#everyone has been using pierre's extension for like a year or something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

Text

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

#pannacotta fugo x reader #fugo x reader #pannacotta fugo #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

157 notes · View notes

iwannaseeyainakia · 3 years ago

Text

The Moonlight Circus

This was a story I was commissioned to write by an anonymous tumblr user. Thought it would be good to show my writing and see how it changes over time!

trigger warning: gore, smoking, religious and supernatural themes, death, minor profanity

The heel of Morgan’s boots clicked against the checkered flooring of the circus. She made her way to the center of the stage, her stride casual. She readjusted her gray beanie as she climbed up the steps. The plastic name tag below her collarbone wobbled with each step. The words “Moonlight Circus” in Courier New font rested above her first name. The floor of the stage was filthy; ash and soot smeared into the once pristine black and white pattern. Her pale green eyes followed a line of ash leading to a rusted cast-iron cannon. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

She exhaled softly, reached into the pocket of her ‘Metallica’ pullover, and pulled out a lavender lighter and a worn pack of Newport cigarettes. She yanked one out of the box and shoved it in her hoodie again. Her black bitten nails struggled to start a flame before she victoriously held it to her cigarette, finally lighting it. A pewter gray smog released from the very tip, emitting a bitter comforting scent. She lifted her hand to her face, the cig clenched between her middle and pointer finger. As the paper touched her pale lips, the once vermillion embers shifted to a startling violet and the musty gray smoke suddenly turned a mauve tone. Morgan took a long drag of the strange purple cigarette while taking in her surroundings.

The massive tent surrounding her was a striped pattern of burgundy and eggshell white. The fabric was contrastingly cleaner than the stage of the ‘Moonlight Circus.’ The seating for guests was discolored bleachers; the aluminum being stained and scratched away by years of usage and lack of cleanliness. Many hot dogs drenched in mustard and bags of popcorn must have been dropped on it. There were multiple stacked on either side of the tent. The elevated stage had an outer ring surrounded by dark crimson foam. A round indoor pool was 15 feet away from her, the bottom of the pool a dirty yellow tint. Scales and confetti floated at the surface of the tainted water.

Large LED stage lights were set up at the ceiling of the canvass. Each was about the size of a child and contained a lens of different hues. They dimly lit the stage white. The tent was held up by dozens of rods with a singular large black pole at the center. The fabric bunched together and pulled up; it looked almost as if the very top of the tent was a tunnel that led nowhere, the stripes creating a dizzying optical illusion.

The circus itself was located in a cheap amusement park; the locals treasured this place. It was affordable and held plenty of memories dear to their hearts. The Moonlight Circus was the main event, the park's pièce de résistance if you will.

They had crowds of people flood the show every day. Bright smiles beamed on the faces of children and content parents awaited a trip down memory lane, nostalgia a pleasant high. After all, who wouldn’t be entranced by real-life monsters?

Morgan released a puff of amethyst smoke, gently laying the cigarette between her lips again and keeping it there. She proceeded to stuff her hands in her pockets before an elegant voice called out to her, disrupting her daze.

“Are you ready for the next show Morgana?” The feminine voice was gentle and motherly. She spoke each word with a grace that held centuries of wisdom. Her thick French accent was gorgeous; her voice matched exactly how she appeared. Morgan casually turned around and sent the woman a closed smile. Guinevere was a being of beauty, a true spectacle to behold. She was a small woman, approximately 5’2, petite but with a stance that conveyed raw strength. Her billowing pitch-black gown strewn behind her as she sashayed her direction. Her arms gently swung at her hips, an opera-length cigarette holder between the dainty fingers of her left hand. The skin of said hand was a pale blue-gray. The center of the long pipe was a silver fading into an intense black; a cigarette burning blood red at the end of it. Morgan glanced at her long dark hair. It was bone straight and swung behind her waist. The fringe of her locks covered her right eye, but Morgan could still make out a piercing iris a startling shade of red.

“Hey, Gwen. Yeah, pretty much. Is everyone in the dressing room right now?” She inquired as the monster woman stood in front of her. Gwen gripped the edge of her large ebony sunhat, cigarette holder still between her fingers. The brim of the apparel was big enough to cover most of her hauntingly beautiful face. Lace hung half an inch off the seams and thin royal purple sticks of dynamite adorned the outer ring. While the entire hat was an eye-catcher; a nod to her part in the circus, the true emphasis of the hat was the large skull littered with cracks and yellow stains from tobacco.

“Yes, and they’re taking damn long if I do say so myself.” The skull quipped judgmentally. Morgan chuckled. Gwen was not so amused by her husband’s comment.

“Hush Pierre. No need to be snippy.” Guinevere jutted her hip out and placed her right hand on it to convey her sass. The skull instead, haughtily laughed at his wife. She rolled her eyes but could not contain the fond smile that grew on her lips, exposing her sharp fangs. Despite all the time that’s passed, she still couldn’t fight how easily Pierre made her grin ear to ear. “Don’t mind him, Morgana, we’d best be on our way to prepare.” Gwen gripped Morgan’s wrist and tugged her along in the direction of the dressing room.

Guinevere was the owner of the Moonlight Circus. A wonderful boss indeed, she felt more like a friend she’d known all her life than her superior. She also was a woman with a dream: to unite humans and monsters through entertainment. Humans used to fear the supernatural, loath it with their very being, but in this day and age, they take great pleasure in the abnormalities of the differing species. Harmony is built in this circus; humans come for entertainment and to admire the beautiful, violent specters, and the monster women give it to them. Gwen, a vampire, found joy in making others happy with her performance and her performers.

She often sat with Morgan under the night sky, gazing at the stars with a fond expression, spilling her life story to her.

As a young girl, Guinevere was dazzled by monster kind. Born human, she felt there was so much to be discovered in magic and mythology. She felt it a shame that humanity was so quick to turn a blind eye to something so beautiful due to its differences in appearance. Her inclination in performing arts made her dream of a world where she could use performance to change a deep-seeded ideal within the societal structure. She’d sit next to her window sill, eyes twinkling with delight, wishing upon stars that someday her dream would become reality.

For a woman such as herself, an objective of that nature was unheard of; impossible even. Nonetheless, she persevered. She wanted to tell the world that as a woman she would create art like no other and she would make a change for the supernatural of all origins. With a cigar between her lips, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and got to work. She specifically sought out other women of mythological backgrounds for her acts. By 1890, she’d created the “Moonlight Circus” with the help of supernatural people she’d met along the way. In a small corner of Paris, France, it stayed. Given that monsters were still looked down upon by mankind, they’d been spit on, leered at, and dismissed by the public. As decades passed without much luck, her hope slowly began to dwindle.

Gwen spent many restless nights wandering the streets of Paris, desperately trying to spread word of the big top containing wonderous spectacles to no avail. Just as she was close to giving up an aspiration she’d clutched tight since childhood, an American traveling carnival approached her. The owner, a large man who was only ever seen adorning a velvet suit, believed there was promise in her bazaar. He saw something no one else but Guinevere considered possible: an opportunity for change. In a society where her family within the tent were nothing but social rejects, outcasts; they along with everyone like them could be so much more. The man, kinder than Gwen could have ever hoped, opened up about his beliefs and desire to have her circus as an attraction in his fair. And she accepted with insurmountable glee.

So, a new chapter for the big top began. With this foreign carnival, she traveled and built up her crew from nothing but sheer will. She continued her exploration and found many monstrous beings with the same ideology to join as performers. Word soon got out of the fantastical bazaar that made its way around the world. As opinions of the inhuman began to evolve with new generations, so too did their desire to know more. And eventually, they had a crowd; an adoring audience astounded by the display of otherworldly figures. Now, the carnival has made its permanent home in New Mexico, USA, and the circus by extension.

“Think it’ll be packed tonight, Gwen?” Morgan already knew the answer, but figured it would be polite to make small talk.

“Yes, absolutely my dear.” Guinevere continued to drag her to a slit in the circus tent. She placed her cigarette holder between her lips and used her palm to gently spread the opening, revealing a backstage area. It was renovated to be a dressing room; gothic aesthetic to match the theme, for all the performers pre-show. It was a much smaller canopy structure installed into the side of the main show tent. Despite the ground being grassy terrain, the room itself was well done. Dark oak vanities covered the walls, steampunk and alternative costumes littered any free space, and makeup laid atop every flat surface. The spherical bulbs lining the mirror of the vanities were all lit a dim white light, illuminating the room enough so it was not pitch black.

Light chatter and giggles filled the room as everyone who performed in the circus continued to get ready.

The first person to notice Morgan’s sudden appearance was Gwen’s daughter, Victoria. Her eyes instantly brightened and a large Cheshire grin grew to meet her eyes. Vicky’s poofy raven black dress bounced as she sprinted towards her. The ivory petticoat underneath made the lace skirt fuller and frilly. The undead theme seemed to run in the family; Vicky being the zombie to her mother's bloodsucker and her father's skeletal remains. Her skin and teeth were rotten and oozing. Her hair was almost floor-length, and unbelievably matted. The knots at the base of her skull were so large you could have mistaken them for golf balls wrapped inside her tresses. A pair of filthy copper goggles rested on her forehead, the lenses murky and caked in blood. Between her toothy smile was a large cigar. There was no way to pinpoint the brand, as it was only labeled with a strange rune Morgan had never seen before. Apparently, she had been taking a drag from the cigar, because smoke began to leak out of the holes in her skin.

Vicky launched her small form into Morgan’s arms. Morgan struggled to grip her as the foul stench her rotten flesh emanated was near unbearable. Swallowing down an audible gag, she smiled at the little girl before placing her gently back onto the grass.

“Morgan! You’re going to love my act tonight.” Victoria loudly claimed, holding her fists to her chest with a grin still plastered upon her lips. Morgan couldn’t help but return the expression. Vicky was a sweet girl. A demented undead one, but sweet nonetheless. “I’m sure I will, Vicky. You’ll kill it tonight.” She seemed to have chosen the right words, because Vicky’s grin only got wider as she bounced up and down, skirt floating with her movement. She made gestures referencing explosions and tried to explain how her act tonight would go, but her words were so jumbled they were not understandable in the slightest. Her enthusiasm continued to increase alongside her violent movements before her mother placed a hand on her small shoulder.

“Now, now Victoria, you’re talking so fast no one can understand you, dear. She’ll get to see your performance soon anyway, so let's keep it a surprise.” Gwen chided her daughter sweetly. “Ok, mommy.” Vicky heeded her mother's words and scurried to the side to search for her favorite lighter, cigar bouncing between her decayed teeth. Cigar smoke trailed behind her figure. Gwen shook her head at her daughter’s antics, gripping the cig holder between her lips to take in a puff of nicotine.

Victoria was the product of forbidden love between Guinevere and Pierre, a formerly vampiric man she’d encountered while searching for spectacles to join her circus. The traveling carnival had traversed Europe and decided to take camp for a while in the French countryside. Gwen had been overjoyed to be in her mother country again. She languished in the smell of the air and the sounds of nature like music to her ears. On a particularly stormy night, a vampire man with hair as light as wheat and skin as pale as snow knocked at the door of her bedroom within a quaint little inn. She opened the door to see him drenched in rain. The revenant, Pierre, gave her a goofy smile and asked for a part in her monstrous sideshow.

While puzzled, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. Pierre and Guinevere grew close the more they worked at the fair together. They both had a passion for performing and magic. Romance blossomed; eventually, they eloped and she became pregnant. It was uncommon for vampires to conceive children, let alone with one of mankind. Guinevere was a woman of adventure and risk, so she took this new development in stride. In the excitement of her family growing larger, she decided to have Pierre turn her. Neither realized the possible problems that would arise from changing her into a vampire while bearing a child.

And so, when Victoria was born, she was sickly and frail in every sense. Her genetics were corrupted by the change her mother took on while carrying her. Her personality, though, could be described as nothing but robust. Vicky as a toddler would often act as if she were not terminally ill; watching the acts in her mother’s circus with enraptured eyes, even participating in the choreography herself from time to time.

Guinevere often spoke of a time in which Vicky had climbed into the cannon without anyone noticing and failed in trying to light it with one of her old cigars. She had rushed over in a panic, tearing her from the barrel before the flame grew closer. She checked over her body and, once assured she was not injured, inquired what she had been thinking. Victoria, the overzealous little girl she was, could only laugh with a large smile plastered on her face. “I wanted to fly mommy!”

As she grew older, her body deteriorated. By age five she could barely walk. By six she couldn’t at all. At seven, she no longer had the energy to speak. At the young age of eight, she could only watch the performing women with a blank smile before she passed. For days they grieved over her. They left her cadaver laying on her satin bed sheets as she was before her death, in anguished hopes they could find a way to bring her back to them. After tirelessly searching for any form of necromancy that could revive her, Guinevere entered Victoria’s bedroom to adjust her as she did every day. Only to be startled by her daughter sitting upright and speaking to her.

“Mommy, can I go play at the circus now?” Victoria bounced off the bed with newfound strength in her rotten limbs. Gwen could only rush to hug her baby who was with her once more. Undead, but with her despite everything. From that day on she allowed Victoria to become a full-time member of the bazaar. The human (zombie) cannonball. With a body that could be put back together, no working pain receptors, and a passion for explosives and theatrics, she fits the part flawlessly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smaller tent was filled with a variety of supernatural women, the circus only having female staff. While most continued with their activities, some turned her direction and welcomed her. The parts in the circus were relatively small compared to most other acts, but the integration of monsters and mankind made up for it.

Every single person handpicked by Guinevere herself, the cosmetologists, background musicians, and stage crew were all fairies. They each had varying sizes and shades of iridescent butterfly wings, and tight thigh-length dresses made from leaves and spider silk. While not as small as fae are typically depicted in human literature, they reached only about 3 feet and hovered above ground with a light flap of their appendages; they had the grace of hummingbirds. Faes are known for their artistic and musical capabilities. There were twenty-three pixies on set, all of them being gentle girls with a heart of gold. Their love of all life made them a wonderful asset to this circus promoting coexistence. Currently, they fluttered around tidying the room and freshening up the faces of the main performers.

The ‘clowns’ of the act were all young shapeshifters. All fifteen of the women were from different cultures, shapeshifters being in a large majority of mythology; making them unique despite the similarities in capacities. Their abilities were used to shift them from playful clowns to dangerous animals to be used in other’s acts. While their personalities were all very different, each of them loved performing at the Moonlight Circus. Some spoke amongst themselves, shimmying into tight leotards and fixing their updos. A few of them, though, struggled to keep Victoria from swallowing handfuls of gunpowder. Especially with a lit cigar in her mouth.

“VICKY NO-” A wet splat hit the wall and a giggling head rolled at their feet. The shifters looked in disgust at their blood-stained clothes and scolded the decapitated head of the little girl. The others just laughed at the normally terrifying sight.

Morgana turned her eyes away, cringing internally, but knowing full well she’d be back on her feet in a few minutes.

The main acts were very typical of a circus; the women enacting them were anything but. The designated tight rope walker was an Arachne woman named Magnolia. Her form was that of a tall human, her body could only be described as pear-shaped. Despite her form being humanoid, she had skin that was a smooth charcoal black and a spider abdomen attached to her lower back. The abdomen was a sunshine yellow covered in symmetrical white spots on either side. The pedicel connecting it to her body was the same tone as her skin. She also had eight spindly appendages protruding from the middle of her spine, each striped black and yellow. Magnolia had shoulder-length wavy hair a banana color with frayed strands of spider webs tangled within. Despite the frightening six extra eyes lining her temples, she was a kind eccentric woman. As the aerialist, the tightrope she walked during each performance was a magnificent braided rope made of her webbing. Magnolia was sitting on a cushioned stool, twisting her thread into a complicated bracelet, only glancing up to grace Morgan with a polite smile and greeting.

Delane and Clio, however, wasted no time in rushing to make conversation with her.

“Yo, Morgan! We’ve been looking for ya. Can you help me into this wetsuit?” Clio loudly proclaimed, simultaneously carrying her lover, Delane, in her arms bridal style. The duo is the aquatic performers of the show. Clio is a water nymph with connections to the Greek god Poseidon. She willingly took on a human female’s appearance, but that could not hide the divine aura that radiated off her very being. She had a lean build but still held all the strength a creature with holy connections such as herself should have. Her head was bare of hair and her ears pointed in an elf-like fashion. She stumbled around in a limp bedazzled wetsuit pulled up her hips halfway, the skin of her upper half an olive tan.

“Seriously dude, I’m struggling here.”

Delane was a mermaid, a perfect match to Clio’s Nereid. Her Prussian blue scaled tail hung limply over her girlfriend’s arm. The trawl half of her body closely resembled a koi fish. The caudal fin was long and thin, like fine silk flowing with the movements of Clio’s jerks. A dorsal fin ran down the back of it, getting smaller as it reached the end of her tail. She also had multiple pelvic fins running down the sides; the fins at the top were much larger than the ones at the end. They were all light cyan. The scales from her tail ran up her stomach, becoming much more scattered as they reached the dark skin of her breasts. Her hair was a short black pixie cut with a shaggy top, ending at the gills just below her chin.

“Yeah, uh, maybe hurry before she drops me, please.” Delane nervously spoke. She wore a necklace composed of seashells and stones from the shore of her home, matching Clio’s own as a symbol of devotion between them. Together, they enacted a beautiful water-based act that captivated every audience we had.

Morgan laughed at Clio’s predicament before moving to help her into the suit. Just as she got a grip on the neoprene material a strong voice halted them.

“You could’ve just asked me, Clio. Here I got you.” Large calloused hands assisted her in her efforts. Morgan turned her head to Anastalia. Anastalia was the strong woman act of the circus. Like many of those hired here, a part of her resembled that of mankind, but she was very obviously not human. Her upper half was the build of a shredded woman: pulsing muscles, large bulging breasts, defined abs, intimidating biceps. She looked as if she was carved by the gods themselves. Her bottom half, while just as muscular, was that of a black stallion. Her four large hooves clapped against the ground in a deafening display and her dark tail broke the sound barrier like a whip. The hair atop her head was a dark brown with a sheen that made it glint in the light. Her long straight locks cascaded down the flesh of her shoulders a similar shade, reaching the small of her back.

Anastalia peers up from the suit to bicker teasingly with Clio. She galloped gracefully in circles around them, admiring her handy work. “Eh, to be honest, I think it needs to be a bit bluer at the hips.” She quipped thoughtfully. Clio and Delane exchanged a glance and giggled in unison. Clio responded, “You’re one for detail, but let me tell ya, you don’t look it.” She lets out a boisterous laugh, keeling over slightly, causing Delane to screech in fear of being dropped and grip her shoulders tighter. Anastalia only rolled her eyes.

“Har har, laugh it up, I’m not just a brute. I’m also an artist.” She struck a pose that had Clio cackling harder and Delane protesting louder. Morgan shared a laugh with them, her sides aching. Loud footsteps behind her turned her attention away for a moment. “C’mon Lanira, hurry!” Vicky, seemingly back to normal after spontaneously combusting, ran and jumped in a very abstract dance with her friend. Lanira, an incorporeal little girl resembling that of a cartoon witch floated around her at a much slower pace. “I’m going as fast as I can Vicky.” Lanira’s tone was much less enthusiastic. She had a slight cockney accent.

Her dark flowing gown had no shape to it, more like a sack made of cotton. Her sleeves puffed out and tightened below her palms that gripped onto a translucent 19th-century broomstick underneath her. She twirled around with Victoria, who was still jumping around and flailing in her interpretative art form. Her wide-brimmed hat had a large peak at the top that dipped down at the very point. It was navy blue and held a wide variety of jewelry and trinkets that dangled down. Bits of cloth hung off the edge with pearls woven into it.

Lanira had become a ghost after a ‘mishap’ with one of her spells backfiring. As the magician of the big top, she experimented with plenty of dangerous enchantments. One moment she was but a mangled corpse of a girl with crippling insomnia, and the next she was a spirit with large eyebags, continuing with her act as if death had not just occurred before everyone’s eyes. As the specter of a young talented sorceress, she must have expected this possible outcome and kept a few “tricks” up her sleeve. She kept with her act even after her untimely demise, even increasing the intensity now that death was no longer a possibility.

Morgan took a long drag of her cigarette and continued to gaze in amusement. Lanira half-heartedly attempted to keep up with Victoria, the zombie child still lost in her own little world.

“Alright, everyone! It’s time to get this show on the road once more, as they say.” Gwen chuckled at herself lightly. The room erupted in conversation and scrambling to get in costume in time. The pale woman approached her once more. “Will you please start allowing entry, dear?” She nodded at her, cig between her lips bobbing. “Of course.” She smiled and made her way out of the dressing room.

The flap quietly closed behind her form as she made her way to her ticket booth. She could still hear the loud conversations and shuffling from inside the room. Her steps echoed throughout the stage. The entrance to the inside of the show floor was a large rectangular cut-out with a flap hanging to the side that could be zipped up. The outside of the tent was the same striped colors as the inside, illuminated by the setting sun. The tent performed almost all day, but their largest and most spectacular show was always right after the sunset. It was also the most packed of all their performances.

The ticket booth was a wooden structure painted red and white. A gigantic sign in the shape of a ticket was placed on the roof displaying the name of the circus. It sat in front of a zig-zagging gate that led to the entrance. She opened the door and stepped inside, admiring the long line that had already formed. The crowd was a diverse amount of people. Some were singular people showing up alone for the show. Some were human couples on a date or parents with their ecstatic children bouncing with joy. There were even some couples that were interspecies; a human and a not-so-human person lovingly interlocked their hands.

She opened the window of the booth and started accepting tickets from each person. One by one they approached the stall, handing in their crisp voucher, and making their way through the gates to pick up snack food and be seated. The sound of kids giggling and adults speaking with a grin in their voice was heartwarming. Memories were being made here time and time again; the atmosphere never changed. She never got tired of seeing happy faces coming to experience the wonders of the Moonlight Circus. A small crescent moon adorned each ticket that she received and stashed away in a box beside her.

It took a good long while before each person who had previously bought a ticket was granted entry. She let out a sigh and sucked in some more smoke. She released a lilac cloud into the evening air. The sky was a dusty orange making way for the black of night. She continued to smoke while idly wondering if a storm was brewing. It seemed as if their best shows were when it was pouring rain and thunder broke through the cheers. The sound of Guinevere’s muffled voice over a speaker broke through the silence she’d been basking in.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I thank you for coming to see our fantastical performers tonight! We hope to amaze you just as every crowd before.” Her words were a cue for Morgana. She laid the cigarette between her lips once more and strode her way into the tent. The tips of her fingers graced over the edge of the tent fabric for a split second. The control panels for the lighting were tucked into another miniature tent attached to the side of the main structure. She could see the sprites flying above and moving the large spotlight from the cameras beside the panels to follow Gwen’s moving figure. The stark white luminescence made her look more ethereal than before. She continued on, cigarette holder still wedged between her thin lips.

“We have an awe-inspiring act for you all!”

“This beautiful lady here did most of the work.”

Her husband quickly added to her dialogue. “Hush my love.” The crowd quietly chuckled.

“It’s true.”

“Pierre!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

The audience roared with more laughter.

Under the dim lighting of the rest of the stage, she could make out the two fluffy skirts of the little girls waiting for their first part in the choreography. One was fidgeting and prancing around in the dark, not only disguised by the lack of light but the cloud from her cigar. The other floated just above the ground, flying around the other body in circles. Morgan placed her fingertips on the switches and pushed them up very slightly. The area brightened enough for the stage to be somewhat visible but kept the two hidden from their awaiting audience.

“Each of our performers is a woman with grace, power, and most of all, a love for their part here.”

Recovering from her husband's unethical interruption, she made her way up to the round platform on the stage. The spotlight followed in sync. She turned suddenly to face the stands, her skirt twirling above her feet.

“We give you our best and only our best!” Gwen spoke into the microphone with glee, her visible scarlet eye piercing the crowd. “The Moonlight Circus has been our pride and joy for many decades. Tonight, we strive to show you exactly why!” She gave them a beautiful motherly smile.

“Now please.”

“Stay seated and enjoy the show!” She and the skull of her husband atop her head spoke in unison. She extended one arm behind her, bent the other in front of her middle and bowed.

“Hey, hey! Careful please!” Pierre screamed as he slipped down slightly. The audience responded with laughter as before. The spotlight shut off and the stage was dim once again, other than the shine of Guinevere’s red cigarette. The crowd went silent. Her footsteps echoed on a different part of the stage. She could very faintly make out dainty shoes running up the steps and hopping into the cannon. One of the two figures was missing from their spot to the side.

Morgan’s fingers danced on the panel, letting excitement coarse through her. She couldn’t fight the adrenaline rush before each performance commenced. She hadn’t been working there for more than two years, but this circus had become her family. Her home. Each person here has proven to her that the impossible is only so if you believe it is. And each show was a testament to how far they’d come. This circus act alone has been a large part of the progression that’s been made between the supernatural world and human society. They’re more than just a tent of sideshow freaks; they’re artists embracing their bodies and talents to better their lives, and many others.

She grips the lever with resolve. She knows that to an outsider they may be passing entertainment. But that was progress by itself. This place is a part of her now. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Morgana pushed the handle forward. It clicked in place. The stage lights flicked on in a magnificent spectrum of colors. Gwen’s right hand is extended to the wick of the cannon, holder lighting the end. Her daughter’s tangled mane of hair is just barely visible from the lip. A deafening boom shatters the atmosphere and the show begins.

#original fiction #commisionwork #oc commission #oc #commission #short story #short stories #writing #fiction #gothic #circus #supernatural #monsters #gore

10 notes · View notes

mish-tique · 3 years ago

Note

hii i’m loving your fics and looking forward to reading more! i’ve started to get into abo thanks to you so i thought i’d request an abo fic with pierre/max (alpha pierre and omega max preferred) kind of a didn’t know they were dating kind of situation where everyone assumes they are together because of how much they smell of each other and them eventually realizing they like each other, would love to also see people’s reaction when they realize they weren’t dating before

hi sweetie!

Thank you for your kind words! I'm really happy you like my fics and that I have made you enjoy omegaverse a bit more. Your prompt sounded really cute so here we go! I made it a college au so I apologise if you wanted a grid au, don't be afraid to message me if you want something else!

Might not be perfect but it was really cute to write so....

Here we gooo, hit "read more" to read the whole thing or follow this link to my ao3 account.

“Pierre, what are we eating tonight?”

“The better question would be if you have done the groceries today.”

“….I can go right now.”

“I’ll look up something for tonight as long as you get me the stuff I need. We need to cook properly more often, you like to order in way too much.”

Max just raises an eyebrow at Pierre because while technically his flatmate isn’t wrong, it’s not his fault that he can’t cook. The alpha opens his laptop and Max already knows he’s going through his bookmarks. Pierre liked reading those food blogs while Max never understood what could be so enjoyable about reading recipes. He has no right to complain though, Pierre’s cooking abilities most likely is the only thing keeping them alive.

Two years ago they both started the same college course. Since secondary genders were mixed the teachers wanted to stimulate intergender communication and work by always pairing an omega and an alpha. More often than not Max was stuck with alpha’s who thought they didn’t need to do anything. That Max would just do everything like they asked and that those assholes would just get good grades. But he wasn’t like that. During his life he had been surrounded by quite a few older and strong-willed omega’s that showed him that he didn’t need to listen to anyone’s commands. So when his partner was too much of an asshole he’d just turn in his project with only his name on it.

Pierre though, he had been the first alpha that threated him with complete respect. It made the progress on the projects way easier and Max enjoyed having someone he could work together nicely with. Teachers must have noticed that both their names were always on the project and paired them together more often. After that they started to sit together during classes, breaks and even plan stuff outside of school. Their friendship developed quite fast and they soon went from discussing project plans to looking for flats they could rent together.

Renting houses was quite expensive in this area was way too expensive to go without a flatmate for long. That had been the sole reason for moving in, but Max definitely didn’t mind being able to spend more time with Pierre. Traveling home alone as an omega after a night of projects, movies or even drinking became annoying quite fast. Pierre did offer to walk him home for safety but they soon developed a rhythm in which they just stayed over, sometimes even sleeping in the same bed. It felt safe, not that Max wanted to admit that to anyone.

“Found it,” Pierre announces and Max observes how he notes down all the ingredients on their grocery list, making it even longer than it already was. It slightly annoys him because grocery shopping isn’t his favorite thing to do.

“I’ll back in an hour,” he tells the alpha with a pout, getting a roll of his eyes and a smile in return. “You’re going to get food, not present the results of your research to Ms. Grocher. Stop acting like you’re going to die, you idiot.”

“It’s close enough,” Max argues and he leaves their apartment with a laugh. Grocery shopping isn’t even that hard, Pierre actually notes down the stuff in order of how you walk through the shop. That way he doesn’t have to search for everything individually, because Pierre soon found out that sometimes left the omega in the shop for half a day, or coming home with only half of the stuff they needed.

It’s not too busy, which is a relief. Being stifled by scents, hormones and have bodies pressing against him that aren’t Pierre’s isn’t something Max was looking forward to. That one song the alpha had on repeat this week is stuck in his head so he hums it and he starts planning what they could do this weekend.

Lando said he needed an omega night this weekend so he’s going to be gone on Friday night. But maybe he could watch a movie with Pierre on Saturday night? And the weather was supposed to be amazing on Sunday so they could go shopping first before visiting the park.

And Pierre had been talking about getting a cat too so maybe they could call the shelter so they could visit on Sunday? He hadn’t been completely convinced at first but the more he saw Pierre’s eyes sparkle when talking about it, the more he was willing to incline. The image of them sitting in the sun on their balcony with the little feline playing around their feet doesn’t stop it either.

“Yo, Verstappen! Are you going to keep ignoring me?

A mad French accent stops his planning and he’s suddenly faced with Charles. “What no,” he replies, “I wasn’t ignoring you at all.”

Charles gives him an unimpressed look, the familiar scent of the omega softly interacting with his. “You’ve been staring at that shrimp for 5 minutes now. Unless it reminds you of Pierre I can’t imagine it’s that interesting.”

Why would it remind him of Pierre?

Wait. He really has been slow today so he shakes his head. “No of course it doesn’t you pervert, stop thinking about his dick please. I’ve just been thinking about our plans for this weekend.”

A grin appears on Charles’ face and Max really feels like he’s missing something. “Anything special? Pierre doesn’t tell me anything lately.”

“Well, Friday night is going to be with you guys. I’m going to look for a movie for Saturday to make up for it and we’re probably going to go shopping and visit the shelter on Sunday. You know how Pierre has been talking about getting a cat,” he explains.

“Wait, you’re getting a kid together?” Max can literally smell how surprised the other omega is, but honestly has Charles hit his head?

“No, we’re getting a cat. Like I just told you.”

“Man Max, how are you a top student when you’re this slow? One day there is going to be an alpha who tricks you into being his. Getting pets together is like starting a family, those little rats are going to be part of you two. Lord knows how the two of you got together, both of you can be so oblivious.”

Should he start worrying about Charles? “Pierre and I aren’t-“

But before he could fully explain that Charles misunderstood, he’s getting called away. “I’ll come to visit after the two of you get your kid, I want to see the little rat!”

“Who says I’m going to let you?!”

Max is still grumbling about it when he gets home. How is it that Charles is that confused about the two of them? He doesn’t pay Pierre much mind, walking past him to the kitchen without saying much. This has never been something Max had to overthink but now it feels like he’s years too late.

Suddenly there are two warm hands on his hips and he feels Pierre stand behind him. He gets pulled back into somewhat of a hug and he’s being scented. It’s strange because Pierre normally doesn’t do it like this, so out of nowhere. They live together so of course they smell like each other, sometimes scenting each other after a bad day, after news or just on the couch while watching a movie. But he doesn’t resist it because it smells like home, it’s warm and relaxing and it stops Max from stressing over Charles’ words.

Because as much as he couldn’t explain it to Charles, he can’t explain it to himself either. They live together, always have plays together and he really enjoys Pierre’s company. He really hopes it’s the other way around too because he wouldn’t mind staying like this, together, for a long time. He wouldn’t mind staying like this forever, his mind corrects him, because he really doesn’t know how he would cope if he would have to do everything without Pierre.

And that realization scares him as much as it settles him down. Because it’s new, risky and it could have him loose everything but at the same time it explains so much. Even Charles’ words make sense now. Together with Pierre, Max feels like he could take on the world. And having a little kitten with them would feel like the first extension of their family.

Yet it’s scary that he could lose everything that is this because he doesn’t truly know if Pierre feels the same.

“Max, love, what’s wrong? Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?”

Pierre’s scent is concerned, his hug from behind even stronger and Max never realized just how much the alpha seemed to care about him too. “Why aren’t we one yet?”

He doesn’t specify anything because they could be so much. They could be boyfriends, lovers, mates, each other’s and so much more. Hell, even family could be used to describe it but he’s so unsure of what Pierre would want them to be that he doesn’t dare to label it.

Max feels Pierre still and he stops breathing for a second. This could go so wrong. “Would you be willing?”

The question is soft and sweet and everything Max would want to hear but something in him breaks because he has never heard Pierre so insecure. It triggers something in him because how can Pierre not see that he would give up the world if the alpha asked. He breaks free from the alpha’s grip, turns around and faces Pierre. “I would be more than willing,” he promises.

He can smell their scents spiking and he looses himself in the feeling of Pierre kissing him, scenting him, marking him. He has never felt this whole before and he has absolutely no regrets. It’s like he found that last thing he didn’t know yet his heart was missing.

“Please, please,” he begs, not even quite sure what he’s truly asking for. He just knows that after so long he wants to be Pierre’s, completely his. And have the alpha as his to have, to share his life with.

“Are you sure? Max, I want you to be completely sure, I can’t have you regret this,” Pierre asks him and the alpha’s voice grounds him, breaks him free from the desperation and the want for a few seconds. Just long enough.

“I’ve never been so sure of something,” he replies and lets himself be lead into the bedroom they’ve been sharing most nights, too lazy to go to their own. Anything else is forgotten, he only feels the love he holds for Pierre.

It’s omega night and he’s jittery for some reason. Like he wants to go home to Pierre but he doesn’t have to be, so why? It’s strange because he has never been overly dependent on someone and he doesn’t like to be. But something in him longs for his alpha and he doesn’t completely hate it. Pierre told him that he should just enjoy tonight, they still had the whole weekend so he let himself enjoy the presence of the other omega’s. Or at least, he’s trying.

He’s in the middle of the omega pile, surrounded by calm and loving scents as he listens to the others give Lando advice on how to finally confess to Carlos. Hell, Max always thought the kid was hopeless about love but after last week he realized he was just as bad.

The conversation dies and Max finds himself hesitating, still somewhat scared to let himself be so vulnerable. “Did anyone else become really clingy after the first time together with their alpha?”

It’s silent for a second before Lando groans and mumbles, “Does this mean I have to wait more than a year before Carlos is going to fuck me?”

Seb sighs and apparently decides to interfere to calm the younger omega down. “No Lando, you don’t need to wait a year. You can wait if you want to, both are totally fine. It’s different for everyone. I’m sure Max just got reminded of the early stages of his relationship because of your talk.”

Well. Max doesn’t want to be the one to tell Seb that he’s wrong but he is, so it seems he has to. “We only got together a few days ago.”

Lando squeaks, “Does that mean I can get fucked that fast?”

Charles slaps Lando before sassing him. “You could’ve long been fucked already if you had just gotten your shit together and confessed. Carlos always gives you heart eyes,” before he turned to Max, “So you’re telling me you weren’t actually together when you told me about your little family plans?”

He shakes his head.

“How did you manage to live together with him so long before confessing your love to him? We could all see how smitten you guys were, hell we could even smell it. You two were disgustingly cute.”

Max thought about it for a bit. “Sometimes you don’t need to declare something for it to be. It just felt so right that I never really thought about it, it didn’t feel necessary. Now I know that maybe I should’ve because it made me even happier.”

“You smell disgustingly in love,” Charles tells him, “but for your information, I went into heat immediately after my first time. You might want to tell Pierre to prepare for that.”

Oh.

Help.

#max/pierre #f1 #formula 1 #alpha pierre gasly #omega max verstappen #max verstappen #pierre gasly #alpha/beta/omega dynamics

16 notes · View notes

viscountessevie · 3 years ago

Text

To Lady Paige, With Love [Part 2]

Main Pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x FemOC! Paige Crane [Reference to Past! Marina Thompson x Paige Crane]

Series Summary: A WLW Rewrite of To Sir Phillip, With Love - featuring my OC Paige Crane, Phillip's twin sister. What happens when Eloise Bridgerton writes to Phillip after the death of his wife but her letter gets intercepted by his twin sister who loved more Marina than he ever did?

Chapter Summary: After corresponding with Eloise for over a year using her brother's name, Paige is mourning Marina's first death anniversary. All Paige wanted was some peace and quiet but little does she know, she's in for a rude awakening

Trigger Warnings: Grief, Brief Mentions of Previous Death/Suicide Attempt, Depression & Anxiety

Part 1 - Prologue: Take Me To The Lakes

Chapter 1: Right Where You Left Me [February 1823]

5:48pm. That time would haunt Paige for the rest of her life.

'Time of death: 5:48pm.' the doctor had said. The moment Marina was officially pronounced dead, Paige screamed. She could still hear the echoes of her own scream every night she spent in Marina's room, sobbing herself to sleep. It had been a month since she died. Paige truly understood what Marina felt and went through.

The grief, pain and sadness was all consuming. She was drowning in her own emotions. It made her want to throw herself into the lake and join Marina. At least drowning in the lake was tangible. It was a tangible way to match the melancholy she was feeling. Through the pain, Paige had learnt that when people take their lives, they don't get rid of the melancholy, they simply pass it on. Paige had become a victim of Marina's pain being passed onto her.

She knew that everyone was dealing with the loss on their own but she was just so angry with Phillip and the children and even the staff. Pretending like Marina was never there. The worst part is, she couldn't fault them for it. Marina wasn't there, at least not mentally present. The last month has eased off her anger. She nearly bit Phillip's head off when he came back from his business trip the day before she passed.

"You should have been here! I may love her but she's still your wife!"

"I had a very important specimen to pick up, you know that, Paige." He said gruffly. She was so sick and tired of him using his experiments as an excuse to neglect his family.

"I know that!" She snapped at him, "These trips are getting ridiculous. You can't keep using them to run away from your responsibilities. You made a commitment to her and your children. You completely abandoned them!" Her voice cracked with anger. Now Phillip was getting frustrated with her and snapped back at his twin.

"Do you think I wanted to carry those burdens? I had no choice in the matter! I had to be the one to clean up the mess George left behind!"

She stepped back at her brother's outburst. He never yelled. He refused to be their father. She knew she had crossed the line. She softened her expression.

"I shouldn't have yelled, I apologise. But so help me God, you will not repeat that to her or the children. They are our family, Phillip, 'not a mess George left behind." Her voice was low, laced with a cold fury.

"She's resting now but you should go see her. I'll give you two some privacy." Paige made her suggestion sound like a demand. There was absolutely no reason why he should neglect his duties as a husband now. She wasn't going to let him off the hook for it. She quickly slipped into the room to kiss Marina's forehead. She allowed Philip in and headed off to tend to the children.

Then there was that dreadful conversation where Amanda openly admitted that she was glad her mother was gone. Paige knew on an intellectual level that's not what Amanda had meant. She meant she was happy her mother was happy even if it meant she was gone. But emotionally, it destroyed Paige to hear that.

It was exhausting to feel like the only one who truly cared for Marina. She had all these emotions welled up inside her, screaming to be let out. Yet she felt like she couldn't talk to anyone. The children played and carried on as per normal. While Phillip had stopped taking his trips to avoid the children, he has hidden away in the Greenhouse more often. He refuses to talk about her. What else could she expect from her twin who represses the slightest hint of human emotion. God forbid he let himself feel sad.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that everyone processed grief in different ways. She needed something to get her mind off things. On cue, Miles came in to deliver the mail. She gestured for him to hand them over and he took his leave.

She flipped through the envelopes, none addressed to her. Of course no one would write to her and the only person who would, died. She was about to put down the pile when a name jumped out at her.

From: Eloise Bridgerton No. 5, Bruton Street London

She remembered Eloise like it was yesterday. They spent some time together during their first season. She came as a package deal with Penelope Featherington. So when Marina had struck up a friendship with Penelope, Paige found herself spending a lot of time with the two of them. The four of them were quite the formidable group during that first season. Paige remembered how many suitors Marina had received. Unable to deal with her jealousy in a healthy manner, she did what she did best, ran away from her emotions. She poured herself into a friendship with Eloise. Somewhere along the way, she had developed feelings for the clever Bridgerton. She recalled how she did her best to repress those feelings. Even though at the time, Marina and her were nowhere close to courtship, Paige still felt like she was being unfaithful to her.

There was just something about Eloise that had drawn Paige to her.

She shook her head rather violently, as if trying to shake those memories away. How could she be thinking of that when she's supposed to be grieving Marina? She set down the letter, leaving it for Phillip to read it later when he finally comes out of hiding.

She stood up to head to Marina's room to mope. It almost seemed like she had taken Marina's place as the Romney Hall's living ghost. What was the point in living your life when the person you wanted to spend it with was gone?

But rising questions about Eloise's letter stopped her. For one, why was it addressed to Phillip rather than her? She knew it had been well over a decade, but had Eloise forgotten her already?

Her plan to mope for the day had been abandoned and she picked up Eloise's letter once again. She picked up the letter opener and impulsively ripped it open.

Sir Phillip Crane —

I am writing to express my condolences on the loss of your wife, my dear friend Marina, I remember her fondly and was deeply saddened to hear of her passing .

Please do not hesitate to write if there is anything I can do to ease your pain at this difficult time .

Yrs,

Miss Eloise Bridgerton

***

Oh. She was just as lovely as Paige remembered her. This was too kind of a letter to delay it's response. Paige went to her room and sat at her desk. She pulled out her stationary kit and fetched herself some parchment and a quill. She quickly penned down a response.

Dear Eloise —

I hope you remember me from your first season. Marina was a dear friend to me as well and I thank you for your kind note on behalf of Marina. It was thoughtful of you to write asking after us.

I offer you this flower attached as thanks. It is called an Eden rose also known as the Pierre de Ronsard, named after the great French poet.

Did you know that it reaches an average diameter of 10 centimetres. The large flowers are very full with 55 to 60 petals. Due to their weight the cupped, globular flowers tend to bow their heads.

It was Marina's favourite flower. She loved the carmine-pink on the inside and ivory on the outside. I hope you enjoy it as much as she did.

Sincerely -

She stopped short before she signed it off with her name. She had finally stepped out of her moment of impulsivity. Insanity more like, she thought to herself. She felt awful for invading Eloise and - by extension - Phillip's privacy.

She couldn't send this! How was she going to explain it?

Dear Miss Bridgerton —

I am absolutely mad and stole my brother's mail because I used to fancy you when we first debuted together in our first season.

Yours Sincerely, Paige Crane

That would certainly go over well. She would be lucky not to be locked up. She stared at her original letter and ripped it up. She detested the thought of Phillip striking up a friendship with Eloise. Deep down she knew if he became as enamoured with her as she once was, he'd make her his wife. It might have only been a month but she knew her brother. He needed a mother and wife for the children. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he was already planning to look for one.

He had already taken Marina from her. As twins, they grew up sharing everything, starting from the womb. Everywhere Paige went, Phillip was there. They even had parallel careers. She just wanted this one person to herself. It was selfish she knew but she wanted to keep her London past for herself. Even if it meant never letting Phillip see the letter and responding on her own.

She rewrote another note without a second thought:

Dear Miss Bridgerton,

Thank you for your kind note on behalf of my wife. It was thoughtful of you to take the time to write to a gentleman you have never met. I offer you this full bloom flower as thanks.

It is called an Eden rose also known as the Pierre de Ronsard, named after the great French poet. Did you know that it reaches an average diameter of 10 centimetres. The large flowers are very full with 55 to 60 petals. Due to their weight the cupped, globular flowers tend to bow their heads.

It was Marina's favourite flower. She loved the carmine-pink on the inside and ivory on the outside. I hope you enjoy it as much as she did.

When it came to signing off, she hesitated for a moment at her dishonesty. Then the anger of having lost most of her life and identity to Phillip came up. That was motivation enough for her to scribble the last line of the letter:

Sincerely, Sir Phillip Crane.

***

Letter Correspondence From March 1823 to March 1824 Between Paige Crane & Eloise Bridgerton

Dear Sir Phillip -

Thank you so very much for the charming flower. It was such a lovely surprise when it came attached to the envelope. And such a precious memento of dear Marina, as well .

I could not help but notice your facility with the flower's scientific name and seemed to be knowledgeable about its properties. Are you a botanist?

Yours, Miss Eloise Bridgerton

Eloise’s response had come quite quickly in a week. It was no easy feat hiding the letters from Phillip. He was the Lord of the house after all. Paige was lucky enough to have a friend in Miles. She had been the one to stop Phillip from being let go. She had named him her personal assistant instead. She coyly asked Miles for a favour and requested that all of Eloise’s letters be directed to her. He looked at her with utter confusion when she asked.

“Whatever are you up to, Miss Crane?”

“Miles, you know you can call me Paige. We are friends, aren’t we?” She had a mischievous shine in her eye that told him she was up to something.

“I suppose… that doesn’t answer my question, Paige.” He said her name pointedly. She chuckled at him, he was hilarious. She knew she made the right choice keeping him employed.

“Friends trust each other. I promise I will tell you everything down the line.” She shot him a look of promise. That fixed the issue of being found out was solved easily. All she had to do now was enjoy the correspondence.

She still had not been able to break her habit of crying herself to sleep in Marina’s room every night, but these letters took her mind off the grief momentarily. She couldn’t thank Eloise Bridgerton enough for that. She read back Eloise’s response and grinned. Eloise was as charming and eloquent as always. She was clever enough to pick out Paige's interest in plants just by her rambles. Paige also noticed how Eloise was clever enough to end her letter with a question. What a sneaky lady, now Paige had to reply. Not that she was complaining. She was rather happy to have revived this old connection.

She pulled out her stationary and penned her reply. She stuck close to the truth while using Phillip's qualifications. Just because she wasn't allowed a formal education at Cambridge didn't make her any less knowledgeable than her twin. She devoured his textbooks during his University days. She most likely would have beat him to an honours degree in Botany had the fairer sex been allowed to study in Universities.

She followed Eloise's lead and ended her letter with a question as well. She vaguely remembered Eloise’s interest in humanities but she wanted it confirmed from the lady herself.

Dear Miss Bridgerton —

Indeed I am a botanist, trained at Cambridge, although I am not currently connected with any university or scientific board. I maintain my own garden at Romney Hall, in my greenhouse. Are you of a scientific bent as well?

Yours , Sir Phillip Crane

The reply came another week later. She smiled at being correct in her assumption. They started going back and forth every week, until a year had passed.

Dear Sir Phillip —

Heavens, no, I have not the scientific mind, I'm afraid, although I do have a fair head for sums. My interests lie more in the humanities; you may have noticed that I enjoy penning letters .

Yours in friendship,

Eloise Bridgerton

My dear Miss Bridgerton —

Ah, but it is a sort of friendship, isn't it? I confess to a certain measure of isolation here in the country, and if one cannot have a smiling face across one's breakfast table, then one might at least have an amiable letter, don't you agree?

I have enclosed another flower and a book for you. This flower is Centaurea cyanus, more commonly known as the cornflower. They are a personal favourite of mine, especially for its vibrance in colour. They are actually grown as a weed in cornfields, hence where it derives its common name from. Quite beautiful for a weed, wouldn’t you agree?

As for the book, I would like to share a piece of my literary heart with you. You will find a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in the package. I regard it as a brilliantly complex novel that tackles the existential questions of creating life in such an nuanced manner. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.

With great regard, Phillip Crane

Even though it was a friendly exchange of letters, Paige considered sharing her favourite flower and novel a way of elevating the friendship. They were a part of her identity. A part that she was willingly giving away to another to cherish and hold. It was a big step for her and that terrified her. She was scared of developing feelings for someone else. She could not bear to go through it again.

She knew no sane woman - despite being a child of Sappho - would give up the security of a husband and run off with another woman. Most of the sapphic women Paige knew were far too caught up in the social norms to ever step out of their comfort zone into a realm of possibilities of a free life with her. She knew she got lucky with Marina and that Phillip didn’t care enough for Marina to be bothered with their love affair. He also loved his sister enough to be happy with his wife, even if he didn’t understand how she could love a person who seemed to be made of sadness. Paige knew he never understood, but he didn’t have to. Marina and her understood each other and that’s all that truly mattered until the end.

While Eloise has never stated whether she felt that way about women, she did seem like a child of Sappho. The way she had interacted with potential suitors during that first season, or rather the way she didn’t. She hid away from every suitor that came her way. At times, she would pull Paige away to the lemonade table to avoid them, whenever Penelope was too busy dancing with Colin. The way she scoffed at marriage. She just seemed content in her independence. Paige had admired that about her.

As always her next letter did not disappoint:

Dear Sir Phillip —

Thank you for the book and flower, I truly appreciated them. I have always found sharing books recommendations with companions is like giving them a piece of yourself. So I thank you again, for gifting me a piece of yourself. I promise to cherish it.

And I have read Frankenstein before! It truly is one of its kind. I could go on for hours on end about how much I love this book and how brilliantly crafted it is. Perhaps, should we ever meet, we could discuss it over tea one day.

The cornflower was wonderful, thank you. I do love how it seems to shine a brighter blue in the sunlight. I think it might be my favourite flower as well.

Yours, Eloise Bridgerton.

A dreamy sigh escaped Paige’s lips as she drank in Eloise’s latest words. Paige had never felt more seen and understood. Eloise expressed the sentiment of Paige’s intent with the book and flower exactly. Paige might have used her brother’s name, but she knew in her heart Eloise knew her - even if it was not by her given name. She found the line about meeting and discussing the novel over tea, a rather bold choice. Was Eloise inviting her to tea?

She sighed when the sobering truth hit her. Eloise wasn’t inviting her. She was inviting her brother. She knew what she had to do - politely shut her down.

Dearest Miss Bridgerton —

You took the words right out of my quill. Those were my exact intentions when I thought of sending my favourite flower and book over to you. I am very much honoured that you cherish an important part of myself. I truly appreciate it. Truth be told, I appreciate you and our friendship.

Perhaps, one day. Tea does sound lovely.

What mischief have you been causing as of late? I am always excited to read your recounts of your daily adventures.

Yours as always, Phillip Crane. * Over the next few months simply flew by for Paige, the letters giving her a reprieve from her grief. They talked about anything and everything under the sun. She learned everything there is to know about Eloise Bridgerton. They exchanged childhood stories, more books between the two of them - Paige found out that Eloise’s guilty pleasure was Jane Austen’s romance novels - and held full conversations of various academic subjects. Her most prized possession was Eloise’s old copy of Persuasion filled with Eloise’s notes and thoughts on the book. Paige’s heart soared the moment she received it. It was Eloise’s version of giving Paige a piece of herself. She hadn’t read Persuasion before so she was glad for the recommendation. The botanist couldn’t help but laugh as she read the novel. Anne and Captain Wentworth’s story seemed to mirror hers. Their 7 year separation felt rather familiar to having not seen Eloise since their first season.

Before she knew it, a year had passed. She was startled when she saw the calendar on her desk when penning her latest letter to Eloise. 14th February 1824. It was the day Marina attempted to kill herself a year ago. Tomorrow would be a year since Marina’s last good day. And two days from now, on 17th February 1824, Paige would have to be met with the sobering reality of Marina’s death anniversary.

The holidays had been hard as it could be. The empty chair Marina had previously occupied was staring at Paige while her family carried on with their jovial Christmas dinner. She couldn’t understand how they could simply get on with their lives while she felt like a piece of her was missing. Yes, Marina was not much for festivities but sitting beside her and enjoying the food they cooked together was the highlight of Christmas. It was the only time Marina felt well enough to help Paige prepare the feast.

Marina’s birthday had been the hardest to deal with of course. She would have been twenty and eight then. Paige visits Marina's grave at least once a week. It calms and soothes her intense moments of grief. Sitting by the grave on Marina's birthday was a new kind of pain. Knowing that she was taken from the world far too early. Knowing that she should have been there right beside Paige. It was the hardest Paige had cried since Marina had died.

She had no idea how she was going to deal with her death anniversary.

She just knew she needed time to herself. She looked down at the letter she was going to write and found big splashes of tears all over the parchment.

"Blast it!" She cursed and crushed the paper, tossing it into a nearby bin. She was furious with herself for forgetting. For allowing herself to be happy when she didn’t deserve it. She wiped her tears angrily and quickly scribbled one last letter to Eloise.

Dear Miss Bridgerton —

These letters have brought me such comfort over a very difficult year. I cannot thank you enough for it, Eloise Bridgerton.

I do regret to inform you, I would like to pause these letters for the month. I require some time to process and mourn Marina's first death anniversary. I'm sure you can understand it will be a rather difficult time.

Thank you for understanding and do take care, Miss Bridgerton.

Yours, Phillip Crane

Paige could barely get through the letter without feeling guilty. Feeling guilty for abandoning Eloise so abruptly. Feeling guilty for using her as a distraction from her grief over Marina. Most of all, she hated how she can't seem to remember the smallest things about Marina. She was forgetting her love's memory and it was driving her mad. She tried her best to conjure up how she smelled, the sound of her voice, how she was. Paige found the little details escaping her. Memories slipping through her fingers. She detested this. She didn't know how she had gotten to this point.

She had allowed her corresponding flirtation with Eloise to soothe her pain. But her pain was the one thing she had left of Marina. Letting it go meant letting go of Marina. Paige absolutely refused to do that. If she forgot Marina, there was no one else to keep her memory alive. Phillip and the children certainly didn't care for it. Marina would be lost to history.

After delivering the letter to Miles to be mailed out, Paige found herself in Marina's room. She laid on her bed, aimlessly and feeling vacant. She was sure if someone walked in they might mistake her for Marina herself. Paige felt her melancholy creeping up her throat. It threatened to choke her, snuffing all the light out. She sat up and tried to breathe. She was feeling an unusual amount of panic rising within her.

She got out of bed and looked out the window. The lake was in perfect view. Of course, that’s where Marina had gotten the idea, She thought to herself bitterly. She looked up at the sky, imagining her lover was up there somewhere happier. Somewhere calmer, where she had found peace.

“I’m right where you left me, Rina.” She whispered softly. It had been a while since she spoke out loud to Marina but it had brought her so much comfort in the early days of dealing with the grief. For a moment, she could pretend Marina was still there. Then she didn’t have to deal with the all consuming guilt and loneliness that came with losing the love of her life.

Marina might have been the one who died but Paige felt like the ghost. Spending most of her days in Marina's room, sitting still in a corner, almost like she was the one haunting it. She heard what the staff said. Something along the lines of, "What a pitiful sight." And "She deserves better than to replace Lady Marina's disposition." They were valid in their concerns but Paige couldn't care less. This was the way she knew how to grieve and mourn and she'll be damned before she lets anyone dictate the way she feels.

Looking into the reflection of the lake from the window, she could still remember the day Marina walked into the lake. It was terrifying how crystal clear the memory was. It felt like she was frozen in time - forever cursed to be twenty and seven - forced to relive the last few days of Marina's days. The memory of her walking into the lake, Paige having to rescue her, staying by her side the next three days and the moment she died. They swirled around Paige's mind constantly. It was particularly worse since it had been a year.

She was paralysed, unable to find the will to do anything else. So she went back to bed. She sat there, silent and frozen in time. The servants walked past all day to ask her if she was alright. She barely managed a nod.

She swore she could hear a hair pin drop at how silent everything was. Deep down she knew her life stopped the moment Marina had died. Eloise's letters may have made her feel like she could move forward. However, the gaping hole in her heart today proved otherwise.

Everybody moved on. She couldn't. So she settled and stayed there, dust collecting on her pinned-up hair. She knew everyone expected her to find a new purpose or a fresh start. She could have tended to her own garden like Phillip was doing in his Greenhouse on this day.

Yet all she found the energy to do was sit and stare out at the lake. She stayed right there for the next two days. She just wanted the next worst few days of her life to pass her by so she would not have to deal with them. Just until the 17th had passed.

Of course as the saying goes, there is no rest for the wicked. All Paige wanted on the 17th of February was some peace but little did she know, a certain Bridgerton would be making their way to Romney Hall.

It started out like any other day. Except for the Crane household, there was a somber remembrance of Marina’s first death anniversary. Paige was relieved that she didn’t have to share the burden alone and that her brother had the decency to acknowledge it. He didn’t bother reminding the children but they were young so she let it slide.

Since the staff had honoured her request of being left alone, around noon Paige dragged herself out of bed to get herself some lunch. Marina would have wanted her to mourn respectfully, not join her up wherever she may be. Paige was on her way back to her room after picking up her meal of roasted mutton with rice and gravy - Marina’s favourite dish - when she overheard a curious conversation between Gunning and her brother.

"Sir Phillip," Gunning said, clearing his throat. "We have a caller." "A caller?" Phillip echoed. "Was that the source of the, ah..." "Noise?" Gunning supplied helpfully. "Yes." "No." The butler cleared his throat. "That would have been your children." "I see," Phillip murmured. "How silly of me to have hoped otherwise." "I don't believe they broke anything, sir." "That's a relief and a change." "Indeed, sir, but there is the caller to consider."

Phillip groaned and Paige immediately knew what he was thinking. Romney Hall hadn’t received callers in years. He was probably wondering who on earth would be calling on this day of all days. Paige didn’t think much of it until she passed the front door on her way up to her room when she spotted a familiar face on the other side of the door.

Eloise Bridgerton.

What in the devil was she doing here?! Paige mentally screamed to herself. Gunning and Phillip’s conversation had faded to the background, drowned out by the mental grind of Paige’s mind. She snapped out of her melancholy and had to come up with a way to cover up the consequences of her actions. Just when she needed it, Miles walked past her. She immediately grabbed him. He looked surprised and a little violated if you asked him.

“Miss Crane! What on earth?” “Miles, how many times must I repeat myself? Paige is perfectly fine. I apologise for grabbing you, I am in need of your service.” She said guiltily, looking over at the front door.

He gave her a curious look, “What did you do now, Paige?” He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

She shot him a glare, “I would snap at you for that but you are quite right to ask. I think one of my letters to Miss Bridgerton might have been misinterpreted as an invitation to come over to Romney Hall.” She gave him such a pitiful pleading look, he had to help her.

“How can I be of service, Miss - Paige?” He corrected himself the moment Paige shot him a murderous look. “I need a plan. If the truth comes out, neither of them will forgive me.”

Miles had never seen her so panicked and scared before. For someone who detests her brother, she really did love him. Her blooming feelings for Miss Bridgerton had become apparent over the last few months. He gave himself a moment to think of a plan.

"Yes, sir. She's here to see you, after all." They both heard Gunning say to Phillip.

Paige looked at Miles with wide eyes. They had officially run out of time. This was sealed by the sounds of Phillip’s footsteps making their way to the corridor Paige and Miles were hatching a plan in. Before Paige could push Miles to distract him, her dear brother had brushed past them and opened the door. She cursed to herself and watched helplessly as the two strangers who had technically never met interacted. She made her way to stand quietly behind her brother, listening to every word. Paige's heart nearly stopped when she heard Eloise's voice after all these years.

"Sir Phillip?"

#Bridgerton #TSPWL Rewrite #Bridgerton AU #Bridgerton fanfiction #OC: Paige Crane #Marina Thompson #Eloise Bridgerton #Paige Crane #Phillip Crane #TW Grief #TW Mention of Death #TW Mention of Suicide Attempt #TW Depression #TW Anxiety #Spotify

8 notes · View notes

fleurbastien · 5 years ago

Text

✧･ﾟ( persephone + jordan fisher + demiguy ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !! have you seen Bastien Lalande around ? they/he have/has been in kaos for fourteen months. the twenty-six year old is a botanist from martinique. people say they can be detached but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be amicable. whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of (( a sunlit greenhouse, sand underfoot on a temperate beach, a streak of dirt smudged across the cheek )). ･ﾟ✧

Bio

Bastien Lalande was born and raised on the island of Martinique to Danielle and Henri Lalande. Their plan was to have a flock of children. Family was what they prized most in this world. They could imagine no happier future than peering out the window of their sizable family home and see kinds running through the grass, kicking back and forth a football. Their plans were abruptly thwarted. Between their first and third years of life, Bastien was too young to understand or remember the complications that Danielle experienced with having another child. How close she came to passing away after the third surgery. It was this near-death experience which prompted the couple to mutually agree on focusing raising Bastien, and to spare Danielle anymore physical and emotional pain. Despite their agreement, a fragment of Henri and Danielle died; their dreams shattered as though a rock had been thrown squarely into a mirror. Because of this, a seed was planted deep within their minds that, just maybe, if they hadn’t had Bastien, they would still have some semblance of future aspiration.

Life on Martinique was personal. Communal. Familial. Everyone said hello to one another as they passed. Honking was a sign of neighborly greeting, not irritation at the traffic. You can imagine that, growing up in this culture, Bastien became quite the socialite. They were charming, active, knowledgeable, and sportive. People loved seeing him skipping down the road on his way to school, and cheered him on as captain of the Yole Sailing team. He was the picture of stability, as his parents’ world was on the decline. Running a cafe was difficult with a staff of three, and even harder when you had to run operations at the age of thirteen. There were days when he was in charge of opening and closing procedures, and some days more during which he would have to miss school in order to help out at the shop. Bastien was growing to resent the positions into which he was thrust. He was convinced that he should be out enjoying his life, not toiling under responsibilities which should not be his own. A heavy weight began to oppress his shoulders. His personality began to dampen, despite his best efforts. What was worse, he didn’t let on to the community that he was struggling. He felt that, for the sake of dignity (or some other noble reason), he had to keep private the fact that his parents were no longer fit to care for him.

After several years, a poetic path appeared. A divergence of destiny. Bastien could travel halfway across the world and attend the University of Hawaii at Manoa, or they could continue looking after their parents, who severely needed their help. The decision sent the youngling into a depressive state. He knew his dreams lay at the other side of that graduation stage in Hawaii, but he also knew that there was no real choice; he had to stay for his parents, despite their contentious relationship. Danielle was fatigued more often than not, and if Bastien couldn’t anticipate her needs, she would find it in her energy to berate him (putting it kindly). At that point, Henri had enough of a reason to despise Bastien. Not only did his son take away three more children from him, but contributed to the heartbreak and physical condition of his beloved as well. It was at this important crossroads that Bastien’s behavior altered radically, deviating from his usual sunny disposition. As it happened, nothing went unnoticed by his extended family for long. By and by, upon discovering his dilemma, they practically made the decision for him. They would take care of his parents and send him off to college.

Sparing unnecessary details of Bastien’s college life, he obtained an undergraduate degree in biology, and went on to get his Master’s degree in Botany from the very same school. His intelligence and charisma had his professor’s hooked, and it was easy for him to be admitted to the PhD program there. His advising professor won a grant from the NSF and was further funded by the university to conduct a field school on the island of Kaos in Greece. Before applications even opened, the professor had made his decision, for the only name that jumped into his mind for a field assistant was none other than Bastien Lalande.

The two, along with four undergraduates, have been on the island for just over a year, doing extensive research on Mediterranean vegetation. Bastien is using this opportunity to develop his doctoral research, simultaneously writing his dissertation. Weekdays, Bastien can be found in the field and in the lab, running soil samples, or peering into microscopes. On the weekends, he clacks away at his keyboard, synthesizing as much information as possible. When he finds free-time, or needs to clear his head, he loves swimming, or sailing if he can find a boat.

Running into Bastien, one would encounter a shining smile, a charming accent, and hospitality that would make you feel as though you knew him for an eternity. He might invite you on a hike, or show you a greenhouse. It is rare to catch him without a flower tucked behind the ear. However, if one truly tried to dig deeper beneath the surface than the charisma that he emanates, they might find that there isn’t much they actual know about Bastien, as if all information on his deep, honest thoughts have been entombed far beneath the ground.

Although they miss the Caribbean islands, they feel something deep in the pit of their stomach which anchors them to Kaos. A lifetime’s worth of knowledge sits at their feet in Greece. It would take all of their willpower to turn away from it.

Headcanons

very much “gerry durrell” from the durrels in corfu vibes

if you havent seen it i recommend

but instead of being obsessed with animals hes obsessed with plants

very smiley, outgoing, charismatic, loves chatting with strangers as long as the questions dont get too personal

A-1 athlete, can swim until the cows come home

flower aesthetics galore. he likes to draw flowers, wear flowers (prints and real flowers, ofc), and grow flowers in his window sills and from hanging pots

are u french ? he will speak french to u if so

underneath, hes a lil moody. his parents began to blame him for his mother’s health complications. they wanted a family so badly that they kinda alienated their only child

he loves loves loves martinique but dreads going back to that life that was hard, tortuous even

writes to his family to make sure everyone is okay, but doesnt talk to anyone on kaos about it

kinda wonders if he should blame himself for complications ?

can be found lying in the dirt contemplating his woes. or singing. or singing because of his woes.

you honestly cant be a fan of botany without developing a relationship with bugs. in this case, bastien l o v e s them. even the scary ones

Insp

click the link !

Playlist

orange trees - marina

le monarque des indes - pierre lapointe

be my baby - the ronettes

harvest moon - neil young

sweet creature - harry styles

at last - etta james

buttercup - hippo campus

semaphore - requin chagrin

home again - first aid kit

motivation - normani

dream a little dream of me - doris day

#* about #* intro

8 notes · View notes

concussed-to-pieces · 5 years ago

Text

I Want It All

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure

Pairing: Jean Pierre Polnareff/Female Reader

Rating: Holy shit M

AN: Hello my broskis, and welcome back to more of my indulgence! This takes place during the Stardust Crusaders arc (and also is an 'everyone lives' AU because I am nothing if not an indulgent bastard.) Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

[!WARNING!: For my attempts at French, it has been...many years since my lessons. Forgive my lingual sins.]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For canon-typical gore, blood and violence. Stay safe!]

...

"I am only speaking the truth!" Polnareff protested, blue eyes wide in feigned hurt.

"You, Jean Pierre Polnareff, couldn't speak the truth if your life depended on it!" You shot back, halfway between laughter and fury. "You expect me to believe everything that comes out of your mouth? I wasn't born yesterday, big fella'."

"But it's true! Your eyes light up so wonderfully when you're annoyed or put out--just like they are right now!" The Frenchman was obviously trying hard to butter you up. "You and Jotaro both have such expressive eyes, it's tres bien to see the two of you hot under the collar."

"What the hell did you just say?" Jotaro growled. "You tryin' to tell me you've been this obnoxious because you like how it makes people look? You're such a damn handful Polnareff."

"I agree!" You huffed, crossing your arms and glaring at the menace in front of you.

Polnareff just laughed it off, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "You are so lovely when you're upset."

"You're just as lovely when you're being obnoxious, you gravy-sucking--"

"Ah ah, such language!" Jean interrupted, tilting his chin pointedly in Anne's direction. "Little ears don't need to hear rough speech."

"You've gotta' be joking, she could probably teach you some new curse words!" You teased, laughing outright when Anne nodded enthusiastically and started rambling down a list of incredibly colorful phrases.

Amidst Polnareff's wailing about how unladylike it was that Anne had an impressive repertoire, you felt his eyes on you. Ever since you had collapsed it had been this way, Jean Pierre hovering like a nervous parent. It was infuriating! You weren't some helpless child. Your Stand may consume your energy at an exponential rate, but it made up for the increased strain with impressive damage output. You didn't need anyone coddling you, and you did your best to make sure that the group knew that. Joseph was the only one who seemed to 'forget' aside from Polnareff; he was also a parent and prone to worrying so you tried to let it slide.

It was certainly a bunch of misfits you had taken up with. You had your own reasons for wanting to beat Dio's face in, noble or otherwise, and it seemed like your best chance to get close was to engage in the Joestar's crusade. Though the Strength Stand was a bit of a wakeup call.

You had only passed out twice in the span that you had been fighting alongside the Crusaders. You had grown leaps and bounds as a Stand user, able to keep your Stand active for longer and longer periods of time. Sure, your Stand was no Star Platinum, but you were far from the weakling you had been.

To let Jean Pierre hold you back felt like admitting defeat, and so you railed against his supposed 'well-meaning' concern with all your might. It led to heated disagreements between you, the Frenchman insisting on keeping you behind the bulk of his body and Silver Chariot's defensive saber during battles.

He nicknamed you Le Canon De Verre, The Glass Cannon, after one such tangle with enemy Stand users. "Destructive, beautiful when the sunlight hits you just right, and entirely reckless!" The backhanded compliment had only served to infuriate you further, as had his jovial laughter after the fact. You nearly dislocated his shoulder with your Stand's punch, startling him into silence.

"You're so-!" You bit your tongue, unwilling to get yourself thrown out of the group because you couldn't take his teasing. "Mean, Polnareff, that's what you are!" You had snapped finally. "You can't just say things like that to me, okay? I'm trying so hard! Stop making fun of me already!"

"I'm not...I-I apologize, I did not intend to hurt your feelings. In this group we tend to go at one another for sport. I assumed you would join in." The large man had continued to hold his shoulder, grimacing. "I thought you wanted to, anyway."

"I don't want to be hazed or initiated, if that's what you're getting at. I'd rather be an outlier if I'm going to have to engage in a dick-waving contest." You had replied firmly.

Polnareff looked thoughtful, which was rare. "I understand. I will ah, 'ease up'. Can you forgive me?"

"Will you stop pouting if I do?"

"Perhaps. Unless, of course, you find me more attractive when I pout?"

"No." His crestfallen expression had made you laugh harder than you wanted to admit.

...

Finding out Jean Pierre Polnareff had a penchant for dirty talk in the bedroom was like finding out that the sky was the same shade of blue as the previous day.

Utterly unsurprising.

He loved to hear himself talk so damn much you were fairly certain that he got off on it, whether his partners did or not.

Joseph laughed boisterously when Polnareff proudly stated his enjoyment of such activities during a rowdy night of drinking, the older man slapping him on the back. "I'll drink to that, my chatty friend! I feel your pain. I remember when Caesar and I were training, I had to wear a mask to regulate my breathing and…" Joseph paused, the sparkle in his green eyes dimming. "He was a wonderful friend, was Caesar." He murmured instead of continuing his story.

Jotaro looked about as interested as you had ever seen him, the stoic teen studying his grandfather. "Was he now."

"A phenomenal fighter and a total pain in the ass. Always trying to one-up me." Joseph dashed away a tear. You shifted closer to him beside the fire, touching your shoulder to his. On his other side Polnareff did the same, effectively sandwiching the older man between the two of you. "He was incredibly brave and incredibly dumb, almost as dumb as I was." Joseph dug around in one of the pockets on his cargo pants, drawing out a thin strip of cloth with a triangular pattern on it. "This is all that I have to remember him by."

Avdol shook his head, resting his hands on Joseph's shoulders from his place behind him. "You have the many, many memories of the two of you as well, Mr. Joestar."

"True! I'm sorry kids, I get so melancholic around campfires. I doubt the drinking helps." Joseph wound the strip of cloth between the fingers of his mechanical hand absentmindedly, the fabric frayed like he had done it many times before.

"Mr. Joestar, would you tell us some stories about Caesar?" Kakyoin requested softly. "You shouldn't have to shoulder the burden of his memory alone."

Jotaro grunted in affirmation, getting up and moving across the clearing to slouch beside his grandfather. "Spare us no detail, old man. I want to know about the guy that could kick your ass."

"He couldn't-! That's an awful lot to assume, Jotaro!" Joseph huffed indignantly, his bleak mood seeming to vanish once his pride was poked at. "He used Hamon to trap me in a bubble! Can you even imagine being that insecure?!"

You caught Jean looking at you over the top of Joseph's head as he rambled (no small feat considering the size of the elder Joestar). Polnareff glanced at Joseph, then back at you. Both of you nodded after a moment, coming to a silent agreement.

Jean Pierre would take a step back in battle to allow you a step forward, and you would be more cautious.

...

From that point on, things smoothed out a little between the two of you. You didn't feel so stifled, like every move was watched. Chariot was ready and willing to work together with your Stand, the rapier-wielding chevalier helping to increase your own admittedly-lacking range. It was surreal how well you and Jean could control the battlefield now that you weren't at each other's throats.

Jean's motions when he was fighting were one with Chariot's. Often it was difficult to tell where Stand ended and man began, Chariot a literal extension of his own body. He moved with a savage finesse that was a treat to watch, something you hadn't been able to appreciate when he was trapping you behind him. Now that you could operate on even footing however, it was a different story. There was ample time to watch him fight, ample time to hear him taunt the enemy in both French and English, or a jumbled mess of the two. Perhaps a little too much time, if you were being honest. Jean Pierre was an incorrigible show off.

Somewhere along the way you had also gained a new nickname.

"Did you see that, mon coeur?" The silver-haired young man would often exclaim after you two managed to do something impressive, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "They didn't stand a chance!"

You wanted to hate yourself for enjoying his enthusiasm when it came to fighting. After all, you were on a very important quest. Now wasn't the time to be entertaining such thoughts, like fun and what will happen after all of this? Now wasn't the time to wonder about Polnareff's multitude of lovers, the wistful wife no doubt waiting for him at home in France.

"What will you do?" You asked him the night after his agonizing encounter with the copies of Avdol and his dearly departed sister. "When all of this is over, I mean."

"I...I don't really know." He had been in a thoughtful mood the entire day, more forlorn than you had ever seen him. It broke your heart, just a little. "I'd like to see more of the world, I think." His voice was so soft, as if he didn't want to say anything at all.

"What places do you want to visit?"

"I'd like to see Niagara Falls." You knew you had him then, watching his body perk up ever so slightly. "I've heard so much about Canada. I have distant relations there as well. And then, I want to go to Florida!" Jean gushed. "No wait, perhaps Mexico or South America first, trek the Amazon and then make my way up the East Coast. Yes, that will do. But California, the vineyards, I must...how will I decide?!"

You were so thrilled at the return of his dramatic nature that you laughed aloud and threw your arms around his neck. "There you are. Thought I'd lost you for a minute." You murmured against Polnareff's jaw, the gesture oddly intimate for you. You heard Jean swallow convulsively and then he embraced you, holding you to his chest.

"Your friendship is such a precious gift, mon coeur." The large man whispered, his voice sounding slightly choked. "Whatever comes of us, know that this crusade will not be the end. I, Jean Pierre Polnareff, promise you that. We will see the world as it should be."

"A promise of such weight demands the proper gesture." You pulled back slightly and hooked your left pinky around his own. "The pinky promise of Polnareff shall not be broken easily, I warn you. If we don't travel the world, there will be hell to pay."

You didn't exactly have confidence in the fact that you would be returning from the tangle with Dio, so the promise was both simple and hard for you to make. Jean's smile in reply warmed you from head to toe, the sensation strange but not unwelcome. "I would have it no other way." He swore sincerely.

…

Your Stand vanished under the blow and you clutched the heavily-bleeding stump of your left wrist, all that was left where your hand had once been. You dimly heard Jean Pierre screaming (in what was hopefully rage, it was difficult to tell sometimes).

Despite he and Avdol's insistence that this fight was every man for himself, you couldn't just stand by and let Jean die to gain an opening at Dio. It was better this way, you reasoned while your Stand had flung Polnareff out of the range of the fiendish Cream Stand and into the range of Iggy's Stand. Polnareff has a better chance at getting Dio than I do, so I should make this count.

Your eyes had met Jean's seconds before Cream's void reached him, and you shot the tall man a shaky, battered smile. It'll be okay, you wanted to tell him, it'll all be fine. Iggy's Stand enveloped him, sand barely holding together as the small dog draped over your arm struggled to breathe.

Cream's void touch obliterated your Stand's left hand and you felt the pain down to your soul, dropping to your knees and almost immediately emptying the contents of your stomach.

Consciousness didn't stick around for much longer, the blood loss too rapid for you to staunch effectively on your own. You prayed that you had been useful even as your senses dimmed.

...

You didn't really expect to wake up, so realizing that sunlight was beating down on your eyelids was bizarre.

You tried to open your eyes, but gave up after a few moments and simply basked in the warm haze. This is actually kind of nice.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall what led to this. You were drawing a blank. Unconcerned, you hummed out a breath and shifted slightly on the soft surface you rested upon. Your left hand felt odd, heavier than you remembered and sluggish. But then again, your whole body felt heavy and sluggish. I wonder where I am, you mused, not exactly motivated to find out. It was as though thinking was a struggle.

A deep voice reached your ears, the words incomprehensible but soothing all the same. Someone seemed to be speaking in an area adjacent to your own. Were you in a hospital?

Curiosity started to penetrate the haze, and with it came the thrum of distant pain and a soft, insistent beeping. Maybe you had been in an accident of some kind, you must be in a hospital. That mystery solved, you tried to open your eyes again. You flexed your hands, first left, then right. Your left hand was definitely slower.

After a final, Herculean effort, you pried your eyes open and immediately summoned your Stand. It looked gaunt and frail when it appeared, as though a gust of wind might blow it away. The relief you felt at the familiar sight was short-lived as your gaze trailed down to the Stand's left hand. Or rather, where it had been. It seemed wrong, twisted in a strange way.

Egypt. Dio. The Joestar Crusade. Recollections poured back into your mind like a torrent, making your whole body go stiff. Your Stand touched their forehead to your own, making their customary sound as if to reassure you that they were alright.

"Where's…" Your words were muffled by the oxygen mask you wore. Where is everyone?

Your Stand, appearing thrilled to be out and about once again, practically lunged towards the door of your room. You had to close your eyes to fight the nausea at the abrupt motion, biting the inside of your cheek to choke back the bile.

You felt when your Stand reached the edge of your range and then, something careened past it heading in your direction. You sensed the displacement of the air and the door to your room suddenly burst open.

"Oh my God, you finally woke up!" It was none other than Joseph Joestar, his eyes brimming with tears. "We weren't sure if you were...I'm so happy!" He bolted towards the bed with the vigor of a man a quarter of his age, nearly crushing you in a tight hug. "The others need to know, I have to-"

The door to the room was having quite a busy day as two more bodies made their way through it. Both Kakyoin and Jotaro looked somewhat worse for wear (Kakyoin was so covered in bandages he bore a striking resemblance to a mummy) but at the familiar irate grunt of "Good grief," from the taller young man currently pushing the redhead's wheelchair, you got the feeling that they would be just fine.

Avdol sauntered in with Iggy slung over one shoulder, the black and white dog glancing at you and then yawning widely as if to say, "my work here is done."

"You're okay." Your voice was barely a whisper, tears welling up in your eyes. "B-But Avdol, I thought…am I dead? Did we all die?"

"I mean, the old man tried pretty hard to die on me but I wasn't going to let him get away with that shit." Jotaro growled.

"It is a bit of a miracle, the survival of Iggy and myself. All thanks to you and Polnareff, my friend. Due to your quick intervention, Jean Pierre managed to land the killing blow on Vanilla Ice and drag most of my body back from the abyss of his Stand." Avdol held up his gloved hands, showing you his arms bandaged to the shoulder. "My body has yet to reject the prosthetics, so with some luck I'll make a full recovery."

"Where is Jean Pierre?" You asked faintly, your strength waning. As if to answer, there was a loud crash from the hallway and someone was abruptly swearing a blue streak in French.

"He's not entirely used to the crutches, but he refused our help." Kakyoin explained hastily. "He should be here any second now."

"Speaking of prosthetics, how does your hand feel?" Joseph asked curiously. "Any pain? My hand took some getting used to."

"It's totally gone, isn't it." At the older man's nod you giggled, a little hysterical. "I'm scared to look. I don't want to see how much I've changed. My poor Stand…"

Polnareff interrupted your rambling by all but flopping through the doorway, half-supported by a weakened-looking Chariot. Both Stand and man lit up upon seeing you awake, Chariot waving wildly, and without thinking you raised your left hand to wave back.

You caught sight of smooth metal fingers responding jerkily to your brain's stimulus and that was all it took to make you go gray at the edges.

Does a pinky promise still count if the pinky that you promised it with is gone?

"Mon coeur, open your eyes! Please, I promise it's not so bad!" Polnareff's imploring words met your ears when you regained consciousness moments later.

"Five more minutes, have mercy on me." You groaned, not opening your eyes just yet. "Fuck. How long has it been since the fight?"

"Almost three weeks."

"Fuck. Did we win at least?"

"Holly is going to make a full recovery." Joseph said. You could hear the smile in his words and that gave you the courage you needed to open your eyes and finally look down at your hand.

"Fuck that's sore." You winced, the pain vibrant now as you moved your fingers individually. "I think I liked being out cold better."

"You were the last to wake up. We've all been so worried!" Kakyoin said, sounding relieved.

"Even Jotaro?" You teased, laughing when the aforementioned boy grumbled something in reply and Star Platinum appeared to loudly Ora!, as if contradicting the stone-faced teen.

Jean Pierre slotted himself into the space between your bed and the wall, his large frame almost too big to fit. Chariot chirruped at you while their user reached out slowly, so slowly to cradle your new hand in his own. For all his size and strength he was surprisingly delicate, his fingers feeling strangely warm to your overly-sensitive appendage. "As you may recall," He began quietly, glancing up at you before ducking his head again. "I made a promise. Once you are entirely well, we will...we have a lot of traveling to do if you would accompany me."

"I don't know if that promise still counts." You said before you could think, more than a little shocked that he had even remembered that promise. You wiggled your fingers haphazardly.

"We can make a new one if you wish." Polnareff was as serious as you had ever seen him, those blue eyes boring into your own. He raised your hand to his lips and kissed your bandaged wrist, the look on his face daring you to stop him.

You extended your metal pinky with a wince, letting him be the one to loop his finger around your own this time. The feeling of metal on metal startled you momentarily, but you recalled that he had lost two fingers to Cream himself. "I pinky promise. It'll give me something to look forward to while we're all recovering."

Recover you did, with a speed that you attributed to spite against Dio. The sooner you were healed, the sooner you would be able to leave that vampiric fiend in the dust he had become.

The sooner you would be able to journey with Polnareff, your brain felt the need to chime in gleefully. It made you flush more often than not, the idea of being legitimately alone with the large man. You couldn't recall a time during the entire adventure that the two of you had been alone, and you weren't certain why but it filled you with an odd trepidation.

Jean Pierre was not one to let simple things like the doctor said you need to be careful get in his way, the large man determined to recover as quickly as he could. His hand and thigh were healing up well it seemed, but his foot was slower going. They had been traumatic injuries and you tried to reason with him that it was expected, though it didn't seem to penetrate his thick skull. The doctors of the Speedwagon Foundation clearly had the patience of Job.

Polnareff lavishly praised your own recovery progress; his thrilled exclamation of Magnifique! when you managed to open a jar during physical therapy almost made all the pain and frustration worth it. You could only imagine how obnoxious it must be for someone as self-sufficient as Jean to be unable to walk without help, so you did your best to be just as encouraging to him when he seemed weary. Your terrible rendition of Hail The Conquering Hero never failed to put a smile on his face even while he slouched in a chair at your bedside.

"The worst part is how bone-tired I am." He admitted one evening. "All my energy is going towards healing and learning how to redistribute my weight and it is...difficult to stay positive when I truly feel how heavy my body is." Jean gave you a half-smile. "Who would have thought being the tallest and most muscular of the group would be detrimental to me in the long run, eh mon coeur?"

"Hey at least you've got that going for you. It took me a good week to be able to flex my hand enough to flip someone off again!" You complained, trying to get him to laugh. Jean took your metal hand, his expression unreadable. The doctors had been fine tuning the receptors in your fingers and palm, so his touch was no longer scorching. You wished that your face had gotten the memo.

"Don't think that I'll ever forget what you did for me." Jean's voice was soft, yet firm. It added a strange weight to the conversation. "I know you wanted to kill Dio as much as the rest of us, and you gave up your chance...no, your damn hand, to save me instead. I owe a debt I doubt I can repay and I will never forget that, mon coeur." He sighed, "So many debts to focus on! First Avdol, then Iggy, and now you. My life is forfeit I suppose."

"W-What does that mean?" You stammered, blurting out the first thing you could think of.

"What does what mean?"

"What you call me, mon kyar or something. I assume it's French?"

"It is."

"So...what does it mean?" You pressed after he was silent for several seconds. "You gonna' tell me?"

A knock on the doorframe interrupted the conversation, the nurse with your usual tray of food arriving right on time as ever. Jean Pierre was in such a hurry to leave he nearly bowled the poor man over, mumbling an apology as he hobbled past.

What the hell was that all about? You wondered as you ate your meal. If he believed he could avoid your question like that, he was dumber than you thought. What if it was a swear or an insult? You froze, thinking back to your original glass cannon nickname. The fork in your metal hand was bent nearly in half before you could stop yourself, and you spent several panicky seconds trying to flatten it back out.

…

Niagara Falls was first on the list of attractions. It was a poorly-designed list, of course, but you were still excited to see more of the world.

You supposed you were a hopeless optimist for believing that nothing untoward would happen to the two of you while embarking on your grand tour.

"Pose by the railing! I want to take your picture with that backdrop of the falls." Jean urged, laughing when you stuck your tongue out and curved your back into a weird-looking, hunched stance.

"How's this?" You asked, striking an even stranger pose afterwards and laughing along when his composure entirely dissolved. He staggered over to lean on your shoulder, still cackling, then his fingers wrapped around your non-metallic wrist.

"I need you to move with me." The mirth was abruptly gone from Jean's face though his smile stayed; his broad shoulders tensed like he was bracing for impact. "Don't make a scene. We're taking two steps back from the railing."

You giggled to keep up the illusion that the two of you were just sharing an intimate chat, nodding once and waiting for him to give you the go ahead.

A hulking, metallic Stand suddenly appeared overhead and plummeted downwards. Jean summoned Chariot without so much as blinking, your own Stand not far behind. The two of you sidestepped the enemy Stand's crushing attempt and launched yourselves back into the crowd of tourists, your smaller size allowing you to more easily make your way through throngs of people. Jean struggled to keep up and you grabbed onto his hand, no worry for propriety on your mind while you wove between the sightseers.

Someone's outstretched leg was almost your downfall but Jean heaved you bodily up into his arms and kept moving, setting you back on your feet without so much as breaking stride.

"I imagine they're still following us." He hissed, seeming annoyed. It had been overcast all day but now it started to drizzle. The crowd began to thin and you could feel Jean getting more and more anxious, trying to stick with groups that kept dwindling. He started swearing under his breath, his eyes darting around as he tried to locate the enemy Stand user.

Your own eyes landed on a corridor that led back into the visitor's center, and just inside the mouth of the corridor was a door beside a pay phone. No doubt it led to a maintenance closet or area of some kind, but it was cover all the same.

You opened your mouth to tell Jean your plan but before you could utter a word he grabbed your shoulder, ripping you backwards. The enemy Stand slammed into the ground where you had been standing, whirring loudly as it attempted to free itself from the cement.

Polnareff was actually shaking, the large man maintaining a death grip on your hand and making a mad dash for the door you had noticed. Chariot's blade nimbly took care of the lock.

The space was entirely too small.

Jean Pierre's chest heaved against yours, the Frenchman still panting for air from your headlong dash. Overhead Silver Chariot made sounds of distress, pressing their helm to your forehead while your Stand hovered worriedly.

"Ch-Chariot!" Polnareff scolded, waving his Stand back. "Non, Chariot."

His arms wrapped around you suddenly at the sound of running footsteps outside the door, and you felt the muscles of his thighs tense in preparation to flee. Your metal fingers dug into his shoulder and he winced, letting out a strangled noise.

"Sorry, sorry." You hissed, sure that you had accidentally left a bruise. Who would have expected Stand users to attack you even after the defeat of Dio?!

The footsteps paused outside the door and Jean Pierre's hold tightened even further, threatening to crush the breath out of your lungs. Whoever they were, the person appeared to be making a phone call with the pay phone on the wall by the closet.

"I don't know where they went. It's like them and their Stands turned the corner and disappeared into the rain." The individual said, sounding dejected. "Yeah, I'll head back."

Jean cautiously slid you down his body to rest on the floor, then pointed silently at the doorknob. The handle jiggled as the person on the other side began turning it, no doubt trying to be thorough before returning to whatever hole they crawled out of.

They didn't expect the enormous silver-haired Stand user to be the one behind the door, as evidenced by their horrified yelp. Polnareff slapped a hand over the man's mouth and dragged him into the closet, where both of your Stands were eagerly waiting to dispose of him.

...

Your damp clothes stuck to your body like they were vacuum sealed and you groaned, fidgeting with your jeans. Jean Pierre was in the same boat, soaked to the skin and doing his best to try and wring out his already-tight tank top. "It's no use, mon coeur. Let's find a hotel and see about getting dry." He said with a defeated sigh, offering you his arm.

It served you right for trying to do some sightseeing during a peak tourist season. Not a hotel in the entire damn city had a double room available, or even a twin and sleeper sofa combo! You wanted to scold Jean for his lackadaisical planning, but you figured from his deflated expression that he hadn't taken into account the fact that everyone else in the world was also on vacation.

"The best I can do for you is a room with one queen. I'm really sorry, sir, but with the summer traffic-"

"Non, do not apologize!" Jean hastily interrupted the woman behind the counter. "My companion and I appreciate whatever hospitality you can extend to us, and we thank you for your time. The fact that you found us a room at all is more than enough." He shook her hand while she went bright red and you barely choked back your giggle. Jean Pierre was a handful normally so he was entirely outrageous when he laid the charm on thick.

The room was small but the bed was clean, and that was really all that mattered to you. Polnareff began rummaging through his bag for a dry change of clothes and you took the opportunity to bolt for the shower. The air conditioning in the hotel lobby, while pleasant at first, ended up chilling you through your wet clothes. A nice hot shower would rectify that.

"Bath or shower?" Jean called through the door. In response, you turned on the showerhead.

You emerged ten minutes later, warm and sleepy from the long and strenuous day. Jean Pierre was waiting beside the bed, clothes neatly folded on the floor.

"You look radiant, mon coeur!" He teased, getting to his feet and chucking you under the chin. "Can you tuck yourself in? You seem ready to sleep standing up."

"Oh hush." You grumbled, batting his hand away and trotting over to your own bag. He laughed softly and you heard the bathroom door close behind you. You quickly dropped your towel and rummaged through your bag for a loose shirt and some clean panties, struggling into the garments as sleep dragged at your limbs. The bed felt heavenly when you finally stripped back the covers and climbed in, and even with the lamp on in the room your eyes grew heavy.

You snuggled a pillow to your chest and drifted off, stirring when you felt someone lay down beside you. Lips touched your forehead and Jean Pierre murmured, "only me, mon coeur. Go back to sleep."

You abandoned your pillow and slotted yourself into his arms, mumbling some gibberish while you buried your face in his chest. He was wonderfully shirtless and you took advantage of your drowsy, carefree state, uncharacteristically bold in your cuddling.

You felt more than heard his breath hitch, and then he was urging your chin up so that you would make eye contact. "Are you awake?" He whispered. "You are acting strange." You whined in reply and a breathless little chuckle left his lips. "So sulky! I will not deprive you of any more rest. Sleep well, mon coeur."

You dropped your head back onto his chest, his heartbeat thudding loudly in your ear. It was almost loud enough to drown him out when he spoke next.

"I could have lost you today, mon coeur." Jean breathed. "That Stand...it would have left you as a stain on the pavement. What a terrible thought." His arms wrapped around you and his chest expanded with a heartfelt sigh. "Unbearable, even. My heart stopped for just that second. I wasn't sure I would be able to move you in time. I wished for Jotaro's power then! What a ridiculous thing to do in the heat of the moment, no?"

Jean's hands were shaking, fingers rubbing light circles on your back.

"I couldn't breathe. I was trembling. Me! The idea of me fearing anything is preposterous. But I did. I...I feared for your life. I feared that I would lose you." He chuckled, the noise a little ragged. "What selfish fears I have, mon coeur."

…

After that, it was easier to find accommodations. The two of you could share more than a battlefield without killing each other, it seemed. It was only slightly mortifying to disentangle yourself from his grasp in the morning, seeing as you were always the first one awake. But it did offer you ample time to study his face all flushed and relaxed, so you decided that you could live with the embarrassment of knowing that you cuddled up to him in your sleep.

Or maybe it was vice versa? You usually went to sleep on the far side of the bed, and yet you always woke up with him holding you in his arms. As if he was seeking out your body heat in his sleep. It was almost enough to make you suspicious if you didn't secretly relish the lazy mornings before you were fully awake, just luxuriating in being held.

Jean Pierre was an enthusiastic if not entirely capable tour guide no matter where you went, though half the time he could be caught with notes written in Kakyoin's hand detailing the areas you were visiting. It would seem that the younger man had been essentially everywhere and had whipped up a few cheat sheets for Polnareff.

So the two of you saw all the sights you could cram in and then some, resulting in long days and sleeping like the dead.

Until one night. A fateful night, like the stories always said.

Your metal hand had been acting up through the day due to a changing weather system and it left you tense and anxious, unable to relax. You were plagued with the fear that you might have already broken your new hardware. The idea of having to cut your trip short due to your appendage not 'playing nice' soured your mood even further.

Jean Pierre seemed to sense your discomfort but not the source, the large man cautiously asking over dinner at a local cafe whether he had done something to upset you.

"Mon coeur, your eyes have lost that mischievous shine. Was it something I said?" He queried with a fair amount of concern. From their spot beside him Chariot reached out their saber, as if to also inquire. The Stand's mannerisms never ceased to be charming to you; they displayed a blunt inquisitiveness that was such an obvious facet of Jean Pierre it made you want to tease him. Their rapier rested delicately on the table, just to the left of your fingers.

"I just want things to keep working." You couldn't keep the annoyance out of your voice. Your hand twitched involuntarily, bumping Chariot's rapier, and you swore under your breath.

Jean Pierre definitely noticed that. "Your hand as well? My foot and hand have been ah, cantankerous all day. I thought I was the only one." He laughed a little self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know you can tell me about things like that, right?"

"I don't want to bug you." You grumbled, startled when his finger hooked under your chin and tilted your face up. He looked oddly serious.

"We've been traveling together long enough for you to know that you're never bugging me, mon coeur." Things had taken a strange turn. Were you blushing?!

"P-People always say stuff like that, but they never actually mean it." You floundered to answer him, the retort devoid of your usual wit.

"I mean it."

"Well I uh, I guess you're the exception to the rule, Polnareff. And the logical height restriction for hair, as always." Jean's expression was unimpressed. You went on to insist, "Look, it's not fair that you should have to listen to me whine just because you made a pinky promise."

"The only thing I've heard is genuine concerns. Perhaps it is your assumptions that need to change, mon coeur." Jean suggested, leaning forward just a little. "Who else have you engaged with? Who made you so willing to shoulder the burden of your fears and wave off help from anyone else?"

"No one, that's just how I've always been. I don't like bothering anyone."

"Bother me, I dare you."

"What if my hand never gets back to full speed? What if I'm stuck with a fidgety hunk of metal like Joseph, what if I can't fight anymore?!" You exploded, slamming your left fist down on the table. "What if I'm useless, Jean? What then?"

"Is that your chief grievance?" He was weirdly calm. Normally he was the one to get worked up and you were the one to rationalize him back down to Earth. You shook your head and Jean got to his feet, taking your metal hand after he paid the bill for the evening. "Come with me, mon coeur."

...

Once the two of you were back in your hotel room, Jean Pierre left you to sit on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom for a short period of time. When he reemerged, he urged you into the smaller room and you were faced with a bathtub full of bubbles.

"Get in, get comfortable, and call me once you're settled." His demands brooked no argument and you grudgingly stripped to get into the tub once he exited the bathroom. The bubbles were actually thick enough that they kept you from feeling too exposed and you blinked back tears at the realization that he had planned it that way.

"You can come back in, I'm decent." You announced after climbing into the small mountain of bubbles.

Jean returned with one of the folding chairs from beside the bed. He sat down, rested his chin in his palm, and fixed you with a stern look. "Speak."

"Just like that?" You huffed. Jean inclined his head, raising an eyebrow and simply waiting. "I'm scared, okay? I'm a big, scared, useless baby. I'm tired and I'm scared."

"What are you scared of?"

"The future, I guess. Nothing will be the same. A lot of times I wish I could go back…" You paused. "You would think after everything that we went through, I wouldn't be scared anymore. But I still am." You curled up with your knees to your chest. "I almost miss the Crusader tunnel vision, y'know? We didn't have the luxury to focus on anything besides Dio."

Jean sighed heavily. "If you had said something sooner, I...we all feel that way, you know that, yes? The rest of us were conscious and recovering while you were still wrestling with Morpheus. I would say we got a bit of a head start. Though Kakyoin and myself in particular struggled immensely, mon coeur. Kakyoin did not believe he was going to survive the battle with Dio. His wounds were...devastating." Polnareff glanced up at you, his eyes a troubled, stormy blue. "I, on the other hand, did not want to continue living with my survival built upon the sacrifice of my friends."

"Jean..."

"Avdol's arms. Iggy and Kakyoin's entire bodies, mangled and broken. Your hand. These were all prices I consider too high to pay and yet each one of you did what you needed to do without a second thought. It is...humbling." Jean chuckled mirthlessly. "Jotaro spoke with me at length about stopping his own heart in order to trick Dio into thinking he was dead."

"He did what?!"

"He had Star Platinum literally grab hold of his heart and stop it." Jean Pierre shook his head. "He's insane. Listen, the point is that we're all scared of the future. I didn't even think that I would have one, didn't dare to hope for one! I've been struggling adrift, trying to decide what I wish to do with my life now that the length of it stretches before me like so many miles of untread country road. Granted, the generous patronage of the Joestars and their Speedwagon Foundation has eased the difficulty somewhat. None of us will want for anything in this transitional period, I'm sure."

"Jean, I...I guess I got so into my own head I didn't think that anyone else could be having the same problems as me." You didn't apologize, and he didn't seem to expect you to.

"We were selfish as well, mon coeur, you cannot take the blame. I assumed Joseph would discuss things with you in private, but he must have been preoccupied with Holly's recovery." Jean's hands now rested on his thighs and you watched his metal pinky and ring finger jitter independently for several silent minutes.

"Thanks, Jean. For everything." You finally said quietly. Chariot appeared with a sound of glee, the Stand's deadly rapier raised in front of them in a perfect salute. "You too Chariot, of course!" You continued, laughing when the Stand began to preen. "I would never leave you out."

Polnareff had gone bright red at the enthusiastic antics of his Silver Chariot, the poor man sputtering in a way that was far too endearing, "Chariot, please!"

"Are you actually embarrassed, Jean Pierre? I never thought I would see the day." You teased. "You look dashing in red, I have to admit."

"You are so cruel!" He whined.

"Ha! After your little kink reveal during our quest, it's so funny to see you lose your cool over something this inconsequential."

"Kink?! Dirty talk is just...it's standard procedure in the bedroom! I hardly count it as a kink-"

"Surprise, you nerd, it's a kink." You carried on ribbing him, a massive grin on your face. "Not every kink has to be super weird or niche, you know. As long as it gets you off, it can be anything."

"How on Earth-" Jean Pierre began heatedly, his hands fisting in the fabric of his pants as he shifted forwards into 'debate position'.

"I mean, some people like when people dirty talk to them, but could never do it themselves. Or vice versa. People love that filthy stream-of-consciousness ramble. You've got the added bonus of being bilingual, so you could say a whole bunch of random words in French and I bet your partner would still be swooning!" You pointed out, unable to stifle your giggles at the flabbergasted expression on his face. "Do you like when people talk dirty to you in reply? Or are you always the one doing the talking?"

"I...I've never had anyone talk dirty to me." Jean's voice hitched slightly. "I do not...I'm rather large. With that comes the assumptions, you know."

"Well you do have a commanding presence, for better or for worse." The shake in his words threw you off just a tad. Was he upset with you? "Hey, I'm only joking around. If I went too far, tell me and I'll stop."

"Non! No, no, I just never thought about it." He admitted. "I mean, the process is…" Jean lapsed into muttering under his breath in French and your laughter returned with a vengeance. "Hush you! Laughing while I'm in crisis!" He complained, the wry grin on his face belying his words as he gave your exposed shoulder a gentle shove.

"You're so sweet, Jean Pierre. Under all that bravado, anyway."

"Sweet?! I am not--I am precise and fierce! Deadly, even!" He jumped to his feet, Chariot at the ready as he tried to pace in the tiny area. "I am a man of great skill and charisma and-"

"And you drew a bubble bath for someone so they would talk to you. Face it, you're sweet."

"I would...whenever she had a difficult day at school, I would run Sherry a bath and then sit and listen." At the mention of his late sister, your heart squeezed in your chest. You of course knew his whole sad story, but the reverent way he spoke about her never failed to spark a sympathetic reaction. She had been incredibly dear to him and, while he had dispatched her killer, it was obvious that the pain was still there. "It's a tactic that's served me well, though getting Jotaro in the tub is easier said than done." Jean tried to joke.

"You're ridiculous." You extended your metal pinky to him and he wrapped his own around it after a moment of hesitation. "You're also a good man, Jean Pierre. I envy the person you share your heart with in the future."

He stared down at you with his brow furrowed, then looked at your joined fingers. His mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but he simply sighed after a moment. His shoulders drooped. "Yes, of course. The future." He mused thoughtfully.

After you had gotten dressed for bed, Jean beckoned you close.

"Please, just let me hold you." His voice cracked at the end of his request. "No more talking." Confused at the vulnerability he was displaying, you obediently settled yourself into his loose embrace. Nothing about how he was touching you was improper, but you still felt a flush of heat on your face. Jean Pierre stared at the space over your head in silence for what felt like hours, his eyes distant and suspiciously glassy.

You brushed your fingers against his jaw and he flinched. "Hey." You whispered, "just me."

"Oui, it always has been." He replied cryptically, placing a kiss on your forehead. "I'll be alright. Thank you for letting me hold you."

"Trust me, the pleasure's all mine."

"You like being held, mon coeur?" He sounded startled.

"Only when you do it." You yawned, snuggling closer. "Anybody else'll get their ass kicked."

His hand was trembling when he cupped the back of your head and you felt the breath leave his body in a long, shuddering exhale. "Bonne nuit, mon coeur."

…

You woke before him, as ever, but this time you didn't leave Jean's arms. You just studied him from your vantage point, taking in every tiny detail. So involved were you in the play of shadows on his collarbone, it took him clearing his throat to realize that you too were being watched.

His eyes were barely open, still heavy with sleep, and you prayed that he wouldn't remember catching you ogling him. Jean didn't say anything, instead resituating you in his arms to better press your body to his own and burying his face in your neck. One powerful thigh slid between your legs and you were startled by the rush of heat you felt from such an innocuous motion.

That was nothing compared to when he groaned, his voice deeper than usual with sleep, "Tu es si jolie mon coeur." Large hands carded through your hair blindly. "Tu es si précieux pour moi."

"Jean?" You murmured.

There was a sharp inhale right next to your ear and then he drew back, looking befuddled. "I...what?" He asked drowsily. "G'morning, 'allo."

"Good morning. How do you feel?"

"Warm. Still tired." He tucked his face back into your neck, sighing. "Shh. Sleep."

"Jean, I-"

His body shifted as he stretched, pressing the rigid muscle of his thigh up in between your legs. You squeaked and that definitely got his attention. Blue eyes met your own, confusion evident on his face. Those eyes traveled down to the sheet over the two of you, and then they widened in comprehension. His own undignified yelp made you start to laugh hysterically, burying your face in his chest in a losing effort to contain your mirth.

After several tense seconds he started laughing too, peppering your cheeks and nose with playful kisses. "What a wake up call! I could get used to that." He chuckled, leaning in to kiss your nose again.

You tilted your chin at the last second and Jean's mouth landed on your own. He gasped against your lips, obviously startled but not recoiling. Hope flickered in your chest as his mouth stayed where it was, like he was frozen.

"If you want me to stop, tell me." He breathed finally. "I would like to give you a real kiss. I'm going to do so unless you tell me to stop."

"Why would I tell you to stop?" You whispered.

Jean's hands cupped your face, one thumb rubbing your cheek while he searched your eyes. You glared back at him defiantly and he looked torn between laughter and tears, finally closing the distance once more.

His 'real kiss' left you reeling, gripping his upper arms for support while he ravaged you with his mouth. Jean Pierre Polnareff always gave his all in everything he did, so you shouldn't have been so surprised. It was different when it was focused on you, though. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that, mon coeur." He murmured after he decided it was time for you to breathe again. "Feeling your body react to me is...it's incredible. Intoxicating."

"Holy shit," You said weakly in reply, "I guess you aren't all talk."

"The talk is the best part of me, mon coeur." His mouth brushed over your ear, making your whole body break out in goosebumps. "Everything else is just window dressing." You snorted and you felt him smile against your neck. "I love it when you do that."

"What, when I mock your attempts at being suave?"

"Non, can you really still call it nothing but an attempt when I can feel how your heart pounds in your chest?" Jean teased you, making you smile broadly and giggle with more than a touch of nerves. "I meant when you smile or laugh at something I've said. It makes me happy, knowing that I did this." He continued sincerely, brushing his index finger over your lips. "Knowing that I put this enchanting expression on your face...there's no greater prize for me, mon coeur."

You ducked your face into his chest, thoroughly flustered and mumbling denials. Jean pressed light, tender kisses to the crown of your head, letting you work up some resolve. Quickly, so that you wouldn't have time to panic and rethink your bold move, you darted up and planted a kiss squarely on his lips. Jean made a delighted noise, his fingers back to combing through your hair while the two of you shared a heated exchange.

"I feel like the luckiest man in the world." Polnareff's voice was nothing but a heartfelt sigh, his forehead touching your own. His smile was so wide it looked like it hurt, his joy barely contained. You smiled shyly up at him, your metal fingers curled into a loose fist on his chest. "Stay with me, mon coeur? I cannot guarantee you an easy or safe life, this much you know. I am selfish and headstrong and entirely full of myself, but I will do everything in my power to make sure that the burden of the power we share is a light one." He promised solemnly, his thumb rubbing over the knuckles of your metal hand.

You bit your lip in thought, looking down at your joined hands. His metal pinky hooked around your own in a sort of playful, teasing gesture. Remember when, it seemed to say. It made you smile again and you felt the tension go out of his body when you tipped your face back up and kissed the underside of his jaw. "I guess I could be persuaded to stick around for a little while." You allowed.

"Only a little while? Isn't there anything I could do to get your...attention for just a touch longer?" Jean asked hopefully, his hands starting to wander a little lower on your body.

You straddled his hips and sat up, cupping his face to keep his eyes focused on your own. "What does mon coeur mean, Jean Pierre?" You queried, your tone saccharine-sweet.

The large man actually squirmed, his face going bright red as you put him on the spot. It was quite possibly the cutest thing you had ever seen. "It is, er...it's a term of endearment." He choked out finally.

"Yes, but what does it mean?"

"I...It means…listen, I don't know if it's too early to be saying these kinds of things. Are you positive you want to…?" Jean's question seemed to die in his throat at the rapid nod of your head and the man heaved a long sigh, dramatically covering his face with his hands so you couldn't see his expression. "It means 'my heart'. Because I...I have loved you for a very long time. You have my heart--non, you are my heart. It is so silly, but I-"

"Oh thank God!" You erupted, probably startling him judging from his incredulous look. "I've been so worried it was another shitty nickname like Le Canon De Verre, you have no idea."

"Merde, of course not! I learned my lesson. You are...you are not upset that I have been calling you my heart, are you?" Jean mumbled awkwardly. "It is a common term, I can come up with something el-"

"Shut up. It's perfect." You took a deep, bracing breath. "I love you too, Jean."

"Are...you are serious, yes? If you are not, you don't need to say it back. I am a grown man, I can handle a little rejection." He insisted bravely.

"Yes, I mean it. God Jean." His embrace crushed the air from your lungs and you wheezed out a chuckle, smacking his shoulder. "Easy on the goods, Pol." Jean ran his fingers through your hair, tears in his eyes. "Don't cry Jean, c'mon." You chided with a grin.

"I can't help it! This is the happiest moment of my life!" He announced tearfully. "I love you so much! I have loved you since before you got angry with me! Maybe it was love at first sight?!"

"Maybe for you. Weirdo." You teased, rumpling his hair (much to his indignation).

…

He danced around the topic of being physically intimate for what felt like months. If the kissing sessions got too hot and heavy, Jean was always the one to calm things back down. At first it was mildly entertaining to be soothed and cooled off by such an irreconcilable flirt, but soon you began to wonder.

Does he actually love me or was that a bunch of talk? Does he regret the choice? Is he just trying to let me down easy? Does he feel indebted to me?

You would get your answer in due time. As with all things related to Jean Pierre, he demanded the perfect setup.

"I've been thinking." You started carefully one evening. "About us."

Jean immediately glanced up from his guidebook, looking almost guilty. Almost. "Yes?"

"I...Jean, you do love me, right?" All your tact went out the window, your confidence soon following. You just stood there, twisting the hem of your sleeping shirt while you tried to stop your lower lip from quivering and your words kept pouring out, "I just wanted to know whether you...um. Whether you want me. As in...well, sexually, I guess. We kiss and hold each other a lot but it seems like every time we would be getting to that point, you put the brakes on." Your fingers threatened to tear a hole in the thin cloth of your shirt. "I mean, it's okay if you don't! It's okay if you want to go back to the way things were. I promise I'll get over it. I don't want to lose you, even if it's only as a friend."

Jean snapped the book shut and lunged upright, his expression gone stony. With two strides he had crossed the room, opening his arms and enfolding you tightly in his embrace. "Mon coeur, my heart, my everything." He whispered into your hair as you sniffled. "I want to ravish you until I consume your every thought as you do mine." Your breath caught in your throat at his heated words. "I want to pin you down and give you everything, every last pitiful scrap of desire that I have for you. I didn't want to scare you, mon coeur, but I have such a voracious hunger for you and...and if you want me as well, you can have as much of me as you wish to take."

Jean pressed his forehead to your own and you took the liberty of mussing his hairstyle with glorious disregard, your fingers raking through his impeccably-styled tresses gleefully. "I want it all." You breathed. "The whole nine yards."

"God, I am so glad. I am so very, very glad." Jean said in reply, his voice sounding strangely thick. "I did not want to rush you. I am well aware that I have a reputation, and I do not know...how far is acceptable to you?" His hands hovered at the hem of your sleeping shirt.

Your answer was to untuck his tank top, gently easing the tight-fitting garment out of the waistband of his pants and shoving it upwards. Jean's body trembled at your touch, a sharp inhale leaving him when you boldly splayed your metal palm on his newly-bared abdomen. You stared up at him, loving how disheveled he looked with his hair askew and tank top hoisted up to his chest. "This is mine now." You said softly.

His moan and the helpless, adorable blush that accompanied his nod of confirmation was all you needed to continue urging him to shed his tank top. Jean did so hastily, clearly eager to show off more of his form. Distracted as you were by ogling him, you barely noticed his arms back around you until he lifted you up. Jean laughed aloud at your squeak, rubbing his nose against your own. "Wrap your legs around my hips, mon coeur." He purred. "Feel as much of me as you would like."

You were only too willing, greedily drawing your hands over his shoulder blades and pulling yourself as close as you dared.

Jean surged forward to close the space between you, nuzzling into your neck with an aching sweetness that was both foreign and familiar at the same time. "You are so beautiful." He said simply, making you flush and squirm a little under the attention. "I am so happy. So incredibly happy."

"Show me then." You replied with a mischievous grin, squealing a second later when he blew a raspberry against the skin of your neck.

Jean laughed again and moved to lay you on the bed, pulling away briefly to study you beneath him. "I can't believe that this is real." You wriggled out of your underwear when his fingers reached for the elastic band, already too excited to let him peel them off unaided. Jean lifted the hem of your shirt and touched it to his lips, the gesture reverent and teasing all at once. "Can I put my mouth on you, mon coeur? Will you permit me?" He asked softly.

"I am going to actually burst into flames if you don't." You admitted, getting the tall man to shoot you an unbearably cocky smirk. It was softened considerably by the wonder in his eyes, like you were the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

Jean urged your legs apart and settled between them, his smirk broadening further when he realized that your thighs were shaking slightly. You covered your face with your shirt, thoroughly embarrassed, but Jean tugged it back down. "Please, don't hide from me. Ne te cache pas de Jean, s'il te plaît." He implored you.

"You know I have no clue what you're saying." You replied breathlessly. Jean didn't bother to translate, lavishing the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs with soft kisses and nips. You buried your fingers in his hair, none-too-subtly trying to guide his mouth to where you wanted it, but Jean wasn't budging. "Jean-"

The way your voice cracked seemed to fuel his fire, Polnareff glancing up at you with a dazed expression before he attacked your drenched folds with his skilled tongue. He was methodical and brutal, thumbing lightly at your clit while your body arched into the flat press of his tongue. Jean devoured you enthusiastically, making sounds you would have been embarrassed of at any other time had you not also been making highly embarrassing sounds.

"À toi, pour toujours." Jean gasped when you came apart beneath him, reaching up to fondle one of your breasts through your shirt. "Mon coeur, je suis amoureux."

"Y-You'd better not be saying something mean--" Your threat was ruined by how hard your breath was hitching, coming in shaky bursts as you rode out your orgasm.

Jean Pierre languidly shifted his weight until he knelt over you on the bed, pressing his fingertips to his mouth and then touching your lips. "I said, I'm yours forever, my heart, I'm in love." He replied, sounding a little breathless himself. "Too much, yes?"

"I said I wanted it all, didn't I?" Your rhetorical question hung in the heated air between your bodies for barely a split second, fingers already dragging at the buckle of his belt. Jean groaned low in his throat when you opened his zipper, revealing his cock trapped against his stomach by the waistband of his boxers.

"It seems to always be like this when I'm around you." He confessed, unable to meet your eyes and instead focusing on your hand rubbing him through his boxers. "Sleeping in particular is so difficult, mon coeur. Your body, warm and pressed against mine…but I am not some spoiled boy without an ounce of self-control. So I prayed for the dawn like a damned man. Prayed for the courage to tell you, the patience to wait." He chuckled ruefully. "To think you would outstrip me all the same."

"I think we've both waited long enough." You pointed out, feeling him rock down into your waiting palm.

Jean flushed a little, biting his lip as you slid his boxers out of the way and freed his cock. "Will you let me?"

"I keep telling you I want it all. I'm greedy for you, Jean, c'mon." You chided him, startled when he shook his head.

"It's not enough to say it."

"I guess I'll just show you I mean it then." Jean raised an eyebrow at your tone. You lunged up to kiss him, clinging to his waist as you ground your aching pussy against his cock. Jean actually growled, the sound reverberating in his chest while he eagerly reciprocated your grinding motion. "I want you, Jean. I want everything you can give me."

"Since you asked so nicely." Jean Pierre palmed your thighs and dragged you even closer to him, kissing you fiercely. His mouth dominated your own easily, your legs falling open for him as you welcomed him into your body.

Jean buried his face in your neck, panting for breath while you adjusted around him. Your calves quivered and jumped noticeably when he cupped them, shoving your knees up and over his shoulders to leave you entirely at his mercy. You whimpered helplessly, covering your face with your hands again.

"Mon coeur, my love, my everything, please don't hide from me." Jean begged, his voice ragged with desire. "Let me see you, let me know you."

"It's so good, I feel so embarrassed." You replied through your fingers, shaking your head.

"Why be embarrassed?"

"I...I don't know, really. I guess it's the way you look at me. Kind of like I'm being examined under a microscope." You mumbled.

Jean rolled his hips, settling his cock even deeper than it had been previously. Your lips popped open without your input, eyelids fluttering closed. "Do you want me to stop?" He whispered.

"You're so mean." You managed to sputter. "No, I definitely don't want you to stop."

"Are you not enjoying what I'm doing?"

"Oh my God, Jean-"

"There is nothing to be embarrassed about if you like what I'm doing, so what could it be?" Jean's smirk could have given the cat that ate the canary a run for its money, your continued pitiful attempts at indifference doing nothing but bolster his confidence. "Is it maybe...that you like what I'm doing, but you think you like it too much?"

"Polnareff-"

"My last name in bed, how formal of you!" He teased, coaxing an exasperated half-giggle out of you. "I have encountered this before, of course. I will tell you a secret." His lips barely touched your ear, eliciting a shiver. "No one else is here but us, mon coeur. Which means you are as free to enjoy me as I am to enjoy you. I understand that some moron before me has given you the impression that you should be silent or not enjoy this...delicious intimacy. Whoever they were, they were an inconsiderate, selfish liar."

"You are the first person to put your mouth on me. D-down there." You confessed.

He straightened up, looking absolutely scandalised and shrugging your legs off of his shoulders. "But you came so easily for me! Surely someone...no? No one?"

"Nope, not a one."

"Vile, inconsiderate selfish pigs." Jean lapsed back into French, grumbling under his breath and rolling his eyes. He then slid his arms beneath your shoulders, his large form effectively looming over you. You yelped when he picked you up bodily, hurrying to wrap your legs around his waist like you had earlier. "Relax, mon coeur. I won't let you fall." Jean promised, sounding amused. His cock twitched inside you, making you whine. "Oh, that's a lovely noise."

"You can't say stuff like th-at!" You tried to protest but your voice pitched higher as he settled you onto his hips, sheathing his cock to the hilt. He raised you slightly, then lowered you back down again. His careful, even pace was tortuous, your pubic mound pressed firmly to his abdomen while he slowly fucked his cock in and out of you.

"I will not go any faster unless you tell me how you would like it." Jean didn't even seem like he was struggling for breath. You, on the other hand, were gasping out with every thrust, your fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "You have to tell me, mon coeur." You buried your face in his neck and he shuddered all over, laughing a little. "Is it too much? You are clinging to me so tightly."

"You are absolutely terrible." You muttered, taking a handful of his hair and roughly tugging his head to the side so you could mouth over his ear. Jean's breathing hitched when you finally bit his earlobe and shakily murmured, "please fuck me."

"Oh," Jean sighed, "I would love nothing more." When you arched against him he made a wrecked sound in the back of his throat, thrusting up to meet you halfway. "How could I ever not want you, mon coeur? Now that I've had a taste, I am drunk on you." He said it like it was normal, regular. Maybe to him it was. Maybe things like that came naturally to him.

You cupped his face, suddenly seized by a fierce tenderness that demanded to be expressed. "You're amazing." You choked out bluntly. Jean's eyebrows rose and he seemed genuinely surprised. "You're perfect. You make me feel incredible and you're so, so wonderful to me-"

Jean sputtered, now clearly bewildered. His flush reached the tips of his ears. He cradled you to his chest, helping you ride his cock even while he continued to silently color. "These things you are saying to me…" he breathed, sounding shattered. "You believe them?"

"Jean-!" You cried, resting your forehead against his. That appeared to be what he had been waiting for. You watched as his eyes narrowed and he bit his lip so hard the pink skin faded to white.

"You want it all? It's yours." Jean rutted up into you, stealing the breath from your body with the ferocity of his motions. "Every inch--every breath, every feeling I have, is yours. It's yours." His grip on your hips tightened when one of your legs slid down, the rough press of the large scar on his thigh grounding you.

"Thank you…" You barely had the presence of mind to speak, your brain hazy with ecstacy, but you forced the words out anyway. You laced your fingers through his hair and cried out again as the ache in your body blossomed, trying to come to fruition. "God Jean, I'm so close, please-!"

His laughter was a ragged, broken noise and he buried his face in your neck once more, feverishly pistoning his hips to bring you to climax. You raked your nails down his back when you finally came and Jean clumsily rushed to pull out, barely able to do so before he reached his own orgasm. Thick spurts of come landed on your abdomen, the large man's entire body trembling violently.

The two of you were all but gasping for breath, staring at each other while he tensed up and tried to stop shaking. "So…" you drawled after several awkward seconds. "That was phenomenal."

Jean lit up like a firework, quickly laying you down on the bed so he could lavish you with kisses. "Truly?!" He asked excitedly. "You're not just saying that, right? My feelings will not be hurt if I have room to improve, you understa-"

"Jean, I don't think I can move. My legs feel like I went on a hundred mile hike." You clapped a hand over the scar on his thigh. He was still trembling. "Are you okay? I know that must have been a lot of effort."

"I will be alright. I don't think I've ever come that hard." Jean admitted, grimacing as he slid a finger through the coating of his release on your stomach. "I'm afraid I've made a mess of…" He trailed off when you licked the substance from his index, his eyes darkening. "You accuse moi of teasing, mon coeur?"

"Well yeah, you're ridiculous." You stuck your tongue out at him, blowing a raspberry. Jean rolled his eyes and flopped down on top of you, making you wheeze for air. "Jean wait, you'll kill me-"

He raised himself back up on his elbows, one finger tracing a careful line down the bridge of your nose. "We should shower, no?" He suggested softly.

"We should shower, yes." You agreed.

"Come then, let's get cleaned up. And then we can sleep together. Wake up together." Jean's smile was beaming. "Like we should have been all these months, yes?"

You teared up a little at his sincerity, smiling back at him. "You got it, big fella'."

He didn't make a move to get off you though, continuing to study you. "You are so beautiful like this." It was almost as if he was talking to himself, his expression blissfully content. "I am truly the happiest man alive, even with my heart living outside of my chest."

"You are outrageous-"

"I cannot wait to outrage you every day for the rest of our lives, then. Though I may have to take it down a notch or two, at least until we've grown accustomed to one another." He kissed you, laughing into your mouth. "Your eyes are sparkling again, mon coeur. Are you exasperated with me?"

"Every second of every damn day." You huffed, trying and failing to fight your own smile.

"Wonderful. I would have it no other way."

#jean pierre polnareff #jean pierre polnareff/reader #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Stardust Crusaders #holy cow #this got so long #I had a lot of fun #behold my indulgence #I love one (1) giant french man #title taken from Queen because shit it's JOJO I have to #everyone lives au #I'm barely on episode ten of Golden Wind and I'm having a great time #I love JoJo so much #stardust crusaders spoilers

131 notes · View notes

impressivepress · 4 years ago

Text

How the Spirit Of Morocco Seized Matisse

The rain began to fall just a few hours after Henri Matisse installed himself in the Hotel Villa de France in Tangier at the end of January, 1912. For days it poured. ''Shall we ever see the sun in Morocco?'' the artist complained in a letter to Gertrude Stein after his first week.

Matisse kept himself busy by painting a vase of irises in his room, a dark image that makes much of the irregular pattern created by flowers against an ornate dressing table. Only the pale yellow and green stripes reflected in the dressing table's mirror hint at the extraordinary colors that Matisse was to discover in Tangier when the clouds finally lifted.

''Matisse in Morocco,'' which opens today at the National Gallery of Art, has only 23 paintings and about 47 drawings, most of them casual sketches that the artist did while wandering the streets and staring out the window of his hotel during his two trips to North Africa, in 1912 and 1913.

But if the exhibition is small in number of works, it greatly illuminates this key figure in the history of 20th-century art. Matisse's Moroccan paintings are for the most part bathed in a dusty, hazy light, a light composed of pinks and yellows and soft blues and greens. If the somber, sharper tones of his still life with irises were the result of cloudy skies, the view of Tangier from the open window of his hotel room that he painted on his second trip to Morocco reflected an entirely different experience.

This is a scene parched by the sun. Like so many of Matisse's Moroccan paintings, it is covered only in the thinnest washes of pigment, as if Matisse wanted the texture of the unpainted canvas to show through so that it would add rawness to the browns and grays.

Although Matisse spent only a few months in Morocco, his experiences apparently remained vividly with him for the rest of his long life. To see, for example, the paintings he completed in Nice during the 20's, with their odalisques and their dizzying arrangements of carpets and wallpaper is to see Morocco transplanted to the Riviera. And to see the cutouts of Matisse's last years, with their brilliant floral concoctions, is to see the spirit of Morocco still alive in the artist's imagination.

Even the evolution from Matisse's depiction of a female nude in ''Back I'' of 1909 to his abstracted, treelike ''Back IV'' of 1930 can be understood more clearly after seeing the paintings from Tangier. As Pierre Schneider points out in his essay for the exhibition's catalogue, Morocco quickened in Matisse the ''process of botanization'' by which human forms and vegetal forms coalesced in the artist's imagination.

The synthesis emerges in the paintings of Moroccans by Matisse, which are rarely portraits in any traditional sense of the term, so skimpy are they on facial details. Their emphasis is on costume and color, as if the subjects were fantastical flowers, not specific people (like many Europeans, Matisse seemed to view North Africans as exotica). ''Look at a tree,'' Matisse said. ''It is like a human being.''

Once the rain cleared, Matisse saw for the first time the Moroccan landscapes, far more lush than any he had known. He went almost immediately into the gardens of the Villa Brooks, a private estate not far from the hotel, and spent weeks painting the acanthuses, palms and periwinkles that covered the grounds. The landscapes he produced describe a kind of earthly paradise, a place where Matisse's Fauvist heritage, with its palette of unnaturally shocking colors, gave way to something subtler and more seductive.

Matisse obviously did not want to paint Morocco as he had seen it in the works of the French orientalist artists who had made pilgrimages to North Africa since the early 19th century. He strove for neither the picturesque nor the pornographic. Nude women bathing or revealing themselves for the delectation of Arab men - familiar themes in the works of such artists as Jean Leon Gerome - was far from Matisse's mind.

As it did for Delacroix, North Africa liberated his imagination. Matisse looked instead at the foliage, at the designs of the buildings and the textiles, and most of all at the quality of light, and he found a repertory of forms and colors that matched his decorative impulse. Decoration in Morocco was not like decoration in France. It was not secondary to an image; it was the principal subject. By painting the patterns and flowers and costumes he saw around him, Matisse realized that he could elevate decoration to something weightier and more evocative than it had been in certain of his earlier works.

In his sketchbooks, he recorded the way buildings tumbled down to the sea in Tangier, the way minarets went cheek by jowl with boxy stucco cottages, the way city squares looked in the afternoon, when the sun drove everyone indoors. He did not pretend to be anything more than an observer of this territory, an outsider on tour, as he presents himself in a witty pen-and-ink drawing, sketching a mosque in his topcoat under the gaze of a woman in chador.

His drawings were mental notes, quick reminders of what he had observed. Yet if they are slight, they do not lack insight or consideration. It is surely no mistake that in Matisse's sketch of the English Church in Tangier he emphasized the precision of a row of cypress trees, while elsewhere he depicted the marabout dome of the Casbah overrun by foliage. Europe was orderly and predictable. Morocco meant extravagance.

The drawings have been compiled and published for the first time by Jack Cowart, curator of 20th-century art at the National Gallery, who organized the exhibition with Mr. Schneider. ''Matisse in Morocco'' brings together almost all the paintings from the artist's two trips, as well as ''The Moroccans,'' which Matisse completed in 1915-16 at his home near Paris.

This curatorial feat could not have been accomplished just a few years ago. It has required the extensive cooperation of the State Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow and the Hermitage in Leningrad, which own most of the Moroccan canvases. After closing here on June 3, the show travels to the Museum of Modern Art in New York from June 20 to Sept. 4, before going to the Pushkin in later September and the Hermitage in mid-December.

The paintings ended up in Soviet museums because Matisse worked mostly for two enlightened Russian patrons during his trips to Tangier, Sergei Ivanovich Shchukin and Ivan Abramovich Morosov. Shchukin, an importer of textiles and a lover of orientalism, was collecting Matisses before anyone else in Russia - and before most people in Paris - and it was he who bought not only ''The Vase of Irises'' but also several figure studies and other Moroccan works. Morosov commissioned the landscapes that Matisse painted in the gardens of the Villa Brooks.

The artist's relationship with his Russian patrons was more than a matter of money. Matisse visited Shchukin in Saint Petersburg and Moscow in 1911, shortly before his trip to Morocco, and to judge by the works he painted in Tangier, he was deeply affected by what he saw in the Russian churches.

The figure studies that Matisse sold to Shchukin - ''Amido,'' ''Fatma, the Mulatto Woman'' and ''Zorah Standing'' - are tall, narrow images resembling Byzantine paintings of saints. Zorah in particular, who squarely confronts the viewer in a costume as brilliant as almost anything in Byzantine art, brings to mind an icon.

But there is even something religious about the extreme quietude and heavenly plenitude of Matisse's Moroccan landscapes. And the seated pose of Zorah in ''On the Terrace'' suggests a woman praying.

''On the Terrace,'' it should be added, is part of a trio of works that the artist painted for Morosov. It was intended to be the centerpiece between ''Landscape Viewed From a Window'' and ''The Casbah Gate,'' although as with so many of Matisse's Moroccan paintings, the meaning of this grouping is not made clear. But it is interesting that many of Matisse's Moroccan paintings were executed in threes. Mr. Schneider may not be far off when he states, ''Where there are triptychs there is a preoccupation, be it subconscious, with the sacred.''

''The Moroccans,'' which he painted after his return to France, is a triptych, too, in that it combines three distinct memories of Tangier - a memory of the architecture, a memory of the people and a memory of nature. In the upper-left corner of this wide painting Matisse has presented a marabout dome; below is an abstracted scene of what looks like melons but can also be figures bowed in prayer. To the right is an even more ambiguous passage, which resembles an Arab in a burnoose.

The whole is bathed not in the dusky light of his earlier Moroccan canvases but in black. Matisse wrote at the time that he began to ''use pure black as a color of light and not as a color of darkness,'' and perhaps this was his way of reconfiguring the Moroccan sun. But also, by using so much black, he eulogized his experiences in Tangier. Clearly, Morocco remained for Matisse not simply a country of colorful characters and stirring landscapes but also a place of spirituality and mystery.

---

A version of this article appears in print on March 18, 1990, Section 2, Page 37 of the National edition with the headline: ART VIEW; How the Spirit Of Morocco Seized Matisse.

~ Michael Kimmelman · Mar 18, 1990.

#matisse #art article #exibition review #review #morocco #painting #The New York Times

1 note · View note

sportifynews · 4 years ago

Link

1:09

Two clubs made offers for Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang before the Arsenal captain signed a new three-year deal, Dharmesh Sheth tells The Transfer Show

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang has signed a new three-year contract with Arsenal.

The 31-year-old’s deal had been due to expire at the end of the season, but he has now ended speculation by extending his stay at the Emirates.

The Arsenal captain scored in their opening-day 3-0 win over Fulham on Saturday, with first-team manager Mikel Arteta hinting after the match a new contract was close.

Gunners on the rise under Arteta?

Arsenal transfer rumours

Get Sky Sports – All channels £23 a month

“Signing for this special club was never in doubt,” Aubameyang said. “It’s thanks to our fans, my team-mates, my family and everybody at this club that I feel like I belong here.

I believe in Arsenal. We can achieve big things together. We have something exciting here and I believe the best is to come for Arsenal.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang

“I believe in Arsenal. We can achieve big things together. We have something exciting here and I believe the best is to come for Arsenal.”

Arteta added: “It was important for Pierre-Emerick to stay with us. He’s a superb player with an incredible mentality. Being the player to have taken the least amount of time to reach 50 goals with this club tells you everything you need to know about him and his way of working.

“He’s an important leader for the team and a big part of what we’re building. He wants to be up there with the best players in the world and leave his mark. He can achieve that here.”

Aubameyang scored 22 goals in the Premier League last season and netted twice in Arsenal’s 2-1 win over Chelsea in the FA Cup final to secure their place in the Europa League.

The Gabon forward also scored – and converted the winning spot-kick in a penalty shootout – as Arsenal beat Liverpool to win the Community Shield.

Since his move to Arsenal from Borussia Dortmund in January 2018, he has scored 55 goals in 86 Premier League games.

Technical director Edu said: “It’s clear Auba loves the club and everything we stand for on and off the pitch. He’s obviously a very important part of the team so we’re all delighted he has committed his future to us. It’s a big boost for everyone – fans, team-mates and staff.”

Auba: ‘I want to leave a legacy at Arsenal’

After announcing the extension via a live steam on the club’s Instagram and Twitter accounts, Aubameyang stated his desire to follow in the footsteps of Thierry Henry, Ian Wright, Tony Adams and Dennis Bergkamp and become an Arsenal legend.

“Of course I knew about Arsenal before I arrived, everybody knows how special this club is,” Aubameyang said.

“I’ve seen incredible players. Passionate players. Invincible players. I dream of being one of them, amongst the best, and staying in the hearts of the fans forever.

“I want to become an Arsenal legend, just like Thierry, Wrighty, Adams and Bergkamp. Too many to mention.

“My dad is my biggest inspiration and he was captain of his club and his country, so it means so much to me to be the captain of this special club. I want to leave a legacy, this is where I belong. This is my family.”

Insight: ‘Two offers for Auba before new deal signed’

Sky Sports’ Dharmesh Sheth on The Transfer Show:

I spoke to a couple people close to Arsenal earlier on Wednesday, this represents a huge deal, a huge coup for Arsenal because I’ve been told – they won’t tell me the clubs – there were two major offers for Aubameyang during this transfer window, which didn’t get leaked out.

Two big clubs. So then you have to go and give a bit of credit to technical director Edu and Mikel Arteta, because Arteta has always said it’s not about whether Aubameyang wants to stay at Arsenal, we have to convince Aubameyang that we have the ambition to fulfil his ambition, that we’re going to sign the right players for him to commit another three years, to make sure he’s at a club that’s winning things.

The FA Cup victory might have gone some way into persuading Aubameyang that the direction Arsenal are going is the direction he wants to go in. You have to give a lot of credit to Arteta because he has effectively persuaded Aubameyang that this is the place for him.

Analysis: This deal is a sign of where Arsenal are heading

This is a great deal for Aubameyang, says SSN’s Dharmesh Sheth

Sky Sports’ Dharmesh Sheth:

Arsenal fans can breathe easy – finally.

No need for ‘Announce Aubameyang Contract’. It is done. He has signed. And for the player, it’s a great deal. Three years in fact.

There were some dissenting voices. Why give a 31-year-old that length of contract and that much money (reportedly £250,000 a week)? Simple. 72 goals in 111 appearances. Since he made his debut, nobody in the Premier League has scored more than Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.

This deal, though, is perhaps a sign of where Arsenal are heading.

“Hopefully we can convince him that this is the right place for him and that he has a future here”. The words of first-team manager Mikel Arteta when asked about Aubameyang in February.

Turns out Arteta and Arsenal have convinced him.

The new contract on its own will delight Arsenal supporters, but what it signifies could provide reasons to be optimistic about where the club is going.

Sky Sports News reporter Dharmesh Sheth

An eighth-placed finish may say otherwise, but it appears Aubameyang is buying into something. Under Arteta, Arsenal have beaten Manchester United and Liverpool in the Premier League. They won the FA Cup thanks in no small part to victories over Manchester City in the semis and Chelsea in the final – Aubameyang scored twice in both matches.

In those games Arteta’s tactics were lauded, tactics which brought the best out of his main man. Add to that, Arteta has shown a ruthless streak – ask Mesut Ozil and Matteo Guendouzi. Undoubtedly, the strength of the manager will have been a huge factor in Aubameyang’s decision – as will the ambition of the club.

There is an acceptance Arsenal need to be creative in this transfer window, but make no mistake, Aubameyang will have asked about potential signings. Are they bringing in players to help challenge for a top-four place, and dare I say it, the title? Aubameyang must think so.

There are changes behind the scenes. Head of football Raul Sanllehi gone, managing director Vinai Venkatesham taking over the role with an accompanying rallying cry. “There is much work to do to return Arsenal to the top of the game where we belong, which is what our fans rightly demand.” A view no doubt shared by Aubameyang.

The new contract on its own will delight Arsenal supporters, but what it signifies could provide reasons to be optimistic about where the club is going.

Transfer Centre LIVE!

Transfer Show: Could Arsenal swap Lacazette for Partey?

Arsenal head of football Sanllehi leaves

Arsenal in advanced talks for Runarsson

Arsenal are in advanced talks with Dijon over the signing of goalkeeper Runar Alex Runarsson.

The 25-year-old Iceland international has two years remaining on his contract with the French club having joined from Danish side Nordsjaelland in 2018.

Arsenal are in the market for a back-up ‘keeper to compete with youngster Matt Macey, having accepted a £16m bid from Aston Villa for Emiliano Martinez.

The 28-year-old Argentinian is expected to complete the move to Villa Park this week.

Martinez has two years remaining on his contract at the Emirates and impressed when stepping in for first-choice ‘keeper Bernd Leno when the German was injured in June, but the Gunners are actively looking to generate funding for further outfield signings in this window.

Transfer Centre LIVE!

All the latest news, analysis and rumours from the window in one place.

The summer transfer window will run for 10 weeks from July 27 and close at 11pm on October 5.

A domestic-only window for trades between the Premier League and EFL then runs from October 5 and closes on Friday, October 16 at 5pm. Follow all the news and analysis on Sky Sports News and across Sky Sports‘ digital platforms, including with our dedicated Transfer Centre blog.

Transfer Talk podcast

Every week throughout the window, the Transfer Talk podcast digs into the biggest storylines in the Premier League and around Europe, with debate and analysis from some of the most well connected reporters in the football world.

Download and subscribe in the link above, or find us wherever you get your podcasts.

original source

The post Aubameyang signs new three-year Arsenal contract appeared first on Sportify News.

#Sports #sportsnews #news #ufc #football #tennis #boxing #mma #golf #wwe #cricket #nba #nfl #nhl #mlb

0 notes

caveartfair · 7 years ago

Text

Meet the Artist Painting the Aliens That Abducted Him

Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

These are the facts, as 74-year-old David Huggins sees them: He encountered his first aliens at age eight. He lost his virginity to a female extraterrestrial at age 17. He’s fathered a clan of hybrid alien-human babies. And these otherworldly beings have given him permission to paint it all.

Filmmaker Brad Abrahams first heard Huggins’s story while listening to a radio interview on the paranormal during a cross-country bus trip. A psychologist was discussing a wide variety of abduction experiences, but this one was “orders of magnitude weirder” than the rest, he recalls. “They were discussing reputable cases, and they used his as an example of something that was too crazy to even consider.”

David Huggins, In My Bedroom. Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

That was the seed of Love & Saucers, Abrahams’s recent documentary that explores Huggins’s otherwordly experiences and the art he’s created in response. The film offers a tender portrait of a man with a story too outlandish even for those who are used to the implausible. Abrahams gives us a front-row seat to observe Huggins in his New Jersey home, surrounded by an extensive collection of sci-fi and horror movies on VHS, working diligently on a handwritten movie script or his latest painting.

These artworks—he’s made about 150 in total—take up a considerable amount of screen time, as Huggins introduces the various aliens he’s encountered through the years (from the praying mantis-esque “insect being” to the big-eyed Greys to the little “hairy guy” with glowing eyes). Abrahams says that Huggins equates the paintings to film stills. “After watching so many movies, he thinks of them cinematically,” the filmmaker says. “Maybe not even consciously, but each of the paintings is like a little scene from a movie that you can imagine playing out.”

Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

Huggins was a trained artist years before he began illustrating his extraterrestrial experiences. He grew up in Georgia, where a troubled home life spurred him to set out for New York City in his late teens. There, he studied at the Art Students League of New York and took classes in painting and drawing. His favorite artists are the Impressionists, including Pierre-Auguste Renoir and Claude Monet; his early paintings were mostly landscapes and portraits. Then, in 1987, Huggins says the aliens suggested he make a visual record of his experiences—and he’s been painting them ever since.

Huggins is often described as an “outsider artist,” or someone who creates work beyond of the confines of the traditional art world. There’s a rich tradition of these sorts of creators documenting their alien encounters. Ionel Talpazan, for example, was a Romanian artist who sold his work on the streets of Manhattan in the 1980s. His detailed cross-sections of UFOs and depictions of life in outer space caught the eye of a dealer and, beginning in the 1990s, he showed in galleries and museums. Howard Finster, a Baptist preacher, made art obsessively and was fascinated by flying saucer lore.

David Huggins, Coming Through. Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

Outsider art is often made with little intention to show or to sell. Instead, it’s a personal passion, almost a compulsion to create. Before the documentary, Abrahams says Huggins had shown his art publicly only once or twice, including at a local beauty salon. (A pop-up solo show was organized as part of the documentary’s filming.) This December, the art space Philadelphia Mausoleum of Contemporary Art (PhilaMOCA for short) hosted his another solo show in conjunction with a screening of Love & Saucers. PhilaMOCA’s director and curator, Eric Bresler, described Huggins as “much more interested in creating than exhibiting.”

Bresler brought him to Philadelphia in advance of the show to handle logistics. “It was an arbitrary process in which titles were given based on the content of the painting”—Bresler mentions examples like Eight Little Guys Floating Down or Handing Me the Packaged Alien—“and pricing was determined by the size of the canvas and the degree to which he wanted to part with it.” Bresler offered to buy a horizontal close-up of Crescent’s eyes, but Huggins declined to sell it. (The director instead ended up with a painting of Crescent reclining in the woods.)

David Huggins, Her Eyes. Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

“That night he sold more art than he ever has at one time,” Bresler says. “Despite having a pocketful of cash, he told me that he was much more pleased about being able to talk to the attendees about his experiences.”

Huggins is clear that he doesn’t care if people believe his story, but he’s compellingly earnest when describing his experiences. Abrahams recalls, during the question and answer session at PhilaMOCA following a screening of Love & Saucers, that “the audience was rapt by his presence, like in awe. [Huggins was] like a guru, everyone staring with their jaws open, listening to every word he was saying.”

David Huggins, Implant. Courtesy of Love and Saucers.

For his part, Bresler said the experience struck him—though he’s not yet an actual UFO convert. “I don’t believe that humanoid-like beings from outer space have ever visited Earth,” he admits, “though the combination of David’s sincerity and the visceral impact of his paintings certainly planted a least a seed of possibility in my mind.”

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

4 notes · View notes

geminitraveller · 4 years ago

Text

Art Encounter Through the Years: The First Encounters

It was in France and Spain that I got the so-called baptism of fire in the appreciation of arts. My first museum visit was in Paris at Musée d’Orsay, home of the largest collection of Impressionist paintings in the world. It was by accident that we got to the Orsay as we would have preferred to visit the Louvre instead. But the lines were long and we didn’t have time to wait that long. I never regretted the visit to the Orsay. It is a bit smaller and more manageable than the Louvre. Smaller is a relative word because the Musée d’Orsay is actually not small. You could easily spend the whole day exploring it. It’s just that the Louvre is humongous and needs several days to explore.

Since it was my first museum visit, overwhelmed is an understatement to describe it. I was mesmerized and dumbfounded to say the least. Never in my life have I imagined these many great artists and their beautiful artworks exist and that you can spend a whole day exploring them ad still you didn’t finish looking at all of them. And this was just a single museum. How many museums like this are there in the world?

Bal du Moulin de la Galette (1876) Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France

One of the few artworks that I remembered admiring then was Bal du Moulin de la Galette, one of Renoir’s most important works and one of Impressionism’s most highly revered masterpieces.

The Moulin de la Galette was an open-air dance hall in Paris in the 1870s. Open-air dance halls were very popular in 19th-century France and were a great source of entertainment for the people. Most people went there not to dance, but just to watch the dancers and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) is a French painter from Limoges in the middle of France. He is one of the founders of Impressionism, together with artists like Cézanne, Degas, Manet, and Monet. The Impressionists focused on the effects of light and often painted outside. Renoir’s opinion about art was that it should be pretty and he mostly painted very happy scenes.

The Burial of the Count of Orgaz (1586) El Greco. Iglesia de Santo Tomé, Toledo, Spain

On my visit to Toledo, an ancient city an hour away from Madrid, I became a fan of Mannerist painter El Greco who calls Toledo his home. The above artwork was the first time an artwork was explained extensively by a local tour guide and so it was quite memorable. I listened intently, amazed at how much details an artist can reveal in his work.

The Burial of the Count of Orgas is widely considered one of El Greco’s masterpieces. The painting depicts a popular legend, regarding the Count of Orgas, who was a pious man, and who upon his death left a large sum of money to the church. The legend tells that Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine descended from heaven at his funeral and buried them with their own hands. Andres Nunes, the parish priest of Sao Tome, was the commissioner of the work, who intended it for a project to refurbish the Count’s burial chapel. According to the commission, the observers of the burial were to be portraits of the notable men of Toledo at the time. Included also are portraits of El Greco and his son, the only two people in the painting looking front at the viewer. The artist signed his name in the handkerchief of his son. All the small details pointed to us by the guide as we viewed this masterpiece.

Domenikos Theotokopoulos, other wise known as “El Greco” due to his Greek heritage, was a popular Greek painter, sculptor, and architect of the Spanish Renaissance. He was a master of post-Byzantine art by the age of 26, when he traveled to Venice, and later Rome, where he opened his first workshop. Unlike other artists, El Greco altered his style in order to distinguish himself from other artists of the time, inventing new and unusual interpretations of religious subject matter. He created agile, elongated figures, and included a vibrant atmospheric light. After the death of Raphael and Michelangelo, he was determined to leave his own artistic mark, and offered to paint over Michelangelo’s Last Supper to Pope Pius V. His unconventional artistic beliefs (his dislike of Michelangelo included), along with his strong personality, led to the development of many enemies in Rome, especially the hostilities of art critics.

Las Meninas (1656) Diego Velázquez. Baroque. Museo Nacional Del Prado, Madrid, Spain

Back to Madrid, on our last day, I chose to visit Museo Nacional del Prado, the main Spanish national art museum. This time I am prepared to face a multitude of artworks. But based on what I saw in Musée d’Orsay, I was not prepared to see a different kind of art - Spanish art and the prevalence of the Baroque style. From the many works of art at the Prado, Las Meninas has caught my eye. I lingered longer in front of this art piece than at any other works. Something in it is unique from my untrained but appreciative eye. You must remember that internet was still in its infancy in 1999. I was new in art and I didn’t know that this was one of the most important artworks in history. Only when I researched back home did I understand the importance of this work in art.

“One of the most famous and controversial artworks of all time, Las Meninas (The Maids of Honour) is regarded as a dialogue between artist and viewer, with its double mirror imagery and sketchy brushwork that brings every figure and object in the room to life" - from the book, 30,000 Years of Art. "Painters as diverse as Goya, Manet, Sargent and Picasso have been inspired to create copies and adaptations after Velázquez’s masterpiece.”

Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (1599-1660) was a Spanish painter, the leading artist in the court of King Philip IV, and one of the most important painters of the Spanish Golden Age. He was an individualistic artist of the contemporary Baroque period. In addition to numerous renditions of scenes of historical and cultural significance, he painted scores of portraits of the Spanish royal family, other notable European figures, and commoners, culminating in the production of his masterpiece Las Meninas.

The Garden of Earthly Delights (1503-1515) Hieronymus Bosch. Northern Renaissance. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, Spain

Another work of note which has impressed me at the Prado was The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch. The intricacy of the work is amazing and a short glance was simply not enough. There is a story you have to look for and many small details to examine which made me remember the work.

By far the best known and most ambitious work, The Garden of Earthly Delights illustrates Bosch’s individual artistic style, containing the most vivid imagery and complexity of symbolic meaning. The triptych is generally thought to be a warning of the dangers of giving in to temptation, but has been subject to vast amounts of conjecture and scrutiny, and critics and historians are split in two directions. Whereas some believe that the middle panel, which depicts a fantastical world of nudes in sexual engagement, large fruits, and other suggestive elements, is simply an illustration of paradise lost, others believe that it is a moral warning, which will lead you to hell, as it is depicted in the third panel of the series. Although there are many contradictory explanations, it is generally thought to be a warning against lust, one of the seven deadly sins.

Hieronymus Bosch born Jheronimus van Aken c. 1450 – 9 August 1516) was a Dutch/Netherlandish painter from Brabant. He is one of the most notable representatives of the Early Netherlandish painting school. His work contains fantastic illustrations of religious concepts and narratives. Within his lifetime his work was collected in the Netherlands, Austria, and Spain, and widely copied, especially his macabre and nightmarish depictions of hell.

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo. Staue in bronze by Sabino de Medina . Plaza del Museo, Seville, Spain

During my first visit to the city of Seville, I chanced upon seeing this monument of Sevillian painter Murillo and the museum across it. It was located about a minute or two from the small hotel we booked. Since everyone was tired and wants to rest, I decided to pay a visit to this museum on my own. I got the surprise of my life when I went to explore this seemingly small museum. First, it was not small inside and the works on exhibit were by far the most extensive collection of Spanish works of art I’ve seen even to this day. And the grandeur of the architecture and interior of the sala was something I have never expected to find inside this local museum. Even the beautiful gardens and several courtyards are a nice addition to explore. The main gallery dedicated to the works of Murillo, together with its grand cupola is located in the former antigua iglesia and is one of the most magnificent exhibition halls I’ve been.

The Museo (Museum of Fine Arts), Sevilla, was established as a "Museum to display paintings", by Royal Decree on 16 September 1835, with objects from convents and monasteries seized by the liberal government presided by Mendizábal. It is located in the Plaza del Museo, in the place of the former Convento de la Merced Calzada founded on lands transferred by Ferdinand III after conquering Sevilla.

It has magnificent works of art by Murillo, Zurbarán, Valdés Leal and other representatives of the Seville school. True enough, due to the quality of the art, it is today considered as the second best gallery in Spain.

In 2017, I was back in Seville after 18 years and I didn’t pass on the chance to visit one of my favourite museums again. After visiting many museums through the years, Museo de Bellas Artes in Seville still leaves me in awe of the beautiful works of art. The fascination was still there. Only this time, I am more knowledgeable about arts and museums and I can better appreciate everything in this museum. Still, I loved this museum. I still haven’t met anyone who’s visited this museum. It’s somewhat off the beaten path where museums are concerned. I’m glad to have been there not once but twice. It’s my secret gem of a museum.

Visiting the grand main gallery of Museo de Bellas Artes. Paintings in the background are by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo including Inmaculada Concepcion “La Colosal” in the center.

Cristo Crucificado, a series of paintings on Jesus on the cross by Francisco de Zurbarán, a Spanish painter known primarily for his religious paintings depicting monks, nuns, and martyrs, and for his still-lifes. Zurbarán gained the nickname "Spanish Caravaggio," owing to the forceful use of chiaroscuro in which he excelled.

#artmuseum #art

0 notes

ishikagupta3796 · 6 years ago

Text

OffSet’s Ric Flair Pendant at Jewelry Unlimited – Styling Like a Rapper

If you are a fan of rap and haven’t being eyeing Offset’s Ric Flair Pendant, are you really a hip-hop fan?

Jewelry Unlimited has been designing all the cool stuff for top rappers, and recently, they designed the Ric Flair chain for offset, gifted to him by the CEO of his label, Pierre ‘Pee’ Thomas.

Ric Flair is all the rage in US and now this chain. Donned by Offset, this chain is made of 27 carats on the chain and 25 on the pendant and designed by Wafi Lalani of Jewelry Unlimited.

Rapper chains have been very popular. Other than the Ric Flair Pendant, several other rappers have wore chains that have been difficult to forget. “Neck frozen.” “Ice on my neck.” These are common declarations laced within rap lyrics. Whether it’s VVS stones, platinum or 18k gold pendants, or their record label’s logo, the chain announces a status to solidify your standing on how much dough you bankroll. It’s an extension of a personality.

Purchasing a custom piece gives the artist a platform to test their design skills while a jeweler translates their vision into reality. This experience may not always turn out as planned. Do you really need a cereal box covered in stones?

But there are those who execute their piece so perfectly that the chain becomes a standalone figure in hip-hop. There’s the Jesus Piece; NIGO’s artillery that was the equivalent of eight Rolls-Royce Phantoms on his neck; and the simple double Cuban link chain that was referenced like its owner’s famous moniker. Anyone can drop some insane cash for jewelry, but it’s these ten gems that are cemented in history through imagery and song lyrics. They are classics in their own right. Here is a list of the most interesting chains wore by rappers over the year.

SLICK RICK – SCALES OF JUSTICE

No one exuded cool like the British transplant from the Bronx. Slick Rick’s smooth bravado and witty delivery cemented his Art of Story Telling as a hip-hop classic. But like his album, it’s Rick’s class and flat out indulgence in obnoxiously large gold chains and pendants that hold their own in rhyming lore.

Never to be outdone, Rick always made sure the ‘80s were a time of catch up when he flossed his jewelry game. Before NIGO was NIGO, Rick wore every single accessory he owned. Not noted for just one chain, but for the way he wore it.

FLAVOR FLAV – CLOCK

While Chuck D prophesied the revolution to “Bring The Noise,” the eccentric, downright obnoxious yelling sidekick, Flavor Flav, would lace the track with ad-libs as his clock bounced to the beat. To match his quirky persona that balanced Chuck’s seriousness, Flav would rock a clock you would normally gaze at while in detention as his “chain.”

Flav’s clock chain rotation was plenty and was synonymous with the man’s identity. Whenever you came across a circular clock, you couldn’t help but say his name the way he would deliver it. Flavor Flaaaaaaaavv!

Nigo Dollar Sign

Strutting onto the scene as the silent Japanese counterpart to Pharrell in the mid-2000s, NIGO made sure his presence was felt with the glistening factor of a disco ball in the form of five chains. Many who were clueless about the BAPE storm that had taken over Japan’s fashion scene and the proponent who led the charge were in for a treat, as his threads would soon take over hip-hop with Skateboard P’s help.

During his reign, no one dared — or could even afford — to reach NIGO’s swagger. Diamond-studded BBC Ice Cream cone chain? Check. BBC moon man head? Yes. And for that dollar sign that was nearly the size of an average man’s face? NIGO reportedly shelled out $4 million for that piece — fast-forward seven years later and that chain would run a cool 4.6 million stacks today.

2 Chainz Cuban Links

After changing his alias, the Atlanta-bred rapper took on the ingenious use of the name 2 Chainz as a quirky alias that suits the typical number of chains he wears. Even creative house DONDA used his name as an inspiration to drape Cuban Link Chains atop a black base for his upcoming album cover. Now, when people wear two chains, you can’t help but echo his voice when he says, “2 Chainz.”

NOTORIOUS BIG - THE JESUS PIECE

Many rappers throughout the years have accessorized their style with the famed Jesus Piece. The homage to the higher power above is a staple in hip-hop, and most likely the G.O.A.T. for its classy appeal. For one Brooklyn-born-and-raised legend, the chain was the subject of numerous photos and even lyrics. “Cubans with the Jesus Piece,” proclaimed Biggie in “Going Back to Cali.”

LIL JON - CRUNK AIN’T DEAD

The innovator of the now-defunct Crunk tried to stretch the sub hip-hop genre as much as possible — even commissioning a lofty suburban home in the form of a chain stating that “Crunk Ain’t Dead.” Each letter was paved in diamonds that amounted to 3,756 in total as it hung from a pain-inducing gold “dookie” rope chain.

Carrying an estimated value of $500,000, the accessory was usually in Jon’s hand instead of dangling from his neck — a safety precaution to avoid strain. Unlike the scene he popularized, his chain holds its own among the greatest pieces to be donned.

TUPAC - DEATH ROW

Tupac was very adamant of the coast he backed and the crew he rolled. During Death Row Records’ reign as king of the charts and streets, their logo was startling and carried weight with those who wore it. The pendant was worn by its owner as well as his label mates and affiliates as a marker of who they represented. Like Tupac, the chain is remembered as a reminder of a time when the West Coast ruled all

ERIC B. AND RAKIM – DOOKIE ROPE CHAIN

In the ‘80s, everyone was rocking the shell toes, jump suits and Kangol bucket hats; however that outfit wasn’t complete without a thick “dookie” rope chain or a Mercedes-Benz logo. The most recognized figures rocking those chains? Eric B. and Rakim. Each had two just to make sure the presence on their necks was on par with their beat and rhyming skills.

The chains were a staple of the era when the rhyming art form was beginning to blossom from the streets to the mainstream. The pieces have since made their way onto the likes of Pusha T, Kanye West, and Nas, as homage to the era when platinum’s popularity quickly waned for something even the FED can’t back.

KANYE WEST – HORUS

Forever outspoken and on a destructive path that walked the line of his creative genius taking over the rap game, the Chicagoan “sophisticated ignorance” was fully embodied in his Horus chain. Ye’s fashion statement lifestyle was on display with every single accessory of clothing he wore.

At a time when West was trading in his lavish affinities for a minimalist aesthetic, the Egyptian-themed jewelry was the equivalent of wearing an outrageous ensemble on the red carpet. Horus was known as one of the most significant beings in ancient Egyptian times. It’s no secret that the Good Music boss chose this piece to state his ignorance and where he stands musically — ahead of everyone else and himself.

RUN DMC – DOOKIE CHAINS

Responsible for nearly everything that is rooted in hip-hop culture, the two emcees and one DJ from Hollis, Queens created movements. For all the rappers who have worn the rope chains, they owe many thanks to the originators, Reverend Run, DMC and Jam Master Jay. Everything about them was New York: the Adidas track suits, the shell-toe sneakers, and the rose gold dookies.

How Can You Were Chains like Rappers?

By now you know that you can get all the cool rapper chain styles at Jewelry Unlimited, but you still may not be sure how to style yourself. Hip hop jewelry looks all cool and stuff, but it is not so easy to style. With tons of different neck wear, it is a must to gain a better look for yourself. We are not talking about just big gold chains here, We are talking about small chains, dog tags and other neck wear you can use to make yourself look like you actually know how to dress. When you look like you know how to dress yourself people will take you more seriously as a rapper.

How to dress like a rapper? For this, let’s first go over the types of neck wear.

No one cares if they are fake

We are at a time where the richest rappers have been called out for wearing fake jewelry. Plies (who was infamous for buying big ridiculous chains) said after his run in Hip Hop had slowed down that buying those chains were the dumbest decisions he ever made. The fact is, if you have the confidence to wear it, they think - Yo, what if that’s real though? Who the hell is that person and how do they have the confidence to wear that?

They can’t prove it’s fake unless they steal it and get it tested which you know isn’t going to happen. Unless they rob you and later feel stupid when they try to pawn it. If you are really into gold chains, you can get good quality Hip Hop Chains at Jewelry Unlimited with financing available up to 5 years.

How To Determine The length of a chain online

How to determine the length of a chain online chart is above. The most common chain sizes are 20″ 24″ 30″ 36″. The highly recommended one is 24″ as it is not too long and not too short.

How To Determine The Thickness of a chain online

In order to determine the THICKNESS of a chain on the internet here is a chart for you compared to an item you are very familiar with.

It is recommended to start with a smaller MM chain and move up in size and length. A good starting size would be 24 inches and 8MM in thickness.

Pro-tip: ALWAYS Check the clearance section of websites. You get the stuff for like 80% off. You can also always get great discounts at Jewelry Unlimited.

Dog Tags

Dog tags are a cool way to get started with Hip Hop jewelry. You can get custom ordered Dog Tags with custom text. A dig tag with a cool text makes a lot of difference in the appearance and the impact. It adds to the image of the person wearing it. Custom dog tags also make you look richer and do not give the feel that you are wearing something off the shelf.

Image and style is all about accessorizing. The clothing outfit is just the base of everything. After that it is all about the accessories (chains, bracelets and rings) to really make everything pop. You can draw inspiration from your favorite rapper but no need to copy them. You create your own style and can set the trend for others. You got this! you will find your look and grow more everyday over time. Just be conscious that you have an image.

To explore your own style or but jewelry worn by top rappers, visit Jewelry Unlimited. Here you will find the coolest stud worn by top-the-chart rappers.

#Cuban link chain #Ric Flair chain for offset #jewelry unlimited #gold #Diamond Jewelry #gold chains

0 notes

fapangel · 7 years ago

Note

> It’s not like it’s a desktop plugged into a normal ISP | No, but it runs software written by people who think "just reboot your airplane mid-flight if you cross the international date border" (F-22) and "remember to reboot your missile battery every day or you will murder your own people" (Patriot) are acceptable workarounds. They won't catch cryptolockers (probably), but I'm not that optimistic about their resilience to targeted attacks.

Those are both good examples of why cyberattacks on weapon systems are so hard - even something as simple as a date or time tracking bug (like with the Patriot) can lead to people dying. (Rebooting the system was not considered an “acceptable workaround,” by the way; that was a temporary remedy until they could get the updated software rolled out.) This is one big reason that upgrading old ships and combat systems can be so expensive - the software is not trivial. Perhaps no other software on Earth is more extensively proofed, tested, and examined - and for damn good reason. COTS (Commercial Off The Shelf) has reduced the other big cost; which was the (essentially) custom-built mainframe computers most warplanes/ships used up till the 90s, but the coding is still very expensive and time-consuming to do. Hell, the baseline upgrade that allowed Aegis ships to operate in anti-BMD and anti-air modes at the same time was 90% a matter of improved software, as I recall. Compromising such systems is a hell of a lot harder than you might think, especially because you can’t just install a copy on your own boxen to start looking for zero-days - some of this software is allegedly based on Windows Version Whatever, but that short-sells the sheer extent of the custom modifications. Same for Linux/UNIX based systems.

But this is all completely aside from the bigger issue - attack surface. How the hell do you communicate remotely with the target? You can’t just “ping the carrier’s IP address.” You’re not Jeff Goldblum hacking the Alien mothership on his fucking PowerBook 5300. How do you access those systems in the first place? You either need to engineer physical access - such as putting a poisoned USB drive into circulation “upstream” and hoping either the drive - or its payload - can then percolate downstream till some contractor plugs it into a computer on the target ship (this is how the NSA nailed the Iranian uranium centrifuges; via Siemens engineers in Germany,) or you have to access the enemy’s military communications network - which is a fucking colossal challenge in and of itself. That’d entail getting into the MILSTARs network - which is routed through our geo-synch satellites - and THEN gaining so much control over that system that you can then pass arbitrary signals down the links to receiving combat platforms, and get past their verification checks and encryption challenges as well.

It’s far easier to target the enemy’s C3 network itself, and deny the combat platforms the greater benefits of networked communication - or to outright jam the links between the combat platforms themselves (or their C3 assets, for that matter.) Or you could just shoot down the satellites. Geosynch satellites are well out of reach of anything short of an ICBM-sized weapon, you usually have to send a kill-sat after them... and that miiight just be why the Air Force has already launched a pair of geo-synch inspection satellites to keep a very, very close eye on anything suspicious that might start matching orbit phases with our geo-synch MILSTARs assets.

Anon, there is a fucking reason 8/10ths of hacking these days is done via old-fashioned, pre-computer style “Social engineering” (i.e. send some fuckwit an e-mail to trick him into just giving you his password and username,) and most if not all of the serious successful hacking attacks on the US were against contractor computer systems, not hardened weapons-crucial systems.

While we’re at it, a similar comment sitting in my inbox:

You don’t just “hack a carrier,” // What, did you forget about Wiki leaks dump about CIA's vault 7? All those nice cyber attack systems could well be used against us fapangel. That and an inside agent that got payed off or other wise compromised by outside forces. BTW, just how many contract workers does the Navy have they can't be sure of? Government contractors seems to be the source of a lot of leaks and weak points these days.

The lesson you’ve failed to learn from the many WikiLeaks revelations is just how goddamned good US cyber war capability is. You must understand that all this shit coming out in the Wikileaks files is years old. Yes, even the WannaCry exploits? Years old. Just a zero-day nobody else had found in the meantime. The NSA does not sit still, and even a few years is an eternity in the cyber realm. I promise you that the NSA is currently using shit that was barely a whitepaper when Snowden was swiping files on currently active systems and tools.

And while we’re at it - trying to use our own fucking code against us is like trying to drown a fish in water. We fucking invented this shit, bro - we know it backwards and forwards. The first thing the NSA did when Snowden walked out was conduct a very thorough review and cataloging of all the shit he compromised, and then the second thing they did was assume that every single fucking byte would be in the Russians fucking hands ten seconds after he touched down. Sure, Snowden has all that shit super encrypted and he’s a good guy who was looking to Save America, not hand the fucking Russians the intelligence coup of the century, but:

The spooks might fuck up royally sometimes, but they’re not that fucking stupid. They’ve been expecting these weapons to be turned against us since the day Snowden left and been reacting accordingly. The real problem is that hand-me-down cyberweapons are still dangerous even when the Big Boys aren’t playing with them anymore - just like any other weapon, once they’re tossed into the playpen, it’s what every other fuck is going to do with them against civilians, governments, economies in general that is going to cause mayhem. Such as, say, Russian mafia cyber-criminals using them to propagate new ransomware strains or build new botnets.

Seriously, read up on this shit, and you’ll notice how little actual military systems are mentioned. They are targeted, mind you, and there is a danger there, but it’s many orders of magnitude harder to attack a very limited, well-defined system that’s made redundant and paranoid by base design, because it controls weapons - with extensive security then overlaid on that. Yes, you can attempt it, but the returns on investment are massively better when you can take down the power grid of entire fucking cities by tricking one fuckwit civvie into sending you his fucking username and password. Assuming you don’t just sneak into the building at night and leave a pinhole camera somewhere it can watch a fuckin keyboard, at that!

The damage these attacks can wreak is incalculable. And also military significant. One thing the US was criticized for - by the likes of Pierre and other shitbirds - was how many targets in Serbia (Operation Allied Force/Resolve) were strategic in nature, rather than tactical. They were whining about how the ChairFarce still has the Strategic Bomber Mafia mindset from WWII instead of the MODERN WARFIGHTA idea of killing each tank itself, (buy more A-10 plox F-whatever a turkey visual awareness > radars blah blah). But they did illuminate something - the US tends to target critical infrastructure as a way of punishing nations without threatening their ability to resist invasion, which might panic them into doing something stupid, or killing lots of soldiers or civilians. When your people are screaming blue murder because half the nation is without power and all the bridges are blown and they can’t get food shipments to local supermarkets, that tends to generate, ah, pressure. And of course power plants and such are the first thing targeted in a full-out, no-holds-barred war like the Gulf Wars, too - knock out a powerplant and you make life much harder for the enemy in that area. Every military invests in backup diesel generators, but they’re backups - you can force them to rely mostly or exclusively on their own communication networks and supply lines. What fucking good is a jamming aircraft in the air, if the assholes can just pick up an old-fashioned copper landline and call HQ? And everyone uses the same roads and bridges!

Now, consider - America’s domestic infrastructure was completely invulnerable to attack during WWI and WWII, despite some elaborate attempts to change that fact by our enemies - and it was a huge contributor to our victories in those wars. In a modern conflict, our very cyberattack-vulnerable civilian infrastructure offers China and Russia a way to strike at our homeland - either for purposes of morale/pressure or direct military goals - in a way that they literally CANNOT do kinetically, even if they were insane enough to try. For return-on-investment, it makes damn little sense to attack our military networks directly - especially when even if everything broke their way, they’d still be fighting a war they simply could not win, based on industrial output, tech base, and above all, current force disparities. The non-kinetic but very painful domestic option fits the “hybrid warfare” schematic perfectly, and make no mistake, China would have to use this just like Russia is now - any armed conflict will include efforts to seek a cease-fire fast. China’s position is much like Japan’s in 1941; they cannot win an extended clash, but they can hope to win a sharp initial clash, and then push to “win the peace” to use diplomacy to solidify their gains. Or at least, they think they can.

This isn’t academic, either. I’ve been reading about this on Slashdot for years. One honeypot - set up to look like the web interface of a local city’s water-treatment plant - recorded the intruders gaining access, twiddling the levers just long enough to check that the virtual dials were responding - and then quietly installed a backdoor, covered their tracks, and logged out. The Chinese and Russians are actively building a catalog of pre-compromised civilian targets in the domestic US to be attacked en-masse should it be required.

And you’re worried about them somehow magically hacking away our crushing technological and weaponry advantage with some kind of Hollywood Hacker gee-whiz plot excuse bullshit? Motherfucker, you don’t even know.

4 notes · View notes

healthbolt-blog · 6 years ago

Text

New Post has been published on Health bolt

New Post has been published on http://www.healthbolt.net/cooking/healthy-cooking-classes-long-island-ny/

Healthy Cooking Classes Long Island Ny

Contents

Rewarding cooking classes

Healthy recipes. stress relief

Offering free health screenings

Cooking healthy chicken breast cooking

North african-inspired spices

York … adulting

The talented chef, whose personal mission is to transform The Pierre “into New York … healthy diet and training regimen to lose 100 pounds in just 16 weeks on the second while continuing to manage d…

Cooking classes are semester-long classes. Kids learn how food connects to culture, the proper way to handle food and kitchen tools, as well as how to measure properly and follow a recipe. … Cooking Classes For Kids On Long Island: Delicious Fun. Submitted by Denise on Wed, 08/21/2013 … Recipes are mapped out on a chart to assist with …

Healthy Cooking Oil For Baking Healthy Cooking Classes Bay Area One of the most rewarding cooking classes that chef and … 6 p.m. at the UC Cooperative Extension. The class, which started Feb. 19, runs for six weeks. The class is paid for by Fresh Approach, the B… The gardens also give students an opportunity to learn about agriculture in what UC Berkeley’s Haas Institute calls an area t… COOS COUNTY — When you’re homeless, cooking healthy meals isn’t always … out the kinks in the program before bringing the classes back next year. “We applied for a hospital grant through Bay Area Ho… If you like to cook and you live in the Green Bay area, you might have heard of him. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have a name like ace champion. champion, who lives in De Pere, is an independent cook… Cooking Class Deals: 50 to 90% off deals in Cooking Classes near you. Get daily deals and local insights near you today! Five-Course Italian Cooking Class for One or Two at Luigi’s Italian Eatery (Up to 69% Off). Six-Hour Barbecue-Grilling and Smoking Class for One or Two at Seattle BBQ and Grilling School (Up to 50% Off). Healthy Cooking Shopping List Cheap and healthy recipes. stress relief. bodyweight workouts. … The Ultimate Healthy Grocery List When You’re Cooking for One. … Grocery Shopping Healthy Living Tips Eat. Is Cooking With Wine Healthy Why am I just now hearing about natural wines? The natural wine craze is an extension of the healthy lifestyle movement, the winemakers said. “The broad public desire to know where their food comes fr… Cooking with wine can enhance flavor and cut down on the amount of fat needed (in some recipes, you can substitute wine for all or part of the specified quantity of oil). However, because you lose between 60 and 95 percent of the alcohol content of wine used in cooking, few – if any – of the direct alcohol-related health benefits remain. The diet focuses on healthy fats, vegetables, fruits … Many of those who follow the Mediterranean Diet will include a glass … Cooking Style BBQ & Grilling … It looks both pretty and impressive, and the orange flavor is more subtle than you’d expect. This is a healthy and elegant meal (not to mention delicious) when served with a leafy salad, brown rice, and asparagus. … Pork tenderloin simmers in onion soup and red wine that’s flavored with garlic and soy sauce … Healthy Cooking Class Singapore SINGAPORE – A health drive open to everyone who works on Orchard Road … are offering free health screenings, exercise sessions, cooking classes and wellness workshops for a year to create a healthie… Healthy Way To Cook Yams Kettle Cooked Chips Healthy healthy people infected with Salmonella experience fever … Jalapeño Flavored Lay’s Kettle Cooked potato chips Jalapeño Flavored Miss Vickie’s Kettle Cooked potato chips All of the following multipac… 25 Healthy Chips to Snack on Guilt-Free. … If you like the extra crunch Healthy Mexican Cooking 40 Healthy Mexican Recipes You Can Feel Good About. As if giving up Mexican food was actually going to happen. By Sienna Fantozzi. Sep 17, 2018 Parker Feierbach. As if giving up Mexican food was … Healthy Cooking Ideas With Chicken This chicken version is just as good. It’s a little lighter than the original, but still super flavorful and extremely comfor… Cooking with hot air sure … but not necessarily healthy. You *can* make healthy nosh in the air fryer, however; the trick i… Keep clicking through for 25 easy meal ideas that’ll take any fuss out of cooking … A healthy dinner idea; perfect for any … Baking, sauteing and grilling are among the three healthiest ways to cook chicken breasts … though it may be difficult to restrain yourself with these three healthy chicken ideas. Balsamic vinegar i… 61 Healthy Chicken Recipes That Taste Amazing. This is the kind of healthy eating we can get down with. By Sienna Fantozzi. … Easy Ideas for Cooking Chicken in a Crockpot; Healthy Ways To Cook Cauliflower Your hack for prepping a restaurant-worthy spread without leaving the office early (or caving and ordering less-than-healthy … Cauliflower rice stands in for arborio in this recipe that’s not only lower in carbs than traditional risotto, it’s also way faster and easier to make! In just 20 minutes you’ll have a flavorful and healthy vegetable side to go with dinner. How To Cook Asparagus Healthy Pheasant can be challenging to cook, with a tendency to dry out and cook fast. Preparing the pheasant for this recipe by simmering the meat in … and debone the meat and cut it into cubes. 2. Wash as… The next day, when you’re ready to meal prep, start with the chickpea recipe below … cauliflower, asparagus, brussels sprou… The 67 Most Delish Things To Do With Asparagus. It’s official: We’re straight-up stalking asparagus. Once you see these easy recipes, you’ll know why. Healthy Ways To Cook Broccoli And Cauliflower 35 best cauliflower recipes. Easy ways to cook cauliflower; cauliflower cheese, cauliflower steak recipes, roasted cauliflower, cauliflower curry, cauliflower pizza … roast it or blast it in a microwave for a quick and healthy alternative to carbohydrates. … Chargrilled broccoli and cauliflower with harissa. Ultimate kebab side dish, just … (WTNH) – It’s the new year and News 8 and healthy lifestyle expert caryn Sullivan are teaming up to help you make simple chan… As we slowly ease ourselves into healthy … to make this seemingly simple meal at home, and it’s never quite the same. The b… How To Cook Healthy Eggs Breakfast In some boutique fitness circles, choosing to take a "double," aka two back-to-back workout classes in one day, is something to aspire to. It sounds Healthy Way To Cook Yams Kettle Cooked Chips Healthy healthy people infected with Salmonella experience fever … Jalapeño Flavored Lay’s Kettle Cooked potato chips Jalapeño Flavored Miss Vickie’s Kettle Cooked potato chips All of the following multipac… 25 Healthy Healthy Cooking Ideas With Chicken This chicken version is just as good. It’s a little lighter than the original, but still super flavorful and extremely comfor… Cooking with hot air sure … but not necessarily healthy. You *can* make healthy nosh in the air fryer, however; the trick i… Keep clicking through for 25 easy meal ideas that’ll take any fuss out of cooking … A healthy dinner idea; perfect for any … Baking, sauteing and grilling are among the three healthiest ways to cook chicken breasts … though it may be difficult to restrain yourself with these three healthy chicken ideas. Balsamic vinegar i… 61 Healthy Chicken Recipes That Taste Amazing. This is the kind of healthy eating we can get down with. By Sienna Fantozzi. … Easy Ideas for Cooking Chicken in a Crockpot; Healthy Ways To Cook Cauliflower Your hack for prepping a restaurant-worthy spread without leaving the office early (or caving and ordering less-than-healthy … Cauliflower rice stands in for arborio in this recipe that’s not only lower in carbs than traditional risotto, it’s also way faster and easier to make! In just 20 minutes you’ll have a flavorful and healthy vegetable side to go with dinner. How To Cook Asparagus Healthy Pheasant can be challenging to cook, with a tendency to dry out and cook fast. Preparing the pheasant for this recipe by simmering the meat in … and debone the meat and cut it into cubes. 2. Wash as… The next day, when you’re ready to meal prep, start with the chickpea recipe below … cauliflower, asparagus, brussels sprou… The 67 Most Delish Things To Do With Asparagus. It’s official: We’re straight-up stalking asparagus. Once you see these easy recipes, you’ll know why. Healthy Ways To Cook Broccoli And Cauliflower 35 best cauliflower recipes. Easy ways to cook cauliflower; cauliflower cheese, cauliflower steak recipes, roasted cauliflower, cauliflower curry, cauliflower pizza … roast it or blast it in a microwave for a quick and healthy alternative to carbohydrates. … Chargrilled broccoli and cauliflower with harissa. Ultimate kebab side dish, just … (WTNH) – It’s the new year and News 8 and healthy lifestyle expert caryn Sullivan are teaming up to help you make simple chan… As we slowly ease ourselves into healthy … to make this seemingly simple meal at home, and it’s never quite the same. The b… How To Cook Healthy Eggs Breakfast In some boutique fitness circles, choosing to take a "double," aka two back-to-back workout classes in one day, is something to aspire to. It sounds Healthy Way To Cook Yams Kettle Cooked Chips Healthy healthy people infected with Salmonella experience fever … Jalapeño Flavored Lay’s Kettle Cooked potato chips Jalapeño Flavored Miss Vickie’s Kettle Cooked potato chips All of the following multipac… 25 Healthy Chips to Snack on Guilt-Free. … If you like the extra crunch of kettle-cooked chips, these are a smart pick. They’re organic and only have 1g of saturated fat per serving. healthy cooked breakfast ideas cooking healthy chicken breast cooking Style

Permanent lighting and four artificial turf fields that can stand up to soaking rains made the Long Island facility … going …

Lifestyle Recreation Where to take cooking classes. If you want to learn kitchen basics or take your current culinary skills to the next level, there are plenty of spots on Long Island to learn.

Healthy Ways To Cook Cauliflower Your hack for prepping a restaurant-worthy spread without leaving the office early (or caving and ordering less-than-healthy … Cauliflower rice stands in for arborio in this recipe that’s not only lower in carbs than traditional risotto, it’s also way faster and easier to make! In just 20 minutes you’ll have a flavorful and healthy vegetable side to go with dinner. How To Cook Asparagus Healthy Pheasant can be challenging to cook, with a tendency to dry out and cook fast. Preparing the pheasant for this recipe by simmering the meat in … and debone the meat and cut it into cubes. 2. Wash as… The next day, when you’re ready to meal prep, start with the chickpea recipe below … cauliflower, asparagus, brussels sprou… The 67 Most Delish Things To Do With Asparagus. It’s official: We’re straight-up stalking asparagus. Once you see these easy recipes, you’ll know why. Healthy Ways To Cook Broccoli And Cauliflower 35 best cauliflower recipes. Easy ways to cook cauliflower; cauliflower cheese, cauliflower steak recipes, roasted cauliflower, cauliflower curry, cauliflower pizza … roast it or blast it in a microwave for a quick and healthy alternative to carbohydrates. … Chargrilled broccoli and cauliflower with harissa. Ultimate kebab side dish, just … (WTNH) – It’s the new year and News 8 and healthy lifestyle expert caryn Sullivan are teaming up to help you make simple chan… As we slowly ease ourselves into healthy … to make this seemingly simple meal at home, and it’s never quite the same. The b… How To Cook Healthy Eggs Breakfast In some boutique fitness circles, choosing to take a "double," aka two back-to-back workout classes in one day, is something to aspire to. It sounds Healthy Way To Cook Yams Kettle Cooked Chips Healthy healthy people infected with Salmonella experience fever … Jalapeño Flavored Lay’s Kettle Cooked potato chips Jalapeño Flavored Miss Vickie’s Kettle Cooked potato chips All of the following multipac… 25 Healthy Chips to Snack on Guilt-Free. … If you like the extra crunch of kettle-cooked chips, these are a smart pick. They’re organic and only have 1g of saturated fat per serving. healthy cooked breakfast ideas cooking healthy chicken breast cooking Style BBQ & Grilling Quick & Easy … Healthy Chicken breast recipes boneless, skinless, and tasty! These baked, grilled, and even pan-fried recipes are loved by home cooks everywhere. … Chunks of boneless chicken breast simmer with sweet potatoes, garbanzo beans, tomatoes, and north african-inspired spices for this hearty stew. Which Oil Is Most Healthy For Cooking Dec 06, 2018 · Safflower oil also has a high content of Vitamin E, which may consider very healthy. Most experts recommend using peanut oil for high temperature cooking, canola oil or olive oil for medium temperature cooking, and a variety of polyunsaturated oils for baked goods. A Healthy Oil for Cooking Coconut oil was demonized in the past because it is high in saturated fat. But new studies actually suggest that it has several health benefits, and… Other proven benefits

CBS2’s Elle McLogan Soars Above The City On The Tramway To An Island Unlike Any OtherBy Elle McLogan June 15, 2018 at 12:03 pm NEW york … adulting Classes For Millennials Continue To ExpandMillennia…

baking birthday parties and cooking/baking classes on Long Island, serving Nassau, Suffolk, and Queens. At “What’s Cooking”, kids can explore their creativity in cooking arts in so many ways through classes, parties or summer camp.

There are less than a dozen hospitals nationwide with on-site farms, ranging from a rooftop farm at Stony Brook University Hospital on Long Island … One class each month is free and subsidized by a …

Cooking Classes on Long Island. See What’s Cooking. About the School. See What We Are About. … Kids Cooking Classes. … "I created and founded A la Carte in 1999 based on a life-long dream. My mission was, and still is, to help people enjoy the pleasures of cooking and eating great food." …

Cooking Schools and Instruction for Kids in Long Island, New York Here are some fabulous local cooking schools where kids can hone their culinary skills under the direction of experts. And while you’re exploring creative corners, check out these 10 drop-in art locations for Long Island kids and our LI classes and enrichment guide .

Cooking Classes on Long Island. … Cooking Classes for Kids and Adults … If you want to learn to cook great stir-frys or make a life change with cooking healthy, Chef Vanda can help with that. …

Healthy No Cook Desserts The holidays tend to set us back when it comes to healthy eating. We indulge in all our favorite desserts like homemade … a… Healthy Cooking Ideas With Chicken This chicken version is just as good. It’s a little lighter than the original, but still super flavorful and extremely comfor… Cooking with hot air sure … but not necessarily healthy. You *can* make healthy nosh in the air fryer, however; the trick i… Keep clicking through for 25 easy meal ideas that’ll take any fuss out of cooking … A healthy dinner idea; perfect for any … Baking, sauteing and grilling are among the three healthiest ways to cook chicken breasts … though it may be difficult to restrain yourself with these three healthy chicken ideas. Balsamic vinegar i… 61 Healthy Chicken Recipes That Taste Amazing. This is the kind of healthy eating we can get down with. By Sienna Fantozzi. … Easy Ideas for Cooking Chicken in a Crockpot; Healthy Ways To Cook Cauliflower Your hack for prepping a restaurant-worthy spread without leaving the office early (or caving and ordering less-than-healthy … Cauliflower rice stands in for arborio in this recipe that’s not only lower in carbs than traditional risotto, it’s also way faster and easier to make! In just 20 minutes you’ll have a flavorful and healthy vegetable side to go with dinner. How To Cook Asparagus Healthy Pheasant can be challenging to cook, with a tendency to dry out and cook fast. Preparing the pheasant for this recipe by simmering the meat in … and debone the meat and cut it into cubes. 2. Wash as… The next day, when you’re ready to meal prep, start with the chickpea recipe below … cauliflower, asparagus, brussels sprou… The 67 Most Delish Things To Do With Asparagus. It’s official: We’re straight-up stalking asparagus. Once you see these easy recipes, you’ll know why. Healthy Ways To Cook Broccoli And Cauliflower 35 best cauliflower recipes. Easy ways to cook cauliflower; cauliflower cheese, cauliflower steak recipes, roasted cauliflower, cauliflower curry, cauliflower pizza … roast it or blast it in a microwave for a quick and healthy alternative to carbohydrates. … Chargrilled broccoli and cauliflower with harissa. ultimate kebab side dish, just … (WTNH) – It’s the new year and News 8 and healthy lifestyle expert caryn Sullivan are teaming up to help you make simple chan… As we slowly ease ourselves into healthy … to make this seemingly simple meal at home, and it’s never quite the same. The b… How To Cook Healthy Eggs Breakfast In some boutique fitness circles, choosing to take a "double," aka two back-to-back workout classes in one day, is something to aspire to. It sounds Healthy Way To Cook Yams Kettle Cooked Chips Healthy healthy people infected with Salmonella experience fever … Jalapeño Flavored Lay’s Kettle Cooked potato chips Jalapeño Flavored Miss Vickie’s Kettle Cooked potato chips All of the following multipac… 25 Healthy Chips to Snack on Guilt-Free. … If you like the extra crunch

The team behind West Village’s upscale Indian restaurant Rahi has expanded with a new, more casual neighborhood restaurant to Long Island City today … at Adda is simplicity and tradition, with a hea…

0 notes