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maybe-theres-hope · 3 years

Note

Vague tarlos prompt if it inspires you? Any situation involving protective carlos? Love your writing! :)

Hi anon! Thank you for prompting!

Warnings: references to Rohypnol type substance (though it is not named), potential assault situation. Absolutely nothing actually happens, it’s handled quickly and this is mostly lighthearted. I just wanted to warn for anyone who’s triggered by the situation.

Carlos didn’t frequent bars much, as a rule. He liked dancing, sure, and socializing; however it was mostly the clientele he didn’t like. Carlos was a cop--he’d seen the shitty underbelly of this city more than he cared to acknowledge, and usually nefarious types like that liked to hang out in places like this: loud, anonymous, and dark. Most of the time his friends didn’t invite him out to clubs and bars because he couldn’t turn off his instincts and thus it made him a little bit of a stick in the mud at times.

Tonight was similar, though he’d allowed himself to let loose just a little. Michelle had bugged him for ages to come out this bar, a hole in the wall that she said he might be able to pick up in, given the atmosphere was pretty welcoming for a country joint.

At this particular moment, just past his third beer, he was beginning to see the appeal.

Standing at the bar and chatting with the girl behind it was the absolute cutest guy he’d ever seen. Compact but muscular, with arms just slightly too big for the sleeves of his patterned shirt. Casual stance, but seeming a little out of place. Probably a tourist. And holy hell, his perfect ass. Carlos was not a shallow guy, but watching as the guy leaned in closer to talk to the bartender and the way the denim pulled over what was probably the most beautiful specimen of a ‘bubble butt’ Carlos had ever seen, he had to admit to himself that he was literally objectifying the guy where he stood.

To his consternation though, Michelle noticed right away. “I see you leering, Carlos. Go, I’m fine here,” she smirked.

“I was not leering, Jesus ‘Chelle. I was just...admiring.”

“Mmhmm. Well? Go talk to him, or I will.”

He snorted. “I don’t think you’re his type at all, chica.”

“You can tell that from way over here? Or are you just hopefully projecting?” She took another sip of her beer and glanced back over to the guy, who was now being approached by another handsome man. The newcomer was tall and lean with a disarming smile that Carlos’ object returned.

“See that?” he said with a nod of his head. “Body language is everything. He’s gay, believe me. Or at least he swings that way.”

“Okay so? Why are you still sitting here? Someone’s about to beat you to the punch.”

Carlos sat and watched as the newcomer said something apparently chuckle-worthy, and the cutie he’d been watching obliged with the sweetest smile and a bashful duck of his head. The tall guy was laying it on thick, and it was apparently working. Carlos knew he’d missed his chance once Tall Guy’s hand slid softly down Cutie’s arm and lingered there for a moment with no rejection. Oh well.

“Too late,” he sighed, turning back to his beer.

Just a few minutes later, he couldn’t help himself checking over again, just to see that gorgeous smile again. However, this time Tall Guy was by himself, no sign of Cutie boy in the tight jeans. The bartender placed a cup of water in front of Tall Guy and walked away to take care of another customer at the other end of the bar. Carlos was just thinking that he actually might have a chance if he could find the guy again in the crowd when his instincts kicked in.

Tall Guy picked up the cup of water, holding it near his hip, between his body and the bar before placing it back on the top. He gave it a quick stir with the straw and left it alone.

Carlos watched him closely, but he never picked it back up. Then, Cutie returned, clearly having gone off to the bathroom or something similar, still with that sweet smile for his companion. His hand reached toward the cup, and Carlos was out of his seat before he could bring it a fraction of the way to his mouth.

“Hey!” he yelled across the room, nearly drowned out by the music but luckily it caught Cutie’s attention just barely. He looked up at Carlos with a startled look, turning to confusion and a little bit of fear, no doubt in response to Carlos’ thunderous expression.

Carlos barely looked at him, his eyes only on Tall Guy as he shouldered his way between them, putting the other guy safely behind his back.

“That how you think you’re gonna get laid tonight?” He gestured to the cup, still held in Cutie’s hands. "Drugging someone so they can’t say no?”

“What?” came the guy’s incredulous reply from behind him.

“I didn’t do anything, man. You’re just jealous I saw him first.” And wow, what an asshole. The guy was standing right there for crying out loud.

“I’m right here, and I’m not a commodity.” This bit was a little exasperated.

Carlos didn’t back down. “I know what I saw, and I know what the consequences are for you if you don’t just turn around and get lost right now.” He took that moment to pull out his badge and hold it up for Tall Guy to see clearly. “Unless you’d like to stay, in which case I’ll start reading you your rights.”

Tall Guy looked sufficiently scolded, but still resentful. Carlos puffed up his chest a little more and took a step into his space.

“Fine, man, fine. I’ll see myself out, officer,” he spit. Carlos turned back to Cutie without giving the guy a second glance.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not able to help the concern in his voice.

“Did you really see him put something in the cup?” Cutie asked. His face had gone a little pale.

“Yeah. I didn’t know what it was, but that kind of thing is never good. I’ve seen some horrible shit at the other end of encounters like that,” he said.

This made the guy’s face turn relieved and overwhelmed all at once. “Thank you,” he said with conviction. He looked ready to hug Carlos, which Carlos himself wouldn’t have minded in the least, but seriously, they’d just met.

“You’re welcome. Not that I don’t think you can handle yourself, but...you know. Cop,” he said with a self-conscious gesture at his badge before stowing it away in his pocket again.

“No, I mean, yes thank you for saving me from a fucking asshole like that but also…it’s...I’m.” He struggled to find words, and Carlos was confused, but he let the man come to the words on his own. “Even more than the physical danger, which I’d probably recover from anyway--”

And didn’t that make Carlos feel even more protective of this sweet, gorgeous man.

“I’m sober. So. The recovery from that would have been...much worse. So thank you,” he said again, looking Carlos in the eye with more seriousness than he’d been prepared for.

Now Carlos was a little overwhelmed himself, but he managed a “No problem.” The man kept looking at him though, so he kept talking. “I’m Carlos, by the way.”

“TK,” he said, offering his hand. “So I have to ask, how did you see him put something in my drink from way across the bar?”

Carlos’ face grew hot. “Umm. Well, I--”

TK laughed. “I was watching you too, before.” His eyes shined in the neon lights behind the bar, and Carlos was lost for a moment. “You’re cute, couldn’t help myself. I can even forgive you for playing for the other team,” he joked.

Carlos figured he was referring to the fact that he was sitting in a booth with a woman, and hurried to correct the assumption. “Oh, no I...Michelle’s just a friend. I’m definitely gay,” he stuttered.

This only made TK laugh more, and even though Carlos could tell it was at his own expense, he wanted to hear more of it. When he’d recovered, he went on. “Oh, I know you are. No straight man knows what colors flatter them that well,” he gestured to Carlos’ green v-neck tee and black jeans. “I meant that you’re a cop. I’m a firefighter. Other team?” He grinned again at his joke.

Carlos just stared at him, face feeling redder by the minute and he thanked every possible deity that this bar was dark enough to hide it. Hopefully. He came to after a moment and let out a startled laugh which brought a bright smile to TK’s face.

“Well, I guess I can make an exception this once and ask you to join us?” he ribbed. “If you’d like. My friend Michelle over there is a paramedic. We can swap war stories and you can forget about the asshole.” He grinned hopefully at TK.

“I’d like that,” was his answer.

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you liked it :)

#tarlos #tarlos fic #tarlos prompt #potential assault tw #911 lone star #911ls #carlos reyes #tk strand #au: different first meeting #Brooke writes

113 notes · View notes

littlefreya · 4 years

Text

The Crystal Ship - Part 1

Summary: Henry is the most dangerous crime lord in England, he has everything he wants and women throw themselves at his feet, but what really gets him off is what’s hard to get.

Pairing: AU! Mafia Boss!Henry Cavill x OFC (Ash)

Word count: 4.8K

Warnings: Smutty Smut, MaleDom Vibes, Stripping, Bad language, Sexual innuendo, dry humping, bodily fluids.

A/N: I’ve been wanting to write this for a while and I only hope you guys will like it. As usual, I am nervous. It was supposed to be a one-shot but ended up being longer than I expected so I am dividing it into two parts for now. Many thanks to @agniavateira my sweet beta and helpful muse. Cover designed by me.

Please leave feedback 💖🥺 and more importantly, enjoy.

Title: The Crystal Ship

The sweet, smoky scent made his nose curl in repulsion. It was thick in the air, like a fruit that was too ripe, mere moments before rot sets in. Henry dreaded coming to the Imperial, even though it was the only safe ground to conduct business without having to deal with the district attorney's snout or any unwelcome eavesdropping. The club felt musty, drenched with bodily fluids and not in a good way. The men who frequented this place were foul animals; being amongst them made him feel as if their filth was rubbing onto him.

Sitting at the bar, he downed his whiskey, hissing while the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat. The bartender stood behind the counter, polishing some glasses and looking at the large man as he brooded on the sleek black marble of the counter.

Plastic neon lights flickered magenta and turquoise on the slick surface. An offensive contrast to the gloom that played inside Henry’s head. Life lacked vividness when everything was handed over on a golden tray. Money, beautiful women, fast cars.

The women of the club were especially keen on throwing themselves at his feet, thirsty for his attention and money which he was never willing to give.

“Please fuck me, Henry.” “Please let me suck your cock.”

As any man, he was flattered, though if he wanted to see a woman naked, he wouldn’t need to pay for it. Still, they circled him, desperately whining at his feet whenever he stepped into the club.

All except for her.

Big, almond-shaped eyes the colour of fertile light brown earth with a touch of green. Sitting on a barstool in the opposite direction. She was one of the girls working the club, no doubt. He didn’t imagine she was a gangster wearing fishnet stockings and a tight corset.

New girl, he gathered. He had never seen her pretty face before tonight. It was apparent she could sense his glance. Her body shifted uncomfortably, her irises focused on the straw of her tall glass of orange juice yet she never bothered looking back. Not even a smile on her nude lips.

Henry scoffed as a spike of interest surged through his mind. He spotted the long-haired beauty earlier as he sat through an infuriating meeting. Her big hazel eyes cut into his attention abruptly, focusing on his glare for a wisp before she swung away.

Treating him as if he was a nobody.

She chose to ignore him, much to his contempt.

Girl likes to play tough? Well, I happen to like bending things in my hands.

-----------

Ash felt her hand prickle as she waited on the bar stool. Sipping on an orange juice, she watched as an ageing rich couple made out on a red vinyl booth while a curvy girl danced on their table. Candy-Apple, the girl who she was paired with for the night, disappeared to one of the VIP rooms with a customer. Instructed her to wait and not to take any customers alone, being still a trainee.

The Imperial had some strict dos and don’ts.

Little did Candy know, Ash had the miraculous gift of getting herself into sticky situations and for reasons she couldn’t explain, tonight felt like one of those nights.

Taking another sip, she exhaled nervously, the corset tight around her ribs, further pushing her already strangled lungs. It was her very first shift and she seemed to have fallen on a busy night. The customers were not too pushy, though. No one has smeared himself onto her while holding a pitcher of beer and smelling of peanuts on their breath. Candy promised that the owners won't touch the girls and don’t let anyone else touch them either. The Imperial might be a “gentlemen’s” club, but it was one of the safest joints for girls to work at in London.

It didn’t do anything to calm the anxiety that waited at the door as she felt the presence of the tall stranger who kept his eyes on her for the last couple of hours.

She “bumped” into him earlier as she walked around the ground floor. Broad shoulders and a face that looked as if it was put together from all the best parts found in heaven. He sat with three other men, looking like the superior one in the group. Fury burned in his eyes, yet his posture was composed which only made him look more frightening. It was a mistake to gander, she knew it deep in her heart, but he was an impressive specimen of a man. She couldn’t look away, not soon enough before their eyes met.

Now he was sitting a few meters away. A spiced drink sits in his glass, a ghost of a smile loomed over his face while his fingers were pressed to his temple in some sort of dark intrigue. He stared with the confidence of a man who knew he could have everything and it seemed like she fell on his aim.

Feeling uncomfortable, Ash broke her gaze and slipped off from her seat, wishing to find a place where she could hide from his hungry curiosity. This man had trouble written all over his arrogant posture and if she learnt anything about herself, it was that she was a magnet for chaos. She turned on her stilettos and crouched down for a second to rearrange the fishnet stockings around her thighs before straightening up moving on.

In the most natural order of things, the stranger was there to stand in her way.

Broad and mysterious, the man towered above her with a small smile edging his mouth. Up close, she noticed his copper-brown curls and eyes like smooth steel. They shone like sharp knives through the club’s neon lighting. His jaw was cut marble, defined lines soared across his high cheekbones and even his lips had the perfect cupid’s bow.

Ash registered him carefully and her heart murmured. No man should be this good looking; he was beautiful in manners that seemed unearthly.

“May I buy your precious time, love?”

His voice hung low and deep, smooth like a chocolate truffle that melted on one’s tongue.

The scent of danger filled Ash’s nostrils; it smelled like peated scotch, aftershave, and heady musk. Judging by his cool-grey tailored suit, it was quite clear that he was a businessman from the underworld kind.

He burnt hot, and a part of her was immediately drawn to the flame. Yet despite the thrill, he seemed much more perilous than any of the other criminals who lurked around the club. This man could easily fuck up some poor girl’s life.

In the dark cold cavern of the club, with his shadow casting over her face, the stranger seemed more like Hades than just the ordinary mobster.

“Maybe some other night”, she forced herself to refuse, doing her best to sound polite yet stern while offering an apologetic smile in the hope that he would accept her refusal and let her go.

She knew right away that wouldn’t please him. It was clear as vodka; he wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. The thought alone made her nerves shiver as if someone was sliding ice on her skin.

Henry ran his knuckle across the dimple of his chin. The signet ring on his pinky finger flickered on her hazel eyes in blinding silver. He took her in with a deep inhale. No, not even a drop of appreciation on her pretty face but he did detect a tinge of fear.

Interesting he mused, a small grin stretching his defined lips. The little dark-haired woman was either completely oblivious to who he was, or she was one of them ladies who had principles.

Whichever it was, it spiked his intrigue and made for a curious turn of events in a very boring night.

“Isn’t that what you do, darling? Dance for money?”

He asked as he waved two £50 bills between his long fingers as an offering. His accent was posh and not a fake one either. She imagined he grew up wealthy. How does a man who presumingly, could achieve everything in life wound up into a place like this, she wondered. Not that the Imperial club was anything sort of sleazy. It was owned by the largest underworld family and had a taste of an old cabaret. Male celebrities often visited the club aside from gangsters and corrupt politicians.

“It’s my first night I’m not really...”

Henry reached into his pocket, drawing six more £50 bills and offered it to her. The steel in his eyes softened for a moment, yet the peril still hovered on his face.

He was a man trying to appear harmless and the risk never seemed so alluring.

Chewing on her cheek, she stared at the money. It was enough to stock the fridge for at least a month but it wasn’t as even half as seductive as her stranger’s haunting charm.

Fuck it.

Taking a deep breath, her slender fingers reached toward the hand that held the cash. She snatched the money from between his digits and tucked it in her garter belt. Henry beamed, pleased that she agreed. Two large dimples creased his cheeks as if this man needed any more attractive features.

Ash wrapped her fingers around his wrist and led him through the depths of the club while her heart thundered in her chest. For some reason, it felt as if she was walking freely into a trap.

And yet, excitement boiled in her blood.

The cracks between their silent contract were filled by the beats of the monotonous music. They passed by the abundance of half-naked women who were coaxing different men around the bar, touching and smiling sweetly, serving them with nothing but the illusion that they are wanted, when in fact they were needed for nothing but a paycheck.

Henry followed the petite woman, anticipation coating his veins and spiralling a small grin on his face. He guessed that without her heels she’d be at the height of his shoulder, this pretty little thing with raven black hair. He was intrigued by the way she bravely withstood him, almost to the point of irritation. It seemed as if his spell was useless on her as she carried herself carelessly, unlike the many women who threw themselves at his feet, begging to be fucked.

There was something provoking in her, to the extent of him willing to break another one of his own rules and get a sense of what she felt from the inside.

Her fingertips pressed on his wrist, sensing the pulse within. His heart ran strong and confident but she imagined it would only be a matter of time until she’d have him a complete mess.

They all have the same weakness, no matter how much power they have.

The large spacious club narrowed into a slim corridor while teal and magenta-coloured lights danced diagonally across a mirrored tunnel. Their own reflections appeared several times, accompanying them as they arrived in an open room, guarded by a huge, square-shaped bodyguard with a shaved head, chewing on the dead skin of his thumb.

Henry eyed him carefully, giving him a small nod before following her into the room. The interior was dark, with a black ceiling and a black shiny floor, embellished with white LEDs that reflected on her red stiletto heels. An onyx leather couch waited in the middle next to a small edge table holding plenty of bottled hard liqueur.

“Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the seat and shut the door behind her, taking a deep breath as she felt a slight increase in her heartbeat. In the confinement of the small space, the brooding man had the energy of a lion, hazing her senses and making her feel like nothing more but a fluffy little rabbit.

The leather squeaked beneath his weight as he shifted slightly, wide thighs spread open while he glanced at her rear. She turned to tinker with the stereo system, selecting a tune to dance to.

Browsing through the selection of beverages, Henry decided to treat himself to a bottle of smoked whiskey. He unturned a clean lowball on the table, the sharp hiss making her flinch and then slump her shoulders at the sound of thick liquid being poured. The odour of spiced ashes filled the room, mixing with his musk and her sweet perfume.

“Should I pour you one as well, pet?”

“I would rather not drink on the job,” she replied and pressed play. Soft synth tunes played through the speakers and Ash turned to him slowly, giving him a seductive glance.

“Depeche Mode, really?” He crooked an eyebrow and smiled with amusement before pressing the glass to his lips and eyeing her carefully.

“I thought this song is fitting for my first VIP client” she answered, and made sensual steps towards him, already feeling captive by the daggers on his eyes. Henry took another sip of the amber-gold drink and placed his glass aside, pressing his fingers against his temple while examining the woman who was running her hands over her corset.

“You’re my first too.”

“Bullshit,” she mocked, entering into the space between his knees.

Henry tilted his head, a small warning glare crossing his chiselled face. “Mind your tongue, sweetheart. You’re a lady, act like one.”

She bit her tongue, avoiding the small tremor that flapped from her chest all the way up to her throat like a tiny caged bird. The dominance and authority in his voice made her shiver, making her feel as if she was owned by more than just his money. She wondered what made a handsome man like him even bother paying for something he could get for free from any woman he wanted.

“Fuck,” she provoked, keeping the fear on her breath tucked well behind a sweet sultry smile. She took joy in the dissatisfaction that danced on his face as she cursed. “You know how this works, then?”

“You take off your clothes and dance on my lap like a good girl?”

“I can touch you, you don’t touch me.” she warned, and slowly fell to her knees between his thick thighs, following the hollowed drop in the melody. Henry stared down at her with a pleased look on his face, his eyes hued with wanton as she rolled the laces of her corset between her fingers and unwrapped herself like the sweetest present.

It wasn’t her first time giving a lap dance. She worked in strip clubs outside of London, but those were much smaller clubs that held no more than 40 guests. And none of her customers looked like Big Handsome Boss.

“That seems unfair,” he answered as she spread her corset open. Her perked nipples teased through the loosened fabric while she gave him a pouty look and pulled at the laces delicately until she was free of the confinement of her bodice.

Henry shifted in his seat uncomfortably while she revealed her body to him. Small breasts glowed heavenly in the LED lighting, skin pure and smooth like honey. He was forced to reach a hand to adjust the huge bulge that pooled with arousal while her fingers began stalking up to his knees like two big spiders.

Big boy, she noted, trying to deny the small electric tingle that ran mischievously between her legs.

“Many things in life are unfair, Mister…”

“Henry.”

“Henry,” she answered, her French-manicured nails scratching his thighs, eliciting a low growl from him that made her spine crawl. “Not that I imagine that a man like you would know.”

He let out a small chuckle, she wasn’t far from being right. The hardest thing in his life right now was the fact that a beautiful nymph was dancing between his thighs and he wasn’t allowed to touch her. Yet.

The little vixen clutched his thighs tightly and pushed herself up steadily, spine curving, her breasts displayed an inch from his lips. She climbed to his lap and straddled his waist, pressing her panty-clad crotch against his caged erection. A rogue moan escaped her lips as she felt the mass of his bulge between her legs, much to the large man’s delight.

It appeared she wasn’t all immune to his spell. Her breath was shaking in her throat as she pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the hard pecs under the soft cotton of his grey shirt. Henry was sturdy and large. She couldn’t help but wonder what he hid beneath his well-tailored outfit. His biceps were bigger than her head as he kept his arms folded; those thighs beneath her ass felt thicker than logs.

Her lustful gaze swayed to meet the sky in his eyes up close, detecting a slight imperfection in one of them: an earthly taint of brown. He gave her a slanted grin, descending to feast on the sight of her half-naked form with a flick of his tongue across his lip.

Red flags waved at the back of her mind. This man was the epitome of danger, drenched with dark lust and sinister grins. The fact that he was a sweet, sugary treat for a starving girl made for a sinful mixture, causing both distress and stickiness between her thighs.

Henry placed both his hands on the armrests, fingers digging into the onyx leather to hold himself from grabbing her slim waist and grinding her onto his cock. Her mound felt fiery hot onto the fabric of his trousers, and the slow tidal sway of her hips did nothing but engorge him even more.

“What’s your name, little minx?” He asked, his breath heavy and sweet with whiskey against her neck.

She hummed in response, closing her eyes and throwing her head back while her hands held onto his broad shoulders. The dark waterfalls of her hair streamed down behind her. Her torso stretched, bare breasts a delicious sight while she danced on his groin, increasing the friction that ran like smouldering heat.

“It’s… Lilith…” she answered, licking her lips as she felt the blood vibrating between them.

Henry groaned, enjoying the brush of her body against his. She moved in sensual waves- slow yet hard, like a storm inching an ocean. Her voice hummed softly in his ear, her almond-shaped eyes tricking him into believing he was desired, needed.

And perhaps he was, as her lips swelled red with passion and she danced on his cock with as much urgency to please herself as to please him.

“Your real name, pet.”

Ash closed her eyes and shook her head. “I am not allowed to tell you.”

“Fair enough,” he growled. He felt her increase the pace, pushing harder onto him. His self-control was vastly challenged. His breath became fervent fumes. He felt the moistness beneath his hands as he clutched tightly on the soft leather as if his life were dependent on it. The pulse in his organ became as rageful as a volcano.

“You look like you’re enjoying this as much as I am,” he murmured, letting his lips inch dangerously close against her neck. “I wonder if this sort of thing would happen with anyone else, or I’m special.”

Goosebumps spread through her skin, her nape felt a cold shiver. Ash swallowed hard. If this was a thriller film this was the point where she was supposed to turn back and save her skin, yet all she fancied was to push her cunt against menacing Henry and mewl as tinders of joy licked between her legs.

“Is that a problem, if I am?” She dared.

Unable to control his body’s natural instincts, Henry broke and bucked his hips roughly into her mound, giving in to her grind, growling as the collision created sparks of fire that increased the flame between them.

“Not at all,” he grunted, feeling droplets of sweat forming on his brow. “Only that I paid you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”

And tendrils of pleasure were indeed within her grasp. Ash felt a tremble in her thighs. He was large and hard, demanding to be let inside her. She’d be lying if she didn’t want the same, imagining just how large a man of his size was.

She wondered how he’d fuck her, would he be as slow and rough as their carnal dance, or would he throw her on the bed and wreck her till she cried.

The dark gaze in his eyes made her lean toward the latter and darn if he didn’t look at her as if she was the most intoxicating woman on earth. Feeling the flush ride from her cheeks down to her chest, she turned around, pushing her ass against his cock instead. She wanted to come so badly, the throb between her legs mingled with the fear that tingled in her chest. She wanted to remind herself she was protected by the owners of the club and the man standing right outside, yet Henry made her doubt herself.

And for some reason, it only made her more excited.

“Touch me!” She demanded in a voice tainted with desperation.

There was no need to ask more than once. Her handsome stranger groaned the most beautiful melodies in her ear and reached his aching hands to squeeze her breasts. They moaned together as the much-needed bond had formed. Henry’s thumbs circled her nipples while his fingers kneaded on the fat of her flesh. She knew this was a mistake, he would leave his violet fingerprints all over her skin yet her judgment was clouded by the pleasure his touch elicited on her desperate flesh.

“Lilith.” Henry gasped, allowing himself to nuzzle the girl’s hair as she seemed completely lost to her own desires. “Do you fuck your boss?”

“I’m not a prostitute.” she answered breathlessly as one of his hands climbed up to her neck and held her jaw, drawing her head back onto his shoulder. His hips bucked harder against her ass, the pounding in his cock was nothing but white-hot fury. He held her tightly while she dug her nails into his thighs.

“Not what... I asked…” he gasped, his voice breaking between grunts.

“No.”

Ash felt his cock twitch beneath her and his moans chanted repeatedly, becoming louder and louder. The pulsating need inside her was unbearable yet it wasn’t enough, not for her. She needed to feel something inside her throbbing cunt yet she feared breaking the rules. Henry pushed against her ass with vigour, emitting inarticulate sounds until he clutched her tightly and gasped with pleasure.

For a few seconds, the room felt like the most radiant thing on earth.

Ash breathed out as his hot mess was sticky against her ass. Slight disappointment danced in her chest as she didn’t share his climax and her heart was still in rageful turmoil, furious for not being let to feel the much-needed pleasure. Yet a part of her was relieved that their contract has expired.

She might have managed to avoid trouble for once.

“Good.” Henry breathed out, panting heavily as he tried to adjust his lungs. His hands still covered her breasts, sensing the dampness of her skin against his sweaty palms

“Because I am your boss, darling.”

Her mind still fuzzy, Ash let out a confused chuckle which quickly died as the man beneath her didn’t join in her laughter. The rigidness on his breath sounded dead serious and the signet ring on his pinky finger suddenly felt cold against the softness of her breast.

“Cavill.” she called out, panic pitching her voice higher. “Henry Cavill…?”

“Mhmm.” he hummed with approval, an arrogant smile spread from the corners of his lips as he noticed the obvious shift in her mood. Still seated on his lap, she let out a trembling wheeze as her heart sank to her gut.

“You are not joking, are you?”

“No,” his voice rumbled, vibrating low and thick against her prickling spine.

Ash felt the sweat turn cold on her skin. Giving a small turn, she was unable to determine whether she should get up or remain seated on his groin. She could see the shit-eating grin on Henry’s sharp jaw from the corner of her eye and decided to gather her shaky feet to stand, nearly losing her balance as her heels suddenly despised her.

“Mr. Cavill, I’m so sorry,” she dropped her gaze to the floor, her hands covering her breasts nervously out of the misled thought she offended him. If he felt threatening before, now she felt pure terror making her blood sting. The Cavills were the most notorious organized crime family in the United Kingdom. Their web spun across each district, and they owned half of the police force in London.

She just made a filthy mess out of the trousers of a man who kills much more important people than her.

It was very much clear to her that it would take little to no effort to make a no one like Ashleigh Carr disappear.

The room began to feel as if it was depleted of air all of a sudden.

“Considering you just made me come all over my pants, you can call me Henry, or sir.” he corrected her in his deep voice while his piercing steel eyes focused on the obvious stain on his crotch.

Ash blinked, terrified as Henry reached for the phone at the back of his trousers. A muscle strained in his jaw while he scrolled through the device and then placed it against his ear. She opened her mouth to apologize once again, yet was silenced by Henry holding up his index finger gesturing “wait”.

“Sean, I will need a clean suit brought to the Imperial, ASAP. Make it a dark one.”

The crime lord ended the call with a friendly yet authoritative “Cheers,” before lifting his gaze to the slender girl who still stood at the same spot with eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Never in his life had he had a naked girl look at him with so much fear on her face.

It was an interesting new aspect.

Reaching down between his knees, Henry fished for her flimsy corset and pulled his heavy body upward. His long legs stretched as he stepped toward the horrified girl. Giving her a smile, he handed her the piece of garment.

She snatched it from his hand with slight hesitation while he stared down at her, his head tilting as if to further study the features of her face. She was too afraid to break eye contact, strapping the corset back around her body without saying another word.

“Lilith…” Henry called, his spiced breath hot on her face.

“Ash...Ashleigh,” she admitted.

“Ashleigh,” Henry pronounced her name softly in his low voice, giving a small dreamlike smirk as if it was the most beautiful name he ever heard. His tongue licked over his bottom lip while he drank the sight of her in.

“I’d like to fuck you.”

Ash stared at the man in front of her with surprise, lust still blooming between her thighs, her skin tingling with the imprint of his touch. Inside, she seared with passion and he was undoubtedly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen with his kissable lips and crystal blue eyes.

But she detested the idea of being a whore. She never slept with a customer, nor was she willing to sleep with her boss.

Even if it cost her life.

“As I said, not a prostitute.”

“I have no intention of paying you,” he answered with a dry chuckle.

“You just did,” she answered and then took a deep breath, choosing not to say more. She still valued her life after all, no matter how pitiful it is.

Henry gave her a slanted smirk and began circling her like a predator stalking his prey. Careful eyes followed him, her breath measured with every step he took.

There was a spirit in her, warm and feisty. Defiant despite the fear that sparkled as clear as water in her beautiful eyes. In the cold, secluded room of his sinful club, he finally felt the thing he chased after for years. Passion. Desire.

And it was booming in his heart.

“I find you interesting, Ashleigh,” he replied and shoved his hand into the pocket of his jacket, drawing out a sharp silver card.

“But I am not one to beg, nor do I take pleasure in pressuring women to sleep with me.”

The card gleamed like a knife as he held it between his digits while waiting for her to accept it.

“This is my driver’s number, just in case you decide you do want to spend your night with me.”

Read Part 2

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#Henry Cavill #AU!Henry Cavill #mob!henry cavill #MobBoss!Henry Cavill #henrycavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x reader

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l0chn3ss · 5 years

Text

Morpho Menelaus

Written for @mastar-week MaStar Week 2018 Day 2: Training

She was born with ash blonde hair and eyes that matched neither of her parents’. The wee tuff of grayish yellow was to be expected: her grandpa had always said that blond ran through the veins of the family. But the eyes? They were a dark earth, a swirl of brown that wasn’t present in either of her family lines.

“So she has a soulmate in this lifetime,” the doctor chuckled. She passed over the newborn daughter to the father. “Be wary for people with sunshine eyes and milk chocolate hair,” she teased.

Spirit sniffed indignantly. “My little Maka is too good for them, who ever they are.” He went on a tangent while simultaneously coddling her all at once.

They, the entire population of humans weren’t always so certain of the presence of a soulmate. Some were born without a trace of a bond, while others’ were so carefully hidden in plain sight that it was often times never realized. But a strong history of genetics and a well kept record often suggested the fact when the child’s eyes opened for the first time. And then when it changed colors? Indisputable.

Maka’s hair grew different with time, getting more bright and yellow as she grew older rather than in the opposite direction. Save for the strange green tint that she would get every summer from swimming classes, her locks became consistently lighter with age. With her mother’s blonde-turned-brown and her father’s tomato red, Maka hardly looked connected to any of her parents. She didn’t mind all too much after a while, because color was only just one thing. The shape of her face and outline of her features were the proof that settled her doubts.

Forgetting about the soulmate bond, Maka was rudely reminded in one college morning. Just a quarter past nine she shocked herself awake. There was a tingling sensation in her skin, and a presence that shadowed over her eyes. She leapt towards her bathroom mirror, seeing her irises already midway changed. There was a drop of wispy liquid like food coloring dispersing in water, but rather than clear, it was her brown that was fading away. Replacing it was a shock of electric blue, closer to neon and brighter than the morning sun trying to flood her bathroom.

Maka couldn’t look away for a long time, until the transformation was completed and not an ounce of chocolate brown was left in the mirror. Then she screamed loudly in her dorm, waking her roommate and adjourning neighbors. “Are you fucking kidding me? I have team portraits at one!”

Her friends all cooed at the change, calling the color beautiful, but only after they were done scolding her noisiness. It was unlike anything that any of them had ever naturally seen-- hard to miss.

“Well, it will be easier to find them now right? Your soulmate.”

She groaned, “A soulmate is troublesome. They could be halfway around the world and I may never find them. What if I don’t even like them once I do. Why wait?”

“Or maybe they’re close, you know?”

“I guess that’s just the problem. I really don’t know.”

She pettily wore her sunglasses for the rest of the day, even indoors, refusing to acknowledge the bright blue.

A few weeks later, her volleyball coach announced a joint practice session with a school close by. They would be coming here for the next few months as their school’s facilities were in construction, so tomorrow would be a test run.

“I expect you all to be on your best behavior,” the coach glared at Maka’s group, playfully. “That includes you girls.”

A cascade of giggles followed.

She came to practice the next day armed with extra tape and water, for courtesy. But before she could step into the room, her friends swept her away in hushed tones.

“Everyone’s talking about it, Maka. You won’t believe it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are all the boys hot or something?”

Tsubaki and Liz met eyes, but Patty was the one who answered her. “Not that, my dude.” She reached over to gently lift Maka’s sunglasses off of her nose. “One of them... their hair is blue.”

As Maka ran off, she heard behind her, “None of us can catch his eyes though! It might not be him!”

Her heart raced and her hands were shaking. The group of girls crowding at the door saw Maka and parted like a curtain. Such a motion attracted the eyes of the newcomers, but the one person that she wanted to see was already staring back at her. Blue hair, and liquid gold eyes.

She couldn’t hold back her first thoughts, letting them slip out and into the silent gym.

“Ew.”

Those were the first words that he heard from his soulmate’s mouth.

She was out of breath as if she’d just sprinted a marathon, hair tossed and her clothes askew. And her eyes, her wild and bright blue eyes, were wide.

As if she was slapped, she winced, realizing what she’d just said to a stranger. The girl doubled back and started stammering, bumbling over her words and looking down to her feet instead of at him. The silence that had formed in the gym caused her words to bounce back loudly, echoing. In the meantime, Black Star’s eyes darted from her face to her hair, and from her hair to her to her ears, and from her ears to her nose, and from her nose to her still rambling mouth.

She was an adorable specimen. While small, her build was noticeably lithe, yet athletic. She stood with her feet apart, hands unable to keep still, and shoulders confidently squared even as she was doubting herself. The other teammates around them watched her, entertained-- lovely so.

Black Star, after taking her in, slowly revealed a big, shit-eating-grin. He also couldn’t hold back his thoughts, showing them in the form of a drawled, “Awwww shi-et.”

His cackling stopped the girl in her tracks.

So maybe in hindsight, it wasn’t the correct reaction to the situation, but Star had been waiting for her-- his soulmate-- for so long. He dyed his hair weeks ago because he was tired of the people who pretended they were his match, revealed otherwise in more ways than one. A life partner should not try to fit themselves into a mold, and on that note, they shouldn’t not force him to either.

Still, he was impatient to find the person destined to be his. The blue that he chose was a desperate move, not as desperate as what he’s seen on the internet. There were people who dyed their hair to show numbers and addresses, even going as far as to print obscene words or icons out of spite. He decided that the color was harmless enough, but wild and unignorable, unique and matched the blond that his soulmate had. If anything, Black Star was the one who was taking the brunt of his decision. He wanted to find them though, at least meet them once in their lifetime.

Luckily, the host school’s coach stumbled onto the scene then.

She took one glance at Star’s hair, and in an act of mercy, she called out, “Albarn and, uh.”

“Braxton,” he supplied.

The coach nodded. “You two, out of my gym. Don’t come back until you’ve had a proper chat.” With that, she met eyes with the girl, Albarn, and tilted her chin towards the door. “Out.”

Reluctantly, Albarn followed Star out where they settled beside the wall. He didn’t plan what to say next after they’d left, much less expect to have a chance alone so suddenly, but he couldn’t erase the smile off of his face for the life of him. She sat an arm’s length from him, and he scooched closer to make up the difference.

“So,” he offered. “You’re a volleyball player, too, huh, Albarn?”

“Maka,” she said quickly.

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Maka. Albarn is my last name.”

“Oh,” he replied, but undeterred. “That’s a nice name, too!”

She thanked him, uncertainty laced in her tone. The feeling that she was being too guarded weighed on Black Star. He wondered why it was so, or why it bothered him so much. Maka showed she was impatient in the form of her body language, but not in the way that he was to get to know her. She continued to glance into the gym where their friends and team were warming up, stretching and slapping on their gear. Did he really spark that little interest?

“So, you got a partner?”

Maka sighed, finally looking at him since they’d left the building. He could tell that she was finally studying him. “Not right now, no.”

“Great! Let’s—”

She cut him off, voice already tired. “Come on, Braxton. Are you serious? We’ve only just met.”

“I know,” he tried. “My friends call me Black Star, not Brax. And why wait? I already know that I’m into you.” He saw her withdraw. “I’m serious, I am.”

Was he earnest enough? Did he sound firm?

She hesitated for too long for him to be certain.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life,” he said softly. “We don’t have to jump into it. Just be my friend. Just try for a little.”

Maka uncrossed her arms, letting out a breath that she was holding for too long.

“Alright. I- I’m sorry. I’m not usually this… wound up.”

He wanted to touch her hand, badly.

She continued, “This is just a really big surprise. And uh, your hair. No offense, but what is that color?”

Black Star ran a hand through the top, chuckling. “You noticed it though, right? Was that why you said what you did?” Her nod confirmed it. “It worked the way it was supposed to, then! Well, it definitely looks better as your eye color, doesn't it? I dunno. Fuck it, man, I was desperate. I wanted to find you that bad.”

A faint blush splashed her cheeks. “But, why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Find out with me.”

Maka mused it in her head. “Alright, fine. But just to make sure, on three, we say the date that the blue appeared. You remember it, right?”

He nodded.

“Ok good. Ready? On three. One, two—”

“Wait, like on three or on go?”

Maka squinted while Star gave a sheepish grin.

“Three. One, two, three.”

“February seventh,” they said simultaneously, unsurprised.

“I don’t know why I even bothered,” Maka sighed. “It was pretty obvious what this is.”

“So, we can keep seeing each other?”

Smiling, she answered, “Why not. You’re not terrible.”

“And we’re soooulmaaates?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Come on, say it.”

“Fine, we’re soulmates.”

“Awwww shi-et,” Black Star said, breaking into another wide grin.

#fic #soul eater #soul eater not #mastar week 2018 #makaxblackstar week 2018 #mastar #mastar week #makaxstar #makaxblackstar #maka x blackstar #blackstar x maka #blackstarxmaka #starxmaka #maka albarn #blackstar #black star #nessie spills

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imagine-loki · 6 years

Text

dear diary

TITLE: Dear Diary

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 2 of 4 AUTHOR: Eclectica-posts ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki comforting you when you’re crying. He knows exactly what to do or say to help you through it. RATING: Mature, with a lot more mature in further chapters. NOTES/WARNINGS:

THOR RAGNAROK SPOILERS

Smut, fluff and bad jokes.

The children of Asgard weren’t the only ones of that cliff in Norway.

Sophie recalls the events of Sakaar and Ragnarok from her point of view, as she found herself thrust into a Universe beyond her imagining, and meets a familiar face.

— This is Chapter 2, 2 more to be uploaded, smut sort of starts in this one starts from Chapter 2.

Story so far can be found at Archive of our own

Canon compliant, it’s written with the same timeline and series of events as per Thor Ragnarok - like a story line that happened but didn’t make it into the film.

—————————————————————–

The big tournament fights luckily didn’t happen that often, I think mainly because the Grandmaster was currently quite short of contenders, so he had devised other ways of passing the time.

This, unlike the fight, I do remember clearly.

“We have to do what???” I cried as I picked and clutched a minute gold bikini in disbelief.

“The Grandmaster likes to show his gladiators off to his top clients so they clean us up, oil us down and get us to serve drinks and generally walk around looking buff” said Korg who was trying, and failing, to pick up a long length of the same gold fabric with his huge boulder hands.

“You might have to help me with this loin-cloth actually, Mike used to do it, but…” Korg looked as sad as a face made of granite could for a moment “and I’m not asking Miekke” he concluded, rather sensibly since his friend had knives for hands.

“And do it tight, last time I had women trying to play with my pebbles all night” Despite the appalling situation about to unfold I burst into helpless giggles.

“It wasn’t funny” Korg sniffed, hurt by my laughter. I patted his arm consolingly, accidently starting a small rockfall of shale.

From my studies in Roman history when I was an undergrad student, I knew that this had been a common ritual back back on Earth - all the rich and powerful liked a bit of rough to grope and leer at. Only thing was I had never thought I’d be the bit of rough.

The only upside of the whole demeaning thing was that I got the chance to have a wash and change into something other than the leather armour I’d been wearing for days. A team of giggling women had descended into the gladiator pen tasked with getting us ready for the evening’s entertainment. The two that had brushed and done up my hair looked quite annoyed they had missed out on helping one of the other male fighters who were taking great delight in being oiled all over.

They awkwardly held the perfumed oil bottle out to me, but I declined. I looked silly enough wearing a bikini with a little train of fabric attached to my arse like a chicken, let alone being shiny. The gold arm rings they wrapped around my upper arms were a nice touch though, I had to concede, and they hide the scar of my healing war-wound. They might also come in useful as I could try and ram them down the throat of anyone who tried to touch my pebbles or anything else.

Deciding I should find out how ridiculous I really did look, I tentatively stepped in front of a full length mirror. My blonde hair had been curled and pinned up so I looked less scruffy than usual when it was down on my shoulders loose. As someone who on Earth wore a one piece and who had always felt a little too big, a little too chunky I was shocked that I was delighted by the reflection staring back at me. My body looked strong but lush - curves and strength combined. For all I hated the idea of a bikini it certainly did great things for my boobs, I had to admit. I felt like a warrior princess and the knowledge that I still had Loki’s knife in my boot gave me a sense of power and confidence.

The column of gladiators made an impressive sight as we walked silently and impassively into the huge neon-lit ballroom, pulsing with techo synth. We were directed to stand along the wall, like a live art installation or cattle market. We were the walking advertising for the power and wealth of the Grandmaster while the guests danced languidly or lounged on huge bright velvet couches. As the only woman in the line I could feel the eyes of the party goers on my body so I made sure I kept my eyes resolutely above their heads and looked i around room instead, taking in the fantastically dressed party goers.

We’d been warned that any violence or attempt at escape would have rather fatal consequences, but I still couldn’t keep my eyes from darting to the guarded doors looking for an opportunity to find a way out. Of course, even if I’d made it out the doors I had no idea how to get back to Earth, and outside the city seemed more perilous than in here. Frankly, after seeing what lived out in the rubbish dumps, dying in the arena was a better way to go than being cannibalised.

Slowly I realised that one by one the gladiators were being called away by the guests, chosen like cakes from a window front. They followed their new masters either looking rather pleased when they had been selected by an attractive woman or man or impassively if their new ‘friend’ was less to their liking. The line was getting shorter and shorter, and this was one time that I was definitely not going to be concerned about being picked last for the team. This was one game I did not want to play.

“Hello there pretty, are you a pussy cat or a tiger?” simpered a short fat man, with more chins than I’d thought physically possible to possess. He was so diminutive that I hadn’t seen him walk up to me as he was so far below my eyeline. Dressed in a shiny silver wrap he reminded me of a well done baked potato in tin-foil. Worse than his appearance was that I realised that in his hands he held two chains, each attached around the necks of two miserable looking young girls, thin, mottled with bruises and even more underdressed than me.

“I, I…” I stammered. Of course we had been warned that saying no wasn’t an option, it would be seen as the deepest offence to the Grandmaster’s friends, but I knew that there was no way I could go anywhere near this person and do whatever it was he was going to expect me to do.

I was abruptly aware of a presence close by my side, his scent now familiar. Where the hell had he come from, I wondered. I hadn’t spotted him the room. Not that I had been looking, of course.

“Lord Perris, Your Magnificence, apologies for my rude intrusion but I happened to notice you appeared to be giving this unworthy specimen the gift of your company.” I gave Loki a surprised look, wondering where he was going with this, not sure whether to be insulted or grateful. Loki ignored me completely, smiling in a concerned and deeply attentive manner at my new friend.

“While I can understand your initial interest, I thought it only best to warn you. Last week I had the unfortunate experience of spending some time with this creature, and I could not in good conscious allow you to make the same grave error.” He concluded, giving me a stern look. Taking his lead, I tried to look suitably admonished and shamed, while desperately trying to hide a smile.

“But sir, whatever do you mean? If you mean she’s not biddable, then I have more than enough experience at breaking their spirits” the baked potato simpered back in reply.

Loki lent down and whispered something in his ear. Perris visibly recoiled, staring in horror at me. I had no idea what he had said, but it must have been bad to put him off. He patted Loki on the arm “you poor man, I must commend you for saving me from such a distasteful experience! Come, we go!” he spun on his heels, his two slaves dragged in his wake. I watched him waddle off and then share the news with with others from his group, all of whom then shot me equally appalled looks.

“What did you say to him?” I whispered.

“That you gave me an incredibly awful rash and I almost lost my manhood to the infection. It was touch and go for a while there I told him” Loki whispered back, still gifting the room with his charming smile. I was so relieved I broke out into giggles but quickly tried to look solemn, and even a bit apologetic for my diseased state.

“I think it may be best for you to leave before you attract any further attention” he added, taking my hand in his.

I followed him to a quieter side chamber, mostly empty except for two low couches and walls covered in book shelves. It was beautiful, I had always loved libraries and this was awe inspiring, books and scrolls gathered on hundreds of shelves, just waiting to be explored. I opened up a gorgeously bound volume and sighed in regret - I’d been silly of course to expect it to be in any language I could speak. The text was foreign to me and impenetrable.

“Give it to me” Loki held out his hands and gently took the book from me. He made a small gesture with his right hand and a pale green light illuminated the pages. He handed it back and each page was now in written in elegant script - in English.

“Now that’s impressive!” I gazed around me, a whole library, thousands of texts, all there for the reading - most never seen before by someone from Earth, and with Loki’s magic…

“Would you like a drink?”, I nodded and eagerly accepted a goblet of something that turned out to taste a bit like champagne, but sweeter and, looking back now, probably a lot more alcoholic. I wasn’t concerned about that at the time and managed to neck it in two gulps. Ah, all that practice I had got at university was coming in handy. I helped myself to another.

He motioned for me to sit on the couch not far from him. We were opposite each other, within touching distance but not touching. He gave me another of the appraising glances he seemed to specialise in, a glance that made the tightness in my stomach leap and my head feel whoozy, although that could have been the wine .

I was all too aware that sitting brought my ample bosom even more in his eye line. I was also conscious of my little tummy roll, and placed her hands on her lap to hide it, then instantly rebuked myself for being worried with he thought of me. His presence made me feel, complicated? I didn’t trust him, although to his credit he hadn’t done anything to hurt me, but his past made me wary. That didn’t stop me becoming more and more aware just how attractive he was, his pale skin, dark hair and cheekbones you could slice cheese on.

“Everytime I see you you seem to be wearing less and less. Is this some sort of desperate cry for attention?” he smirked, leaning forward as his voice grew lower

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, so I stayed silent, and sipped my third drink.

“Now…I remember that when it was a choice of death or…other options “ His eyes left my eyes and lazily trailed down my neck and to the top of my breasts.

“..you seemed quite keen to choose death. While you have been surprisingly resilient, I thought that perhaps you would like to reconsider your answer pet?”

Through the alcohol fuelled fog I became aware that he might be propositioning me.

“Well, given I have yet to apparently die, I really depends i suppose” I replied slowly after a pause, my heart beating fast.

“will it be horrible, long, slow and painful?” I smiled

He chuckled. “probably”

“Hmm..and the death option?”

He threw back his head with laughter, giving me a split second to try reach for the blade in my boot, slightly hampered by holding a wine glass at the same time and feeling ever so slightly not very coordinated. Just as quickly though, he’d cast it out of my hand and grabbed me, pulling me onto his couch and basically onto his lap. He was holding me,one arm wrapped over my hips, the other higher, his hand grazing my right breast. I sat frozen for a minute, his breath on my neck, painfully aware of the thinness of the fabric of my bikini, and the warmth and hardness of his leather clad body behind me.

“Stop playing games and stop fighting me. I’m being nice, but I can make you submit to me you know”

“I could make you beg for me” Loki whispered into my ear as a shiver engulfed my whole body.

His hand left my breast and touched my forehead, and I felt a strange sensation in my head, like a pulling, and although it wasn’t logical, I knew he was there, in my mind and in my thoughts. I heard him hiss as he recognised the depth of my desire and the dying echoes of my fear of him. His hand slide from my hip down into the cleft of my thighs. I so desperately wanted to spread my legs and welcome him into my core that I could feel growing wetter by the second. “Oh pet, I can feel how much you want me..give in to it…you and I are going to have so much fun…”

Using perhaps my entire lifetime of willpower, I pulled myself away from his grasp and to my feet, standing just outside of the reach of his arms. I raised my hands, in a more metaphorical, rather than serious attempt to fend off any further advances. He looked… amused.

I have no idea how I looked, but I knew how I felt - drunk, horny and yet increasingly angry. The horny part of me wanted to walk over, undo his leather pants and impale myself on his cock, riding him until I came in shuddering ecstasy. (LOL, If I knew what I knew now, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.)

But there was another voice in my head, drunk sure, but hurt and angry, and it drowned out everything else.

He sat there, always so sure that I would throw myself at him, and always with the subtle threats if I didn’t. I knew he had magic, and I knew he could probably use mind control. Well, fuck him, fuck them all. He’d been having a lovely time making new friends and partying. I’d been thrown into a cell and made to fight for my life. I chose to ignore that some of that outcome may have been down to my own choices, but still, it definitely didn’t seem fair.

I realized with sudden clarity that I’d done that too many times before, given in to my feelings, said yes only to later regret it. I’d always been the one to give in, back down, make excuses for their actions, make all the effort, make the running - all so I wouldn’t be alone. That’s the real reason I’d put up with my ex for so long even after his comments and his insensitivity ripped me apart. I had simply been too scared to be by myself after my mother had died. She’d been alone, been with no one else since my father, so was I that desperate not to end up like her?

But I was alone, because everyone had walked away, and I was so sure, that if I gave in now, it would happen again. And I couldn’t do that. Not again, not that pain, it had been bad enough being rejected by a man in the past, but to be rejected by a God?

Someone else might have gotten teary, I, well, I got sweary.

“Look, arsehole, with your smile and your leather, I want a lot of stuff that I know is bad for me, liking eating chocolate for breakfast and cocktails all day instead of going to work. But, I don’t do them, just because my body wants something, doesn’t mean my mind is going to agree, so don’t think you know what I want!” I was flustered, but to my credit I was still managing to resist the urge to run to him and climb him like a tree.

“Anyway, why is this always about me? Wanting me to beg, wanting me to submit you, why you get to sit there, fully clothed, and all …leathery?” I was getting quite into this now. Did I mention the three glasses of wine?

I closed the gap between us and poked him in the chest with my finger. He looked down at my finger and arched an eyebrow. This may not have been the usual mortal behaviour he was used to.

“Is it some weird God thing? Why the power games and the threats? God, I’d shag Mr Potato Head out there if it meant I could spend an hour in here with these books and in peace. Making someone submit to you out of fear or a worse alternative isn’t power you know. It’s not hard” I was quickly running out of steam as he continued to stare at me impassively. I had no idea what he was thinking.

“I know you are the god of mischief, or chaos or green… whatever, but seriously. I think you are so used to stirring shit up and laughing as we all run around screaming that you don’t even why you do it any more. We are just playthings - little chess pieces you throw across a board for a laugh.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Why not decide what you actually want, not what chaos you can cause, and then have the guts to stop the threats and the tricks and actually ask for it? Preferably nicely. Maybe even use the word please. Unless you’re scared people would say no” I finished, although what I really had wanted to add was: and in case you are wondering, I wouldn’t say no. Not now, not since I met you, even though it made no sense, even though I had no idea what he was capable of, I wouldn’t have said no.

Dear gods, he was quick and strong, he was up and grabbing my arm, pulling me into him before I had a chance to move. He put his lips to my ear.

“I want…”

Steps echoed in the room and I could feel him freeze. The pressure in my arm suddenly increased as Loki twisted my wrist so I yelped with pain. He turned to the intruders with his usual charming smile firmly in place. It was the entourage of the Grandmaster - masked bodyguards accompanying their leader, who hovering like a Dalek in a floating chair, had made no sound. He smiled at us disconcertingly, looking from one to the other, curious and obviously seeking an explanation for what he had walked/hovered in on.

“My lord. Apologies for manhandling your property.” said Loki, sounding like a charming, but very apologetic guest, “I was just reminding her of what I did to the last mortals I came across who didn’t cooperate with a God” he paused, and gave me a cold dismissive look “But actually, on second thoughts, they do rather tend to break too easily to be diverting” he flung my arm away, and I was left standing there, rubbing my aching wrist.

The Grandmaster, shared a questioning glance with Topaz who had stomped in after the group, looking as dour as ever.

“I’ll find you a more pleasing diversion, but first I think I’ve decided the party is over” He motioned to his guards, two of whom took my arms and walked me away, although I didn’t resist. After whatever that had been I was more than happy to leave their company and go back to my nice cell with Korg and the simplicity of being with people who mostly didn’t talk to me or could be discouraged from coming near me with a blade. It would also give me time to sober up and try to remember what the hell I had said, and possibly even more time to work out why I had said it. Argh, had I really told a God to say please?

I probably shouldn’t admit that I spent the next couple of days going over what the hell he might actually have been going to say, or whatever the hell the whole damned encounter actually even meant.

I considered various possible options for what he was going to actually say, and calculated probability likelihoods for each. Example: “I want”… hmm, ‘to make you scream and bleed and die painfully until I feel slightly better about my thwarted attempt to rule your planet’ - seemed quite likely

‘I want to have a 3 year relationship with you but then decide that actually I want someone more ‘emotionally available’ (which seemed to mean even blonder, thinner and less damaged by the death of her mother) - that one seemed relatively unlikely I had to concede.

Also unlikely was the reason he’d given to the Grandmaster, I didn’t understand the dynamic between those two, but I didn’t believe that Loki had really been about to say what he did - although, knowing (or should I say, not really knowing) Loki, I could have been completely wrong. I gave it a 50-50 odds.

More likely though it was ‘I want you to shut up, you drunk cow, because I want a quick fuck and then never see you again while you hopefully die in a stinking prison while I wile away my hours drinking more of this wine and plotting my next evil deeds. And shagging everything in sight”. And we have a winner! Fucker.

Oops, I suppose I should have mentioned that by the time I was in Day Two of ‘What would Loki Have Said’, his brother had arrived. He looked less pleased to be there than I did and apart from a quick exchange of hellos, and oh, are you from Earth and me slightly putting my foot in it by saying sorry to hear Jane had dumped him, we left each other alone to our own thoughts. Well I did, Korg chatted to him. A lot.

Also, I was feeling very much over Gods in general, and possibly slightly sulking that I hadn’t heard or seen Loki since the library. Oh, until he had suddenly appeared in front of Thor the day after his arrival.

I was sitting to his right, a little around the curve of the cell wall from him. When he materialised I sat stock still, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. Luckily he seemed much more concerned with his brother, who seemed to have as much time for him as I did and was lazily throwing small stones through Loki’s body. Something in me relaxed when I realised belatedly he wasn’t actually there in person, and so I laughed as Thor managed to get a shot right through Loki’s smug head.

Loki heard the sound and for a moment diverted his attention from Thor to me “Oh I see you’ve met my little pet. Don’t let her near the wine whatever you do” he winked. I hefted a large stone though his chest, which made a gratifying clunk as it hit the wall behind him. Loki laughed and disappeared.

“Piss off Ghost!” Korg stomped on Loki’s departed shadow.

“So, I see you’ve met my brother?” Thor asked

“Your brother is…” I stopped, not sure if I should give a frank opinion of his sibling, although to be honest, they didn’t seem to have the best relationship either. I was also wishing the English language had a word for ‘someone who you would like to simultaneously take you over and over again in all the worse possible ways, while slapping them around the head for being so bloody annoying and yet also a little afraid they might try and stab you’. I bet the Germans have a word for that…

“Selfish? Charming? Self centred? Capable of great evil? Ambitious? A complete pain in the arse?” he ventured. I laughed and then grew silent.

“Is he the same man he was when he attacked Earth? Is there any capacity for kindness in him?” I asked softly, embarrassed by my question, but unable not to ask it.

Thor bit back a quick retort, and sighed

“I don’t know, sometimes I think he regrets the things that he has done, and can care for others, in his own way, but I don’t honestly know” I could feel him looking at my curiously, but I avoided his gaze.

“He loved your mother and Odin, of course, even though he felt betrayed by him. But losing Frigga hurt him deeply. Think he feels like he’s betrayed her memory and now there’s no way back. I think he takes what he wants through force and pain and control because he doesn’t think anyone would show him kindness or love. It would make him too vulnerable…” I stopped as I looked up and saw Thor staring at me intently, his face confused.

“How do you know our mother’s name?” he asked quietly. “ Did Loki tell you this? Did Jane tell you?”

I shook my head, a bit taken aback by his reaction.

“No, I just…just ignore me. Too little sleep and too much stress - I’m going mad” I laughed until he looked away.

I rubbed my forehead, realising that I didn’t know how I knew this, where it had all come from. I knew he hadn’t told me, because we’d barely talked in truth. We certainly weren’t at the deep and meaningful, talk about your feelings and past traumatic events stage.

No, it felt more like unlocking the memory of a dream, except I knew it was true - I knew what Loki felt, I’d sensed it clear as day. Somewhere in the depths of my mind I began to feel the same ache in my temples that I’d felt at the party when Loki had touched me - and it all came rushing back.

I knew he’d read my emotions and thoughts, but what I hadn’t realised at the time was that it had been a two way street. Had he realised this? I hadn’t even known until now, so maybe not. How he would react I couldn’t predict, but I wasn’t in a rush to tell him that I’d seen his pain and his fragility. And then I remembered what other emotions I’d picked up from him.

Oh. My stomach, and slightly lower parts, did a little flip. Oh indeed. Although, I thought with a smile, I’m still going to make him say please.

#Loki #Lover #God of Mischief #Imagine #Submitted fic #submission #Eclectica-posts #Dear Diary #Chapter 2 #thor ragnorok spoilers #comfort #crying

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spamzineglasgow · 4 years

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(REVIEW) ‘Germ Songs’ by Will Burns and Jess White

In this review, Maria Sledmere explores the arboreal and rhizomatic understories of Will Burns and Jess White’s new pamphlet, Germ Songs (Rough Trade Books x William Morris Gallery, 2019), asking what lyric poetry can do in a time of dieback, scarcity and precarious land.

> ‘What are we aiming for anyway?’ Will Burns asks in opening poem, ‘Ash’. To aim is to point, direct, focus, train. ‘Anyway’ indicates something will probably happen, in spite of something else. Is a poem a kind of aiming? What about a song? Germ Songs, a pamphlet fresh as its lime-green cover and published by Rough Trade Books, is part of a quartet of slender volumes: The William Morris Gallery Series. With Jess White’s gorgeous, intricate illustrations set alongside Burns’ neat and curious lyrics, Germ Songs embodies William Morris’ association with etching, aesthetics and ornament alongside a Blakean dialectic of print and song. You will be struck by the lively neon cover, a kind of nu-rave ~ ~ nNature~ ~, but find something decorative, arboreal and Romantic in the typeface, the whorls and notches of line and lyric. This is a book that holds between thin pages a rhizomatic undersong of multiple times, while its canopy gleams for a modern reader.

> Although the decorative intensity of Germ Songs would normally invite a more reposed and formal register, there is a conversational lightness to some of the poems. A frank admission of vagueness, a hedging of the representational ‘real’. Trochaic and anapaestic beginnings feel like a shoot and release, seedlings spun from the branches of trees: ‘Somebody, somewhere’, ‘counsels all this’, ‘Delays at all points’, ‘Decay, and worse’. The spondaeic emphasis of ‘all this’ swells with the everything that haunts the book. I have been reading Germ Songs as a lighter companion text to Richard Powers’ arboreal epic The Overstory (2018), a novel of interwoven tales relating to trees: tales of activism, game design, human intimacy, science, rebirth, environmental justice, illness and injury, violence and song. In Powers’ novel, there is this sense of a self-rejuvenating Nature — ‘trees lap at the low, wet sky, the clouds they themselves have helped to seed’ — a kind of agential, four-dimensional thicket of enmeshed relations. Fiction being this ecomimetic device to conjure the high-definition sensory realm of the forest we are losing, the forest-as-such. In Germ Songs, there is a different kind of toggling between stories, scales, maps and voices.

> In these short poems, Burns navigates the thickening histories and frictive material realities of the anthropocene, gesturing towards something like a vernacular of endangered beauty. There are questions around the ethics of making beautiful work about something on the brink of loss. Are we celebrating or pre-emptively elegising the environment that previous generations could enjoy in varying naiveties of plenitude? Or is something else going on, a kind of pressing awareness that blows upon those who move through the forest of language, a stirring breeze, a heat? The book’s blurb reads:

These poems and drawings take their shape from the land, utilising both artists’ interest in the natural world and the questions that close observation ask of us as human beings living through the landscape and flora that surround us.

The blurb also notes the pamphlet’s thematising of questions around ‘access to these spaces, about property, ownership, boundaries and how these ideas have played out through history’. We read William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience (1789) within the context of land enclosures and human construction and domination of green spaces; equally we might read Germ Songs as a lyric conversation with the more-than-human world understood in the context of capital, growth and decay, loss, ‘domestic grief’, fires and the enflamed, complex affects of contemporary politics. Even the titles bear these slippages: ‘Heartwood’ for instance, a quick google reveals, is at once a Stirling-based tree surgeon, a Dulux colour shade, an investment management company and a herbal medicine education service. Such brand appropriations reveal the metaphoric density at work in a word which otherwise refers to the central, dead wood of trees. Also called duramen, heartwood is resistant to decay and ripe with aromatic tannins that darken and flavour its cells. Yet the poem ‘Heartwood’ reveals a complex, fraught resilience; what is starkly presented is ‘The empty, burned-out house / at the bottom of Hale Farm Lane’. An image of stability and pastoral timelessness, the farmhouse, becomes an extinguished symbol of upheaval, transposed into ‘A useless piece of property— / willed against heavy skies’. As though you could hedge a failed infrastructure against the coming storm. As though we could trade our increasing vulnerability for some inheritable protection: a will that somehow defies what is phenomenologically there in the poem, the ‘heavy skies’ that indicate the end, period, a possible violent return. Outbursts of fire and water; skies weighted with smoke or rain.

> There is something crying in the trees: ‘I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; / I heard among the rushes dank / Weeping, weeping’ (Blake, ‘The Garden of Love’). Are not the trees supposed to sing? These ‘Germ Songs’ are billed as songs, and yet there is often an imagist simplicity to their presented scenes. What if Ezra Pound’s Imagist manifesto was a kind of anthropocene tract of material scarcity: ‘to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word’. Defiantly, Germ Songs nevertheless flirts with the decorative. Whether her illustrated scenes are of rich mycelia, plates of specimen seeds, crying or pensive birds, undergrowth, varieties of mushroom, fronds of lichen and moss, branch and cell, Jess White situates the forest of Germ Songs as quietly teeming. These are the painted yet tangible scenes we must continue to long for, support and sustain. I learn from The Overstory: ‘Deforestation: a bigger changer of climate than all of transportation put together. Twice as much carbon in the falling forests than in all the atmosphere’. Forests thrive on ‘older, rotting trees’, which feed the beetles, the fungus, the chorus of those species that farm decay to further life. In writing about the thinning of forests under late-capitalism (‘everything just / cheap protein, cheap motive, cheap material’) alongside the ornamental closeups of ecological treasure, you might say Germ Songs enacts the poetry of this transformation. Composting language, lyric and story as necessary to survival, openness, living on as multitudes.

> There is a sense that we are starved by overfeeding, that our calories are abundant but empty. There is a violent history to this, as described in ‘Cheap’:

the frontier itself, built on the violence of sugar and grain-calories, the groundwork of horses, cattle, dogs, that made things cheap as we need them to be—cheap enough to travel.

As Robert Macfarlane and others have asked, does this play out in the increasing austerity of our diet of language? These are poems presented quite plainly, often with a plodding rhythm (though the verse is free), stripped of Latin names or excessive description; I think again of Pound’s insistence on ‘the language of common speech’. It is as though the poem dares you to burrow into that space between ‘the nearly-exact’ imminence of lyric utterance and the maximalist sprawl of illustration — drawings you quite simply want to enter into. That sometimes seem to hold a warmth, a depth; even as their adjoining lines are cooler, clipped and precise. This is not to say the poems are written in the style of timber: stripped, smoothed and felled from a monocrop generality. Rather, the holding back allows Burns to occasionally sweep us into a line of quiet devastation, ‘empty of birds / but for kite calls that grieve the great songs of sparrows’. I think of Robert Frost’s choice of metaphoric paths against the existential and material gravitas of the decisions we make now regarding our traversal and use of the land:

We have miles to cover to get back on the potholed road west. Which is how we will have to leave the town and feel its bearing forever, overgrown into dog days.

(‘Mid-Point’)

There is a twist of New Weird Britain within these lines, an eerie kind of emptiness in plenitude — something not quite placed. I think of the fable-like evocation of ‘The dark village’ which ‘sits on the crooked hill’ in Rachael Allen’s recent collection Kingdomland (Faber and Faber, 2019). Panning out, I think more widely of a generalised ‘west’: a beckoning frontier, a lawless district, a California wildfire raging, a stark apocalypse sunset. There are places we might fall on the road, when we are forced ‘to leave the town’ with the heartwood of that perilous scene inside us. The poem as microcosm for grander dramas. Dog days can mean both the hottest period of the year and one of inactivity or decline. There is a burning pressure of something which blooms too hard and enters stasis; the excess in capital, production, growth becomes something torpid and awful: ‘Though all weather is fell weather / there is only one meaning to heat / that swells so late’ (‘Spruce’), ‘These corrupted seasons—months of rain / then a high summer of fire—’ (‘Ash’). We know this is because of our carbon, our cars and planes, our human decisions. There is bound to be another fall, or perhaps the falling is happening already.

> To name a poem for a tree, after a tree. Does the poem come before or after? ‘Exhausted and exhausting, under the ash / —selfhood as dieback’ (‘Ash’). As in the poems of Emily Dickinson, the em-dash functions as a kind of hinge — or better still, a connecting branch, a stretching stem, a tilting trunk — gesturing towards those interpretations which are not quite fixed in language, semantics or time. As Richard Stacey recently argued in a recent undergraduate lecture at the University of Glasgow, Dickinson’s dash performs an invitation to look inside the occluded openings or splits in a poem, while also providing a cover (we might say canopy) against ‘prurient speculation’. So the poems reveal and conceal, like bristling leaves letting in, shading or blocking the light. The ‘dieback’ of ‘selfhood’ follows, somehow, the push and pull process of the ‘Exhausted and exhausting’, the held noun and flicker between adjective and verb; but it also suggests some hidden space in the poem, the dash itself as dieback, which is itself a progressive dying from the tip backwards. The dashes seduce you deeper into the thicket of lines that are carefully sung or drawn between life and death, presence and absence. They are units of ecology itself as ‘a branch’ of science that deals in the relations of organisms and environments.

> And what is meant by a germ? Germ: ‘An initial stage or state from which something may develop; a source, a beginning. Also: a small constituent or quantity’; ‘To produce new buds or shoots; to germinate’ (OED, 2019). The poems and drawings are germinations, surely, invitations to a budding consciousness about what’s going on in the understory of the land and trees. The fragments of narrative in these poems hold human distance and tensions (‘We were hundreds of miles apart’) alongside the detritus and trace of what we become: ‘The unit of violence in these hills / is no longer the disused MOD site / but the bloody mess of people—’ (‘Bastard Service’). Our plastic litter, our packaging, our ‘stuff’ of capitalism’s fallout. How to move through this. The precision of a sentence held enjambed across lines, every punctuation deliberate, aimed, held. In their short sentences, there’s a sense of every expression bearing a thicker weight, a whole trunk of meaning. Transient shortcuts tracing deeper histories. In the ‘bloody mess’ of what we have already left, what does it mean to write a poem?

> ‘Bastard Service’, the pamphlet’s final poem, ends with ‘the phrase—“leave no trace, leave no trace”’. To say it twice, as if to say, to yoke repetition to ritual, to evoke — and this being the ‘point’ of lyric. ‘What are we aiming for anyway?’: maybe this anyway, its conditions of possibility, its frustrated in spite of, indifferent production, is the actual stuff of Burns’ lyric. For the insistence against traces belies the actual work of lyric in forging musical phrases that beg to be ‘thought over and over’, leaving synaptic traces as much as physical marks on a page. A poem, Buddy Willard derisively claims in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar (1963), ‘is a piece of dust’. But what if it were more like a germ? A trace of the living and dying and dead; something to mull over, let dwell inside us; spread to a blurry future as lyric persistence among an ‘air so thick it had killed birdsong’ (‘Wild Service’).

Germ Song is available now, via Rough Trade Books.

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 2/2/20

#poetry #poem #review #poetry review #reviews #SPAM #Will Burns #Jess White #Rough Trade #Maria Sledmere #William Morris #ecopoetics #Richard Powers #Rachael Allen

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beckettsthoughts · 7 years

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What I Love About Paris

Not long ago, I promised my good friend @shark-myths a description of my favourite things about Paris. Here it is, finally complete:

Walking (And The Streets)

The first thing you will learn about Paris is that Paris is best explored on foot. I am not the first person to say this, many writers before me have extolled the virtues of pedestrian Paris, but I will add my words to theirs nonetheless. What you may not know about Paris is that Paris is very small; forty square miles, compared to the four-hundred square miles of New York or the six-hundred of London. That small space is characterised by beautiful architecture and a long-established culture, and these aspects of the city are best observed from the pavements. You will lose yourself in the streets of Paris and find yourself at the same time, winding through the backstreets of Montmartre or the alleys of the Latin Quarter, there are delights in those hidden pockets of Paris that you would never see from the backseat of a taxi.

In one of my favourite non-fiction books, The Most Beautiful Walk in the World: A Pedestrian in Paris, journalist and writer John Baxter explained this far better than I ever could:

“The essence of Paris is lost if seen through the double glazing of a hotel room or from the top of a tour bus. You must be on foot, with chilled hands thrust into your pockets, scarf wrapped round your throat, and thoughts of a hot café crème in your imagination. It made the difference between simply being present and being there.”

The Métro

The second best way to explore Paris, then, is Le Métro. It may seem confusing and intimidating at first- for a small city Paris has a vast complexity of stations and lines- but once you orient yourself and find your bearings, it will become a lifeline unlike any other. On almost every street you can see the iconic forest green curlicues of a Métro station, some with glass canopies over the entrances, and from there you feel like you could go anywhere. And, for the most part, you can. The tangle of the metro map is difficult to navigate, especially as a tourist, but it’s an exciting kind of orienteering. You will get lost, but you’re safe in the knowledge that you’re never too far from where you want to go.

Shakespeare and Company

Think of everything you love about bookshops. The smell of new books? Discovering a secret nook hidden between the shelves? Perhaps just the opportunity to spend some time in a calm, friendly atmosphere? Shakespeare and Company is everything there is to love about bookshops, all in one tiny, quaint little shop. The shop itself has a long and detailed history, being popular amongst many famous authors over the last century. They are well known for taking in ‘tumbleweeds’, writers who want to stay in Paris, for the small price of a few hours’ work per day and a short autobiography for their collection. I suggest you look it up because I don’t think I could ever do this place justice in my description. It is truly fascinating.

The Bateaux Mouches

There is no nicer way to see the splendour of the River Seine than by an evening cruise on the Bateaux Mouches. This means “fly boat”, as in the insect, when translated. As you sail beneath the many beautiful and ornate bridges of Paris, you will see many picnickers along the riverbanks, often waving at the boats as they pass. There is an audio guide which you may or may not choose to listen to, but it highlights the landmarks you pass and the history of them. And you will pass many. Notre Dame, the Musee d’Orsay, Pont Neuf, the Eiffel Tower, and more. When the boat turns at the end of the tour to take you back along the other side of the Île de la Cité, you might just get a glimpse of the sunset reflected on the water. It is a sight that is worth lifetimes.

The Hotel Rooftop

Picture yourself in an old hotel lift. It’s like a cage, a wire trap with the tentative capacity to hold three people, and it creaks ominously as it ascends past your floor. This is a typical example of an old French lift, though this specimen is not as ornate as most. What awaits you when you reach the top, though, is a view you will remember for the rest of your life. It is dark on the hotel rooftop, well past the sunset, and you find yourself surrounded by the perfect view of Paris at night. To the West you can see a string of bright neon, the distinctive nightlife of the Boulevard de Clichy. The jewel of this street, only a short walk from the hotel, is the Moulin Rouge. The windmill on top shines clearly above the rest of the street, and an ever-present group of tourists and cabaret patrons linger outside, even at this time of night. You might be able to hear the music, if it’s a calm night. To the North, up the hillside that is Montmartre, sits the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. A great white building, opulent and famously beautiful, poised at the peak of the hill. The walls are lit up to show every detail, every ridge of the architecture that forms the dome, and it presides above the city like some great guardian. South, then, you can see the Eiffel Tower, lit up bright and with the searchlight illuminating the clouds above. It may be cliche, but the Eiffel Tower truly is the gem of the city’s skyline. The shape, the lattice of the architecture, it truly is a fascinating structure. To see it there, above one of the world’s most beautiful cities, is a powerful and unforgettable view.

Le Place du Tertre

Le Place du Tertre is, in many respects, one of the hidden gems of Paris. It’s quite well-known and a must-see spot for artists and art-lovers, but to find it you must navigate a maze of cobbled Montmartre streets. Montmartre has always been the artists’ district, with many famous residents (including Pablo Picasso!) over the years, and this tradition is kept alive in the existence of the Place du Tertre, a near permanent art-market. You can stroll between rows of artists, many offering to draw portraits of those who visit, and you can sit down to eat in the creperie on the corner. It is busy, ever-bustling and loud, but it is a unique experience. If you like art, an interest shared by many Parisians and tourists alike, you will love it at the Place du Tertre.

Food Shops

Paris is famous for its food, full of gourmet restaurants, high end cafes and famous dining spots. In the Latin Quarter you have the Cafe Rotonde, known for being loved by everyone except Ernest Hemingway (who, in a marvellously well-written and extraordinarily cynical article for the Toronto Star, called it the settling place of the “scummiest scum” scraped from Greenwich Village. If you haven’t read Hemingway’s On Paris, I beg of you to do so. It will not disappoint.) A more contemporary spot might be the Cafe des Deux Moulins, one that I have visited myself, best known as the cafe from award-winning French film Amelie (which, again, I highly suggest you watch, if you haven’t already. It is a far more charming view of Paris than that presented by Hemingway.)

However, I would argue that the true highlight of French food to be found in Paris is not that found in the restaurants, but that found in the shops. Most would agree that the true judgement of any French town is the quality of their local boulangerie, but the bread is not all. The sweet air that spills out from the doors of a patisserie, the overwhelming scent of a fromagerie, the displays of cured meat that hang in the windows of a charcuterie; they are all integral to one’s experience of France. In Paris, these specialist food shops are copious and easily recognisable. You would be hard pressed not to drift towards every single that one you see, and each time you find yourself perusing a display of cakes, bread, cheese or meats, you will surely leave with a paper bag full of the house specialities.

That concludes my list of favourite things about Paris, or my favourite things from my first visit, at least. As you know, I am returning to Paris next week and I am so, so excited for it. I’m glad I get to share my love of la vie Parisienne with you.

#beckett writes #personal #adventures #paris #travel writing #creative writing #creative nonfiction #long post

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