du''a

Ich will keinen Mann mit einem perfekten Plan vom Leben, ich will lieber einen Spinner, der nachts schief singend mit mir durch die Straßen tanzt und mit dem ich Bauchschmerzen vom ganzen lachen habe.
Fraternité

Lafayette sat on the hillside, his eyes gazing in to the endless void above him, his vigil echoing those of the stars. He could see his breath as it curled around him, white and cloudy against the black night. Below, he could hear and see the fires of the camp, watching the smoke in its journey to the sky. He supposed part of him felt like that smoke, part of him was one with the smoke, part of him wanted to join the smoke and fly through the air. The hill was cold and Lafayette could no longer feel his fingers, or his toes; his chin had gone numb some time ago. But he didn’t want to go back to his rooms; he didn’t want to see anyone. So he sat, and he watched, though what exactly he was watching was elusive to him.

Crunching was the thing that alerted him to Alexander’s presence, though the other man was as light on his feet as a thief in the night, Lafayette was somehow so attuned to him that he always knew when Alex was around. He wondered, somewhere in the depths of his mind, when he became so. Alexander stopped about five feet from him, illuminated from the campfires behind him, and breathing heavily from the hike; Lafayette watched his breath as it curled into the air. He also thought about whether or not each man breathed the same, or if each man had a different pattern of breath. Though, for the life of him, he could not come to a conclusion.

“Laf? Is that you?”

“Oui.” Lafayette decided that, that evening, he would be French.

“Ca va?” Alexander caught on quick, in tune as they were with each other.

“Comme un vide,” Lafayette said, feeling the void inside him roil and bark, swelling and calming all at once.

“Un vide? Pourquoi danc?” Alexander asked, confused, Lafayette could see his eyebrows knit together like they did when they surveyed Washington’s maps and charts.

“Je suis comme une étoile, si loin de mes frères,” Lafayette could feel the separation, the distance between him and his France so fiercely. He longed for the narrow streets of Paris, the wide open country of his home, the gently rolling fields; the manicured gardens, the cobbles and the hustle. The French people, the food; he missed it all.

“Je suis ton frère, Jean est ton frère; toute l'armée est une confrérie,” Alexander said, eyebrows still joined; he came to sit by Lafayette, so close Laf could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Forgive me, but that is not so much what I meant,” Lafayette looked down at his hands, pale from the cold; he noticed, though it felt like his body was not his own, that he was shaking.

“I know what you meant, you’re homesick, Lafayette.” Alexander put his arm around Lafayette’s shoulders, drawing him into his body; cradling him there like a child. “It won’t be long till the war is over and you can go back to France.”

“It will not be the France I knew, there is talk of throwing out the monarchy. There will be more war and bloodshed yet in my life.”

“There is no reason we can’t forget the war tonight, at least,” Alex said, taking out a flask and handing it to Lafayette.

“Alexander?”

“Drink, mon cher,” Alex grinned as Lafayette tipped his head back and the alcohol slipped down his throat, burning false warmth into him.

“Rum? Really?” Lafayette coughed.

“It was all I could find on such short notice, you know Laurens was worried about you after you disappeared on him,” Alexander shrugged.

“Where did you get it from, Alexander?” Lafayette stopped short, an eyebrow raised.

“…Arnold…” Alex muttered, though Lafayette could not hear what he was saying.

“Who?” Lafayette leaned in closer.

“Benedict Arnold. I stole it from him.”

“You stole rum from Major General Benedict Arnold.” Lafayette said, slowly absorbing what Alexander had said.

“Um, yes?” Alex shifted where he sat, nervously chuckling, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head.

“Alexander, you certainly have your ways of cheering people up,” Lafayette, shook his head, taking another swig from the flask.

“Je pourrais penser á un million d’autres,” Alex grinned, all traces of nervousness gone from his face in an instant.

“Oh?” Lafayette quirked an eyebrow.

Alexander didn’t say anything, instead he took Lafayette’s face in his hands, his thumbs coming to stroke Lafayette’s cheeks. He tilted his head slightly and captured Lafayette’s lips in his own. Lafayette could taste the sugar sweet rum on Alexander’s lips and tongue; he could smell the alcohol as he breathed through his nose. He ran his fingers through Alex’s hair, taking it out of its tight ponytail; letting the silk like locks flow through his hands. Alex’s hands burned into the sides of his face and further down to his chest. Suddenly, and Lafayette was not sure how it happened, he was straddling Alex as the other kissed his way down Lafayette’s chest and neck. He could feel Alexander’s lips across his skin like a red hot branding iron, nipping and kissing, tasting and taking everything Lafayette could give. Then, sense seemed to creep up on them with horrible finality; Lafayette pulled back, gasping.

“Oh.” He said. “I hope you didn’t mean it when you said you were a brother to me.”

“I do not.” Alexander said, “we should take this back to your rooms. My fingers are going blue.”

They stood and, rather unsteadily, made their way to Lafayette’s rooms; their fingers interlocked the whole way. As they got through the door, Alexander took Lafayette’s lips in his own, and walked them back until Lafayette’s knees hit the bed. Their positions reversed, Lafayette took the opportunity to explore Alex’s body, running his fingers over skin, taking Alexander’s shirt off in the process.

“Alexander are-“

“Yes, a thousand times, yes.” Alexander didn’t let him finish his sentence; the words died in his throat as their lips found each other once more.


A/N: @halpdevon I blame you for this. I wrote this on the train sitting next to an old white lady… oh god… I am actually going to hell. But hey, if you read this you probably are too…

(Ceci n'est pas une citation, ni un long texte sur ma vie. Ceci est un coup de gueule de féministe, donc si vous êtes machos passez votre chemin.)
(Aussi, si vous avez peur du language un peu vulgaire, parce que je vais pas me gêner.)

OK RIEN NE VA PLUS !
Ma meilleure amie me montre ou m'envois régulièrement des screenshots de post facebook, qui pour la plupart me font sourire, voir rire. Là, j'ai eu le droit à une photo d'un groupe de pseudo racailles, avec en légende “Avouez les filles on a toutes peur de passer devant eux”.
ET ÇA NE ME FAIT PAS RIRE !
Ça s'appelle confirmer la pseudo-normalité du sexisme, et c'est inadmissible.
Alors d'abord, à tout ces mecs qui se prenne pour des gars de la rue, avec leurs joggos et leurs baskets de marques, calmez vous. Moi aussi je porte des Nike, mais j'gueule pas “EH JOLI CUL FAIS PAS TON PD PASSE TON NUM” à tout les jolis garçons que je croise. Alors non, une fille n'est pas juste faite pour que vous ayez une jolie vue. Elles ont un cerveau, un coeur, tout pareil que vous. Ce sont des êtres humains, pas des objets. Alors on est gentils avec elles, on les laisse marcher dans la rue tranquille et surtout on range sa machine dans son pantalon ou je vous la coupe.
Ensuite ! Les filles qui marchent, justement. Oui vous. Depuis quand vous devez baisser les yeux ou même faire un détour lorsque vous croisez ce genre de mecs ? Mon dieu mais ce ne sont que des gosses ! Alors on lève le menton, on marche normalement, et si on se sent de le faire, on dit bonjour comme au monsieur en costard qu'on a croisé avant.
Si jamais ils sont assez cons pour faire une remarque sur votre jupe/ votre poitrine/ vos jambes ou n'importe quoi, même si vous portez un sweat (parce que ça arrive, si si, ils sont très cons je vous dis), vous vous arrêtez pour leur envoyer une bonne réplique ou les remettre à leur place (d'ailleurs je vous conseil d'aller faire un tour sur le tumblr de @repondons qui est parfait pour ce genre de situations). Option numéro deux, vous êtes pressée ou pas encore trop en confiance, alors vous leur montrer fièrement votre joli majeur, et même avez une jolie phrase ça peut être pas mal (on a par exemple le classique “mets toi le dans le fion, connard”).
Vous avez autant le droit que n'importe qui de marcher dans la rue, et si, même si c'est rare, les choses dérapent, il y a toujours quelqu'un qui vous entends si vous appelez à l'aide. Alors arrêtez de faire semblant d'être au téléphone, ne baissez plus les yeux, et NE VALIDEZ PAS CE GENRE DE POST FACEBOOK HONTEUX.
Un jour (j'espère) ils comprendront qu'ils ont l'air cons, mais surtout ils verront qu'ils ne font plus peur.
Sur ce, la connasse de feministe vous laisse réfléchir, elle retourne tuer des hommes (cliché du jour bonjour).

Wir alle wünschen uns doch nur eine Person, die uns bedingungslos liebt. Die bei einem Streit uns nicht sofort verlässt sondern unser Leben positiv bereichert. Eine Person bei der man sich geborgen und Zuhause fühlt. Die an guten wie in schlechten Zeiten an unserer Seite bleibt. Uns Liebe und Aufmerksamkeit schenkt, aber auch treu und loyal bleibt.
Ogni mattina referendaria, in Italia

Ogni mattina referendaria, in Italia, un votante del no si sveglia incazzato dopo aver spiegato per mesi a tutti che, con il sì, il governo vuole annullare il dibattito democratico e la preferenza popolare, vuole consegnare lo stato alle banche, vuole distruggere i diritti dei lavoratori, accogliere migranti a fiumi e ristabilire la dittatura. Inoltre ti ricorda che col no forse mandi a casa Renzi, come se poi il governo finisse in mani migliori. E alla fine ti fa presente che se voti sì fai come banchieri e corrotti, allora sei una persona di merda.

Ogni mattina referendiaria, in Italia, un votante del sì si sveglia polemico-progressista dopo aver illuminato per mesi tutti sul fatto che col no crollano le borse, falliscono le banche, s'impedisce il miglioramento della sanità e persino della lotta al terrorismo, la costituzione resta com’è e non potrà più essere cambiata per i prossimi 10mila anni. Inoltre ti ricorda che col sì forse Renzi se ne va e poi ci tocca il triumvirato Grillo-Berlusconi-Salvini come se chi vota deve pure aver premura di non mortificare il governo in carica esprimendo il proprio pensiero. E alla fine ti fa presente che se voti no fai come i fascio-grillini, allora sei una persona di merda.

Ogni mattina referendaria, in Italia, non importa che tu sia un votante del no o un votante del sì, l’importante è che la smetti di rompere il cazzo alla gente.

anonymous asked:

I really think people should give PLATROA a try before judging it. I have seen so much negativity towards it. It's sad :( specially because Anne is so excited about it.

That’s a valid opinion. But I don’t like the word “should” when it deals with fandom, even about negativity. The resistance to this book is completely understandable. 

[^Louis read PLROA and this was his response to Lestat]

People judge things before they read them, people judge other people before they meet them, people judge anything that can be judged w/o experiencing them. So much judgment our there. I’m certainly not going to demand fair treatment for a book.

Just bc an author is excited about their work does not mean we can’t still judge it on its merits as a novel, and we all have our own ideas about what makes a great novel/story. Dr. Frankenstein was very excited about his creation, other people decided it was a monster.

People’s resistance to this book, specifically, is not coming out of nowhere. Those of us who have read the prior books, or have the slightest knowledge of the characters and stories, and every fan in between, there was something that drew us into VC, and from what I’m seeing, it’s nearly impossible to believe that this book is remotely part of what preceded it unless you had only read PL and/or seen movie!QOTD, in which case, I guess it must be all smooth sailing for ya.

I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, but other people ARE reading PLROA and judging it for what it actually is. Michael Gavin wrote this about it, w/ my emphasis added (”Sink your fangs into news from the world of Anne Rice and the Vampire Chronicles”):

“…The latest of the series, a follow up to 2014’s Prince Lestat, is making waves (pun intended) over the Atlantis story element (and all that goes along with that). Tying the story to characters in her third book, Queen of the Damned, Rice completely upends the myths and lore woven into the Chronicles (almost to the point of jumping the shark IMHO). The characters we love, like Lestat, Louis, Armand and others are still who they are, yet the surprises tucked into Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis feel like they cheapen the fabric of the series’ mythos.”

Upending the canon myths and lore, jumping the shark, cheapening the fabric of the series’ mythos? That all sounds like something that fans would put up some resistance about. Can you blame them if they feel betrayed? If they feel like their beloved characters have been thrown into a blender w/ aliens and the lost city of Atlantis? I can’t blame them. 

I don’t blame them for reacting w/ the exaggerated Tumblrand Hyperbole™ either, bc some of that is probably real emotion. Some of it is for effect, the exaggeration tends to get more notes than rational analysis. But I think it’s both.

I can empathize with the negativity. I wish I could blindly support AR in every choice she makes, but I can’t do that, either. I try not to criticize her myself bc she has given us an incredible gift already in the earlier books. I hope we can trust her to faithfully adapt them to TV/film as how they were originally written, and not try to wedge in this more recent provocative material.