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auroravictorium · 2 years ago

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still in love and half alive (k.b.)

can't say we didn't try. baby, we're a bad idea. - bad idea by dove cameron

Summary: kaz and reader have a job: take out the leader of one of the newest up-and-coming gangs in the barrel that hope to fill the vacuum left by pekka rollins's departure. said job requires reader to utilize her skills from her days as a showgirl; despite the unpleasant reminders of her past, she completes the job and helps other showgirls and the low grunts of the new gang in the process.

Pairing(s): kaz x former showgirl!reader (established relationship) Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: alcohol consumption, men being creepy, poor treatment of women (nothing explicit, just allusions to men treating them like crap), allusions to past exploitation, kaz having non-explicit thoughts about reader, reader playing up the seduction factor, violence [cutting someone with a dagger, kaz choking someone, kaz hitting someone with his cane], mentions of past trauma, very quick mention of kaz's haphephobia Genre: action-ish, a little angst, fluff near the end Request? Yes! (@futurecorps3)

Author's Note: hello hello! so this is an absolute BEAST of a one-shot, but i couldn't figure out where to split it. i hope you all enjoy <3

Kaz sat in the far corner of the entertainment hall, nursing his drink and trying to keep his jealousy at bay. Patrons and dancers milled about, amusing themselves with conversation, cards, or propositions. A few disappeared up the rickety stairs to amuse themselves, laughing and stumbling with drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. The room reeked of smoke, liquor, and sweat.

He was only here for your sake. If he were smart, he would be anywhere else, certainly not in some up-and-coming gang's crumbling entertainment hall. If he could, he would leave you to play your part. You could hold your own just fine, no protection from Kaz needed; but jealousy had him rooted to his teetering stool in the corner, with his watered-down liquor in a gloved hand and a scowl on his face. He couldn't bring himself to leave. Not when three dozen men were staring at you in a tiny dress that hugged your waist.

You'd paid a hefty sum for the chance to dance on the stage; from your position, you could survey the bar for the man calling himself the leader of such an establishment. Armed with a description of the wannabe gang leader and three knives hidden under your sparkling red dress, you circled the shimmering pole in the center of the stage and traced your gaze over the people watching you.

There was no sign of the target, Pieter Gabel. It took every ounce of your self-control to resist a sigh, and you decided to do a lazy spin around the pole to amuse your audience. A few men whistled as you hooked your arm around the pole and spun, letting the light catch in the faux diamonds threaded in your hair. You settled on the ground again and tossed your hair over your shoulder, scanning the crowd for the only set of eyes that mattered.

You didn't find Kaz in the crowd. Not that you expected to. Instead, you caught his gaze from across the room, his icy blue eyes illuminated by a near-snuffed candle on his table. To anyone else, he looked as indifferent as ever, maybe vaguely interested in the spectacle on stage. But you saw the slant of his mouth, the clench of his jaw, how something dark glimmered in his eyes, perhaps a promise of violence. He didn't like all the attention on you.

So you offered a small smile, a look reserved for him and him alone. You'd apologize later, but he'd understand. You were doing what needed to be done. The stage gave you the best vantage point in the building, and Gabel had to be found and driven out of the city. The Barrel was tense enough while the remnants of the Dime Lions attempted to regroup; the Dregs needed to eliminate any rising threats as soon as possible.

You and Kaz both knew that. He'd forgive you once you were off that damn stage and by his side, helping him rule the Barrel.

For years, crowds of tourists and too-rich men waited at your feet, leering at you like you were nothing more than a pretty face and a body to buy, bed, or watch with predatory glints in their eyes. They didn't bother to see past the costume and see how sharp and dangerous you could be. To them, you were nothing more than a piece of entertainment.

But Kaz saw right through the ruse and saw every jagged scar your past had left. He saw how Ketterdam had sharpened you into a dangerous weapon, ready to wreak revenge on a city that had hurt you deeply.

Like called to like. Your similar tastes for vengeance pulled Kaz toward you, despite all attempts on his end to ignore the summons. For years after you joined the Dregs, he settled for admiring you from afar until you got sick of his shit and told him to either do something about his feelings or quit scaring off everyone who looked your way.

You didn't say it so kindly, of course, and Kaz reluctantly admitted you had a point, though he knew it was a bad idea to indulge his feelings and yours. But he had, and he couldn't bring himself to regret it. The year since had passed in stolen moments after jobs, in the shadowed corners of the Crow Club during the slow hours, and peaceful mornings and evenings in either of your rooms.

Your set was coming to an end, and there was still no sign of the target. After one final circle around the stage, one last attempt to entice more kruge to fall at your feet, you slipped through the moth-eaten curtains behind the poles and left the cheering audience behind you.

As soon as their eyes left your body, you shuddered, clasping your hands over your forearms and making a beeline for the back hallway leading to the dark, rotting dressing rooms. As soon as you could, you pulled on the coat Kaz had given you, an exact match to the one he usually wore but tailored to your size. It was fur-lined, and it covered you up. Exactly what you needed to battle the cold shame beginning to cling to your skin after your performance.

No matter how often you put on the ruse and brought your old life back from the dead for a night, it was a feeling you could never shake. Being with Kaz, knowing he was out there and he would never judge you for your past, helped. More often than not, he was the one telling you that you didn't have to do this; there were other ways to spot your targets, to bring them down. He made sure you knew you didn't need to be exploited anymore. All you needed to do was have your weapons and wit ready.

But using the sins and vices of Ketterdam against itself was the easiest way to do this. It gave you power, something you didn't have during your days as a showgirl. Before, you were a puppet. Now, you were the puppetmaster, fueled and encouraged by someone equally as dangerous as you. He would never allow Ketterdam to suck you back into that life again. You would never let yourself.

As you slipped back into the crowd, you were pleased by the anonymity of wearing a coat and removing your elaborate makeup. You crossed the entertainment hall to Kaz's shadowy table and settled on the stool across from Kaz.

His eyes turned toward you, landing on your freshly-bound hair and the grim expression on your face. "Are you alright?" he said quietly. Though his face didn't change, you knew he was concerned. He always was after you came off the stage.

Kaz passed you his drink, and you lifted it to your lips and took a sip. The liquid stung on its way down, and you wrinkled your nose. "I'm fine. But I understand why you look so miserable." You pushed the glass back toward him. "That's disgusting."

"But an excellent business tactic," Kaz muttered. "People buy more drinks." He knocked back the rest without flinching and set the glass down with a thump.

"Any sign of him?" you murmured, lowering your voice and leaning across the table so Kaz could hear. The hair on the back of your neck was prickling uncomfortably, and you felt the weight of unfamiliar eyes on you. "Someone's watching us." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear and made a show of placing your chin in your palm and peeking through your eyelashes up at Kaz. You needed to look as unbothered as possible by your audience's attention, which meant putting on your facade again.

For a moment, Kaz didn't realize that you had hinted for him to look around for Gabel. He was distracted by the dancing of the fading candlelight in your eyes, how it cast the shadow of your eyelashes upward, how it illuminated the curve of your lips. They looked soft and tinted red from the lipstick you wore on stage, and he imagined how warm they felt against his when he dared to kiss you.

There was nothing else in the hall but you and your lips and his thoughts spinning in a million directions.

He blinked, breaking from his trance. He blamed the sweltering heat of the building for the heat rising in his cheeks as he looked around for the eyes he could now feel on him. Nobody caught his attention at first, and then he saw a figure across the hall. The man was leaning against a dented, grimy wall and watching you too closely for your comfort.

You followed Kaz's icy, suddenly furious gaze to the man in a poorly-tailored suit that didn't match and was most likely stolen. His watch was clearly fake, and his jewelry had an artificial glimmer. His gang, if you could call it that, was barely above water; you could tell from his poor attempt at looking flashy and put together, as Per Haskell or Pekka Rollins had before being ousted.

"I'll get him alone," you whispered. You moved to slide from your seat, but Kaz's cane pressed against the top of your shoe to keep you still. Your eyes flicked to him, and you raised a brow. "Kaz?"

"No," Kaz said firmly. "You've done enough."

The mere thought of you being alone with him, even long enough for Kaz to trail the two of you and land a strike on Gabel, infuriated him. He knew why the man was looking at you and could guess what was running through his mind. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the man hoped he had a chance with you. Kaz didn't want to put you at risk.

"If you approach him, he'll bolt," you argued. You nudged Kaz's cane off your foot and turned to face him again. You plastered on a sweet smile like you weren't disagreeing with him about how best to neutralize the man practically salivating across the room. With luck, it would only appear that you were trying to convince him to pass over enough kruge for you to pay for another set of dances on stage. You hoped it was convincing.

"If you approach, he'll think it's his lucky night," Kaz ground out between his teeth. His fingers twitched around the top of his cane. What he would give to hit him hard enough to see stars. Or the Saints above. "You've done enough," he repeated, softer this time. He could see you itching to shed your act of seductive showgirl as soon as possible. He refused to ask for any more of it from you.

You sighed deeply. There was no arguing with Kaz. "What's your plan to approach him without scaring him off? Would you like to borrow my dress?"

Kaz glared at you. "Funny."

"Red's not your color anyway." Your lips twitched with a smile, and you turned your gaze to the stage. You thought back to your view of the entire building, a cramped, dilapidated theatre. The first floor was where the musicians used to sit and play; the second contained a semicircle of private boxes where the rich would sit, smoke, and indulge in their vices during the plays happening below.

It was the perfect place to go unnoticed or gather attention.

You leaned forward again, and Kaz raised a brow at your invasion of his space. "I have an idea," you murmured. You slipped your fingers into your hair and retrieved a sparkling pin. Leaning forward until your face was mere inches from Kaz's, you dropped it into his gloved palm. Shimmering, obvious bait you hoped the target would take. "There's an empty box upstairs," you whispered. Keenly aware of the unwelcome eyes on you, you looked up through your eyelashes again at Kaz. "Fourth door."

Kaz had to remind himself to keep breathing as you stood up and walked toward the stairs to the second floor. He could still smell your perfume and the product Nina had helped put in your hair before you left for the job; beneath that, something intoxicatingly you. His head spun, and he forced himself to stand and follow, closing his fingers around the hairpin you'd deposited in his palm.

Saints, this was a bad idea. He was too distracted to figure out what plan you were concocting. All he could think about was you. Your lips, your eyes, how you were thinking so quickly on your feet about how to eliminate Gabel. You were his match sculpted by some divine presence: his intellectual equal, a beautiful drug that appealed to every instinct he thought had drowned with Kaz Rietveld in the harbor.

Ketterdam had underestimated you, but it brought you to him. For once, he couldn't curse the city for something.

He followed you up the stairs and into the private box, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind muddled by the burning hairpin in his hand. Distantly, he sensed that the two of you were being followed. Your plan, no doubt.

Right, yes. The plan you had.

The private box was small, with a row of two seats in the front and a row of three on a step just above that. The upholstery was covered in grime and dirt from lack of maintenance since the theatre's abandonment, and the wooden arms of the chairs were rotten and crumbling.

You were perched on the step between the two rows of seats, tugging on a pair of boots you'd stashed earlier. You'd also pulled on trousers and tucked the short dress into them, making your outfit more comfortable and functional.

"Are we killing him or just scaring him?" you asked, pulling a knife from the hidden inner pocket of your coat as you tugged it back on over your new outfit. "I think roughing him up would get the point across nicely. I'd hate to get too much blood on this coat."

"That would be a shame," Kaz managed to answer. He handed you your pin and watched you slip it back into your hair. He took a position by the door, hoping the distance would help him focus. "Scare him first."

You nodded and settled in the least grimy seat. Slow footsteps creaked up the stairs, followed by long pauses between each step. The man hoped to go unnoticed and unheard, likely to ambush the two of you as you supposedly indulged in each other.

You twirled your knife across your knuckles, listening to the footsteps approach down the carpeted hall. Kaz gripped his cane tighter and pressed himself flat against the wall, using the shadows to his advantage. He adjusted his grip and raised it, ready to bring it down.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and you plastered on your sweetest smile. But your fingers were curled around the hilt of your blade, and it glittered with the promise of violence. Such a contrast from the sparkling, luxurious diamonds in your hair earlier, which promised only pleasure.

The door creaked open, and Pieter Gabel stepped into the trap. His lips curled into a smug smirk as he saw you all alone, and an oily strand of hair dropped onto his forehead. He reeked of alcohol and pride, but you maintained your facade as he leaned against the doorway. "Didn't take you up on your offer for a dance, did he?"

Kaz stiffened behind the door, his muscles coiled to strike.

You looked Gabel up and down as if seriously considering his presence as an alternative. Really, you were searching his form for weapons. But he was arrogant and unchallenged thus far; he didn't think the Dregs would come for him so soon.

He was making this too easy.

"He got a better offer from someone else," you said, lifting your shoulders in a delicate shrug. Behind the door, Kaz wrinkled his nose. There wasn't an offer in the world that could tempt him away from you.

You pretended not to notice Kaz's disgust and inspected your nails instead. "Hoping to take his place?" You felt as though you were about to vomit. On stage, it was easy enough to focus only on Kaz and pretend he was the only one watching. But with only this man's gaze crawling over your face, you felt like you were back to your showgirl days: exploited and barely scraping by.

Breathe.

"Perhaps." Pieter shrugged off his ill-fitting topcoat and tossed it to the floor. You nearly gagged on the smell of alcohol wafting off of it, and it took most of your self-control to stay unaffected as he prowled closer. "I'll pay for your next set." He nudged the door shut behind him.

In his inebriated state, he was unaware of the dangerous presence behind him, whose eyes lit up with fury as the target moved toward you. He was only a foot away.

I am not a puppet, you thought. I am in control. With one flick of your wrist, your dagger could be buried beneath his ribs. His blood would seep out, and he'd be nothing more than a man who failed to make Ketterdam know his name. In hours, the city would move on; the dancers would leave, and his followers would scatter and be absorbed into other gangs.

You held this man's fate in your palms, and he didn't even know it. The thought morbidly reassured you.

Kaz saw the decision flicker through your eyes and took a silent step forward. But he didn't strike, watching as you slipped out of your seat and rounded it, revealing the dangerous glimmer of your dagger.

"I have a better offer," you said, twirling the blade in your hand.

Gabel paled, and some semblance of understanding and fear passed through his bloodshot eyes. He stumbled back to put some distance between you, and Kaz was ready. He brought his cane down on the back of one of his knees, making the man grunt and fall forward.

You brought your foot down on his hand as he caught himself, and a wicked rush of satisfaction ran through you as the bones snapped beneath your weight. He cried out and went to grab your ankle with his unbroken hand, but you kicked it aside as Kaz swung the crow's head of his cane downward.

Gabel roared in pain and hunched forward, covering the gash in his temple with his crooked, bruising fingers. Blood seeped between them and down the side of his pale face, and it started to drip onto the carpeted floor.

A heartbeat later, Kaz shoved Gabel's hands away from his face and hooked his cane horizontally across the man's throat. Kaz hauled the man back so he was forced to look up at you. He choked on the wood pressing against his windpipe and fought against the gloved hands holding him in place, and Kaz pulled his cane back to cut off the rest of his air. Gabel's eyes bulged, and he tried to pull the weapon away from his throat; it was no use, and Kaz nodded for you to speak.

"It's my understanding that you think you have a chance at filling the power vacuum left by Pekka Rollins," you said. Gabel's eyes darted away from you as you advanced, and you positioned the tip of your blade against the corner of his eye. It nicked the skin, and blood dripped down his cheek like a gruesome red tear. His gaze turned back to you. "Unfortunately, you treaded too closely into the Dregs' territory and threatened our business. Kaz Brekker is willing to forgive it on three conditions. Wheeze if you're listening."

Gabel let out a barely audible noise of confirmation.

"Good," you said. You held up a finger. "One, you leave the Barrel. Two, you liquidate your possessions here before you leave. And three, you give that money to your dancers and your grunts." The last point was solely your idea; you hadn't discussed it with Kaz, but it was important enough that you would risk his anger at not being informed first.

You wanted to give the dancers and grunts the choice to get out. It would give them power over their fate you didn't have when you were on that stage.

You pressed the edge of your dagger against the underside of Gabel's chin, watching his lips turn blue. "Do we have a deal?

Kaz loosened his grip on his cane, and Gabel gasped for air. "Speak," he said quietly. There was no shortage of danger in his voice, and Kaz kept his cane braced just tight enough against the man's throat that he couldn't get out of this. There was only one answer available to Gabel if he wanted to live.

"Fuck you," Gabel wheezed.

It was a poor choice.

"I'm going to let you try that again," you hissed. Kaz tightened his grip on the cane again as your blade parted skin. Blood oozed down the metal, and you stopped when the cut was just deep enough for him to understand you were serious. Gabel writhed, trying to fight free. But you hadn't pulled your dagger away, and he only succeeded in cutting himself deeper. "Do. We. Have. A. Deal?"

Gabel finally nodded as best he could with the wooden cane in his way.

You pulled back. "Wonderful." You sheathed your knife inside your coat and met Kaz's gaze. "He's all yours."

Kaz released Gabel, who slumped to the side and clutched his throat. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, but it contracted sharply when Kaz brought the blunt end down on his ribcage. Gabel howled in pain and curled his legs to his chest. "You close today, and the dancers get their money by the end of the week," Kaz growled. "If my Dregs see your face on this side of the East Stave, she," he jerked his chin toward you, "will not be so kind again. And when she's finished with you, I'll ensure nobody finds your body."

He lifted his cane from Gabel's chest and held his hand out to you. You took it, and Kaz led you out of the trap you'd set, down the stairs, and out of the theatre, leaving the sultry music and spluttering excuse of a gang leader behind you.

The two of you moved quickly back into Dregs territory, and Kaz kept his hand around yours the whole time. You waited to speak until you were sure nobody was following, and your shoulders remained tense until your surroundings looked familiar again.

Once the Slat was in view, you glanced up at Kaz. "Do you think he'll actually do it?" you asked. You squinted in the early dawn light. Between the buildings, the sun was beginning to rise; you'd been gone longer than you thought.

"If he has any sense of self-preservation, he will," Kaz answered. He looked down at you, and he evaluated your face. He recognized the worried set of your lips, how you seemed to be waiting for something. "You didn't think I'd follow through on the conditions you set."

"I knew you'd follow through, but I thought you'd be upset I didn't discuss it first." You knew Kaz would never deny anyone their freedom. You just knew he didn't like being left in the dark.

You followed Kaz into the sleepy, abandoned Slat and up the long flights of stairs to his room. Along the way, you shed your coat and threw it over your arm, itching to get out of your dress as soon as possible. Now that you were out of the theatre and back in your domain, you were reminded that you were free. You had control. There was no reason you had to stay in the costume or wear one ever again.

Once in his attic room, you tossed your coat over the rickety chair in the corner and helped yourself to one of his spare undershirts while he sat on the edge of his bed and removed his gloves. You could feel his eyes on you as you untucked the short dress from your pants and pulled it over your head, revealing the skin of your back. Kaz saw the physical scars of years past, visible now in the yellow-orange of the sunrise. He wanted to trace them and kiss the ones along your spine.

He wanted to remind you that you were free and apologize for you playing this role, even though those days should be behind you.

Unaware of his thoughts, you pulled the shirt over your head to conceal most of your scars and turned to face Kaz. He dropped his gaze to his shoes, starting to loosen the laces.

You crossed the room and sat beside Kaz. For a moment, you were silent, figuring out what to say. How to tell him how much his support meant. "Thank you," you finally whispered. It felt as if your scars were floating to the surface of your skin for only him to see. Some bubbled up your throat and past your lips, making you flush as you spoke. "For a long time, I wished I had a choice. I hope that the money gives them a choice. I hope that the ones who want to get out can, and I hope the ones who stay use the money however they want. I don't want them to end up like how I was until I joined the Dregs."

A puppet controlled at the whims of others.

"Don't thank me," Kaz said quietly. "You helped them. You gave them what you didn't have in their position and finished the job. As long as the job is over and you're unharmed." He took your hand in his again and laced your fingers together. His gaze met yours, and you saw an unexpected seriousness in his eyes. "You're alright?"

"I'm alright," you said softly. There was residual coldness from being on stage, from having to step into those shoes for even one set of songs, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. You had given the dancers and grunts of the former gang the means to escape the Barrel if they chose, and you secured the Dregs for now.

Protecting the Dregs was a violent cycle of blood, ambushes, fighting, and temporary security. But if some good came out of it and the past you couldn't erase, maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world. You had some security. You had control over your future.

And you had Kaz, who would be damned if he let Ketterdam take either of those things from you. He'd reduce the city to rubble if it meant keeping the fire in your eyes that he had seen when you first joined the Dregs; then, it was a spark, a hint of what could be. Now, it was an inferno that Kaz would gladly let consume him.

Kaz leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Nausea twisted in his stomach, and Kaz had to pull his hand out of yours to bear the feeling of his lips on your skin. Still, you smiled and let your eyes slip shut as he somehow said exactly what you needed to hear, what soothed the aching in your chest as the painful memories of a few years ago threatened to make themselves at home.

"Get some rest," he murmured. "I'll get rid of the costume."

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt

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ikkosu · 9 months ago

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Psssst

Ikko

Mean yandere Prowl or Pharma.

They fake being an absolutely perfect boyfriend, but are actually spying on you everywhere, blackmailing your friends, threat your family member, enter in your appartment to steal your clothes/underwears,....

They love you.

So much they could kill anyone.

(Just like the game "Perfect boyfriend Pieter" or smtg this style i don't remember the name)

😈😈😈 how about both ehejejekejej I WANT BOTH EVIL BOYFRIENDS I want them one upping each other in every way lmaooo 😔🙏 ONE CHANCE OUGHHAHHHS 👀 ohh stealing the underwear,,,,,very saucy I like

They would be the most cunning people in existence, though with Prowls explosive anger I think his true personality would shown pretttyyy quickly lmaoo. He's got access to cameras, information about everything. He IS the strategic officer after all and data is something he's very efficient with.

Pharma, though, hes good at keeping up the appearances. Very charming. Less socially awkward, unlike Prowl (less creepy too, I'd imagine prowl would stare at you hours on end LMAO) But very violent ahaha and among the two with the actual BALLS to kill. Prowl? He'd kill, not as often — only when someone is a frequent obstruction, but resorts to confining you in a 'secure' place. (Ahem, isolating, ahem, you) from the rest of the world.

Pharma is a skillful doctor. He knows what to do with those bodies (⁠•⁠‿⁠•⁠)

#ikkoasks #YES PLEASE POOKIE #transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #transformers idw #idw prowl #prowl x reader #pharma #idw pharma #pharma x reader

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yoannlossel · 25 days ago

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Soon, I will share with you the illustrations I created for American Gods. This work, the result of four years of research and artistic effort, reflects my vision of this rich and complex universe.

However, this project is overshadowed by the serious allegations made against Neil Gaiman. I had great respect for him, both for his work and his commitments. His position as a defender of victims of sexual violence and his support for these causes earned him particular respect. It is therefore all the more difficult for me to reconcile this admiration with the testimonies that have emerged about him.

I intend to share these illustrations with you, as they are the result of my own artistic work. This project, which blends contemporary America with the myths that shape it, inspired me to create a true visual journey through the history of fantastic art. I wanted to pay tribute to the legacy of tales, legends, and folklore while traversing the history of fantastic painting, reaching all the way to the works that have shaped American culture more recently.

I have explored various styles, evoked different emotions, and used a variety of techniques to create a diverse range of representations. Among my illustrations, you will find references and tributes to great names in art, such as Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Arnold Böcklin, Edward Robert Hughes, Gustave Doré, Grant Wood, Edward Hopper, Zdzisław Beksiński, Alfons Mucha, Vincent Van Gogh, and Ferdinand Keller.

This project, which is as much a journey through the history of fantastic art as it is a journey into contemporary myths, represents my personal visual interpretation of American Gods, while remaining deeply rooted in my own values as an artist.

Finally, both American Gods and the current situation remind us of the importance of questioning our relationships with idols and heroes. This lesson is more relevant than ever.

Photograph taken on April 14, 2024.

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aletterinthenameofsanity · 4 months ago

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Art References for Chapter One of underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

(aka this is the nerdiest thing I've done for this fandom)

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, c. 1560

"Monty didn’t know what it felt like to fly through the air, the wind between your wings, the sun kissing your skin, until now. He didn’t know what it felt like for the wax to burn away and melt itself into your skin, searing your flesh, until now.

And he didn’t know why anyone would risk such a thing until now.

Until them."

The Two Fridas, Frida Kahlo, 1939

"How the fuck is Monty supposed to reply when he finally has the thing that he’s ached for so long and he can’t even enjoy it? When his heart is ratcheting up his throat, a ticking time bomb that Frida Kahlo would adore?"

Garden of Earthly Delights, Hieronymous Bosch, 1490-1510

"Monty is being torn apart in the hell panel of the Garden of Earthly Delights. He is some abomination that Bosch dreamed up to fill the inferno, to be tortured for all eternity, because both of the only two things that Monty has ever loved are being ripped from his trembling fingers by his mother and used against him, just because she can’t handle the fact that he wanted something, anything, to call his own."

Textiles of South Asia (Fictional Exhibit, but here are photos of the clothing in question)

"But mostly, Monty spent his time drinking in Edwin’s knowledge, the way that that he went into professor-mode when explaining the symbolism behind certain artworks. Monty devoured the bits about artwork that Charles knew about, like a discussion in the Textiles of Southern Asia special exhibit where Monty had the privilege of seeing Charles get excited explaining the differences and purposes of lehengas and saris and sherwanis. The way that though they were surrounded by masterpieces, all Monty could stare at is the two muses in the middle of the room, holding hands, more breathtakingly beautiful than any of the painting surrounding them."

Lehenga

Sari (Maharashtraian sari)

Sherwani (Painting of the last Nizam of Hyderabad)

Snow Storm, J. M. W. Turner, 1842

"His fingers catch under Monty’s jaw, guiding Monty’s mouth to his like a brushstroke of lightning hitting the mast of a J. M. W. Turner ship, all storm, all sensation"

I will post another archival set for chapter 2- we've got plenty more coming!

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut

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themuseumwithoutwalls · 4 months ago

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MWW Artwork of the Day (9/1/24) Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c. 1525-1569) Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (1565) Gresaille on canvas, 24 x 34 cm. Courtald Institute Galleries, London

This painting depicts the episode from John 7:53-8:11 where Jesus encounters an adulteress brought before Pharisees and scribes - a favorite subject for many artists both before and after Bruegel's time. The woman whom the Pharisees have accused has been portrayed by Bruegel as a graceful figure in the centre of the picture. She represents one of the few female figures to be painted by Bruegel not as an earthy country woman but instead in accordance with the urban ideal of beauty. Though the basic layout of the composition is Netherlandish, "the austere composition and monumental figures are perhaps the most Italianate in all Bruegel's paintings".

#flemish artist #religious art

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fernthewhimsical · 3 months ago

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Fern's Nehalennia Deep Dive: pt 1

Titles:

Stuurvrouw (Steerswoman), Vrouwe van de Noordzee (Lady of the North Sea), Wildmother

Meaning name Nehalennia

We're not really sure what the name Nehalennia means. She was honoured in an area that covers Roman, Briton, and Germanic tribes and peoples, so even her origin is unknown. Several theories of meaning are:

"recently caught" or "recently salted" - from "Net hael inne". (Huygens)

"new market" - from "ne halle" (Claude de Saumaise)

"new moon" - from "Nea Selene" (Olivier Vredius)

"Neel brings in" - from "Neel (personal name) hael inne" (Jacobus Lydius)

"to give food", "to provide" - from "Naera-Laena" (Laurens Pieter van de Spiegel)

"Goddess of the sea" - from "Neach Lenn" "exalted sea" (Marquis Du Chasteler)

"Virgin of sorrow/sadness" - from "Neh al Léan" (Eloi Johanneau)

"night, friendly moon-Goddess" - from "Neha-Lennia" (D. Buddingh)

"spinning Goddess" - from "Nera" or "Nere" meaning spinning (Grimm)

"pouring, gifting" - from "Neihen" or "Neehan" (H. Kern)

"Lady/Mother who envelopes/enrobes" - from "Neha Lenn" (H. Hardenberg)

"mist/fog" - from Proto Indo-European (PIE) *nebʰ- (wikipedia)

"spirits of the dead" - from Greek "nekués" and the PIE "nek-e/o" "to bring death" (wikipedia)

"leader", "steerswoman", or "She who leads a ship safely over sea" (Gijsseling) This interpretation is considered most likely, new information and spellings literally surfaced, helping Gijsseling come to this conclusion.

The Surfacing of Nehalennia

In 1647 in Domburg, Zeeland, the remains of a temple were found. Inside it, they discovered votive stones dedicated to a local Goddess: Nehalennia. Back then there wasn't really a historical society, and preserving the cultus of a pagan Goddess was not a priority. Some of the stones were moved to a church, where they were displayed underneath the stairs, with a leaky roof. Other stones were used as lawn ornaments for a rich proprietor. After a lightning strike the church burnt down, and the stones were lost. Many of the stones who had been on the lawn were irrevocably damaged.

But Nehalennia was not ready to be forgotten. On the 14th of April 1970 fisherman K.J. Bout found some strange stones in his fishing nets. He could have tossed them back, but instead he realized the value of these stones. He contacted the National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden who sent a representative. While waiting, Bout fished up more stones, and part of what looked like a temple. Bout made his ship available for several diving trips, and over 240 votive stones surfaced.

Many of the stones depict a woman, sitting on a throne, or standing with one foot on the bow of a ship. She wears a very distinct pereline (a short shoulder cape), and holds a basket filled with apples, pears, and breads. Standing next to her sits her loyal dog companion. Most of the stones also hold an inscription, thanking Deae Nehalleniae for safe travel over sea. From the inscriptions we also learn that many of the people who made an offering were traders, hailing from Italy, Cologne, Brittain, Trier, and southern France. Through this magnificent find, we have learned a lot more about our "local" Goddess Nehalennia.

Over the years, more votive stones surfaced. Found in Trier, Cologne, Tongeren, and even some that might be Nehalennia in Brittain. All stones and remains have been dated to be between 150-250CE, and worshipers all come from a large area that encompasses Gallia Belgica, Germania Inferior, Germania Superior en Britannia. Even though Nehalennia is clearly also found outside the Netherlands, us Dutch people have laid a claim on her. Especially since two of her temples have both been found in Zeeland, she is seen as a local Goddess, and one we are very proud of. [Link to the Masterpost]

#deity #paganism #pagan #paganblr #dutch pagan #dutch #myth #mythology #goddess #north sea #nehalennia #fern's practice

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irish-dress-history · 2 years ago

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16th c. Costume Books, a Problematic Source for Dress History

But did they really dress like this?

Costume books and costume albums are a popular source for dress historians, historical costumers, and reenactors researching 16th and early 17th c. Europe. There are good reasons for this. They are primary source documents (at least sometimes), and they show the clothing of cultures and social groups that are difficult-to-impossible to find in other types of period art, like the Irish and rural peasants. Examples of these books include Trachtenbuch des Christoph Weiditz, Habiti antichi et moderni di tutto il Mondo di Cesare Vecellio, and Théâtre de tous les peuples et nations de la terre avec leurs habits et ornemens divers. These books are, however, deeply problematic as a dress history source for several reasons. In this post, I will discuss the ways they are problematic and how those of us researching historical dress can gain a better understanding of what the people shown in these books were actually wearing. I have broken down the problems with using these images into 4 areas.

Embodied biases:

The creators of these books were, at least sometimes, prejudiced against the cultures they were portraying, and these biases may have affected how they characterized these cultures. Hans Weigel, author of Habitus praecipuorum populorum, characterized his native German fashion as modest and virtuous and characterized elaborate Italian fashions as decadent and corrupt. Weigel considered these 'strange' foreign fashions a threat to the 'civilized' German fashion he favored (Bond 2018). This bias might have motivated Weigel to idealize his portrayal of German fashion or to exaggerate the strangeness of Italian fashion in order to scare his readers away from trying it.

Weigel's dislike of flashy foreign fashions seems mild in comparison to the bigotry of some of his peers. Flemish artist Lucas de Heere and French artist François Desprez both labeled the Scottish 'savages' in their books. Jost Amman's description of a purported Turkish sex worker in the German edition of Gynaeceum, sive Theatrum mulierum, is appallingly bigoted:

"A Turkish Wh*re: This is a prostitute, who sells her impure body for dirty money to a lover that pleases her. With the earnings of this sin she dresses herself prettily and beautifully, in order to attract the Turks even more easily with her false ornaments." (translation from Ilg 2004)

Considering the blatant bigotry he shows here, I wouldn't anything about trust Amman's depictions of sex workers, Turks, or any other non-Western Europeans. Or any other women, really.

Sights unseen:

Even when costume book creators weren't actively trying to perpetuate their biases through their work, their ignorance could still cause problems. These artists did not always visit the countries whose costumes they painted. They relied on other artists' work or even just verbal descriptions to fill in the gaps in their knowledge. The resulting images can distort the cut, construction, and material of the clothing.

For example, the Turkish women in this original woodcut by Pieter Coecke van Aelst are wearing shawls or scarves with long fringe wrapped around their heads and shoulders. In the Christoph von Sternsee costume album's illustration based off Coecke van Aelst's print, the fringed shawl has become a strange, tailored hood with a panel of pleated cloth attached to either it or the gown below.

(Coecke van Aelst's woodcuts were identified as the source for the von Sternsee album's illustration in Katherine Bond's 2018 dissertation.)

Copy of a copy of what?

In spite of the problems it causes, copying from other artists' work was common in costume albums (Bond 2018). Considering that the artists did not visit all the cultures they illustrated, this is unsurprising. Some images were copied repeatedly, and the artist misunderstanding the source material wasn't the only source of distortion. Artists also made up details to compensate for bare-bones source material.

This simple line black-and-white print of an Irish woman wearing a léine (linen tunic), brat (Irish mantle), and headwear was used by several artists, all of whom made changes and additions. The first copy in this post is the most faithful to the original, but it still adds long sleeves and eyelet holes on the neckline to the léine. The coloring of the headwear suggests a wool hat crested with a tuft of horsehair and having a linen roll at the bottom. The coloring also gives the brat a contrasting lining.

The second knockoff is the most famous. It comes from Lucas De Heere's illustration which purportedly shows Irish people in service to King Henry VIII. This is some thing De Heere couldn't have actually seen, as he moved to England 20 years after Henry VIII died and never went to Ireland at all. De Heere took the most liberties with his version. His Irish woman appears to be topless under her brat. The bottom of her léine has much less volume than the original, and De Heere has added an apron. For the hat, De Heere has replaced the crest with triangles of green wool.

Unlike De Heere's version, the final version is mostly loyal to the cut shown in the original, but it makes some unlikely suggestions for the materials. The léine appears to be green silk brocade. The brat also appears to be silk. Accounts from people who actually went to Ireland in the 16th and early 17th centuries state that these garments were made of linen and wool, respectively. Both the hat and its crest are now completely made of linen.

Chronological distortion:

The heavy use of copying in costume books also has the potential to mislead us in terms of when these fashions were worn, because the original images may be significantly older than publication year of the books that copy them. For example, the dress of Livonian women shown in Hans Weigel's 1577 book was almost certainly copied from Albrecht Dürer's 1521 watercolors. Weigel used references that were more than half a century old, but described them as if they were contemporary fashion in 1577.

Even when costume book images are accurate portrayals of their source material, many of them lack the detail needed to identify seams, fabric types, or garment understructures. How do we deal with these problems when attempting to reconstruct what the people shown in these books actually wore?

What do we do about it?

I am not saying that we should discard these things completely as sources. Dress historians as respected as Patterns of Fashion author Janet Arnold and The Tudor Tailor authors Jane Malcolm and Ninya Mikhaila have used costume book illustrations. I definitely know less about 16th c. dress history than Jane and Ninya. I am just saying we shouldn't use them uncritically.

First, do some research on the costume book you're looking at. When was it created? Do the illustrations look suspiciously similar to those in other books? (Google image search and pinterest can be helpful for identifying this.) Did the creator, like Hans Weigel, have a particular bias they were advancing? Did they actually visit the cultures they portrayed? Christoph Weiditz actually traveled quite a bit, but he did not visit the British Isles, so his Irish and English women are probably based on someone else's art (Bond 2018). A lot of the scholarly publications about costume books are frustratingly paywalled, but some of them can be accessed for free via researchgate or academia.edu.

Avoid using copies when possible, even if the copies are more realistic-looking or more detailed art. As I discussed in the examples above, artists change things when they copy. Publication dates of copies can also be misleading in terms of dating clothing styles.

Find other sources such as: written descriptions from the time period, extant historical garments, more detailed art depicting similar fashions in related cultures, and art made by people from the culture you are studying. Period written descriptions can yield information about materials used, colors, and other details. Extant garments are your best source for information on cut and construction (unless you are lucky enough to have an extant tailor's manual from your period and culture). Detailed art depicting similar fashions can offer suggestions to fill in for missing information on construction, materials, and embellishments. Art created by the culture is valuable for identifying inaccuracies created by bigoted or ignorant artists.

Finally, remember that it's okay to not know everything. There are gaps in our knowledge about what people wore 500 years ago that will probably never be filled without a time machine. Sometimes you just have to make a plausible guess and move on. Don't let yourself get so paralyzed by doing research that you never complete the garment reconstruction/art/tumblr post you were doing the research for.

Bibliography:

Bond, K. L. (2018). Costume Albums in Charles V’s Habsburg Empire (1528-1549). https://doi.org/10.17863/CAM.25054

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London.

Ilg, Ulrike. (2004). The Cultural Significance of Costume Books Sixteenth-Century Europe. In Catherine Richardson (ed.), Clothing Culture, 1350-1650 (p. 29-47). Ashgate.

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

McClintock, H. F. (1953). Some Hitherto Unpublished Pictures of Sixteenth Century Irish People, and the Costumes Appearing in Them. The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 83(2), 150-155. https://www.jstor.org/stable/25510871

Costume Books mentioned:

Amman, Jost. Gynaeceum, sive Theatrum mulierum.

The Costume Album of Christoph von Sternsee. not available on-line. Katherine Bond's research is your best source for this one.

Desprez, François. Recueil de la diversité des habits.

De Heere, Lucas. Corte Beschryvinghe van Engheland, Schotland, ende Irland.

Théâtre de tous les peuples et nations de la terre avec leurs habits et ornemens divers, tant anciens que modernes, diligemment depeints au naturel par Luc Dheere peintre et sculpteur Gantois.

Vecellio, Cesare, and Gratilianus, Sulstatius. Habiti antichi et moderni di tutto il Mondo di Cesare Vecellio.

Trachtenbuch des Christoph Weiditz

Weigel, Hans, and Amman, Jost. Habitus praecipuorum populorum, tam virorum quam foeminarum singulari arte depicti.

Kostüme der Männer und Frauen in Augsburg und Nürnberg, Deutschland, Europa, Orient und Afrika

Kostüme und Sittenbilder des 16. Jahrhunderts aus West- und Osteuropa, Orient, der Neuen Welt und Afrika

costume prints by an unknown artist, in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cabinet des Estampes. I cannot find this one online. image taken from McClintock 1953.

#dress history #historical fashion #art #16th century #17th century #historical costuming #historical dress #cw whorephobia #cw racism #irish dress #leine #irish mantle #reenactment #costume album

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akuma-tenshi · 11 months ago

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I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO POST MY OWN FUCKING MEME

EVERYONE LOOK WHAT I MADE CASEY MAKE AHAHAHAHHAHA

#reblog #rambling #pieter tag #best orpheus ship thank you #keep them both far away from matthias

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machinesonix · 10 months ago

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Dune 2 is out, and as a huge fan of the franchise I am in a semiferal state of hyperfixated fervor. I’ve been reading the book again as a coping mechanism, but it has been sort of difficult finding a social outlet for it. See, there is a lot of fascinating worldbuilding that isn’t in the movies and a lot of messianic philosophy that isn’t quite summed up by ‘well actually it turns out Duncan is the real Space Jesus.’ My wonderful girlfriend suggested this metablogging thing might be a better way to get my fix than stopping strangers on the street with a passion for science fiction easily mistakable for radical Islamic fundamentalism so HERE WE GO

One thing that kinda blows my mind reading through Dune is how both movies have given us radically different portrayals of Baron Harkonnen and how both of them are totally believable in the context of the original text. If you’re not familiar, the new sexy Dune gives us this raspy Kingpin type Baron that wades around in a bunch of unsettling fluids with this villainous gravitas like a fascist hippopotamus. In David Lynch’s 1984 Dune we are still dealing with a caricature of obese evil, but he’s just so goddamn jolly about it. He’s giggling and spitting and cavorting around in antigravity while Games Workshop writers take note about how everyone loves his boils. These depictions are so opposite to each other that seeing them both in the text is giving me this weird double vision.

I think the reason is this beautiful context we don’t really see in either version of the film, and that is the psychopath mentat Pieter DeVries serving absolute cunt with his exposition. It’s a worldbuilding thing. The Baron has a 15 year old Feyd-Rautha watching his uncle to learn a thing or two about statecraft. Pieter is a twisted mentat, which is like a human computer with an OS optimized for human rights violations and he is just having none of the Baron’s shit. He flaunts his expensive drug addiction, offers to dance, and repeatedly reminds the Baron that he was too stupid to have come up with this Snidely Whiplash shit by himself. Pieter correctly reasons that the Baron will have him dead as soon as he has outlived his usefulness and that his attitude isn’t going to be much of a determining factor. For now he is very confident that he remains useful.

So eventually Feyd is like ‘Uncle, I’m just watching you argue, I could be playing GameBoy right now’ because GameBoy is what Feyd-Rautha calls the guy with needles for teeth that he hunts through the steam tunnels. And the Baron goes ‘Ah, but you are learning something. See, one of the great things we lost during the robot jihad were Excel spreadsheets that weren’t little bitches.’ And that’s where it gets me. I can’t tell if this is an impatient mastermind flexing his general obesity or a plague-clown who invited his sassy laptop in to make everyone watch his sick burn. Maybe those aren't mutually exclusive. Maybe it’s not that weird and it’s just David Lynch brain poison leaving its indeliable mark.

Mostly I think it’s a profound tragedy that we don’t have an on screen adaptation of Pieter DeVries going full fucking Starscream. Like yeah, we see some animosity but we as an audience have been robbed of seeing a dude who can do orbital physics calculations in his head acting like he just figured out nothing actually happens when mom finishes counting down from ten. As a millenial STEM graduate, I feel a deep sense of empathy for this human calculator vocalizing to his employer that he hopes his home burns down.

#dune #feyd rautha #baron harkonnen #dune meta #Pieter

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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 months ago

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Burn Bright White - Chapter Two.

Previous Chapters - One

Tag list - In the comments. DM to be added/removed

Words - 2,464

Warnings - 18+ content, minors DNI! Also, while I have tried to remain as true to how Niklas is in reality as I can, I have to have a little creative freedom of my own with him in this. If you don’t like it, simply scroll on by. Bitching isn’t tolerated here. At all. Remember, it’s fiction, not a documentary ;) It’s also worth mentioning that while Taissa has qualities of being quite charming at times, she is not, by any means, a good person.

A quick Google search between her drops had alluded to just enough information on the man she’d dealt an eighth to earlier that evening in order to be armed appropriately. He had a nylon fetish, and liked it when women wore high heels. Two things she just so happened to be very fond of herself, too. Whether wearing them or seducing another woman in them. Often both.

Make yourself prey, but always, without deviation, remain the hunter.

Pulling her sleek, black BMW into the overnight carpark, she grabbed her bag and shoes (six-inch heels were not practical for driving) slipping her feet into them and buckling the straps, exiting her car. She paused, checking her reflection. Perfection, as always. Then again, prolific, well-connected drug dealers were never anything other than immaculate. They could afford to be.

She’d chosen a tight, black dress short enough to show the lace tops of her nylons, the type that adhered to her long, toned legs without the need for a garter belt, her PVC pin heels echoing upon the concrete as she walked to the elevator. Once inside, she quickly re-glossed her lips, giving her long, loose curls a quick ruffle.

“Lady, you look like walking sex,” she purred to her reflection, snapping her Chanel compact shut. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

And god, how he wouldn’t.

The Roadhouse was a little low brow for her tastes, but at least the music would be decent, she reasoned. The doormen knew her well, too, let her deal in there for a very generous cut of the profits. In her world, everyone could be bought. Plus, wherever she went, there’d be a likely throng of people waiting to party with her.

Hell, Taissa was the party. Young, rich and beautiful. Everyone wanted to gravitate in her orbit.

“Hey sexy! Can I take you home?” a man hollered at her as soon as she was out on the street, her lip curling immediately.

Spinning on a heel, she looked him up and down, smirking. “Stay in your lane, little boy. I’m too much woman for you.”

His friends howled like wolves at her audacity, the man throwing a barrage of abuse she didn’t have the inkling or the time to give any kind of witty retort to, continuing her walk.

“Evening, princess,” Oliver, one of said doormen welcomed her with, making a point to check her bag, of course ignoring the two ounces of cocaine in small wraps concealed within the middle pocket, and her ever present knuckle dusters. “Looking gorgeous, as ever. Have a good night.”

Smiling, she pressed two fifties into his hand with a wink. “You too, Oli.” He held the door open for her, Taissa sauntering in with her usual feline glide, the music absolutely deafening. Ahhh, old school night. The pounding of Feed the Gods by nineties metal band White Zombie erupted in her ears as she strode for the bar, a few familiar faces turning to welcome her.

She didn’t really have friends, more hangers on, but she liked the group who all greeted her enthusiastically.

“Tai! Get over here!” Pieter, a very good-looking man who she knew well roared, kissing her cheek, Taissa beaming, reaching for his girlfriend and planting a kiss on her lips.

“I’m stealing your girl. Look after my bag,” she began, clicking her fingers at the barman and pointing to the smooth, black wooden surface dividing them. “Jim Beam, two bottles.”

Whatever the lady wanted, the lady got, two bottles of the aforementioned bourbon produced, the barman knowing of course she was good for it. As well as a very generous tip. Off she and Pieter’s girlfriend – a good-looking girl whose name she nearly always forgot – went, dancefloor bound. If she didn’t have almost every pair of male eyes upon her from the moment she’d strode in, she definitely did once she began to gyrate against the pretty redhead. A certain pair in particular.

“Man, you need to turn around. Free show on the dancefloor. Fuck!”

Sinking another shot of San Jose, Niklas turned to see what Bjorn and his elbow digging were alluding to, feeling his heart quicken in an instant. There she was, the blonde.

“Hey, so are you gonna buy me a drink, or what?”

Those words, cooed in his ear by a girl who’d attached herself to him as soon as he’d arrived at the bar barely registered in significance, not now he’d spotted the object of his extremely aroused desire a mere twenty feet away from him.

“No.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re an asshole.”

“I am, now fuck off. You bore me.” He didn’t even look back at her to watch her storm away in a cloud of her own chagrin, his eyes locked onto the blonde, entranced, reaching for another of the many shots lined up and sinking it without tearing his gaze away. “You’re too attractive for your own good.” he muttered, feeling Bjorn nudging him again.

“She’s fucking hot, huh?”

His mouth twitched into a half-smile. “She’s definitely something.”

“That's a very reserved statement for you, my friend,” he observed, taking a shot and knocking it back.

“Trust me, what’s on my mind is not.” His words roused a booming laugh from his friend, Bjorn slapping him on the back, pulling him near to kiss his head.

“Go get her, man! Because you don’t take a ride on that tonight, I sure as fuck will!”

Niklas continued to watch, leaning closer to him. “She can come to me.”

His stance flew in the face of what Taissa had told him, that he’d have to work for it, but he didn’t care. He had his ways. Besides, he knew what she was doing. He could see her making sure he was watching her dance wildly out of the corner of her eye, so simply turned his back and continued talking with his friend.

He never said he wasn’t hard work, too. Her game was something he knew very, very well how to play. However, Taissa knew how to play it better, going about her night without giving him a second look, ensuring that as soon as he realised she was no longer actively seeking his attention, that was the exact thing she received.

Being ignored did not sit well with him.

“Tai, here,” the barman spoke, sliding over a tall shot glass across the bar a while later, jerking his head in the opposite direction. “From Kvarforth. On one condition; you have to drink it without using your hands.”

Her eyebrows fluttered, her group making an array of interested noises at such a proposition, Taissa looking over at the man who’d bought it for her. She knew he’d find some way to get her attention, eventually. Holding her hair back, she leaned to the bar, wrapping her lips around the glass and straightening, the golden liquid tingling her throat as she swallowed it neatly.

Niklas clapped casually, his mouth curling upward. He’d enjoyed watching that more than he thought he would, observing as she poured a shot of bourbon into the glass, picked up her bag and made her way over to him. Two could play his game, but she’d play it better.

Arriving in front of him, she lifted the glass, sticking it between her tits, looking back up at him with a little smirk. “Now you drink it without using your hands.”

Standing a little taller, his eyebrow rose a tad, a grin of mirth spreading across his face before he bent to her level, retrieved the glass with his mouth and swallowed back the contents. God, she had skin like a peach, sweet scented and smooth. He ignored the approving howling of Bjorn at the display of flirting, becoming lost in the pale blue of her eyes, his heartbeat jacking up with every thud.

She held him there in a trance, reaching for him, her long nails curling at the sides of his neck as she leaned into to him, pressed her body against his, and promptly licked his cheek.

“Mmm, you taste as good as you smell.”

He leaned to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “I’m sure I could say the same about you, too.”

“Would you like that?” she teased, leaning back, reining in his stare once more, watching him nod, about to speak. Any words he had were stolen from his throat as he observed her hand sliding down her body and under her dress, the noise of Bjorn going wild at his side, the thundering roar of music all fading as he watched in semi-disbelief as she pushed her hand into her underwear momentarily, and then her fingers into his mouth.

If Taissa knew one thing well, if was how to make a man’s brain short circuit completely.

Letting him suck on her fingers, a look of bliss spread across his face at the taste of her dancing over his tongue. Oh, she’d hooked him. Grasping his jaw, she yanked him to her level, pushing her tits against his chest, her teeth nipping his earlobe. “Now you know what you have to work for, so work for it.”

Every girl in that club could have learned from her in the lesson ‘how to get Niklas Kvarforth’s attention in one easy move’, the man himself so aroused, he almost bit her fingers off.

Yanking them from his mouth, she scowled, her hand striking his cheek in a hard slap that took him by surprise, but delighted him in equal measures. He enjoyed when women stood up to him, showed a little fire, weren’t as boring and predictable as the rest.

“Work for it, big guy. Then you get to bite me.” Puckering her lips at him, she ran her fingernail along the curve of his jaw, turning and walking in that alluring glide towards the door. Pulling her cigarettes from her bag, she placed one between her lips, counting in her head. Five, four, three, two...

A tattooed hand came into her line of vision, flicking his lighter for her. Sparks preceded the flame, lighting her cigarette before doing the same with his own, staring down at her. The taste of her still lingered on his tongue, acting like a drug, luring strongly, pulling him in.

“Let's cut out all of this bullshit, huh? I want you, you want me, blah, blah blah. Let me take you home and trust me, that hard work you want? I’ll put it into making you come so many times, you can’t shut your legs.”

“A bold statement,” she asserted, drawing on her cigarette languidly.

His face didn’t flicker at all. "One I can back up. Trust me.” He leaned to her, his gaze predatory, hungry, almost wolf-like. “I would fucking ruin you, honey."

She chuckled, teasing him by making a show of licking her highly glossed lips, letting him imagine it, how they’d feel all over him, especially sliding over the place her free hand reached to stroke. “Not before I ruin you, Niklas. Because I will, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“Doubtful, but I’ll look forward to you trying to prove that.” The tickle of her nails over his crotch had him rapidly hardening, Taissa impressed at what she could feel gaining thickness and heat against her touch.

“You probably will, but not tonight.”

“Then when?” he asked, his hand gliding down her bare arm. It sent an instant shiver through her. She wouldn’t be easily swayed, though. No matter how electrifying his touch. If that was how it felt when he stroked her arm...

Her hand grasped, squeezing his cock, placing a kiss full of syrupy heat at the side of his tattooed throat, a faint, soft little moan of approval at his hardness fluttering against his neck. How he could have mauled the skin from her bones in that very moment.

“When you work for it.”

He chuckled deep in his throat, a low, predatory rumble, eyes glinting. “Little girl, unless you like being burned, don’t play with fire.”

Of course, she had an answer for him, her face nearing his once more, just enough to make him yearn for it, crave the kiss she wouldn’t grant. “Niklas, please. I am the fire.”

Turning, she left him there feeling like his blood was scorching a rapid trajectory through his veins, heartbeat thundering in his ears as she whistled sharply, holding her hand out to hail a passing taxi. She jumped in without looking back once, gone into the night, leaving her target there exactly how she desired him to be. Frustrated.

That frustration spurred him into action. Back into the club he went, finding the next most attractive woman in there.

“Wanna fuck me?”

“Yes.”

Easy, willing, boring. But it was what he needed after the thorough stirring he’d received, taking the girl home and fucking her so hard, he was surprised he didn’t break the bed. Or her. All the time, too, it wasn’t the pretty, raven-haired woman he was with that he imagined. In his mind, all he saw was himself fucking the blonde. And he would. Eventually. Maybe sooner than he thought.

#niklas kvarforth #niklas kvarforth fanfiction #shining band #shining #black metal #metal guys

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liebelesbe · 26 days ago

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Ah hah! The best friend and boyfriend? Also I can send images in asks? did not know this

[ID: Four pride icons of Michael Holt and Pieter Cross, Pieter is sitting while Michael is standing. The first background is the gay men pride flag, the second one is the 9-stripe Gilbert Baker flag. The last two are alternate version where both of them have empty speech bubbles above them. The image in the ask above is the same, except the background is some kind of room and the speech bubbles are filled. Pieter says "Probably?" and Michael says "We have no idea." End ID]

#ask #mister terrific #michael holt #pieter cross #doctor mid-nite #? that's what google says at least. i don't know him unfortunately.#dc comics #dc #icons #pride icons #dc icons

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wolfiemcwolferson · 2 years ago

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begin again

2.4k of a Piarles spiral that I might revisit in the future under the read more

Charles moves home after the divorce.

It’s George that suggests it. Well, he insists that he didn’t suggest it at all. He suggested that Charles do something for himself that he had always wanted to do but didn’t because of Peter and the…well, the crappy marriage thing.

“I meant for you to…go to Argentina to see that big waterfall or drive Route 66 or eat your way through Atlanta. I did not mean for you to sell this big house that you got in your divorce settlement and buy a house that is falling down in the middle of nowhere Alabama.”

But, that was what Charles wanted to do. After 10 years of playing the perfect spouse, he wanted to live in a little house and have a garden and be on his own.

And that’s what he intends on doing.

He buys a two bedroom house that looks like it’s in danger of blowing away, but it sits on five acres of land and the realtor tells him it’s got good soil for tomatoes.

Charles has too much money from his prenup and a college degree that he’s never used and so he decides to use both - slowly making this little house livable and presentable and also sitting for the teacher’s exam.

George and Alex come to visit over Thanksgiving, the only two who are still speaking to him from their life in Connecticut. The only two people Charles really cares about, and it’s good to see them. He shows them around the little town square and they have breakfast in the diner and Charles laughs himself silly when he gives George a big pour of the blackberry wine that Mrs. Fitzgerald - the biology teacher - makes and George sputters it all over his white shirt.

It’s good to see them and it’s good to see them go because Charles doesn’t feel sad about them leaving at all. He doesn’t miss a single second of that life and it’s like…the first time in the seven months since he moved here that he knows he did the right thing by selling that too big house with no happy memories.

Charles considers taking a trip over Christmas break. For the first Christmas in his adult life, he doesn’t have any place to be - both of his parents gone, Lorenzo is somewhere in the middle of the pacific ocean and Arthur is filming some new documentary in Colorado - but then he drives into Birmingham and spends 400 dollars on books and he spends the entire break eating cheese and cranberry sauce out of a can (a delight) and reading.

He has to YouTube how to start a fire in the fireplace because he’s never used it and then he has to pay triple to have an actual chimney sweep come and clean it out so he can use it.

Because sure, he had called Alabama home for the first 20 years of his life, but he had grown up in a house in Huntsville with a swimming pool and a gas fireplace.

And then when a year of life in Alabama rolls around, Charles looks in the mirror and smooths the wrinkles beside his eyes away with his fingertips and laughs because two years ago, he would have been obsessively checking them or Pieter would have pointed them out and the only reason he’s noticed them now is because he had dirt on his cheek.

It’s different than anything he ever imagined for his life, but it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced and it was absolutely the right choice. To move here. To begin again.

There are fifteen houses on the county road that Charles lives on. He knows them all by name and he knows their kids by name. He was a bit concerned when he moved that the gay divorcee would be a bit too much for them all to stomach, but they had embraced him with love and acceptance and help when he killed his tomato plants on accident last summer and when it froze and he wasn’t prepared for the whole county to shut down and when he realized he was going to have to buy some kind of lawn mower.

The point is that when the Harrison’s come by on a Tuesday night and tell him that they’re going to retire and move to Arizona where their oldest daughter lives, Charles is pretty upset about it - sad that they’re leaving, but also a bit worried about the new family that will move in. Until they tell him their nephew is going to be taking over the family place.

“Good boy,” Mrs. Harrison assures him, patting his cheek. “Handsome and single.”

Many things slide into place for Charles all at once and he laughs, brushing it off and telling them he’ll miss them and that he’ll stay in touch, and then he puts it out of his mind.

Until it’s mid-August and he’s carrying a box of books out to his car that he’s collected over the summer for his classroom and he sees a shiny black pick-up truck pull into his driveway and Charles knows that this is the nephew.

“Pierre,” he introduces himself and then he’s got to bend down to catch the two small children around their middles as they come barreling up to Charles. “And these are my hellions.”

But he smiles when he says it and Charles shakes both of their hands making them laugh and giggle, waiting on them to introduce themselves.

“Arabella, but Daddy calls me Ari.” who is six.

And then, “Jessop, but you can call me Jessie because I hate Jessop,” who is five.

The exchange lasts ten minutes and it only happened because Pierre promised his aunt he would stop by and say hello and then he has to go because the kids need dinner and Charles tells him that he’ll have to invite them over for dinner some night, but it seems a bit like a nicety because they don’t exchange numbers or say anything else before Pierre is helping the kids up into the backseat and driving off with a wave and a megawatt smile.

Charles asks no questions, but he’s curious enough that when Abby starts talking about Pierre two weeks later during lunch period, he ignores the grades he’s supposed to be entering into his computer and he sits down at the table with the math teachers and listens to the story.

A messy divorce with his ex-husband who is still in Iowa and two kids who they had through surrogacy that the ex apparently didn’t want and Charles goes home that night and makes a pie - or an attempt at a pie so he hauls himself out of bed the next morning before the sun and he makes another one, which turns out better so he takes it to Pierre and his kids and he invites them over for dinner on Wednesday night.

It’s silly, but he has a kinship with Pierre that Pierre doesn’t know exists.

It’s extra silly because there’s no way for Charles to come out and say: I married an older man after I finished school because I was scared and I don’t think he really loved me. I never had children even though I desperately wanted them and I’m starting over and it sounds like you are too, so maybe we could be friends?

No, he just makes sure that he picks up his living room and he roasts a chicken and when the three of them show up on Charles doorstep at 6:30 sharp, he wonders if he miscalculated with Pierre.

By the end of the night, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows he did.

Pierre listens to his children when they talk and he asks Charles questions about the school and he smiles with his nose scrunched up and when Jessie falls asleep on Charles’ couch while a movie plays, Pierre apologizes for having to get them back home and Charles’ apologizes for keeping them up so late on a school night and he leaves with a sleeping child on his shoulder and a promise to see Charles at the football game on Friday night.

Which turns out to be a joy. The two of them sit together and Charles buys the kids gigantic lollipops Ari tells him about how she’s going to play football when she grows up because girls can do anything and Charles' heart is stuck between breaking and falling.

“I don’t want to pry,” Pierre says a month later while the two of them are sitting on the bottom step of Charles' porch while Ari and Jessie run around in the yard and try and catch lightning bugs, “but sometimes you look at them like it pains you to do so.”

And that’s when the whole nasty business comes out about Charles’ finding his husband of ten years having an affair with his paralegal and how Charles feels like he just started living his life even if maybe he’s missed his chance at having a life with another person, Pierre takes his hand in his and kisses the back of it and asks him if he wants to go into town with him and the kids this weekend and see a movie.

“Don’t ask me on a date because you pity me,” Charles warns and Pierre kisses his knuckles again.

“I’ve been thinking about asking you out since you brought us that horrendous pie.”

And then…Charles spends six months waiting for the other shoe to drop - so to say.

Arthur comes in for Thanksgiving and he spend four days in the floor with the kids during the day and trying to get all the dirty details from Charles at night, but Pierre doesn’t get spooked by having a family Thanksgiving with Arthur - instead the two of them get a little too tipsy on Friday afternoon and Charles has to tuck them into the couch so they’ll take a nap, and Pierre kisses him about it when he wakes up two hours later.

Charles wakes up on Christmas morning and gets dressed before it’s even 5 AM so he can drive over to Pierre’s and spend the morning with them before they load up and go over to Pierre’s parents house two hours north.

Pierre kisses him on New Year’s Eve and then he fucks Charles slow and deep and asks him to stay over - let him wake up with him and the kids. Because they hadn’t done that yet - had been careful in front of the kids.

Pierre’s birthday is spent in Charles’ house where he makes another atrocious pie and Pierre takes his face in his hands and whispers what Charles has known for months now.

“I love you,” he whispers into Charles’ mouth and Charles puts his face in his hands and cries and cries until Pierre pries them away and kisses him again. “I love you,” he says, “I love you.”

It goes like that until the next fall - when Ari turns eight and says matter of factly while they’re sitting on the front porch and Charles cranks an old ice cream maker he found in town, “I think you should be our new dad.”

There isn’t enough oxygen on the planet for the next minute of Charles’ life, and the only reason he manages to keep it together is because Pierre is there squeezing his shoulder and it’s grounding him to earth.

It’s a month of frantic whispers between Charles and Pierre and tears on both ends and Ari and Jessie giving Charles a wide circle when he’s with them until Pierre sets a plate down on the counter with more force than necessary and hisses, “No one in this house is your ex and these kids deserve someone who loves them and wants them just as much as I do and you’re a fucking fool if you think there’s anyone else on this planet that I want to marry as much as I want to marry you because not only do I think you’re the other half of me, I think you were meant to be their dad all along.”

It shocks Charles enough that he stops crying silent, hot tears and then he says, “I want to take your last name.”

And Pierre knocks the plate off the counter in an effort to get Charles into his arms.

They get married in the courthouse and then they take the kids on vacation over winter break to Disneyworld and Jessie calls Charles Papa for the first time while they’re eating a breakfast of Mickey shaped waffles and later that night after Charles and Pierre have tucked them into their beds, they stand on the balcony of their overpriced family suite and Pierre soothes the hair away from Charles face over and over and says a hundred times i love you, Charles, I am so thankful to you.

Alex texts Charles on the five year anniversary of when the divorce became final and Charles laughs at the ridiculous picture George took of him holding up the divorce decree for the camera to see and Charles looks across the room to where Pierre is stitching Ari’s dance costume back together and he texts back, best thing that could have ever happened.

Charles and Pierre work out a system for dinner and activities and making sure everything is done and the kids are thriving and Charles has never wanted for anything else.

Pierre teaches him not to kill tomato plants and Ari teaches him the true meaning of forgiveness. Jessie makes him believe that he can do anything and so when Pierre looks at him while the two of them are driving home from another football game and says, “You ever thought about having a third?” Charles doesn’t hesitate to say yes.

“We’ll be ancient when they graduate.”

Pierre laughs and kisses the back of Charles hand like he always does and Charles could burst with love and affection and the feeling of it was all worth it.

So when they bring home their second daughter 14 months later, Charles sits on the couch with Jessie and Ari and Pierre and George stands across the room to take a series of pictures while tears stream down his face, Charles has to laugh when George says:

“This is definitely what I meant when I said you should do something for yourself.”

#piarles #maybe a future fic idk I just can't stop thinking about them #I love them #soulmates

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