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justinspoliticalcorner · 20 days

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Eric Cortellessa at Time:

Donald Trump thinks he’s identified a crucial mistake of his first term: He was too nice. We’ve been talking for more than an hour on April 12 at his fever-dream palace in Palm Beach. Aides lurk around the perimeter of a gilded dining room overlooking the manicured lawn. When one nudges me to wrap up the interview, I bring up the many former Cabinet officials who refuse to endorse Trump this time. Some have publicly warned that he poses a danger to the Republic. Why should voters trust you, I ask, when some of the people who observed you most closely do not? As always, Trump punches back, denigrating his former top advisers. But beneath the typical torrent of invective, there is a larger lesson he has taken away. “I let them quit because I have a heart. I don’t want to embarrass anybody,” Trump says. “I don’t think I’ll do that again. From now on, I’ll fire.” Six months from the 2024 presidential election, Trump is better positioned to win the White House than at any point in either of his previous campaigns. He leads Joe Biden by slim margins in most polls, including in several of the seven swing states likely to determine the outcome. But I had not come to ask about the election, the disgrace that followed the last one, or how he has become the first former—and perhaps future—American President to face a criminal trial. I wanted to know what Trump would do if he wins a second term, to hear his vision for the nation, in his own words.

What emerged in two interviews with Trump, and conversations with more than a dozen of his closest advisers and confidants, were the outlines of an imperial presidency that would reshape America and its role in the world. To carry out a deportation operation designed to remove more than 11 million people from the country, Trump told me, he would be willing to build migrant detention camps and deploy the U.S. military, both at the border and inland. He would let red states monitor women’s pregnancies and prosecute those who violate abortion bans. He would, at his personal discretion, withhold funds appropriated by Congress, according to top advisers. He would be willing to fire a U.S. Attorney who doesn’t carry out his order to prosecute someone, breaking with a tradition of independent law enforcement that dates from America’s founding. He is weighing pardons for every one of his supporters accused of attacking the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, more than 800 of whom have pleaded guilty or been convicted by a jury. He might not come to the aid of an attacked ally in Europe or Asia if he felt that country wasn’t paying enough for its own defense. He would gut the U.S. civil service, deploy the National Guard to American cities as he sees fit, close the White House pandemic-preparedness office, and staff his Administration with acolytes who back his false assertion that the 2020 election was stolen. Trump remains the same guy, with the same goals and grievances. But in person, if anything, he appears more assertive and confident. “When I first got to Washington, I knew very few people,” he says. “I had to rely on people.” Now he is in charge. The arranged marriage with the timorous Republican Party stalwarts is over; the old guard is vanquished, and the people who remain are his people. Trump would enter a second term backed by a slew of policy shops staffed by loyalists who have drawn up detailed plans in service of his agenda, which would concentrate the powers of the state in the hands of a man whose appetite for power appears all but insatiable. “I don’t think it’s a big mystery what his agenda would be,” says his close adviser Kellyanne Conway. “But I think people will be surprised at the alacrity with which he will take action.”

The courts, the Constitution, and a Congress of unknown composition would all have a say in whether Trump’s objectives come to pass. The machinery of Washington has a range of defenses: leaks to a free press, whistle-blower protections, the oversight of inspectors general. The same deficiencies of temperament and judgment that hindered him in the past remain present. If he wins, Trump would be a lame duck—contrary to the suggestions of some supporters, he tells TIME he would not seek to overturn or ignore the Constitution’s prohibition on a third term. Public opinion would also be a powerful check. Amid a popular outcry, Trump was forced to scale back some of his most draconian first-term initiatives, including the policy of separating migrant families. As George Orwell wrote in 1945, the ability of governments to carry out their designs “depends on the general temper in the country.” Every election is billed as a national turning point. This time that rings true. To supporters, the prospect of Trump 2.0, unconstrained and backed by a disciplined movement of true believers, offers revolutionary promise. To much of the rest of the nation and the world, it represents an alarming risk. A second Trump term could bring “the end of our democracy,” says presidential historian Douglas Brinkley, “and the birth of a new kind of authoritarian presidential order.”

[...] The spectacle picks up where his first term left off. The events of Jan. 6, during which a pro-Trump mob attacked the center of American democracy in an effort to subvert the peaceful transfer of power, was a profound stain on his legacy. Trump has sought to recast an insurrectionist riot as an act of patriotism. “I call them the J-6 patriots,” he says. When I ask whether he would consider pardoning every one of them, he says, “Yes, absolutely.” As Trump faces dozens of felony charges, including for election interference, conspiracy to defraud the United States, willful retention of national-security secrets, and falsifying business records to conceal hush-money payments, he has tried to turn legal peril into a badge of honor. [...] In a second term, Trump’s influence on American democracy would extend far beyond pardoning powers. Allies are laying the groundwork to restructure the presidency in line with a doctrine called the unitary executive theory, which holds that many of the constraints imposed on the White House by legislators and the courts should be swept away in favor of a more powerful Commander in Chief.

Nowhere would that power be more momentous than at the Department of Justice. Since the nation’s earliest days, Presidents have generally kept a respectful distance from Senate-confirmed law-enforcement officials to avoid exploiting for personal ends their enormous ability to curtail Americans’ freedoms. But Trump, burned in his first term by multiple investigations directed by his own appointees, is ever more vocal about imposing his will directly on the department and its far-flung investigators and prosecutors.

[...] Trump’s radical designs for presidential power would be felt throughout the country. A main focus is the southern border. Trump says he plans to sign orders to reinstall many of the same policies from his first term, such as the Remain in Mexico program, which requires that non-Mexican asylum seekers be sent south of the border until their court dates, and Title 42, which allows border officials to expel migrants without letting them apply for asylum. Advisers say he plans to cite record border crossings and fentanyl- and child-trafficking as justification for reimposing the emergency measures. He would direct federal funding to resume construction of the border wall, likely by allocating money from the military budget without congressional approval. The capstone of this program, advisers say, would be a massive deportation operation that would target millions of people. Trump made similar pledges in his first term, but says he plans to be more aggressive in a second. “People need to be deported,” says Tom Homan, a top Trump adviser and former acting head of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. “No one should be off the table.”

[...] As President, Trump nominated three Supreme Court Justices who voted to overturn Roe v. Wade, and he claims credit for his role in ending a constitutional right to an abortion. At the same time, he has sought to defuse a potent campaign issue for the Democrats by saying he wouldn’t sign a federal ban. In our interview at Mar-a-Lago, he declines to commit to vetoing any additional federal restrictions if they came to his desk. More than 20 states now have full or partial abortion bans, and Trump says those policies should be left to the states to do what they want, including monitoring women’s pregnancies. “I think they might do that,” he says. When I ask whether he would be comfortable with states prosecuting women for having abortions beyond the point the laws permit, he says, “It’s irrelevant whether I’m comfortable or not. It’s totally irrelevant, because the states are going to make those decisions.” President Biden has said he would fight state anti-abortion measures in court and with regulation.

Trump’s allies don’t plan to be passive on abortion if he returns to power. The Heritage Foundation has called for enforcement of a 19th century statute that would outlaw the mailing of abortion pills. The Republican Study Committee (RSC), which includes more than 80% of the House GOP conference, included in its 2025 budget proposal the Life at Conception Act, which says the right to life extends to “the moment of fertilization.” I ask Trump if he would veto that bill if it came to his desk. “I don’t have to do anything about vetoes,” Trump says, “because we now have it back in the states.”

Presidents typically have a narrow window to pass major legislation. Trump’s team is eyeing two bills to kick off a second term: a border-security and immigration package, and an extension of his 2017 tax cuts. Many of the latter’s provisions expire early in 2025: the tax cuts on individual income brackets, 100% business expensing, the doubling of the estate-tax deduction. Trump is planning to intensify his protectionist agenda, telling me he’s considering a tariff of more than 10% on all imports, and perhaps even a 100% tariff on some Chinese goods. Trump says the tariffs will liberate the U.S. economy from being at the mercy of foreign manufacturing and spur an industrial renaissance in the U.S. When I point out that independent analysts estimate Trump’s first term tariffs on thousands of products, including steel and aluminum, solar panels, and washing machines, may have cost the U.S. $316 billion and more than 300,000 jobs, by one account, he dismisses these experts out of hand. His advisers argue that the average yearly inflation rate in his first term—under 2%—is evidence that his tariffs won’t raise prices. [...]

Trump’s intention to remake America’s relations abroad may be just as consequential. Since its founding, the U.S. has sought to build and sustain alliances based on the shared values of political and economic freedom. Trump takes a much more transactional approach to international relations than his predecessors, expressing disdain for what he views as free-riding friends and appreciation for authoritarian leaders like President Xi Jinping of China, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán of Hungary, or former President Jair Bolsonaro of Brazil. That’s one reason America’s traditional allies were horrified when Trump recently said at a campaign rally that Russia could “do whatever the hell they want” to a NATO country he believes doesn’t spend enough on collective defense. That wasn’t idle bluster, Trump tells me. “If you’re not going to pay, then you’re on your own,” he says. Trump has long said the alliance is ripping the U.S. off. Former NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg credited Trump’s first-term threat to pull out of the alliance with spurring other members to add more than $100 billion to their defense budgets.

[...] Trump has historically been reluctant to criticize or confront Putin. He sided with the Russian autocrat over his own intelligence community when it asserted that Russia interfered in the 2016 election. Even now, Trump uses Putin as a foil for his own political purposes. When I asked Trump why he has not called for the release of Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich, who has been unjustly held on spurious charges in a Moscow prison for a year, Trump says, “I guess because I have so many other things I’m working on.” Gershkovich should be freed, he adds, but he doubts it will happen before the election. “The reporter should be released and he will be released,” Trump tells me. “I don’t know if he’s going to be released under Biden. I would get him released.” America’s Asian allies, like its European ones, may be on their own under Trump. Taiwan’s Foreign Minister recently said aid to Ukraine was critical in deterring Xi from invading the island. Communist China’s leaders “have to understand that things like that can’t come easy,” Trump says, but he declines to say whether he would come to Taiwan’s defense.

[...] Yet even his support for Israel is not absolute. He’s criticized Israel’s handling of its war against Hamas, which has killed more than 30,000 Palestinians in Gaza, and has called for the nation to “get it over with.” When I ask whether he would consider withholding U.S. military aid to Israel to push it toward winding down the war, he doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t rule it out, either. He is sharply critical of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, once a close ally. “I had a bad experience with Bibi,” Trump says. In his telling, a January 2020 U.S. operation to assassinate a top Iranian general was supposed to be a joint attack until Netanyahu backed out at the last moment. “That was something I never forgot,” he says. He blames Netanyahu for failing to prevent the Oct. 7 attack, when Hamas militants infiltrated southern Israel and killed nearly 1,200 people amid acts of brutality including burning entire families alive and raping women and girls. “It happened on his watch,” Trump says.

[...] Another inside move is the enforcement of Schedule F, which allows the President to fire nonpolitical government officials and which Trump says he would embrace. “You have some people that are protected that shouldn’t be protected,” he says. A senior U.S. judge offers an example of how consequential such a move could be. Suppose there’s another pandemic, and President Trump wants to push the use of an untested drug, much as he did with hydroxychloroquine during COVID-19. Under Schedule F, if the drug’s medical reviewer at the Food and Drug Administration refuses to sign off on its use, Trump could fire them, and anyone else who doesn’t approve it. The Trump team says the President needs the power to hold bureaucrats accountable to voters. “The mere mention of Schedule F,” says Vought, “ensures that the bureaucracy moves in your direction.”

TIME Magazine interviewed 2024 GOP Republican nominee Donald Trump twice over the span of just over two weeks, and in those interviews, Trump told Time's Eric Cortellessa his plans for what his 2nd term would be.

His plans would include a full-scale fascist takeover of the United States should he get elected to a 2nd term are as follows:

He would enact draconian anti-immigration policies such as deporting 11M+ undocumented immigrants and build concentration camps for not just undocumented immigrants but those opposed to his agenda.

He would also aid and abet in cruel anti-abortion policies that invade the privacy of a pregnant person and criminalize those who obtain abortions.

He would destroy the nonpartisan civil service system by enacting Schedule F to give jobs to his MAGA cronies.

He would pardon every domestic terrorist who participated in the J6 Capitol Insurrection that he incited.

He would endanger national security by refusing to come to the aid of our allies if attacked, effectively doing China and Russia's bidding.

He would summon the National Guard and the military to put down protests against him and his anti-American regime.

He would turn the DOJ into his partisan political tool to go after his critics.

The Project 2025 agenda would be used to guide Trump into making decisions that would end America as a beacon of freedom and democracy.

These interviews he gave to Time should be a remind that America does not vote to put the tyrant back in office and that re-electing Joe Biden is essential to keeping America free.

See Also:

Time: Full transcript of Time's two interviews with Trump.

Read the full article at Time Magazine.

#Donald Trump #2024 Elections #2024 Presidential Election #Fascism #Joe Biden #Schedule F #Abortion #Immigration #Eric Cortellessa #Time Magazine #Time #Unitary Executive Theory #Life At Conception Act #Project 2025

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mariacallous · 8 months

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When the United Auto Workers announced the expansion of their strike on Friday morning, the cleverness of their strategy was immediately apparent. The union has gradually turned up the heat on the “Big Three” — as well Joe Biden, who now plans to head to Michigan on Tuesday in what is likely to be an unprecedented show of union solidarity by a sitting president.

The UAW started its work stoppage a week ago by walking out at three assembly facilities, one apiece for Ford, General Motors and Stellantis. Then, this morning, the union’s president, Shawn Fain, said the UAW would expand its strike significantly — to 38 parts distribution facilities — but only at those belonging to GM and Stellantis, which owns the Jeep and Dodge brands.

Any parent understands what the union is doing here: Fain is patting one child on the head and giving her a candy bar, while sending the other two out back to rake leaves.

Fain made clear in a Friday speech that he felt Ford had made significant movement in talks and was determined to reach a good-faith deal. “At GM and Stellantis, it’s a different story,” Fain said. Ford had made satisfactory proposals on cost-of-living increases, the elimination of “tiered” pay scales, and job security measures, the union leader explained, while its competitors still fell short in those areas.

When the union announced only limited strikes to start, some militant workers and supporters understandably grumbled that the union was holding back. But it’s obvious a big part of this plan — dubbed the “Stand Up Strike,” an homage to the UAW’s famous “sit-down strikes” of the 1930s — has always been to leave more options on the table. Not only can the union tighten the vise by adding more facilities to the work stoppage, it can punish or reward any of the Big Three individually as it sees fit. There is still plenty of time for the strategy to succeed or fail, but it’s hard to say the upsides aren’t becoming more clear.

Not only does this playbook keep the automakers on their toes, it continues to generate headlines in a way a more standard strike could not. Any expansion of the work stoppage will be newsworthy, ensuring the strike grows in scope and impact rather than peters out — and in turn courts responses from the White House as the political and economic stakes of the showdown grow.

Until now, Biden has voiced support for the workers but walked a careful line regarding the contract dispute. He said in public comments last week that the Big Three should “go further” with their offers, and that “record corporate profits” for the automakers should translate into “record contracts” for union members. “I respect workers’ right to use their options under the collective bargaining system. And I understand the workers’ frustration,” he said.

But Biden’s support is likely to look much stronger next week. Fain invited the self-described “most pro-union president” ever to stand side by side with striking workers, and Biden tweeted Friday afternoon that he plans to oblige. A presidential visit to a picket line will put even more pressure on the automakers to reach a deal with the UAW. And thanks to its strategy, the union still has more room to escalate.

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ohyoufool · 8 months

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Politician au brainrot!

Ok so I originally pitched the idea of Jack and Bitty as representatives who have to come together to work on a bill and don’t get along but form a begrudging working relationship that turns into respect that turns into love, BUT I keep thinking about it and now I raise you:

Jack, Chief of Staff to Senator Byron Knight, notable for coming from a politically dynastic family frequently referred to as the Republican Kennedys. EXCEPT now Senator Knight is rattling political cages by running for office as a Democrat and SWEEPING the competition.

There’s a speaking engagement – a party – and Shitty gets the speaking role. Jack staffs, and while there, gets run into by someone who spills their drink on his white shirt by accident (critical faux pas), but keeps going. The speech goes off without a hitch but Jack is like “man reporters suck!”

But Senator Knight is new! And they need a strategy to get him in front of cameras. So they hatch a plan to get a reporter to buy into a story about the Knight legacy and what their office is doing to change the direction of politics and push progressive policy. AND GUESS who they get to bite on the story? IT’S NO OTHER THAN THE WINE-SPILLER HIMESLF, budding political journalist Eric Bittle.

So then they’re obviously working on this story about the bills Shitty is running, and Bitty is following them to events and hanging out in the office, and then there’s POLITICAL SCANDAL and doctored footage comes out of Shitty apparently saying some stuff about he’s only running to co-opt the party and it’s. NOT GOOD. But good thing they have an investigative reporter waiting for his big break! So Bitty and Jack are suddenly working in tandem to figure out who is doctoring footage and trying to get them in big trouble (and hooking up in hotel rooms the whole time both trying to assure themselves it Isn’t Going to Be That Serious while failing that assignment)

There’s definitely also a potential for a little Jack/Kent backstory here – maybe Jack also comes from a politically dynastic Democrat family, and was a budding star until he dropped out of the spotlight. BUT GUESS WHO DID RUN FOR OFFICE?? Kent MF Parson. And then tapes come out about HIM too, and they have to team up with his office too to figure out who is running all these crazy campaigns.

#brain go BRRRRRR #omgcp #omg check please #i speak #zimbits #eric bittle #omgcheckplease #jack zimmermann #check please

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tomorrowusa · 8 months

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The House of Representatives was under the control of far right Republicans in 1998 when Speaker Newt Gingrich decided to impeach Bill Clinton for getting a blow job in the room where Donald Trump in 2021 watched his supporters rampage through the US Capitol.

The move to impeach Clinton had the opposite political effect which Gingrich intended. In the 1998 midterms the Republicans lost ground and in 2000 Al Gore won the popular vote for president.

In 2023 out of touch House Republicans once again want to impeach a Democratic president on flimsy grounds. Some Democrats are having difficulty hiding their glee.

House Speaker Kevin McCarthy launched an impeachment inquiry into Joe Biden on Tuesday, and Pennsylvania Senator John Fetterman is calling it out for the deeply unserious move that it is. When asked for a response to the news, Fetterman feigned shock and distress. “Oh my God, really?” he asked, his voice squeaking upward in pitch as he grabbed his head in his hands. “Oh my gosh, you know, oh—it’s devastating!” Fetterman went on, before breaking into laughter. “OooOooo don’t do it! Please, don’t do it!” he moaned, clutching at his heart as his aide pulled him away. “Oh no, oh no!”

Sen. Fetterman may have been channeling Br'er Rabbit.

Kevin McCarthy is the weakest House Speaker in living memory. He needs constantly to placate the far right "Freedom Caucus" to hold on to his job. The impeachment inquiry is a way of tossing them a few crumbs. It is unlikely to sate their appetite.

The impeachment inquiry could also spell trouble for the 18 Republicans representing districts Biden won in 2020. When Fetterman was asked about McCarthy’s plans for the impeachment inquiry last week, he responded: “Go ahead. Do it, I dare you.” “It would just be a big circle jerk on the fringe right,” Fetterman added.

Kevin McCarthy is proof that trying to appease extremists is a fool's task.

BTW: For those who obsess over age – Kevin McCarthy was 57 when he (finally) became House Speaker and Nancy Pelosi was 82 when she left the position. Politics aside, who was the more effective Speaker? 🤔

#republicans #tone-deaf republicans #house freedom caucus #us house of representatives #impeachment #kevin mccarthy #weakest house speaker in modern history #john fetterman #br'er rabbit #election 2024 #christopher weyant

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rocknrollbabe14 · 1 year

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No Place For The Likes of You (Enjolras x Reader)

Rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. SEXUAL THEMES HEAVILY DISCUSSED.

WARNINGS: Sexual themes, sexual language, one night stand, drinking, premarital sex, oral sex (female receiving), missionary (unprotected sex), slight bondage?, creampie?, ANGST, death? If I left anything out, let me know.

Also, let me know if this warrants a second part?

Thank you to @josephs-quinns for my amazing header ❤️

One day your mother had tasked you with taking some food to your father and the others who were fighting for more rights for the French. There had been an uprising and your father took part in it, much to your mother’s dismay. Your father reminded you this was not a woman’s place. A revolution of this caliber was not a woman’s place. Her place was in the home: cooking, cleaning and having children. You were young but had yet to find a man to sweep you off your feet. Your father, of course, would have to approve. You’d been asked by a few men to be courted, however, they were not up to your father’s high standards. He only wanted the best for you.

Tensions had significantly risen since then, especially since Enjolras had taken his place as the unspoken, charismatic leader of the Friends of the ABC, the revolutionaries your father had joined. Enjolras appeared to be very standoffish when you first met him. Sometimes you thought back to your first meeting with him. He looked you up and down, perhaps curious as to why you were in the local pub bringing your father and his fellow republicans food. Some of the men were talking about their love interests or wives back home, Enjolras immediately reminding them they did not have time for romance, no time to be lovesick schoolboys before explaining to them this wasn’t the place for the likes of them if they were going to worry more about women than the revolution.

His solution for romance was to replace it with a revolution. He was ignited with passion, something that drew you to him. He was willing to fight for his country, even vowing to fight to the death if that meant freedom. It was noble of him, but you couldn’t help to fear your father may meet that fate. Some nights, you’d lay in bed and think about him. You didn’t know anything about him other than his passion for freedom. There was something about him that made your heart skip a beat. It was clear he wasn’t looking for a lover or something serious.

You both had shared some passing glances, his eyes following you as you left the room. There was no way you’d ever be able to tell him how he made you feel—he’d never be receptive to it. His mind was clear on what he wanted and a woman didn’t quite fit into that equation. It was the night before the planned attack, the day they said would go down in history. A lot of the men were asleep, Enjolras telling them to rest and that they had a big day ahead of them. You had come to tell your father you loved him. You feared it would be the last night you would see him alive.

Enjolras was outside, drinking. He looked as if he had a lot on his mind. You were sure he did. The shine in his brown eyes made it seem like he knew what tomorrow was going to bring.

“Going home so soon?”, Enjolras asked, his speech slightly slurred from the amount of alcohol he had consumed.

His question caught you off guard, causing you to jump slightly before turning to meet his glance.

“Um, well, my mom is probably wondering where I am. It’s late.”, you rubbed your arm nervously.

“Your father is a hell of a man.”

He edged closer to you, putting his cup up in the air before taking another sip, giving you a chance to admire his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

You smiled easily. “Thank you, he’s always been very strong-willed.”

“I can see you take after him.”, Enjolras took another smaller sip from his wine.

A small smile spread across your lips, but all you could think about was the possibility your father wouldn’t return home. Your mother would be crushed, but she understood this was an important cause to your father.

“Can I ask you something?”, Enjolras brought you out of your thoughts.

“Of course.”

“Have you ever been with a man?”

His question took you aback. “I’m sorry?”

Enjolras inched closer to you, so close the aroma of alcohol tickled your nose. His brown eyes stared deeply into yours, seeing if you would falter the least little amount. You could almost feel his breath on you, it made your insides twist and turn.

“Have you ever had a man ravish you? I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

You felt your cheeks growing hot. The air was cool, but your cheeks were warm.

“I don’t know what you mean, Enjolras.”

He smirked easily. “I’ve seen the way your eyes meet mine when you come to see your father. Like you want something…desire something.”, he hummed.

“Perhaps I’m just curious about you.”, you match his tone.

He smirked easily. “Why not let your curiosity get the best of you tonight?”

“Elaborate, Enjolras.”

He came closer to you, the sound of his inhale reaching your ear. “I may not be promised another day. Tomorrow may be my very last day, tomorrow I may die for freedom. Would you let me ravish you? Share this one last night together? Feeding both of our devilish desires?”

You had never been with a man before. His offer was bold, however, you admitted to yourself you had fantasized about him. You felt his free hand find your waist, fingertips touching the soft fabric of your dress. You felt his breath on your neck, an indication of just how close he was to you. But you also knew if you slept with him, you’d be committing an act of sin. You were supposed to wait until marriage. But how could you when the opportunity was right in front of you? Especially with a man who was the caliber of Enjolras.

“If my parents find out—”, your mouth was dry.

“They won’t find out, we can go up to my room. You just have to be quiet until we get there.”, he breathed.

You were quiet, pondering his offer. Enjolras was the epitome of what you wanted in a man, but you knew in the long run he wasn’t concerned with finding someone to settle down with. Not right now, not when there was a revolution. If he did live after tonight, what would become of you two?

“What do you say, amour?”

He could tell there was some hesitation about his proposal. But you were ready to give in.

“I will, Enjolras.”, you breathed.

A smile spread across his lips. He brought the cup of his wine up to your lips, the aroma instantly filling your nose. You had never drank. It wasn’t very becoming for a woman to drink alcohol.

“Take a drink. It’ll help relax you......”

Your eyes looked to the side, just catching a glimpse of his arm. How Enjolras was causing you to come undone morally in just a matter of moments showed just how much of a hold, how much power he had over you.

“Okay.”, you breathed.

He tipped the cup, your mouth opened ever so slightly. You felt the liquid hit your tongue. It was sour but not the worst you had ever tasted. It tasted like grapes that had gone sour. You felt Enjolras watching you, seeing how much you could take. You were able to withstand more than you thought you would, Enjolras moving the cup away from your mouth. You swallowed your last drink, taking a deep breath.

“It’ll hit you in a little bit. Impressive for someone who’s never drank before.”

You nodded feverishly, just wishing he’d take you already. But if you knew anything about Enjolras, he took his time to execute his plan. He finished off the wine, tossing the cup to side. You felt his other hand soon meet your waist.

“You never answered my question earlier…..”

“Which one?”, you asked softly.

“Have you ever been with a man?”, he repeated.

“N-no, I’m a virgin—if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You mean I’m gonna be the first one to have you?”, he hummed.

“Y-yes….”

He hummed again before his lips met your neck. “So nice and sweet that….you’re willing to give me….my dying wish…..”, he placed kisses down your neck, meeting your chest.

“You don’t know that you’re going to die….”

He stopped in his tracks. “I think I will, I quite literally have had a target on my back for months now.”

To be honest, you didn’t want to think about him dying. You didn’t want to think about anyone dying. No one needed to die. But you had heard Enjolras speak. According to him, someone must die.

“You may come out of this.”, you said, trying to keep on the bright side of things.

You heard his breathing hitch. There was mostly silence in the streets tonight, most everyone resting up for tomorrow. You heard the distant sound of music, an ominous hum. Enjolras didn’t speak for a few moments, going back to placing kisses on your neck, causing you to release soft sighs and borderline moans. You could feel him smirk against your skin.

“Have you had women before?”, you choked out, voice hoarse.

Enjolras chuckled softly against your skin. “Do you really want to know?”

You nodded. “Mhmmm….”

“I have……..a few…….but none as pretty and innocent as you…..”

You felt a blush coming down your cheeks. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is……”, he groaned softly. “Are you ready to go upstairs?”

You nodded.

You felt his lips leave your neck, causing you to whimper at the loss of contact. Another smirk spread across your lips as he realized how delicate and innocent you were. He grabbed your hand, leading you to the door of the pub. There was an apartment above the pub, you assumed this was where Enjolras had been staying for a few months now. He put his pointer finger over his lips, reminding you to stay quiet as he opened the door to the pub. All the men were asleep in different places. You all tip-toed past them, Enjolras leading you to the staircase.

“Miss the third step, it creaks terribly.”, he whispered.

You nodded, making sure to miss and avoid the third step on the series of steps. You all reached the top, Enjolras opening the door to his apartment. You saw a bed, some of his clothes, books, maps, and his weapons. There was nothing super personable to him. For a man, it was fairly organized. It caught you off guard, surprised. He closed the door easily behind you, the room only illuminated by candlelight. The window was cracked slightly, a cool summer night. The day had been so warm, almost sweltering.

“Where do you want me to start?”, he asked, softly.

“However you wish.”

“This isn’t all about me.”, he began. “Contrary to popular belief.”

You reached for your hair, letting it down easily out of its tight constricted low bun. Enjolras watched as you shook your head easily, blowing it out. His brown eyes widened at the sight, a smile spreading across his lips.

“I don’t know.”, you responded breathlessly.

“I have an idea but we have to get you out of this dress.”, he breathed as used your shoulders to turn you around easily.

You were wearing a thinner dress, thankfully. It was a dress specifically for summer. It was white with some lace, a sign of purity. Something you were about to tarnish. You stepped out of your shoes easily, leaving yourself in your stockings. Enjolras bent down and grabbed the bottom of your dress, beginning to lift it over your head. He laid it on the back of the chair that he used at his desk. You felt overly exposed in just your stockings and undergarments, your corset sucking in your waistline.

“God, just look at you.”, he breathed.

You looked back at him, gaining just a glimpse of him as he came around the front of you.

“Enjolras.”, you breathed.

“What? Simply stating the obvious. God.”, he breathed, beginning to palm the bulge in his pants.

You swallowed hard, your eyes immediately going to where his hands were. His brown eyes were fixed on you as he began to unbutton his pants, allowing them to fall to the floor. Your eyes widened as you saw the more prominent bulge of his rock, hard cock. You weren’t oblivious when it came to sex, but there were things you didn’t exactly know. You knew where children came from and how they were made. The act you were about to commit was how children came about.

You opened your mouth, ready to speak when Enjolras spoke first.

“Finish undressing.”, he breathed. “Wanna….wanna watch you.”, he groaned as he undid his undergarments, allowing them to meet the same fate as his pants.

Your eyes widened as you saw his cock spring free, hard, and erect just for you. It had to be for you, didn’t it? You gulped, bending down to slide your stockings off.

“Um Enjolras….”, your voice breathed meekly.

“Yes?”

“I need help with my corset….”

He abandoned stroking himself for a moment, coming behind you, moving your hair to the side before he began undoing each string, feeling relief as you could breathe easier.

“You know you don’t need this.”, he breathed.

“Why not? Men like little waists and bigger breasts, do they not? That’s what mother has always said.”

He sighed. “Most men….there’s nothing wrong with you as you are. You’re beautiful. Besides, do you want other men to look at you?”

Your face crinkled in confusion. You weren’t used to hearing compliments from men. Out in town, you were used to being asked for a quick lay or having men say indecorous things about you. Even though this was supposed to be strictly about sex, Enjolras managed to make you feel butterflies in your stomach with his compliments.

“Why would I not? I’ve yet to meet a man who gets my father’s approval or one who wants more than just sex.”

Enjolras was quiet again. “If it counts for anything, I would love to make you more than a one-night stand….if it wasn’t for this revolution.”

Your heart stopped in its tracks, your breathing instantly hitching. “You surely…surely don’t mean that.”

Enjolras reached the end of your corset, proving this was not his first time undoing one. Your corset fell to the floor before he reached down and picked it up, placing it with your dress.

“I do….I just don’t feel as though your father would want you with a man who values a revolution and freedom for the French as much as I do.”, he breathed.

You had watched your father and Enjolras interact, their rapport appeared to be superior to the other men. There was mutual respect between them. Your father respected Enjolras as a leader. He may have been younger, but your father thought he had bright ideas, intuitive for his age. Your father always complimented Enjolras when telling you and your mother about him.

“You’re passionate about it.”, you breathed easily.

“Very much so. People who have spilled their blood for France are living as beggars. Their children starving while a fat king sits on the throne, what’s there not to be passionate about?”, he breathed, you finally seeing the charismatic, caring side of him coming through.

To be honest, it was very alluring when Enjolras talked about how passionate he was about the revolution. He was a very educated man, clear he had done his reading and research. There was a pause before he began to undo your bra, tossing it to the chair. The cool, summer night air drifted into the room, causing the curtain to move slightly, sending a chill down your spine, and causing your nipples to instantly grow hard. His hands wrapped around your waist, fingertips on your abdomen.

His fingertips drifted down to find the hem of your underwear, beginning to tug them down slightly.

“Enjolras…..”

“Hmmm?”

You felt him slide your underwear down your legs, and you instinctively stepped out of them.

“Damn, you’re so—alluring.”, he breathed.

“You really think so?”

“I do, I really do……”

His hands moved from your waist, beginning to undo his button-up. You heard him toss his shirt and under shirt to the side. You felt him wrap his hands around your waist, one moving up to find your breast. You felt his cock becoming hard against you as he began playing with your nipple, taking it between his fingers. Your breathing hitched, trying to fight back the loud moan threatening to escape your lips.

“You can let it out.”, he whispered against your neck, placing another kiss on it.

You sighed, finally releasing the small hiccups of moans as he toyed with your nipples, pinching and flicking them between his fingers.

“Your moans are such a sweet sound in my ear.”, he breathed.

He was met with another string of moans from you, his hard cock rubbing against the back of your thighs. He was very hard, causing you to moan softly.

“Let’s move to the bed, amour.”

You fumbled trying to walk with weak legs to his bed. It was astounding the amount of power he already had over you. You easily climbed into the bed, feeling his eyes on you as he followed suit. He began kissing you—softly and slowly at first. His kisses were warm and sweet, everything you imagined them to be. There were soft smacks as you deepened the kiss, pulling him towards you. His beard was rough against your delicate skin. He was towering over you, running his hands through your soft hair.

“Can I taste you?”, he breathed between kisses.

You abruptly interrupted the kisses. “Taste—taste me?”, you stammered.

“Yes….I’m sure you taste as sweet as you seem.”, he kissed you again, looking deep into your eyes.

He inched his body down the bed, his fingers tracing your body as he reached your core. He looked up at you, again asking for your permission. You nodded easily, beginning to feel a little tingly presumably from the alcohol. His fingers ran up your thighs, tracing your entrance. A moan escaped your lips, your head falling back onto the pillow with a soft thud. Your inhibitions were slipping away and quickly at that.

“Can I feel you?”

You nodded. “Mhmmm, please Enjolras…..”

He accepted your invitation, slipping two fingers inside you causing a gasp to elicit from your lips. You had never felt anything like this before—you had nothing to compare it to. His eyes were concentrated on you. Your back instantly began arching, allowing him to shove his fingers further inside of you. You gripped the sheets easily.

“Feel good, amour?”, he breathed, working his fingers in and out of your wet folds rhythmically.

“So good, Enjolras.”, you moaned, your eyes fluttering shut.

He spent a few more minutes, working his fingers in and out of you. He was making sure you were going to be prepared for him—for his length and width. You were so tight, having never been with a man before. Enjolras placed soft kisses on your thighs, causing soft moans and sighs to escape your lips.

“Ready for me to taste you?”, he asked, suddenly.

His own breathing was hitched at this point. You nodded feverishly, sighing once more. Enjolras was ready to hear your soft pleas.

“Please….”, you moaned softly.

If it was anything like his fingers, you were in for a treat. Your soft ‘please’ was all it took for Enjolras to oblige your request. He parted your legs gently, laying down between your legs. His deep, brown eyes looked up at you a final time before you felt his rough, coarse beard between your legs. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes again. His tongue traced your entrance, sending shock waves through your body.

It lasted for a minute before his tongue entered your core, beginning to lick, suckle, and nibble you making you grip the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white. Enjolras seemed to notice, taking a moment to look up at you. Seeing how much you were enjoying it was only fueling him further. Unbeknownst to you, he had thought about you before. He saw the way you innocently walked in front of him, swaying your hips—whether it was intentional or not. There were a few nights he’d be alone in his room, frustrated and needing release.

He knew exactly what to do. All he had to do was think of you. He would instantly unbuckle his pants, letting his cock spring free. He’d throw his head back and instantly fantasize about you—undressing you, admiring your beautiful body, tasting your sweet juices, taking you, and stripping you of your innocence. Taking your virginity while you moaned his name. He had thought about it a few times if he was being honest.

But now, he was getting to experience it in reality. It was no longer his fantasy when he needed to come undone, to feel a little less stress. You moaned softly, the sweet sound continuing to fill his ears. His tongue encircled your clit, lapping at it easily. He noticed your grip tighten on the sheets. It was causing his cock to grow harder by the second, watching you come undone just by him tasting you. His cock was pressing hard against the bed, begging to be inside of you.

His breathing almost immediately hitched when he thought about entering you for the first time. He could hardly wait. You felt the deep, aching feeling in the pit of your stomach growing. You didn’t know what an orgasm exactly entailed. You had heard it mentioned before, but what was the warning signs that it was near? Enjolras eyed you as he came up for a moment, his tongue abruptly leaving your heat. You were breathing hard, whimpering at the sudden loss of contact.

In the small amount of candlelight, you could see the glisten in his beard from how drenched you were.

“So—wet—just for me….”, Enjolras heaved, trying to catch his breath.

“Wh—why did you stop?”, you asked, your chest heaving.

Your brain felt overstimulated, trying to catch up with the events that had happened up to this point. Focus was out of the question except if it came to Enjolras.

“Just to get a little breath, amour. Don’t worry, I can finish……but God, my dick is so hard for you, amour…..begging to enter you…..”

You swallowed hard as you watched him reach down for his hard, erect cock taking the length in his hands, beginning to stroke himself. Small moans fell from his lips, causing that hot, aching feeling to quickly return to your stomach. It was hard to say no to Enjolras when he was in the current state he was in. Your needs other than him inside of you were slipping away, your eyes pleading for him.

“Please….”, you pleaded softly.

“Please what?”, Enjolras asked, stroking his cock, his eyes closing and head falling back just for a moment, just enough to drive your desire deeper.

“Enter me…..”, you pleaded, desperation laced in your voice.

A smirk came across his lips, continuing to stroke himself. “But amour, I have no condoms……”

“Don’t—care…..”, you moaned softly.

“If fate should serve us well, you won’t have to bare the burden of birthing my child.”, he leaned down, beginning to kiss you. Softly and slowly, just like before.

The thought hit you like a ton of bricks. Your inhibitions may have been faltering, but there was no way you were prepared to bring a child into this world—especially without its father. It would be referred to as a bastard. No man would want you if you bared another man’s child. A dead one at that. It was very taboo for this time period. Your mother and father would be so ashamed. You could imagine what people in town would whisper about you. Enjolras continued to kiss you, quickly making those thoughts and fears melt away. Nothing else mattered at this moment—except for him.

“Ready to take me?”, he breathed, voice slightly raspy.

All you could muster was a nod, consenting permission for him to ravish you.

He was towering over you, easily parting your thighs. Leaning down, he placed soft kisses on the inside of your thigh. Goosebumps began appearing all over your body as you felt his stubble against your soft, delicate skin. You let out a soft sigh, watching him come back up, positioning himself between your legs. You felt his cock brush your thighs, causing your eyes to widen. You immediately noticed how erect he was.

“Just gonna get you used to my size first, okay?”

You nodded again, feeling sheepish for not being able to form a simple one-worded response. But Enjolras didn’t give you much time to ponder it before you felt the tip of his cock tracing your entrance. He watched for your reaction. You moaned softly, biting your lip. Your mind began to race, imagining how this would feel. You had no experience. Your heart felt like it was going to thump out of your chest. He continued to brush his tip against your entrance, seeming to intentionally tease you. It was as if he wanted you to beg for him to enter you.

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to moan his name. He could tell you were holding back.

“You’re holding back, amour.”, he breathed, adding pressure as he traced your entrance immediately causing your breathing to hitch.

“Am—Am I?”, you choked out, desperate to moan his name.

He nodded before adding more pressure as he traced your entrance. “All you have to do is moan my name—just one time and I’ll enter you—”

“Enjolras….”, you moaned, cutting him off quickly.

He smirked, hearing all he needed to before he traced your entrance one more time. It caught you off guard when he finally pushed his tip into you, causing you to gasp and grip the sheets. The sensation was so overwhelming and overstimulating to your body. You had never been with a man like this—you had never had sex with a man.

“So tight—”, Enjolras groaned, attempting to slip into your pussy further.

You swallowed hard, feeling him stretching out your tight, virgin pussy. Another moan fell off your lips, Enjolras taking the opportunity to push into you further. There was pleasure in the pain as your moan grew louder, sharper at the end as he was almost completely inside of you.

“Just a little more.”, Enjolras encouraged, his hand brushing your cheek.

Your chest was heaving—your body trying to catch up with the thoughts racing through your brain. Enjolras noticed, brushing your hair out of your face. You were silently thankful it was a cool summer night.

“Go ahead.”, your breath was raspy.

“Are you sure, amour?”, he asked.

He was almost completely inside of you but wasn’t moving. You could feel him pulsing inside of you.

You nodded quickly, lessening the grip on the bed sheets. You were slightly beginning to not feel like a fish out of water. You felt embarrassed knowing Enjolras was experienced when it came to sex. You were sure he had women who were better than you.

He steadied himself before pushing further inside, the feeling of him stretching you out turning into a burning sensation, however, it disappeared quickly. It was evident he had bottomed out. It was all over his face. All you could do was moan and pant as he went as far inside you as he could.

“Shit—feels so good….”, he groaned as he began to slowly work his way in and out of you.

You nodded, gripping the sheets easily.

“Tell me how good it feels….”, his breath tickled your bare skin.

“So—good Enjolras.”, you somehow managed to choke out.

Another smile spread across his face. You could see the sweat beginning to form on his forehead. For once you were glad the night was cool, giving you all some relief from the steamy activities occurring in his room. He leaned down, beginning to kiss you as he thrust inside of you, tearing you apart at the seams. The burning had turned into pure bliss. The more he worked inside of you, the more the burning, aching feeling in the pit of your stomach grew.

Your toes began to curl, and a long sigh fell from your lips. You were edging towards a release. Your legs were shaking, unintentionally as he thrust into you. With each thrust, Enjolras grunted, causing your insides to twist into a knot. Enjolras knew that look on your face—he had seen it before from other women but somehow, it was different with you. He wanted to continue to chase this desire he had. Would just one time be enough? It had to be. In the back of his mind, he knew tomorrow could very well be his last day.

His brown eyes fluttered shut as his thrusts grew longer and deeper, pulling you in. He was damned determined to make you orgasm. He wanted to feel you all over him—it was his dying wish, after all.

“Enjo—Enjolras…”, you choked on your own words.

His brown eyes shot open, waiting for the rest of your words.

“Think I’m—going—to——”

“Going to what?”

“Have—an—oh! Oh—my God.”, your words were drowned out as a rush washed over your body.

Your toes curled instantly, your hands gripping his shoulders. Your fingernails sinking into his shoulders caused him to moan. You could feel the blood rushing from your toes to your head, it was unlike anything you had ever felt before. You felt yourself contracting around him. Pure euphoria cascaded through your body. For once, all the intrusive, worrisome thoughts had dissipated. Through hazy, groggy eyes you looked up at Enjolras.

“Oh—feels so good on my dick….can’t wait to make a mess all inside you, amour….”, he grunted, his thrust soon becoming sloppy.

You nodded lazily, resting your head on his pillow. He gripped your thighs, raising your hips up so he could get better angles and leverage. Just seeing you spent, laying in front of him, and letting him sex you like this was driving him towards his release hard and fast. He could feel himself beginning to lose this uphill battle. His dick was so hard he couldn’t stand it, thankful you at least had released on him.

“Please—make a mess of me Enjolras.”, you breathed.

He smirked, your words marking your fate.

“Oh—amour, here it comes.”, he warned through a grunt as his hips stuttered, his grip on your hips tightening.

His cock began pulsing inside of you. Your purity was over.

Your eyes closed as you felt his seed filling you full, his breathing labored as he tried to catch his breath. How could a man like Enjolras make you forget all your promises and morals in a matter of a few hours? You felt him pulse inside of you a few more times before he felt satisfied enough to pull out. You cried out, missing him inside of you and making you feel full.

He ran a hand through your hair. “I have one last request, amour.”

“What—is—it, Enjolras?”, you ask in a pitiful, pathetic tone.

“Can you stand up for me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Can you stand for me?”, he repeated more firmly.

Enjolras knew this was going to be a lot to ask of you, especially since he had just made a complete mess of you. Part of you wondered how you were going to even lift yourself off the bed, much less stand. Enjolras felt his dick becoming hard again, just watching your innocent, pathetic attempt at obliging his request. You grunted softly, heaving yourself up from the bed, your head spinning in circles endlessly. Enjolras extended his hand, helping you sit up.

You felt some of his seed running out of you, but you were doing your best to ignore it. The only other thought your brain could register was the amount was a lot—more than you had expected. Your legs were weak, threatening to give out at any second. You took a deep breath, praying you could hold yourself up as long as he wanted you to.

“Just turn around and lean on the bed, amour. Hands behind your back.”

His words puzzled you.

“Hands behind my back?”

“Mhmmm.”, he hummed.

His hands were reaching for something. You felt his seed mixed with your own release seeping down your legs, causing you to feel slightly embarrassed. Your cheeks were growing hot, the words you wanted to say catching in your throat.

“Look what a mess we made. What a naughty girl you’ve been. What would your father think?”

Your breathing caught again as his hands traced your hips and lower back, helping bend you on over the bed. You felt his fingers trace your wrists, the next sensation becoming the one to throw you off. You felt a soft, velvet fabric. The dots were finally connected in your brain. You felt him tie the soft fabric around your wrists—your mind thinking about his handkerchief immediately. His fingers left your wrists, leaving your hands bound together behind your back.

“Now,”, Enjolras breathed against your neck. “I’m going to spank you—discipline you for how naughty you’ve been. And I want you to count each one, understand amour?”

You nodded, gritting your teeth in preparation for the first hit.

“Good girl. Maybe you can redeem yourself.”, he rubbed the globe of your right backside.

He could admire them much easier with no dress in the way.

His hand left your backside, and you held your breath as you waited for what was to come. Your face was pressed into the bed.

“Alright, let’s start counting. Ready, amour?”

You nodded breathlessly, your mouth going completely dry.

“Perfect.”

Even though you had given him permission to start, you weren’t prepared for the sudden, abrupt impact of his hand against your skin. You yelped with the first spanking to your right backside, your throat sore and your face hot.

“Un.”, you choked out in French.

You closed your eyes, bracing for impact again. Enjolras sent another smack to your left backside, causing you to jolt.

“Deux.”

“A little louder, amour.”

That was all the advice he mustered up for you as a third strike came to your backside.

“Trois.”

Your voice was hoarse, you were trying to find your voice. The vulnerability was coursing through you, no one else had seen this side of you. Maybe Enjolras had fed you sweet lies tonight, but nevertheless, he had a spell on you. He just had some power over you. There was beginning to be a numb stinging to your backside, making it less painful with each spanking. You felt his thick, bare hand caress over your backsides. During this, spankings four and five occurred.

Another smack. Pain melting away into pleasure by this point.

“Six.”

“Maybe you’re not such a naughty girl, after all.”, he hummed, rubbing the tingling, burning spot on your backside.

A small laugh escaped your throat. Should you go over the list of things that made you a naughty girl? For one, you flirted with your dad’s leader. Two, you drank tonight. Women didn’t drink. It was unheard of. It was very unbecoming of you. Three, you had premarital sex with Enjolras. There could be grave consequences for your actions. But you were doing your best to not think about that right now.

The seventh smack to your backside was harsher, probably a result of your laughing, causing it to cease very quickly.

“Se—pt.”, you choked, this number broken.

More of your all’s mess cascading down your legs, them beginning to shake. Laying down sounded so good right now.

“H-how ma—many more?”, you moaned out.

“Three, unless you’re naughty and laugh again….”, he breathed.

You nodded, closing your eyes. Another smack to your backside. He was now giving you longer intervals in between them, teasing you.

“Huit.”

You tried to pull your arms in front of you, but the piece of fabric didn’t budge, stalling your arms in their current state. All you wanted to do was rest your arms in front of you, and become close to dozing off as he finished.

“Not yet, amour.”

SMACK. This brought you out of your stupor rather quickly.

“Neuf.”

Your response was softer.

“One last one.”

Your legs were beginning to buckle, you feared they’d give out before he finished and send you crashing into the floor.

You nodded. This was the last one. If you could just make it through this last one.

SMACK.

“Dix….”, you choked out, legs caving before Enjolras grabbed your shoulders easily.

His arms were strong enough to support your weight, while he took his free hand, unknotting his handkerchief making it look so easy.

“So good, amour. You did so, good.”, he breathed, placing a kiss on your neck.

He could see in your eyes that you were caught in a state of limbo—between euphoria and facing the reality of what you both had done.

“Help me get my clothes?”, you asked softly.

“You’re in no shape to go home.”

“My mother has to be worried about me.”

“She may be—but you can’t go home like this. I’ll help you in bed and just sleep for a bit, amour.”

You debated his offer, softly humming for a few moments. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Probably not, but I’ll wake you before your father and the other men wake up.”

The way your legs felt, you knew Enjolras was right. But what would you tell your mother? Those thoughts couldn’t be processed right now.

“Okay.”, you said softly.

He nodded, helping you up in bed, pulling the covers over you. You yawned easily, your glossy eyes looking up at him as he bent down and kissed your head. His brown eyes were watery—or were you seeing things?

“Sleep well, amour.”

He brushed his thick fingers over your forehead, moving the stray hair out of your face. You nodded softly, drifting off to sleep. Little did you know, Enjolras stayed up all night long, watching you sleep in complete silence. He studied his maps, all his plans only breaking every few minutes to look at you, making sure you were still resting. Part of him began to feel guilty thinking of all the results that could come from his actions.

He had wanted a normal life—find a woman, settle down, and have a few kids. But the revolution changed those plans for him. He couldn’t sit by and let this go on any longer. What was the point in bringing children into this kind of world? That’s how he rationalized it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t mourn the life he would never have the chance to have. He’d love to have it with you, but he knew that could never be. Your father would never agree to that. You were too good for the likes of him.

The sun began to rise on the horizon, causing the blanket of darkness to lift. Enjolras blew out the candle before coming over to kiss your forehead, hoping to bring you out of your slumber easily.

“Is it morning?”, you asked softly, stretching.

“It is amour. I’ll get your clothes.”

You nodded, sitting up. You rubbed your eyes quickly, hoping to get a good glance of Enjolras. This could be the last time you see him alive. The thought made you sick to your stomach. Enjolras took a deep breath as he helped you get dressed, taking his last opportunity to breathe in your beautiful body. He was not an emotional man, but he was feeling something he had never felt before. It felt like a dream that he finally was able to become one with you, but not under the circumstances he had.

“I’ll lead you outside.”, he took your hand easily.

You looked down at your hands before looking back up at him. He led you down the same set of stairs you all had come up last night. You’d give anything to get that night back, to get a chance to do it over again. But that was impossible. No one was out on the street as he opened the door to the pub, the warm morning summer breeze meeting you.

You almost could feel tears beginning to pool in your eyes, cursing them back quickly. You had no right to cry over a man you had shared one night with. You all stared at each other, looking into each other’s eyes. His hand was still in yours, you both trying to find the right words to say.

“See you later?”, you asked easily.

“See you later, amour.”, he smiled bittersweetly.

Your hands finally broke apart, you nodding as he turned to back inside.

He turned to view you one more time, watching you walk away. That was the hardest part. It was different with you. The other women could leave, it didn’t bother him. He hadn’t given them a second look. There was something different with you, or was he just mourning what is and what will never be? He was choking back tears, quickly reminding himself he had to get it together. There was a revolution to start today.

——————————————————————————————————————

Your mother asked you a million questions once you got home, doing your best to quietly sneak in. You had failed miserably. Giving her very generic answers, she finally gave up. She asked if you had been with a man to which you responded ‘no’. A mother’s intuition never seemed to be wrong. She proceeded to tell you how much she had worried about you, how little sleep she had gotten. You felt guilty about causing her to worry, but didn’t regret the night you had spent with Enjolras.

As the day progressed, you tried to take your mind off things and help your mother with the chores around the house. She was nervous, afraid your father wasn’t going to make it back home. You were nervous, afraid Enjolras was going to die today. You tried to reassure her while trying to reassure yourself. You almost dropped dinner, feeling clumsy. All you could think about was your parting glance with Enjolras, thinking you may never see him again.

“Dear, are you alright?”, your mother asked you.

“Fine, mother. I’m sorry. Just worried about father.”, you responded.

Part of it wasn’t a lie. You had just left out Enjolras.

She nodded, placing a hand on yours. “Me too, dear.”

As the day turned into night, you all had barely eaten any dinner. You were waiting for news—anything to let you know your dad or Enjolras was alive. Silence lay between you both as you sat by candlelight. This time last night, you were with him. You closed your eyes, fighting back the urge to cry. It was silly to feel like this over a man you had for one night, wasn’t it?

A defeated knock came to your door, jarring you and your mother out of any thoughts. You looked at one another before rising from your chairs, quietly asking the other who was going to answer the door. Quietly, you decided you would be the one to get the news firsthand. If it was your dad, you could ask him about Enjolras. Your hand began trembling as you placed it on the knob, turning it. Your eyes widened, seeing Enjolras standing there.

He had a somber expression on his face, covered in soot and dirt, his brown eyes were almost the only thing visible. His white shirt was filthy. Part of you wanted to cry from happiness, the other worried as to why he was here at your doorstep.

His name threatened to fall from your lips.

“L/N residence?”, he asked.

Your mother nodded behind you.

“My name is Enjolras.”, he began, mouth dry. “I regret to inform you that your husband didn’t make it.”

All you remember hearing was the shrill cry from your mother before she collapsed in your arms. Tears pricked up in your eyes. All he could do was look at you, feeling defeated. He was supposed to die. Not the other men, especially not your father. He wanted so badly to take you in his arms and comfort you and tell you everything would be okay. He wanted to tell you about the last few moments of your father’s life.

“Did he suffer?”, your mother asked through tears, clearly distraught.

“No, it was quick.”, Enjolras closed his eyes, preparing to hear your mother cry again.

You eyed him easily through tear-stained eyes. Your pain was quickly turning to anger, you immediately began to blame him in your head.

“If you’d let me come in, I could tell you about the last few moments of his life.”

“No—,”, your tone started out harshly. “No, please just leave. Thank you, Enjolras but my mother and I need time to process this.”

Your tone ended softly. He was surprised by this change in you. He didn’t argue or with your reasoning, turning to leave. It killed him to not be able to comfort you, but he understood you needed time to process this. You were caught between a rock and hard place—thankful Enjolras was alive but distraught your father was dead. That was the last memory you had of Enjolras in weeks.

The days had been darker since your father had passed. You had been sick in bed, with terrible stomach pain and aches. Racked with nausea and vomiting, your mother worried that you had come down with cholera. She sat on the edge of your bed, brushing through your hair. It was early morning and you had finished vomiting as she placed a cool cloth on your forehead. It had been seven weeks since you had seen or heard from Enjolras.

“I can’t lose you.”, your mother sighed.

“Mother, I’m sure it’s just something I ate.”

“For four weeks now? I will send for the apothecary.”, she got up, leaving the room.

You sighed, closing your eyes. That’s when the feeling hit you like a ton of bricks—you had slept with Enjolras seven weeks ago. Your mouth became dry, beginning to think about your symptoms. Your vomiting was always in the morning. Not to mention, you had missed your monthly. You felt exhausted all the time, breasts began to feel sore. All of it was adding up, beginning to make sense.

Fate had not served you well, it appeared you were with child.

“The apothecary should be here this evening.”, your mom sat down on your bed, holding your hand.

You nodded numbly.

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn imagine #joseph x reader #enjolras x reader #enjolras x fem!reader #enjolras x y/n

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softlyblues · 3 months

Text

dw fic masterlist!

softlyblue (ao3 account)

previous masterlist (non-who fic)

MASTER/DOCTOR

blindfold - five/ainley, dubcon with the world's most fucked up husbands

TWO/JAMIE

five things jamie has - fluffy character study of the scotsman

with soft hands and face - jamie is a brat!!

LISTENING TO BIG FINISH AUDIO

1. storm warning - eight gets leched on by a guy on the r101

2. sword of orion - charley thinks fondly about loser eight

3. stones of venice - eight gets leched on by a cultist

4. minuet in hell - eight gets leched on by a republican

HARRY SULLIVAN & SARAH JANE & FOUR

1. the first of the inevitable - harry, four, and sarah have an awkward threesome in the tardis library. who couldve seen it coming

2. boys' night - four and harry drink whisky in the library and harry sits on his lap <3

3. console room - harry sucks four off under the console. good boy

4. girls' night - four and sarah fuck in a hot tub <3

5. instincts - three chapters of sex pollen/fuck or die. woo

6. exodus of the daleks - a return to skaro and some actual plot for once as fourharrysarah face off nyder and davros

7. congratulations - respite from the porn, unit crew finds out

#classic who fic #harry sullivan #fourth doctor #sarah jane smith #eighth doctor #eighth doctor fic

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baeddel · 2 years

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do u ever have trouble making friends w ppl who dont have the same awareness as u? like not even different or more awareness, either less or no awareness... of like, politics or critical thinking or societal issues... or do you prefer to have some ppl in ur life that u can never be serious or critical with ?

long and you get a bit of a lecture sorry

your coworkers are probably not any less engaged than you, you just don't agree with them. my mother's previous boss belongs to this charismatic Pentecostal milieu. you get a minister who founds a church in his living room. they pack in about twenty middle class ulstermen and pray together, sing hyms and speak in tongues. when they've collected enough tithes they buy a little building or something. in less than a year it will collapse because of a ferocious ideological struggle or, just as often, an adultery scandal. gasp! then they pack into someone else's living room to pray and argue. she and her husband write these little political-theological pamphlets to distribute within their milieu. at school she'll go in the office and hold a prayer session with others like her. they practice what my grandmother sarcastically calls 'good living.' as her son grew older he became interested in fantasy fiction and she asked me to lend him some of my books. among a bunch of other things i gave him all my Terry Pratchett, including some of his late books that mixed fiction and nonfiction. these were returned the next day, which i was told was because he asked her to return them because they mentioned Darwin and it frightened him so much he didn't want it in the house. they are also by the way anti-vaxx, young earth creationists and so forth. she was very rowdy at work during the George Floyd protests. my mother used to come home shaking and start ranting to me about it. and i was stunned by just how radical her views had become; my mother, the only person in our neighbourhood who'll call the cops, who at the start was so concerned about looters, now talking to me about the task of black liberation, educated not by leftist propaganda but by the negation of church ladies' racist prattle. anyway, once i was getting this little holy card of a particular saint (i don't remember which) but, because i guess the website was really for clergy, you had to get them in packs of fifty. i asked my mum if she would give the rest to that very religious woman she worked with since she could pass them around the congregation—certainly not, she had to remind me. iconography. oh yeah, oops...

this isn't someone who is lacking awareness of the issues. it's just that their theoretical touchstone isn't Marx but Martin Luther. or Ray Comfort. but you would be quite surprised at just how aware your conservative neighbours are of critique if you'd really talk to them. i used to use this dating advice site where heterosexuals would go to give each other awful advice and talk about current events, and most of the userbase were US republicans of various sorts. i would sit down and argue with them every day. to back up their arguments they'd abuse studies and statistics in the usual way, but you might be surprised to hear they were not the least bit shy to talk to me about Foucault. one gentleman countered my Marx with his own Hegel, and i would very often hear from Burke, who's remark about society's 'little platoons' has become such a cliche on the American right that now it'll make most conservatives roll their eyes (in 2018 the American Conservative ran with the headline: Knock It Off With The 'Little Platoons' Already).

you'd know that if you sat down and talked with them in a way where you could be completely honest with each other, but you're probably never in that situation. they know you don't want to hear all that stuff. you'd get in a big fight, so they settle for talking about the ordinary topics of conversation or try and bond with you over something which seems politically neutral. an old neighbour of mine would make me take all these CDs because he knew i played guitar. he gave me this instrumental album by The Shadows, the backing band for Cliff Richard, since "one of them guitarists on there", he assured me, was "the best guitarist in the world." he'd always invite me over to get drunk with him and i'd always politely decline since i was trying to be sober. "i don't drink now," i'd say. "you'll learn!" he'd say. not drinking all the time was incomprehensible to him. but he was a UVF man. i knew that, somewhere, in another life that he led, he was confronting the concrete questions of organization, the theoretical problems of loyalism, coordinating with foreign arms and so forth. what did he think about the Good Friday Agreement, decomission, all the rest? how did he hold onto the values of family and community when his concrete activity consisted of racketeering and intimidation? i wish i went drinking with him when i did have the chance. i loved sitting down to drink with all those old crooks. as a homosexual i’d be all over Belfast, or as far up as Antrim, or down by Armagh, exploring boy’s bedrooms. every family is ‘connected’, so i met dangerous fathers and uncles of every sort; IRA men, UVF men, UDA men. and as much as my crossdressing alarmed them, it was good manners to invite me to drink. and alcohol works a kind of magic. they’ll get excited enough to tell you a big story that they set aside all the problems; now you’re sharing something authentic with a guy who, in any other situation, would be threatening your knees. anyway, you get talking about things. the intellectual field on offer was limitless. Carlos Castaneda, Aleister Crowley, William Burroughs, Salvador Dali, Bertolt Brecht, Jacques Brel, Joni Mitchell, Pink Floyd, the Doors. there was always a sort of sad nostalgia to these conversations. you get these guys who were, deep in their hearts, beatniks and hippies, who joined the UDA for the drugs and glamour. did they want to spend the rest of their lives as fascist bullies, defending lines on a map they can’t even fully explain? most of the paramilitary men i met had been through this ‘internal emigration’, into a sort of unhappy anti-political consciousness. it reminds me of Monsieur Dupont’s discussion of certain workplace militants in Nihilist Communism:

[W]e should like it to go on the record that we have met with several workplace militants and for the most part they have no political consciousness. Many of these militants are very anti-political, we would say they were post-political, but how did they become militants if they did not receive political instruction? Their condition is one of absolute refusal of the legitimacy of the manager, an absolute intransigence over specific workplace issues and a kind of terrifying site-specificity producing in them an absolute refusal to look at the wider picture (like Ahab on the back of the white whale they are consumed with a madness for not escaping). We do not endorse such militants, we see them as being stuck in a loop of restricted gestures which their identity seems to depend upon, what would they do if they had not their struggle? It is a fact of our experience that most workplace militants are quite mad and/or not especially very nice people to know; it is important not to get wrapped up in their personal feuds but still we would argue that these mad-eyed prophets are in advance of those who are politically motivated, in advance and waiting in the desert, gone mad with waiting, gnawing at locusts, sitting on poles. Some of them, and of a certain age, cite Pink Floyd, and not Marx, as the biggest influence on their lives. They required only a narrative of otherness, something that was not contained in the usual cause and effects of everyday life to legitimise their dispute. Will the misty master break me, will the key unlock my mind? For such people, the A to В thinking of most pro-revolutionary activists is too basic and not even appropriate to the situation. To them it means nothing to ‘speak in a language the workers understand’ because nobody has ever spoken such a language.

Monsieur Dupont are criticizing you, by the way—this idea that ‘political consciousness’ (in your case an even more timid ‘awareness of societal issues’) is something desirable or progressive, which pro-revolutionaries should be trying to raise. isn’t the problem often the opposite, an excessive awareness of societal issues, like a kind of tinnitus that doesn’t stop ringing in the ears? their workplace militant reminds me of a guy my father knew—’radicalized’ by Pink Floyd, but who got sucked into conspiracy theories by the internet. he was a nice guy who would do anything for you, and my father had asked him to drive me home one night. he would talk to you the entire way home and when he talked to you he would stare at you and wouldn’t look at the road at all. he told me all about HAARP, the NWO, chemtrails, the occult causes of earthquakes, the damage radiation is doing to your body because of telephones and microwaves, and how he wrote a 300-page pamphlet to give to his son’s teacher disputing all of the false science they were teaching. during our conversation a light on his phone began to blink, which he decided was because they must have been listening, whereupon he ripped the battery out of the phone and threw the whole thing out the window. when we got to my place he gave me the address to his facebook page where he predicts the future, but when i looked it up the next day it was gone.

i knew a lot of conspiracy theory guys. to live in a country like this you have to go insane, it’s unbearable. conspiracy theorism has a split consciousness; there’s an enjoyment of occult symbols, gematric connections, divination and spiritism, while at the same time attributing these things to evil powers, the explanation of which should inspire the hearer to their political undoing. many conspiracy theorists are also occultists, or move between one and the other with a little embarassment. in any case, it relies on a relationship to societal issues that is beyond awareness, in fact a hyperawareness. i suppose the opposite side is one sort of self-depricating disavowal of agency which is very common among young lumpen/proletarians, who belong to Oscar Lewis’s culture of poverty. the culture of poverty is a kind of alienated consciousness which results from a disidentification with the institutions of society. he was trying to explain how it was the case that even when many social programs exist, lumpen/proles do not make use of them; nor do they join in with class conscious organizations (such as unions) that enable collective struggle. it’s because, he determined, they didn’t interpret any information about those programs or organizations as being relevant to themselves. they don’t regard themselves as citizens of their own country. if disillusioned fascists take an ‘inner emigration’, disillusioned lumpen/proles are ‘inner illegal immigrants’. this is how i think through a certain consciousness which is quite typical among my peers. they regard the church, politics, the media, the results of natural sciences, art and poetry with equal cynicism while, at the same time, they regard themselves as total morons, invincibly incapable of agency or analysis. many of my highschool classmates didn’t do their homework or participate in tests and left school without even attempting to acquire qualifications. if you asked them about it they’d be completely honest with you: what’s the point? it’s not that they thought education had no purpose in society, they just felt it had no purpose for them, as they were not such a subject which could be cultivated. yet if you did not share their cynicism they would be very angry with you. one of my friends told us how he once caught his sister reading a book and was so angry with her that he ripped it out of her hands and threw it away. there was something fundamentally dishonest to him about reading. you were putting something on, acting above your station. it mystified me, since i would go home and immerse myself in Plato and Eddic poetry, yet neither was i any more tolerant of school or society. who could say why we felt so differently though having such a similar background? here is another very demonstrative example: one of our friends, when some missionaries came by to give out bibles, made a show of throwing his in the bin. why throw it in the bin? because he was a politically convinced atheist who hated the Church and its lies. most people thought he was a tosser for that. but were they themselves deeply Christian? no, not remotely: they would mime the hyms and fall asleep in RE just like everyone else. like the conspiracy theorist they had a kind of split consciousness; neither society nor the destruction of society had any claim on their hearts.

i can’t really talk about it, but things happened that did engage these other kids in a political or militant direction, despite all those things, at which they were very successful. then when the battle was over, in some ways won and in some ways lost, they went back to alienated life. most of them had children before they turned twenty and now i only hear about them in the part of the newspaper that reports on court cases, whenever they’re in trouble for vandalizing a pub and ‘found in the possession of a certain quantity of ketamine.’ this is why i’m sympathetic to the Duponts’ fetishistic elevation of material conditions over consciousness. but in any case, here is how i handle things now: in my estimation most people suffer, intellectually, because they belong to a racket. they have to share space with roommates, work at a workplace, belong to a family, or even associate with a political party, and they depend on these things for food, shelter, and intimacy. these things place harsh limits on what they can acceptably think or feel and in their soul they resign and acquiesce. whatever thrills, excites or even frightens them becomes latent in their soul, meanwhile they say the things which are expected of them. when this is true your conversations, even heated arguments, are predestined by their relevance to a pre-determined intellectual regime which your argument merely performs. it doesn’t matter what political or social issues you have these conversations about; they don’t contribute anything that isn’t already fully present in the agitating subject. nodding conversations between radicals and screaming matches between enemies are just as alienated as the most unlikely conspiracy theories and the most depressing cynicisms. what you want to do is allow someone to express some authentic excitement with you. actually listen to what they have to say and don’t judge them. be open to their system of values without imposing your own; don’t expect to hear about Marx, and try to stop cringing at hippies and beatniks and acid casualties and music hipsters and movie guys and any other form of enthusiasm you’ve been trained to think is naive. you’re trying to find what someone considers their own and give them an opportunity to express their ownness. then you can be as ‘serious’ as you like with them.

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 11 months

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The Pétion playing with the dog anecdote is so sweet. Could you do a pet compilation? I know there’s Brount and that Couthon had a dog (and a bunny?), but that’s all I’m aware of.

That’s a great idea!

Is the puppy (petit chien) you are raising for my sister as pretty as the model you showed me when I passed through Bélhune? Whatever it is, we will always welcome it with distinction and pleasure. We can even say that, however ugly it may be, it will always be lovely. Robespierre to ”a young girl” in a letter dated June 6 1788

[Robespierre] had a dog, named Brount, that he loved a lot; the poor animal was very attached to him. Le Conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901) page 107

At Madame de Kéralio’s I have seen [Robespierre] hold himself apart for an hour, playing with a big dog. Anecdote reported in 1791 by Charles-Engelbert Oelsner, cited in Robespierre: a revolutionary life (2010) by Peter McPhee, page 94.

On these occasions [Robespierre] was always accompanied by a large dog , of the Pyrenean breed, of which he was very fond. Strange to say, several of these monstrous anomalies of the Reign of Terror, were most partial to animals; and the ferocious Couthon would shed tears when his favourite spaniel was ill. Robespierre's dog always kept watch at the door of his master's bed-chamber. […] [Robespierre] appeared to me like a bird of prey — a vulture; his forehead and temples were low, and flattened; his eyes were of a fawn colour, and most disagreeable to look at; his dress was careful, and I recollect that he wore a frill and ruffles, that seemed to me of valuable lace. There were flowers in various parts of the room, and several cages, with singing birds, were hanging on the walls and near the window, opening on a small garden. Recollections of Republican France 1790 to 1801 by John Gideon Millingen, page 283-284 and 288.

[Maximilien] rarely shared the games and pleasures of his comrades; he liked to be alone to think at his ease, and passed entire hours reflecting. He had been given pigeons and sparrows which he took the greatest care of, and close to which he often came to pass the moments which he did not consecrate to his studies. […] We were sent, my sister and I, to go join our two brothers every Sunday. These were days of happiness and joy for us. My brother Maximilien, who collected images and engravings, displayed his riches and was happy with the pleasure of seeing that we felt they should be contemplated. He also gave us the honors of his aviary, and placed his sparrows and pigeons, one after another, into our hands. We strongly desired that he should give us one of his favorite birds; we solicited this with entreaties; he refused for a long time, fearing that we would not take the best possible care of them. Yet one day, he ceded to our insistences, and gave us a pretty pigeon. My sister and I, we were enchanted. He made us promise to never let it lack for anything; we swore thus a thousand times, and kept our word for a few days, and moreover we would have kept our oath forever if the unhappy pigeon, forgotten by us in the garden, had not perished on a stormy night. At the news of this death, Maximilien’s tears flowed, he piled reproaches on us that we had only too well merited, and swore that he would no more confer any of his dear pigeons on us. It was sixty years ago that by a childish flightiness I was the cause of my elder brother’s chagrin and tears: and well! My heart bleeds for it still; it seems to me that I have not aged a day since the tragic end of the poor pigeon was so sensitive to Maximilien, such that I was affected by it myself. Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1833) page 47-49

Talking of so important a subject, shall I be pardoned, Mademoiselle, if I speak to you of canaries? No doubt I shall be if the canaries are interesting; and how could they not, considering they come from you? They are very pretty, and, being bred by you, we expected them to be the most gentle and sociable of canaries. What was our surprise when, upon approaching the cage, they threw themselves against the bars with an impetus which made us fear for their lives! They recommence this performance every time they see the hand that feeds them. What plan of education did you adopt for them, and how have they acquired this savage character? Do the doves that the Graces rear for the chariot of Venus display this wild temperament? Such a face as yours should surely have familiarized without difficulty your canaries with the human face. Or is it that, after seeing yours, they cannot tolerate any other? I beg of you to explain this phenomenon. Meanwhile, with all their faults, we shall always find them lovable. My sister begs me to express her thanks for your kindness in sending her this present, and to assure you of the affection with which you have inspired her. Robespierre to mademoiselle Duhay in a letter dated June 22 1782

He detests violent entertainments, and when M. Deshorties spoke to him this very evening in front of me of going on a hunt, M. de Robespierre, only responding by a refusal of his head, gently moved away the firearms that were shown to him. This gesture was imbued with a kind of repugnance. I even saw a kind of tear glint and a bitter smile form on his lips when we talked about the prey that we would infallibly bring back. He is seen as the greatest lover of the pigeons with which he coos. […] I have taken detailed notes on all this from one of his friends, with whom he is lodging on rue de Saintonge. This friend, like M. de Robespierre, is a great lover of birds; they have raised several hundred birds in a fine aviary; these gentlemen are skilled bird-keepers even if they are not deputies of the first rank. Mémoires tirés des archives de la police de Paris: pour servir à l’historie de la morale et la police(1838) by J. Peuchet, volume 5, page 340-342. The historian Hector Fleischmann questioned the authenticity of this report, given the fact he could see few reasons for police to investigate Robespierre back in 1789-1790.

I was able to converse between 1838 and 1839 with a famous parrot who had been the friend of Robespierre. He belonged to Mme the widow Lebas...whom I had the honour of seeing often in her little house in Fontenay-aux-Roses, where she would make the sign of the cross when she pronounced the name Robespierre... As to her parrot, when one said "Robespierre", it replied Hats off! Hats off! (Chapeau bas! chapeau bas!) It sang the Marseillaise with perfect diction and Ça ira like a Jacobin. It was - and perhaps, thanks to its diet of grain, still is - a parrot sans-culotte, the like of which can no longer to be found. Mme Lebas recounted with great emotion how she had managed to save this precious psittacus after Thermidor. It had been seriously compromised. After the arrest of Robespierre and Lebas, in the course of a long domiciliary inspection, every time the name of Robespierre was pronouned the parrot would repeat its refrain, Hats off! Hats off! The government agents had grown impatient and were about to wring its neck, when Mme Lebas, as quick as lightning, grabbed the bird, opened the window and set it free. The poor parrot flew from window to window, until it found a charitable person to open up for it; a few days later Madame Lebas was able to regain possession of this last friend left to her by Robespierre, the only one perhaps, besides his elderly mistress, who has remained faithful to his memory. L’Union médicale: journal des intérêts scientifiques et pratiques, moraux et professionnels du corps médical (1861) volume 12, page 258-259. This anecdote is a bit suspect, because how would Élisabeth be able to go and fetch the parrot ”a few days” after the arrest of Robespierre when she herself was arrested just three days after it?

My husband had a dog named Schillichem, of a German breed; he only returned three days after the death of his master; he was panting, his tongue hanging out; that poor beast had passed that time on his master's grave. Le conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et mémoires de sa veuve (1901) page 145

Embrace Henriette for me. Schillickem (sic) caresses me a lot and I hug him back. Letter from Philippe to Élisabeth Lebas, May 16 1794

[Couthon] wore a white dressing-gown, and on his arm was a young bunny which he was feeding with clover. His son, an angelically beautiful boy of three or four, alternately stroked his father's hand and the pretty white animal. These innocent sourroundings and Couthon's great affability charmed me. […] Persuaded that Couthon was sincere I said to him: ”Monsieur Couthon, you who are all-powerful on the Committee of Public Safety, are you aware that the Revolutionary Tribunal daily condemns unfortunate men who are accused of the same crime as these magistrates? This very day, Monsieur Couthon, sixty-three prisoners are to be executed under this pretext.” This reflection produced an indescribable effect on Couthon: his face became distorted and assumed a tiger-like expression... He made a movement. The bunny was overturned and the child, weeping, rushed into his mother's arms. Extract from the memoirs of Maurice André Gaillard, cited in Romances of the French Revolution (1909) by G. Lenotre, volume 1, page 171-172

During the Constituent Assembly, at the time of the revision, I was one day with Buzot's wife, when her husband returned from the Assembly very late, bringing Pétion to dinner. It was the time when the court had them treated as factious, and painted them as intriguers, all occupied in stirring up and agitating. After the meal, Pétion, seated on a large ottoman, began to play with a young hunting dog with the abandonment of a child; they both let go and fell asleep together, snuggled on top of each other: four people conversing did not prevent Pétion from snoring. ”So here we have this rebel,” said Buzot, laughing; ”we were looked askance on leaving the room, and those who accuse us, very agitated for their party, imagine that we are to maneuver!” Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 167

I had crossed the yard and was going to my carriage while finishing a conversation with an old sans-culotte, certainly well paid to indoctrinate the dupes. A cute dog pressed itself against my legs. “Is this poor animal yours? said my coachman to me, with an accent of sensibility very rare in his equals, and which struck me singularly. "No, I don't know it," I replied gravely, as if it were a person, and already thinking of something else entirely: ”Drop me off at the galleries of the Louvre.” I wanted to see a friend there to talk about the means of getting Roland out of Paris. But we had only gone twenty foot when the carriage stopped. "What is it?” I said to the coachman. ”Well! he left me like a fool, while I wanted to keep him for my little boy, who would have fun with it: Petit! Petit! come here!” I remembered the dog; I found it sweet and agreeable to have a good man, a sensible father, as my coachman at this hour. “Try to catch it, I shouted to him, put it in the carriage and I will guard it for you.” The good man, very happy, takes the dog, opens the door and gives me company. This poor animal seemed to feel that she was finding protection and asylum; I was well caressed, and I remembered this tale by Saadi, which depicts an old man, the last of men, repulsed by their passions, retired to a forest where he had made a dwelling. He animated his stay with a few animals which paid for his care with the affectionate testimonies of a gratitude to which he had confined himself, failing to find so much in his fellows. Mémoires de Madame Roland, volume 2, page 81-82

Fréron often visited madame Duplessis country house at Bourg-la-Reine and every time he played with the bunnies there. Hence the nickname Bunny (Lapin) that was given to him by Lucile. Footnote in Correspondance inédite de Camille Desmoulins (1836) by Marcellin Matton. Matton was a friend of Lucile’s mother and sister, and it’s probably from them he acquired this anecdote.

Monsieur Duplessis, his cabinet, the fireplace, My sister and I know you must go to the countryside one day this week. Do you remember that you for more than fifteen days have promised to bring you with us there? You told me, that if I learned Zaire, you would give me whatever I wanted. I already know it almost by heart, papa, and I’m dying to see the little piglets. My sister joins me to ask of you this same favor, and to present you the respectable attachment with which we are, my dear papa, your very humble servants. Lucile and Adèle. Undated note from child Lucile Desmoulins, probably written sometime in the 1780’s.

We have gotten ducks, I went to see them. […] I ate gooseberries, and then I was alone in the pavilion, I picked a little hornbeam which I brought to Lolotte, then I I was dreaming in the grove. Lucile Desmoulins’ diary, June 28 1788

After dinner I went for a walk in the grove. I had fun breaking dead wood, then I found a snail. I examined it a little, I broke its shell, but having fallen onto my stomach it made me cry out loud, because this ugly beast was crawling on my stomach! I made a big hole and buried it. In two or three days I will go and see what has become of it. Lucile’s diary, June 30 1788

An hour after leaving you yesterday, citoyenne amie, I gave Horace his snake (couleuvre), which he saw again with tenderness, and they played together to fully reconnect. Letter from Panis to Annette Duplessis regarding Horace Desmoulins, dated March 1 1802. If anyone has a more logical translation, alternatively knows if snakes were optional pets in the 19th century, feel free to share!

Georges Couthon at the Convention with a small dog, sketch by Dominique Vivant Denon from 1793.

Robespierre with a small dog, painting by Louis-Léopold Boilly from 1783.

#if all these reports are authentic then robespierre’s bird psychosis was worse than I first thought…#robespierre #maximilien robespierre #georges couthon #lucile desmoulins #horace desmoulins #stanislas fréron #i want couthon and fréron to start a bunny farm together just to see what happens…#ask #frev compilation #manon roland #philippe lebas

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