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#nin reads one piece

ninhaoma-ya · 11 months

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Chapter 1086 — The Five Elder Planets

What a great chapter to leave off on a break for! The theorizing will go wild…

First, Igaram's concern for Vivi is touching:

…while Pell and Chaka are looking out for their king, as the guardian deities of Arabasta should.

Something is in the air, if the faces of the other royals are anything to go by. They don't look like a happy bunch; rumours from the last leg of the Reverie?

Second, have I already said how much I love the WE HQ? It's a flying kettle! That shoots out News Coos!

I love it.

I wonder at what point Wapol caved and told Vivi what had happened to her dad. They said she'd been crying when they arrived at the WE HQ, so before current day events, but here he's still trying to deflect her questions. Maybe she figured it out from his denial? Maybe he just told her? Who knows (I want to know).

And then, totally unnecessary fandom speculation!

About a ship!

(Poor lil' Bonney. I'm sure being pint-sized helped her get aboard the ship easier, but it also underlines her quest: she is literally a child on her way to save her father.)

(By the way: in our universe, Tajine is a North African dish, also known as maraq or marqa.)

The drawing order and perspectives makes it look like Sabo is lying in the stem/front. Normally the sides mainly bulge outward from the keel, but here the planks curve distinctly up. However, when looking at traditional sailing ships, the shape doesn't work that way there:

(Link)

It can look like that in the aft:

(Link)

The other explanation might be an assistant's perspective mistake when drawing the bilge, or Lulusia's ship has a quite rare inward-bulging bow.

One of the few examples I found is the dhow, an Arabic ship:

(Link), although the 3D model can give a better view of the keel and curvature:

(Link)

So either Lulusia has a really, really cool royal ship, or there's some perspective shenanigans going on.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled analysis.

So.

…the floor is so horribly at odds with the rest of the room. Just sayin'.

Presenting: the SECOND tangent of the post.

During the 15th to 17th centuries, so covering reneissance, baroque and rococo, intricate decorations were the thing to have. The exact style and execution varied, of course, but you still were supposed to have so much detailing all over the place, both due to structural reasons (hiding those load-bearing columns and beams and servants and such) and style (look at all the money I have to put on this stuff).

Pangea Castle looks quite a bit like the Château de Chambord, so smack dab French reneissance architecture. Normally, you'd do parquet floors in the fancier parts of the castle, which means geometric and rectangular, like so:

(Link)

Of course, you could do circular, but then it'd probably be inspired by Roman mosaics, and thus geometric and repetitive, like so:

(Link 1, Link 2)

The floor in Pangea Castle is… just weird. I know there's probably art-related reasons for it (looks interesting, not as boring as a grid, etc), but the polka dot pattern really sticks out.

End of second tangent, s'il vous plaît.

Oda truly is a master storyteller.

The readers have been going bonkers for a few months now, trying to figure out what Devil Fruit powers Imu has based on the complete eradication of Lulusia. Is it star power? Is it nuclear? Is it pure light? Is it something completely different?

And then it turns out to be the One Piece-version of nuclear weapons, completing the parallells between Vegapunk and Einstein: both brilliant scientists who wanted to work for peace and the good of humanity, but whose insights were quickly weaponised.

It i also interesting to see how quick the Five Elders are to accept that Imu wants to eradicate a whole kingdom who is part of the World Government. I figure this might lead to more rebellion. After all, what is it worth to be a member of the WG if you're still not protected against horrible acts of violence? The only reason shown so far for people want to join the WG is based on pirates and the navy: they get protection and pay for the Celestial Dragons upkeep. I can't see this continuing much longer when the news about Lulusia get out – because at least Vegapunk will put two and two together. It was his invention being used, after all.

We have names!

Which might change when the official translation comes out!

But still. Interesting selections. Finance might comprise all financial activity, but why is then agriculture (food production) separate from environment (nature itself)? Mercantile activity is quite far from macroeconomic theories, which makes the lumping of all economic stuff under one heading quite interesting.

THERE IS A S-FLAMINGO!

My life is now complete.

I wonder why S-Croc looks so sad, though. S-Gecko and S-Flamingo looks like they're having the time of their lives, after all.

Also: what powers do they have? All the possibilities!

I wonder what Dragon is wondering about. He has a lot of ellipses this chapter and few words to spare. Does he agree with Sabo's decision to keep silent and live the lie? Does he disapprove? What does Iva-chan think about it all?

Ancient weapon, my old friend? The Arc Maxim 2.0? Something Completely Different?

(Also: traditional European-style ship depicted here as Lulucia's vessel. Yet the dream for a dhow still lives on!)

Jumping a bit, but Iva puts all our thoughts into words here so neatly:

In Egghead, Vegapunk says it's his dream to create the ultimate energy source. However, he doesn't say he's managed to do so yet: he's still working towards it. Therefore the thing Sabo saw probably wasn't an ancient weapon – or if it was, it wasn't at full power. Or then it was a "fire once and find another mother flame"-solution.

Whatever it was, it was horrible news for the people of Lulusia.

And then: the identity of Imu.

There's so many theories going on, tying Imu to the Roman emperor Nero or the city of Verona or the small coastal village of Nerano , also in Italy. From where we get to another Roman emperor, who is actually called Nerona: Tiberio Nerone, also known as Tiberius, an able politician who spent his last years on the island of Capri.

I'm sure we'll see where Oda draws his inspiration from sooner or later.

And the other big reveal of the chapter: the Figarland family.

(I don't think Oda will kill off Mjosgard. He is sentenced, he is not dead yet. Will the solution be banishment, a figurative death? We'll see, I'm sure.)

(I like the moon hair!)

(Edit: The cake line had me wheezing. Seriously. Scared the cat.)

I haven't seen Film Red yet, but as I gather from others, it's revealed that Shanks is a Figarland. He was also found on God Valley by Roger, so putting two and two together, we get a family connection.

However, what I'm interested in is the rankings of Celestial Dragons.

a) Saint Figarland Garling was a king

b) He is a Celestial Dragon

c) He has the power to be both judge, jury and probably executioner

How does it all fit together?

CDs are hitherto shown to just laze around in Mary Geoise and sometimes descend into the plebeian world for their own amusement. None of them is shown to be involved in the world as kings – that's the thing they specifically abdicated from 800 years ago. So why was Figarland a king? What was his role on God Valley – and what was God Valley?

So interesting! Much to think about.

I give the chapter thumbs up for lore drops and the chance for a well-deserved rest.

#one piece #ch 1086 #nin reads one piece #opspoilers #one piece spoilers #science!#history #ship facts #architecture

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flwrstqr · 25 days

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POLAROID MEMORIES EVENT — an enhypen collab by @lilacnini & @nishions .

# ABOUT — as the embrace of spring envelops the earth, it beckons forth a season adorned with love and beauty. with a quarter of the year tenderly tucked away, memories, like delicate petals, unfurl, weaving together moments shared with cherished ones. The memories of dates, laughter echoing through time, and the gentle caress of affection intertwine to form warmth and nostalgia. Spring, with its soft whispers of renewal, unfurls a new chapter, inviting us to wander through the gardens of cherished memories once more.

# NOTE — new collab with @nishions, or liz!! im so excited to see everyone's works and ideas into this beautiful collab project! i hope everyone enjoys it <3

GUIDELINES —

ONE. STATUS —all entries are full

TWO. to participate, please send an ask to either liz (@nishions) or nini (@lilacnini) with your chosen member and the two keywords that are hidden in the rules. there will be two slots available for each member (excluding me and liz's pieces) please like & reblog this post to help boost this. first keyword is nostalgia

THREE. your work must have synopsis, genre, warnings, and word count before the main content. works with over 500 words must have a read more cut. use the tag "# ⋆.˚nin-liz event" in the first five tags for both me and liz to find it. you may either tag me or liz in your work as an alternative method.

FOUR. the written piece may be a oneshot, timestamp, long fic, and etc. (if writing any timestamp, it must be 400+ word count) and must be member x reader or member x oc. no drabbles, thoughts, series, or smaus!

FIVE. theme of this event is memories of being together. this can be in any form like angst or fluff. it can be any moment as well, but note to keep it sfw. second keyword is love.

SIX. please submit your work by 11 MAY 2024! drop outs are 30 APR 2024

SEVEN. plagiarism is strictly prohibited & will not be tolerated.

EIGHT. strictly no smut. suggestive or mature themes (death, violence, substance use, etc.) are not permitted. no racism, ableism, homophobia or similar prejudices. you will be removed from the collab.

NINE. please don’t be afraid to reach out to either of us if you have any questions or concerns! have fun writing !!

SLOTS & FICS — ENTRIES IN RED MEANS THEY'RE FULL

HEESEUNG · @lilacnini @enhasver

JAY · (2 person claimed but not finished)

JAKE · (2 person claimed, but not finished)

SUNGHOON · (2 ppl claimed, but not finished)

SUNOO · @stariikis (1 person claimed but not finished)

JUNGWON · @wonifullove

RIKI · @nishions @ms-no1kpopstan

O1. PAINTING DAY - LHS (@lilacnini)

you have many favorite moments with heeseung but your favorite is especially when you paint your boyfriend's nails for fun

O2. LUCKY GIRL - KSN (@stariikis

sure, you're already well known as enhypen member kim sunoo's girlfriend, but that doesn't hinder the thrill of tossing a coin and landing on heads when sunoo chooses you, in the midst of the crowd.

O3. PRIZE - LHS ( @enhasver)

you have lots of memories with your boyfriend heeseung, but one of the most cherished memories that you hold dear with your boyfriend heeseung is the day when you both visited the amusement park.

O4. STRANGERS - NRK ( @ms-no1kpopstan)

you break up with your ex and soon meet a stranger who comforts you throughout the night. but that stranger would be your "future" boyfriend, riki.

O5. THE BOY I LOVE BEFORE - YJW ( @wonifullove)

you discover the gifts your ex once gifted you on every date

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netherfeildren · 1 year

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Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world.

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé.

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe.

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far.

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face.

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping.

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own.

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for.

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way.

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now.

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child.

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him.

He decides in that very instant he has to have you.

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction.

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second.

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that, if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds.

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment.

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it.

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him.

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know.

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body.

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you.

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.”

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now.

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag.

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly.

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game.

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back.

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze.

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now.

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him.

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it.

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this.

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest.

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less.

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here.

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more.

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner.

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating.

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week.

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him.

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says.

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey.

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting.

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment.

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin.

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin.

He feels his cock begin to leak.

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself.

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton.

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it.

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself.

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways.

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae.

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent.

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin.

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands. “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come.

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy.

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick.

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body.

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–”

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants.

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more.

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes.

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead.

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?”

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm.

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat. Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it.

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside.

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads.

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings.

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways.

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you.

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will.

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle.

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source.

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh.

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin.

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you – none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth.

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert.

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself.

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you.

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability.

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant — to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.”

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him.

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him.

“What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud.

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man.

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers.

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless.

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin.

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous.

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look.

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him.

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing. “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow.

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand.

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man.

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are.

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze.

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with.

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him.

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head.

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now.

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.”

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you.

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways.

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point.

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching.

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties.

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh.

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck.

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet.

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit.

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him.

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him.

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful.

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please.

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him.

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear.

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him.

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him.

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm.

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks.

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer.

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple.

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you.

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper.

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.”

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone.

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight.

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth.

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles.

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you.

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching.

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen.

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect 2018 #prospect fic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #ezra prospect smut

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fanaticsnail · 6 months

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I remember you mentioned having a Mihawk playlist, and the way you manage to find songs that perfectly fit the vibes of your fics and enhance the reading experience is one of the things I love about your writing

So I was wondering if you could share some of the songs on your playlist? Or even some songs that you associate with certain characters/tropes/scenarios?

I always love it when you send me asks, @sexc-snail.

I absolutely DO have a Mihawk playlist. I share the playlist construction with another creator on Tumblr who I love, cherish and adore: @sordidmusings. We add to it as we write, recommend songs as they come to us to help with words in works.

I could get into a long, long rant about music so I will add a page break here ❤. Lots of song recs to follow for the OPLA cast so far.

I am a violinist; have been playing for 25 years this year (I AM GETTING OLD, JEEPERS CREEPERS). Music is a great, passionate love affair for me and I adore learning about songs and pieces new and old. Here are some recommendations for songs and vibes I associate with the characters and the tropes.

I never add lyrics to my fics so the readers can visualize their own favourite melodies where they see fit, but I do have tunes in mind when I write them. The only fic I've really centralised a song about is the "You Should Be Sad" Mihawk fic I wrote a while back and the Koby series I'm writing.

Here are some song recommendations: all songs are Spotify linked. Enjoy a peek into my madness.

For the Characters

Luffy:

Long Way Home: Walk off the Earth, Lindsay Stirling

Following the Sun: SUPER-Hi, NEEKA

La Isla Bonita: Madonna

Zoro

Work Song: Hozier

Promise: Voyager

Cold Shot: Stevie Ray Vaughan

Sanji

Love Story: Indila

Know You Girls: Franz Ferdinand

Family Line: Conan Grey

Nami (She gets four, because she's amazing and I love her)

Runaway: Aurora

My Mother Told Me: NATI, Cullen Vance, Jonny Stewart

Outside: Ellie Golding, Calvin Harris

Queen of the Kings: Alessandra

Usopp

Mechanical Instinct: Aviators

The Higher Ground: Red Hot Chili Peppers

Eastside: Benny Blanco, Halsey, Khalid

Buggy

Be Your Shadow: The Wombats

Gasoline: Halsey

I Wanna Be Your Slave: Maneskin

Shanks:

The One that Got Away: The Civil Wars

Atlantis: Seafret

Barton Hollow: The Civil Wars

Mihawk

Seven Nation Army: Postmodern Jukebox

My Heart With You: The Rescues

The Snake: Lana Lubany

Koby (He also gets four, because he deserves only good things, and because Morgan Davies is Aussie like me)

Grieve No More: Patty Gurdy

Siuil A Run: Ella Roberts

Mad World: Jasmine Thompson

Again: Flyleaf

Helmeppo

Fighter: Christina Aguilera

Torn: Natalie Imbruglia

Elastic Heart: Sia

Garp

Sharp Dressed Man: ZZ Top

Under a Violet Moon: Blackmores Night

Billie Jean: The Civil Wars

For the Tropes

Unrequitted Love (My all time favourite thing)

Wrecking Ball: Beth

Can't Help Falling in Love: Tommee Profitt, Brooke

I Found: Amber Run

Comptine d'un autre ete l'apres-midi: Yann Tierson

Derniere Danse: Indila

Only in my Mind: Kenya Grace

Over and Over: Three Days Grace

Broken Pieces: Apocalyptica Lacey

Too Close: Alex Clare

Stupid Heart: Sorana

Enemies to Lovers

FMLYHM: Sether

Closer: NIN

Hella Good: No Doubt

Play With Fire: Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money

Why'd You Only Ever Call Me When You're High: Arctic Monkeys

For when they give into their feelings:

Surrender: Natalie Taylor

As the World Caves In: Sarah Cothran

Freeze You Out: Marina Kaye

Say Yes To Heaven: Lana Del Rey

For when they give up but feelings are still there

Lose you to love me: Selena Gomez

Liar: Camilla Cabello

Darkside: Alan Walker

Say My Name: David Guetta, Bebe Rexha, J Balvin

Only Love Can Hurt Like This: Paloma Faith

I See Red: Everybody Loves an Outlaw

If you made it this far, thank you. This was a labour of love. Happy listening ❤

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thedevilsoftruth · 1 month

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I know this isn't what I usually post but I just want to take a second and say thank you to The Downward Spiral and Trent Reznor.

I wasn't born during the time this album was released, I'm gen z but my parents, teachers, and most adults I know love this album and have memories from when it was released. It's funny how that works, isn't it? How can a band be this big? It just goes to show just how influential NIN really is, and how much of an impact they had on people as they were releasing music.

My first ever experience with Nine Inch Nails was when I was eleven or twelve. We didn't have wifi in our house and I was listening to the radio when my parents weren't in the house. I remember closer coming on and immediately feeling a sense of pure dread. I was terrified of that track, I thought it was the scariest song ever. Even through the censored chorus, I could piece together what Trent was saying and I was... angry? I called my dad and I was screaming, " I CANT BELIEVE THEY WOULD PLAY THIS ON THE RADIO. THIS IS SOME DIRTY STUFF!! HES SAYING I WANNA EFF YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL. " But even though I was so angry I was also curious. I wondered what the name of the song was and I wanted to listen to it again. I never found out and it never came back to me. Until 2022.

In 2022 my uncle was driving me somewhere when I heard that song on the radio again. And again another time in the car. I went home, went to YouTube and searched it up and ended up on really liking it. Beginning of last year I HATED NIN. Absolutely despised them. Couldn't listen to them, they were too loud for me and I just had a burning hatred for them for some reason. But I got sick one day and was reading a bunch of Moon Knight comics in bed and listening to YouTube music when Scantified from PHM came on. And I was In love.

The smooth, sexiness of that funky bass line, the alluring element of Trent's voice, all mingled together and penetrating my virgin ears. Scantified was really the song that got me into NIN. I enjoyed closer but I LOVED Scantified. The same night I went and listened to PHM twice. Head like a hole, ring finger, the only time, terrible lie. Those were the songs that had me awesturck. I kept thinking, " somebody made this. This is real. " It was just too good to be true. The whole album had me awestruck. It was unlike anything I'd ever listened to before. I liked Depeche Mode, The Police, She Wants Revenge and Prince. But nothing. Nothing ever came close to listening to PHM for the first time.

And it just got better as I listened to even more of this band. The fragile was the second album I ever truly liked by NIN. I loved it so much I asked my father to buy me the CD for it and PHM on my birthday last year. In fact I loved the fragile more than I loved PHM. And then late November of last year is when I really gave The Downward Spiral a listen.

I came back right where I started. In the car, with the radio playing. Except this time I was flipping through the CDs my aunt had. That was when I saw a CD that stood out to me. It was sliver with a white spiral printed onto it. I looked down and saw a familiar logo printed onto it. I didn't recognize the CD.

" Nine inch nails? Which album is this? I didn't know you liked them. " I asked my aunt. She had a huge grin on her face and then told me to put it in. And from that moment on, my taste in music was completely changed.

From the second I heard the very first second of Mr Self Destruct, I knew I was in for a ride. What is that loud noise? Is someone being beat? And then we go straight into all of these loud, complex noises I can't even describe. With all these textures and layers, Trent's kind of quiet, but angry voice throught the song mingled with all this loudness going on in the background is just... Art. And then it gets quiet. And it jumps back into that madness.

But I think out of all the songs on this album, the ones that stood out to me the most were Reptile and Ruiner. Reptile... I just can't even describe why I love so much. I love ruiner because of its kickass solo and it's pure madness and hatred, but reptile. Reptile is the missing piece of the puzzle that was the story this album tell you. I could talk about the story of this concept album, but thats a whole different conversation for another time. There's something about Reptile that you can't find anywhere. Reptile is dark, sexy, confusing, seemingly quiet ( according to my aunt ) and just... When you hear i youre like, " what the fuck is this? What hell is going on. " But in a good way. In the nicest way possible. There's a certain heaviness of this song, and I'd argue that while it's not they're angriest it's probably one of their heaviest. And not just like metal heaviest, I really don't know how to describe it. The guitar riffs in this song, especially after Trent says, " get it " and " devils speak of the way in which shell manifest" I think I just actually ascend each time I hear it.

It actually feels illegal listening to The Downward Spiral. It feels illegal listening to Nine Inch Nails in general because of how good they are. Trent Reznor is actually the greatest musician of all time-- hell, the greatest producer of all time. Like how can someone just be this good? He's such an amazing person too.

The Downward Spiral is my friend in my time of need. It's the guy who I look to whenever I'm sad and need to let out my anger. I can't listen to it all the way through without becoming depressed-- but this album hit home for me. I remember Trent saying one time somewhere that he dosent know how to write lyrics. That's just crazy in my eyes because he writes things that are actually real. Each time I listen to The Downward Spiral I feel like I'm being sung my entire life and everything I've ever struggled with.

To finish off this post, thank you Trent. Thank you for the wonderful decades that you've been producing music and changing lives. And happy late birthday to The Downward Spiral. Can't believe I missed the birthday of one of my favorite albums of all time.

#trent reznor #nin #nine inch nails #tds era #tds #the downward spiral 30 #the downward spiral #industrial metal #industrial rock #gothic #gothic rock #synthwave #synthpop #metalhead #metal

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ceo-of-daichi · 3 months

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LYDIAAAAAAHHHHHHUHSBDHAKAL hihihi 💗 I hope it’s ok I join your prompt game!!

May I request one for Keishin or Kuroo, whoever you feel the most like writing. With the prompt “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?…..” from the Drunken Love Confession list please??

THANK U SO MUCH!

It was rare to get a message off Kuroo this late into the night.

And if you did, it was usually a well composed, put together message. This however, was certainly not that.

You stared at the screen, light mode momentarily blinding you. You really needed to turn your brightness down or switch to dark mode. Your eyes flicked to the corner of your phone, 3:43am, before focusing on who had decided to text you at this hour.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, you could barely piece together the message. Luckily you didn’t need to, because as your sleep induced brain was trying to read the gibberish in front of you, a big picture of the man himself popped onto the screen.

You sighed softly as you answered the call, figuring this could be the end of your sleep for the night. As you answered, the deafening sound of indie music and what you could only assume was hundreds of people hit your ears. You instinctively move the phone away from your ear at first.

“Kuroo? Are you okay?” You ask, hoping he hears you over the noise.

“Heeeeyyyyy!! Are you doing much right now?” He slurs on the other end, you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“You mean apart from getting the 8 hours sleep I deserve? Nope, where are you?” You say, already getting out of bed and starting to get dressed into comfy clothes.

Kuroo was someone who you struggled to say no to. And seeing as though this is the first time you have been inconvenienced at this time of night by him, you didn’t mind going to pick him up.

By the time he stumbles over the address of the bar, you are fully dressed and heading out the door.

It's a brisk night and as much as you are grumpy from having your sleep disturbed, you would much rather he gets home safely. You can only guess the state he is in after that phone call.

As you pull up to the bar, you notice him slumped on the curb, a few of his friends around him, they looked to be laughing and enjoying themselves.

The minute you get out of the car, the door shutting making them aware of your presence, Kuroo lights up. His eyes lock with yours as he gives you the goofiest smile, you can’t help but mirror it as he attempts to get up.

“Your taxi awaits!” You laugh softly as his friend has to catch him, his legs tangling as he gets up too fast.

“Thank you Madame” He giggles, attempting a curtsey, but once again getting muddled and almost falling flat on his face.

“You are so drunk right now, how much have you had?” You ask, a smirk on your face as you grab his arm. Stopping him from ending up on the ground as he stumbles towards your car. You had never seen him this drunk, and despite feeling tired on the drive, you were certainly awake now.

“I’m not drunk!” He shoots you a glare.

“Uhuh… Sure you aren’t. Come on let's get you home” You wrap your arm around his waist to help him to your car.

The minute you start to help him, he stops dead in his tracks and suddenly stands very straight. You send him a confused glance at his sudden stillness.

“Can a drunk person do this?” He says, a determined look in his eyes. Before you have time to be even more confused, his lips are on yours. It's messy, uncoordinated and certainly the drunkest kiss you had ever experienced.

But with the cheers of his friend group behind you both, who had witnessed the whole interaction, you couldn’t help but feel extremely warm.

A/N | Okay so this request is from such a long time ago, and I know I haven’t posted in an AGE! But I hope you guys enjoy, I miss writing for HQ. Its been so long but trying to get back in the swing of things💛 Thank you Nin for the request!!

#kuroo tetsuro #tetsuro kuroo #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo x y/n #kuroo tetsuro x you #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq #hq drabble #haikyuu drabble #haikyuu!! drabble #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu!! imagines #hq imagines

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soleilnomoon · 1 year

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i would love to place an order for Meringue Cookies, Dark Chocolate, Jelly Beans, Candy Necklace, & Blan Manje, with Caramel & Honey. Side menu # 1 for Boa or Nami. either is fine! with a g/n reader! These stories are a blast to read!

anon i am so so sry this took forever 😭💕💕💕 but i finally finished and i'm actually happy with it; also ty for requesting, i love boa hancock sfm i wish more ppl wrote for her.

4.3k words, gn reader (no pronouns), nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst angst angst bc that's how i vibe & smut, and if you squint real hard there's some fluff somehow i think. hancock is a brat as usual and reader ain't shit, but they go great together <3 feat. cute things like oral (f receiving), fingering, a lil bondage, hair pulling, some pussy slapping, more stuff that idr anymore ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა (if u see grammar/spelling errors no u didn't ;_;)

tagging lil’ kaia bc she asked so nicely ❤︎ @cvvor

“our love would be death” — anaïs nin

sea salt sifts through the wind, warm and fine enough that most don’t notice its intrusion. it lands on your nose and lips, coats your tongue when you exhale through your mouth; no matter how many times you try to wash away the taste, it still lingers. a persistent annoyance that refuses to leave you alone. it’s a bitter, yet familiar taste — one that fills your heart with memories you’ve long wanted to keep buried. you’re no stranger to heartache, but this is different.

you find that you can never sleep through the entire night without dreaming of your ex — of how you begged them to stay, of how you told them you couldn’t live without them. pathetic, you tell yourself one morning after another restless night — you know you need to find a way to move on, but there’s no way you can, not when you carved so many pieces of yourself to give away without much thought.

what you’re left with is a battered heart that can barely function on its own; it flops pitifully in your chest, rattling against your rib cage weakly. every day it gets harder to breathe, harder to face the truth that you’re all alone — again.

boa hancock doesn’t know why she even fucking bothers, but she can’t seem to stay away from you. it’s a privilege, in her opinion, for you to be graced with her presence, let alone be allowed to touch her intimately. so, when she finds you staring wistfully out of the window, sighing to yourself again she snaps.

“y/n, look at me,” she commands loudly, voice piercing through your body like a thick arrow that keeps you frozen in place. you know better than to disobey her, even though you want to; you know you’re being unreasonable, but the heart always wants what it can’t have, right?

not that she cares about any of that. in her mind, your ex is an ex for a reason. she grabs your face with her hand, squeezing tightly, delicate brows furrowed together as irritation drips down her spine. she could easily kill you and you know it. “i’m the most beautiful woman in the world,” she boasts, although there’s something melancholic about the way she says it.

you narrow your eyes at her, mouth moving before you can think better of it. “and what of it?” it’s not often that you challenge her like that, but today you’ve had enough of her games, of constantly catering to her whims and desires, of her veneer that she insists on keeping even when she’s alone with you.

it dawns on her then what the actual problem is. “you’re still in love with them.” anger seeps through her pores, and she knows if she doesn’t walk away soon, she might say or do something she’ll possibly regret.

you flinch, eyes widening — she’s not entirely wrong, but she’s not right either. you’re just stuck in limbo, unable to move on because you refuse to do so; after seeing them so happy with someone else, you can’t fathom finding any sort of happiness yourself. so, you cling onto the past, even when it threatens to destroy your present life.

for some reason, this pisses you off — that hancock is so much more perceptive than people give her credit for; that she’s not afraid to tell you the truth, despite how your friends sugarcoat everything for you. the rage that’s bubbled deep inside of you for months finally pushes out; you can barely think or see properly, and you forget yourself when you practically shout back at her.

“and you’re just jealous because for once, you’re not the focus of my attention.” you’re not sure why you say it, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like shit.

there’s rarely a moment where hancock finds herself in absolute shock, but your venomous words cut into her bruised ego with vigor. it's a harsh reality that she refuses to accept, so she lashes out at you again.

“you’re pathetic.” her tone is cold, and she steels her face enough that she almost looks bored with you. hancock releases her hold on you and swivels on her heels to walk away. you don’t bother calling after her, but she pauses in her gait to look over her shoulder at you. “i’m done playing with you, get out of my sight.”

the dismissal is the first slap of many and her insistence on blatantly keeping her back turned while she ignores you is another. something in you breaks, but you know you’ve angered the pirate empress enough for one day. you don’t hesitate before scrambling to your feet and leaving her alone. after you close the door, you hear a shriek that’s accompanied by what sounds like a large vase shattering. you don’t bother checking on her, because you know you’re not wanted in her presence right now.

you should’ve seen this coming. one doesn’t simply think about another lover while in the presence of boa hancock; it’s absurd and theatrical, but it’s an unspoken rule that you keep breaking over and over. in the back of your mind, you know you should go make things right with her, but you just don’t know how.

hancock’s frustration continues to build throughout the day. she doesn’t know why someone — you, a commoner who should be groveling at her feet daily — can be so insolent without remorse. she’s smashed several expensive sculptures, shredded her mattress and bed sheets with large scissors, and cursed out every staff member in kuja palace. her anger only intensifies when she hears someone whisper your name, so she locks herself in her bedroom, refusing meals or assistance from anyone.

you’ve always thought that the pirate empress was annoying, self-centered, and unnecessarily mean without reason. you’ve told her this on several occasions, stunning her into silence — a feat that most cannot achieve. hancock would normally sentence someone to death for those sorts of callous remarks, but for some reason she spares you. maybe it’s because despite her incomparable, unrivaled beauty, you don’t helplessly pine after her.

and she absolutely hates that about you.

hancock’s not someone who’s used to being treated like a regular person, and yet that’s what you do to her. you barely hold any reverence for her, give her the minimal amount of respect owed as a citizen of amazon lily, and you don’t flinch when she threatens you publicly. most are afraid to be associated with you, out of fear for incurring the snake princess’ wrath — not that you care, you’ve known that your personality can’t be tolerated by most because you tend to happily go against the grain.

you’ve always found her beauty to be intense and intoxicating — imposing like the sun, forcing a heat to surge through you that has yet to dissipate. you hate that your attraction to her impedes your daily life, especially when you’re plagued by dueling thoughts of her and your ex. you’re barred from entering the palace, and you’re thankful for it as you don’t know how you’d be able to face hancock after all that you’ve said. you know that you should apologize profusely, but a woman like hancock requires something extravagant and elaborate — something that’ll prove that your adoration and loyalty is genuine and not forced.

the first few days are relatively easy; you work tirelessly to keep your mind and body busy, and you’re so exhausted by the end of the day that you sleep without dreaming. when a week passes, you start to notice that certain things are off; you didn’t make it a habit of frequenting the palace that often, but you were there enough that the staff didn’t give you a hard time when you showed up unannounced. you tell yourself that distance is good — it means you’ll be able to finally focus on the things that are important to you.

but, when you sit and think about it, you’re not quite sure if that’s entirely true.

after the second week, you start getting antsy. your friends keep pestering you, asking why your mood keeps shifting day to day — you’re intolerable and grouchy, snap at minor things and make mistakes all day. your heart, as tired and as worn out as it is, still skips a beat when you think about hancock despite what you try to tell yourself when you’re alone. somehow, you’ve convinced yourself that the only reason why you’re thinking about her, is because you miss fucking her.

the lie is tough to digest, but you keep repeating it and sooner or later you’ll believe it, right?

soon, everything reminds you of her.

on a warm night, a small festival is held, and you wander around listless and slightly tipsy. memories of the first time you met boa hancock — outside of all the fanfare that her royal title awards her — plague you relentlessly. you remember the warmth from that night, similar to this one; you remember how highly oppressive and unbearable the humidity was; and you also remember that you were on your third drink when you unceremoniously bumped into the pirate empress.

at first, her sisters demanded you apologize, but you were annoyed and had just been dumped so you chose audacity instead.

hancock’s irritation was evident, despite her not saying much — and it wasn’t until your rambling struck a nerve that she fired back. it was the first time he’d let her walls down, and her sisters watched in shock as both of you went back and forth over nothing. hancock called you all sorts of terrible names, and you sneered and laughed in her face. the fact that you weren’t cowering in fear or salivating over her beauty set her skin on fire in a way she didn’t understand.

you remember her dismissing the other gorgon sisters, insisting that she’d be able to handle you on her own. and she did, in a way. if anyone were to ask her about that time, hancock would easily admit that she regrets meeting you that night — but it would be a lie. the only thing she regrets is allowing you to infiltrate her heart, to settle without permission, to make her feel less than when she knew she was anything but.

her brattiness is unappealing on the surface and you normally wouldn’t be attracted to a woman who boldly wears such an ugly personality with pride. somehow, hancock has made the trait endearing to you, in a strange way; she’s so unapologetic with her behavior, that you find it rather comical. why people take her seriously is beyond you.

but, despite all of that, you do miss her.

you miss seeing the way her nose would scrunch and wrinkle when she was disgusted with something insignificant and minute; you miss kissing her in the middle of arguments and watching her easily melt underneath your touch; but you mostly miss hearing her complain about your lack of etiquette, about how odd she finds your views on the world, and about how you see her more clearly than anyone else on the island.

that sort of vulnerability terrifies her, and it’s why she’s been so miserable without you.

her sisters pay you a visit one morning and implore you to talk some sense into hancock. they tell you about how her temper tantrums have gotten uncontrollable (even for them) and how she barely eats or bothers leaving the palace these days. that bit surprises you, as hancock thrives off the validation from the populace. at first you mean to refuse them, but when you take note of how marigold anxiously fidgets with the gold bracelet around her wrist and the way sandersonia has dark circles under her eyes, you give in.

after taking a long, long soak in the bath, hancock pads back to her room naked, deciding to keep the windows open so she can air dry properly. you find her shortly after, out of breath from running over to the palace; she didn’t lock her door — and why should she? she’s the empress, after all — so you enter her room with ease. because she’s been so out of it lately, she’s been sluggish in her reactions to certain things; especially since she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

with the door shut and locked behind you, hancock’s mind clears a bit; she blinks slowly, her dark eyes honed on you, taking in your thick thighs and toned body. as usual, hancock’s face only features an impassive expression, and she keeps her tone flat when she addresses you.

“why the hell are you in my bedroom?” she grabs the silk robe that’s draped over her mattress and puts it on in a rush.

before you can answer her or move closer, she picks up a large pillow and chucks it at you in the hopes that you’ll get the hint and leave her alone. you sidestep the attack, lips pressed together as you hold back a laugh; she can’t honestly think that a pillow will stop you, can she? hancock keeps throwing things, anything within her reach that isn’t nailed down to the floor or wall. you try to reason with her, try to make your way closer, but stop when you see the way her lips quiver.

she keeps fumbling with tying her robe properly, keeps looking down at her trembling fingers — the same ones that have tugged on your hair more times than you can count — but still she won’t say anything else to you.

after a minute, hancock manages to compose herself once again, her lips pressed tightly together as she fights the urge to berate herself for looking weak in front of you — as if you care about any of that. your silence compels her to swiftly make her way towards you, long legs shimmering in the sunlight, captivating you so much that you forget you’re supposed to be angry with her.

“look at you,” she stands tall, her pride giving her the confidence she needs to verbally tear you apart. “you’ve come begging for my forgiveness, right?” she doesn’t wait for you to respond and simply flips her hair over her shoulder before continuing. it’s all she can do to keep her composure around you; she knows if she gives you even a fraction of an inch, you’ll take a whole damn mile. “i should have you gutted for entering the palace without permission. you should know your damn place.” while her words are harsh, her delivery doesn’t quite match the expression on her face. maybe it’s because you haven’t taken your eyes off of her since you entered her room; or, maybe it’s because she’s standing much closer than necessary but can’t physically move herself away.

did you cast a spell on her without her knowledge?

while her eyes do narrow at that possibility, she highly doubts that you could, as there’s no one on amazon lily that doesn’t succumb to her treacherous beauty. but you continue to defy her expectations and you never know when to quit. which is why she just wants to grab you by the neck and toss you out the window; maybe if she actually kills you this time, she’ll be done with you forever.

except, she could never bring herself to harm you — not really. so she continues with her rant, reminding you that you’re beneath her, that you should be happy someone like her gave you any attention at all, but the more she talks, the more you want her to just shut the hell up.

“you’re right,” you say, cutting her off without remorse or any regards for your own safety, “and i deserve all of that,” and possibly more, but you don’t add that bit in. it becomes a little difficult to focus, what with hancock watching you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. “i… should’ve just explained myself properly before. but, more importantly,” you decide to take a risk and gently grab her by the hips.

silence wraps around her, blending into her thoughts, warping her perception of everything that’s happening. your hand is warm — much too warm, hot almost; she can feel the heat through the flimsy fabric as she presses her body closer to yours. whatever it is you want to tell her doesn’t matter — maybe she’ll pester you about it all later, but right now all she wants is you.

so, you give in and allow yourself to be more selfish than usual.

when your lips brush against hers, she completely comes alive — the longing you both felt for weeks, the irritation and unsaid words, they all prompt her to wrap her arms around your neck. it’s something short of a loving embrace, but you know better. your kiss goes from slow and tender to something much more fevered and enthusiastic; her lips are soft and supple, wholly inviting and terribly mesmerizing. you back her against the wall as she threads her fingers through your hair, tugging on it roughly, her patience practically nonexistent from all her wanting. you laugh at her in between kisses, breath warm against her skin — a feat that simultaneously annoys and arouses her — and remind her to play nice.

when she tugs on your hair again, you bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but run your tongue along the miniature wound to soothe the sting. she inhales sharply, the pain not noticeable, but the way you suck on her lip makes her head spin while also leaving her breathless.

a woman like hancock doesn’t beg, but when you grab her ass roughly — aggressive, yet completely undoing — she lets out a whimper so pathetic she’s almost ashamed of herself.

she should slap you, but all she does is roll her hips forward once you spread her legs and run your fingers against her folds. in a fit of desperation, to excuse her reactions, she tells herself that it’s because she hasn’t been touched in so long — but deep down she knows the truth; she knows it’s because there’s no one else she’d rather have here with her, and that is a terrifying revelation. still, she’s very receptive to your touch, her back arching as soon as you spread her with your fingers.

her arousal drips down slowly, and while you’d love to take your time with her, you also know that if you don’t hurry up you might actually lose your mind. you trail kisses down the length of her neck, and hancock presses her lips together to keep from making any more embarrassing noises. it’s ridiculous the way her body can easily be commanded by you without much effort; she wants to hate you for leading her down this path, but she can’t ever bring herself to do so.

love makes people incredibly foolish and tender indeed.

“that won’t do,” you remark lightly, gliding your fingers back and forth, barely grazing her clit. her breathing stops momentarily when you open her robe completely and drop to your knees in front of her. “why are you holding back?” you don’t ask her because you actually want the answer; you ask because you know it’ll annoy her greatly.

you tease her entrance with your fingers and a shiver fires through her entire body; with her lips parted, you strain your ears a bit, but you hear through her all of her light panting, her softly saying please, please, please. she’s trying so hard to hold it together, and you commend her for her efforts by inching your fingers inside of her slowly. hancock’s façade finally shatters, and you hear her moan audibly as you plunge your fingers in and out of her pussy. you love the way she clenches around your fingers — warm and tight, soft in a way that just doesn’t make sense to you — and the way she moves her hips once your tongue playfully swirls around her clit.

you drape her long, shapely leg over your shoulder and scissor your fingers inside of her pussy; you hum against her skin, thoroughly enjoying the way her chest heaves and how she can’t seem to stop moaning your name.

if only she was always this compliant.

a heat passes through your body as her nails rake against your scalp, and if you weren’t so hellbent keeping her steady, she’d probably fall over by now. you eat her pussy with vigor, swapping your fingers for your tongue; you thrust it inside without remorse, and she quickly becomes a whimpering mess as she chants “yes, yes, yes.” you mean to tell her to keep it down, but a part of you also enjoys it when she lets go and gives into her desires. you don’t want to get caught, but the thrill of it incites you to lap at her pussy — greedy and eager, as if it’s the most savory meal you’ve ever had. her wetness drips down your chin, glistening along your lips but you don’t stop.

she watches you in a trance, unsure if she’ll ever be able to let you go after this. possessive by nature, hancock never thought she’d find herself in this sort of position, but there she is, completely under your spell. every swipe of your tongue brings her closer and closer to the edge — a dangerous dance that she does without thinking. she brings her free hand to cup and knead one of her breasts — hefty and round, moaning repeatedly, voice already straining as she shamelessly rides your face.

you love it, though and when you suck on her clit roughly, lightning wraps around her veins, time slowing down around her, causing her vision to blur. she’s so wound up, that the orgasm takes her completely by surprise — her hips buck wildly and you hold her firmly as you work your fingers back into her pussy. you pull away just to give her a haughty look — one that she catches by accident through her tear-stained lashes — voice low and husky as you continue teasing her. “you’re doing so good,” you lick her clit hard enough to have her eyes roll back, “do you trust me?”

it's not fair of you to ask her genuine questions right now, but you need to know.

hancock swallows hard, unable to think properly, but answers without hesitation: “y-yes.”

her voice is sweet, much more demure than you’re used to; your heart suddenly feels much too big for your chest, the beats growing louder and thunderous; a dangerous combination when coupled with your cowardice. but you know better than to cower away, so you muster the courage to quietly respond with, “good, i’m glad.”

you’re not sure why you ask her that, but you keep thinking about it when you have her naked on her bed with her hands bound above her. thanks to you, her normally blemish-free skin is littered with bite marks and dark red bruises — small and harmless, but you do feel a sliver of remorse when you realize she’ll have to cover herself up for a bit when she’s outside of the palace. you tell her she’s a masterpiece worthy of exhibition, and she tells you that you’re insolent for stating the obvious.

she’s so beautiful and vulnerable in this position — flushed cheeks, tears in her eyes, legs shaking as they’re spread wide for you; her pussy is swollen after you slapped it a few times when she gave you lip a few minutes ago. out of habit, hancock wants to run her mouth again when you hover over her, but her words never come out. she looks up at you, silently wondering why you keep coming back to her. the melancholy that accompanies those thoughts is heavy enough to make her want to cry, so she ignores it. she wraps her legs around you as you rock your hips against hers, cunt still dripping — eager and inviting.

fucking hancock is like being trapped in a feverish dream, one where you fall over and over, unable to predict if you’ll survive in the end. it’s an unending maelstrom — powerful and unpredictable, wild, and all-consuming. sweat pools at your temples, but you don’t slow down until you wrench another orgasm out of her. her voice grows hoarse, and she claws at your chest; you lick the tears off her cheeks and kiss her in a way that deludes her into thinking that she’s your one and only.

when you finally cum, it’s with her name on your lips. your hips stutter and your breath is uneven — for you, your pleasure comes mostly from watching her unravel underneath you. hancock never lets you stay over, but she’s surprisingly soft with you afterwards, even letting you run your fingers through her silky, ink-black hair.

the intimacy scares both of you, but you can’t stop yourself from touching her like that. and even though you’re both sticky and sweaty, skin burning in a way that doesn’t make sense, you still stay close to one another.

she opens her mouth several times, the compulsion to curse you out for driving her mad grows weaker as time passes. she watches you fall asleep and she admires your features without restraint. she refuses to tell you that you’re much more attractive than she’d like you to be; she’d rather you be hideous with a shitty personality, but that’s not the case, is it? she’s hopelessly enamored with you, and you with her.

nothing will ever be perfect between the two of you, but you don’t need perfection or superficiality — not with her; you like dealing with the true, raw version of herself. there will be a moment — not now, but in the near future — where you’ll be brave enough to finish your confession; but for now, you keep it to yourself, tucked safely away in your heart, and enjoy the way your limbs are tangled with hers.

#*cries softly*#i am finished!!! finally #fic request #500+ followers event #milestone event #🍭✨🍨sticky & sweet event🧁✨🍭#one piece smut #one piece angst #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #boa hancock #boa hancock x reader #boa hancock x y/n #boa hancock smut #hancock x reader #hancock x y/n #one piece imagine

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sgiandubh · 9 months

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La passante de la Place des Vosges/ The Passerby of the Place des Vosges: in praise of Caitríona Balfe

I have recently discussed, in as much detail as possible without becoming completely boring, S's memoir Waypoints. It is, no doubt, an interesting strategic step, aiming to buy much needed time and respite from unwanted fan attention.

But if there is a memoir I would probably read in a very different, almost sentimental way, that would be hers, not his.

We have an enticing idea of the way she writes, with this lesser known essay published by the totemic NYT just a day shy of her birthday, in 2017: The First Time I Left Home (and Fell in Love), which you can read online right here - https://shorturl.at/uTX12. It is a short, dense piece with a deeply personal, even sentimental, view of Paris in autumn and spring. Something very unusual for the feisty, secretive, almost paranoid C we all know and love (admit it, you do: fair's fair). It immediately grabbed both my attention and highlighter.

Writing about Paris, especially from an Anglo-Saxon/American perspective, is a very tricky affair. So much has been said and done, from Janet Flanner's priceless Letters from Paris and Paris Journal, to Anais Nin, to Edmund White, to Hemingway, to Orwell - just to name the ones that immediately come to mind. In this particular case, we'd be dealing with a nice PR fine tuning detail, with a relatively short lifespan, aiming perhaps to reach a more sophisticated demographic than Twitter banter or a three minutes long Q&A about the current season's antics. But a wonderful detail, nevertheless.

The year is 1998. A young 19-year old Irish model wannabe just landed in the chaotic brouhaha of Roissy Airport and the first contact is brutal, language being a considerable barrier. But before that, we are treated to a masterful bistrot snapshot, with a cheeky, self-deprecating sense of humor. I mean how perfect is this?

Quite a contrast to the dream version back home:

Touché. All the moody young Frenchmen are named Pierre, C. All. Of. Them. As for watching far too many French films, there's always been something very Nouvelle Vague about you, Jeanne Moreau and Jules et Jim & all that, and I have to say this is what I found immediately endearing. I am not talking about Claire Fraser: it is you, emphatically you. The kind of impeccably dressed woman one can find pretending to read Le Monde at Le Café de Flore's terrace in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The kind of self-evident, celestial creature whose high heels are never heard on any pavement (what is your secret?). Late Jane Birkin didn't even come close, C., mark me. However, red lipstick stains look way better on the rim of a nervously half drunk cup of noisette coffee: but then, that is me.

It was not at all like that, of course, but then something happened just across the street from the Saint-Eustache church, at Quigley's Point, a long gone Irish pub I vaguely remember. Circa 1998, our own boisterous squad used to play darts and get plastered on cheap draft beer and that undignified, syrupy manzana Basque liqueur (idiots, I am telling you, but it was very cheap) at The Bombardier, on the Place du Panthéon, just across the Seine:

Thick brogue, a quick laugh, kind eyes and blonde hair. An interesting combo, for sure. No further comment except well, this is very personal, isn't it? You've said it yourself: sometimes (fun fact: always) the really important people have nothing to do with fantasies. But we know, C, we know.

And then, suddenly, it all falls into place: Stendhal would talk about a crystallization moment. It is that split-second when everything becomes very clear. A pact of sorts occurs and all barriers are lifted. For C, it happened in one of the perfect places of this planet, spare perhaps the Piazza del Campo, in Siena:

No doubt, by tomorrow evening at the latest, I will be crucified by Mordor, but this made me think of that - different setting and context, same type of seminal moment. Draw your own conclusions:

(SRH, Waypoints, Day Four: The Hard Road)

Important things happen, too, Place du Panthéon and this moved me to bits, even if this was not a happy ending. So shamelessly glad it wasn't, by the way:

For (and forgive me for ineptly tinkering with your words) "It’s true, you never forget your first love". And for that man on that random pavement in LA, that will always be you, passerby of the Place des Vosges. The wonder you are, despite anything else: it is perfectly irrelevant.

Jacques Brel says it best, in what is almost a prayer:

youtube

#Youtube

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tessa-quayle · 1 year

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FanFiction Recommendations

before I disclose my favorite Pedro Pascal character-related fan fiction here, a few caveats and disclosed biases: I’m a woman of a certain age. I was your average English lit major. I’m the dork who - upon listening to Jewel’s debut album and hearing the lyric “you can be Henry Miller and I’ll be Anais Nin” in the mid 1990s - legit hauled my ass to the local public library and looked up Anais Nin - using the Dewey Decimal system - to read her elevated smut. Right now I’m a content but exhausted, ragey American woman in a mid-life crisis. I hate bullshit, I have an ok attention span, I scroll/read after the family’s gone to bed.

if you look at my semi-neglected Tumblr page, you’ll see I’m relatively new to the Pedro fandom. What a privilege to dive into really superb writing. This is clearly not an exhaustive list and reflects my tastes (and to each her/his/their own)! But if you’re an exhausted parent in a mid-life crisis and have no time, this may be for you!

in no particular order...

@fuckyeahdindjarin - masterlist - Cee describes herself as a writer who pens romantic comedies - and she does a stellar job with them - but she sells herself short and fails to mention the sex scenes she writes are hot. especially love the consent series (dieter bravo), the grays 2-part series (frankie morales), and of course, the ongoing joel miller/pin series. a delightful mix of angst, sweetness, spice. and a thoughtful writer with an inclusive mindset.

@absurdthirst - masterlist - if you told me Keri has a few stories published in several “best of erotica” anthologies, I’d believe you. good smut is fucking hard to write. this is great smut. this is smut you read and then take a cold shower afterwards or do whatever it is you like to do to get yourself off. it’s smut that even as a non-smoker and knowing all the terrible health risks you may think goddamn I need a cigarette. I'm partial to a few Javier Pena and Agent Whiskey pieces, but you’d be satisfied reading any of her stories.

@something-tofightfor - masterlist - Rachael should give a master class on how to write the best slow burn. Her Joel Miller stories stand out for several reasons including - 1) she thoughtfully incorporates elements of the original canon/game into her fanfic which is uncommon in the PP fandom (from what I’ve seen/read at least), 2) every Joel story/chapter is compelling and well imagined. Her current series on Tim Rockford has me on the edge of my seat and I'm eagerly awaiting the next installment. And judging from the titles of her stories, we have similar music tastes (ha!).

@disgruntledspacedad - this writer hasn’t updated in several months, but their Javier Pena multi-chapter fic (and folks, there are MANY out there) called Better Love is the one that kept me going and going and wanting to read more (see mention of short attention span in a tired mama above). being in the healthcare field, I also arch my eyebrows out of curiosity when someone weaves medical stuff into their writing and wonder what line of work they do. (yes I'm a terribly biased nerd, I’m a sucker for when someone puts a f!physician reader into their PP-character related drabble).

@jomiddlemarch - she is a great friend and a gifted, amazing writer who always makes me wonder “how does she do this and how does she do this so well and so quickly while the rest of us plebes are just getting through our day.” she writes for MULTIPLE fandoms (and judging from the notes on her posts, I think her readership is more into those than Pedro and the Last of Us but it’s ok!), and started writing Joel Miller and an OFC (she created!) named Grace Yang (NOT ME - but maybe there’s a chance she created this OFC to shut me up since I’ve been rambling on and on about how besotted I am with Pedro 😂). If you’re into OFCs, read her stuff. Check out the (ongoing) entire series on her AO3 here. Here’s one story that you can find on her Tumblr. Two of the five stories are Ted Lasso crossovers - all her stories are written so richly and so layered - she’s the star in your writing workshop who’s showing and not telling - I’m still thinking about how there’s so much to unpack in the latest one. :)

#fic rec #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #javier pena #joel miller #agent whiskey #tim rockford #dieter bravo #frankie morales #fuckyeahdindjarin #absurdthirst #something-tofightfor #disgruntledspacedad #jomiddlemarch

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acutiewithagun · 4 months

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Taglist: @oleander-nin @radicallxser @itsyagurlchip @cr-33-d

Word count: 1,740

Subways Are The Worst

Boring…

That was one way to describe the crushing weight of time ticking away. Gazing lazily at the clock it only read fifteen minutes left. What agonizing numbers, they taunted your already dwindling patience. Alas, they were the key to spending before you could be released from your personal prison.

But then you had to go off on that awful subway ride and you were just not ready for it. The people bustling home, the strange smells, and those awful rodents that snuck on the cars. You shuddered at the thought before praying you'd at least get a seat.

The hands on the clock ticked like always, slow and uselessly. The button on your pen tapped rhythmically against the desk as noises rattled, filling your head with unnecessary information you would forget the second you bolted from your seat.

Eyeing the paper laying in front of you, intended for writing notes that never happened, you fought the internal struggle of doodling anything to fill up your time. You clicked the button on your pen as the thoughts won the wimply fought battle. You just hoped the person sitting next to you ignored the doodles of shapes filling your piece of dead tree.

Checking the clock once more you almost banged your head on the table in frustration over only four minutes had passed. Opting for the wiser decision to rub your palms against your forehead to lessen the mounting headache, you let out a tired groan.

That all nighter last night was not your brightest idea, especially considering the day it had been. It wasn't your worst time but it was up there. Everything went wrong and you cursed the universe for its messed up musings. Glancing around you, the people were hard at work taking down the information spewed a mile a minute.

After the eternity that was this meeting you got up along with the other people and stretched your arms before tiredly heading for the door. Only to be caught by a coworker as you both stepped outside.

“Hey, a few of us are heading to a little food joint close by, wanna come?” You looked exhaustedly at them with a shake of your head. “Not really, I'm dead on my feet already and just want to get home.” They frowned and looked over to the little group of fellow employees that had formed.

The colleague took a moment before snatching your wrist. A protest sat on your tongue before they dragged you to the group. “We got our final member!” You bit back your arguments as a tired chorus erupted from the gathering. Figuring they were also dragged into this as well, you begrudgingly followed down to the building. You were by no means going to partake in whatever they were doing. At least not with your own will.

You were all seated at a table in the corner, the booth barely big enough to fit you all. The staff seemed nice enough, very considerate of your few yokai and mutant colleagues. But all you wanted to do was pass out in the booth as you were squished between two people that you were barely acquainted with.

The dark sky hardly changes as hours pass by, everything truly a blur as coworkers have their fill and the forced social interaction is blending together. You barely made the last subway, having run there on dead legs that just wanted to collapse like a poorly built popsicle tower. You slump on a seat, hardly registering the person beside you as your foggy brain starts to drift.

It's no surprise that you passed out, the rough day and late hour were just too perfectly entwined for the event to occur. What was unexpected was the rough and scarred hand that checked your forehead as you dazed with mild consciousness. Eyes fluttering open partially, you sat up and immediately checked your phone. Luckily, you hadn't missed your stop.

You turned your attention to the person beside you with a soft apology for falling asleep, most likely accidentally on them. Their words were mumbles by the white noise that filled your ears. Drooping lids urging you back to sleep as you resisted. Only able to stay awake due to sheer will, leaning away from the stranger.

“Where's your destination?” You jolted in surprise from the question, barely comprehending it before answering. “In about two stops…” The odd unknown person beside you gave a sharp nod. Using the opportunity of more alertness, you decided to examine the figure beside you.

It was a taller turtle man, dressed appropriately for the chilly weather outside. Bags hung under his eyes as if he were awake for far too long. Which causes a pang of guilt to emerge from within for passing out on this guy. Giving an apologetic look before you drifted your gaze around the primarily empty car. Only a few people also were dozing off and slumped in their own seats.

The automatic message of the next stop incoming chimes overhead. Looking up at the speaker, you just wanted something to fill the uneasy air created by the situation from your knocked out episode. Awkward silence was deafening as you pat your thighs in the hope to cut a bit of the suffocating atmosphere. “So… what are you doing on the subway?” You were about ready to strangle yourself as you cringed from the question. The guy just snorted and hummed before leaning back. “Just seeing all the interesting people heading home late at night, like a creep.” Your face burned with embarrassment as he looked back at you. “What are you doing on the subway?”

That question did not help the flaring on your cheeks. “You know, just heading home.” He just shrugged with a bit of laughter. “Ah, I should have suspected as such, he said sarcastically.” Despite your fatigue, you laughed lightly and nervously at the joke. With a break in the conversation, you turn back to him. “So you said you were watching interesting people on the subway? What's that about?”

The guy rubbed the back of his neck, leaned backwards into his seat. “Ah, well… just look over there.” He jerked his head in a direction for you to look. Trailing your eyes, you spotted a man surrounded by rats, feeding them bread. You shuddered, subconsciously tilting in the strange turtle man's space. “Oh, I see…”

Silently, he pointed in a different direction and you gazed over. Sitting on a primarily empty bench was a weeping man in a large hat being comforted by an older woman. “Fascinating… truly…” The words seem to slip out of the person beside you’s mouth. He smiled as you looked back at him and quickly scooted away.

The next stop chimed overhead as the subway stopped, the man surrounded by rats leaving as the horde followed. You almost burst into laughter, if only you weren't so tired. A few other less notable people also exited the car before the doors slid shut once more and the vehicle was in motion.

“So… is that all you're really doing? People watching?” He hummed at the question as he crossed his legs. “I suppose I am, the city of New York is absolutely intriguing. Although I refuse to ride during the day, far too crowded.” You could easily agree with that remark.

Your mind blanked on another topic to bring up, and it seemed the same for your newly acquired acquaintance. So the two of you sat in silence for a bit until you noticed a small tag on his hoodie. It had a familiar logo on it that you frowned at, trying to remember.

He noticed with a hum and pointed at the logo. “Recognize it?” You nodded before something clicked in your brain. “Genius Built! I remember reading about how it was a human, mutant, and yokai friendly brand. Sorry for the outburst, I was just trying to remember the logo.” A proud smirk crossed his features as you nervously looked away. “You seem to know a bit about it… know anything about it's CEO?”

Shaking your head, you tried to recall the article you read briefly. “Not really, the writer didn't say much and I was busy so I kinda sped ran the article.” He tapped his hands on the seat before folding them together. “Interesting, did you know the clothing brand also is connected with a tech company under the same name?” You looked at him curiously. “Oh really? Wow, that CEO really likes to dabble in different things.” He nodded and was about to say something when interrupted by the overhead speaker announcing your stop.

“Ah that's me… well I hope you have fun examining the people of New York…” You gave a slight wave as the subway stopped and you stood in time, swaying slightly with the car. Suddenly, your coat was tugged and you looked behind you. The stranger held out a small card for you to take. “It's been a surprising pleasure talking with you. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”

You smiled and took the card, placing it in your pocket. “Maybe we could, I'll see you later…?” He hummed before his eyes widened slightly. “Oh right, Othello Von Ryan.” You laughed as you creeped over to the doors, introducing yourself in turn.

The doors closed behind you as you waved to the departing subway. You turned away and started your walk home. The streets bustled with horns and engines, but all you could think about was how your day took a delightful turn. The air pinched your cheeks with cold, steps filling your growing sound checklist.

The lack of lights in the buildings passed were a testament to the late hour. You chuckled as you saw your building, remembering the stranger's name. It was odd, you figured his parents were old fashioned people. But then the curious thought of him changing his own name peeked your interest. You hummed it off as you unlocked your door.

Creeping into your room, you all but flopped down, exhaustion taking you down before your shoes hit the floor. That was probably the best subway ride you'd ever had. Snuggling into your pillow, your sleep aided mind gave a quiet reminder of the card in your pocket. You made the drifting decision to investigate in the morning. Right now, sleep was calling and you happily indulged it.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt oc #a cutie with a gun writes #rottmnt self insert

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 1 year

Text

Feeding the king

Gil-Galad x reader

*****

Imagine being a lady at the court of Lindon, who harbors secret feelings for her King.

You are friends with his valet, and one evening they mention that he's often in his study late, busy with paperwork, letters and the drafting of new laws.

You can imagine how unpleasant that can be, even for a strong and wise (and tall, and handsome, and with those broad shoulders, long and shining dark hair, and that deep and musical voice that makes you shiver in such a pleasant way) Elf like him, and while you can't help him, since the only talents you can boast are as an embroiderer and an harpist, maybe there is something you can do...

Like making sure he is fed. Maybe it is presumptuous, maybe you will bother him and nothing more... Still, that doesn't stop you, and one evening you knock at the door of the King's study, holding a tray with some light but nutritious food, and a chalice of his favourite wine.

"May I come in, your Majesty?"

"My lady, it is a pleasure. What are you doing here?" he asks, corteous but openly surprised to see you.

"I apologize for disturbing you as you work, but you have been here since late morning, and I thought you would appreciate a little food."

"Oh... Well, it is very kind of you. Do you want to sit?"

You have met many times at court, but this time, in this moment... it is like he is seeing you properly for the first time, like a book he has owned for years before he decided to read it.

You acconsent with a curtsy, and you spend a few minutes talking about the imminent visit of a delegation from the Greenwood, and some new music pieces you have learnt, as he eats and drinks with evident pleasure. In the end you take your leave, otherwise the King will never conclude his work.

You tell him there is no need, but he insists to walk you at the door, the gentlemanly thing to do. "It was very thoughtful of you to come, my lady. No one had ever done anything like this for me".

You answer, but saying what, you have no idea, because for the first time the King is smiling at you, his attention focused on you and his hand gently pressed against the base of your back.

"Goodnight then, Aran nin" you say in the end, finally recovering your wits, and he smiles at you one last time before closing the door.

You can't help giggling to yourself as you return to your quarters; he appreciated the gesture, you are sure of it, and maybe not just because he was hungry. Maybe you could do it again, not so often to actually bother him, but enough to make an impression on him. You are sincerely worried for the King, whose duties and heavy responsibilities would take a toll on anyone, even him, especially if he doesn't feed himself properly, but would it be so wrong of you to wish to spend some (private) time with the Elf who has captured your heart?

It would not; at least, the interested party doesn't seem to think so.

In the next months, a tacit routine is established between the two of you; once every six or seven nights, you ask your friend the valet (who are the only witness of the whole affair, but approve and therefore keep their mouth shut) whether the King is working in his study, and since the answer is almost always yes, you take a tray and bring it to him. You soon learn to recognize his favourite foods and drinks, and choose them accordingly in the kitchens.

He is always happy to see you, maybe not only, you hope in the privacy of your heart, because your visits allow him to take a break from his work. As he eats, you talk; you doubt your life can be of some interest for him, but the King always seem happy to hear of your days, and of your opinion on various matters. On his part, he is full of interesting stories: he never touches sensitive matters, of course, things no one except he and his closest advisers should know, but at the same time he talks to you way more freely than he would with many courtiers.

You tacitly decide to tell no one about your meetings; in the end, you are an Elf maid meeting the King in secret in his quarters by night, and you both know perfectly how the situation could be... misunderstood, in the eyes of someone who doesn't know that absolutely nothing inappropriate is happening between you and the King.

(Unfortunately, a voice in your ear whispers.)

So, that innocent relationship remains a secret between you and Gil-Galad. If you meet during the day, at a banquet or in the gardens, surrounded by dozens of other Elves, he is polite, distant, formal; but a light in his deep dark eyes when they meet yours betray amusement at that little farce you are forced to continue so that no one suspects.

When you visit him, he smiles. He relaxes. He even laughs. He looks at you like you are the only elleth in Arda. And you... you fall even more deeply in love with him than you were before, so much that your heart beats like a drum every time you meet him.

That those regular meetings have influenced Gil-Galad's feelings as well as yours doesn't even cross your mind, but so it is. He is used at people fawning over him, trying to gain his favour for various reasons, but no one before has ever cared for him like you do, out of worry for his health and of pleasure of his company. Soon, your visits are the moment he looks forward the most, and when one night (you are both at a banquet, and he is looking at other Elves doing what he suddenly wishes he could: openly talk to you, enjoy your full attention, and take your hand to lead you in a dance) he realizes he has developed feelings for you, it is already too late to deny or to repress them; he is in love, for the first time in his long life... and he has no idea what to do.

Do you feel the same, or is your interest only due to kindness and friendship? And would you be able to love him for him, not as a King to respect and obey, but as an equal partner? These are the questions that keep the King awake at night, so much that one evening, after your brought him your usual tray, you take the liberty of saying:

“You seem tired, my lord; is something wrong?”

He smiles weakly at you, feeling like he is little more than a child too shy to express his feelings. Eru preserve him, your kind smile and preoccupied eyes are enough to make him falter. “I confess I have been... pensive, for a while, with a certain matter I cannot find a solution for”.

“Oh, I wish I could help you... but maybe your advisers, or lady Galadriel...”

You are sitting in front of each other at his desk, and your hand is laid on the top, so close to his, and he would give everything to just take it, but he can’t...

“It is, I fear, a problem I need to solve by myself. But your very presence is such a balm for my fëa” he says in the end, smiling at you “I... cannot express how much these moments mean to me; I am very grateful to you, and for the pleasure of your companionship.”

You are alone in the vast, stately room, the deep darkness of the night barely illuminated by a few candles in the corners. Many months have passed since your first visit, and while you still feel shy in the King’s presence, not daring to hope he shares your feelings, you are happy for the closeness that has grown between you... as long as it can last.

“You mustn’t thank me, my lord. I must admit... I enjoy these moments with you as well. Maybe... more than the time I spend with anyone else” you confess in the end; it is an extremely daring thing to say, but when your eyes meet the King’s, suddenly you don’t feel bashful anymore “In fact...”

He stands up. “Yes?”

“In fact, I wish I could spend all my time with you. Talking, walking, even simply sitting next to each other; I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend my time. I just wish to be with you.”

In the years to come, you will never really understand who or what gave you the courage to speak like that, with your heart, openly and sincerely, but one thing is certain: you do not regret it. The King is now in front of you; he offers you an hand to help you stand up, and he hold both of yours in his, and for a few moments -you wait barely daring to breathe, your heart in your throat- it seems like he is searching for the right words.

He doesn’t find them.

So he kisses you.

Gil-Galad’s kiss is... like him: intense, strong but gentile, tasting like red wine and dew at dawn; he hesitates just for a moment, ready to stop as soon as he realizes you are unconfortable, but the moan of pleasure that escapes from your lips reassures him that nothing he is doing is unwelcomed - quite the opposite. You are caressing his neck with your hand, letting the other move in his shining dark hair, while his strong arms hold you by the waist, your body pressed against his, his touch sensual and possessive, and his tongue has met yours in a dance that has no name and doesn’t need to be taught, and the sensation is so delicious, so heavenly and physical at the same time, that you forget everything that is not just being in his -not your King, not in this moment, but your beloved- arms.

“Don’t let me go” you whisper in his ear; you feel, more than hear, him smile.

“Never.”

In the end, when you separate, you are both smiling; Gil-Galad takes your hand again and kisses it devoutly; quietly, he proposes on outing for the next day, a ride just the two of you in a lovely part of the kingdom, and maybe a walk in the woods.

You gaze at him adoringly; you love his voice, and you love the way it makes you feel. You had never thought a simple concern for his health would lead you here, but maybe it is true that good deeds are rewarded, sooner or later.

“I would love to, your majesty.”

“Please; I think we are beyond titles, you and I. You know my name, and I would really love you to call me that.”

“I will” you promise; you cannot wait to kiss him again “I will, Gil-Galad.”

Tagging as usual @starlady66 and @grinkitty . Hope you like this!!

#The Lord of the Rings #The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power #The Rings of Power #Rings of Power #Gil-Galad #High King Gil-Galad #King Gil-Galad #Gil-Galad x reader #Benjamin Walker #Bellona's stuff

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ninhaoma-ya · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1080 — The legendary hero

Really enjoying the double meaning of the chapter title, but coming back to that later.

First off, Hachinosu looks like a horribly violent place, ruled by fear of Teach.

There is also some sort of code of honour, if the fact that Koby’s escape means he’s free range is something to go by. But once the border’s been crossed…

Interesting to learn a bit more about the marine bounty hunting!

And of course: what did Koby do to get such a high bounty from the Cross Guild?

And we get a better overview of the Blackbeard pirates’ whereabouts (and powers)!

Once again we have an upgraded version of an earlier Devil’s Fruit (mere stone vs whole island). But how does that work with the sea? Which is touching the island at all times? By the definition of ‘island’? Also, is he now tied to Hachinosu or can he just merge with whatever land he’s standing on, as long as it’s surrounded by water? How big is an island in the fruit’s definition of it? Is a continent an island — could he merge with the Red Line?

And what happened at Rocky Port?

So, at the moment we have the following constellation…

On Hachinosu:

Shiryu, Vasco Shot, Avalo Pizarro, Sanjuan Wolf

Fighting Law:

Teach, Doc Q, Van Augur, Jesus Burgess

???:

Catarina Devon, Lafitte, Kuzan

And speaking of Kuzan: more information about SWORD! (I’m guessing he’s a member as well and has been undercover like Drake, cementing his position by giving up information about the marines)

Also: Koby, darling. How do you still keep the marines and government in such high regard? The let in a country called, literally, ‘The EVIL Black Drum Kingdom’. They accepted Doflamingo as ruler of Dressrosa after a coup. Do you really think they’ll give two farts in the wind about Blackbeard if he pays their tribute?

(And has Blackbeard’s dream changed?)

I have.. no idea what’s going on with the marines or SWORD. They are given normal assignments (like protecting the royals during their trip to the Reverie) but are still somehow unaffiliated with the marines?

(Also, Blackbeard is such a great foil to Luffy! Luffy also doesn’t know what’s happening and doesn’t really care, while Kuzan fills in the Robin-role here for exposition.)

I’m guessing he prefers the ones who scurries away.

And going back to the beginning: Hachinosu isn’t a terribly nice place, showcased here by Blackbeard’s focus on violence as the end goal.

Perona!

Koby: your journey started with a pirate, it’ll end with one.

I just really like her. And Tsuru has children?

Some familiar faces!

And Garp is a force to be reconned with.

And, back to the start: did the title talk about him or Koby? Or both? Is this the end (of an era) for one and the start for the other’s story?

Of course, with Pizarro literally being the island, Shiryu having invisibility, Wolf just being big enough to swat them like flies and Vasco… doing his thing, they’ll be whipped.

But will it force Luffy to get there or is it something to hear about when they’re done in Egghead and possibly Elbaf?

So much is happening!

I give it a galaxy-sized high-five and the end of my rope.

#one piece #ch 1080 #nin reads one piece #opspoilers #one piece spoilers

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miasmaghoul · 1 year

Note

Miasmaaaaa darling, do you have any recommendations on fics for a fellow enjoyer of ghouls?

Loves and kisses,

An enamored anon too shy to send from main

No need to hide, sweetheart. I only bite upon request. 💜

But yes, I have many recs! Mostly smut, but I see nothing wrong with that. Though please do keep in mind that I am into what could probably be called "the weird shit." There's all kinds of pairings (mostly ghouls) and content here. Of course, it goes without saying that you should ALWAYS check tags before reading anything. Below the cut because I can't make anything short!

@st-danger - Literally everything Saint has ever written is 10000/10. Their fics have given me at least four new kinks so far and countless orgasms, and no I am not shy about admitting that (you're welcome Saint). You can't miss with any of their work, but if I had to cherry pick I'd give you Metamorphose, Pinned Wings, Uphold with a Righteous Hand and the entire forcedfem series that starts with Let Your Eyes Delight in My Ways. But I mean it when I say you can't go wrong with a Saint piece.

@anotherghoul666 - Another person responsible for giving me new kinks and orgasms (thank you, Hukka). Their works are immersive, filled with world building and character study. Recommend everything, once again, but cherry picking This Could All Be Yours, Make My Blood Rush (Slow Down), Drought or Euphoria and A Loosened Heart (Corrodes the Shield). No smut in that last one, but some incredible hurt/comfort.

@streamghoul - Stream is insane and unhinged and incredibly talented. I cannot WAIT to get to know them better because D A M N. Recommend Floodwaters of Phlegethon, let no one lust for martyrdom, Whiplash and Epiphany (that one is Copia/Mary Goore).

@iamthecomet - Comet is rad and sweet as candy and you should read her entire ficlet collection right now because hhhhhh. Also Step by Errant Step, Bend My Desire and Astraphobia! And of course Born Under a Troubled Sign because who am I if not a member of the Unholy Trinity?

@kroas-adtam - Gotta complete the Trinity! I don't really have to tell you to read Death of Peace of Mind, do I? Also Water is Wet because spite is delicious.

@waywardsamaritan - They're pretty new here, but they're AMAZING. I read their first fic ever (!!), when i get my hands on you, and I still REFUSE to believe it was their first. It's SO good. All of their stuff is incredible, but it's a power trip sent me to another dimension.

@feralghxuls - They have some of the most unique ghoul headcanons I've come across, and they're great reads. Highly recommend Unholy is the Lust in Your Eyes, To the Hunter from the Prey, You'd Never Want It To Be Over and Devoured by Shadows.

@ratballet - They get a special shoutout because paper armor (Copia/Dew) was the first Ghost fic I ever read and what eventually led me to dive headfirst into fandom again! Also a huge fan of new sensations, sweet temptations, sweeter if you stay and aftershow.

The same place I learned to give in and Thunder only happens when it's raining by @ohvegeta - Incredibly good, special pieces of writing, these. Love them both very much.

There Is Beauty In The Way of Things by @ghostinthewires - Not smut, but it's gorgeous and everyone should read it.

Unholy Trinity by @forlorn-crows - Crow I know we only really talk about Mountain but I am SICK over this big boy sandwich fyi.

Butterfly Garden by @youhaveahomeinmyheart - Eli also writes some great smut, but like...I can't NOT recommend the only fic that has ever almost made me cry.

The Shining and The Light by @mibo-nin - This one gets regular re-reads for a reason.

Obviously by @shelterforananimal - Bro. BRO. Soft and sweet and SO hot.

Weekend Warriors by LifeasanNPC - This person only wrote a single piece of Ghost fic and I honestly think it may be one of the best out there. Full stop.

There ya go, an incomplete but extended list of recs! Hope you can find something to suit your fancy!

#miasma says #fic recs #i love all of these people whether they like it or not >:)

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justsasuke · 3 months

Note

hii i just totally stalked ur acc because i’m dying for team taka content :))) anyways can i get some modern suigetsu headcanons just like the sasuke one. tyyy

heyy, we love a stalker around here <3. welcome. I hope what you found satiated you at least a little!! Absolutely you can!! This is actually really funny because I've been thinking about our favorite mist nin lately. Your message is a sign for me to do something about that haha. (Find the Sasuke ones here.) Here's what I have so far:

His favorite colors are light purple and "aqua bluish-green" (he doesn't know the actual name so that's what he calls it but it's a very specific shade. it's Kandinsky Turquoise the color of his water bottle)

His toxic eating habit that drives Sasuke absolutely crazy is that he eats cup noodle ramen with a fork. That's the only thing he uses a fork for.

He really only likes the seafood cup noodle flavor but will steal Juugo's curry flavor just because he can.

His favorite flavor of yogurt is white peach

He doesn't like plain mint toothpaste and always gets pineapple flavor (that's a thing in Japan)

His favorite indoor pastime is video games. Surprisingly he likes adventure ones that are more story focused and less violent.

He has a huge collection of indie records, all on vinyl, that he got from Mangetsu. He’s listened to all of them and has all the track lists memorized.

His favorite Ramen flavor is Tonkotsu

He was in the water polo club in middle and high school.

His favorite manga are Chainsaw Man (I picked this for vibes only, I haven't read it) and One Piece

Has an abnormally large collection of swim trunks with a wide range of patterns but always wears the same ones except on rare occasions.

Is notorious for stealing other people's bathing products (shampoo, body wash, you name it) without asking. has used Karin's too which made her so mad. Sasuke has not noticed that he does this yet.

Would sleep in the nude if he could. (all of his friends have told him no)

Learned how to skateboard from his brother Mangetsu, knows a wide range of tricks and is really good at it

Does not like wearing socks

OK imma stop here because I feel like this is going to get crazy long otherwise haha. Honestly I may just have to do a part 2 👀👀 See you around~~ and as always feel free to add/send me your own!! I love looking at them.

#He's such a deeply chaotic person #Lmk if you want more #Suigetsu Anon #Suigetsu #modern headcanons #Modern AU #Suigetsu Headcanons #Asks

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artisticcrow · 1 year

Photo

I know it’s been a while but welcome back to me telling you guys about the tiny details I’ve put into one of my little art pieces. Because if I don’t tell you about it, then who will?

The link to the original art is here!

The Breakdown Is Below Read more

So first let’s go through some common unifiers.

We have cute little hearts with their life number on it and a bonus blue coloring to say when a life is lost.

Tango, Skizz, and Etho’s hearts show this loss in different ways..Skizz has his with colored stiches going through and a red slash, and so does Etho(plus his weeb headband getting a little missing nin slash of death) his; But,Tango’s has a little red slash but no stiches.

A little divide in the group there ;).

Of course what is not a divide is their roses, Impulse and Bdubs of course having matching pure red, while Etho, Skizz, and Tango all have blue streaks to mimic Team BEST colors because we will never be over that tragic boy band.

Speaking of tragedy,

Let’s get into Tango’s little details

Now Mr. Tek here was a fun time to give a little wedding flare too.

He is of course rocking that cowboy goth, big hat, big heart belt buckle big boots, but of course I still wanted to stay true to the original skin, such as keeping his hands bare, and white highlights for that skin tone that pops up above the wrist area of the mc skin.

He’s also propping his shield which the banner seems to be another fabric just nailed into it.

Of course you where most likely not looking at those things when it came to Tango’s design. Let’s talk about the Elephant in the room.

Warden! Tango

Warden Tango just felt more right than all the blazeborn stuff to me. Not that blazeborn Tango isn’t cool but to help keep designs varied I think I’ll make Tango have different creature traits in different seasons to reflect and fit the theming.

And why shouldn’t Rancher’ Revenge have a Warden dad?

Now there are somethings to note about this.

Most people draw the Warden with these antlers and horns for the top of it’s head, heck even the concept art I was using for color uses those terms, however I don’t really see them as that.

Instead I see them as tendrils more like antenna or the tendrils on top of a Shulk Sensor. Heck you can see a version of a Beta Warden with that design. Of course then I ran into the problem of how to get it to be as thick as they are. My answer was having many.

Now of course I wanted the bones to match the red that I wanted to use for tango, so I did the normal person thing by color shifting the whole picture to ref and pinkish colors and looking at the blue it gave. Of course you can still see the regular Warden bones on his Jacket.

This blue would also be the bases for his nails, and blush as well.

And lastly I want to talk about the souls.

The souls are interpreted as a little design on the stomach and wrists of his shirt as well as on his boots. A little closer look at the shirt will also see bands and a little design to act as the “teeth” on a Warden’s arm as well. Besides the boots, all of the souls glow.

One last thing on Tango’s design before we move on.

His forehead has a large scar on his fore head. This is a little nod to how Tango first died in the Life series, ever. 3rd lifers get a little treat.

So do Team Ranchers as you can se his golden hair has a couple of muted dirty blonde in it. That same color can be found on a feather attached to his belt and the inside color of a blue hardcore heart bolo.

This of course connects him to his rancher, no matter how far apart they get.

Now on to Skizzleman.

I did all 6 of his wings and it killed me, but dang does it look good!

To counter Impulse’s little demon theming he of course has angel theming, this is nothing new but I wanted my little take on it with big wings that glow his blue and have eyes on the feathers in his eye’s blue.

I am just unbelievably happy with how this turned out.

Also being an angelic being I gave him an extra finger, that now your guy’s problem actually.

He also has a bunch of other details.

First let’s get out my biggest regret; His arms don’t have that 3rd Life Purple in them. I managed to include the eyes, but not the arms. Truly this is the miss opportunity of a life time. Hindsight on a picture is a bitch.

Another thing that is awful Hindsight is that blank belt buckle.

But hey at least I got his final Last Life death but Arrow scar. Also Skizz has a couple explosion deaths so of course that’s what I a going to turn his skin’s arm makes into.

I also managed to refence the light red lettering of BEST into his head as well. My man cuts and dye’s his hair.

He’s also has a golden headpiece that looks like a halo!

Also kinda went ham on the Sunflowers, idk why but he one for every BEST member.

Now onto the last details of this boy

This man coordinated with his best buddy on outfits.

Please believe me when I say Impulse is wearing blue socks you can’t see to match their matching shoes and pocket embellishments.

Speaking of whom, onto the man himself!

Now first off let’s get the obvious out of the way: I miss Boatem.

Now let’s talk about the fun stuff like his golden apple key chain and his sharp claws and sharp lips.

Or how his little demon horns and tails have floating little guys that give that “i” look to them, with the fade in yellow.

And of course the most cute thing: Him and Impulse share colors in the same area where their forehead touches. Really just wanted to give that sweet vibes they give off.

Just something nice.

Of course that’s not the only thing they share.

Two Rings chained together, one a clock the other copper. Matching compass watches to find the other and of course, compass and clock belt buckle with belt colors of the other man’s waist coat.

The Compass thing is one of those design details I wish I did differently by making compasses an Imp and Skizz thing to imply... something idk it’s up to you guys on that.

Now onto the little guy

This man is so skrunkly. What a Youtube

He has the moss corset coat, the clock tie pin, eyes bruised to hell and back, burns on the back of his neck from a game during the first season, and a smug look on his face despite the sword to his neck, you know the usual stuff!

Also his coat is more in line with the white sample from his skin’s shirt while the actually shirt’s white came from his teeth.

Very nervous about that hair line fade but was really happy with the end products, same with the bruise and beard texturing. Naturally white beard hair does not play nice with coloring!

Lastly let’s go over Etho boy over here.

He is of course in full weeb attire, but after being informed he was not allowed to cosplay Canadian Jonin Kakashi Hatake to the wedding, he instead decided to cosplays Wedding arc Jonin Kakashi Hatake but the outfit looks more snazy.

This includes his leaf belt and sleeve patch as well as a mirror patch of a head course heard. He’s wearing a proper archer glove but the cosplay rears it’s head again with heart hand plates.

And of course Socks with Sandals to top this whole outfit off. If you look closely you can also see the dark green “E” pattern to match the one on his skin’s chest. With of course the “Zipper” color being moved to the bottom layer fabrics.

His sandal color is also his belt color.

Also he has tiny little claws and pointy ears. Because I waited to make him vaguely not human and hadn’t fell in love with Mimicking Mocking Raven Etho like I now have. His not red eye matched his life color, while his red one keeps it’s blood and a cool heart shape.

Then of course he does have a bunch of burn and exposition scars, as well as an arrow scar covered up his mask.

Lastly; he shares some green and brow in his hair from his significant annoyance. Truly the best Murder Bois!

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And with that, we’ve gone over all the details except for a obvious detail or two I might’ve forgotten. I tried my best to comb through it all though :)

Anyways Hope you’ve enjoyed!

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study-with-aura · 7 months

Text

Thursday, October 5, 2023

I had so much writing today! My hand hurts! It is okay. Taking notes by hand helps with recalling information more than typing it on the computer does. Some things I still type up, like my essays or outlines, but then other things like biology or history notes, I try to write down in my notebook. It is easier to flip through it as well when I am reviewing and make annotations if necessary.

I am very happy to read The Odyssey! I had to read a bit on the Trojan War, and the essay was long! However, I found it terribly enthralling, especially due to the fact that historians believe many parts of the myth might actually be true! All myths have some semblance of truth, or so I have heard.

Days are getting quite long with my course work now and ballet and when I volunteer and what I am trying to do to complete steps of badge activities for GS while trying to keep up with practicing the piano, chores, and supplementary study on Khan Academy and Duolingo. I had a goal to read so many books by the end of the semester outside of required readings, but I do not know if I will meet that or not as I have not started on any outside reading yet. I do not want to overwork myself and have a burnout. This is another reason why I love to meditate. It is "me" time to relax, re-center, and calm my mind from all the noise of trying to meet my goals.

Tasks Completed:

Geometry - Reviewed and practiced SSS, SAS, ASA, and AAS congruence + learned about congruence in overlapping triangles + practice + honors practice

Lit and Comp II - Reviewed units 4-6 vocabulary + watched an introduction of The Odyssey + read a brief intro of The Odyssey + read a summary of Book 1 of The Odyssey + read Book 1 of The Odyssey + answered questions + edited my compare/contrast essay

Spanish 2 - Reviewed vocabulary + reviewed animals

Bible I - Read Exodus 15-16:1-21

World History - Completed quizzes on the Byzantine Empire, Islam, and the Crusades + answered review questions + updated my timeline + reviewed my entire timeline

Biology with Lab - Explored molecules + built a water molecule and a glucose molecule

Foundations - Read more about determination + took a quiz on Read Theory + read through steps 16-19 of the steps of research

Practice - Practiced assigned pieces for 30 minutes and worked on memorization

Khan Academy - Completed Unit 2: Lesson 11 of World History

Duolingo - Completed at least one lesson each in Spanish, French, and Chinese

Activities of the Day:

Ballet

Pointe

Journal/Mindfulness

What I’m Grateful for Today:

I am grateful that I am going to get to read The Odyssey for Lit and Comp because I have wanted to read it for a while and now I have an excuse to do so!

Quote of the Day:

Life expands or shrinks in direct proportion to one's courage.

-Anaïs Nin

🎧"Ständchen" D957 - Franz Schubert

#study community #study blog #study inspiration #study motivation #studyblr #studyblr community #study-with-aura

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