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thefangdomcryptid · 9 months ago

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Eve Charactersheet

Multifandom Edition

Masterlist (Coming soon)

Character name: Eve de Lioncourt (née Eve Archidamou)

Quote: "Zeus may have healed my scars and my mangled hands, but the pain within my soul, the suffering within my very essence never allows me any respite. For over 3000 years I have relived my trauma as if it happened to me yesterday."

Race: Albino Snow Wereleopard.

Gender: Female

Orientation: Panromantic Graysexual

Pairings:

Baldur's Gate 3: Astarion/Minthara as main romances.

House of The Dragon: Aemond/Daemon Targaryen

The Originals: Klaus/Elijah Mikaelson

Age:

3000+ years old. Her human age is based on modern viewpoints meaning she became of marrying age when she was 18, and when she accepted Zeus' gift, she was 21.

Place of Residence:

Baldur's Gate

New York (pre Faerun)

Konigswald (Near the German-Swiss border, Black Forest region)

Deity: Unaligned *before that, her parents worshipped Aphrodite. After their untimely deaths and Eve's abduction, she served Hera.*

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral/True Neutral

Personality:

MBTI: ENFP (Campaigner).

Enneagram: Type 4 (The individualist)

OCEAN: 96, 62.5, 67, 44, 40

Character Archetype: Explorer

Star sign: Pisces

Jobs: Bard, Healer, Midwife.

Musical Proficiencies: Harp, flute, lute, lyre, hurdy gurdy, hand drum, violin, piano, guitar (acoustic and electric), bass guitar, drums, singing and Kulning/Jodeling.

Language Proficiencies:

Ancient tongues: Ancient Greek, Latin, Germanic, Basque, Icelandic, Gaelic, Finnish, Sanskrit, Persian.

Modern Tongues: Greek, Dutch, Flemish, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, English, Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, Icelandic, Finnish, Russian.

Currently learning (not proficient yet): Japanese, Chinese, Arabic.

Powers and Abilities

Eve’s powers include but are not limited to:

Shapeshifting: Can shapeshift at will without needing the sun or moon, she is aware and in control when in their werecat form. In human form, they retain all the same powers they have when in cat form.

Superhuman strength: Eve possess superhuman strength sufficient to lift about 10 tons, enough force to deform a 1-inch-thick steel bar with ease. Her physical strength also extends, to a lesser degree, to powerful leg muscles allowing her to perform a standing jump of 12 feet in height.

Superhuman stealth: Ninjas have nothing on Eve. If she has your scent, and you are on the menu, you’ll never see or hear her coming, not in human form and not in cat form.

Superhuman speed: Eve could outrun a regular Cheetah if she wanted to (known to run as fast as 70 miles per hour) by speeds as high as 80 to 90 mph.

Superhuman senses: Eve’s senses are about fifteen times stronger than an average human and 7,5 times more potent than an average cat. She has no problems finding her way in the dark, seeing as well as if it were daylight. Her hearing is so acute, Eve can hear a pin drop at a range of 50 feet, even if other noises are surrounding them. Her sense of smell is highly developed; it’s easy for her to sort through various odors to follow a target’s trail. She can even tell a person is lying due to subtle scent changes in the composition of sweat. Eve’s also very acutely aware of other people’s moods.

Superhuman reflexes: Again, ninja-like reflexes, the finest athlete and warrior to ever exist.

Superhuman agility: Her agility, balance, and bodily coordination are beyond that of even the finest athletes.

Healing ability: Due to her immortal status injuries she sustains cannot kill her and she heals immediately.

Claws: In human form, Eve has retractable claws and teeth.

Charm: Eve is the only Albino Snow Leopard in existence that can persuade human beings and animals to do her bidding with her voice, if she so chooses. Never having to pay for designer clothes for one, or always having free meals, that sort of thing.

Fireproof: Eve is immune to fire. She doesn’t burn, no matter how hot the fire is, she can’t be harmed by hot pokers, and she can’t be branded.

Bio

Eve was born in Athens to wealthy parents, also known as Aristoi, making her Greek nobility. Her parents had trouble conceiving and turned to their patron deity Aphrodite for help, who then blessed the family with a daugher that had a beauty that could rival her own.

When Eve came of marrying age, tragedy struck her family, and Eve was abducted by a wealthy brothel owner and her household decimated. For two years, the man did and let other people do unspeakable things to her, until Zeus, in the guise of a young wealthy patron paid the man a wealthy sum to hire her services as a hetaira.

When he revealed himself as Zeus, after gaining her trust, he offered her immortality and powers in exchange for her becoming one of his wives. Stuck between a God's offer and the risk of his wifes' wrath or certain death if she went back, Eve accepted his offer. Besides immortality, he gave her the ability to shapeshift into an animal he thought fit her, which was an Albino Snow Leopard, so he could sneak her into Olympus without Hera noticing. While being okay with that power, and Zeus restoring her body and hands to their original unharmed state, Eve negotiated two other powers: The ability to charm people and animals with her voice, and she wanted to be fireproof, both powers in relation to her trauma. Zeus agreed, but made it so she could only charm humans and animals. After all, he couldn't have her charming him.

Soon enough Hera showed up on her doorstep. While she was furious, she saw an opportunity to get back at her husband and to grant Eve her revenge on her previous captor. While she granted Eve superior agility, speed, reflexes, strength and better senses than her animal counterpart, she also left behind a few not so nice surprises Eve would eventually discover on her own.

After enacting her revenge, Eve stayed at Hera's side until the Greek Pantheon fell and Hera set her free so she could find her own way in the world.

Portal to the Forgotten Realms

In a desperate attempt to be together with Elijah Mikaelson and to be rid of Klaus, Eve travels to New Orleans to find anything that can help.

As she explores the French Quarter, a small shop catches her eye, tucked away between a bookstore and an antiques dealer. There was a strange energy radiating from it, and Eve notices that no one seemed to be aware of its presence there, save for her. Intrigued and drawn to it, she enters the building, the door creaking open and the ring of a little brass bell chiming through the space alerting whomever owns the shop that a new customer has arrived. When no one shows, Eve decides to browse it on her own.

The shop itself seems to be a lot more spacious on the inside than it looked on the outside, and while the outside didn’t give anything away, the inside seemed to be an art gallery of some sort, with pristine white walls covered in paintings of all shapes, sizes and subjects. There were also easels of differing sizes, displaying artworks as well.

“Klaus would love this place,” she mutters to herself, her eyes scanning the art.

As she moves through the space, a canvas set on an easel catches her eye. It’s an oil painting named “The Forgotten Realms,” and depicts a big, lively city surrounded by water. As she studies the artwork, it feels like it’s alive, as if it’s moving in front of Eve’s eyes. Fascinated, she reaches out to touch the canvas, and her fingers make contact, the surface ripples as if it’s water, its watery tendrils snaking around her hand and arm, forcefully dragging her through the surface. Eve leans back, pulling and tugging against the tendrils to break herself free, to no avail. Eve is yanked through, tossed about, twisted and turned around as if she’s in a centrifuge, and then spat out on a beach near what is known in Faerun as Wyrm’s Crossing, between Rivington and Baldur’s Gate.

With no clue where she landed and no knowledge of the customs, religion or the people, she wanders into Rivington. Her attire earns her some strange looks, so with her ability to charm people, she gets herself some clothes, money and food. She finds her way into the city, securing herself a place to stay, and while she tries to find a way home, earns her keep as a bard, until she is abducted by a Nautiloid, waking up on the beach near Emerald Grove soon after.

Dark urge

The Dark Urge in my version of the game is dead, murdered by Orin in her chambers. When Eve lands in Westeros, with her bloodlust, Bhaal senses her presence, and knows her to be his true heir, even though she is not from the same plane of existence, and she is immortal, which Bhaal cannot change. That of course, doesn’t matter to the God, because he wants her all the same, given that she who travels between dimensions could make his grand plan even grander.

At first, Eve doesn’t feel any different, until she kills for the first time to sate her urge, and it isn’t enough, as if her desires have been amplified, voices in her head whispering to her to kill, to spill blood.

There’s two ways this can go: Eve resists the urge, breaking free from Bhaal’s plan for her, or she is seduced by his darkness and embraces her future of bloodlust.

Targaryen Chronicles ( Werecat AU)

Instead of going to New Orleans, Eve puts her trust in Elijah, who is working tirelessly for them to be together. When he chooses to save Klaus during the sun and moon ritual in Mystic Falls, Eve, feeling heartbroken and betrayed decides to leave, wearing an amulet made by Bonnie to ensure no one can use magical means to find her.

For about a year, Eve travels the world, and then settles down in Konigswald, a small city in the Black Forest near the German Swiss border. This is where she meets the Targaryen family (mainly Aemond, Daemon and Aegon) for the first time. They're immortal like her, chosen by their God to serve back in the day, and natural born Albino Snow Wereleopards.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 oc #dark urge #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 ocs #bg3 #bhaal babe #astarion x dark urge #astarion x durge #bg3 minthara #minthara x dark urge #aemond targaryen #daemon targaryen #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson

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safarigirlsp · 2 years ago

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Satan Wears Burberry

Modern Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Humor. Romance. Enemies to Lovers. Fur.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: For a Valentine's Day special, and as a gift for the lovely and wonderfully talented @kyloremus , here is a fun bitchy Fashion AU inspired by Cruella DeVille and The Devil Wears Prada! This is only the intro, if it is well received, I'll do more with it. There’s not even any murder or mayhem! What’s wrong with me?

Fashion is a viciously cutthroat industry where appearance and manipulation often win over sincerity and benevolence. Weapons of choice are razored nails, deadly heels, and backstabbing smiles. Everyone who is anyone and all the someones aspiring to be something in the fashion industry know there is no event more seminal than Paris Fashion Week. Statuesque models strutting runways, aggressive designers gauging their competition, and hawkish agents scouting new talent can all be found amid the crowds and press.

As the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine, your front row seat at every event was reserved. This season, Annees Folles had even surpassed Vogue in sales and influence. Before anything became fashion, it had to receive your stamp of approval and be featured in the pages of your magazine. Brands rose and fell pursuant to your approval or condemnation just like a gladiator’s life dependent upon the tilt of an emperor’s thumb. Among the other more illustrious attendees, were the heads of the most preeminent fashion lines in the world, the CEOs and moguls whose names had forged the foundation of modern fashion.

La Maison Gris, a relatively new brand from an old and noble French family, had made a meteoric rise to the very summit of the industry. Helmed by its formidable and charismatic CEO, Jacques Le Gris, La Maison Gris had firmly secured a position high among the most distinguished names in fashion. Le Gris had fast become synonymous with Chanel, Versace, Lagerfeld, Gucci, Valentino, Tom Ford, Dior, Dolce and Gabbana. Aided in his ascension by his calculating mind, his almost irresistible charm, his devilish good looks and imposing size, Jacques had steamrolled his competition like a tank over protestors.

Jacques Le Gris always dressed to the nines and was dashingly groomed and coiffed, his image immaculately maintained. From a finely tailored bespoke suit that flattered his impressive and athletic 6’4” physique, enhancing the breadth of his great shoulders and the taper of his fit waist, to a simple signet ring bearing his century’s old family crest that drew attention to his enormous hands, he used fashion to emphasize his towering size and noble bearing. He wore a neatly trimmed van dyke, and his thick black hair down to his shoulders. An intentional streak of silver shot through his glossy ebony mane like the milky way shimmering across the night sky, giving him the regal air of a melanistic lion. He was dressed now in pieces from his own line, a charcoal suit with a chic glen plaid pattern, black shirt, unbuttoned down two buttons from his throat, and a black overcoat with a subtle flair of silver Persian lamb around the collar.

Notably broader without exception than everyone in attendance and standing a head taller than most, save for the willowy models, some of whom hoovered near his airspace when in heels, Jacques cut an impressive and unmistakable figure where he stood next to the runway in the dimly lit audience. The room was filled to capacity with the crème de la crème of fashion, interspersed with the journalists and photographers who would relay their chosen highlights to the public. While he waited for the show to begin and the first model to strut down the runway, Jacques discussed his line with anyone who would listen, showcasing his renowned affability. He was cordial where others were aloof, a trait that had helped spur his rise to the top.

Jacques was confident that his spring line that was to be revealed at this show would impress all those in attendance, but still, it never hurt to grease the wheels with a few dashing smiles. He could charm almost anyone into submission, a talent that cut across many different lines of social interaction. Only one major player had remained staunchly immune from his allure, and she unfortunately wielded one of the most important opinions. In fact, it was as though the Editor in Chief of Annees Folles Magazine took pride, a morbid relish even, in eviscerating the designs of La Maison Gris. With each scathing article, La Maison Gris and its profits took a hit and took months to reclimb the ladder from several rungs below. To say Jacques was ruffled by it was an understatement, he was mad as hell. He had yet to meet the woman in person, which he assured himself was the reason he had so far been unable to exert the full magnitude of his charm and magnetism.

The lights dimmed and the music picked up tempo, indicating the show would soon be starting. Jacques was focused on the runway, and didn’t see you approach and squeeze in beside him for a place at the head of the runway. The room was packed as tightly as a nightclub, but filled with an exponentially more beautiful crowd. Jacques recognized you with a visible start, his affable manner momentarily dampened with worry, fear even, at being in the presence of the one woman with the power to unseat him from his high horse. The pen was indeed mightier than the sword when it was you who wielded it, writing the destinies of every hopeful designer in the pages of your magazine.

You were dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana dress of ebony lace that hugged and flattered your shapely curves to perfection paired with a charcoal gray double-breasted Burberry Prorsum coat with military-style epaulets and cuffs. You wore five-inch Burberry heels that, although pointed-toe stilettos, they were fitted with Burberry’s signature lug sole, adding to your combative appearance and reputation. Although it was dark in the room, you wore a pair of aviator sunglasses by Maybach, also in gradients of carbon, that concealed your infamously ferocious eyes. Your hair was elegantly styled and your bearing was as proud as any model on a runway, but your presence was of a military general standing on a battlefield.

The sight of you took Jacques’s breath away. He had never been so taken aback by a woman, so instantly devastated by beauty.

With a deep steadying breath and a visible effort, Jacques composed himself. It was absurd, he reasoned, to be so unnerved by a woman. He was a master at seduction, and what was business but a different kind of seduction? Both involved a degree of manipulation and power plays. Even if Jacques didn’t know how to deal with you as a cutthroat editor who struck fear into the hearts of men, he knew how to deal with a red-blooded woman.

“I think you’ll find the florals are luscious,” he whispered with a smokey depth to his voice. He moved closer beside you until your shoulders brushed, perfectly acceptable in the crowded room.

“Florals? For Spring?” you scoffed. “Groundbreaking.”

“Well… Florals are classics for a reason,” he stumbled at the sharp rebuff. “Spring lines always have florals. It’s what you do with them that matters, is it not?”

“Have you sustained a head injury?” you derided haughtily, turning to look at him briefly over the rims of your sunglasses. “Yes, follow like the little lemmings toward the cliff of the cliché and the mediocre. The market – that is, sellers who have already made you rich -- want to get their winter fashions off the racks. Something inventive, something charming and clean, for example, would sell regardless of the season. Are you marketing to the likes of Kohl’s or Target?” You dismissively returned your attention to the runaway. “Dolce & Gabbana is the only designer who has any business at all dabbling in seasonal florals. Perhaps, an honorable mention to Dior.” Jacques tried to retort, but you steamrolled over him. “But not La Maison Gris, I assure you, and my assurance is the only one that will ever matter.”

This silenced him as he looked away, a strange and foreign mixture of rejection and embarrassment mingling inside him with an all-too familiar anger. He then looked back at you tentatively, feeling hesitant to challenge you.

“Just last spring Vogue raged over my florals,” he stated with a confidence that for once he didn’t feel, his deep voice undercut by an undertone of fear. Because of his size and physicality, deep voice, and wealth, he often unwittingly intimidated people. He was unused to being on the other side of that scale, and he couldn’t recall being so as a grown man. It was a challenge, he realized, and he savored challenges.

“Then, they were novel. Now, they are tired and uninspired,” you sighed as if bored by his simpleness. “Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative -- that’s Oscar Wilde, mind you – and I do believe he had a sense of fashion. He even went to prison for his fashion genius, among other proclivities.”

Jacques’s handsome features broadcast he was ready to retort but thought better of it, chewing his lip instead to bite back the argument that wanted to leap from his tongue. As the first model made her appearance on the runway, the audience applauded, approving of her floral dress with fox trim. He puffed his chest and looked at you as if to say he told you so. The next model wore a lynx shawl over a dress of gold floral brocade.

“Mixing fur and floral, are we? I always thought fur looked best on its original owner.” You studied each ensemble carefully with the eye of a critic. “Models should be comfortable in their own skin, not someone else’s, don’t you think?”

“This line is novel, sleek and vivacious. If you wish to stand out and feel good about yourself, my line is for you,” he huffed and retorted as another model stalked toward you wearing a beautiful lavender dress trimmed with tasteful sable fur in a complimentary dusky hue. The crowd roared in approval. “Nature has evolved to flatter animals of every shape and size. Do you argue that natural evolution shouldn’t be used when one is designing clothes to flatter women?”

You paused at the audience’s enchantment with Jacques’s line. He, too, saw it was a hit and raised one eyebrow at you. The next model wore a sleek aviator jacket with a collar of sheared beaver dyed in a subtle chevron pattern. The crowd actually clapped at that one.

No matter, people often didn’t know what they really liked until you told them.

You gestured for him to lean closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Like I said, the unimaginative masses are easily impressed. They can’t do what I can do: convince the biggest retailers in the world to market your line, and the populace to buy it.”

Jacques took a deep breath, gathered his courage, smiled mischievously, and said with a seductive tenor, “Well, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

“I suppose you would know,” you quipped as another lynx trimmed ensemble walked past. “Regardless, the details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

“My incompetence?” Jacques huffed. No one else in the world would dare to call him incompetent. But arguing the point with you would get him nowhere. He decided to try a different tactic. “Let us continue this tete-a-tete somewhere more private, and I’ll try to find something about myself that does interest you.”

“Bold of you to assume a ridiculous man like you could please me in any venue. Be assured, I am demanding in my personal life as well as my professional one.” You let your appraising gaze rake over his body. “I want the best. I deserve the best. And I demand the best. In all things and in all ways.”

“My fashion lines may bore you, belle comandante.” Jacques grinned and asserted boldly, “Trust me, as a man, I would make you purr.”

“I have no commitments and I find myself rather bored by Paris, but I’m sure you have a parade of floral harlots vying to charm you into letting them walk your next runway. Who would I be to deprive them of the valuable life lesson in regret they would learn from a night with you?” You eyed another fur-trimmed model skeptically. “Dear God, you’re not into furries are you?”

He said nothing more until the show was over, but a sly lupine smile played on his plush lips. When all the models had walked the runway and the din of conversation filled the room, he made you a darkly illicit offer. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can make you purr for me, then you will write a splendid review of tonight’s show.”

Removing your sunglasses, you eyed him with unveiled skepticism. “And if I find you are not up to the task of pleasing me?”

“You won’t.” He winked at you.

“Graduating from fashion to prostitution, are you?” You raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I can’t deny it’s a better fit for you.”

“Not publicly.” He grinned at you, flashing a predatory glint of white teeth. “But for you, I will make a one-night-only exception. I’m a gambling man, and what higher stakes could I play with? If I can wring a good review out of you between the sheets, you will write a nice review for my fashion line on the pages of Annees Folles. We’ll enjoy ourselves in the process, that I promise you, cherie.”

“It is an interesting thought.” You smiled. “To wonder what I will find worthy of review. The before or the after?”

“Yes, I agree,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. You had heard he was a showman and viciously sarcastic. “You know why failed designers become harping editors of fashion magazines? It’s a petty facet of human nature that we feel the need to tear apart others who have talents one does not.”

“Is that what you think?” you laughed at the absurdity, meeting his challenge and projecting your voice. “Designers are many. On the other hand, people who dictate the tides of fashion and control the very destinies of men like you are few. The truth is, no one can do what I can do.”

“It must be lonely at the top for a maneater like you,” Jacques teased, his voice low again. “Who keeps you warm at night?”

“Renew your offer at the end of the evening,” you replied coyly. “And I’ll decide who’s keeping me warm tonight.”

*******************************************************************************************

Nearly as important as the fashion show itself was the afterparty. This was where most of the schmoozing and deal-making were conducted, where connections were made and alliances were formed. Swanky upscale clubs were privately rented for these glamorous soirees. The afterparty for La Maison Gris was celebrated at L’Arc, the highly exclusive nightclub at the top of the Champs Elysees. Jacques had rented the club for the night, open only to those on his well-pruned guest list. The neon strobes of the club ordinarily played across a beautiful crowd but during Fashion Week, its lights never fell on someone who wasn’t either rich, famous, beautiful, or otherwise extraordinary.

Jacques was the man of the hour and had to make himself seen at his own party. You, of course, were on every guest list of every afterparty, but only an elite few were deserving of your attendance. After making your rounds at parties hosted by Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Dior, and Tom Ford, you decided to make an appearance at the La Maison Gris party and see if Jacques’s bet still intrigued you. Your arrival was just late enough to be aptly fashionable.

A redwood of a doorman recognized you and ushered you in ahead of a winding line of at least one-hundred hopeful partygoers, much to their displeasure. The floor of the club writhed and undulated with women in chic dresses and men in suits dancing in time with heavy driving bass. You would have been hard-pressed to squeeze up to the bar that was so tightly packed that even the attempts of waifish models were foiled by the mass of humanity.

The freshly bleached smiles of several of the biggest names in Hollywood caught your eye from various corners of the room. One perfect smile belonged to the actor who had just landed his big break in being cast in the newest reboot of the Superman franchise. Clark Kent du jour had the build of a linebacker, a square jaw to match, cerulean blue eyes, and jet back hair, complete with a Superman curl he had cultivated since landing the part. He had also been pursuing you since you had toured the set for a piece on the costumes, most of which had been crafted by Zegna. He wore a suit by La Maison Gris, complete with a dyed sable pocket square instead of the usual silk. Tragically, he had both buttons done on his jacket, a glaring faux pas that required all of your limited reserve to overlook. You could take the man off the farm, but you couldn’t dress the farm out of the man.

Aspiring models stalked through the crowd on mile-high legs like otherworldly creatures, eager to impress designers for a chance to walk down their runways. And there was Jacques Le Gris, standing in the middle of an entire harem of them. A flock of scantily and colorfully dressed models surrounded him like birds at a feeder, some batting their eyelashes, others stroking his body, others still giggling vapidly, all desperate for any crumb of attention he deigned to toss their way. Though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was gesturing magnanimously, smiling and laughing at his own infectious humor, and very much enjoying the attention.

The spectacle of the fawning models was enough to make you return Clark Kent’s smile just long enough to encourage him to make an approach. Your timing was perfect; like all the best predators, you had the gift of precision. Jacques noticed you just as the handsome actor made a beeline for you and procured a flute of champagne from the tray of an obliging waitress who flitted by on his way. The actor was only the first to approach you. Within moments, you too were encircled by a mass of noisome people, even larger than the group that surrounded Jacques. Everyone wanted your attention, your approval.

At the sight of Clark Kent sidling up to you, a dark veil passed over Jacques’s dashing features, turning them murderous for the breadth of a second. It went unnoticed by most if not all, but you saw it and you smirked. Clenching his jaw, Jacques pushed through the throng of humanity and shooed away the plumage of women, heading not toward you but to the bar.

You smiled as the actor handed you the champagne, trying not to dwell on the state of his tackily buttoned jacket. But you drew the line at champagne, telling him with your usual stridence, “Oh, you can keep that for yourself. I don’t drink champagne, but I’m sure a large country boy like you can handle mine and yours and many more after.”

The poor pretty idiot didn’t know if you were serious or teasing, but since he had no basis in experience dealing with such a direct and assertive woman, he took your harshness for humor and laughed. He would be so easy to rip to shreds, which could be a fun passing amusement. He was exceedingly lucky you were in a good mood tonight. Adding to your relative levity was the towering figure of the CEO of La Maison Gris striding purposefully toward you and fighting to keep his composure and grin through his jealous anger. He held a drink in each hand, filled with amber and ice.

“This is my party,” he said by way of greeting you, making his voice notably deeper than the actor’s. Jacques was taller, but only just, which added to your amusement when he tried to look down his charmingly hooked nose at his more classically handsome opponent. “How is it that you just waltz in here and everybody gravitates toward you like you are the sun.”

“I’ve found that Nietzsche’s herd concept applies in a variety of ways.” You smiled icily back. “The human herd often has a collective sense of who’s the most important person in the room.”

Still looking at the actor, Jacques wordlessly handed you one of the two drinks he carried. You accepted it with a raised eyebrow and lifted it to inhale its aroma. Then, you gifted him with a genuine smile. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have. Your drink of choice is an old fashioned made with Midleton Single Pot Irish Whiskey and garnished with an orange peel.” He took a sip of his own drink, the same as yours, closing his eyes briefly to savor the taste. “But I think you’ll like this better. I prefer Redbreast twenty-seven year old Irish Whiskey.”

You took a skeptical drink, your eyes not leaving Jacques’s. The old fashioned was remarkably flavorful. “It’s tolerable, I suppose.”

“I better get a nicer review than that from you after I’ve given you a taste of something else that’s full-bodied and old fashioned.” Jacques winked at you as he took another drink.

“I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, and already this is growing dull.” You pointedly looked at the Breitling watch strapped to Jacques’s thick wrist. “When are you going to make it worth my while to have come at all?”

“Finish your drink,” he challenged and downed the better part of his own. He gave the actor a dangerous glare, but the other man was too focused on you to notice, still standing beside you, hopeful and oblivious.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said to Clark Kent with unveiled sarcasm, the man was utterly clueless. “I forgot you were there. You may go now.”

“I may actually grow to like you.” Jacques grinned and took your elbow, his large hand squeezing you for emphasis.

“I would expect so,” you replied haughtily. “It is a sentiment I acquire often but return sparingly.”

“Carpe nocturne, ma jolie fille,” he growled as he pulled you through the crowd and out of L’Arc to his waiting car.

*******************************************************************************************

Enroute to a more comfortable and conducive location, you and Jacques each downed two more old fashioneds as his driver maneuvered through the labyrinthian Parisian streets, overfull with tourists for Fashion Week. With his drinks, Jacques smoked a thick cigar on the drive, billowing smoke from his nose like a regal dragon through a cracked window. It came as no surprise you were both staying at the Ritz Paris, after all, it was the finest luxury hotel in Paris and some say in the world. You discovered it had been Jacques who had sniped the Suite Imperiale, the finest suite in the opulent hotel, out from under you, leaving you to book the only slightly less decadent Suite Windsor for yourself.

Jacques strode with you proudly through the lavish hotel, past numerous celebrities and icons. His hand rested possessively on the small of your back, leaving no doubt as to the nature of your evening.

“People are staring,” you said without a trace of shyness, relishing the attention.

“Let’s make it worth their while.” Jacques took your hand and twirled you like he was dancing with you and then dipped you for a passionate kiss in full view of the bustling lobby.

People indeed stared, their captivated gazes following as he then led you to the bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, he pushed you against the wall and propped his hands on either side of your head, caging you inside his arms as he loomed over you.

“Want me to say goodnight, jolie fille?” he asked, his voice dripping with husky desire.

Biting your lip as you paused to consider his words, you looked up at him. “Not for a few more hours.”

A broad toothy smile broke across Jacques’s features as the elevator chimed and you stepped out of his arms, enroute to his suite.

Jacques walked so closely behind you as you approached the door to the Suite Imperiale that you could feel the heat radiating off his massive body. Hot breath huffed on the back of your neck, raising goosebumps and sending electric currents down your spine. At his door, he handed you his room key and let you fumble with the lock while he trailed his hands down over your hips and then back up your thighs. Hooking his fingers in the hem of your dress, he pulled it up over your ass, the cool air on your skin a stark contrast to his hot hands. His broad chest pressed into your back and his head fell to your neck. His lips teased at you tantalizingly as he dug his thick fingers into your soft hips, pulling your ass back into the massive bulge in his pants.

“I knew you had a luscious ass,” he growled into your neck. He teased you with the scratch of his beard near your ear and smiled against your skin when he dipped his hand between your thighs and felt the moist heat of your arousal. “It would be a shame to ruin your lovely clothes. We need to get you out of them before they get too wet.”

You laughed breathily as you opened the door and stumbled inside with Jacques still pressed to your back. He kicked the door shut and spun you to face him, crashing his lips to yours as you each clawed at each other’s clothing. His jacket and shirt were the first to be discarded. You wanted to see his body before revealing yours, and you were not disappointed when he peeled his shirt away. His chest was larger and more impressive than you had guessed and his arms more thickly muscled. He had the finely sculpted look of a performance horse, massive, sleek, and powerful all at once.

Backing away from him sultrily, you slowly unzipped your dress as you angled toward the bedroom. Inspired by the Chateau de Versailles, the living room of the Suite Imperiale was done in burgundy and cream, with vaulted ceilings and enormous airy windows. The burgundy and gold drapes were open, letting the lights of Paris glimmer into the otherwise darkened room.

Before you could step out of your dress that had fallen to your feet, Jacques lifted you up into his arms, all but yanking you off the ground in his fervor. He was so powerful and solid that he made you feel weightless in his arms, a feeling that heightened your anticipation as much as his expert touch.

Jacques twirled once inside the suite’s bedroom with you still in his arms, taking every advantage to show off. This room was decorated in cream and mint with a green and mint brocade canopy enshrouding the lavish bed. Jacques laid you gently down onto the plush bedding and traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back to brusquely discard the rest of his clothing. You eyed his body shamelessly, very pleased by every magnificent part of him. His aurous eyes were even hungrier than yours as they devoured the sight of you.

“I’ve never seen true beauty before tonight,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and darkness.

Jacques crawled over you, a predator over his prey, caging you beneath him with his impressive arms on either side of your body. When you put your hands on him, you could feel his heavy muscles tense and flex as he moved. The feel of him alone was a potent aphrodisiac. He could read all the signs of your body, the way you moved and sighed and responded to his touch. He knew you wanted him, and wanted him now. But Jacques wanted to savor you, to spend as long as he could possibly stand it, to sear every moment of this night into his memory like a firebrand.

Agonizingly slow, he returned his lips to your skin, kissing and teasing every part of your flesh he could cover. He knew he would have you several times tonight, and he decided he wanted to make you moan with his tongue before he made you scream with his cock. It was quick work for him once he settled between your legs and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. He had barely traced his name into you a handful of times when he felt the shuddering rush of your ecstasy.

Positioning himself above you, he captured your lips as he thrust into you, fast and fluid but gentle too. Slow at first, he followed the pace you set as your pleasure deepened. He was a consummate lover, and he shifted his hips until he knew his angle was perfect, like a marksman hitting the bullseye. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure, and he thought that he had never seen anything so lovely in the world of fashion and art as the sight of you beneath him.

Your arousal mounted as vigorously as he pistoned into you. Everything faded from your world until there was only the handsome man above you and the pleasure that flooded you until you were bursting with it. Jacques crested with you when a powerful orgasm throbbed through you and he carried you through every delicious shudder until you were both delirious with exhausted bliss. He kissed you with a slow lingering passion and when he pulled back, it was to look at you with adoration. His gaze was brief, but the emotion was unmistakable.

In the sultry minutes between your first session together and the next of the evening, you lay across Jacques’s chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat and the resonant timbre of his voice that sounded much like a contented purr beneath your ear. His hair was tangled and wild, and his chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His arms were strong around you and his hands huge and comforting on your skin. The man was an absolute fever dream.

“This is only the beginning, ma belle amour,” Jacques whispered much later that night, careful not to wake you. Even in sleep, he dreamed of you and of the bright and glamorous future you would forge together.

*******************************************************************************************

Jacques prided himself on being part of the 5am Club, but this morning he felt that he had earned some extra rest after his robust performance the night before. You told him that he was incredible, and he couldn’t disagree with you. He was an exceptional lover – he made a point of excelling in all areas of importance to him – and he knew it. He had pulled out all the stops for you. He wanted you not only pleasured but impressed; hooked, and wanting more and more. He grinned sleepily at the realization that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was just as hooked after this first time as you were sure to be.

An obnoxious beam of sunlight soldiered through a gap in the curtains to shine on Jacques’s face, forcing him to blink into consciousness. Groaning at the light, he rolled over to curl into you and pull you close to him, and maybe have you again for breakfast. But his hand fell on a vacant sheet, cool to the touch. That brought him into full alertness like a bucket of ice water dosed over his head. He propped himself up on an elbow and brushed the hair out his eyes as he looked around the room. All of your things had been collected and were gone, and no sound emanated from the open door of the adjoining bathroom.

Jacques was alone.

No woman had ever sneaked out on him before the dawn. Of course, he had done so countless times to countless women, the number of which he couldn’t have remembered or even closely estimated with a gun to his head. But no woman had ever given him the same treatment. It was unthinkable! Jacques had only ever slipped away from women he considered unimportant, disposable – which, admittedly, were most of them – but he would never have ducked out on you, not after the night the two of you had shared.

Last night was only the beginning, he told himself, knowing it must be true. Anything that felt that good, that right, had to be only the start of something great.

A bitter thought slithered into his mind, worse than the gravelly morning-after taste on his tongue. Surely, he wasn’t a disposable fling to you. He couldn’t be. He was more than a one night stand, when he wanted more, anyway. It was unfathomable to think a woman, any woman, wouldn’t want more with him. It was blasphemous, even.

No, that couldn’t be it. Jacques knew you were a busy woman, you must have had things to do and places to be. He too was in demand and could hardly begrudge you the same. Throwing the covers aside, he stood and proceeded to walk around the room naked, looking for anything you may have left behind. He was sure he would find a letter or just a brief note, but there was nothing. He even fogged the bathroom mirror in the chance you were prone to mystery and had left a message on the glass that only mist would reveal. He called your suite, received no answer, and had no better luck calling reception. When he checked his phone to see if there were any messages from you, he realized with a sinking feeling that you had not exchanged numbers.

The room was as though you had never been inside it at all. Only the smell of your perfume on his sheets and the scratches you had traced across his skin were proof that last night had not been only a fantasy.

*******************************************************************************************

Never before had Jacques felt so compelled to chase after a woman, but he restrained himself. The rules of a burgeoning relationship were new to Jacques -- not that he ever played by the rules at anything -- but he thought it only fair that since you had been the one to leave, that the burden was on you to make the first contact. He waited for days for a call or email or text, at first angry and then despondent when nothing came.

Jacques Le Gris, the CEO of La Maison Gris, would not chase after a woman. But for this woman, this one singular woman, he consented to casually saunter in her direction. And he was not pleased about having to do so.

It was Friday morning, nearly a week after your evening together, when Jacques relented. He stood restless in his luxurious office, surrounded by walnut paneling, rich colors, and oil paintings. His office had a regal ambience reminiscent of a Victorian study but with a decidedly masculine touch. Every appliance was ultra-modern and colored in sleek carbon, contrasting chicly with the otherwise vintage style. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city of Paris, offering an unobstructed view of the Champs Elysees.

Being at the tops in your respective industries made you each easy to track down, even if then making contact was exponentially more difficult. Jacques called the main branch of Annees Folles Magazine in Manhattan and was given the runaround for the better part of an hour. Christ, it was worse than dealing with an airline. He wondered if he would have to fax a copy of his ID just to speak to a living human who had any authority at all. He was near the limits of his temper, his notorious good humor completely expended, by the time he was put through to your office.

“Editor in Chief’s office.” A curt nasally male voice answered Jacques’s call with a note of disinterest. “Armitage Hux speaking.”

“I’m calling to speak to the Editor in Chief directly, please,” Jacques said in his most diplomatic tone. He added his name, which alone opened most doors for him. “This is Jacques Le Gris.”

“The Editor is not to be disturbed. Furthermore, she only takes calls from those listed on her approved call list.” Came the snide reply. “There’ s no Jack.”

“Jacques,” he enunciated more clearly, adding more force to his voice. “Jacques Le Gris.”

“There is no le Grease on the list either.” A withering sneer could almost be heard through the phone.

“Le Gris,” Jacques corrected, fighting to keep from losing his temper.

“My apologies,” Hux answered without the barest hint of contrition. “Regardless, you are not on the list, Mr. le Grease.”

A frustrated growl slipped out before Jacques could stop it. “For fuck’s sake, ask her about me!”

“There’s really no need for profanity. I’ve already told you, she is not to be disturbed,” Hux continued in a tone that was now verging on bored. “Certainly not by people who aren’t important enough to be on her approved call list, Mr. le Grease.”

“Important?” Jacques laughed at the absurdity. “Do you know who I am? I’m the CEO of La Maison Gris!”

“I’m legally required to say that my opinion does not in any way reflect the views of Annees Folles Magazine, but I have always preferred Gucci,” Hux lilted in his superior manner.

“If Le Grease doesn’t spur her memory, tell her I’m the man she spent last Saturday night with!” Now, Jacques was pissed. Comparing his distinguished line to that family of garish Italians was like slapping a glove across his cheek. “She knew my name then because she was fucking screaming it!”

“Ah, maybe you’re on that list.” Hux smiled deviously, which could be heard on his voice.

Jacques ground his teeth until he thought they would surely crack while he listened to the other man’s unhurried keystrokes as he pulled up that list. Jacques made a mental note to clear that fucking list out for you real fast.

“Barber… McHenry… — forgive me, I’m skimming here — Mills… Ren… Zimmerman…” Hux read through each name with relish. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that this list is Grease-free as well.”

“Listen, you trumped up little shit.” Jacques finally lost control of his temper. “If I have to get on a fucking plane, walk right in there, and kick the door down to her office —“

“Hold please,” Hux intoned, utterly unconcerned. Music only slightly trendier than elevator music assaulted Jacques across the line.

Jacques punched the end button with as much force as he could muster with his finger on the button that was too small for his thick digit. He caught himself just before he threw his phone across the room, and instead turned and swung a savagely powerful punch into the wall, slamming his fist straight through the plaster.

*******************************************************************************************

Bright and early the following Monday a fresh copy of the American edition of Annees Folles Magazine was delivered by courier to Jacques’s office. There was no accompanying note, but the magazine smelled of the sultry exotic perfume he remembered so well. Jacques knew with absolute certainty who it was from. It was longer than he wanted to wait for an overture from you, but at least it was something.

One of the subheadings on the cover read, A Special Editorial and Behind the Scenes Look into the New Fashion Line of La Maison Gris. Jacques seated himself behind his imposing desk, leaned back in his tufted leather chair, and propped his long legs on his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. He intended to savor your special editorial on him and his fashion line, expecting to fall even deeper and more hopelessly into the abyss of his feelings for you, into this new and uncharted territory.

Jacques rustled through the pages, eager to find your editorial. Splashed across the page was an extra treat – a startlingly high-quality photograph of his runway with a model in a floral dress with fur cuffs, and front in center silhouetted by the runway lights, the pair of you stood side-by-side in the crowd watching the show. He decided to have it framed for his office, a memento of the night your relationship began. He imagined your smile when he showed it off to you in person.

Below the photograph, the article was not what he expected. It was five-hundred words of honeyed vitriol.

La Maison Gris, with CEO Jacques Le Gris at its helm, has been the rising star in the fashion industry and with good reason. His designs mix ultra-modern chic with the classiest and the most decadent styles history has ever seen. From Victorian era draping and corsets to Regency-esque frocks and slippers to beading and sequins that would flatter the most exuberant 1920’s flapper, Le Gris’s inspiration is regal and refined and imbued with his own signature twist and flourish.

Ascensions, however, are precarious. Climbing to the top in fashion is just as perilous as climbing Mount Everest. One misstep can cost one his career.

Confident in his own grandeur, Le Gris opened his show at Paris Fashion Week with a new line featuring a daring use of fur on every piece. Icarus, too, was daring in his flight toward the blazing Sun. Just like Icarus, Le Gris has reached beyond his capacity and will soon find himself plummeting back to Earth to crash and burn with so many other has-beens whose names are not worth remembering.

Swept up in his penchant for melding modern with iconic, Le Gris does not consider the advances that we as a society have made. No longer do we need to resort to the barbarism of the fur trade to clothe ourselves. Nor do we, as Le Gris would have us believe, need to resort to fur to dress ourselves in the finest fashion and haute couture. Rest assured, dear readers, La Maison Gris is not in the upper echelon of fine fashion and haute couture.

In addition to the heinous and overdone use of fur, Le Gris has the tastelessness to cobble together a kaleidoscope of florals ranging from pastel to electric. His florid color palette can best be described as ‘A Murder of Unicorns,’ as painted by Monet. It reminds one of a cheerily painted playroom inside a children’s mental institution. A more cultured eye will gravitate to Dolce & Gabbana for florals, to Burberry for iconic; and if one is looking for fur, a vintage fox, mink, or sable from a boutique will always carry the day.

Le Gris’s approach to fashion seems to be that a lack of quality can be disguised by flair and concealed with fur. This mirrors the man’s approach to life. A boisterous grandstander, Le Gris tries to project a distinguished air. However, like a magician’s trick revealed, all his flash and charm are little more than smoke and mirrors with no real substance.

A little fur here and there can make a girl purr, but an overuse, such as the spring line of La Maison Gris, is barbarous at best and utterly gauche at worst.

One wonders if Le Gris has the capacity to bear a defeat with dignity, but the smart money will bet on the negative. Like a scavenging hound, Le Gris will likely refurbish his failed spring line for another runway this coming fall or winter. He will certainly gain no traction on any runway of repute. With his brash sensationalism and garish taste, perhaps he shall find his true calling outfitting cosplayers or larpers.

Jacques crumpled the offending magazine in his fist as if he could choke the life from its Editor in Chief through the abused pages. He viciously ripped it in half, throwing each segment across the room in different directions. He wanted to punch another hole in his wall, but his knuckles were still scabbed and bruised from his recent outburst. Not for the first time, he decided to hang a heavyweight punching bag in his office. He glared around his office, looking for something to break. Why the fuck was everything his decorators chose some one-of-a-kind antique?

Sparing his knuckles further damage, he let out a savage growl like a wounded lion. Jacques was breathing as hard as if he had run a mile, his huge chest straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. As he tried ineffectively to calm himself, his shrewd mind began to calculate and strategize. After a few moments of huffing, he decided on his course of action. If you wanted to play dirty, he could roll in the mud with the best of them. Retrieving his phone, he dialed a familiar number.

“Jacques!” Pierre D’Alencon, the Creative Director of La Maison Gris, answered with friendly ebullience. “I was just going to call you. Drinks this weekend? I happened upon a gorgeous set of twins -- redheads, no less -- and of course I’m willing to share with my closest friend.”

“Put the twins on ice for now,” Jacques grumbled gruffly. “This is business. Did you see the editorial in Annees Folles?”

“I did, indeed,” Pierre’s voice lost a hint of its buoyancy. “Hence my offer of drinks and women to lift your spirits.”

“I’ve made a decision, and it involves you. If that glorified tabloid wants to blast me for using fur in my line, I’m going to single-handedly revive the fur-in-fashion trend! We’ll see who holds more power in this little game.” Jacques grinned devilishly at his own newly formed plan of attack like a knight finding a chink in his opponent’s armor. “Which is where you come in. I want to see designs for an entire line with fur on every piece by the end of the month. Get on it, Pierre! Give me your best.”

“Do you not think it best to respond with more dignity and sweep all this unpleasantness under the rug?” Pierre asked with a heavy sigh. “This is why you have PR people.”

“Who was it that said any publicity is good publicity?” Jacques asked, unphased.

“That would be the American spectacle, P.T. Barnum,” Pierre replied with resignation.

“Smart man. I always admired his joie de vivre.” Jacques smirked as he paced across his vast office. “That’s exactly what I want. I want a spectacle. I want a public circus. I want a showdown. We’re going to revive the fur trend, you and I, and I’m going to rub it in that demoness’s face!”

“Ah, so this is all motivated by astute business acumen and professionalism, is it?” Pierre gave a laugh that was ignored.

“Use every kind of fur you can get your hands on. The crueler the fucking better! Lynx, fox, sable, Persian lamb – all the cutest and cuddliest animals. Are chinchillas still a thing? Those too. Can we still get leopard? If you can design a full-length coat made of puppies, do it! Dalmatian with a lynx collar, how about that?” Jacques ran a hand along the shimmering silver streak in his black hair, thinking. “And I don’t want faux anything in sight. I want it all real, all genuine fur.”

Pierre confirmed his understanding of his marching orders and signed off. For so long as their mission remained retaliation and war, anyway. He also decided on a side-quest of sorts, to put his second greatest talent to work while he created a runway line trimmed in fur. He would try his best at figuring out his friend and boss’s quarry, and aid him in hunting the most dangerous game of all, a powerful woman. Perhaps if Jacques could seduce her personally, there would be no need to batter her into submission professionally, and Pierre knew he was just the man for both jobs.

Jacques was still wound up after the call, but now he had a course of action, a focal point, a target at which to channel his anger and frustration. The embers of rage still alighted Jacques’s nerves and the sting of betrayal still burned in his chest. He still wanted to punch something, to find a release. It was a poor substitute, but he ranted and bellowed instead.

“That frigid bitch!” Jacques snarled, glaring out of his window over the streets of Paris. “That shrew. That succubus. Satan. That woman is fucking Satan!”

*******************************************************************************************

To be continued…

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Tagging some fashionistas:

@in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @babbushka @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @reborn-rekall @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @bensolodyad @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @durangoninetyfive @reveluving @vedavan @fax4life27 @lumberjack00fantasies @kyloremus

#my stuff!#my writing #best #fic #valentine #jacques le gris x reader #jacques le gris x you #jacques

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teamloyalty · 5 months ago

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look how football players who are for some reasons not classified as "GENDER CONFORMED" based on some toxic masculinity standards are being treated...jules koundé dares to wear boots with heels or experiment a bit with his outfits and sense of style in a somewhat more fluid way and the french call him julia. pavard gets outed by a paparazzi who said he's gay (true or not, we don't know) and because he perhaps looks slightly more elegant/soft than average he's made fun of or called the f word. those rumours of mbappe dating a trans woman as an excuse to drag him or call him freak.

if I were a queer footballer I would never ever come out. never ever.

i'm with totally with you, anon. truly i see no reason why a queer footballer should risk any semblance of peace for the rest of their lives to come out lolz it really is that dire. and its all SO wrapped up in sex like

not sure i'm going to say this well but - what makes an athlete a successful representation of the ideal man is his ability to perform hegemonic masculinity in all facets of his life; because these men are high performing athletes (the peak expression of masculinity) they're also expected to perform masculinity at an elite level in all other respects as well. these toxic norms of masculinity emphasize domination, over most other men and over ALL women (and anything perceived as feminine).

and the minute an athlete transgress the boundary into anything NOT distinctly male, they're called gay -- or at the very least treated as though they are gay. queerness indicates an inherent wrongness about the male body, something sinister in the way gay men use their male bodies for acts outside the realm of acceptability for real men.

and this is a problem because by definition elite male athletes model for the rest of society the most successful, most masculine, perfected use of the male body.

look at the way that people responded to just the SUGGESTION that declan rice would love his [white, blonde, VERY beautiful] girlfriend because she's midsized. (they'll call her fat and she's not. she's midsized at most.) she does not conform to the highest possible beauty standards so ppl think that he could do better, find some prettier, skinnier woman to fuck (because that's all he could possibly want in a partner: the hottest woman to fuck, and to demonstrate to the world that he's fucking her). i've seen people wonder if he's not attracted to women at all. why else would a famous young athlete want a fat, ugly girlfriend? (she is neither of these things). he MUST be gay.

THIS IS A STRAIGHT RELATIONSHIP.

idk man its just sooooo darksided. maybe out players wouldn't receive direct in-person harassment from fans at games, but anyone who knows anything about how homophobia actually operates in society at large and isn't a fucking idiot knows that homophobia isn't solely damaging in the form of physical in person violence. football fans online can't even handle someone wearing fucking rainbow shoe laces. FUCKING SHOE LACES.

and that's not to mention the myriad of ways that implicit bias would impact out players, negatively affecting their ability to make connections in the game, acquire brand deals, move to the right clubs, etc etc.

well-meaning people in the football world will say that for forward progress, a few brave footballers just need to come out and normalize queerness in the sport. they're too entrenched in that world to recognize that its very foundations are rooted in homophobia.

#wow i need to go to sleep. lol #homophobia #sports meta #my post #queerness in sport #masculinity in sport #football

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ingek73 · 3 months ago

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1. Morocco

Wanting to emulate the long and graceful silhouette of the Moroccan Djellaba, this look features a long scarf over the shoulder to complete an all red look with a hint of green, akin to that of the Moroccan flag.

2. Jamaica

This look takes direct inspiration from the design of the Jamaican flag as well as the colors.

3. USA

The classic red white and blue, with classic denim. The look itself is “Made in America” as it features American icons such as Ralph Lauren, and nephew Greg Lauren, as well as one of the most iconic American brands, Coach. The look also contains accessories from Chrome Hearts as well as a hint of the Brooklyn Based streetwear brand Kidsuper.

4. Mexico

This look takes inspiration from the traditional charro suit, which is a type of suit originally worn by the horsemen of the Charrería, and often associated with the Mariachi. The look also features two rings in the shape of a skull, refrencing the Mexian skull, the Calavera, which represents death and rebirth and is a symbol of Mexican holiday “el Día de los Muertos” , the Day of the Dead.

5. France

This look Features French Fashion giants Balmain, Louis Vuitton, and Hermès, the latter responsible for arguably the most popular designer bag of all time, the Birkin. This look Features the iconic Haut à Courroies 50 in Crocodile, one of the most coveted and financially consuming bags from the legendary french house.

6. Italy

Inspired by classic Italian menswear, this look features Italian fashion giants, Giorgio Armani, Brunello Cucinelli, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Ermenegildo Zegna whilst incorporating the colors of the Italian flag.

7. Palestine

Initially the idea was to create a look drawing inspiration from a traditional Palestinian garment called a Thawb, a long ankle length garment, which is typically long sleeved. Upon my research I discovered hundreds of Palestinian athletes had been killed recently amongst the atrocities ongoing in Gaza. Understanding the strength and courage it would take to perform at a world stage given a genocide in ones own country, I wanted to make a look that feels like a human embodiment of the flag itself but most importantly, I wanted something that felt beautiful and free.

8. Canada

Consisting of popular Canadian brands Dquared2 and Canada goose, this look takes direct inspiration of the Canadian flag design, down to the squared brooch in the center of the vest. Stylistically, something you’d want to wear during a Canadian winter.

#wisdom kaye #the olympics but high fashion

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owlobservation · 1 month ago

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Itoshi Sae Egoist Bible Profile (2022)

"I'll see for myself... what kind of forward this country can produce."

Itoshi Rin's older brother. He's selected as one of the New Generation World 11. The Genius Midfielder!

-Profile Data-

Birthdate: October, 10th.

Age: 18 (Third year high school)

Zodiac sign: Libra.

Birthplace: Kanagawa Prefecture (Kamakura City)

Family structure: Father, mother, himself, younger brother.

Height: 180 cm.

Foot size: 26.5 cm.

Blood type: A.

Previous team before he returned to Japan: Re Ale Youth FC.

Dominant foot: Left.

Favorite Soccer Player: Álvaro Recoba. "The left-footed player who creates rainbow on the pitch."*

Age started playing soccer: 1 years old. "Before I knew it, I was already playing soccer."

Nickname: Treasure of Japan.

Strengths: Being able to see things objectively. "I'm often told that I'm a dry person but who cares."

Weaknesses: I don't know anything except about soccer. "Don't live like this, you guys."

Favorite food: Salted kombucha. "Because I can return back to zero."**

Disliked food: French fries. "It's so delicious that I could die, but it's also so unhealthy that I could die."

Best rice accompaniment: Salted kelp. "They don't have it in Spain so I got it sent from my parents' home."

Hobby: Analyzing data of soccer players and teams. "It's nice to see things visualized as numbers."

Favorite season: The end of summer. "I feel like the whole world has become lonely."

Favorite show: Chibi Maruko-chan. "It reminds me of my parents' home."

Favorite music: Suisei by Tofubeats feat. Seira Kariya. "I listen it to cool down."

Favorite movie: Taxi Driver. "This De Niro guy is the coolest."

Favorite manga: Gegege no Kitaro

Character color: Azuki Red.

Favorite animal: Seagull. "I like migratory birds that don't stay in one place."

Favorite brands: All the brands that sponsor me. "They have good eyes for betting on me."

Best subjects: No idea because I didn't really pay attention in class and only focused on soccer. "I've never seen my report card."

Fetish: Butt. "You can tell an athlete's ability by the shape of their butt."

What makes you happy: A play beyond my imagination.

What makes you sad: Being forced to carry the weight of Japanese soccer on my shoulders. "Yes, I'm talking about you guys."

The first time someone confessed to you: I don't even remember which one was the first time, dumbass.

Last year's valentine day chocolates: Around 2.000. "My manager told me."

Sleep time: 8 hours. (7 hours+1 hour nap)

Where do you wash first in the bath?: Bangs' hairline.

Mushroom or Bamboo shoots?: Depending on the mood.

What made you cry recently?: Why would I tell you, idiot.

At what age did you stop receiving presents from Santa?: 10 years old.***

What did you ask for a Christmas present from Santa?: My undiscovered talent.

What would you do on your last day on earth?: Give the world's best striker the world's best pass.

What would you do if you receive 100 million yen?: I'm not interested. It's just a small change.

What do you do on your days off?: Gazing at the sea.

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Daily life at Blue Lock

"I haven't been there yet."

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Sae's Ranking

1. Ranked #3 The Best at Study****

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Initial Character Sketch by Kaneshiro

Genius Midfielder. Very Sadist (Do-S)

I can't read the rest of the notes... sorry....

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Notes:

*Álvaro Recoba (El Chino) is a midfielder from Uruguay known for his "rainbow-like" curved kicks.

**Return back to zero=being refreshed.

***In early 2021 twitter Q&A, he said he stopped getting Christmas presents when Rin stopped believing in Santa. His answer is revised in Egoist Bible to just "10 years old."

****The title/ranking is "Who Can Study Well". Sae is the #3 person who is very good at studying (benkyou 勉強).

Check Sae's updated profile from the second volume of Egoist Bible for more!

#itoshi sae #translation #egoist bible

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eretzyisrael · 6 months ago

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by Lionel Shriver

Another day, another opportunity for huffy, hypocritical “progressive” posturing. PEN America has now been forced to cancel its World Voices literary festival in New York and L.A., on the heels of also canceling its 2024 awards ceremony. Too many authors had withdrawn from both events to make going ahead with staging either practicable. The reason for so many writers flouncing from these programs? PEN’s failure to publicly denounce Israel’s “genocide” in Gaza. But you had probably guessed the point of indignation already, because as of October 2023, the Anglosphere’s far left has neatly pivoted from the infantilization of black people to the Palestinian cause with the coordinated grace of a synchronized swimmer.

To clarify: the purpose of PEN is to defend freedom of speech and to protect writers from political oppression and persecution. It makes perfect sense, therefore, that a significant cadre of its membership would seek to stifle freedom of speech and engage in political oppression and persecution. Or: we’re all for free speech so long as you say what we tell you. These folks are athletes. It requires considerable intellectual acrobatics for Writers Against the War on Gaza to regard the shutting down of events to advance free expression as “a win for free expression.” Presumably, the fact that a number of withdrawals from both occasions were motivated by fear of being attacked by a mob of pro-Palestinian zealots is also “a win for free expression.” PEN itself stated its concern “about any circumstance in which writers tell us they feel shut down, or that speaking their minds bears too much risk.”

PEN is, by its nature, a big tent. It represents not only Muslim writers but Jewish ones too, some of whom might just support the existence of Israel, might just regard Israel’s war against Hamas in Gaza as justified, and might just find alliance with genuinely genocidal terrorists whose unembarrassed aim is to wipe Israel and the Jewish people off the map as a teeny tiny bit obnoxious. While one PEN member decries the nonprofit’s “both-sidesing,” the truth is that PEN has no business taking a position on this issue whatsoever.

Unfortunately, the left has successfully installed the expectation that, regardless of their established purpose, all institutions—companies, museums, theaters, universities, charities, you name it—must proclaim their fealty to the “right” (which is to say left) position on a host of inflammatory issues of the day. This hyper-politicization of entities that ought sensibly to remain politically neutral has been systematically debauching everything from the UK’s National Trust to its NHS, from Anheuser-Busch to the Chicago Art Museum. First, all such outfits were required to fly Black Lives Matter flags, then garishly incoherent Pride flags, and now these banners have all to be swapped out for Palestinian flags, never mind what constituency or customer base might be alienated by this gratuitously partisan branding. Thus, an organization established for the defense of free speech of every sort—including the overtly Zionist kind—is necessarily obliged to openly advocate for Hamas, a murderous, cheerfully antisemitic cult whose interest in free speech on its home turf would fit in a thimble.

Of course, PEN’s membership has form when it comes to hypocrisy. In 2015, under armed security, PEN awarded its Freedom of Expression Courage Award to the satirical French magazine Charlie Hebdo. Six writers withdrew from participating in the proceedings to protest the magazine’s ostensibly offensive printing of cartoons that depicted Muhammad. Yet funnily enough, what your average normal person found offensive was the vicious massacre of 12 of the publication’s employees, most of them journalists, for neglecting to adhere to one religion’s hysterical blasphemy laws in a secular country that famously celebrates liberté. Yet over 200 writers—including, to my astonishment, the likes of Joyce Carol Oates—signed an open letter to PEN criticizing the Charlie Hebdo award. For these authors, defense of free speech, promotion of tolerance, and opposition to violent political oppression—the very purpose of PEN—counted for nothing when weighed against any injury to the delicate feelings of fundamentalist Muslims.

Much has been written about the unholy, and in some ways, hilarious alliance developing between the progressive left and Islam (Lesbians for Palestine, etc.). But for Western writers to embrace a restrictive, prescriptive, and stifling culture isn’t merely ironic or comical; it’s self-defeating. One needn’t consult a professor of Middle Eastern studies to conclude that these fair-weather friends in Gaza may welcome useful idiocy, but the permissive ethos of the Anglo left is diametrically at odds with despotic Islamic theology. Moreover, for American writers to express increasingly shrill and little-disguised hostility to Jews is to disavow a substantial chunk of the country’s distinguished literary canon: Philip Roth, Saul Bellow, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Bernard Malamud, and Elie Wiesel just for starters.

But then, the past 15 years have demonstrated with depressing clarity that writers, along with artists of every stripe, aren’t special. Although our occupation is more at risk from censorship than most, we’re all too capable of perversely embracing suppressive viewpoints that violate our own interest. We’re paid not only to write but to think, yet we don’t think; we listen keenly for whatever tune is playing in our fellow travelers’ AirPods and whistle along. Apparently, we’re no more creative than the average bear, and as soon as the memo goes out, we’ll chant along with the kiddies camped at Columbia University, “from the river to the sea!” whatever that means. We’ll obediently switch out one cause for another whenever we’re told, as nimbly as using “find and replace” in Microsoft Word.

We’re cowards, conformists, and copycats. Real freedom of expression is too scary; we’d rather hide in a crowd whose keffiyeh-masked members all shout the same thing. PEN has a laudable history of advocating for writers who’ve been persecuted for their opinions in repressive polities—polities much like the contemporary United States. But too many of its members would have the nonprofit corrupt its global mission to protect free speech across the board so long as they can bully its leadership into pointless partisan posturing for progressives’ acrid flavor of the month.

#lionel shriver #pen #freedom of expression #hamas #gaza #israel #conformity #charlie hebdo

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leveloneandup · 1 year ago

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The US women’s national soccer team will defend its title as world champions this summer at the FIFA Women‘s World Cup 2023 in Australia and New Zealand. The tournament will also mark the first time the US Women’s National Team will play with equal pay to the US Men’s National Team. This watershed moment was a goal of rɘ―inc, the lifestyle brand co-founded by USWNT members Tobin Heath, Christen Press and Megan Rapinoe and former member Meghan Klingenberg.

Pentagram has continued its ongoing collaboration with rɘ―inc with its latest collection, Written in the Stars, inspired by the World Cup and the trailblazing members of the USWNT. The campaign celebrates athletes, artists and activists who are making a constellation of change, illuminating the path forward, and finding their destiny. (And when teams win the World Cup, they receive a badge with stars—can the two-time US champions get their third star?)

The branding reimagines the rɘ―inc logo as a constellation, playing off the hyphen in the mark with a network of lines that are used to build different graphics. These include a “2023” that links the brand’s guiding principles—activism, reinvention, defying expectations, and more—in an interconnected system that visualizes equity and unity, and a group of great players globally coming together as one.

A new insignia mirrors the logo with the games’ location flipped upside down, a play on Down Under. The collection also features a variety of interpretations on the starry theme in collabs with independent designers and makers like Ryoko Rain, UN/DN, USSF, Bkr and Storied Hats.

The Pentagram team curated a special color palette for the line, giving each color a playful name that ties into women’s soccer, like “Mrs. Graham’s Green,” a tribute to Helen Graham Matthews, who founded one of the first female soccer teams in 1881; “Ranger Rose,” after Beverly Ranger, the Jamaican former footballer who helped grow the game in Germany; and “Allez Gold,” a play on the French yell for “go,” and the USWNT win at the 2019 Women’s World Cup in France, where the crowds also chanted “equal pay!”

#re inc #pentagram #written in the stars collection

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brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 2 years ago

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the french exit | chapter 01

kylian mbappé x original female character [+18]

synopsis: alice is a lonely rich girl whose biggest fear is to become a lonely rich woman. ever since they moved to paris, her fiancé doesn’t seem to be interested in her anymore. so alice decides to find comfort in the arms of another man. warnings: cheating; angst; smut; i have never been to france; minors dni.

masterlist | next chapter

Chapter 01 | Blank Space

“'Cause we're young, and we're reckless

We'll take this way too far

It'll leave you breathless”

Alice Morgan-Webber is a classic Ralph Lauren blonde girl. Summer at the Hamptons. Kate Moss poster on her wall. Her father owns a hotel chain and is the CEO of a company specialized in luxury goods. Her mother is a fashion designer. Alice is an only daughter and heir to an American dream empire. Her highschool sweetheart boyfriend, David, proposed to her in the summer. Their families have been friends for generations and when their mothers got pregnant at the same time, they knew it was meant to be. His family have their own inspirational story about their generational wealth.

A couple months ago David got a job at his family's company's French headquarters, and now they’re living in Paris. It didn’t take long for Alice to get an internship in a fashion magazine – in fact, all it took was a phone call from her mother. The couple’s perfect french pronunciation and overall cool behavior made them a perfect match for the city of light.

Their European fairytale didn’t last longer than a month. Very quickly David got bored of playing house. He started to spend his nights and weekends away from their cozy luxury apartment, always with the excuse of being busy with work. That was expected, in a way, so Alice wasn’t exactly disappointed; but she was surprised, his lack of interest in the very first month was a disaster. They weren’t even married yet.

“Men are complicated, honey. But maybe he really is busy with work.” Her mother, Caroline, told her over the phone. David’s family owned a holding company that was currently in the process of starting to invest in a fashion brand – owned by Alice’s family. So her mother soothed her, told her to wait. It is in everybody's best interest if they could find a way to be happy together. “You’ll be married in the spring and everything will be perfect, dear. I promise. You just need to be a little less controlling.”

It was a destination wedding, in Greece. Her mother would design her dress, of course. On her left hand she was wearing David’s grandmother’s ring. A colossal diamond that felt heavier every time he left the house without making eye contact. “Bye, love.” His strong voice, that once made her legs shake, now made her nauseous. He could at least look at her when saying goodbye, right? That wasn’t too much to ask, right? Alice thought to herself.

Part of Alice’s job included getting invited to luxury brands promotional parties, the kind she was already used to. But this time was different, she was working. Alice was supposed to post pictures of the event on social media and later report it to her boss. How the food tasted, was the music any good, what kind of celebrities showed up. It was a sports brand, so there were a few french athletes present – one specifically caught Alice’s attention. Kylian. She saw him in person before, in another one of those parties long before she moved to Paris. Back then David was present, a possessive hand around her waist. Warning her of the depraved behavior of football players. Now she was alone and Kylian was staring right back at her.

Later she would have a hard time recalling the food and the music; the French football player was the only thing on her mind the whole time. They were formally introduced at some point, he graciously shook her hand.

“Beautiful ring.” His eyes were on her left hand. She blushed.

“Thank you.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“In the spring.”

Quickly and smoothly, without anybody else seemly noticing, he whispers in her ear:

“So I still have some time.”

Alice laughs and nods at him, still blushing. They don’t talk for the rest of the evening, but when she comes home she gets a notification on her phone that makes her heart beat faster: k.mbappe just liked your post / k.mbappe just followed you. He answers one of her stories; it is a picture of her living room, beautifully decorated solely for the purpose of impressing her future in-laws.

k.mbappe you have good taste

alicemwebber thank you

k.mbappe i’m a buying a new apartment need help with the decor you should visit give me some tips

Kylian’s new apartment was just outside of busy Paris; it was modern and spacious, and smelled brand new. There wasn’t a lot of furniture or items that identified the owner, so Alice felt like he wasn’t entirely lying to her. Who knows how many times he used that trick, but Alice didn’t need a very convincing excuse. She just wanted to see him, to be in the same room completely alone with him and to feel desired by him. Her lust was aggravated by her anger. In her messed up head, what she was doing felt like revenge.

“So, what do you think?” He was standing behind her, so much taller than her. His perfume was intoxicating and she was fighting her own brain, trying to keep herself focused.

“It’s a really nice place, but it needs more… Personal touches.” She guides her right hand to his, without even looking, her thumb slowly caressing him. Kylian takes a step closer to her, his body now fully flushed against her. He holds her hand and rests his head on top of hers.

“I agree. Like I said, you have good taste.” He gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. “That’s why I invited you.” He continues to softly kiss her face, lowering his kisses down to her neck. “Are you going to help me?” Their bodies are even closer and she can feel he’s getting hard behind her.

“Yes, I will. Whatever you need.” As she says that he puts both of his hands on her hips, pushing her back onto himself, making her feel him.

“Whatever I need? Are you sure?”

Alice nods, and when she opens her mouth to properly answer him, he kisses her. She turns around, holding him by the neck. The kiss feels like a perfect match. They instinctively know exactly where to touch each other, their tongues know the exact moves. Their breaths and the small noises of pleasure Alice makes echoes in Kylian’s almost empty living room.

“Do you own a bed, at least?” She asks, face still close, afraid of moving away from him and breaking the spell. Kylian laughs warmly.

“I do own a bed, yes. Let me show it to you.”

He guides her to the bedroom while still kissing her. By the time they lay in bed together half of their clothes were already forgotten along the way. She’s lying on her back and he’s towering over her, he already feels big just standing over her, looking at her. His body is warm, he’s kissing her like he’s in a hurry. A real man. Wanting her, tasting her. Paying attention to her. She surrendered herself to him. Alice tries to take off his pants but he holds her hands above her head. She stops the kiss.

“Please. Please.” She guides her hand once again to his jeans. Kylian sits on the bed and brings Alice onto his lap. He takes her left hand and bites the side of the finger with her engagement ring. Alice moans. “Do you like that?” He whispers in her ear, she eagerly nods in agreement.

“I like it too.” He kisses her finger. “I also like knowing I only had to ask you once.”

“You’re being mean.” Alice takes the rest of her own clothes off, tired of waiting for him. Kylian laughs. His eyes shining bright give Alice butterflies. He looks beautiful like that, horny and teasing her. She feels lucky to get to experience it.

“I’m being mean?” He gets up and holds both of her legs, carefully making her seat at the end of the bed. Then he pulls her legs apart and admires the view of her dripping wet core. “Alright, let me be nice to you, then.” He gets on his knees and starts kissing her feet, almost in a devotional manner. He continues his kisses up, firmly holding her legs. After what it feels like forever he finally kisses her cunt. Kylian can’t help moaning with her. She tastes amazing and he can’t get enough. She cums screaming his name even before he puts his fingers on her. “What about now? I’m still mean to you, baby?” Alice is laying on her back again and he’s fingering her roughly.

“Ye–yes, yes, you are.” She’s stuttering, can’t control her voice when she’s so close to another orgasm. On her third orgasm she has his cock inside of her. She’s on all fours and his hand is holding her hair, keeping her head up. Her mouth is open, her moans somehow still getting louder.

“You’re so big.” Alice mumbles, eyes closed, feeling full and satisfied. Kylian is proud, both from her words and the state he managed to get her.

“You should always feel like this, baby.” He’s still behind her, but they’re both on their knees in the middle of the bed, his hand never leaving her hair. “It’s what a pretty girl like you deserve.” He kisses her shoulder and neck, restraining himself from biting her.

Later, after she showers, he politely offers for her to stay. She can’t, of course, and he knows. At the apartment door, kissing goodbye, she says:

“There’s a lot of work to be done in this place, don’t you think?”

He agrees, grinning at her. “You should come often, I need all the help you can give.”

***

David doesn’t know anything about football, but loves talking about it. It never bothered Alice before, she used to find it amusing; his lack of knowledge over tactics or stats. It used to be cute, even. They were at a private box in Parc des Princes, together with some of David’s work colleagues and a potential client. The guy was a family man and a PSG fanatic, so David decided to take his lovely bride to a football match in hope of luring the French millionaire into doing business with him. Alice is nauseous the entire time. She deserves it, she thinks. Maybe this is God punishing her somehow. Still, she has her eyes on Kylian the entire time.

“Alice, are you feeling good?” David asks her, his hand on her back. Her head is spinning. God, why is he being so thoughtful.

“I… I don’t think so.”

Alice sort of disassociates, only fully regaining her consciousness after she throws up a couple times at the Saint-Germain lounge bathroom. David is by her side, holding her hair. His action only made her more nauseous, reminding her of a few nights before.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Her fiancé asks and she weakly slaps him.

“How can you ask me that this way?” Alice is angry, but her voice is weak. David laughs, brushing her hair off her face and kissing her forehead.

“Well, there’s still a few months till the wedding. I want you to look good in your dress.”

Alice stares at him in shock, trying to gain courage to ask him what she really wants to know. To tell him how she feels. It was the first time he even mentioned the wedding in weeks.

“Do you really? You still think about our wedding?”

“Of course, love. Where’s this coming from?”

Her hair is a mess and her make up ruined, they’re both still sitting on the bathroom floor and Alice feels like this is the lowest so far in their relationship. David's tone of voice makes her feel like she’s delirious. Maybe she overreacted. She should have asked him sooner.

“I feel like you don’t want me anymore.” She’s fully crying and David tries to dry her tears, confused. He takes out a handkerchief embroidered with his initials and hands it to her.

“What? Love, that’s not true. How can you say that?”

“I’m sorry I ruined your business meeting.” Alice says in between sobs. David shakes his head.

“You didn’t ruin anything. It’s actually a pretty good look for me, coming to help you.” He chuckles. A few minutes later, Alice recomposes herself, quickly fixing her hair and make up. When they walk out, holding hands, it is like nothing happened.

“Oh, look, Messi scored!” David points at one of the Tv’s on the lounge. Back home, getting ready to bed, Alice tries to initiate a kiss but he points a finger on her lips.

“Love, you threw up today.” He looks at her with disgust.

“Are you serious? I’m feeling better, you psycho.”

“Well, let’s wait a few more hours. Just to make sure.”

On her phone there’s a new notification. An answer to her stories on the stadium. It was a group picture, David had his arm around her, kissing her cheek.

k.mbappe enjoyed the game?

alicemwebber not really wasn’t feeling well had to leave early

k.mbappe feeling better now?

David was sound asleep beside her, she stared at him for a while before answering.

alicemwebber yes much better

#the french exit #kylian mbappe #kylian fanfic #mbappe fanfic #smut #football fanfic #kylian mbappe fanfic

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