ne comprends pas

Meet and Greet with Eliza Taylor
  • Eliza: gosh, French is so difficult
  • Fans: just say 'je ne comprends pas' (I don't understand)
  • Eliza: oh, I could never pronounce that
  • Fans: then say 'je ne sais pas'
  • Eliza: What does it mean?
  • Fans: 'I don't know'
  • Eliza: but what does it mean?
  • Fans: 'I don't know'
  • Eliza: ... oh got it, sorry I'm blond.
French Questions Masterpost

Hi guys. I finally got to posting the French master post I told you guys about. Hopefully it’s helpful. Btw I’m thinking about posting another mp on how to use passe comopose for French (Maybe Next Week). Anyways please message me if you have questions or just want to be friends :) Bye!

New Speakers

  • Oui/Non (whee/no) - yes/no
  • S'il vous plaît (see voo play) - Please
  • Parlez-vous anglais? (parlay vooz ong-glay) - Do you speak English?
  • Merci (mair-see) - Thank you
  • Voici (vwah-see) - Here is
  • Voilà (vwah-la)- There is
  • De rien (du-rhee-en) - You’re welcome
  • Je ne comprends pas (zhe nhe comp-rehn pah) - I don’t understand
  • J'ai besoin d'aide (zhay buh-swahn ded) - I need help
  • Excusez-moi (escoosay mwah) - Excuse me
  • Je ne sais pas (zhe-nhe say paw) - I don’t know
  • Il y a (eel ee aw) - There is


  • Bonjour (bon zhoor) - Good morning
  • Bonsoir ( bon swar) - Good night/evening
  • Bon après-midi (bon ah-pray mee-dee) - Good afternoon
  • Madame (mah-dahm) - Miss (or Mrs. preceeded by a last name)
  • Monsieur (mihn-see-yuh) - Sir
  • Comment allez-vous?(co-mo-tah-lay-voo) - How are you?
  • Au revoir (o-rhe-vwa) - Goodbye

Informal Greetings  

  • Salut (saw-loo) - Hi
  • Ça va? (saw-vaw) - How’s it going?
  • Ça va bien (saw-vaw-bee-en) - I’m fine

Question Words

  • Combien? (comb-bee-en) - How much?
  • Où? (oo) - Where?
  • Quand? (kond) - When?
  • Quelle/Quel/Quelles/Quels? (kell) - What?
  • Pourquoi? (por-kwah) - Why?
  • Comment? (co mo) - How?

On the Go

  • à droite (ah la dwaht) - to the right or on the right
  • à gauche (ah go-sh) - to the left or on the left
  • au marché (oh mar-shay) - the market
  • au restaurant (oh rest-o-rahn) - to the restaurant
  • à la plage (ah lah plaj) - to the beach
  • à l'hôtel (ah low-tell) - to the hotel
  • l'aéroport (l'air-o-por) - airport
  • par avion (pahr ah-vee-ohn) - by plane
  • aux toilettes (oh twa-lett) - bathroom

Other Questions 

  • Do you speak English?

Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?


  • How are you?

Comment allez-vous?


  • Would you help me please?

Pourriez-vous m’aider?

poh-ree-eyvoohmey-dey ?

  • What’s your name?

Comment vous appelez-vous?


  • What time is it?

Quelle heure est-il ?


  • What’s the weather like?

Quel temps fait-il?


  • How much does … cost?

Combien coûte…?

kohN-byaNkooht… ?

  • Where can I find …?

Où est-ce que je peux trouver…?


  • Where are the bathrooms?

Où sont les toilettes?


  • Do you have… ?


ah-veyvooh… ?

  • Where is… ?

Où est…?

ooh eh…?

  • Could you please speak more slowly?

Pourriez-vous parler plus lentement,s’ilvous 



  • Could you repeat that, please?

Pourriez-vous répéter,s’ilvous 



Resources: French for Dummies and Lovetoknow

AU where your soulmate’s first words to you are written on your skin (bc every fandom should have one and this is my favourite fic trope ever)

Jack gets his words when he’s five years old. At first, he’s kind of confused.

“Maman,” he says, tugging at his mother’s shirt where she sits at the dining room table. He holds his arm up for her to see. “Je ne comprends pas!”

Alicia Zimmermann starts when she sees the words now permanently inked on her son’s forearm. They’re written in a loopy, pretty script down the middle of his arm, stark against his pale skin. She smiles when she reads the words – English, which he hasn’t yet learnt to read – and pulls him up into her lap. She holds his arm gently in her hands, and he pokes at the words suspiciously.

“Qu-est ce que c’est, Maman?”

“It’s your words,” she explains. “They’re the words that will tell you who your soulmate is.”


“Jack,” he looks away from his arm to meet her gaze, his confusion evident. Alicia pulls her jumper to expose her collarbone and the words written there. The handwriting is one Jack knows, recognizes pretty quickly as his father’s, but he’d never really considered the fact that the messy scrawl on his mother’s skin was actually written by his papa. “Everyone gets them at some point or other. Most people get them when their soulmate is born, but not always. Sometimes it’s a little later, or a little earlier, but the point is, there’s someone out there waiting for you.” She lets her jumper sit back in place and runs a gentle hand through her son’s messy black hair. “One day you’ll meet someone who says those words to you. You’ll know they’re your soulmate because it’ll be the first thing they say. Somewhere on their body will be the first words you’ll say to them.” Jack looks thoughtful.

“What do my words say, Maman?”

“Are you sure you can’t work it out?” Jack looks at his arm again, brow furrowed in concentration. His English reading ability is poorer than his French, and the handwriting is a bit too cursive for someone as young as him, but he’s always been determined. Alicia waits patiently as Jack mouths the words slowly, working them out in his head, trying to sound the letters into something he understands.

It’s five minutes before he smiles again, clearly pleased with himself. Whatever he’s worked out is evidently a sentence he understands from the way he bounces excitedly.

“Maman, I know what they’re saying!”

“You know what your soulmate is saying?”

“Oui. I know what they will say.” He takes a deep breath as he looks back down at his arm, running a small finger underneath the words as he reads them carefully out loud. His mother praises his reading, and after a few more minutes of questions about soulmarks the day returns to normal.

It’s only later, when he’s curled up in bed with his stuffed whale toy tucked against his body that he remembers the words again. He pulls back the sleeve of his pajamas to see the words still stark and clear on his skin, even in the low glow from his night light. He whispers them into the air wondrously. For all his excitement now, over the coming years his faith that the words will be spoken with good intention fade and fade as he learns more about the world.

By the time he’s fifteen he covers the words in a long arm sleeve specially designed to hide soulmarks. He only takes it off to shower, and never lets Kent see what’s beneath it. His mother tries to broach the topic once, suggests carefully that soulmarks are rarely ever said in the way one thinks, but his anger makes her sigh and leave it alone. She does encourage him to see a new therapist though, increasingly aware of his unimpeded anxiety over soulmarks and everything else. He feels guilty at his reaction to her concern so he reluctantly agrees to talk to someone about it. They’re better than the last one, and though they specialize in soulmate-related anxiety they quickly latch on to the fact that there are a lot more pressing things endangering Jack’s mental health. His visits are upped to thrice a week, and his prescription is swapped for something less intensive. It doesn’t rid him of anxiety, but it does help. He ends up making some changes to his life that help to lift some of the weight off his shoulders, and everything begins to feel more manageable.

When he’s drafted first pick to the Providence Falconers he’s in a tentatively good place. He’s happy about his team, pleased for Kent as he heads to Las Vegas with the Aces, and feels surprisingly positive despite the pressure the draft had put on him. The future looks brighter, clearer, and as he settles in during his first night in his new Providence apartment, he feels the urge to look at his words for the first time in years.

They still sting when he sees them, an old wound reopened, but he takes deep breaths. The writing is prettier than he remembers, and he almost chuckles at the thought that there’s someone out there with his god-awful handwriting on their body. He sobers up almost instantly, though, running a finger across the words like he did so many years ago. He knows what they mean: that his soulmate doesn’t want him, that he’s a disappointment, that he’s never going to have a relationship like his mother and father do with his soulmate. As he stares at the words he thinks that at least now he can probably deal with it. He’s got a great team and a promising future; a best friend; a much less strained relationship with his father. He knows, now, that he’s not a disappointment to his parents, even if he is to himself or his soulmate. He lives in a nice apartment in a nice area. He thinks he might get a dog.

Despite the hurt they cause, Jack finds himself pressing a soft kiss to the skin of his words, closing his eyes for a brief moment, desperately trying and failing to imagine a way someone could say these words and still want him.

Oh no, he recites in his head, those words that have been impossible to forget, it can’t be you.

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First Language [a Sebastian Smythe imagine]

a/n: ok we know seb lived in paris but never got specifics soooo i had an ideaaaaaa…maybe part 2? yes? no? anyone?

“You guys didn’t have to come with me.” you huff back at the gang following you, angrily stomping through the posh hallways of Dalton Academy. “He is my boyfriend… and you hate him… Why did you come actually?” you wonder, crinkling your eyebrows together, pulling both your backpack straps to the waistband of your ripped sky blue jeans.

Santana scoffs, crossing her tan arms over her cheerio’s uniform. “Uh, duh, I wanna see what happened to the mole faced chipmunk.” she states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. You roll your eyes, sighing deeply.

While holding Rachel’s hand, Finn tilts his head in confusion; Sam does the same, wondering the exact same question on everyone’s mind. “What exactly happened to him again?” the blonde asks, fixing his purple hoodie on his shoulder. “All I saw was you get a call and leave rehearsal…. Then everyone followed you and I got lost… I’m still lost.”

You bound around the corner, stopping when you get to the door that says ‘nurse’. Spinning on the heel of your sneaker, you fix your pink shoulderless shirt. “He was in lacrosse practice and hit his head and passed out, okay?” you rush out, inhaling deep. “And can I please see him alone before you all parade in?” you plead, hands returning to the straps of your backpack.

When most of the club nods, you let out a breath, facing the door. Turning the knob, you cautiously step in the office. “I’m Y/N, Sebastian’s…” you trail off as the nurse leads you to the cots. “How is he?” you chew on your lip nervously.

“Non! Non!” Sebastian’s voice lingers in the room, French accent a lot more noticeable. “Retire tes mains de moi (get your hands off me)! Ou est ma petite amie (where is my girlfriend)?!” he spits at Trent, who’s trying to coax the Warbler back into the cot, muttering ‘why are you not speaking English?’. “Je ne sais pas bon anglais (I don’t know good english)!” he bites in a frustrated tone, running a hand through his hair.

You furrow your eyebrows together, pushing the curtain. His knuckles curl around the edge of the cot, shoulders almost touching his ears. The moment Sebastian sees you, his green eyes light up, smile stretching on his lips. “Mon bébé, là tu es (my baby, there you are)!” he beams, standing up; navy lacrosse jersey hanging off his shoulder. You blink in confusion. “Ne me comprends-tu pas (do you not understand me)?” he whispers, eyes filling with water.

Frowning, you bend down in front of him, cupping his face. “Sebastian… Je t'aime (I love you)…” you hum, saying the only French you really know.

He grins, “Je t’aime, Y/N.” The knock on the door startles him and the glee club enters. “Pourquoi sont-ils ici (why are they here)?” he snarls, nose scrunching at the gang. “Quelle (what)?”

“Why is he speaking French?” Mercedes whispers to Kurt, who shrugs.

Sighing, you card your hand through his uncharastically messy hair, shaking your head. “French is his first language. He only learned English two years ago, before he came to Dalton.” you frown, eyes searching his face. “When we started dating, he was still learning.” you explain, “He must’ve hit his head really hard…” you cringe, pulling your beanie down.

“So, what’re we gonna do?” Artie pipes up, pushing his glasses to his nose.

Sebastian tugs on your hand, pouting. “Regarde, je ne comprends pas ce que tu dis mais (look, I don’t understand what you’re saying but)…” he pauses, licking his lips. “Je meurs de faim, pouvons-nous manger (I’m starving, can we eat)?”

You shrug your shoulders, squinting your eyes. “I think he’s hungry? Help me take him to Breadstix?”

Happy Birthday am2c!

We apologize that your gift is late @am2c! We hope you had a great Birthday! To help celebrate your special day, the wonderful @ally147writes has written a special Everlark story just for you! Enjoy!

On the Cusp

AN: Happy Birthday to the prompter! I fear this got a little more angsty than what you probably wanted, but I hope I balanced the worry and the fluff enough for you :) Apologies for the rushed end — I had about a thousand problems with my computer you don’t want to know about… But if anyone’s interested, I’ll be expanding on this one in the future.

I did write this with everyone on the cusp of a milestone birthday in mind (including myself), so I hope everyone enjoys it and maybe takes something away.

Rated M-ish for language.

Whenever Peeta Mellark envisioned his thirtieth birthday, back when the occasion was still far-off and hazy with dreams, he imagined a few milestones might have been ticked off his ‘Before Thirty Bucket List’:

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tout va bien. tu te le répètes et tu y crois. jusqu'au jour où tu te rendras compte de la noirceur du monde qui se développe autour de nous, que tu ne vois pas, dont tu refuses d'admettre qu'il est autant boiteux que toi. un jour tu te lèveras et tu verras comment le monde ne tourne plus rond. comment on a bousillé l'humain, l'amour et toutes ces choses qui font qu'un matin on a pu écrire le mot humanité. tu comprendras qu'il y'a des choses qui clochent partout et ailleurs. que finalement tu n'étais pas réellement maître de tes envies, que tu étais dicté et manipulé comme un patin. qu'on t'a élevé pour que tes émotions, tes aspirations, tes rêves..restent moqués donc bloqué à l'intérieur de toi et qu'à un moment cela va pourrir ton âme.
tu es éduqué pour que tu deviennes aussi médiocre qu'eux. autant malheureux. me demande pas pourquoi, je ne comprends pas. je ne comprends pas pourquoi ils n'ont pas envie de nous voir réussir.
mais toi, tu vas oublier ce que je viens de t'écrire, toi cet été tu te réjouiras de dépenser des dollars dans une piscine remplie de personne vénale dont tu seras convaincu qu'ils voudront ton bien, pensant que ton bien c'est de dépenser pour oublier. oublier que tu es un humain avec des émotions. et ils auront gagnés un instant de ta vie que tu ne pourras plus jamais reprendre. tu vas oublier de vivre un mois ou deux, pensant que vivre c'est de dépenser. mais un jour tu comprendras que être et beaucoup mieux que de croupir, beaucoup mieux que de gaspiller, de boire, de se ruiner dans des choses futiles.. vivre ne signifie pas de refouler tout ce que les autres nous font subir, vivre ne signifie pas de suivre les autres dans leur mal être intérieur, vivre n'est pas de faire comme tout le monde. c'est cette noirceur qui nous empêche de voir que nous pouvons être tellement mieux que tout ca. cette noirceur du monde qui se résume à crier au plus grand nombre que tu as une soi disant meilleure vie que les autres, de le poster, de le publier partout. mélange à ça l'égoïsme idiote et rigolote qui empêche les individus d'être heureux ensemble. la société c'est imposée à elle-même des supplices dont elle est ca propre créatrice. ca me fait tellement penser aux personnes flemmardes qui ne se préparent pas de bon petits plats en préférant manger de la merde en pot déjà tout fabriqué. vous êtes pareils. des merdes en boite. vous n'allez pas changer, vous êtes des flemmards, vous vous complaisez dans votre malheur d'égoïsme. vous êtes les enfants de la plus médiocre des sociétés et vous en êtes fière. vous croyez être heureux mais tu ne l'es pas.. tu ne l'es pas parce que tu critiques et tu insultes ton prochain. tu détruis ce que tu penses être mauvais juste parce que la différence n'est pas quelque chose qu'on t'a appris à respecter. parce que tu n'en es pas une. t'as rien d'extraordinaire à raconter, ni à combattre. tu as peur de la diversité parce que c'est avoir quelque chose en plus, quelque chose en plus que tu n'auras jamais. et qui y'a t-il de pire dans cette société de ne pas avoir quelque chose que certains d'entre nous ont? et dont tous les dollars du monde ne pourront pas l'acheter? frustration de besoin. le monde en est arrivé là. tu comprends maintenant. le monde va mal et tu y contribues

“"Michael Zazoun c'est un pédé, et les pédés ça finit toujours par t'enculer", Cyril Hanouna 2014.
Quand Cyril Hanouna menace ou insulte, il le fait souvent autour d'une cour afin d'asseoir sa surpuissance. C'est ainsi que ces propos m'ont été rapportés par différentes personnes, car il ne me les a jamais proférés en face, et que craignant davantage de trahir mes valeurs que cautionner celles d'un tyran de salon, j'ai posé ma démission d'une émission de radio qu'il produisait et que pourtant j'adorais faire.
J'ai eu l'élégance de ne jamais m'étendre sur les raison de cette démission, mais aujourd'hui savoir que son entourage préfère se renier dans un silence assourdissant pour digérer une énième couleuvre plus sombre que les précédentes, me pousse à sortir du mien pour rejoindre un combat qui me tient à coeur.
Ne nous trompons pas, la première personne que Cyril Hanouna déteste en réalité, c'est lui. Seulement ces problématiques se règlent sur un divan de psy et non devant des millions de personnes à la télé, normalisant chaque jour un peu plus l'humiliation de chroniqueurs dont la soumission confine au masochisme.
Mais il est vrai que de toutes les haines qui l'animent, l'homosexualité prend une raisonnance particulière, que ce soit dans son obsession pour le sujet ou sa manière de martyriser Matthieu Delormeau jusqu'à lui faire tourner d'effroyables tutos nommés “Delormeau Dance” façon cage aux folles. C'est vrai que c'est drôle ça, et si on affublait un juif d'un gros nez pour faire des tutos sur la meilleure manière de gagner de l'argent, ou alors un arabe qui nous apprendrait à voler un scooter ou un noir à manger des bananes ? Vous ne trouvez pas ça drôle vous, ben quoi on ne peut plus rire ?
Non Cyril, on ne peut plus rire de te voir te trémousser, remuer tes mains et efféminer ta voix pour draguer des homos jetés en place publique dans ce que tu oses encore appelé un “canular”. Et le pire, c'est que t'es incapable de comprendre ce que je suis en train d'écrire, tu n'es pas en état, osant te comparer à Coluche qui doit se retourner dans sa tombe.
Mais si tu ne comprends pas le problème, si le CSA ne le comprend pas non plus, et bien sache que nous allons le faire pour vous. En témoignant comme je viens de le faire, en relayant les messages et les articles de ceux qui se soulèvent contre l'inacceptable, et grâce à qui des annonceurs ont utilisé un langage qui doit bien plus parler à D8 que toutes nos indignations réunies: celui du portefeuille.”

- Michael Zazoun

Nessian interactions #4

Nesta: Azriel said you speak another language.
Cassian: … I do? Oh yeah, I do!
Cassian: I speak English… *pauses dramatically*
Cassian: … and the language of love. 
Cassian: *waggles eyebrows* *demonstrates wingspan* *suns out guns out* *the beach is that way*
Nesta: .
Nesta: .
Nesta: Please die.
Cassian: Je ne comprende pas. Je suis un ananas.

Just A Kiss (Lafayette x Reader)


Anonymous said: Hi could I have 172, 82, and 43 with laf, where he gets all jealous and smut happens. Thank You!

Word Count: 2161

A/N: I put off writing this one for so long that I had it saved in my computer as “another request, get it together”, hope you enjoy it!

TW: NSFW, Alexander Hamilton being a Disrespectful Hoe™

from this prompt list

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Ils ne comprennent pas ;
ils ne comprennent pas ma tristesse, ma solitude, mon manque affectif et mon besoin de maigrir.
Ils ne comprennent pas mon trop plein d'émotions et mon trop plein de vide.
Ils ne comprennent pas ;
et moi non plus, je ne me comprends pas.