#baby odile worth it

[sasssysuzume]

Made for her bday, I'm too late sorry queen I'm time blind

Inspired by @tealgoat 's gem headcanon <3

[vonclosen]

OC Facts: Solomon is both the youngest out of the triplets(by about an hour each) and the youngest of his adopted siblings as well. He is also the tallest at 7' even(about 6' in human size)

His favorite color(s) are baby pink and glossy black.

He is terrible at team sports, but excells in ballet/dancing, swimming, and swordfighting.

ohhh!! man, i bet his legs must he super toned. good for him honestly, get it king 😤

i have a sparkling, brand new oc based off of the black swan/odile from swan lake. the thing she's attached to is a silly little mobile game, but i honestly love it so much.

she's a master of transmorphic magic and has spent the last like 12 years living alone in the woods and stewing with her need for revenge. i think in a lot of ways she's forgotten how to be a person, because she's just kind of let this hate and anger twist and destroy her. she doesn't even remember what she used to look like, her need for vengeance has literally changed her physical form-- she's made herself look exactly like the love interest of the person who she's getting revenge on.

i think really tho she, like him, just needs a fucking hug and to be told its okay. getting even isn't worth destroying herself for 😭

[lasteverafter]

YOU’VE  HEARD  ABOUT  HER,    HAVEN’T  YOU?      THE  NEVER  WHO  DOESN’T  WANT  HER  STORY  ---    JOY  OF  FOXWOOD.

hey remember chaddick’s portrait? you do now.

joy is the brainchild of me and one wretched teapot so this time there was less thinking involved on my part. / @wretchedteapot i’m stealing ur content.

didn’t mean we didn’t have to do some serious mental gymnastics though.

(just give us ages already gdi)

so yeah, JOY!!! she’s an absolute sweetheart, befitting of her name but also she rarely feels actual joy!!!! because of her mountain of issues!!

she’s the daughter of odile / the black swan from swan lake.

and she’s basically a never, but she doesn’t want to be because HELLO has anyone ever thought about the system in sge .... like you are literally killing your classmates. why isn’t anyone breaking over being destined to die in a very bad way.

my canon now in my canon we break the school into ruins!!! bye!! nada!! just rocks and rubble!!!

we’re putting in a lil bit of social reform into her character!!!

her full name is joy tiane we’re not pulling a soman here right now.

around 16-18. she’s a bit older than the main cast of sge and probably a year ahead. the prime time for a mid-life crisis!1!!1!!

she’s an only child and lives in foxwood alongside her family.

technically a never. but it too nice to be accept as one but too evil to be accepted by evers f.

first on her mountain of issues is the fact that she’s a splitting image of the daughter of odette / the swan queen, albeit more akin to a darker twin. while the other girl has light golden hair and fair darling blue eyes, joy has stark black hair and dark DARK brown eyes.

girl doesn’t even have an appearance to call her own. whew! issues.

is of asian descent, very willowy, lean and tall - a ballet dancer physique.

her hair is quite long but very straight. slightly choppy at the ends but generally looks very silky and nice.

but has really long lean muscular legs and is quite tall, 168cm.

her vibes are cottagecore bisexual who doesn’t want to be evil but also has her very evil grandpa and mother breathing down her neck!!

she’s a very sweet girl, enjoys making pies and cake but breaks down once a week cause she doesn’t want to die a gruesome death and accept her destiny!!!

joy: i made pie :D evers: TO POISON US WITH???????? HOW DARE joy: not again.

neighbours and childhood friends with the gremlaine brothers. they hang out together and joy often writes back to them in school.

when she goes shes like i will send everything back and i will tell you ev er y t h i ng

joy: ur my only friend here chaddick chaddick: dies joy: tf am i supposed to do now?

joy very much accepted to go to the school for bad because fuck home fuck mom bad memories. i only have one month worth of good memories here it’s not worth it.

has mommy issues. her mom is very much a huge pusher for joy to do bad things and be villainous when joy literally only wants to bake cake.

her grandfather is really pleased with a granddaughter who looks exactly like odette’s kid!!!! his scheme isn’t over yet just wait.

very soft just radiates sunny vibes, but the evers don’t like nevers and nevers don’t like soft babies like her.

can get REALLY prickly though, especially when you make her mad. she is literally going to wage a war against you. you can literally feel her murderous bad vibes.

cold shoulder queen. doesn’t give a fuck about you if you spite her lmao.

[insert name here]: HELP I CAN’T SWIM joy: your point? [insert name here]: I’M DROWNING joy: and im reading

she doesn’t like it when her villain instincts take over but its kind of a part of her and she can’t deny her blood (as much as she’d like it).

joy: why does magical violence have to be the last resort. can’t it be like. the fifth.

dances ballet!! just a dancer. can’t do any other sport to save her life. sings sometimes.

as a result just walks around in ballet shoes 24/7. she used to take them off but now she’s just like. yeah.

joy: breaks in her pointe shoes the evers that are passing through: oh my god she’s murdering someone or something. the nevers on the floor beneath: oh my god what kind of never DANCES??

cracks her neck and back a lot. it’s horrifying for the evers she’s around lmaoo.

sometimes ~ waddles ~ like duckies (OR SWANS HAHAHA) because she walks with her feet turned out. she can turn back in, she’s just too tired to.

sprawls a lot. chairs are her worst enemy.

going thru a serious identity issue someone help the poor girl.

her magic specialty is curses but she absolutely fails uglification because her blood curse prevents her from looking any different from the daughter of odette.

lives in tower vice. has a horrible relationship with her dorm mates but wbk.

has prosopagnosia / face blindness. it’s not too bad but she’s awful with remembering faces and it takes very long to remember a face.

ironic considering her mother’s story lol. but yes! if you suddenly change your hair joy probably has no idea who you are.

also why she rarely calls people by their name.

also comes with a healthy dose of anxiety and coming off as rude or uncaring.

that’s why she always wears a red bow in her hair, cause she’s not going to recognise herself in the mirror if she doesn’t. looks in the mirror and goes who’s that bitch.

when you wanna mix things up a bit and wear a different colour bow but then you don’t recognise yourself anymore.

probably introduced herself to the brothers four times in a span of two months. literally cannot tell them apart most of the time because they all looking the fucking same.

joy: hey there’s a new kid next door :D the kid: is actually three similar looking guys joy: now hold on a minute.

joy with people she likes: 🔮🌹💖🌺💖🌹🔮 joy with people she doesn't like: 💔💢🔨⚔️ 🔨 💢 💔

[merryfortune]

Day 7 / Stars

Birds of a Feather

AN: big thank you to the mod(s) for hosting Ahirue Week, it’s been wonderful to participate in :D!!!

Fandom: Princess Tutu

Ship: Ahiru/Rue

Word Count: 776

Tags: Canon Compliant, Mostly Innocent Nudity, Inspired by the film The Half Of It

   Ahiru joined Rue at the girls’ dormitory public bath. The big one in the middle of the bathroom which was soapy and bubbly and giving off great reams of steam. It felt good, exciting even, to do so much as set foot in the shallows if it as Ahiru waded out, submerging, naked, and meeting Rue who was already there. Soaking. Floating.

   It was uncommon for both girls to use the dormitory wide bathhouse, but they were seeking out specific skinship tonight. From each other. So they made the plan in vague and lacy words. They would meet up later. At the bathhouse. And soak up both the water and the atmosphere and each other.

   Towels were left at the porcelain tile edge as Ahiru waded closer to Rue who did not so much as bathe but swim. She was on her back, in the water, floating. She looked angelic. Surrounded by reflected stars on the warm but oddly still water. Still up until Ahiru had taken her own, naked flight. Joining Rue, on her back. Staring at the stars above.

   The bathhouse was more like a chapel when the conditions were right. Siliyian, in nature, really. As though painted by Michelangelo, there were countless beautiful things on the ceiling of the dormitory baths. It was breathtaking, steamy, trying to scry all those pictures in totality but mostly, it was stars. Connected constellations and more. Angels, too. Demons, as well. But all winged things looked the same when watching with bleary eyes; white became black, black became white, and strangely enough, grey pervaded through those stark colours - or absences thereof, really. All bordered with neat gold and baby blue trims. 

   Ahiru stole a glance at Rue. She looked strange. Two faced. One above the water and one on the water, with all the stars and angels and demons above too. 

   “I heard a story once,” Rue spoke, suddenly, almost jolting Ahiru from her lackadaisical reverie on the musing of her surreal beauty, “that the Ancient Greeks believed that when mankind was first made, everyone had a soulmate conjoined to their own body but the gods grew jealous of how merry humans were with their perfect other so. They were cleaved in half.”

   “Oh.” Ahiru murmured. “That wasn’t very nice of them.”

   Rue laughed and her nose wrinkled. What an adorable reply, she thought. “No, it wasn’t nice at all. But according to legend, humans always continued to search for their other half. No matter the difficulty of being cleaved in two.”

   “Okay, that is a little nice. Still sad though.” Ahiru replied. Her eyes wandered back up to the ceiling. Her mind wondered if she looked the same. Reflected in double, amongst all the stars so still on the water. She couldn’t find it in herself to ask Rue.

   “It's romantic, I suppose.” Rue murmured.

   Ahiru hummed. She blinked. She agreed. And she stole another glance at Rue. Rue kept her pale hands on her chest, just obscuring her breasts but Ahiru, perversely, could still notice the shape of them just beneath, just hidden but her eyes, chastely, wandered elsewhere. To her beautiful face with deep, dark eyes which had turned a tumultuous reddish brown. Her fringe was still dry and fluffy despite the rest of her hair beneath the water, dangling and dark, reminding Ahiru of the tentacles of an octopus more so than anything else. Anything feathered. 

   Ahiru remembered something Fakir had asked her. Something about Odette and Odile. Asking if Odile’s love was corrupt or if it was just as pure as Odette’s? 

   It was a question worth asking, Ahiru thinks. She sighed.

   Ahiru wasn’t neat like Rue as was. She could keep her hands to herself, they dragged to the side, beneath the water, wishing desperately that she could clutch onto Rue’s hand for comfort but, alas, Rue wasn’t slovenly like she was. 

   She sighed again, and blinked slowly, only to close her eyes again, as though sleepy but she swears that she’s not drowsy in the slightest, she’s just comfortable, and she continued to wonder and wander among the stars around her. She wondered if Odile’s love was pure. It was just her father’s love which was all wrong and bad and evil, after all, maybe?

   “This is nice.” Ahiru quietly mumbled to her and Rue but mostly herself.

   Rue hummed. ���It is.” she agreed.

   Ahiru’s heart thrummed. She was greatly pleased to hear that as she let the warm and soapy water claim her. It was so different to her lake but it was, as she had said, nice. And, for now, maybe all that’s what it needed to be.

[roger1na]

careful ch6 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and fall in love with the sweetest man on the planet.

word count: 2.8k+

warnings: swearing

author's note: it's over 16k now, i'm legally allowed to call it a slowburn :,). aa i've had so much fun with all of this writing and this series wow thank u for all the sweet comments<3. also i know -15% about swan lake so it's probably hideous to read about that. (i tagged some people who didn't ask, so if u want to be untagged just shoot me a message).

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter six

The alarm pierced the silence of friday morning at 5am. You snoozed it groggily and buried your face into your pillow. You hadn’t slept properly at all. With the nerves of the show and the nerves of the promise you’d made to John.

“You didn’t pick up on the subtext that I’m definitely kissing you the next time I see you?”

You hadn’t kissed anybody in years. And back then, it was probably totally different. Maybe nowadays they wanted only tongue. Sometimes you slipped a glance at whatever your co-workers were righting. Kissing and sex were at the top of the list of celebrity scandals and sometimes they terrified you. What the hell was the world doing?

A piercing call made you jump. It wasn’t your alarm, but your phone ringing in the living room. The floorboards were cold as you raced barefooted to answer it.

“Y/N!” Rose shrieked in your ear as soon as you. You winced and held the phone further from yourself.

“Rose, what the fuck.” You groaned annoyed.

“She broke her leg!”

Your mind was struggling to connect the dots. Everything was hazy in the morning and you just really wanted some coffee.

“She broke it. It snapped in half like a fucking twig.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Frances! The prima!”

Slowly, the pieces were beginning to fit together. “What happened to her?”

“Freak accident! She was hit while driving. Or being driven around like the spoi-”

“Rose! She’s injured!”

“Oh yeah! You know what that means don’t you?”

“Rose you’re going to have to stop with the guessing games, I just woke up,” you mumbled and rubbed your forehead.

Rose shrieked on the other end impatiently. “Y/N you don’t get it. You’re the understudy.”

The phone slipped out of your hand as your arms went numb. Holy shit, you thought. If the original prima was unavailable, you’d be the one dancing. You were going to dance as Odette. That was your moment. It took a few seconds and then you screamed.

“Rose! I’m going to be dancing as a prima!” You were jumping around in hysterics. Then you paused for a moment and picked up the phone. “You didn’t have anything to do with the accident, did you?”

Rose giggled. “Of course not.”

“How come you’re the one calling me, not the studio or the teachers?”

“You never gave your number to the studio. I think half your documents are missing, you really need to get your shit in order. You’re going to be prima.”

“I’m going to be a prima!”

“Yes! Now get ready you dumbass, you’ve got a crowd to win over!”

You hopped around in excitement a bit more until you rushed to shower and get dressed. The sun was slowly peeking from the horizon and you grinned at your reflection in the mirror. Adrenaline coursed through your veins. It’d all been worth it. All of it.

London was only rising when you stepped into the musty tube carriage. Drunks coming home from nights slept away from their own beds and people in similar situations like yours, where work and life just started early. You flipped through a stranded newspaper, relieved that you didn’t find your own name among the pages.

You thought about John and how proud he’d be when he’d see you. He didn’t know about the news. Would he recognize you with heavy show make up and an tight bun? Would he wear a t-shirt and jeans combination? What did he know about ballet? Nerves coiled in your stomach, but you let them be. It was your day.

Across the city in a tiny student flat, John Deacon lay awake. He had tossed and turned all night thinking of you, your dance and your promise. He followed the cracks in the paint on the ceiling with his eyes, eyes tired but mind not letting him sleep.

The fact was, John Deacon had fallen in love. With your absent-minded gaze and with your babbling. With the way you stared off at him when you thought he couldn’t see. With the perfect way your palm fit into his. With the way your voice made him want to write a thousand embarrassing and poor quality love songs. And as he breathed and lay awake and pondered the great mysteries of the universe, he was brought back to the first night you had met.

Your eyes had glinted in the multicoloured lights of the show and you had been so mesmerised by the act on stage. And when you knocked on their dressing room door with confidence, John had almost felt apprehensive towards you. Like every interviewer, you were going to spin your own story without listening to them. But then you talked and listened and laughed at his jokes and suddenly the light caught your hair in a new glow and John came to love the confident interviewer in you. Not stuck up, not cruel and not fake. Just confident.

He loved how you let life take you but didn’t stand for its bullshit. How you were so vocal about issues in the workplace and misogyny in dancing and the issues in falling in love with an art and a person at the same time.

Overall, he just loved you. And sometimes it felt so stupid, so foolish to lie awake and dream of your peachy lips and rose scent but today of all days, the butterflies felt good. They felt promising.

The day wore on. With little sleep he walked to the studio, enjoying the fresh air and trying to ignore the growing fog in his mind. The boys couldn’t stop yelling today. He just sat in the corner, pouring over his notes for the song that you suggested he write.

It was called Misfire and it was exactly what it sounded like. He laughed when he thought about how you’d react to the lyrics. How you’d have a hesitant smirk at first, and then you’d be bouncing to the music, like the little ball of joy u were. Along the margins, he’d scrawled notes for another song he wasn’t quite ready to pull together. Words like sunshine, and my best friend jumped out from the messy handwriting, but otherwise it was almost illegible.

“He’s got her show today,” Freddie whispered over coffee. Brian and Roger were giving each other the silent treatment over Dear Friends and John was silent in the corner, scribbling his notes down. “Do you think he’s writing her a love song?” He continued.

“What, Deaky?” Brian looked up from his cup. “He doesn’t seem the type. His first song for Queen being a love song.”

“Bri’s right. He’ll write something silly. He’s like that.” Roger added. The argument diffused as fast as it had started. “You forget he’s only twenty two.”

“Twenty three in two weeks, right?”

“Yeah.”

They all looked at him simultaneously. John felt their stares and looked up, flashing a gap-toothed smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they all replied in unison.

“You excited about seeing Y/N today? Do you need a suit?”

“Freddie,” John rolled his eyes and snapped his notebook shut. “I have a suit. The funky checkered and white one.”

“Aw,” Brian leaned on his hands. “Will Y/N like it?”

“Shut up, you all,” John walked over and took his coffee, black with one sugar, and took a sip. “I’m perfectly capable of going to see a ballet on my own. No need to be babied.”

“But you’re so small!” Roger grinned but John gave him a death glare.

“Bring her roses,” Freddie advised him. “You always give roses to a ballerina after a performance.”

“Gee, Freddie, you seem to know so much, why don’t you go instead? Kiss her for me as well.” John stuck his tongue out.

“You’re going to kiss her? John that’s first base!” Brian teased.

“I hate you all.” John groaned.

“We love you too,” they replied in unison once more.

“And she’s going to love you too,” Freddie grinned.

After an exhausting day of teasing for John and training for you, evening was drawing nearer. The girls were all in one room, putting glitter and makeup on each other’s faces and brushing up hair into tight buns.

“Y/N’s man is coming over today,” Rose told a girl who was dancing next to her, a she was applying mascara.

“Rose,” you warned her slightly.

“Ooh, who is it?” The girl, Pamela, blinked fast, adjusting to the mascara.

“This guy, he’s called John.” You mumbled, incredibly flustered suddenly.

“John Deacon.”

“Who the hell is that?” Beverly, the girl who danced as Odile asked.

“Only the bassist of Queen.” Rose bragged.

“Rose! Shut up, we’re barely dating.”

Rose mouthed, it’s because she’s a prude behind your back and the rest of the girls giggled.

“Well, Y/N, I hope your man can behave at a ballet show, if he’s from a rock band.” Pamela pumped her brows up a bit.

“He’s great! Calm, sweet, but so energetic.” You told them.

“Fantastic.” Beverly clapped her hands together. “I hope he’ll enjoy our show.”

“And what comes after it,” Rose teased. You frowned at her but didn’t reply. The bustling of the crowd outside was finally heard through the walls of the dressing room. Some children, younger siblings and all that, parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, dedicated friends all walking into the auditorium with an excited buzz.

Among them was John, fiddling nervously with a bouquet he’d bought for you. Red roses, almost blooming. He hoped they’d last through the show. Some people did a double take when they saw him, perplexed not only by his imposing height but also his long hair. A young girl came up and asked for an autograph, scribbled on the program they were handed at the entrance.

The auditorium was huge. Seats for maybe thousands. He elbowed his way to the front rows, hoping to have the best view of your dance. You’d told him you were dancing in the background with your friends Rose and Pamela and that when you wore identical makeup, it was almost impossible to separate you, except by Rose’s red locks. He had promised you he’d be able to recognize you among clones and you had playfully shoved him on the shoulder, although you were very happy.

The lights dimmed and the show started, delicate beginning notes being played on the piano. And then the main character he was told was called Odette danced on stage.

His breath stilled. It was you. You with your tight stage bun and glimmering makeup, so strong you were almost unrecognizable. But it definitely was you. You danced with a sorrow in your step. He was told that the story was really quite sad, and he saw it in your mourning movements.

You were so graceful, he couldn’t help but be in awe that he was so lucky to have you. Occasionally, when the music turned to a minor key and the dance turned into sadness and pain, he felt tears brimming in his eyes. When Freddie gushed about ballet, he had been skeptical at whether it was truly possible to convey such intense emotions through dance, but when he saw you in action, all his doubts dissipated.

You received a standing ovation. Well, from John. Everybody was clapping heartily, having enjoyed the show. Some people had stood up with John, others were wiping their eyes. Some children had already began an excited gabble to their parents about the show.

John beat the crowd outside, managed to get to the front of the buzzing people. He couldn’t stop his grin. He heard the girls chattering to themselves on the other side. Somebody screamed in joy and everybody laughed.

You were only separated by a pair of sturdy oak doors and a dimly lit hallway where at the end every dancer was cursing their sore legs and undoing tight hairdos. Rose helped to take out all your pins and you did the same for her whilst gushing in excitement.

“That went really well, don’t you think?” You smiled at her as she tried to to remove some of the glitter plastered on your face, with little success.

“I think so, yes,” she paused for a moment, tilting your head back to get some of the stuff off your neck. “Did you see him?”

You looked at her and smiled. “Well, uh no, not really, I got so caught in the stage and the motion and the music. But I felt him, y’know? Like, his dopey grin just shone to me.”

“Aw, Y/N’s been turned into a sap,” Beverly joked, pulling on a sweater and trousers.  

“Excuse me, you would too, if you were around him.”

“I wish I had someone,” Pamela wiped off her lipstick and grimaced.

Rose looked at her quickly, flushed a bright red only you noticed and then turned back to you, smiling sheepishly, saying nothing. You studied her face and caught her eye but didn’t say anything.

“You ready?” She whispered as you glanced in the mirror one more time before nodding and leaving the dressing room.

The chatter was becoming more obvious the more you neared the exit. Pushing the heavy doors open, a pang of hot air hit your face and then you were out and you heard the excitement and the little children and your eyes were searching the crowd.

When you saw him, with his lopsided bowtie and gorgeous red roses he was holding, your heart stopped. He was grinning, ear to ear, flushed with pride. John thought you were so beautiful, breathtaking, with your hair just taken down from a tight stage bun, show make up still glimmering slightly on your face.

Cupid twisted the arrow he’d embedded into your heart and common sense was thrown out of the window. The feeling of being in love embraced you and left your heart soaring. Nothing could stop you as you ran up to him and before he could open his mouth to congratulate you, you took his face in your hands and on tiptoes you kissed him, slightly missing the center of his lips but hitting the mark all the same.

He kissed back, almost dropping the roses. It wasn’t ferocious or possessive, it was sweet. He tasted of cigarettes and red wine and the smell of his cologne flooded your nose. It was like a dance, synchronised, almost practiced. It was perfect, passionate and soft.

When you pulled away, slightly out of breath, he was starstruck, eyes shining. “Wow, I-” he blinked and laughed. “If I got a kiss everytime I went to your shows, I would’ve come sooner.” You giggled and took the roses.

“Thank you.” People were staring, but you didn’t care. “Really, it means a lot.” He was still grinning like an idiot and you were sure the same grin graced your face, eyes squinting, nose wrinkly, all in the glory of being in love.

He giggled then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours. “You were so amazing dancing, I kept thinking I know her. You’re my favourite celebrity.”

"Oh, I'm hardly a celebrity," you laughed, blushing.

He handed you the roses after one more kiss and you marveled at how good they smelled. He had held them so close to him that part of his cologne had gotten stuck to it as well, and you revelled in the scent.

More people came up and congratulated you, a bit intimidated by John’s presence but happy for you all the same. A small child ran into you for a hug and gushed about you being their favourite princess. He was pulled away from you by embarrassed parents.

After the crowd had cleared a bit, John laced his fingers with yours. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Of course,” you smiled at him softly and on your tiptoes, kissed his cheek. You felt like you were in the best place. Warm and comfortable with his hand in yours, his hair tickling your face as he leaned down and whispered more compliments to you about the performance to you.

He lead you out, where the evening had darkened to night, making jokes and acting like the happiest man on earth.

“John?”

“Yes love?”

“Thank you,” you grinned as his eyes found yours and sparkled.

“What for?”

“For the roses. And the kiss. You’re a great kisser.”

“Oh?”

You nodded with a serious expression.

“Well, I’m not actually really sure how I think of you as a kisser, can I kiss you again? Just to be sure?”

You giggled and let him softly cup your face with his hands and lean down to kiss you gently. He pulled away fast and had a mockingly thoughtful expression on his face and he smacked his lips. “Hm, I’m not quite sure yet,” he teased before leaning down again. You giggled into the kiss, arms wrapping around him.

Your heart fluttered, but not from nervousness or confusing feelings which had been far too present for the past three weeks. Your heart was fluttering because you were in love and you were happy and okay with it. You were more than okay with it. You loved it.

***

@fourmisfits @deakysgirl @im-happy-at-home @obsessedwithrogertaylor @itsametaphorbriansblog @rhapso-kei @deacontaylormaymercury @queenmylovely @imgonnabeyourslave @weirdestmentalityphilosopher @thefatbottomedmay @heyyyyyyyleykiyoko @brujademente @painkiller80

[dontfreakout]

Thank you SO MUCH for tagging me @becpunzel, I hadn’t been tagged in a game since like 3 or 4 months ago!

Rules: Answer the questions in a new post and tag some people you’d like to know better.

A - Age: 21

B - Birthplace: North West of France

C - Current time: 12:10am

D - Drink you last had: Water

E - Easiest person to talk to: a friend I made on the Internet

F - Favourite song: Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen

G - Grossest Memory: When I threw up in public when I was a kid (yummy)

H - Horror yes or horror no: NO NO NO

I - In love: Never been in love

J - Jealous of people: yes

K - K: ...OK? 

L - Love at first sight or should I walk by again: walk by again (I’m not sure I understood)

M - Middle name: Odile (I HATE it)

N - Number of siblings: 1 older sister

O: One wish: only one? That’s hard... Like becpunzel I’m going to say, to be more confident

P - Person you called last: a friend (well she called me)

Q - Question you are always asked: what are you gonna study next year? (answer: I don’t know and it’s freaking me out)

R - Reason to smile: beautiful landscapes, good music, favorite tv shows, and those little happy moments that make a life worth living

S - Song you last sang: no idea, I like to sing to songs I listen to so it could be anything

T - Time you woke up: 8:30am (but only because I had to go to work, otherwise it would have been around 11:30am) 

U - Underwear Colour: lol. Black

V - Vacation destination: no vacation planned. Unless it’s about my dream vacation or something like that. Norway.

W - Worst habit: I’m always self-deprecating

X - X-Rays: ? I don’t think I evere had X-Rays, or when I was a baby and I don’t remember, I honestly don’t know

Y - Your favourite food: where do I start... But I’m gonna say aligot (a French recipe of mashed potatoes mixed with cheese, Google it :p I’m drooling thinking about it)

Z - Zodiac sign: Aries

Tagging: @haalpert @julibernardo @pruehalliwell @dundermifflinscranton (I don’t know if you do those things, you can ignore this if you want)

[rosthemisguidedghost-blog]

“I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love”

About a dozen fixtures slash through black space, in their beams they materialize a young fräulein. The dreadful February had brought another early night, blowing a barren wasteland of snow descending on the mountain layer by layer. Hamilton lay painted under a pale, dead sky; the ground seemed to finally become one with the atmosphere- no horizon, just grey. Winds gusted in a diagonal blur over the streets and the Red Hill’s dark waters, ice gently blanketing over. Hours of fleecy clouds and frost had found Odile in her studio overlooking the city’s clogging commotion en route. Silently slurping a quarter of what is left in her mug, she lightly pities the view and for a while ponders.

               Behind the gloom, a pair of ice-chip-and-grey eyes; Odile nestles down in the middle of the dance space for her first extensions of the day. As she was graceful, her bare feet were a bandaged atrocity of calluses, blisters, some bunions, split or even missing toenails. Their sharp cracking shatters the deafening silence with each arch and point, the sight constantly reminds her of the fact that she’ll never again wear a pair of sandals just about anywhere.

The dancer soon hoists her posture high on pointe and prays that the box does not go dead beforehand, she lingers on her toes long enough for it to be malleable… and begins to twirl, as light as air and carefree around the lit section. Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2 recites tenderly far in the distance. Odile’s figure remains serene with each beat, moving precisely and rhythmically to the piano and orchestra, beginning to lose herself in this unorthodox design she’s constituted for. The mirrored wall presents her as plain and no-nonsense; hers was the face of a student with a gaze that was deep and thoughtful, a gaze of a girl fraught with inexplicable horror and peril. Her cobweb locks of light and subtle dustings cannot differentiate how prepossessing she is. Her defined vertebrate and shoulders stay taut with head held high.

She pauses briefly and eyes her duplicate, marking into position for a series of fouettés. Bobbing up and down on one pointed foot, she drives each turn whipping the alternate leg outwards and around. With such ferocity she spins, arms sweeping open, head snapping forward; only this… thirty-two times. Alas, she lands a keen step to finalize her parade before a lonesome audience. She could have sworn she felt the building’s narrow corridors rumbling through the flooring and walls; rough winds dare shake or a passerby came to mind as she snapped her head in various directions like a paranoiac. She looks beyond the panes of glass, weak and weary, the storm had settled into a monochromatic devoid of life with what little warmth the worthless sun could offer the city.

.     .     .

               Her half-sister, Alayne, arose roughly twenty-after-nine- more on weekends to days-off than she’d care to admit. She waltzes into the midst of their modern-style kitchen, climbing quietly aboard a bar stool to nurse a chronic headache on the cool marble top. The recovering tobacco addict wound up skimming and slogging over lines from Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus; she’d branded the inapposite legend a sadistic fuck after the torture of putting up with Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, The Merchant of Venice, and Hamlet. Alayne was one with a crave for irony and purposeful deaths, in terms of fiction; Odile bethought herself it was notorious for a palled seventeen-year-old.

               The emphasis is broken when Odile stumbles down the staircase dressed in Payne’s grey and blanched gold; Alayne sends a thin smile her way, her lead stare shows otherwise.

“Morning, you.” Odile glances at her.

“Please,” Alayne’s answer came out distinctly rushed, with aches doing her justice, “I’m not awake yet.”

Odile gestures at her with a coffeepot in hand. “Did you fill it?”

Alayne rests her head yet again on the atop the counter, arms wrapped around. “No; I woke up around fifteen minutes ago with hell on my mind.” She replies, “Buck ought to be fussing about in the kitchen, perhaps?”  

“Is he awake?” Odile asks.

“His door’s still open, wasn’t in there when I walked past.”

Odile sighs faintly, still thinking about Bucky. They both sat together in close silence, gently caressing Alayne’s ebony lengths of wavy hair, most would seldom see her with anymore makeup as to think it was nothing more than natural. They remained tranquil as her judgement tossed in the ocean. Straightening her stance, Alayne finally spoke. “We don’t talk as so much as just four-word responses, but you know how he stomps like a horse?” She removes her head from the soft grasp and locks eyes with her sister, bringing her right hand close to her cheek and points her index to the ceiling. “Rooftop, if I’m not wrong.” Devastation hummed about Alayne’s ears in phrasing that.

“You should go…” Alayne struggles to hold on what more to add… still sitting listlessly as she had started with a sympathetic look, tracing hidden scars over her long sleeves of linen.

It’s then after a period of indecision she embraces the occasion to depart, straining her ears to listening to just ringing and heartbeats, and licking bloody lips her front teeth had flayed. Odile could see it darting across her face. Day after day, it was so easy to dismiss the long-caged sorrow when they had the last of each other; they did not quite understand themselves.

Waldeburg lay locked and loaded in one of the living room’s drawers, and Odile just held it in her hands. The memory of their Papa and how shamefully his life had stood made her recoil, shuddering again as its cool grip, gleaming slide and barrel racked her frame in intimidation.

She was tearing apart, fraying sooner than a book’s pages; Odile drops the pistol back into the drawer and stumbles into her boots, throwing on a navy coat. She hastens back upstairs, climbing them as she risked sparking a light in sync with pushing open the rusted door seeing her to the rooftop; light cast upon her face. All her soul and spirit burned.

.     .     .

               Magnetic and intense, Bucky perched himself lonely atop the placid cornice, draping his legs of the edge and brunet strands by thousands knew where sat the wind. He would only act in such a way solely for some nudging adrenaline. He had the uncouth complexion of someone lost to a sea of cold; no light, just reminiscing what is was like to once feel warm…

               Wham! Announced the door. Bucky jumped only slightly, his wary baby blues had all the seeming, darting to Odile’s unintentionally abrupt entrada. Ah shit. She muttered below a whisper through with gritted teeth. Her hands burrow deep into her pockets as she is embarrassed. Bucky breaks the gaze for a second, hanging his head, now somewhat uncomfortable by her presence.

               “Odd-eyes.” Spoke only Bucky.

               “Stump.” Odile backfires, a light scoff is drawn from him. She inhales the smoke hurriedly and douses the light into a snowbank. “I don’t think it’s high enough,” She added.

               “Me neither.” He admits it, distant and rocking his thoughts. Releasing the tension in his body, he asks, “Why’re you here?”

               “Fresh air?”

               He is bland, “Wow.”

               “No, no, it’s just that…” she exhales, “for Steve’s sake, you could really spare us the heart attack. Anyway,” Odile starts approaching his side largo, peering over Hamilton glowing with flaxen lamps after four, a good fifty feet above James Street, “Alayne heard you ascend. I was just hoping you didn’t jump just yet.”

               “You two look almost nothing alike. I don’t get it.” 

“It’s called having a half-sibling; we’re pretty much a duet of jet and ivory.” A chilling breeze rolls by; they give each other a moment’s grace. “In sooth, Alayne’s all Pa, and I my own mother.” 

“So, what’s the story?” 

“What?” 

“You and Alayne?” 

“I-I’m not…” Shaking her head, Odile feels her throat clench like an iron fist. She stops, turns from Bucky, and respires deeply to recover herself. When she looked back at him, her face mellowed. She struggled to find some proper diction.

“Answer me this, and I pray you hear me yet:” Bucky began, “afraid or not, would you live for what made worth staying?”

Odile swivels and stares out at the eventide once more, and she steps further towards the mystery that is him. “I learned that to my sorrow; I wouldn’t die for Alayne to prove just how important she’s to me. I can’t speak against my Pa’s bond, the oath I swore before plugging a slug between those same eyes-which now she has.”

He caught her sight, “I’m sorry.” Odile looked right at him. Her orbs holding his with a terrible honesty.

“That pistol I keep stored in the living room, Waldeburg,” she persists with ghosts in her breath, “not very often I think of shooting myself with it. Once it’s in my palms… I just lose that urge suddenly. That’s the same pistol I favoured him with a less odious death than to the torch.”

Bucky carefully considers it, then reassures himself closer to her. “My voice may not hold songs, but, it’d make more sense to live for me, if that isn’t too selfish.”

“After all that time, so let it be done.” Quoth she. “G’night, Buck.” Odile’s hand just grazes his bionic prosthesis as she treads away, not looking back as she heads onward into the building, feebly, not definite in wanting to flee at all. She leans on the door frame, still watching him more focused on the thriving mass of humanity below. The memories of Brooklyn began stressing.

“How do you do it?” He had waited to request.

“Be specific.” Odile knitted her brows.

“Pulling a new facade in a crowd of millions? Just how?”

Silence. She is left astonished by the question and eases for a moment, her expression soft. “It’s mostly a second nature; I don’t pretend, not out there, with an audience.” She chuckles faintly, “But then it’s only a matter of time you become everyone in no one.”

“That’s sweet…” Bucky pushes what other words he was forming back into his mouth.

“Quite accurate,” She pouts. “It’s such a sad thought afterwards, though.”

“I’d say likewise; just wish everything was different.”

“Hey,” Odile implores him, “‘it’s beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you’ll drown.’” It took Bucky a moment to understand what Odile had meant. She was dismayed to hear her own tone, the defeat and disappointment as she ran her fingers through her hair, tangling in the strands. “You can travel back in time, but you can never go home again…”

“…with nothing more,” He finishes. Another long pause sat amidst their bejeweled darkness that would last forever. “Just need to keep going after I bury this whole bedlam of a life.” He looked to her, “Those journals I drag around, they’re all scattered in there, and not everything is pretty… they’re the only things I’m ever prepared to walk away with.”

“Even so, the aftermath is secondary,” she went on, this time barely audible and cupping his crestfallen face in her palms. Not waiting for him. “Close your eyes…”

Odile forces his head forward benignly, laying him to rest on her insistent mouth. And proceeded to parting his lips.

Bucky tremored, eyes still fast shut.

She kissed him dumbly, softly as a start before augmenting an intensity that made him crush her to his brawny chest. Her fingers like the stars, stroking his bristly throat and gripping his mane. To him, Odile almost seemed a thing too fine to hold, until a surging tide of helplessness and warmth, perhaps even home, leaves him limp- yielding. Gentle isn’t what she wants, not now, he thought. And the quiet reminders of history, for that moment, finally were blurred and drowned into nothingness. Bucky had dreaded that these sensations he was even capable of feeling now would not again evoke. For her sheer audacity, he did more than pick his own away. He returned the favour.

The stillness gave no token for when her heels wound her back to the surface, porcelain hands still made a clutch to his nape; their heads in the clouds, she tried to remember what his eyes looked like in a way she had never seen anything in her life before. Her cheek of summer dawn creeped a smile and watched him, never flitting.

You're here

and nowhere else.

‘Louder than God’s revolver and twice as shiny.’

But I’ve let myself rust…

A.R. Iza’s Note: Feel free to ask about more information regarding Odile and Alayne ( OC biographies, facts, likes, dislikes, relationships, physical descriptions) , perhaps even Bucky as to how and why the hell he wound up on the northern side of the border.  However, I might find myself too busy in order to write any other stories for this pairing, I’ll make no such promises.

[acentrpg-blog]

Whoa! Did you see Bang Seongjae, the ACEnt vocal coach? He’s 28 years old and looks a lot like Jung Daehyun. I look forward to seeing more of his work in the near future.

Barre!

  A prodigy, they called her. Talented youth untainted by the sly villainous vices of adulthood as lithe legs clad in baby pink hosiery were raised above mahogany tresses, luscious curve of the spine and—voila!— a asɑ̃ble perfectly executed. The duplet successions of clapping came from her Mistress draw nigh a pirouette whilst the danseur’s folded arms ended with welcoming hands for Arabesque penché; the golden laced corset scruffed against calloused fingers yet their legs remained ramrod straight, dainty facials and hooded gazes. Thirteen hours of lumbering through practice, numbing fingers tightly grasping the horizontal wooden bar that had bore witness even to the most refined ballet dancers; blood, sweat and tears; all for a meek sixty minutes, three thousand six hundred seconds worth of a program in which they would hardly shine on stage. Avaunt, she would pursue Mount Olympus dauntlessly; bended her back further until small hands and slender fingers grasped trembling ankles, limbered silhouette to pivot into a grand emboîté more than the courant tutelage. All in the name of love.    Fouetté en tournant en dehors; thus began the turn by having her supporting leg in plié. As the reinforce foot segue to demi-pointe or pointe, in an en dehors turn, her working leg extended forward and then whipped around to À la seconde whilst the working foot returned to the supporting knee in retiré, procuring the impetus to rotate one turn. The working leg retracted out of retiré nearing the end of a mono rotation to recommence the entire leg motion for successive rotations; that’s it child, dense velvet curtains unfurling to exhibit thy prodigy, mother, for thee who hadst giveth most wondrous supporteth; for thee to gaze upon thy daughter’s falleth; wast love the lady hadst hath found, or wast defeat the lady hadst grasped?  Perhaps, all in the name of love.

Temps Développé Devant!

   In the midst of a wonted winter, whilst others cow herded into cozy cafes to luxuriate in Yuletide themed beverages, her indoctrinated stoicism clung to enervated quadrupeds; adamantine pertinacity unrivaled by others. Those trophies gobbling up spaces from numerous, lined up shelves, Helios blessed aurum laurel hung on the walls of their evening tea room in an eloquent muted speech of plaudits whenever her mother’s friends approached their household for diluted mannerisms to attempt a ride on her coattail. Pearls and puissant derogatory were further paramount to the absence of this child that this elitist socialite had matrixed through acute scrupulousness. An indomitable ringing sung falsehood; banging against the tender resistance of eardrums by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake; are you Odette basking in moonlit crystalline drops or are you Odile whom frolicked amongst the sneering foes? Albeit, all in the name of love?        Laden with fatigue yet her trepidation silhouette bounced off the mirrors in tragic mirage for heroism, did you not hear the fleeting bellows of perseverance, child? Did you not feel pieces of your bones shrink from its commodious compeneer? A staccato in former articulate rhythm, the buckling of knees accompanied the holistic execution of pizzicatos and tremolos in maturity alike to shattering of one’s whimsical fancies; can you hear the perished pride of yours? Can you hear it now, child? Ragged breathing, dulled senses; tendrils of compensation bid against blistering cobwebs of demise. How much folly shalt thou display! Relish in the dubiety screeching blasting from the mother’s rotten abyss of a mouth, sense the nihilism grasp this child had around her demoralized limbs, shan’t you come and snicker with me?                      A  l l     in   t    he   n    a   m e    of… l o v e!

Côté, de Avec Cou de Pied!

   The pallid complexion disfigured her mother’s beauty of a fair maiden’s quality. Three winters have passed since the consequential incident, the family’s doctor had dished out his ultimatum with unequivocally not even an inch for rejection on their behalf. Her bones had succumbed to fatigue, unable to support the extended hours of practice; swelled, deteriorated before finally crumbling bit by bit. Exuberance, despondency, audacity; all of it formed a lethal amalgam of a whirlpool that swirled with malevolent intents. The child was finally free, knuckled extremities combed through pinguid locks left unruly, lack of care gave prominence to diamond sculpted jawline as well as rubidant apples rested atop the high of her sunken cheeks. But what about all of the time she had spent on centre practice, finding the linear alignment for an unbeatable arabesque, perfecting the grace for a potent Croisé, endured painful snaps of leather crop against tender epidermis for the epitome of a Grande Jeté? Nothing else howled jocosity as refined as her current predicament did, anxiety coupled with a higher dosage of Estazolam purged the vile and bile to gush through rippling muscles of her esophagus, darkened nails clawed against sanguine tinted thighs where the skin missed over the absence of time to heal.     Duplet blades ominously glinted beneath harsh condescension of neon filled cylindrical bulbs, a sneer carved across disdained countenance whilst coarsened fingers lifted strands of hair with much carelessness. Thorax expanded in dubiety yet it appeared in such a way that her hand conceived an intellect of its own. For a moment in time, silence held reigns over the ambiance in which solely the sounds of snapping cutting through fine tresses could be discerned when trapped inside the four concrete barriers of her modest bathroom. Somewhere far in the distance, she could hear her mother’s squawk of stupefaction but hey, all in the name of love, no?

Les Tours Chaînés Déboulés!

    Inadequate against the overwhelming urge to bask in an over spilling instant of triumph, she— a shake of head in amusement, /he/ let the bouts of jaundiced laughter to spill forth from his chapped tiers, no gloss, no lip balms, void of chemically deviced and chemically proven mystique technique to colour one’s skin. Unadulterated pleasure cascaded from deep within his core, a bird no more he was, despite the abhorrent slaps that rained down upon his developing body from the mother whom he once attempted to appease or falleth to damnation, Seongjae couldn’t contain his exhilaration towards her reaction to the self-pioneering he had made throughout his visit to China, visited a father he once thought was estranged yet had embraced him with warmth and drowned him in paternal love. A raise of the eyebrow when the father witnessed his only child vacant of a single thread; peculiarly pressing fingers that dipped into soft duo of metamorphosing muscles and fats. Unbridled sentiments gushed from the brute bruising on Seongjae’s derma, it could have been a repetition of the Battle of Pharsalus if they had a third party; deep-sixed requirement for weapons, their edge cutting war of the words would have sliced through the thickest of marble, even coerced fiercest warriors to their knees.    His mother was nauseated at the sight of a concoction that ranged from short hair dyed a rustic shade, no longer prodigious nimble physique swimming in male’s clothing, an absolute abomination to her! Seongjae bathed in the euphoria, paid negative a hundred even when the circumstances peaked to the soap opera worthy scene of having their residential servants prying the now mother-and-son duo apart, their hold on him laxed for he bore no resistance unless they inquired manic laughing spree as hazardous. Oh the joy! He flaunted throughout the prison once known as home, executed a dramatic bow at the gates before turning around never to look back as he dashed into the future.

Tour En L'air!

   Joining the national defense force had been a turmoil of expletives as well as general repugnant towards noisome comport of one too many selves. In a trial to reenact the galactic scathing influence betwixt Saturn and Mars, his insufferable colleagues misgendered him in multitude ways, undeniably puerile, of course. Indefatigable resolution brimmed the alphabets that formed his meticulously worded sentences, he was naught but pertinacious resistance to hindrances. Neverending streaks of display for tenacity, Seongjae authentically experienced joie de vivre; may it be a storm or a drought, he persevered through, ravenous for supremacy with unrivaled lust in heed of conquest. As though performing underneath austere stage lights, poised for a hortensia back at the age of ambitious six; he ruffled throughout the whole training area with undivided obstinacy, assembled and disassembled an array of weaponry in the clear  absence of hardship. Bandaged hands firmly grasped the belief of bawling more tears, shedding more sweat and oozed more blood, amber eyes illuminated the darkness ferociously as it were he was in hybrid form, keen claws and keener gaze; bearing his fangs to gluttonously maul, imbibing deterrents like a starved beastial embodiment.

   Was it fear? Or was it done under the forsaken moniker of malign governance? Sleep had claws in his world, deleterious scorching on the other side of tightly shut eyelids as might be it was the cattle’s branding, fluttering bright awake whilst coercing chattering jaws to gape like a devouring abyss. Specks of ember licked along the fringe of jagged pink sierra in conjunction with reparative brawn to attenuate his perturbation. Sleep would scratch against marked skin blossoming with demented bouquets procured from wilted Morning Glory’s, littered by vicious Orchids. Forged iron blazed on his skin for he was wrong, wrong, wrong. Once more, silence engulfed adulterated senses, thrashed into limbo he was.

Rond de Jambe à Terre!

    Twin rivulets streamed along the petrified curvature of his countenance. Vertebral column tremored with the impact upon a concrete barricade, squelching noises reverberated throughout the iron alloyed enclosed space as sullied fingers dug deeper into torn flesh, searching for spiked wings of Heaven’s fallen that were never there. Lackluster orbs remained transfixed on the rustic ceiling despite the torrential crimson downpour soaking into a uniform once proudly worn, pores oozing atrocity before a jab of the finger had a gut wrenching shriek extracted from swollen voice spheroid; haemorrhaging gurgled in vexation by the hand prints self-righteously pressurized against the fragile flesh of his throat. Pain was a nefarious spectator, obliterating through each defensive layer before stripping him of his very own skin, chink armour now clattered of soundless worth whilst he was forced to bleed out his sins, cleanse of the taintment through means of macabre display as he retched grotesque internal chunks and spat mouthful of morbid gore all over himself. Seongjae’s form quaked wholesomely for the slightest bit of moment would jolt him into an experience of nerve ends caught aflame; yawning wounds were scattered throughout the entire expanse of vacant skin, inhibition of adequate healing by the coarse salt crudely interfering meshwork formation for fibrin fibres.

   It took them a week to liberate him, three days to coop up and release the arschloch whom had torn through his latissimi dorsi and an uneventful one month of testimony, trial, repeat before they came to the verdict of it being uncouth to bestow upon a punishment towards not only a fellow soldier, as well as someone who had contributed to the country so much to the apex of not being able to be repaid; he was just acting upon primitive instincts, he was just trying to justify his personal beliefs, he was not to blame, he did have a point and he tried to prove it to you through different ways. If one could reason out the bullshit they pulled out of their asses on a daily basis, then Seongjae wants a fucking refund.

échappé Sur Le Pointes!

  Unexpected it was not, the official letter that had arrived and harmlessly rested atop his messy bed. All of the badges, medallions, everything formerly occupying the breast of his uniform were stashed inside an inconspicuous box, never to be sighted upon in the furthest and nearest futures. Reports were double checked and handed in, walls bare of personal embellishment as suitcases were lugged into trunks of heavily armed military jeeps. Perhaps it was battement fondu développé enacted with one, two, a leg out à terre or maybe the glissade précipitée followed by a swift glissade jeté to topped off with grand écart; the firearms became an extension of his limbs devant, à la seconde und derrière, minuscule explosions of sparks illumined his neurotic melting facades for a visage out on the battlefield— or was it the stage?—, it could have been both, either one, even neither. Gunshots and thunderous clapping, marching of combat boots and Balancé—fondu, relevé, fondu—, glittering feathery wreath and gold awards, ballet and military was Seongjae’s juxtaposition. Why was he wasting time fabricating a cobweb of paradox when it was much more sagacious to undergo paradigm shifts?

    Carmine dusted all over his derma in patches of placid hues, the twentieth winter bore witness upon the rebirth of him; a hymn for the damned despaired its scarlet chromatic petals blooming against a bed of snow. It all began with forced matrimony vows, unholy trinity execution of bed, deliver and separate the bond betwixt a father and his child, a maternal lethal vice; qui totum vult totum perdit, ensnared in a chism of dazed and confusion, albeit as the myth of ouroboros goes, the samsara doesn’t end, a vicious continuous cycle that ruthlessly circles, is there truly an escape? So in the end, cui bono?

[naijawapaz1]

Raquel Harper (Raq Rants) Wiki Bio, parents, net worth, baby, family

Who is Raquel Harper?

Raquel Odile Harper was born under the zodiac sign of Gemini, in Santa Barbara, California USA, on 24 May 1982, of African-American ethnicity, and holds American nationality. She is best known for being a TV Show Host.

Early life and education

Raquel spent her childhood in Santa Barbara with her parents and her brother – her mother is Claudette Childress Clipper who went…

[viralhottopics]

5 places that stole my heart in 2016

Tourists look at the Inca citadel of Macchu Picchu in Peru.

Image: AP Photo/Martin Mejia, File

For a lot of people, 2016 was the kind of year that warranted a lot of getting away. So its no surprise that for me, a professional jet-setter, most of the years highlights were far away from home. Here are the five places that stole my travel-editing heart over the last 12 months some classic, some new, but all ones you should consider for yourself, too.

Early gets the #tlpicks #tleditors #heaven

A photo posted by Nikki Ekstein (@nikkiekstein) on Mar 20, 2016 at 9:23am PDT

Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

Id long overlooked Cabo as a nightlife hub that was way farther from New York than low-slung Tulum. But Im officially a convert to whats really one of the great resort destinations on earth, second only to such places as Phuket or the South Pacific. Truth is, Cabo has some of the most compelling farm-to-table projects in Mexico, a ubiquitous knack for fried fish tacos, andsince they were all redone right after Hurricane Odile struck in 2014one of the highest concentrations of gleaming, new five-star resorts under the sun. Pile on Cabos natural splendor (stunning rock formations, cliffside beaches, whale watching, waterfalls, you name it) and its propensity for excellent swim-up bars, and youll find a place where its hard to complain about anything.

Recreate my trip: Plan a long weekend in Cabo as a respite to cold winter temps. Thats when youll have the best chance at spotting mama and baby whales in the Sea of Cortez. Angle for a stay at One & Only Palmilla, where youre waited on hand-and-foot in unparalleled fashion, or Auberges Esperanza, for more of a romantic honeymoon vibe.

Calm before the storm. @pure_theshow #changeworlds

A photo posted by Nikki Ekstein (@nikkiekstein) on Sep 12, 2016 at 2:21am PDT

Marrakesh, Morocco

My husband and I first visited Morocco as freshly minted college grads we spent less than $70 per night on accommodations that reliably took our breath away (not just because we were starry-eyed and unaccustomed to luxury). Its been one of our favorite trips.

Nearly a decade later, Marrakesh was every bit as spectacular as my memory had made it out to be, though this time, I saw it a little differently. First was the fact that I inadvertently arrived in time for Eid, a feasting holiday that involves the public slaughter of many, many sheep. I missed the bloodbath but saw plenty of the lead-up and spent several days chatting with taxi drivers and shop keepers about their celebrations. I tried my first hammam, which Id been loathe to do the first time around, since my then-boyfriend and I would have had to split up. (A friend described it to me as a gleeful regression to childhood, where youre being scrubbed like a baby at bath time. She hit the nail on its head.) And I made my best purchase of the year: a multi-colored, hand-woven rug from a collective in the Rif Mountains, which I found with the help of my local guide, Mohammad. The upgraded hotels were just icing on the cake.

Recreate my trip: The jaw-dropping resorts outside the old city may be tempting, but be sure to spend most of your trip in the medina itself. I loved my stay at the citys grand dame, La Mamounia, right outside the Djemaa El Fna its the epitome of an urban resort. Then, if you want to soak up some sun and escape the citys frenetic pulse, decamp to the palatial Mandarin Oriental, or better yet, head up to the Atlas Mountains for a taste of the Kasbah life.

Last day in the company of these cute critters. Today, Cuzco. Tomorrow, Bogota!

A photo posted by Nikki Ekstein (@nikkiekstein) on Nov 11, 2016 at 3:56am PST

Machu Picchu, Peru

My drive for visiting under-explored places took me to Ecuadors cloud forest and the coffee farms of Brazil long before I set sights on Machu Picchu, but the wait was worth it. It doesnt matter that youve seen hundreds of the exact same photos of this iconic world wonder in the flesh it still leaves you breathless. Plus, the photos dont show you that dozens of llamas still live in the Lost City of the Incas full-time, which I found terribly entertaining.

Recreate my trip: With so many incredible hikes in the Sacred Valley area, theres no need to join the crowds on the full-blown Inca Trail. Instead, take the Vistadome train to Aguas Calientes and plan to get your park entry scanned by noon. That way, youll miss the morning crowds but still have time to walk the grounds twice for photos in both midday and afternoon light.

Springtime in Paris really is all it’s cracked up to beespecially when you catch accidental views like these, all awash in purple. Hard to say goodbye! . . . #travel #travelgram #travelpics #tlpicks #beautifuldestinations #paris #france #spring #vacation #europe

A photo posted by Nikki Ekstein (@nikkiekstein) on May 13, 2016 at 8:15pm PDT

Paris

Counter-intuitive as it sounds, Id never wanted to go to Paris more than I did in the wake of last years terrorism attacks. Tourism was plummeting and planning a trip felt like more than just a springtime indulgence; it was also my version of showing solidarity. Since tourism is still struggling to rebound in the City of Light, let me twist your arm to do the same: The croissants at Sebastien Gaudard will change your life, neo-bistros such as Clown Bar will make you feel like a (very well fed) local, and the citys most illustrious hotels are all ready to impress. To wit: the Ritz Paris came back online shortly after my visit, Rosewoods legendary Crillon will reopen this summer after a years-long renovation, and the Peninsula, where I stayed, has just been given palace designation. And whats more inspiring than this view of the Eiffel Tower surrounded by purple blooms?

Recreate my trip: Even if youre not sleeping in the 16th arrondissement, its worth going out of your way to hit Le Patisserie Cyril Lignac, where I ate the best sandwiches I think Ive ever tasted; theyre made with top-notch charcuterie and fresh-from-the-oven baguettes. Take them to the Jardins du Trocadro to get the view shown above, and then pay a visit to the grande dame of cheesemaking, Marie Anne Cantin, for a follow-up picnic in the 7th.

First view of the San Juans.

A photo posted by Nikki Ekstein (@nikkiekstein) on Jul 18, 2016 at 3:26pm PDT

The San Juan Islands, Washington

This little chain of islands off Washingtons northwest coast had something of a mythical appeal to me. Everyone I knew who had been there was taken by their beauty and bounty, but the islands seemed like places that simply had to speak for themselves. You just have to go, people would constantly say. So I did. As the ferry crawled from the port town of Anacortes to tinier-than-tiny Lopez Island, the land masses grew increasingly verdant and became draped in swooping clouds, as if we were sailing into a dream. Ultimately we landed somewhere straight out of the 1960s: a place where you can get burgers in red plastic baskets and ice cream from old-timey windows before hiking to a private beach cove with your free-loving Ph.D. neighbors.

Recreate my trip: Sorry, dear readers, this ones all mine. Sure, you can bypass Lopez for Lummi Island, where the acclaimed Willows Inn awaits. But Id highly advise bypassing the traditional hotel. Instead, befriend someone with relatives in the San Juans ideally ones with access to kayaks, which you can use to visit sea lions and fish for Dungeness crab. Then round up a group you love and go, en masse, for a back-to-basics getaway youll never forget.

BONUS: This German chef knife is made out of wood

This article originally published at Bloomberg here

Read more: http://on.mash.to/2jk63NR

from 5 places that stole my heart in 2016