#Body contouring Gilbert

[giovannimedspa]

Revitalize Your Skin with Expert Facial Rejuvenation in Gilbert

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Giovanni Med Spa

2586 S Val Vista Dr Suite 104, Gilbert, AZ 85295, United States

[clavissionary-position]

GILBERT x EMMA

A Genre of Affection

FLUFF . GENERAL GILBERT SPOILERS

+ + + +

A finger from nowhere taps Emma on the nose. “Boop.”

Emma jolts rearward in her chair. Her momentum tilts the chair from its four legs to the back two. She teeters in weightless panic, but before she can hit the floor, the chairback thuds softly against something.

Gilbert smiles down at Emma as he holds the chair up with his boot.

No, that evergreen smile is trying desperately to suppress laughter.

Emma crosses her arms. “Why?”

“Reaction,” Gilbert answers simply, or all but manages to, between his infuriating, shoulder-wracking fit.

Well, not infuriating. Not unpleasant, either. At all.

Master musicians have written far uglier songs.

Emma's brow twists into a knot. But her lips twist the opposite way.

The echoes in the library die down. Gilbert shifts the chairback from his leg to a secure grasp with his hands, but he maintains the tilt. For some reason. “You look hungry, Little Rabbit.”

Ah, this. This again. Emma sighs. "Are you hungry, Prince Gilbert?"

"Thank you for asking," Gilbert answers, pleased. A conspiring arc parts his shapely mouth and lifts the apples of his cheeks. “I am starving." And without another word he begins dragging the chair, and Emma with it, right across the library floor.

"W-Wait a minute, what are you-"

"Rewarding you in advance by driving you to the kitchen."

Driving!?

The screech of wood driving into the marble flooring conjures the mental apparition of a certain Palace Devil.

Emma jumps out of the chair, rounds in front of Gilbert and throws both her arms up to his chest. “Please stop. We can walk there. Walking is evil because it is the opposite of resting like a good person. Let's walk, Prince Gilbert.”

Gilbert uprights the chair and gives Emma a thoughtful pout. Then he snaps his fingers. "I see, did you want to be carried like this instead?"

"!!!"

Emma’s feet leave the ground as Gilbert cradles her.

“I didn’t want to be carried, period!”

Gilbert chuckles and each wave sways through Emma where their bodies connect. His smile is almost too bright to look at. "Even a cute lie is a lie nonetheless."

Really, just how did this end up happening?

Emma can't help but be overly-conscious of the broad, well-contoured chest underneath Gilbert's uniform. If looks are deceiving then Gilbert is a maximum offender.

But it’s hard to ignore the unusual chill that clings to him. How can he still be so cold when he's wearing so many layers?

She’d asked him about it before and he’d given the answer he’d wanted to give. It isn’t her place to pry any further. Even if she wanted to, more and more, with each passing day. Even if she feared...

Emma looks out at the nearing exit. How Gilbert maneuvered the heavy doors without her noticing is a credit to his trickery.

...She really doesn't know a single thing about this curious person who won't leave her alone.

"At this rate," Emma says with a bittersweet smile, "you're going to convince everyone that I’ve married the enemy."

Certainly if those kinds of rumors begin circulating, Emma will be done for. Gilbert can promise her all the protection he wants, but there will be no fixing the staggering amount of inconvenience and treachery that will follow.

Gilbert, of course, never has a normal answer. "It's admittedly too early for friends like us to jump into marriage, buuuuut…” He raises Emma’s head closer to his, grazing the top of her ear with his lips: “I'm willing to consider it."

Emma writhes and hollars despite herself. "That's not what I meant!"

She receives the brush of sweet laughter against her cheek. "Sshhh. Quiet in the library."

[dranoko]

@prumano-week Day 3 (Wed 5 August) – Music // Hurt/Comfort 

Check the readmore for the accompanying ficlet!

Music Club.

 As if he had to feel even more embarrassed than he already did. Lovino didn't know why he picked this club out of any other. He supposed he could have skirted by with no club at all, but even prestigious students at the World Academy such as themselves still had to deal with competition. And as his Grandfather urged, the great benefactor to the Academy as he was, Lovino settled with the Music Club, and the tambourine. Another insistence by his Grandfather, who thought it was oh-so adorable.

 It was... small. In fact it only had the bare minimum of bodies needed to stay afloat, including himself. Roderich, the Austrian musical prodigy, by all rights didn't NEED to be here. He was much more suited for the school's orchestra, and he was. But by his grace, he extended an offer to host a club for a more casual experience.

 And then there was Gilbert, the... goofy German guy. At least that's what he pegged him to be. But Lovino didn't expect his instrument of choice to be a flute. Such a delicate instrument being used by a not-so delicate guy? Really, he looked strong enough to bend a flute in half.

 "Since its your first day," Roderich started, exasperated already, and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'd like to show you the potential you could achieve here, ja?"

 Lovino could see why Roderich seemed to already have a headache. Gilbert cackled often, smirked, and mocked his supposed leader with every opportunity he could. Did they hate each other? Lovino wondered.

 "It's just a tambourine." Lovino grumbled, idly running his fingers over the contours of the instrument. It was a rich red color. Grandfather bought him the best.

 "True, it's a simple instrument, but it is incredibly versatile. You'll appreciate it more with time." The Austrian's voice and expression softened. Truly, he was very happy to engage others in musical activities. There was even a hint of a smile.

 "Ja, even if you suck at it, it'd be fun to smack others and get a good note!" Gilbert cackled, again. Seriously, how could a guy like this play the flute?! He'd be more suited for air guitar!

 Roderich huffed, choosing to ignore that comment. Instead, he moved to the middle of the auditorium stage, their club space, to the conductor's podium. He held a look about him that was frustrated but in a way pleading to Gilbert. Would it kill him to try to make a good impression to new members? Their retention rate was awful. "Your solo piece, if you please. Imbecile..." He mumbled the last word with gritted teeth.

 "Yeah, yeah." Gilbert's response was non-committal, flitting around the crumbled music sheets on his stand. Lovino couldn't help but stare at him, bemused by the two interacting.

 It was until the very last second that Gilbert continued to rebel. But as Roderich raised his baton, Gilbert's posture straightened, his flute raised and ready, his sharp eyes watching.

 Roderich waved his baton in time, and Gilbert began.

 The song was... uncharacteristically soft and sweet.

 And Gilbert was good. Really good, when he wanted to be. Good enough to be on the school’s orchestra, Lovino knew that much. It was a wonder why he preferred the club over it. Maybe he was showing off a little to Lovino, the way his eyes closed and he still stayed on time. Did he even need the music sheets at this point when he was playing with such practiced ease?

 It seemed to be working. Lovino's lips drew to a thin line, feeling his ears burning with embarrassment. He never thought such a rough-and-tumble guy like Gilbert could play so beautifully. It intrigued him.

 Maybe he will stick around.

[thesinglesjukebox]

DUA LIPA - PHYSICAL

[7.50]

It's okay! Move that boogie body!

Leah Isobel: It is a dark and stormy night. In a sinister science lab located somewhere in Carmen Sandiego's plush pomo lair, a pop singer plugs in a neon light, shrugs into a next-season Gaultier lab coat and gets to work. In the reflection of her gold-tinted goggles we see her add one (1) part Extract of "Into You," one (1) part Juice of Newton-John, and four (4) drops of Synthesizer Spice into a contoured beaker. She turns on the flame of a Bunsen burner; stream gushes from her concoction like a geyser, emitting a high, keening refrain. She whispers a few luscious words into the steam -- "diamond," "sssimulation," "adrenaline" -- but her experiment still lacks a certain something. Then -- BOOM! -- in a thundercrash of lightning, it hits her. Eureka! She turns and sees her reflection illuminated in the glass of an emergency axe container, kept onsite in case of fire. "Well," she chuckles to herself as she breaks the glass with a four-inch stiletto heel, "I am creating something... hot." Axe in hand, she chops the neon light into pieces and stuffs the shards, now glittering like a million sequined dancefloors, into the beaker. With the addition of this Decoction of Disco, her potion bubbles... it burbles... then KABOOM: it explodes the entire building and half of the surrounding city! She stands in the wreckage as thunder splits the sky above and sirens wail in the distance. We see Dua's eyes glow green before she throws her head back to the sky and screams: "GAY RIIIIIGHTS!" [9]

William John: Probably the best example of what parts of the Internet's stan culture would facetiously refer to as "gay rights" from a mainstream musical artist since... the last Dua Lipa single, or, failing that, "Into You." Like those precedents, "Physical" is camp but magisterial; playful but extremely melodramatic; sweeping, dance floor ready, and dripping with an exultant swagger. Her reminder to "hold on, just a little tighter" at the bridge is, truthfully, a hollow gesture; at that stage, the listener is so deeply embroiled in her glorious disco caprice as to not really be capable of gripping anything at all. [10]

Jackie Powell: It couldn't be clearer that Dua Lipa had something to prove not only to herself, but to the pop music intelligentsia on her sophomore offering. What has struck me most about the Future Nostalgia cycle is how Dua is executing every facet of it with confidence. On this track, she's not afraid of hitting notes that eclipse the breadth of her previous singles, especially on the bridge. "Physical" is a representative offering of exactly what she's aiming to prove. Each track we've heard so far reflects a different decade accompanied with a modern polish. I don't think I'm the only one who believes Olivia Newton-John's '80s exercise sexual metaphor smash "Physical" deserves the tribute it's getting here. There's a clear homage paid to her and to Patti LaBelle on Lipa's own "Physical." I'm going to interpret her lyric "We created something phenomenal" as a bit of a double-entendre. Not only is it about sex in the narrative of the track, but it's a comment on Lipa's approach to this era and her confidence on every single part of it. The sexual symbolism isn't just in the lyrics, but also in the track's composition and the narrative communicated in the visual treatment. The vocal highs that she hits on the bridge represent a climax musically and sexually. She has so much confidence in the visual treatment, she spends most of it braless. That takes guts. [9]

Tobi Tella: Dua Lipa's perceived lack of personality has turned out to actually be lack of a schtick preventing her from artistically evolving, something many of her peers are plagued with. Also, I've died and gone to gay heaven. [9]

Alfred Soto: The way Dua Lipa's unexpected bon mots and smoky sultriness ride the beat and compete with the strings compensate for a production too dressed up in leg warmers and headbands for my taste -- I mean, her exhortations are more fearsome than erotic. [7]

Julian Axelrod: Pop's '80s revival arms race has escalated to its natural endpoint: the accidental exhumation of Olivia Newton-John. I wish Dua Lipa had used "let's get physical" in a more literal iteration; singing it over hyperdrive synths guarantees it'll be never played in its intended setting, especially when she has half the energy of ONJ. But she hit the mark where it counts: This is going to rule spin classes for the rest of the year. [6]

Brad Shoup: A throwback training-montage track that suggests sex but is really about dancing and Olivia Newton-John erasure. This is Stranger Things pop. [5]

Thomas Inskeep: Sex is natural, sex is fun, sex is best when soundtracked by throbbing '80s synths. [6]

Ashley Bardhan: Okay, fine, I enjoy horny music. Sue me! This song is what would happen if ABBA was brought back to life as a bunch of hot 20-year-olds in little shirts from Fashion Nova. The "let's get physical" chorus feels a little lazy since it's a direct lift from Olivia Newton-John's 1981 hit, but this is a great song to listen to while thinking about that video of Charli XCX holding poppers. No complaints here. [7]

Alex Clifton: I've underestimated Dua Lipa. Her first album had some hits and misses, but Future Nostalgia is shaping up to be one of the best pop releases of 2020 based on the strength of its singles. "Physical" is a cascade of rainbow lights in a roller rink and makes me long to go out to a club, one where I can get down in a huge crowd of people and dance my white-girl ass off poorly. I'm an extreme introvert, so anything that makes me want to leave the house and be around strangers is powerful stuff indeed. It's a little cheesy, but who cares? It's a love letter to the '80s with all the campiness a song citing Olivia Newton-John should have. I'm desperately in love with Dua Lipa after hearing this, and I have a feeling "Physical" will be one of my favourite songs of the year. [9]

Stephen Eisermann: Dua Lipa has quietly become the pop superstar that so many of us wanted Carly Rae to be. Both women make incredible music, but it is Dua who has found commercial success; after hearing "Physical," it seems pretty obvious why. It's a retro-laden, power-pop track that is extraordinary only in the way Dua delivers it. What should be pedestrian instead is hypnotic, infectious, and oh so delicious. [8]

Lauren Gilbert: I promised a friend I'd blurb this song, and now that I've sat down to write it, I have nothing to say. It is a perfect pop song -- Dua knocks it out of the park on this record. I keep getting distracted from writing jamming to the track. I'm dancing while lying down on my couch. She created something phenomenal; we are left with no choice but to stan. [10]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I've justified Dua Lipa's dearth of personality in years past, but this is where things don't add up: her dead-eyed singing makes no sense during the chorus, whose synths lack the fervor to make up for clinical vocal melodies. Around this time last year, we had Lizzo's "Juice"; now we have "Physical" as an example of '80s pastiche that only feels like it exudes energy and passion and charm. [2]

Will Adams: It's neat to have a single that's its own Initial Talk remix, but the synthpop revivalism is a bit too literal, to the point of putting all its chips on an Olivia Newton-John quote. It's not until the bridge -- "keep on DANCING!" -- where the drama locks in and starts, but only starts, to feel real. [6]

Kylo Nocom: Dua Lipa, determined more than ever to win the Popjustice £20 Music Prize, accidentally transforms into Alice Chater in the process. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: If "Physical" being by Dua Lipa wasn't hypertargeted enough to the Popjustice set, is that the synth progression from Saint Etienne's "No Cure for the Common Christmas" in the intro and beneath the chorus? It's certainly the same height of drama. The track attached isn't quite so charged: a little too Lady Gaga circa "Applause" and a little too Peloton instructor quoting Olivia Newton-John for absolutely no reason besides the culture deciding at some point to make the phrase a permanent, meaningless meme. (The song doesn't even sound particularly '80s; the disco strings are the decade prior, and the vocal squiggles on the verse are so specifically 2016 a time traveler's on their way to erase them.) Dua Lipa only betrays a personality on the spoken-word bridge; ironic how that and the vaporous intro, the least physical things on this track, are the most thrilling. [7]

Vikram Joseph: The intro feels like a prickling at the back of your neck, the one-line pre-chorus feels like plummeting six floors in a broken elevator, and the chorus is such a headrush you can practically smell the poppers: "Physical"'s thrills might be straightforward, but they're visceral as fuck. There are vintage Lady Gaga vibes, the "come on!"s are surely a nod to "We Are Your Friends," and the whole thing reminds me, inexplicably, of Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." But Dua Lipa is starting to make this all seem effortless, and the panache with which she delivers "Physical" easily pulls it clear of the gravitational field of its forebears. [9]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: "Physical" dares us to be the boldest versions of ourselves. It finds itself at the perfect intersection of confidence and lust. Dua Lipa is flirting with you with a playfulness she can only possess because she already knows you're going home together -- and she won't let you leave until the dancing is done. Dancing here is instinct, it's synths that sound as sweet as they do sinister, it's salty like the sweat that rolls down your forehead after you've been, well, physical. Dua Lipa is crushing the Confessions on a Dance Floor album that I've long been waiting for Lady Gaga to make. Dance floor music has long been my site of refuge and catharsis, so it's refreshing to be reminded that it can still sound so immediately, eminently thrilling. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: This doesn't quite reach the heights of "Don't Start Now," but damn it comes close. "Physical" should, in theory, be a cookie-cutter pop girl release, but Dua proves once again that she is the most important element in her music. The producers are doing everything right too, but who else could pull off her endearing smirk in "common love isn't for us" or that wonderful growl in "follow the noise"? And Dua takes us through a transcendental bridge that highlights the best qualities of her voice: singing simple lyrics that say everything they need to, she's breathless yet confident, desperate for touch yet satisfied with the musical world she's helped to create. Something phenomenal, indeed: this rollout has been a joy to follow. [9]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Physical" takes the opposite approach to "Don't Start Now" -- while that song's studio version swallows up its singer in a beautifully constructed, sterile disco pastiche (the live versions and remixes are much better), turning her into just one more retro cog, "Physical" makes her the center of attention. The production around her is good enough (the synth preset change right before the chorus starts is especially nice), but not particularly coherent or hooky on its own. In the vacuum left, Dua gets to have more fun, charismatically switching between vocal styles and walking around like she owns the place. [8]

Jibril Yassin: A powerhouse vocal colliding headfirst with production that's neither plodding nor limp. It's a song that's meant to feel like a blockbuster and after a few failed tries, it's thrilling to hear Dua Lipa finally nail the landing and sound like the superstar she wants to be. [7]

Michael Hong: "Physical" is magnetic. Its pulse is unrelenting, its atmosphere is shadowy and captivating, and Dua Lipa gives possibly her best vocal performance. There's no sense of the up-and-coming performer who delivered everything with stolid execution, instead, "Physical" is a sly wink of a pre-chorus leading to a forceful command: "baby, keep on dancing like you ain't got a choice." Dua Lipa is at the helm, all thoughts and any other desires are out the window, and the night is neverending. [7]

Joshua Lu: Several of Dua Lipa's past hit songs have relied on a marketable veneer of cool: "New Rules" works because she's the straight-talker friend giving advice, "Don't Start Now" necessitates a stoic character who can't be bothered to fret about her ex, and even on collaborations like "One Kiss" does Dua employ a rather unemotional voice, like she's a blank canvas for Calvin Harris' more playful and engaging production. "Physical" feels like such a departure for Dua not just because of its obvious throwback sound, but because this veneer of cool is completely torn down when the song reaches its rushing chorus. She sounds more and more desperate as her voice climbs and the synths soar above her, and her cries of "come on" ring as desperate instead of dominant. The song is indebted to pop titans of yesteryears (Olivia Newton-John obviously inspired the title, but the theatrics of the song feel more indebted to Bonnie Tyler or Patti Labelle) to the point of it not really feeling like a Dua song, but she sells it all so convincingly that it feels like a natural fit. It's part pop song, part epic showdown, and I look forward to Dua continuing to push herself to the forefront of mainstream pop music greatness. [9]

Scott Mildenhall: Little wonder that Lipa's so keen to get physical, given that she's "dreaming in a simulation" -- her focus seems to be on the former, since the latter exemplifies the aimlessness of the verses in comparison to the locked-and-loaded chorus. That has its thrills, yet never feels as loose as seems intended. "Physical" comes across too in love with the idea of being a kind of Perfect Pop to actually be it; an anthem for kinetics developed via science textbook. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[itcars]

Speedtail Wins Best of Show at Chantilly Arts & Elegance

High-performance artistry from McLaren Automotive in the elegant form of its newest grand tourers, the McLaren Speedtail and the McLaren GT, impressed car enthusiasts and art lovers alike when France’s grandest motoring festival opened for one day only in Chantilly on 30 June. It was the first chance for the public to view the Speedtail, McLaren’s fastest-ever car, in the flesh and also a unique opportunity to see both new grand touring models together. The McLaren Speedail was entered into the concours competition and joined a supercar parade that married beautiful automotive designs with the latest from the fashion world – providing French visitors with the bonus of seeing the Speedtail move under its own power, albeit at a fraction of its 403km/h top speed.

Centered around supercars but dedicated to all aspects of “the art of living”, the biennial Chantilly Arts & Elegance Richard Mille is a celebration of the exquisite, held om the grounds of the historic Chateau de Chantilly, 50km north of Paris.

As a brand committed to dynamic design and hand-crafted luxury, McLaren is very much at home in these magnificent surroundings, one of the jewels of France’s cultural heritage. The two new McLaren masterpieces on display at Chantilly this year dazzled for both their art and their elegance.

Stealing the show in a never-before-seen livery of Saragon Quartz body and Oxblood aniline leather and nubuck interior, the Speedtail for Chantilly showcases many of the bespoke luxury materials and finishes that characterise the latest Ultimate Series model - the most luxurious and spacious McLaren ever. The three-seat Speedtail’s streamlined, seamless body, shimmering in its champagne hue, features the Contour Pack of aero parts that include the front wheel covers, splitter, diffuser, cowl and engine cover, while setting this off in ultra-sophisticated style are 3k carbon body panels with a satin finish.

Making a rich contrast to the exterior is the three-seat, central-driving position cabin with full aniline leather and aniline nubuck of deep red. The seats feature bespoke painted edges in navy with bespoke quilting pattern (quasar) on the seat backs. Metal parts inside are machined aluminium with a brushed and polished finish.

Just 106 Speedtails will be produced and with every one reserved, French enthusiasts were given a rare chance to see the car in the flesh. And to prove that McLaren’s 403km/h Hyper-GT has “magnifique” written all over it, the Chantilly Concours d’Elegance judges voted the Speedtail the ‘Best of Show’ prize – the Speedtail’s first award.

Also rewriting the rules of grand touring at Chantilly was the superlight McLaren GT, the brand’s first true Grand Tourer making its French national debut. The McLaren GT is a car that redefines the category by adding greater space, comfort and usability to McLaren supercar DNA – while retaining all the extreme performance, dynamic ability and driver engagement for which the brand stands.

The GT’s beautiful design, hand-crafted finish and innovative materials were shown to stunning effect by a display model finished in Burnished Copper with Gloss Black diamond-cut alloy wheels, the optional panoramic electrochromic glass roof and an interior trimmed in Porcelain Blue leather. With performance even more breathtaking than its design – 0-200km/h in just 9.0 seconds and a top speed of 326km/h – the McLaren GT is available to order now priced from £163,000.

The award-winning Chantilly Arts & Elegance Richard Mille festival has quickly become established as an internationally renowned motoring event, famous for its sophisticated style and relaxed “garden party” atmosphere. Beautiful cars are matched by beautiful art, gastronomy and fashion for a celebration of l’Art de Vivre à la Française.

“To have the McLaren Speedtail recognized as ‘best of the show’ by the judges of the Chantilly Arts & Elegance Richard Mille is a great honor for us. The McLaren design team is always brave in its approach and receiving this award for the stunning design, craftsmanship and innovation combined with pure supercar DNA at a festival that pairs beautiful cars with a beautiful chateau setting is a fantastic reward to the team back in Woking.” David Gilbert, Managing Director Europe, McLaren Automotive

This year’s Chantilly Arts & Elegance on Sunday 30 June was the fifth festival and the fifth time the Woking-based creator of extreme performance sportscars and supercars has premiered its own “jewels” to French enthusiasts and collectors across the world. McLarens also featured prominently in displays of the most emblematic road and track cars from the past and present, with models taking part including the Senna GTR, F1 GTR, M16, ex-Ayrton Senna and Mika Häkkinen McLaren Formula 1 cars, 720S GT3 and, among road cars, the latest from the Super Series, the 720S Spider.

[ingek73]

‘Mouthful by mouthful’: the 2019 Bad sex award in quotes

Extravagant metaphors are indecently exposed in the shortlist for the Literary Review’s annual booby prize for sexual scenes in fiction

Wed 27 Nov 2019 16.06 GMT

The River Capture by Mary Costello

He clung to her, crying, and then made love to her and went far inside her and she begged him to go deeper and, no longer afraid of injuring her, he went deep in mind and body, among crowded organ cavities, past the contours of her lungs and liver, and, shimmying past her heart, he felt her perfection.

The Office of Gardens and Ponds by Didier Decoin

The earthy taste surprised her. When he was alive, when it swelled inside Miyuki’s mouth, Katsuro’s penis had tasted of raw fish, of warm young bamboo shoots, and of fresh almonds when she finally released its juices. Now it was insipid and muddy to her tongue, like the pools of the temples of Heian Kyō when the Office of Gardens and Ponds had them drained for cleaning.

Miyuki had loved this man. Not that he was a very good lover – but what did she know, after all, since she had experienced no one but him? He used to upset her by the way he silently loomed up behind her and took her by the shoulders, his nails scratching her flesh, his strong breath enveloping her neck, a smell of ripe fruit and poorly tanned leather, his knee pushing against her lower back to open her tunic and expose a portion of naked flesh against which he would then rub his organ as if he were furtively making omelette rolls. He did not derive his pleasure without her, but in front of her, and differently.

City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert

There was a sensation occurring here that I didn’t even know could occur. I took the sharpest inhale of my life, and I’m not sure I let my breath out for another 10 minutes. I do feel that I lost the ability to see and hear for a while, and that something might have short-circuited in my brain – something that has probably never been fully fixed since. My whole being was astonished. I could hear myself making noises like an animal, and my legs were shaking uncontrollably (not that I was trying to control them), and my hands were gripping down so hard over my face that I left fingernail divots in my own skull.

Then it became more.

And after that, it became even more still.

Then I screamed as though I were being run over by a train, and that long arm of his was reaching up again to palm my mouth, and I bit into his hand the way a wounded soldier bites on a bullet.

And then it was the most, and I more or less died.

Pax by John Harvey

She gave a yet deeper, moaning sigh. Like breathing in he saw the word he had said shiver and expand inside her. Her arms moved now, and flexed: out of here, Venus de Milo. He watched the death-life fill her growingly. She grabbed and caressed him with more muscle, more zest, than ever before. Her long lean arms were spider arms, while her kisses roved and dug.

‘I see it,’ he said. ‘You are the female praying mantis, devouring her mate.’

‘I am. You are. I shall eat every shred of you.’

‘Mouthful by mouthful.’

‘Exactly. Ah. But boy, you taste good.’ She licked her lips, and pulled him close, but now he was clasping too. It was a kind of slow wrestling, they were knitting each other into a loose slipping knot. He was upside down over her, loving her bush and lick-kissing like eating her inner thighs. Till at last they loved fully and later lay back. She did not chatter. Their arms stirred in a luxurious desultory twining.

The Electric Hotel by Dominic Smith

The actual lovemaking was a series of cryptic clues and concealed pleasures. A sensual treasure hunt. She asked for something, then changed her mind. He made adjustments and calibrations, awaited further instruction.

For most of the proceedings he felt his own desire as if it were tethered to a wire, a bright red balloon floating in his peripheral vision, but eventually he burst through. It was toward the end, as their breathing quickened. Her stage directions had stalled out into silence. He looked to his right and noticed the scene in the smoky lens of the mirror above the bureau, saw his own body move with the steady rhythm of a bellows blowing air at the base of a fire. It brought back the early experiments at the photographic society in Paris, the wiring of a bird’s feet to a cameragun, the mounting tension and uplift before a surge of exasperated flight. His own face looking back in the mirror – open-mouthed, flushed, euphoric – was a wild, strange thing to him. A beguiled stranger he’d never met, held in place by an infinite loop. Then his eyes locked on Sabine’s in the mirror and he could see that she was pleased with her staging, with her hair fanning across the pillow, with the way her ankles locked about his calves so that her long white feet formed a perfect V. And it was the act of looking back at the filmstrip juddering above the bureau that sent her into a final boisterous delirium. She bit his shoulder, then whispered into the mirror, Nous voilà, catching her breath, There we are.

[elejah-verse]

Beginning of Forever

Fanfic one shot

Elijah Mikaelson x Elena Gilbert

a/n:thanks for reading. xoxo

Warning: smutty, 18+

tags @rissyrapp20 @dendrite-lover @cassienoble2000 @captainshurley @hides2000

******

👔

A couple of days earlier

“We have to talk about going over to the fake Mystic Falls World. I have information about the Cure. Shall we meet at the usual place?” Elijah said.

“No. I am at Whitmore already. Come by my dorm.” Elena replied.

“All right.” the Original swiped the call off. Putting the phone away in his pocket, he now chose a different shirt. As he finally got ready, he made his way to Whitmore College. 

🎹

Fake Mystic Falls World, Boarding House

Elena closed the book in frustration.

Elijah put the old papirus on the table now and rose up from the desk.

“I think we need a break. Want a drink?”

“Yes, please. But not Bourbon. Is there maybe- wine? - Elena said as she now got up frim the sofa.

"I think so. I think I saw some Pinot grigio in the cellar.”- Elijah replied and swished down to the cellar of the Boarding House.

Returning back, he poured them both a glass of the pale golden nectar.

“Who would have thought they kept such a good drop here in the fake world?” - Elijah said as he took a sip of the wine.

“I like it.”- Elena said, adding-“Food does nothing to us, but I still can’t get that we can taste the drinks like when we were human?!”

“Yes, I have found this extraordinary, too, always. I prefer wine to Bourbon actually. ”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. It is far more delectable. Some wines, like this one is to the palate like the finest of silks.”

“It is good - though I only tried wine once or twice. It was always Bourbon with - ok - not going back to the past” - Elena said taking another sip.

“I agree. Let the sleeping dogs lie.” - Elijah said and took a deep breath.

“You miss her?” - Elena said with a little mental gulp, her heart burning as she now waited for the response. The doppelganger now apologized for being too forward.

“Not at all. I have long since moved on. My heart is set on someone else. It has been so for a while now.”

Elijah knew what she was referring to and now replied-

” Oh, right - I never thought Camille is your type. “

"Camille? - Why would you think-”- Elijah now looked a tab bit surprised that Elena would mention the blonde bartender.

“Sorry - I just - I kind of overheard you talk. I didn’t mean to. And so I figured-”

“Well, you figured wrong-” - Elijah now paused, wetting his lips before he proceeded -”the one that has my heart yearning for is you, Elena-"

"What?” - Elena’s swallowed hard, her heart jumping up.

“Yes.There - but I guess you still have unresolved issues with Damon Salvatore”

“With Damon? No. That has been so resolved.”

“It seemed that you and him started over again.” - Elijah now said.

Elena now remembered the moment a week ago, when Elijah left the Grill so abruptly -”No. Well, Damon, he tried to - but I - it’s over. I am so tired of the fake love. And I kind of had my heart also set on someone else.”

“You had?”

“Yeah - I so had - you”

No able to sustain her emotions that had been simmering for days, well weeks now whenever she was around him, Elena now crushed her lips on Elijah’s. His mouth moved against hers, recklessly, desperately. He devoured her in hungry kisses, entwining her tongue with his, seizing her every breath and replacing it with his.

Elijah’s jaw now clenched. His whole being had desired her for so long. He drew her scent now, making his body tighten in response.

Parting for a moment, with the Original’s warm breath still dancing on her lips, she beamed up at him, letting out a slow, shuddering breath, uttering“I want you,’Lijah”

She tugged the shirt out of the Original’s trousers, trailing small fiery kisses along his neck, making him let a low guttural sound.

“Elena- wait” - Elijah took her hands gently, stopping her kisses.

Elena shook her head lightly, sweet desire flickered at him and before he could say anything more, she drew his lips to hers. Her mouth was searingly burning, demanding, obliterating his every thought. Pulling her by the waist closer to him, he gave as good as he got and she responded with a deep, muffled moan as their tongues now collided.

His heart pumped wildly when her hands ran down his shoulders and arms, landing on his hips, now moving over, feeling him through his trousers, making the Original groan.

Elijah drew back with a small smirk crossing his face and swept the doppelganger up, twirling her around to the sofa. Kissing her now even more vigorously, he unzipped her dress in the process, sliding it off of her, taking a moment to admire the beauty of her slender figure.

“You are so very beautiful” he gasped.

Elena curled up a little dreamy smile at the Original and now pulled him to her into a kiss. After a set of another ferociously wanton kisses, he sat up on his knees, and took his shirt off. Elena rose up herself now, undoing her bra. Tossing it aside she came closer to him, her fingers feathering over his divinely chiselled torso. She felt the tension in his ab muscles, and she held still as if collecting her senses. Slowly , her fingers trailed up towards his neck, over the dimple on his chin, to his lips. Taking her hand, he placed tiny soft kisses on her fingertips, listening to her heart pounding savagely. He loved the sound of it. Lost in its musical beat, and Elena’s small kisses now travelling down his chest, his breathing suddenly stilled.

“Oh, fuck-”- Elijah breathed in, releasing a small hoarse breath as she undid his trousers, pulling both the trousers and boxers down, taking him in his mouth. She draw the head in her mouth, stroking him with one hand, plunging down and then twirling her tongue over the head of his cock again and again. His breathing accelerated, his whole body floating in the divine state of combustion as pleasure pulsed through his cock. The moment she began to take steady draws on the head of his cock, the intense pleasure had his back arching hard and he let it all go and began to come. His throat opened up and a strange sound, like a growl followed, deep-throated and husky.

Collecting himself a moment later, he drew her to him, in a warm, loving hug, whispering dearly to her, as his hands mashed with her hair-

“You are amazing - so wonderful “

Tugging the blanket down, he took her by the hand. Baring themselves of the rest of the clothes, they laid down.

He caressed her face, looking at her with adoring eyes -

“You are everything I ever wanted - “

“Oh, God - me, too”- Elena swallowed hard, feeling his hands now glide down over her breasts just barely touching her skin, brushing with his palms over her nipples. Elena moaned softly to his tender touches, sending hot shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes revelling in the warmth she felt all over. Elijah pressed against her, his hand moving further down as his breath floated against her neck. She hummed in pleasure as his fingers traced the contour of her navel teasing her belly button, before sliding up the line back to the smooth skin between her breasts. He took the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it slowly as he began to kiss at her neck. The doppelganger now writhed to him, breathing hoarsely, her hands disappearing up in the brown strands of his hair. She could feel his hardened cock pressing against her leg and she slid against him. He grunted softly against her ear. His hand draped down her body, reaching her sweet spot now. Nipping at the skin below her ear, he raked his fangs along her neckline. Elena’s whole body pulsed with anticipation of his fangs piercing into her neck, but he kept teasing her. His fingers now passed her delicate folds, inserting two fingers, making her roll her hips to his movements. The doppelganger bit her lip as his thumb brushed over her nub again and again. He could feel her shiver with delight, panting burningly. Murmuring softly how magnificent she was, he felt her body shudder, crying in pleasure, wrapping her hands around his neck, coming apart so deliciously.

Elijah now showered her with small kisses, drawing once again her lips to his, still feeling her high, streaming all over her. Shifting his body, he pulled her gently under him. He guided his cock now in, sinking slowly deeper, leaning his head in to place a kiss to her lips, swallowing her pleasurable noises as he sunk into her fully. She closed her eyes and smiled, her heart splaying with fire and the love she felt him. She moved her hips upwards, slowly, giving a small grind, urging Elijah on.

The Original deepened the kiss further as she moved her hips to meet his thrusts.

Moving her lips from his, she kissed and nipped softly at his shoulder, inhaling his scent now. It was masculine, heavenly, and she couldn’t get enough of it.

He was everything she dreamt of.

Slowly his hand drifted down her body to settle on her thigh, to her swollen clit now, stroking it with added fervor. He brought his lips to hers once again, kissing her with great passion and love as the pace of his thrusts increased.

She shoved her hips against him over and over, deepening the thrusts. Her whole body was now bathing in flames. Feeling the first wave of pleasure begin to race through them, their veins flooded with a quaking shudder. They both not long after cried out the rippling waves of orgasm, cascading right through them.

As the sensations began to ease down, a warm emotion invaded them, swirling through their hearts and souls, Elena wrapped her arms around Elijah and embraced him to herself lovingly.Catching her breath back, she kissed his mole on the neck and moved a hand to run through his hair in a relaxing, loving manner.

Still holding onto one another, his head now shifted to meet her into a kiss, sealing all he felt for her.

“I love you”- he then breathed against her mouth, his eyes dreamily lost in hers.

“I love you, too.”

[royalcordelia]

Time Turns to Amber (1/11)

Summary: The line between universes is blurred when Anne Shirley of Green Gables suddenly switches lives with Ann Shirley-Cuthbert, a university student living in the contemporary world. Suddenly Anne must learn how to navigate the modern world, one which contains a boyfriend, a part time job, and another year of university. Meanwhile, Ann struggles to tackle corsets, farming, and a world without electricity. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but most people can't tell the difference between the redhead they know and the girl who replaced her. Dedicated to the ever-beautiful @hecksinki

A Time Travel, Soulmate AU

Rated T+ • 4.2k words • Read on ao3 • Part Two 

Standing in the darkness of the ballroom corner, Anne Shirley watched the dancing couples fly across the room in a flurry of whirling skirts to the rhythm of the waltz. Everything had gone according to plan: the preparations, the ceremony, and thus far, the reception. Anything less than perfect would not have been adequate. Diana Barry deserved the best, after all. That went without saying.

The ceremony was certainly right out of a daydream, with its flower garlands, string quartet, and crystalized colors echoing on the walls like dancing shadows from the chandeliers. Dozens of compliments were paid directly to Miss Josephine Barry, who’d a knack for planning elaborate celebrations and did so annually. But none of the previous soirees or banquets could compare to this magnificent occasion, planned for the bride by her most kindred spirit. Anne had truly outdone herself.

She really should have been happy. After all, she’d never heard of a wedding that didn’t have at least some small little blunder to speak of. But Anne couldn’t help but feel a little bit...well, she might as well come out and admit it - she was jealous.

In the privacy of her own mind, Anne mourned how right the event was. Diana made the perfect bride, and contrary to Anne’s expectations, Jerry Baynard wasn’t all that shabby of a Prince Charming. Each polished spoon and lacy white decoration only suited Diana’s passage into wifehood. Here in this bridal castle, alive with celebration and exuberance,  Diana was the queen - queen over a man who adored the very ground she walked on, queen over her new household, queen over a lifetime of happiness. The most beautiful queen that had ever been born in Avonlea.

Anne, on the other hand, felt like a homely side ornament for Diana. She could never hope for such grand celebrations on her behalf. Certainly, Aunt Jo had told her that if she chose to remain unmarried, she could earn the money to host such a celebration, but Anne had a feeling it wasn’t going to be her choice.

If she were to tell the truth, she’d say that she really did yearn for a married life. She ached for a lifemate, her partner and equal. Perhaps it was selfish, but Anne had hoped in the weeks leading up to Diana’s wedding that if some small little thing went wrong, it would mean Diana’s wedding wasn’t to be a seamlessly perfect event. No such inconvenience occurred, and Anne was forced to face the reality that girls like Diana were meant to have resplendent weddings. Girls like Anne were left to have no weddings at all.

“You know, you seem rather dejected for a girl whose best friend is the midst of the happiest day of her life,” a deep, familiar voice said beside her. Anne didn’t have to look away from the waltzing guests to know who it was, but merely leaned her head onto his shoulder.

“I’m not dejected, Cole. I wanted nothing less for Diana today. If I did, I wouldn’t have planned everything so…” Anne sighed. “Dazzlingly exquisite.”

“Then why are you radiating such dark waves, oh picture of joy?”

Anne did look to Cole then, and she could tell immediately that he knew what ill feelings plagued her heart. He simply wanted her to tell him herself, to speak her mind instead of brewing alone in her sorrow.

“The last few weeks of planning this wedding and seeing how Jerry and Diana truly complete one another has made me realize that I am not the marrying sort.”

Cole frowned.

“You don’t want to get married?”

“No, I do, but can you imagine someone looking at me like that?” Anne looked over at Diana and Jerry dancing blissfully in each other’s arms. There was no denying the adoration in Jerry’s eyes, how his love for Diana blossomed from the center of his heart and grew throughout his entire body like a blinding light. “It’s simply impossible.”

“Oh Anne,” Cole reprimanded gently. “Someone does look at you like that. Only every time he does, you pretend not to notice.”  

“Not this again,” Anne moaned, turning her back to him. “No matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t get any more true. Gilbert Blythe does not care for me like that.”

“Shall I provide you proof? Look at him with Moody over there. Go on, Anne, look.”

Anne’s heart dropped to the floor when she finally gained the courage to look up

Gilbert Blythe was a sight to behold, with his suit all primly pressed for his best-man duties. The contours of his face were lit by the warm chandelier light, making his cheeks look like sunsets of gold and rose. Just to gaze upon him made Anne feel strangely unsatisfied, as if there was something missing, a hole that was craving to be filled. With what, though?

It only seemed to worsen when he gazed back at her, an unfortunate circumstance for the present moment. True to Cole’s prodding, Gilbert’s eyes were locked on her in an intense fashion that she could always feel on the back of her neck. The connection of their gazes lit Anne into red fire, and for a few moments she sat there simmering, aching. She hoped he would look away first because she couldn’t find it within herself to move, but instead he only smiled. No coy, teasing wink. No smirk of boyish taunting. Genuine affection that Anne could feel as presently inside her as if he were standing just before her brushing hair away from her face.

“Now, I think that has put an end to your nonsense,” Cole murmured into her ear. Anne felt more heat flood into her rosy cheeks when she realized her friend had watched the silent exchange. “Go dance with him.”

“N-no,” Anne stammered shakily. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to admit that he was wrong, not when Gilbert was looking at her like that. “I think I’ll go steal a dance with the bride.”

As Anne ventured through the room, she wanted nothing more than to lock herself away in a room with Diana and speak all that was on her mind. But there were to be no more late nights with her bosom friend, no more jumping on beds or pretending to be princesses. Those days were buried in a distant past, and had been for years.

Oh, why did everyone have to grow up and change? Why did Diana have to get married and leave her forever? And why did Gilbert insist on looking at her as if she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen?

Diana might have sensed the raging storm in Anne, had she not swallowed it in time for Diana to lay eyes on her. The endless beauty of bridal white and crystals spun to greet Anne with a euphoric grin.

“Mr. Baynard, I do think you have been monopolizing your darling wife far too long this evening,” Diana teased, extending her hand to Anne. “For the next dance, I believe her interests lie elsewhere. Anne, have you room on your dance card?”

“I’d be delighted,” Anne said with a chuckle. The two spun away with an explosion of very unladylike laughter, too busy desperately holding onto one another to correctly perform the steps of the waltz. Eventually, their giggles subsided and Anne pulled Diana close into her arms.

“Anne, what’s wrong, dearest? If you hold onto me any tighter, I think I’ll turn to dust,” Diana said gently. Anne only squeezed a little and buried her face into Diana’s shoulder.

“You know, I always wanted a sister. Now I have one and  I already have to let you go so soon.”

“Come on Anne, you know you’ll see me just as much as you always did! I’m not going to let married life get in the way of our friendship. You’re just as much my family as Jerry is.”

“My mind knows it, Diana, but my heart refuses to see reason. I feel like my feet are glued to the center of the world and everything is moving so fast around me. I can’t catch up.”

“You’ll figure everything out, Anne,” Diana comforted. She ran a comforting hand down Anne’s head, and it was all the redhead could do to not let tears trickle down her face. Pulling back, Diana took Anne’s face in her gentle hands and Anne had a stray thought that Diana would make the most spectacular mother one day.

“I know in my heart that your feet will get unstuck soon. Next thing you know, we’ll be planning your wedding.” Diana’s eyes glanced over to where Gilbert was standing with Jerry, the pair of lads watching the girls dance.

“Not you too,” Anne muttered, pulling back. “I simply cannot fathom why everyone believes I should marry Gilbert Blythe.”

“Oh, Anne, I didn’t mean to upset you. You just seem so taken with him these days. You’ve spent practically every day together at Redmond studying, even though you’re both enrolled in different programs! With your graduation just completed, we’ve all assumed that his proposal was inevitable and-”

Anne had heard quite enough, and was quick to intercept whatever terrible thing was about to come out of Diana’s mouth.

“Look at that, Diana! Jerry is positively glaring at me. It seems I have stolen away his wife away for too long. I think I’ll go get some fresh air on the veranda. Aunt Jo says the view of Charlottetown all lit up is positively breathtaking. I’ll return shortly.”

“But Anne!” Diana tried to reach for her, but Anne was too quick to press a kiss to her cheek and scurry away.

The escape wasn’t very genteel in nature, but the feeling of fresh cool air in her lungs crashed into her like the summer tide. With the sun safely set beneath the island horizon, the breeze had taken a slight chill that cooled Anne’s skin from the lace of her own white dress. Aunt Jo’s veranda was truly as magnificent as the rest of the estate, with its view over the city and white marble columns.

Shuffling up to the edge of the balcony, Anne leaned at the railing and tilted her face up to the stars.

“Will you align for me, too?” she asked all the flickering stellar brilliance. Maybe her luck had run dry the day Marilla decided to allow her to stay at Green Gables. Anne shook her head - that was a terribly ungrateful thought to have. She’d never exchange her life at Green Gables for anything. But now that she had tasted happiness, was she to now go without it for the rest of her life? Was her happiness meant to stay stagnant where it was when she was the fresh age of eleven, never to grow?

Suddenly, her thoughts came to a screeching halt.

His presence was tangible behind her, though she didn’t hear him come outside. She waited for his to say something, expectant when he finally called out to her.

“Anne, I’ve come to see if you’re feeling alright. You looked pale when you left,” Gilbert said gently into the night air.

“Just a bit lightheaded. It’s dreadfully warm in there with all the lights and people and dancing,” Anne lied. If she was at all dizzy, it was because even from here she could smell the spicy, earthy scent of him from across the balcony. It was enough to make her knees weak. Gilbert knew Anne well enough to see through the lie, but also knew when to allow her to keep her secrets.

“Alright,” Gilbert he replied carefully. He paused, as if deciding what to do, then cleared his throat. “Would you like some company?”

Against her better judgement, Anne replied with a smile, “Always.”

Gilbert fell by her side, leaning his elbows on the railing just inches away from hers. Hunched over, Anne saw the lines of his back, the strength of his shoulders, the moonlight in his hair. The universe certainly was trying its best to paint this man as her ideal, she realized. Never before had Gilbert been so capable of appearing so melancholy and handsome. The girls of Redmond college certainly said otherwise. It was truly unfair that forces unknown should tempt her with her own preferences in a man that was so very...not her preference - at least romantically. Gilbert was her preference in a conversation partner, dinner company, a friendly rival, and a best friend. In fact, she rather preferred his company more than anyone else’s with the exception of Diana.

“What’s on your mind, Anne-girl?” he asked finally, peering up at her with those hazel eyes that sometimes her dreams tormented her with.

“Anne-girl?” she replied with a chuckle.

“I heard Miss Barry call you that earlier. I like it.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Don’t think I don’t notice you sidestepping the question.”

“I’m not! It’s just that nothing particular is on my mind.”

Gilbert quirked a brow, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Given the events of today, I find that impossible to believe.” Anne was silent for a moment, her fingers fiddling with the smooth ivy that engulfed the railing.

“Oh alright,” Anne gave in with a sigh. She knew she could trust Gilbert with some of the aches in her heart, if not the aspects that had to do with him. “When we were children, I suppose I always foolishly assumed that Diana and I would find happiness around the same time. That fate had us traveling parallel roads.”

“You’re not happy?” Worry sent a frown on his lips that made Anne feel a little guilty.

“I’m happy enough,” she admitted. “Oh, I feel like a dreadful person. Pretend I never said anything.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Gilbert straightened his back and turned to face Anne head on. “Not until you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Anne crossed her arms over her chest, averting her gaze from his. What was the point in telling him? There wasn’t a single thing he could do to point her on the right path. Nevertheless, she opened her mouth and it was like an electric switch had been flipped.

“Everyone is growing up and deciding what they want to do with their lives. Meanwhile, odd Anne Shirley is weeks into her graduate life and has no idea where her place is in the world. With Diana married, she won’t have any time to spare for me, I just know it! And Jane is planning on spending the summer in England for missionary work. Even Marilla and Mrs. Lynde have been organizing a Lady’s Aid for the church, and have barely been home. Everyone is doing something with their lives and I can’t seem to make up my mind about anything. Not about my vocation, not about you-”

She froze, hoping that if she covered her tracks soon enough, he wouldn’t catch the little slip, but he was too quick. Gilbert had gained some wisdom about Anne in their years at college, and decided to pretend he heard nothing - even if it did make his heart skip a bit to replay it in his mind.

“I think I know how you feel,” he admitted.

“Now that can’t be true, Gil. You’ve known about what you’ve wanted to do since our schooldays.”

“Maybe in general, but certainly not specifically. There are many branches of medicine, you know. I could specialize in the brain or in general practice, if I wanted. Something tells me I’ll make a wonderful surgeon, but I’m not sure if that’s what I want.”

“I suppose that’s what medical school is for, is it not?”

“It’s not just that,” Gilbert grumbled, a bit frustrated with himself. Anne turned to him and searched for his eyes. She hadn’t seen any of this turmoil in him before, and they saw each other practically every day. “I have what you would call an ideal in my head of what I want my future to be. There’s a white house on the shore, trees, children, laughter and fun…”

Anne dropped her gaze to the ground. That sounded an awful lot of what she’d always dreamed of as well. Unaware of her embarrassment, Gilbert continued.

“I want a simple country practice, Anne. I want to be a reliable, compassionate doctor. Someone the people can trust.”

“You’ll have all those things, Gilbert. I know that for certain.” He was like Diana - favored by the stars and by fate. Handsome and smart, there was no way he’d ever lack in happiness or success.

“But there’s something important missing right now, and I’m afraid that if I don’t gain it now, if I don’t earn it, then my life will always be lacking true happiness.”  

For a split moment, Anne wondered what it could possibly be.Then, she looked up at him and her heart halted in her chest. The deepest parts of her soul gave a sigh of anticipation and yearning at the desire in his eyes, like it wanted to be consumed by him. The sensation was overwhelming and foreign, leaving Anne stranded at his side unsure of what to believe and feel. Gilbert took her silence to muster his courage and ask something he wanted to know above all.

“What did you mean before about not being able to make up your mind about me?”

Even in her indecisiveness, Anne knew that this conversation was about to cross a line that she wasn’t prepare to travel over. His eyes were too intense, begging, serious.

“Gilbert, it was nothing. Can we pretend I never said anything in the first place?” Gilbert took a step closer to her, and Anne countered with a few stumbling feet backwards until she was pressed against the railing of the veranda.  

“If that’s what you want, Anne, but avoiding me like this isn’t going to help you settle on any decisions. If you’re not honest with me or with yourself, you’re never going to make up your mind about what you want in life.”

“And just what do you think I want, Gilbert Blythe?”

“I think you want someone to stand beside you and love you. I think you want someone to be your equal and support you no matter what path in life you decide to traverse, just so that you won’t be alone when fate tosses you around.” Anne fought back the urge to touch the redness of his cheeks, keeping her fists clenched at her side as he continued. “I’ve not been honest with you all these years, Anne. Not completely.”

The truths of her mind and heart overcame her for a moment and she whispered in a silent plea, “I already know, Gil. You don’t need to say it.”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t. Anne, I-”

She quieted him in the only way that she could. She grabbed him by the collar, pulled herself up onto the balls of her feet, and kissed him. The second her lips made contact with his, Anne felt herself dissolving, but Gilbert wrapped his arms around her before her knees could crumble. She wrapped one around his shoulder, pulling him closer until there was no space for secrets, fears, or longings between them. It was an overwhelming onrush of sensations, with his mouth kissing her with the unrestrained passion he’d locked inside for years and his fingertips gently caressing her cheeks and down her neck. Anne let herself surrender to the need to remain in his embrace, safe and loved, ignoring the cries in her mind that she shouldn’t be doing this. This was Gilbert Blythe, childhood confidant, loyal kindred spirit.

But oh, she could suddenly imagine very simply being a doctor’s wife and having a curly haired, hazel-eyed family. The images came to her mind without any resistance at all - a white house surrounded by dozens of wildflowers, a neat little corner to write in, a husband who looked dreadfully like Gilbert. She could see it all, and she wanted it.

She wanted it enough to let him trail kisses down the soft lines of her chin and down her neck, leaning into him when she felt she might melt into him completely.  The sensitive skin erupted into shivers when he lingered at the cleft of her throat, and she ran her fingers through his soft hair.

Then, with a shaky exhale, Gilbert lifted his head back up and looked into her half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he said quietly, reverently.

Reality came crashing back onto Anne, and she fought the urge to tear herself out of his arms and run away. Any hopes and dreams she’d drowned in while he kissed her were gone now, replaced by her own logic.

“I...I don’t know how I feel, Gilbert,” she confessed in a frightened whisper. “There’s so much I don’t understand about myself, so much I haven’t decided or discovered. And then there’s Roy to consider. He’s-”

“Roy? ” Gilbert nearly spat. He knew all about Royal Gardner - the wealthy, melancholy English student who had been vying for Anne’s affection since the day he’d offered her his umbrella in a storm. He sent Anne flowers, composed sonnets to her eyes, showered her in gentlemanly praise. He also despised Gilbert, and once openly blamed him for his own failure to capture Anne once and for all.

“Yes, Roy. He cares for me so, and I sometimes I think I must care about him too.” It was a dagger in Gilbert’s heart and he set his jaw. “But then there’s you, Gil.”

“What about me?” he replied flatly.

“I don’t know yet.” Anne took a steadying, shaky breath. “I need time.”

“We’re running low on time, Anne. Gardner is going to want an answer before you move back to Avonlea.”

“What about you?” Anne said, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if to hold her beating heart from breaking out of her.

“I’d wait forever,” he vowed in a low tone. “I’d rather not, but if you need time, Anne, you’ll have it from me.”

“Alright,” Anne said, inhaling late spring air. She gave one last look at Gilbert and his red lips and mussed hair, all effects of the kiss that still had her vibrating with something unknown. Reaching forward, Anne straightened his tie and collar, effectively restoring him to a presentable state, then ran her thumb over his cheek. The skin was damp, whether from sweat or a stray tear, she didn’t know. Then she distanced herself a few steps away.

“Enjoy the rest of the celebration, Mr. Blythe.”

He watched her evaporate into a silhouette against the lighted doorway leading to the manse, artwork in the frame of the present, the past, and a barely attainable future.

//

Diana and Jerry left for Toronto for their honeymoon at dawn, leaving Anne waving after their departing faces on the morning train.

“Our train is next,” Gilbert said, adjusting his suitcase in his hand.

Anne hadn’t been able look him in the eye since their accidental tryst at the wedding the night before. In fact, she hadn’t been able to sleep, think straight, or look at herself in the mirror without picturing the passionate embrace she’d initiated in the moonlight. She rather wondered if it had happened at all, since Gilbert had mastered the art of acting as if nothing had happened.

“I think I’m going to take a walk up the tracks and enjoy the morning sun for a few minutes. These warm days are so freshly new to us, you know,” she said.

Gilbert knew precisely what she was trying to do. He flashed her a look in his eyes that said very clearly, You can’t avoid me forever, but have it your way, and then nodded.

“Would you like me to come find you a few minutes before the train arrives?”

“No, I should be able to keep track of time well enough by the shadows.”

Gilbert wasn’t convinced. He pulled a copper pocket watch from inside his coat and handed it to Anne. She held it up to her ear and listened to the emphatic ticking. It was plain in appearance, but she’d seen it enough times to know that it had once belonged to John Blythe. She even knew where his initials had once been engraved on the side, now rubbed away with time and wear.

“Here, for security’s sake. Marilla will have my hide if I’m late in getting you home,” Gilbert continued.

“Thanks,” she said, biting her lip under his gaze. “I won’t be gone long.”

As she headed down the railway platform and into the loose grass, Anne couldn’t help but feel as she were walking away from something forever, like the last pages of a book before the cover finally is closed. She stopped and turned back to see Gilbert standing on the platform looking after her with his hands in his pockets.

He raised one hand and waved. Anne, forgetting for a minute the events of the past night, smiled and returned the gesture.

Then she turned her cheeks to the summer fragrance being carried on the wind, and walked along the worn railside.

[berrygibbs88-blog]

Eat, Wish, Love Through Elizabeth Gilbert-- Customer reviews, Conversation, Bookclubs, Lists.

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[giovannimedspa]

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[jeffersoneverestcrawford]

July 25 - August 10

July 25

Evening

Two deer in the field, their movements spread out in the limpid air like points on unmarked paper. A lone woodpecker, finding its daily foibles in the trunk nearest me. Sharp sounds still fill the air even as a sense of peace descends, dogs nervous, in apparent fright at being left alone, trucks in reverse, preparing to dump whatever load they might have. Daily movements become more and more noticeable in far off places. The ways the world works upon us can come to us simply or not at all. Feeling an embrace of simplicity after seeing the ‘theatrum mundi’ of the bread + puppet theater. Ideas and practices shaped as a city, as a stateless statement, the stage of unparalleled intentions.

A dog still barks incessantly

She returns with the horses

Wetting them on the grass

Allowing the clouds to change

To cool shallow

Peaks, a day

is Lost amongst intentions

July 26

Morning

I’ve seen a fox in the cemetery. Conversing or conniving, convivial, concisely. Stepping out over raspberries floating on sugar. Now stepping double on crunching branches ward off lazy bears, absorbed full of whole bushes, likely wandering in sleep. Grasshoppers make like heavy fat raindrops on the field grass as I cross it along a finely strung cow path, headed once more for the trees. A mushroom, so perfect red and dappled yellow, with the sheen of an egg, a rare wondrous egg, a treasure. Two, appearing in the dead leaves, appearing alone. Now a small family of toad stools. They radiate a joy in the yet un-illuminated wood, the afternoon sun will join and and rejoice. Finally, the wonder-est of all, a Taj Mahal in miniature, ochre and plum. Ripe for an expulsion of evil, yet marked for an evil consumption. Those who consume shall be consumed themselves by evil, soon to be consumers of evil!! The way I had walked before is an older way, the way I walk now, the new way, begins and ends anew, so I continue. The stanchion or trust of the tall power line columns is a monument of the daily. You might gaze upon it and reflect the balance of the world. All that is designed, weighted, counterpoised - all natural, all in concord. That which aims to dis-coordinate is also welcome, a part of the balance, met with forces which further coordinate, leveling the stasis and balance once more. We have both forces on our faces and our hands. The cicada sleeps by the creaking of wood. Voyager on distant dream travels, Ahab. One of the many lumbering beast lurks silent in the wood. This is the past, you are the future, and really Nothing is the present. Just atmosphere. Even this comes to us from the past, shaped by the future. The past and the future are often in cahoots; in the present, we feel trapped. Not only invisible cities but entire imagined empires prosper in the backwater minds of America, particularly the backwaters of the past. How shocking to come to understand that these cities were not invisible, but stood in the eyes and minds of a true and living empire, that these were empires fair and static and were in natural, balanced life manifest. That Thoreau saw and sensed these yet misplaced their creation is a shame. Cathedrals did rise on the Mississippi, the Ohio, perhaps even the Connecticut. Surely they shone like crystal palaces in the sun, glistening even as their foundations were rotted or poisoned. Englishmen, purveyors of few true cathedrals themselves, and not to erect anything of magnitude or worth here for generations sow the disuse which crumbled those wonderous meditative places (for surely those gemlike haunts were palaces of the mind as well as body). Perhaps all that remains of them is sense, or else ‘monuments of the daily,’ which all around us reflect the nature of these peaceable cities as eternal stasis, and refract our complicit tragedy as the shadow of progress. A loss for all, past and future. Old trees, traces of grandeur, stand in these woods like these cities, tall, leading into heaven beyond, yet rotting from the earth. We can work to re-verse the poetics of the past. When I prepare a recording I feel as if I kneel to pray before an object, a deep cellar hole, a field penned in by air, stone fences; a large granite block appears to be the threshold of this ancient home, invisible in memoriam. Constantly there is the way the road goes and the way the road once went - this is the present, in which the future is the past. We can walk both roads here. Across the field I stay to the trail as much as possible, for fear of disrupting the bees at their diligence. A brush fire smolders when I reach the pond. A trace of change. Several cellars line the road, trace of those that made their lives here on the outskirts of town. At this wall of water I feel even more as if I might pray, thankful for light and for ceaseless stream of life. The valley extends from here, from this point, spilling over the edge into something, from Nothing. The light upon the wall the map to the stars, of future, of mortal restlessness. We chart our own journey to the heavens, following the constellations of mythos, muthos, and mother.

Evening

Why the woman’s dog barks at me I can’t know. Hanging up my laundry it is still stained with dirt, spots where I knelt. The movement of the clothesline is like a gentle prayer to the red barn, the wind which waves it revealing messages, not in their entirety, but still revealing them - daily glimpses of the ineffable, which we all know but seldom touch. The light now somewhat refuses to be beautiful, at least in to classical romantic knowledge, instead it coats everything in warmth, which is more familiar and very comfortable. The contours of the house become particular to this hour as if it becomes a new house several times a day. Or a never ceasing re-arrangement of lines, shades, and surfaces. The bare essence of a house is a flat shingle board rubbed of paint; lines, shades, and surfaces. A prayer is also the essential, plain, and bare - and often rubbed thin by use and disuse. The use of a prayer is what comprises its life, and its meaning. That a prayer exists in the form of drying socks is unimportant, that the dying socks are praying is. As they pray for the line which supports them, the barn from which the line hangs, and this breeze which dries it - we pray for that which is around us, which we are suspended in - erecting monuments of the daily.

July 27

Morning

Death sits on hills above the village.

In memory of

Lucy Daughte

to Lieut Ezra

& Mrs. Huldah

Gilbert Died

Octbr 2d 1794

In Her 3 Year

I’ll move from this spot as if in a dream, as if I am dreaming. We must have to manufacture our own grace. The air is thick today I can hardly breath, my shirtsleeves rolled stiff with sweat - as I walk up Carpenter hill. I feel submerged, surrounded by sensations I cannot attribute. Calfs startle as I walk, the cows flinching only slightly, shifting hordes of flies from their shoulders in jittery moves. Several voice concern. I continue. Finished walking, I set my feet in the river, happy to have cool water run over them. A lone beaver dives down, grasping a branch. It then clambers over the bank to return minutes later grasping another branch. Minnows examine my feet, fleshy and gaunt with exertion. Seeing the world in reflection I feel as I were stepping out onto an abyss, but that which is the sky inverted, brought down to earth. The heavens at our feet. A ripple breaks the surface and like a split mirror becomes a trap door, our vision sinks deeper into the earth itself, our span to the sky now quadrupled. There is gratitude in this transference, both in dreaming we step in light and in being roused from the dream, sent down to the earth. There is safety and longing in both. All feet make landfall one day, so too all rise to the light. Waiting is our one true solitude.

Evening

Waiting until the day is entirely blue so that my feel seem in league with my hands, a reflecting pool of action. When the day is long I feel more restless and yet itching for a rest. Too much is spent on having good ideas, not enough on the having itself. I never find the way to describe this hour. It might be like resting on the lip of a candle gone out, its wick just now expired, light still lingering momentarily from the flame. A sense of descent but also of buoyancy. Life feels stretched out, drawn along intersecting lines, vibrating the mesh. Still I feel I cannot begin to place the sensation which seeps into me at this hour. This all makes me think of places I have seen in half, in relief which reduces its form yet multiplies its possibilities. An arching piece of land tucked away in my memory, resting on some turn of some childhood road - only ever glimpsed in passing, often quietly, mid-exclamation or deep in private thought, which, wedged in between homes, shares almost no space with the infinite but still suggests endless exploration. It is an irony of childhood not lost on the adult. To feel experiences utterly new lurks around familiar corners. That it is sometimes to discover that brings draws shut the curtain of limitation. Stretches unexplored and sensations unexplained allow our experience the true balance of consciousness. Otherwise we might simply be bowling balls, rolling to new areas of shifted weight.

July 28

Morning

Rain, a deer grazing fresh grass. Without stepping out of doors each morning, I feel I’ve hardly stepped out of bed. So then I read, stepping out of doors, in bed. I believe that writing is hardly a communication of the explainable. I find it more a collecting of attempted gestures, designed to evoke the inexplicable. I would like to see the river now, see how its small stones turned, rolled together into one idea, the fickle become grandiose. Stringing words in a line, an arrangement, transfers them into gesture, action. Contained somewhere in this action is a way to understanding all other actions. An arrangement of words is not intended to communicate something to you, but to communicate with you. It is the process which interacts with you, as in magick, or dance - inducing a state other than the daily, or even the ‘hyper-daily.’ Suddenly you feel as if aware of each movement of the day, as if each seldom seen instance plays out alone, a passage an an infinite symphony.

August 10

Evening

Days away from my notebook have been in truth painful. I go out of doors into rising fog through which a sky glows cream orange and pink, the river a mere trickle. The world is diffused heavily in this light. It feels soft to touch, dew licking off my fingers. A bank of clouds is descending onto our heads yet none are frightened. The stone crashed upon our heads earlier and perhaps some were frightened. I was enlivened by the torrent. Feeling finally free to spurt out incensed ideas without landing. The three deer graze upon a far field, not to be bothered with my scribbles. A sound almost as if a blown flute, somewhere off beyond where I stand, even in the brush. A pied piper in the mist. The sky is cut, cut, cut in three places by bands of pink light, yet was cut, and is now fading to grey - the final dissolve. From this angle the house sits utterly hidden. The red barn is perhaps its prow, moving towards me glacially. The barn is itself hidden, occupying much more space inside than on the outside one might suspect. Its demeanor so simple one cannot begin to guess at all its contents. Domesticity moves to the invisible.

[magiclaud]

Darkest time, Darkest self 3/3

Summary: ‘And when the darkest hour strikes upon humanity, so does the sugary obsession only fools would mistake for love.’ US/UK. Apocalypse AU.

Warnings: R, contains violence, NSFW, and obscure themes. Take a look at the tags if you are sensitive to any subject.  

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 

ACT IX

Arthur is lying in his room when he feels some foreign weight on his mattress. He flutters his eyelids, just to be welcomed by the sight of Alfred F. Jones. The younger man isn’t wearing his spectacles, and a raspy beard seems to be growing in his face. It isn’t really noticeable, and Arthur probably wouldn’t be aware of it if Alfred wasn’t inching closer by moments.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Arthur scowls at him. “Where were you?” he asks, when Alfred rolls over the bed grabbing Arthur’s waist and starts kissing the Brit’s neck.

“Busy with Ivan,” the American replies. “Ya’re jealous?” he sounds amused. Arthur notices then that he’s slurring his words a little bit. He frowns.

“Have you been drinking?” he whimpers when Alfred starts unbuttoning his shirt, and squirms underneath him. “Get off me!”

“But I’m horny,” Alfred says in a teasing tone. He caresses Arthur’s contours, finally arriving at his cock. Then, Alfred starts palming Arthur’s crotch, while whispering dirty promises to him. Arthur gasps when Alfred unzips his pants and lets free the older’s shaft. The touch is determined and possessive, and Alfred knows exactly where to press so Arthur can feel excited. Arthur suddenly feels bad, as he falls into the realization that Alfred is touching him like a musician would during the practice of their instrument. There’s nothing spontaneous of the gestures in Alfred. Arthur shivers when he remembers the words that not too long ago started to roam over his thoughts.

‘You’re a whore’

“I love you,” his warm hands are still pumping Arthur’s crotch, paying attention to any gasp coming from the smallest. He stops then, and Arthur knows what he has to do. It’s always the same. A gesture so simple…

‘A tool of his use’

Alfred bites him everywhere he can. He nips and licks his neck, on the exact spots where he knows Arthur feels most pleasure on. The sensation is so overwhelming Arthur doesn’t notice Alfred has started fingering him. But when something brushes hard against his prostate, he becomes fully aware of the situation he’s been involved.

‘You’re just his doll’

Arthur can’t take it anymore, and he rapidly pushes away Alfred. The motion takes the American by surprise, so Arthur is capable of standing up and get up his pants. He is panting, flushing in a deep shade of red, while Alfred raises his eyebrows. Arthur breaths heavily, and Alfred stands to reach him.

“Darlin’—”

“Don’t —Don’t touch me. And listen to me when I tell you to leave me alone. I wasn’t in the mood!”

“Well,” Alfred eyes him carefully, from head to toe, and Arthur feels a shiver running through his spine. “You certainly are now.”

Arthur stays still. And he doesn’t realise he’s crying until Alfred points it out, questioning the reason for his tears. Arthur can’t take it anymore.

“Stop doing that. Stop pretending that you care about me, because you don’t. And stop pretending that you respect me and you want my well-being when you are just an egoistical prick!” he snaps.

“Excuse me?” Alfred sounds angry. Arthur laughs bitterly.

“You heard me. This —whatever it is, I don’t know anymore, is over! Go and ask Ivan or Antonio if you want to fuck so badly, but don’t bother me with your shit anymore!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Arthur? You’re mine, I told you, and you know what? You said you were also mine! You can’t —You can’t leave me!!” he forces Arthur to sit on the bed, much to the other’s discomfort. Arthur tries to shake him off, but to no avail.

“I never was yours! I am whatever I want to be! And I don’t want to be in this stupid arrangement anymore, so let. Me. Go!”

“You can’t leave me! You said… You said you were mine! You said you were mine, only mine! Mine, mine, mine!” Alfred climbs on top of Arthur, preventing the other to go away. Arthur’s pants fall down, as the American shakes Arthur’s shoulders. “Sunshine, say that again. Say you’re mine…”

“What do you fucking want? You have everything now! You’re the chief now, and I… Do you know what I am? I am nothing! Nothing but the toy of the chief! I hate it, Alfred! You’re hurting me! But hey, you achieved what you wanted! Good for you! And I seriously can’t give you anything else!”

“I don’t want anything from you! I just want you to love me, Arthur. I don’t care about power, I just… I just want you, sugar. Come on, I’m sure this is some kind of misunderstanding…”

“Alfred,” Arthur calls him. He looks at the other directly in the eye. “We’re over. Let’s forget about it and move on.”

“No,” says the other. “You’re… You’re gonna fucking regret trying to abandon me! And then… And then you’ll see your mistake! And you will stay by me! Right, Arthur?! Would you stay with me then?!!?” Alfred is growling now, unzipping his own trousers. He thrusts Arthur in the strongest way, angling the other’s hips so forcefully bruises start to appear. It isn’t even sex anymore, oh no. It’s violence. Pure and savage violence. Alfred pants, not of pleasure, but of something greater. He is so close Arthur smells the rum from his breath, the sweat of his warming body.

“Listen… Listen to me, Arthur, all right? You’ll stay with me. You’ll stay by my side every single day for the rest of our lives, and you’ll keep being mine. And do you know why? Because I’m the only one that can protect you. You used to be great, but now you’re as helpless as a child, Arthur. Your body is getting weak. But don’t worry! I’ll be your hero, or… or you’ll suffer, Artie. You and Tino and Gilbert and Matthew… Every single one of you will suffer. Ya understand?”

Arthur does not object.

ACT X

“You spend a lot of time with me now.”

Peter is on the ground, drawing what seems to be a flower. While he says it, he pinches his index finger with a stick and blood flows through it.

“Don’t do that!” Arthur exclaims. Peter merely smirks.

“If not, how can I paint the rose?” he asks. Arthur stays silent. He knows well the opinion of the council about distractions like these.

“Peter, do you like being in here?”

Peter looks up at him.

“Pardon?” “Are you comfortable in here? I mean— would you rather be in another place?” Arthur knows he is taking quite a risk, but he cannot help himself. Peter arches his eyebrow.

“You want to leave?” “We’re not talking about me.”

Peter doesn’t listen. These days, Arthur feels as if nobody does it anymore.

“Arthur, it’s horrible out there. There’s death and walkers and all that crap.” “Hey! Watch the language!” Peter looks at him, confused. “Chief Alfred says that all the time.”

Arthur cannot reply to that. He bows his head in defeat. After some instants, he senses Peter eyeing him closely.

“Has something happened?” the boy asks, and Arthur stares dead at him. Then, Peter turns to face completely his mentor. “Arthur, did they do something to you?” Arthur nods, and silence starts to rule the space. Arthur decides to speak again.

“I don’t think this place is safe,” he says. “And I don’t want to be here anymore. Peter, listen to me. I’m… I’m going to leave soon.”

Peter’s eyes look at him surprised.

“You can’t! Alfred won’t let you! Chief Alfred said no one was to leave unless they were exiled! And besides, he… he loves you! Why would you abandon him?” Arthur is not surprised by the position of the younger one, not when he knows the bond that unites the two of them. However, he doesn’t regret his decision. Arthur knows he’ll never forgive himself if he just left behind the kid.

“Peter, I’ve made my decision. I want to leave. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen. I will not force you to follow me. If you’re happy here, I’ll respect it. So please, respect my choice and do not tell a thing to anyone,” the kid nods unsure, and Arthur kneels so they are both at the same height. “I am trusting you on this, lad.”

For some time, Peter doesn’t seem to respond to him. Arthur expects the younger one to insult him, but instead, he receives a hug. He caresses the locks of blond hair from the kid, while he begins to let tears flow from his eyes.

Peter notices this and wipes the tears from Arthur’s face with his thumb.

“It’ll be hard,” Arthur says, taking a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since we were alone, so it will be hard,” he doesn’t want to frighten Peter, but Arthur doesn’t feel how lying to the boy would help on the current situation.

Then Peter does a strange thing. He looks determined, even more than Arthur ever would. “Who says we have to be alone?”

“Peter, what on Earth are you talking about?” Arthur demands, but Peter is not taken aback.

“I mean, you are the Doc! A-And you know mostly everyone. I’m sure we can find a small group to help us. Ya know, people tired of the council.”

Arthur wants to protest. He wants to tell Peter this isn’t a mere rebellion by the low powers, but of something greater. However, he is grateful the younger one is by his side, and is determined to use every possible offering help. Besides, there is no doubt having the young lad by his side would be useful, especially taking into account Ivan doesn’t seem to take his dagger-like eyes from the Englishman.

A few minutes later, Kiku tells him he has to cover a shift in the shelter’s ‘hospital’. Arthur nods, stares at Peter one minute more than he should and they part.

The hospital is boring, to say the least. The only real thing Arthur does there is write the stock list and distribute medicine to others. Before, it was entertaining, but given the council’s latest policies about the restricted use of medicines, few people come to him anymore.

Heh. The council. Although he has not been officially dismissed, Arthur doesn’t bother to go to the reunions anymore. Why would he? He doesn’t have influences, and neither power to state his opinion. Besides, this way he doesn’t have to worry about Ivan beating his frame if he shows the slightest opposition to the decisions of the new right hand of the Chief, or in Alfred becoming aware of Arthur’s recent disgust for the American.

When Alfred asked him about his departure, Arthur simply stated he was tired. Even though the American expressed his concern for him, he eagerly assigned Arthur his new position; that confined him to that dusty part of the shelter, conveniently closer to the Chief’s chamber.

Alfred has done it all on purpose, Arthur believes. He wants him to feel alone, to roam his thoughts over and over until he turns utterly mad himself, so the Chief can save the day once again.

Arthur feels a throbbing pain in his chest, feels his insides twisting once he sits and a sharp pain roams through his body.

Soon enough, Arthur can’t take it anymore and starts crying again. He is ashamed because he knows if someone enters they’ll have to see such a disastrous scene, but the pools of tears come so uncontrollably Arthur can’t get a hold of himself. The Englishman curses again and again as he remembers the details of his last encounter with Alfred, and grows so desperate he kicks the wall. He shouldn’t, Arthur knows, but he can’t help himself, and so he continues listening to the drumming of the breaking cement. Alfred seems to have forgotten about that night, or he is smart enough to put out an act so Arthur can feel everything was a mere fantasy, a delusion of the Englishman. Or maybe —maybe he wants Arthur to take pity on him, to excuse his behaviour for some drunken antics, and so he refuses to acknowledge the situation and, instead, continues being as charming as always with everyone else.

Frightened, Arthur wonders how much time is left until he breaks, until he starts to think that way, in a manner of simply putting some reason before his thoughts. For a moment he thinks of Toris, of poor Toris, and begins to consider they are not so different after all.

However, Arthur refuses to be like Toris. Because of this, he stumbles to the desk, grabs the notebook and writes down the correspondent inventory. When he finishes, he stares blankly at the paper, tilts his head, and grabs some medicine. After his round, he’ll go to the library, as Arthur is sure no one would be nearby. Then, he’ll hide the supplies.

He doesn’t regret a thing out of it. Instead, his mind flies and he starts writing a different stock list, one that he’ll burn once he finishes clearing his mind.

Whatever, it’s not like they’ll miss any of it either way.

ACT XI Alfred used to have nightmares. At least, that’s what he told Arthur. The Englishman remembers the first night they ever slept together, the younger one trembling repeatedly. Arthur had to hold him tightly while assuring the American he was by his side until dawn governed the sky.

Now, with Alfred sleeping so peacefully on his bed, Arthur wonders if it had all been an act.

He stares thoughtfully at the American beside him. Arthur could kill him this instant. He would suffocate him with his own pillow, watching the last signs of Alfred’s lively self as life escapes his hold. He would suffer the same desperation Arthur felt, the same horrid turn of events. Oh, yes; Alfred would suffer every single one of his sins if Arthur would kill him now.

But, as Arthur realises with a painful feeling, he won’t. He can kill Alfred, but he won’t do it. And, as much as Arthur keeps telling himself it’s because he knows the others would kill him if they knew what he’d done to the Chief, Arthur knows deep inside that’s not the real truth.

For an instant, his mind reminds him of poor Toris. He knows it’s stupid, as they didn’t hold a friendly relationship at all. However, ever since Toris died in the front yard of their camp, Arthur has been losing his mind, thinking of every possible situation that would have led to the guy to die like that.

They didn’t let him make an autopsy, and that alone tells him he’s right of his suspicions, but to what avail? Arthur isn’t great anymore, Alfred told him once. He was right. Arthur can’t save anyone, and either fight his own emotions, even when he knows it’ll be the best if he wants to carry out his plan and put an end to the golden demon’s life.

No —Arthur is not foolish, but he won’t do it. Because he found that man, he befriended him, and he saved his life. Because he refuses to believe the boy he once knew is dead, even if that boy was a mere chimera Arthur saw in one of his unstable moments.

Alfred is not a good man. Arthur is reminded of his French friend and silently apologises to Francis, if the other can hear him where he is now. Arthur asks himself how many people have gone by the same way, how many people has Alfred ‘sacrificed’ for a greater good. Arthur gets depressed instantly because he knows just how much these people would give for someone to avenge them —and yet, there he is. Incapable of killing the blue-eyed monster beside him.

Arthur knows, when the time comes, he’ll have to do it. It is nearly impossible to go into a war without being abducted by its own savagery, but Arthur doesn’t care right now. He lies on the bed, next to his American bed mate, and sleeps soundly.

Tomorrow, he won’t be able to do this, but at least for now he can dream one last time.

ACT XII

Finally, Arthur wakes up.

He starts to slowly flutter his eyes open. A few candles light the room he is placed into, so he can look at his surroundings. There isn’t much in here, apart from the chair he is tied to and a stool facing him. When he abruptly falls into the ultimate change of events, the Englishman starts breathing heavily. Memories of their escape, Kiku’s execution and the persecution of their group conquer Arthur, up to the point he feels utterly paralyzed. He dozes off, as if that would somehow rescue him from this sad reality when he feels someone poking him all to delicately.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks down. He is embarrassed, and the only thing he wants to do right now is to fight back and offer some kind of resistance, but he just can’t. He can’t because he knows he has no choice but to obey. Arthur is human, and he doesn’t want to die. For the love of God, he doesn’t want to die tonight.

When he tilts his head and observes his captor taking his sweet time scanning his figure, Arthur feels utterly miserable.

“I took care of you, so don’t worry about your wounds. I told ‘em to be gentle with ya, but some folks don’t listen. I punished Lovi for it, either way. Now they’re preparing some meat for ya. Bet you’re hungry,” Alfred says, in a kind manner. Arthur stays silent for an instant, gathering all his strength left to ask the question that lurks from his mind.

“Where are the others?” he dares to ask. He sees Alfred flinch.

“They were traitors. They tried to escape. They robbed food and weapons and medicines.”

“It wasn’t that much,” Arthur reasons. He has to be diplomatic right now. Alfred sighs, as if Arthur can’t understand what is really going on.

“They tried to take ya away from me.”

Arthur knows something like that could happen. He had too much free time to think, to analyse every possible scenario that could come with his decision, so everything settles abnormally simply to him.

When Alfred touches him, Arthur becomes aware for the first time that he is naked. He doesn’t feel flustered: Alfred has seen him like that before but feels unevenness once Alfred’s hand motions his skin, heating every inch of it. Arthur doesn’t protest, because a part of him thinks he deserves it —he caused all of it, the deaths of his dearest allies, all of it because of his selfish impulses, but when Alfred’s hand trails to his thigh, Arthur finds the courage to speak again.

“Did it hurt?” when Alfred looks at him bewildered, Arthur has the nerve to continue. “When I butchered your leg as if you were a pig. You surely screamed like one, you did,” he feels defiant, he feels lost. He is destroying himself with this and he knows it, Arthur does.

Alfred’s expression shifts, a light frown taking over his face. His other hand trails to Arthur’s neck, under an iron glance.

“I guess Ivan was right when he told me it’d be the best if we killed you,” Alfred speaks casually, tightening his grip. His face is so near Arthur can feel the younger one’s breathing on his face. “But we can’t help it, can we? The poor man doesn’t know about love.”

And Arthur wonders, for a second, what does Alfred really know about love.

“Times have changed, Arthur, and you simply didn’t know how to adapt to it alone, so you isolated yourself. But it’s okay, honey; it’s okay. No one’s perfect, right? You’re just confused, aren’t ya? Don’t worry baby, you’ll be confused no more,” Alfred pets his cock, teasingly, as if awakening it. His suave fingers brush the member once again, letting his thumb run over the tip. “I thought ya were smart enough, darling; but oh, you weren’t,” the fingers all get a grip of his shaft, pumping him. Arthur’s hips buck forward, and Alfred pauses then. He lets his hand free from Arthur’s neck and turns caressing his thigh again.

“So soft, baby, you’re too perfect. But then again, you can’t help yourself,” Alfred speaks as if he is lamenting something. His eyes suddenly turn to a dangerous iced blue. “You might try to escape again,” he says. Arthur is about to respond when Alfred pumps him once more, and a moan escapes from his lips. Alfred’s other hand is still examining his leg, nails digging curiously at the older male. Suddenly, Arthur’s eyes dart open, understanding the meaning behind the gesture. Alfred seems amused by his reaction.

“You did ask how it felt, didn’t ya?”

“No —oh, no, Alfred, please. Please, don’t. I’m sorry, I’ll —I’ll never do it again, I promise. Please, please, don’t do it,” Arthur doesn’t recognize his own desperation. Alfred hushes the Englishman, his thumb rubbing over his thin lips, and Arthur is quieted.

“Ya remember what ya told me that day? Ya said —Ya told me I had to trust ya on this. I did, and ya saved me, Arthur. Why don’t you do the same thing now? You —you do trust me, sugar, don’t you?” for an instant, Alfred’s expression reminds him of the lovely lad he met so much time ago. Arthur breaks down, unable to hold his panic anymore. Alfred holds him, and Arthur is so confused he doesn’t feel the needle interrupting his thoughts anymore.

ACT XIII After his recovery, Arthur is placed in a different room. He sleeps on the floor. Alfred says if he behaves he’ll have some of the rangers scavenge a mattress, but he warns it’ll take time —and it doesn’t help that all his attempts to maintain a conversation and shut down by Arthur’s insults and remarks.

Arthur Kirkland never thought he’d become a cripple. He tries not to think about it too much —because he knows if he just does he’ll lose his mind— but it doesn’t help that, every time he wakes up, he seems to forget and looks down.

And every time he is surprised when he doesn’t see legs there.

Sometimes, Ivan comes to terrorize him by night. He lets himself in the cell, and whispers venomous words into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur every day is more sure the other must be some kind of demon. Arthur also thinks he is poisoning his food —Ivan tells him he would’ve killed him by now if it wasn’t for The Chief, and Arthur prefers starving himself than let the bloody Russian win.

Sometimes, Arthur wonders what did he do wrong. He prays, he prays to God, but the highness doesn’t listen —why would he even distract himself to pay attention to the Englishman, when God himself has listed Arthur as the type of person that deserves hell?

But the worst part of his cell is not the lack of mattress or the chains. Neither it is the smell of urine, or the own filth creeping towards Arthur’s self. The worst, the worst part of all, is the window.

It might not be a window per se —the Chief isn’t stupid, after all. It’s a window for ventilation, so Arthur won’t be asphyxiated in that damned basement, too small to Arthur to pass by, and too far so Arthur can reach it.

And the worst part of all is the light that comes by. That insufferable light that makes him stare, that reminds him of what is out there, and of who he is. Or he was. Arthur doesn’t remember anymore —it doesn’t matter if he does, however, because that won’t change a thing. So, for his own sake, he pretends he is something he’s not. He pretends he’s in wonderland, talking to the white rabbit and having tea parties with the Mad hatter while he sips his own dirty drink.

It is much better that way.

And when Alfred comes, he fucks him. He doesn’t even look at Arthur anymore, yet he still angles his hips so Arthur can get the most pleasure out of it. After some time, Arthur starts to appreciate the gesture, facing a tiny smile and the other.

And Alfred smiles so brightly Arthur can’t help the warmth that crosses through his body. Those days are the best, because then something better happens —it might be Alfred giving him a new blanket, or a chocolate bar arriving with his meal, but it’s always a something. A something that turns Arthur’s darkest time upside down.

You see, when you have nothing left to lose —when everything’s so broken, so wrong you don’t even have strength to think about it, you get lost. Then, Arthur thinks, everything becomes blurry. He has glimpses of memories, but the happy times feel so alien he doesn’t even recognize himself. So when, on some indefinite day in the future, Alfred comes with that boyish grin of his on his face and a table game, Arthur feels absurdly happy to find some distraction from his thoughts.

And when Alfred teaches him —tells him to repeat the names until he pronounces them correctly, and babbles about the function of each one, Arthur feels mesmerized and follows the other’s enthusiasm.

And when, after a round of practice, Arthur is so interested he asks Alfred to play the real game, they both engage in the activity for what it seems like an eternity.

And when, hours later, the Queen is taken away —a brilliant movement, as the King is helpless to the Blacks, Alfred takes the figurine between his hands, toying with it, as he jerks closer with a smile on his face, revealing his pearly teeth.

“I won,” he says. And he isn’t wrong at all.

a/n: Happy Halloween, guys. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. 

[morganbelarus]

Mouthful by mouthful: the 2019 Bad sex award in quotes

Extravagant metaphors are indecently exposed in the shortlist for the Literary Reviews annual booby prize for sexual scenes in fiction

The River Capture by Mary Costello

He clung to her, crying, and then made love to her and went far inside her and she begged him to go deeper and, no longer afraid of injuring her, he went deep in mind and body, among crowded organ cavities, past the contours of her lungs and liver, and, shimmying past her heart, he felt her perfection.

The Office of Gardens and Ponds by Didier Decoin

The earthy taste surprised her. When he was alive, when it swelled inside Miyukis mouth, Katsuros penis had tasted of raw fish, of warm young bamboo shoots, and of fresh almonds when she finally released its juices. Now it was insipid and muddy to her tongue, like the pools of the temples of Heian Ky when the Office of Gardens and Ponds had them drained for cleaning.

Miyuki had loved this man. Not that he was a very good lover but what did she know, after all, since she had experienced no one but him? He used to upset her by the way he silently loomed up behind her and took her by the shoulders, his nails scratching her flesh, his strong breath enveloping her neck, a smell of ripe fruit and poorly tanned leather, his knee pushing against her lower back to open her tunic and expose a portion of naked flesh against which he would then rub his organ as if he were furtively making omelette rolls. He did not derive his pleasure without her, but in front of her, and differently.

City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert

There was a sensation occurring here that I didnt even know could occur. I took the sharpest inhale of my life, and Im not sure I let my breath out for another 10 minutes. I do feel that I lost the ability to see and hear for a while, and that something might have short-circuited in my brain something that has probably never been fully fixed since. My whole being was astonished. I could hear myself making noises like an animal, and my legs were shaking uncontrollably (not that I was trying to control them), and my hands were gripping down so hard over my face that I left fingernail divots in my own skull.

Then it became more.

And after that, it became even more still.

Then I screamed as though I were being run over by a train, and that long arm of his was reaching up again to palm my mouth, and I bit into his hand the way a wounded soldier bites on a bullet.

And then it was the most, and I more or less died.

Pax by John Harvey

She gave a yet deeper, moaning sigh. Like breathing in he saw the word he had said shiver and expand inside her. Her arms moved now, and flexed: out of here, Venus de Milo. He watched the death-life fill her growingly. She grabbed and caressed him with more muscle, more zest, than ever before. Her long lean arms were spider arms, while her kisses roved and dug.

I see it, he said. You are the female praying mantis, devouring her mate.

I am. You are. I shall eat every shred of you.

Mouthful by mouthful.

Exactly. Ah. But boy, you taste good. She licked her lips, and pulled him close, but now he was clasping too. It was a kind of slow wrestling, they were knitting each other into a loose slipping knot. He was upside down over her, loving her bush and lick-kissing like eating her inner thighs. Till at last they loved fully and later lay back. She did not chatter. Their arms stirred in a luxurious desultory twining.

The Electric Hotel by Dominic Smith

The actual lovemaking was a series of cryptic clues and concealed pleasures. A sensual treasure hunt. She asked for something, then changed her mind. He made adjustments and calibrations, awaited further instruction.

For most of the proceedings he felt his own desire as if it were tethered to a wire, a bright red balloon floating in his peripheral vision, but eventually he burst through. It was toward the end, as their breathing quickened. Her stage directions had stalled out into silence. He looked to his right and noticed the scene in the smoky lens of the mirror above the bureau, saw his own body move with the steady rhythm of a bellows blowing air at the base of a fire. It brought back the early experiments at the photographic society in Paris, the wiring of a birds feet to a cameragun, the mounting tension and uplift before a surge of exasperated flight. His own face looking back in the mirror open-mouthed, flushed, euphoric was a wild, strange thing to him. A beguiled stranger hed never met, held in place by an infinite loop. Then his eyes locked on Sabines in the mirror and he could see that she was pleased with her staging, with her hair fanning across the pillow, with the way her ankles locked about his calves so that her long white feet formed a perfect V. And it was the act of looking back at the filmstrip juddering above the bureau that sent her into a final boisterous delirium. She bit his shoulder, then whispered into the mirror, Nous voil, catching her breath, There we are.

Original Article : HERE ;

Mouthful by mouthful: the 2019 Bad sex award in quotes was originally posted by MetNews

[talhaghafoor2019-blog]

Music was ubiquitous in Ancient Greece. Now we can hear how it actually sounded | Aeon Videos

Music was ubiquitous in Ancient Greece. Now we can hear how it actually sounded

Much of what we think of as Ancient Greek poetry, including Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, was composed to be sung, frequently with the accompaniment of musical instruments. And while the Greeks left modern classicists many indications that music was omnipresent in society – from vases decorated with lyres, to melodic notation preserved on stone – the precise character and contours of the music has long been considered irreproducible. However, the UK classicist and classical musician Armand D’Angour has spent years endeavouring to stitch the mysterious sounds of Ancient Greek music back together from large and small hints left behind. In 2017, his work culminated in a unique performance at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, intended to recreate the sounds of Greek music dating as far back as Homer’s era – roughly 700 BCE. This short documentary details the extraordinary research and musical expertise that made the concert possible, revealing remarkable sounds once thought lost to time. To learn more about what music sounded like in Ancient Greece, read D’Angour’s Aeon idea.

Freeing the ghost within: Cartesian mind-body dualism in art powered by disability

‘I fear being trapped in the statue of my own body, whilst my mind gazes out.’

The 20th-century British philosopher Gilbert Ryle was a critic of ‘mind-body dualism’ – the idea first formulated by the 17th-century French philosopher René Descartes that there exists a clear distinction between physical and mental phenomena. Ryle argued against this idea in his book The Concept of Mind (1949), using the phrase ‘the ghost in the machine’ to describe Descartes’s theory. The Australian filmmakers Sophie Hexter and Poppy Walker borrow Ryle’s phrase for the title of this short documentary, which explores a powerful performance-art piece by the Papua New Guinea-born, Australia-based artist Jeremy Hawkes. Affected by a degenerative condition known as spondylosis, which has given him the symptoms of early onset Parkinson’s disease, he ceases the treatments that subdue the chronic pain, shaking and tremors for each iteration of his performance. Surrendering to his condition, he guides his left hand while his right seemingly ‘moves of its own volition’, engendering a provocative meditation on mind, body and the still-uncertain boundaries between them.

Directors: Sophie Hexter, Poppy Walker

Close encounters of a different kind – what if Venus, Neptune or Saturn hovered close by?

Our ingrained understanding of the daily movements of the Sun, Moon and stars from the vantage point of Earth can make it eerily transporting to see unfamiliar celestial objects floating above the landscape in sci-fi films and TV shows. This imaginative short video is perhaps more surreal still, combining mundane, roadside scenes with the peculiar spectacle of planets from our solar system replacing the Moon in the dusk sky. The physics of it all is, of course, a bit creative, but the planets are shown at the same distance from Earth as the Moon. The result, in addition to the intriguing, almost ominous visuals, is a striking sense of the scale of our nearest planetary neighbours – many of which more usually appear as mere pinpricks or bright dots in our familiar night sky.

Video by Yeti Dynamics

The hopes and dreams of lottery winners in the midst of the Great Depression

Throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries, lotteries were banned throughout most of the US, creating large markets for illegal interstate, international and underground lottery ticket sales, procured and purchased under circumstances rife with corruption. Still, as this oddly entertaining archival piece makes clear, that doesn’t mean no one ever came out ahead, or that lottery ticket prohibitions were enforced in any meaningful way. Compiled from Movietone newsreels from 1934, the video features interviews with several New York City residents – including children – who struck it rich playing lotteries and betting on horse races, a form of gambling that was legal in New York at the time. Although the winners interviewed are all (notably) white, the video builds a fascinating mosaic of the many immigrant communities living in New York City at the time. It’s also a telling glimpse into the often modest hopes and dreams of the newly wealthy during the depths of the Great Depression.

One Breath Around the World is the latest aquatic spectacle from the French freediving champion Guillaume Néry, and his partner, the French freediver, underwater filmmaker and dancer Julie Gautier. Without the aid of supplied air, Néry plunges into the ocean’s hidden depths, revealing remarkable views of marine geology and wildlife around the globe. Seamlessly transitioning between a range of underwater realms, the video gives the impression that Néry’s journey is taken in a single breath. With stunning camerawork by Gautier, who also held her breath while filming, the duo prove themselves expert explorers of not only water, but space and perspective as well, making these grand underwater landscapes appear almost alien. For more phenomenal freediving, watch Gautier’s extraordinary underwater dance Ama.

Music was ubiquitous in Ancient Greece. Now we can hear how it actually sounded

Much of what we think of as Ancient Greek poetry, including Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, was composed to be sung, frequently with the accompaniment of musical instruments. And while the Greeks left modern classicists many indications that music was omnipresent in society – from vases decorated with lyres, to melodic notation preserved on stone – the precise character and contours of the music has long been considered irreproducible. However, the UK classicist and classical musician Armand D’Angour has spent years endeavouring to stitch the mysterious sounds of Ancient Greek music back together from large and small hints left behind. In 2017, his work culminated in a unique performance at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, intended to recreate the sounds of Greek music dating as far back as Homer’s era – roughly 700 BCE. This short documentary details the extraordinary research and musical expertise that made the concert possible, revealing remarkable sounds once thought lost to time. To learn more about what music sounded like in Ancient Greece, read D’Angour’s Aeon idea.

This content was originally published here.

[illegals-before-war-vets-blog]

About Laser Eyelid Surgery - Traditional Eyelid Surgery and korian Eyelid Surgery

From the 1970's through the 1990's cosmetic eyelid surgery consisted primarily of cutting out skin and fat from the eyelids and reconnecting your skin for a tighter look. However, as time went on, these patients'eyes began to check hollow. More recent eyelid plastic surgery procedures have moved toward preservation and redistribution of the precious eyelid fat. By preserving the fat and redistributing it throughout the eye area, a plump, smooth, youthful look can be achieved, which lasts much longer.

New Eyelid Surgery Procedures and Their Advantages In the youthful face there is a clean, flawless, convex connection between the reduced eyelid and the cheek. Recreating this smooth "lid-cheek junction" is the key to rejuvenating the attention region. As people age, there is a disruption of the smooth lid-cheek junction. The fat bags of one's lower lids start to protrude throughout your fourth decade of life. Simultaneously a hollowing occurs below the bag creating a valley or trough, hence the term "tear trough. " The end result is really a tired worn reflection on the face. "The region where we most commonly to see this hollowing effect take place, is in the tear trough, just beneath the bags on the low lids," says Dr. Gilbert Lee, of Changes Plastic Surgery in San Diego, CA. By plumping up that area, with either fat injections or fillers such as Juvederm and Restylane, you can achieve a flawless transition from eyelid to cheek. If tiny lines and wrinkles around your eyes are your condition, an option to fillers is to deal with the lines with lasers. The laser light treatments, in effect, cause your skin around a person's eye to shrink and contract, smoothing out those tiny lines. If the contour irregularities are more pronounced, then an eyelid procedure (blepharoplasty) is necessary to redistribute the fat from the bags and use that fat to fill the tear trough. A tightening of the eyelid muscle and skin layers is completed simultaneously. If your lower eyelids aren't hollowing or bulging, perhaps it's your top eyelid which will be sagging and slowly covering your eye, making it difficult to apply make-up. A number of this can be attributed to excess fat and skin in the upper lid, although it is also a weakening of one's Levator Muscle. The levator muscle, lies within the eyelid and is accountable for opening your eye. Since it contracts, the muscle pulls your eyelid into a crease (the supratarsal crease), forming skin fold above your upper eye lashes. nhan mi mat han quoc As you age, the levator muscle can weaken, creating sagging in the eyelid. By building a small incision on the natural crease of top of the eyelid, the surplus skin, muscle and underlying fatty tissue can be removed and the levator muscle may be repaired if necessary. Important Factors in Successful Eyelid Surgery Dr. Lee, voted San Diego's top chicago plastic surgeon for 2007 and 2008, says that by utilizing preservation techniques and combining procedures (fat injections, fillers, and fat relocation) that meet up with the patients'specific objectives, plastic surgery for eyelids is becoming much more natural and lasting. Additionally, Dr. Lee and his staff use local anesthesia and oral sedation for eyelid surgery. "This is unique," says Dr. Lee. "Using local anesthesia keeps plastic surgery costs down for the patient and is much easier on the body than general anesthesia. Patients often comment that their eyelid surgery was a'neat experience'under local." Best Approach for korian Eyelid Surgery korian eyelids differ from Cauckorian eyelids in that they lack a fold or skin crease above the upper lashes. Among typically the most popular procedures for korian patients could be the creation of an eyelid fold, commonly called an korian blepharoplasty or a dual fold procedure. The change to a "double fold" eyelid is known as by many to open the eye, developing a wider more beautiful appearance. There are two common techniques for korian eyelid surgery: the suture technique or incision technique. The suture technique is a form of quilting stitch that's used to attach skin of the eyelid to the underlying muscle, developing a crease. This technique is quick and easy, but less reliable compared to the incision technique. As reported by Dr. Lee, 30-40% of sutures can release over time resulting in losing or weakening of the top of eyelid crease.

On the other hand, the incision technique leaves a permanent and crisp fold in the eyelid. Whichever technique is used, the important thing is to produce a youthful, attractive eyelid, which maintains its korian character. "Many surgeons inadvertently make the korian eyelids look Cauckorian. They often make the fold excessive or remove an excessive amount of fat," says Dr. Lee, who's also a high korian blepharoplasty surgeon in San Diego. "What you want to do is maintain the natural ethnic options that come with the attention and create enhanced, attractive korian eyelids, and not try to convert them to Cauckorian eyelids." Learn more details nhan mi mat han quoc

[valendiles-blog]

About Laser Eyelid Surgery - Traditional Eyelid Surgery and korian Eyelid Surgery

From the 1970's through the 1990's cosmetic eyelid surgery consisted primarily of eliminating skin and fat from the eyelids and reconnecting the skin for a tighter look. However, as time went on, these patients'eyes began to check hollow. More recent eyelid plastic surgery procedures have moved toward preservation and redistribution of the precious eyelid fat. By preserving the fat and redistributing it through the entire eye area, a plump, smooth, youthful look can be performed, which lasts much longer.

New Eyelid Surgery Procedures and Their Advantages In the youthful face there's a smooth, flawless, convex connection between the reduced eyelid and the cheek. Recreating this smooth "lid-cheek junction" is the main element to rejuvenating a person's eye region. As people age, there's a disruption of the smooth lid-cheek junction. The fat bags of your lower lids start to protrude throughout your fourth decade of life. Simultaneously a hollowing occurs below the bag creating a valley or trough, hence the term "tear trough. " The end result is a tired worn reflection on the face. "The region where we most commonly to see this hollowing effect take place, is in the tear trough, just beneath the bags on the lower lids," says Dr. Gilbert Lee, of Changes Plastic Surgery in San Diego, CA. By plumping up that area, with either fat injections or fillers such as Juvederm and Restylane, you are able to achieve a flawless transition from eyelid to cheek. If tiny lines and wrinkles around your eyes are your condition, an alternative to fillers is to treat the lines with lasers. The laser light treatments, in effect, cause your skin around the attention to shrink and contract, smoothing out those tiny lines. If the contour irregularities tend to be more pronounced, then an eyelid procedure (blepharoplasty) is required to redistribute the fat from the bags and use that fat to fill the tear trough. A tightening of the eyelid muscle and skin layers is completed simultaneously. If your lower eyelids aren't hollowing or bulging, perhaps it's your top eyelid which will be sagging and slowly covering your eye, which makes it difficult to use make-up. Some of this can be caused by excess fat and skin in the upper lid, while it may be a weakening of one's Levator Muscle. The levator muscle, lies within the eyelid and is accountable for opening your eye. Since it contracts, the muscle pulls your eyelid in to a crease (the supratarsal crease), forming skin fold above your upper eye lashes. bam mi mat han quoc nhanmimathathanh As you age, the levator muscle can weaken, creating sagging in the eyelid. By making a small incision on the natural crease of top of the eyelid, the surplus skin, muscle and underlying fatty tissue can be removed and the levator muscle could be repaired if necessary. Important Factors in Successful Eyelid Surgery Dr. Lee, voted San Diego's top cosmetic surgeon for 2007 and 2008, says that by utilizing preservation techniques and combining procedures (fat injections, fillers, and fat relocation) that meet up with the patients'specific objectives, plastic surgery for eyelids is becoming much more natural and lasting. Additionally, Dr. Lee and his staff use local anesthesia and oral sedation for eyelid surgery. "This is unique," says Dr. Lee. "Using local anesthesia keeps plastic surgery costs down for the individual and is much easier on the body than general anesthesia. Patients often comment that their eyelid surgery was a'neat experience'under local." Best Approach for korian Eyelid Surgery korian eyelids vary from Cauckorian eyelids in which they lack a fold or skin crease above top of the lashes. One of the most popular procedures for korian patients is the creation of an eyelid fold, commonly called an korian blepharoplasty or a dual fold procedure. The change to a "double fold" eyelid is recognized as by many to open up the attention, creating a wider more beautiful appearance. You can find two common approaches for korian eyelid surgery: the suture technique or incision technique. The suture technique is a type of quilting stitch that's used to attach the skin of the eyelid to the underlying muscle, making a crease. This technique is quick and easy, but less reliable compared to the incision technique. As reported by Dr. Lee, 30-40% of sutures can release as time passes ultimately causing the loss or weakening of the upper eyelid crease.

On one other hand, the incision technique leaves a lasting and crisp fold in the eyelid. Whichever technique is employed, the important thing is to make a youthful, attractive eyelid, which maintains its korian character. "Many surgeons inadvertently make the korian eyelids look Cauckorian. They often make the fold too much or remove a lot of fat," says Dr. Lee, who's also a high korian blepharoplasty surgeon in San Diego. "What you want to accomplish is maintain the natural ethnic options that come with the eye and create enhanced, attractive korian eyelids, and not attempt to convert them to Cauckorian eyelids." Learn more information bam mi han quoc