a leash. It's no surprise he's quite mean whenever he pulls on said leash while thrusting into you from behind, forcing you to arch your back, mewling pitifully, if you don't want your breathing to get cut off entirely.

“What's that, mon amour? It hurts? You can't breathe? Oh my, what a shame. Truly, I'd love to free you of this collar again; if only you hadn't wandered off earlier today to talk to one of the guards. Besides, your cunt clenches so nicely around me whenever I do this—”

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#Vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas #vanitas no shuki #les memoires de vanitas #Vnc #Vanitas x reader #Vanitas x you #Vanitas imagines #Vanitas headcanons #Vanitas fanfics #Noé x reader #Noé imagines #Noé headcanons #Noé fanfics #Dante vnc #Dante vnc x reader #Dante vnc headcanons #Johann vnc #Jean-jacques castel #Antoine de Sade #Antoine de sade x reader #Vnc x reader #Vnc x you #Vnc imagines #vnc headcanons #Vnc smut #Noé smut #Vanitas smut #Lord Ruthven #Vanitas x y/n

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter VIII. Of the Responsibility of Man and Of God, Under the Law of Contradiction, Or a Solution of the Problem of Providence.

THE ancients blamed human nature for the presence of evil in the world.

Christian theology has only embroidered this theme in its own fashion; and, as that theology sums up the whole religious period extending from the origin of society to our own time, it may be said that the dogma of original sin, having in its favor the assent of the human race, acquires by that very fact the highest degree of probability.

So, according to all the testimony of ancient wisdom, each people defending its own institutions as excellent and glorifying them, it is not to religions, or to governments, or to traditional customs accredited by the respect of generations, that the cause of evil must be traced, but rather to a primitive perversion, to a sort of congenital malice in the will of man. As to the question how a being could have perverted and corrupted itself originally, the ancients avoided that difficulty by fables: Eve’s apple and Pandora’s box have remained celebrated among their symbolic solutions.

Not only, then, had antiquity posited in its myths the question of the origin of evil; it had solved it by another myth, in unhesitatingly affirming the criminality ab ovo of our race.

Modern philosophers have erected against the Christian dogma a dogma no less obscure, — that of the depravity of society. Man is born good, cries Rousseau, in his peremptory style; but society — that is, the forms and institutions of society — depraves him. In such terms was formulated the paradox, or, better, the protest, of the philosopher of Geneva.

Now, it is evident that this idea is only the ancient hypothesis turned about. The ancients accused the individual man; Rousseau accuses the collective man: at bottom, it is always the same proposition, an absurd proposition.

Nevertheless, in spite of the fundamental identity of the principle, Rousseau’s formula, precisely because it was an opposition, was a step forward; consequently it was welcomed with enthusiasm, and it became the signal of a reaction full of contradictions and absurdities. Singular thing! it is to the anathema launched by the author of “Emile” against society that modern socialism is to be traced.

For the last seventy or eighty years the principle of social perversion has been exploited and popularized by various sectarians, who, while copying Rousseau, reject with all their might the anti-social philosophy of that writer, without perceiving that, by the very fact that they aspire to reform society, they are as unsocial or unsociable as he. It is a curious spectacle to see these pseudo-innovators, condemning after Jean Jacques monarchy, democracy, property, communism, thine and mine, monopoly, wages, police, taxation, luxury, commerce, money, in a word, all that constitutes society and without which society is inconceivable, and then accusing this same Jean Jacques of misanthropy and paralogism, because, after having seen the emptiness of all utopias, at the same time that he pointed out the antagonism of civilization, he sternly concluded against society, though recognizing that without society there is no humanity.

I advise those who, on the strength of what slanderers and plagiarists say, imagine that Rousseau embraced his theory only from a vain love of eccentricity, to read “Emile” and the “Social Contract” once more. That admirable dialectician was led to deny society from the standpoint of justice, although he was forced to admit it as necessary; just as we, who believe in an indefinite progress, do not cease to deny, as normal and definitive, the existing state of society. Only, whereas Rousseau, by a political combination and an educational system of his own, tried to bring man nearer to what he called nature, and what seemed to him the ideal society, we, instructed in a profounder school, say that the task of society is to continually solve its antinomies, — a matter of which Rousseau could have had no idea. Thus, apart from the now abandoned system of the “Social Contract,” and so far as criticism alone is concerned, socialism, whatever it may say, is still in the same position as Rousseau, forced to reform society incessantly, — that is, to perpetually deny it.

Rousseau, in short, simply declared in a summary and definitive manner what the socialists repeat in detail and at every moment of progress, — namely, that social order is imperfect, always lacking something. Rousseau’s error does not, can not lie in this negation of society: it consists, as we shall show, in his failure to follow his argument to the end and deny at once society, man, and God.

However that may be, the theory of man’s innocence, corresponding to that of the depravity of society, has at last got the upper hand. The immense majority of socialists — Saint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, and their disciples; communists, democrats, progressives of all sorts — have solemnly repudiated the Christian myth of the fall to substitute there for the system of an aberration on the part of society. And, as most of these sectarians, in spite of their flagrant impiety, were still too religious, too pious, to finish the work of Jean Jacques and trace back to God the responsibility for evil, they have found a way of deducing from the hypothesis of God the dogma of the native goodness of man, and have begun to fulminate against society in the finest fashion.

The theoretical and practical consequences of this reaction were that, evil — that is, the effect of internal and external struggle — being abnormal and transitory, penal and repressive institutions are likewise transitory; that in man there is no native vice, but that his environment has depraved his inclinations; that civilization has been mistaken as to its own tendencies; that constraint is immoral, that our passions are holy; that enjoyment is holy and should be sought after like virtue itself, because God, who caused us to desire it, is holy. And, the women coming to the aid of the eloquence of the philosophers, a deluge of anti-restrictive protests has fallen, quasi de vulva erumpens, to make use of a comparison from the Holy Scriptures, upon the wonder-stricken public.

The writings of this school are recognizable by their evangelical style, their melancholy theism, and, above all, their enigmatical dialectics.

“They blame human nature,” says M. Louis Blanc, “for almost all our evils; the blame should be laid upon the vicious character of social institutions. Look around you: how many talents misplaced, and CONSEQUENTLY depraved! How many activities have become turbulent for want of having found their legitimate and natural object! They force our passions to traverse an impure medium; is it at all surprising that they become altered? Place a healthy man in a pestilent atmosphere, and he will inhale death.... Civilization has taken a wrong road,... and to say that it could not have been otherwise is to lose the right to talk of equity, of morality, of progress; it is to lose the right to talk of God. Providence disappears to give place to the grossest fatalism.”

The name of God recurs forty times, and always to no purpose, in M. Blanc’s “Organization of Labor,” which I quote from preference, because in my view it represents advanced democratic opinion better than any other work, and because I like to do it honor by refuting it.

Thus, while socialism, aided by extreme democracy, deifies man by denying the dogma of the fall, and consequently dethrones God, henceforth useless to the perfection of his creature, this same socialism, through mental cowardice, falls back upon the affirmation of Providence, and that at the very moment when it denies the providential authority of history.

And as nothing stands such chance of success among men as contradiction, the idea of a religion of pleasure, renewed from Epicurus during an eclipse of public reason, has been taken as an inspiration of the national genius; it is this that distinguishes the new theists from the Catholics, against whom the former have inveighed so loudly during the last two years only out of rivalry in fanaticism. It is the fashion today to speak of God on all occasions and to declaim against the pope; to invoke Providence and to scoff at the Church. Thank God! we are not atheists, said “La Reforme” one day; all the more, it might have added by way of increasing its absurdity, we are not Christians. The word has gone forth to every one who holds a pen to bamboozle the people, and the first article of the new faith is that an infinitely good God has created man as good as himself; which does not prevent man, under the eye of God, from becoming wicked in a detestable society.

Nevertheless it is plain, in spite of these semblances of religion, we might even say these desires for it, that the quarrel between socialism and Christian tradition, between man and society, must end by a denial of Divinity. Social reason is not distinguishable by us from absolute Reason, which is no other than God himself, and to deny society in its past phases is to deny Providence, is to deny God.

Thus, then, we are placed between two negations, two contradictory affirmations: one which, by the voice of entire antiquity, setting aside as out of the question society and God which it represents, finds in man alone the principle of evil; another which, protesting in the name of free, intelligent, and progressive man, throws back upon social infirmity and, by a necessary consequence, upon the creative and inspiring genius of society all the disturbances of the universe.

Now, as the anomalies of social order and the oppression of individual liberties arise principally from the play of economic contradictions, we have to inquire, in view of the data which we have brought to light:

1. Whether fate, whose circle surrounds us, exercises a control over our liberty so imperious and compulsory that infractions of the law, committed under the dominion of antinomies, cease to be imputable to us? And, if not, whence arises this culpability peculiar to man?

2. Whether the hypothetical being, utterly good, omnipotent, omniscient, to whom faith attributes the supreme direction of human agitations, has not himself failed society at the moment of danger? And, if so, to explain this insufficiency of Divinity.

In short, we are to find out whether man is God, whether God himself is God, or whether, to attain the fullness of intelligence and liberty, we must search for a superior cause.

#organization #revolution #anarchism #daily posts #communism #anti capitalist #anti capitalism #late stage capitalism #anarchy #anarchists #libraries #leftism #social issues #economy #economics #climate change #anarchy works #environmentalism #environment #solarpunk #anti colonialism #mutual aid #the system of economic contradictions #the philosophy of poverty #volume i #pierre-joseph proudhon #pierre joseph proudhon

[emilykaldwen]

I was tagged by both @gwenllian-in-the-abbey and @theothermaidoftarth! Thank you!

Favorite Painter: Edmund Leighton/Edmund Blair Leighton (you'll see both names). Anyone who knows me knows how much I adore medieval romantacism we saw in the latter half of the 19th century/earlier 20th century. I had a poster of The Accodalde in my room for 25 years and only finally had to get rid of it. The new goal is to get a proper reproduction of it. I also really enjoy the work of John William Waterhouse and Edward Robert Hughes! However, my all time favorite painting, Cupid and Psyche is by Jacques-Louis David. (fave mytho couple, but again, if you know me that would be really obvious LOL)

Favorite Poet/Writer: Florine Stettheimer was both a painter and a poet and I was fortunate to see her exhibit at AGO in Toronto when I saw Del Toro's exhibit. She was a Jewish woman from New York City during the first half of the 20th century. I love her work. I also very much enjoy Keats and the first poetry book I owned was A Night Without Armor by Jewel (of 'Who Will Save Your Soul' Fame). Not something I appreciated at 10 years old but do appreciate her work when I got older.

Favorite Singer: Man, IDK. I listen to such a wide range of stuff, but you know what? I always love an Avril Lavigne bop.

Favorite Band: Also have no idea how to answer this. Tween Me was a Backstreet Boys girl, but I love Matchbox Twenty and The Goo Goo Dolls. Johnny Reznik was on repeat a lot.

Favorite Meal and Drink: All I drink anymore is variations on crystal light iced tea (post surgery I need some flavoring, I can't do plain water anymore). Old comfort food used to be mac and cheese but you know what? I love Gołąbki, which are polish cabbage rolls. With some good potatoes (mashed or not). A staple at family meals.

Favorite Outfit aesthetic/style?: So much like Doctor Who, I have a uniform of jeans and a t-shirt or leggings and a t-shirt but I really wanted to get into a more victorian aesthetic.

Favorite Item You Own: besides my desktop, my Tea Service Table Lamp (I did NOT pay $318 for it though, I think it was maybe $150)

Favorite Perfume: I'm so not a perfume person, but I love the scent of lilacs and citrus/bergamot scents. I do have this fantastic rollerball that inspired the perfume I imagine Abby wears.

tagging (if you'd like!): @acrossthesestars, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @jotterjots, @thesunfyre4446, @mihrsuri, @lullaebies, @theladyelizabeth, @arcielee, @toilandtroubled, @zae5, @murmel-malt, @aegonx, @bouncehousedemons, @starcrossedjedis, and anyone else who would like to!

[byneddiedingo]

Fantastic Planet (René Laloux, 1973)

Cast (voices): Jennifer Drake, Eric Baugin, Jean Topart, Jean Valmont, Sylvie Lenoir, Michèle Chahan, Yves Barsacq, Hubert de Lapparent, Gérard Hernandez, Claude Joseph, Philippe Ogouz, Jacques Ruisseau. Screenplay: Roland Topor, René Laloux, based on a novel by Stefan Wul. Cinematography: Boris Baromykin, Lubomir Rejthar. Graphic designer: Roland Topor. Film editing: Hélène Arnal, Marta Látalová. Music: Alain Goraguer. 

Fantastic Planet" isn't a very satisfactory translation of La Planète Sauvage, the original French title, but the more accurate "Wild Planet" might have led audiences in 1973 to expect a film about a world overrun with motorcycle gangs. Conceived and written by René Laloux and Roland Topor, from a novel by Stefan Wul, designed by Topor and animated by the Jiři Trnka Studio in Prague, Fantastic Planet is a sci-fi fable about the nature of humanity and its place in the universe. The humans in Fantastic Planet are called Oms (from the French hommes), and they are tiny things in a world where the dominant species is the Draags, giant blue humanoid creatures with big red eyes. The Draags consider Oms at best curious little animals and at worst vermin that need periodic efforts at pest control. At the beginning of the film we see a female Om carrying her baby, on the run but being flicked back by a great blue Draag finger each time she thinks she has made it to safety. It turns out that she is being played with by some Draag children, and when the Om mother is accidentally killed, a Draag girl named Tiwa takes the baby as to raise as a pet and calls him Terr. Tiwa outfits Terr with a kind of electronic collar that she can use to pull him back to her if he runs off. As the years pass and Terr grows up, Tiwa tires of her pet and one day he makes his escape and joins up with other Oms, one of whom helps him remove the collar. But Terr has something to share with his rescuers: The Draags receive their education through a headset, and a glitch in Terr's collar has allowed him to listen in on her lessons. Moreover, in his escape, he has stolen Tiwa's headset, and can now share the knowledge possessed by the Draags with his fellow Oms. Eventually, this leads to a revolution in which the Oms are finally able to go to war with the Draags and exploit their vulnerabilities. Much has been made of the fact that the animation was done in Czechoslovakia, beginning in 1967 in the era of the "Prague Spring," and that work on the film was interrupted by the 1968 Soviet invasion. Laloux experienced constant interference from the suspicious authorities, delaying the completion of the film, and the political background adds a piquancy to the finished product. But Fantastic Planet is hardly an allegory of resistance to Soviet repression. It has its roots, as Laloux noted, in the satire of Rabelais, and English speakers will probably find a Swiftian echo in the confrontation of little people and giants. The animation using paper cutouts also recalls Terry Gilliam's work for Monty Python, but the imagination is all Laloux's and Topor's. Alain Goraguer's jazz soundtrack adds immeasurably to the delicate, melancholic tone of Fantastic Planet, giving it a timeless quality where other products of the psychedelic era, like Yellow Submarine (George Dunning, 1968), now seem dated.

#Fantastic Planet #René Laloux #Roland Topor

[noxaurumque]

Now is the Time of Monsters: Book Recs

This is a short list of stories about entropy and being on the precipice of change, where places are living things and the future of humanity is uncertain. Lifted heavily from the recs on the Pathologic and Disco Elysium subreddits. If you like unusual, often esoteric literature that rewires your brain chemistry forever, this list might interest you!

Warning: the books on this list are intended for an adult audience

Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami

Equal parts cyberpunk and surreal dystopia. Two worlds with two parallel narratives that gradually intersect.

The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin

Literally a city struggling to be born while an extra-dimensional force threatens to tear apart the connections that make the universe whole.

The Gray House by Mariam Petrosyan

A magical boarding school except you can't understand a single word anyone is saying, the children are dying, and the book itself is as much a living thing as the House its protagonists inhabit.

Strange Beasts of China by Yan Ge

An episodic tale of self-discovery told through the investigation of poorly understood cryptids called "beasts." Questions the forces responsible for shaping our lives and who we are as people.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

So the fic I read that was inspired by this was about being trapped in a House that's slowly succumbing to entropy at the end of a stillborn universe. I'm told that's an accurate description.

Metro 2033 by Dmitrii Glukhovskii

A puppy of a man goes on a series of horrible adventures in the nuclear post-apocalypse and is forced to decide the future of humanity in a world of rumors and miscommunication.

Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer

The world has been touched by something strange that threatens to change life as we know it. A book that questions the border between you and I, between flesh and earth, between dreams and reality.

The City & the City by China Mieville

An existential murder mystery that thrusts you into a world of two ambiguously related, but separated, cities. An exploration of borders: be it physical or imagined.

Germinal by Emile Zola

In a cruelly exploited mining community in 1860's France, people are treated like animals to be sacrificed to an unforgiving, hungry earth. A classic realist novel that seeks to plant the seeds of change and hope for a better future.

BONUS ROUND: MOVIES

Stalker (1979)

Sopping wet men lie in puddles and sometimes in grass as they struggle to find meaning in a changed world. Inspired by the book Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky whose other works I'd also recommend!

Snowpiercer (2013)

From the director of Parasite we have a post-apocalypse where all that remains of the world is sheltered on a single, impossible train on the verge of a revolution. Based off the graphic novel Le Transperceneige by Jacques Lob and Jean-Marc Rochette.

NOTE: FEEL FREE TO ADD ON TO THIS WITH YOUR OWN SUGGESTIONS. I mostly made this list for myself/work purposes and haven't read everything. Also if you're here from Patho or DE, please check the subreddits if you haven't already! They have great recommendations :D

#book recs #bookblr #coindents