#rose colored paris

[elparisiendiary]

Flowershop

[pro-royalty]

Havana Rose Liu for The Cut (PFW’2023)

[matchavanillalatte]

one of the most amazing moments of my life was when I watched a rat run into a sewer grate in Paris, heard a loud squeak, and saw him run straight back out bc he’d been kicked out of his little rat hole

[poisonnightmares]

https://pin.it/6sg72wg

[predestinatos]

hungry for life - MV1 (18+) ༄˖°.🪐.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing: max verstappen x female!reader

summary: it could've been a dream trip. if it hadn't been for the nightmare of the company. (also i didn't proofread i'm sorry)

tags: enemies to lovers, smut, lots of smut, filthy really, p in v, fingering, reader swallows, idk what to say.

word count: 5.2k

MINORS DNI!!!

Monet’s Water Lilies occupied the entire room, listening to your conversation intently.

“It isn’t that big of a deal” you friend said, whispering and pointing to the painting as if she was commenting on it.

Your gaze remained on the careful brushstrokes, head tilted as you replied, “Easy for you to say. I mean, seriously? Max?” your hand raised to a specific part of the painting that really wasn’t as impressive up close as it probably was from afar - but there was no other way to have this conversation.

“You’re in Paris, looking at a Monet, with your best friend” she continued, a hint of a smile in her tone of voice. Her amusement only frustrated you more as she walked a few steps to the right, trying to inspect another part of the mesmerizing painting.

“And my worst enemy” you rolled your eyes as you followed her. “It’s not fair. When you said it would be you, your boyfriend and a friend of his, I didn’t expect this. I was thinking more of a double date.”

She looked at you, shrugging, causing her beautiful hair to bounce with her. “It can still be” she joked, to which you could only reply by turning your back to her - and consequently, Monet himself, muttering a ‘fuck you’ to her giggling frame and to the lilies who stood motionless in the still water.

You stood, alone, in front of Sam Francis’s In Lovely Blueness. You felt unlovely blue yourself, though you knew you couldn’t let this ruin a dream trip for you. Your excitement might have died down the minute you met Max at the airport and put two and two together, but you were sure it was mutual, which did make things better. At least he wasn’t particularly amused himself, falling for the exact same trap you fell into.

As if manifested by your own thoughts, his frame appeared on the corner of your eye, big eyelashes adorning his eyes as he stared ahead, almost as if he had no intention of acknowledging you whatsoever. “This is inspired in a poem by Hölderlin. It has the same name and everything. In Lieblicher Bläue. It’s a representation of-” he started, shocking you at first but then angering you just as well.

“I am an art major. I don’t need you to explain this to me” you spat, a fake smile adorning your lips as he looked at you, your annoyance, and chuckled. It was brave of him, you had to admit - to intentionally go out of his way to annoy you by explaining something you were sure he knew you knew. 

Crossing his arms across his chest, his head slightly tipped to the side, he admired how easy it was to get under your skin. He wanted to be nice, to engage in a conversation and try to achieve some type of neutral ground, but he found it impossible to do so. “Since you know so much, why don’t you guide us?” 

The comment came out aggressive and petty, which wasn’t particularly intentional but he also hadn’t made any effort to hide what he felt towards you anymore. You stepped closer to him. It surprised him, how daring you were all of a sudden, but also how much you actually seemed to dislike him, to the point where this was something you did publicly, unashamedly. 

“You want me to guide you?” you asked, whispering while looking up at him. You were smaller than him, his frame towering over you even unintentionally, but that factor didn’t stop you. 

“Sure” he said, swallowing dryly, jaw clenching as the tension between you both rose. The red on the painting seemed to stand out even more and spread on the corner of his vision, inundating the whole painting.

“Okay” you replied, taking two steps back away from him, opening the distance between your bodies, carrying the red color with you as the painting seemed to fill with blue again. But not for long, for you walked and looked at him as if urging him to follow, which he did, curiosity winning against irritation. 

After a couple of steps, you reached the end of a hallway, secluded and stripped of any painting, walls too bare, contrasting with the previous setting.

He was confused. He really didn’t know what you would do next, though this whole scenario just proved you were just as childish about your feelings as he was. “And, to your left you have the exit sign, which will take you right where you belong” you said, moving your arms like a museum guide, overly cartoon-ish on purpose, knowing it would only annoy him more.

“You’re such a child” Max said. Indignation wasn’t something he felt often, yet this time he felt it appropriate. But he was also thankful - thankful that his attempt at being nice didn’t work, for he did not have to pretend to like you for a week when he absolutely did not. “I tried, at least.”

At this, you could only gasp in surprise at his courage to make such a statement. “You tried? By mansplaining a painting? Oh, that's new!” it was almost funny how you two were whispering in shots, or shouting through whispers, the empty hallway echoing your words as if to emphasize them. 

“It’s more than what you’ve done so far! I’m not the one walking around looking all bitter and bratty.”

You stood, motionless, looking at him. His green eyes fixated on yours and burned as if they were scorching red, and as much as you wanted to lash out even more at him, you figured walking away was the best solution. Once again, turning your back on someone in Paris. It had to be done.

“Oh, yeah, walk away. Good luck doing that at the hotel” Max said, the comment a nail in your coffin, a way to affirm that yes, he had won, yes he was right, and the points had been made - you were to avoid each other at all times.

You, however, stopped. His last words echoed in your head. What did he mean, the hotel? The moment you closed the door to your room and he closed the door to his, you two would be out of each other’s sight. So what did he mean by that? That he would annoy you further, being noisy, screaming, to the point where you couldn’t sleep? You were about to ask when you decided that would admit some sort of defeat - asking someone to clarify a point you hadn’t understood in an argument seemed weak, frail and ridiculous to you, so you kept walking, desperate to find your friend again.

“No,” you said when the room card was handed to you. “Fuck no” you kept going, your best friend’s hand raised towards you as she tried to contain a hint of a smile. 

Now you understood Max’s comment. Now you were angrier than ever.

Why did you let your friend handle the hotel reservations? Because you trusted her good judgment. Which was bad judgment from your part, apparently, as she reserved two rooms - one for her and her boyfriend, and one for the friends they brought - you and Max.

“It has TWO beds” she tried convincing you, as Max had already gone up angrily, snatching the card swiftly without saying a word. “I wouldn’t put you two in a king sized bed. I am not crazy” she kept going. 

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. 

Max prided himself on his fast insticts and reactions to any unforseen events that might come his way. It was probably one of his best traits, one he always mentioned when asked about his favorite psychological aspect of himself.

But all that was put into question as he stood motionless in the middle of the hotel bedroom, towel wrapped lowly around his waist as the air conditioning hit his bare back and he heard the door click open.

He stood in the same place as you closed the door behind you and ran a hand through your hair as you exhaled. He had those brief seconds of you unaware of his presence to hide in the bathroom and get dressed quickly, or lay underneath the covers discreetly. Anything at all.

But he had no time to make a decision as your eyes met his, panic written across his green irises.

You prided yourself on your fast insticts and reactions to any unforeseen events that might come your way. It was probably one of your best traits, one you always mentioned when asked about your favorite psychological aspect.

But all that was put into question when you opened the door to the hotel room and saw a Max's frozen frame, towel wrapped lowly - too lowly, you thought - around his waist, swallowing hard as droplets of water ran across his bare skin.

No thoughts crossed your mind before you cursed, a hard "for fuck's sake" escaping your lips from accumulated stress over the events of the past 24 hours.

This was not how you wanted your trip to go. This was not what you had planned. It wasn't just sleeping in two separate beds.

This proved it clearly.

During this time, Max's brain found the opportunity to adapt to the situation, adopting an arrogant attitude that contrasted from his initial shock.

"Come on, I'm not fucking naked" he said as he turned his back to you, heading to the bathroom.

"You are underneath that towel" you pointed out, starting to follow him before stopping yourself, realizing it was best not to do it. "I mean, you knew I was coming"

You heard him chuckle - really, he made sure you would - and his head and bare shoulder showed up from behind the open door. "Yes. Hence the towel. Otherwise I'd be naked. Which I'm not. Don't be such a child."

You could only throw a middle finger at him in response - one that he found gave him the victory, the upper hand. One that signified the discussion was over and he was right.

He grinned to himself, closing the door as he undid the towel around his waist in order to put on his underwear and a t-shirt.

Max's hand reached for the small hanger where it was placed and his fingers wrapped around nothing. He looked at the empty hanger and then at the floor, completely empty of what he needed the most in that very moment - his boxers.

"Shit. Shit. Shit Shit" he cursed, looking around for an answer. He knew his only choice was to ask you to bring them to him, but he only knew it cost him that final victory he enjoyed so much, his ego and pride mixing with each other to create a selfishness that surprised even him sometimes.

You heard your name being called out from the bathroom. At first you thought you had imagined it, like in horror movies where it seems to be coming from everywhere, but when it sounded again you knew that wasn't the case, though it was equally as terrifying.

You jumped from your bed and went over to the bathroom, ear pressed against the door in search of a sign of danger.

"...Yes?" you asked.

"Can you bring me a pair of boxers? They're in my suitcase. That is if you don't want to see me naked for four seconds while I get them myself."

You groaned loud enough for him to hear, your steps heavier than usual so he could notice your discontentment even if he couldn't see it.

Walking over to his suitcase, you opened its zipper almost carelessly, searching for a pair of underwear in the midst of the collection of same colored t shirts and same fit jeans.

Max was walking around the bathroom like a mad man, realizing how ridiculous this situation was, and how ridiculous it was that he had accepted it without asking who his company would be first. Maybe this was a lesson, yes, from the ghost of vacations future warning him about being careful who to trust, or to spread kindness, or something.

Before he could dive deeper into thoughts of madness, a knock sounded on the door. He grabbed the towel quickly to cover himself, although he did not bother wrapping it around him. He was not planning on opening the door entirely, not after the scene you caused.

As he opened, he saw an outstretched hand - yours - holding a pair of underwear. The fabric dangled in your pointer finger as if it was made of a burning material that you needed to get rid off, and fast.

He grabbed that from you, but as he was closing the door, your arm remained in place.

"I'm childish but you brought like two packs of condoms for this trip?" you said accusingly, and he could hear your smirk, as if you finally had something to hit him with.

"Don't flatter yourself, I didn't know I'd end up with you" he said as he pulled his boxers up and opened the door once again. "Is this less offensive than the towel?"

He was close - closer than you had expected - and though he hid his own surprise at seeing you at the doorframe, he couldn't deny that he didn't exactly measure the consequences of not checking where exactly you were before opening the door so fast.

His chest was close to yours, so close part of him almost felt as if you were touching, the proximity making him feel unbelievably taller than you, though he was sure the difference couldn't be that big.

You tried not to stare. Really, you were trying really hard. But he was so close to you he occupied your entire line of vision, his pale skin appearing so smooth in front of yours, contrasting with the dark color of his underwear - that you unconsciously had picked.

He towered over you, head low so he could look at you in the eyes, though the view wasn't particularly bad from up there. Your pajama top was loose - too loose - in your frame and your shorts were the very definition of the word.

"You wanting to sleep with me would be an insult" you said, moving away from the doorframe so he could pass, though he didn't move, merely crossed his arms across his chest, muscles tensing slightly at that. "And sure. It's an improvement" you continued, staring him up and down - taking his frame in but disguising the act as disdain.

Max's head leaned to the right, a smirk growing on his lips as he realized he got you for a second time. Nonchalantly, eyebrows raised, he decided to act.

"That's not what you said a year ago." There. He had you. And while before this bickering came from a place of anger and hatred, he was growing increasingly more amused at how you matched his own pace.

"Yeah, but that was before you opened your mouth" you retorted, focusing hard - too hard - on his face and not on his body, though it did not help either. His hair was messy and slightly damp from the shower, and his stubble had grown in a way you could only describe as attractive - not perfectly shaved but not entirely messy either.

He bit his lip then, mostly because he knew what to say to you after your words and was trying not to smile. Also because you had admitted to feeling attracted to him, even if only physically, which added to his confidence as he stared at you and ran his eyes down your body. "What's wrong with my mouth?"

You were dumbfounded for a few seconds, mouth opened at the ridiculousness of his comment, what it implied and the line it had crossed. "You're such a piece of shit" you said, while his grin grew to his eyes.

"You want me" he sounded so matter of factly, as if he had commented on the weather or said the sky was blue.

"I hate you."

"Never said you didn't" Max took a step forward towards you, and you found yourself unable to walk away. Something about his deviance pulled you in, and part of your brain told you you could leave, though another tried to convince you you were only staying because this was your room, after all.

"Then how could I possibly want you?" you asked, though it was more directed at yourself than at him this time.

He looked away then, as if the answer was obvious, his body moving closer to you but never touching you, both decreasing and increasing the distance between the both of you.

"You want me but I'm a piece of shit. And that's why you hate me. Because you know, deep down, you still want me to fuck you" as he said this, he moved away, almost as if the conversation had never happened, though it had, just now.

"I don't want you anywhere near me" you tried to sound assertive but part of your voice had failed by how taken aback you were, still wondering if you had imagined his words.

He stopped and turned to you once again, battling his own brain on whether or not he should push you a bit further.

"Define near" he said, as he walked closely towards you, like a predator slowly approaching its prey, defying them.

Your chest rose and fell as he moved, and you found yourself unable to tell him that that was near enough, mostly because it wasn't, not even close.

The back of your legs hit the bed - his bed - and you fell backwards, sitting on it as he moved as close as he could towards you. "Is this near for you?" he asked, though his tone had changed into something darker, raspier and more filled with lust than flirt.

You swallowed, refusing to break eye contact, aware of how you looking up at him provided a view for himself as well.

"Who wants who now, huh?" you asked teasingly, a smile spread across your lips as you noticed his body tensing up - with a bit of anger but maybe a bit of arousal too.

"Is this wanting you?" he asked back, finding your language had moved from insult to rhetoric, questions that needn't answer - not when he could see your eyes shining as they looked up at you from your eyelashes, not as he saw you crossing your legs despite your attempts at discreetness.

You shrugged at his question, not wanting to back down on your claim but also not wanting to give him the chance to refute it.

His hand cupped your face with firmness, holding your stare as he lowered himself towards you, bringing his lips close to yours, so close you felt his skin brushing against yours although he broke away before you could indulge in his initiative.

"What about this?" he asked, testing you now, though he knew the answer himself, felt it in his body as his boxers felt tight against his erection.

"I'm still unsure" you replied, and as if awaiting for that sign to keep going, Max exhaled and ran his hands through your bare thighs, pinching softly at them, causing you to hiss and giggle from his contact.

"Do I have to keep asking?" it was his time now to look up at you, something close to desperation rubbing at him as he knelt between your legs.

"Not if you admit it" you leaned to kiss him, to - admittedly - give him some kind of upper hand, though you weren't sure if you were playing anymore, not as his tongue hungrily explored your mouth, so desperate it was almost sloppy yet so warm and arousing and fulfilling.

"Fucking hell you're stubborn" he managed to let out during the brief instances where you weren't pulling his neck towards you, making sure his lips remained on yours.

His body moved on top of yours as you laid down in his bed, his hips pressing against yours as you felt his cock against you, a moan escaping your lips and a sigh leaving his at the contact.

"Is this, huh?" he asked again, mouth now moving to your neck, kissing it so lightly you shivered, only to bite you afterwards, the sensations overwhelming you with need for him.

Your body felt hot, burning intensely; and Max's body against yours only fueled that, his voice making you feel more than you wanted to admit even to yourself.

You wanted him to feel like you were feeling in that moment - unaware he was already as on the edge of completely losing himself as you were. So you held his hand with yours and brought it in between your legs, allowing him to get his response.

Max had to steady himself. Really, part of his brain froze and only his body worked, mouth watering as he felt how wet you were, mind going completely foggy at the fact that you had done it, at how hot what your simple gesture had been - at how strongly he reacted to it.

His cock was so tight in his boxers it felt almost painful, especially when he knew how comfortable he could be, inside you, feeling your entire body react to him and him alone.

However, he craved to drive you mad as well, convinced you would probably lose your minds together in that hotel room. "Use your words" he said, pulling your shorts down in order to get better access to you.

His fingers teased you gently, brushing over your entrance and pulling away just as you were ready to take them. "Tell me, is this wanting you?" he insisted, his voice breathy and hoarse.

You wished you could answer, could say more than his name which came across as a whine for more of him inside you. It took all your strength to focus, on winning, on seeing him crumble before your eyes, losing his composure which was so so close to fall apart.

You bit your lip while staring at his eyes - once so bright but now so dark, so filled with something you hadn't seen in him before - and took him completely by surprise as you ran your hand across his erection through the fabric of his underwear.

Max closed his eyes and his eyebrows were now close together in an almost frown. "Fuck" were the words he let out as he dropped his head.

"Admit it" you demanded, not only because you wanted to win but because you couldn't wait any longer - you felt empty, his teasing frustrating you to no end.

Without warning, his fingers dipped inside you, filling that emptiness, even if just slightly. He moved them painfully slowly, savoring every inch of your moans as you kept your hand on his hard cock.

You could feel its length and thickness, making your mouth water at the mere thought of having it inside you. You started moving your hips against his fingers, craving more of the pleasure, more of him.

Max was just observing you at that point, how desperate you were for him, how beautiful you looked with flushed cheeks and swollen lips with barely anything being done to you yet.

"I would never admit something like that" his words contrasted so much with his thoughts, but he knew one fed the other both for you and him, this back and forth the main reason why you both felt an incessant pull towards one another.

"You're ridiculous" you managed to reply, though the words came out muffled and confusing, earning you a chuckle in response.

"You're being fucked stupid and I'm ridiculous?" he asked, grinning as he used a hand to removed his boxers, freeing his erection. You couldn't help but whimper at the sight, the sheer anticipation of what was to come, at the opportunity to having him buried inside you.

However, letting him win this easily wasn't something you were willing to do - and though your mind was cloudy and your judgment blurred, you stood on your elbows, face almost touching his. Your hand caressed his tensed arm which kept its movement inside you, and he couldn't help but look at your contact.

You tilted your head, biting your lip as you stared at his face - the desperate attempt at remaining composed, the rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, lips wet and eyes so dark they looked almost black.

"Who's stupid now?" you asked, hot breath against his neck. He could hide many things, but he couldn't control the goosebumps spreading across his entire body, he couldn't hide the way his shoulders tensed even more, how his throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

This was thrilling. Maybe too thrilling, if such thing existed. He thought of the painting, of the colours spread across the canvas and somehow, in that moment, that seemed to increase every emotion he was feeling, and he had to close his eyes to control himself and steady his breath.

He had to keep it going. He knew he had to - he knew this was precisely what he wanted, to drive you insane, to keep the tension running across both of you until one exploded.

So he removed his hand from where it was - so comfortable, so hard inside you - and he could see you pout slightly before returning to your previous cold attitude. "You want me to stop, I'll stop" he said, climbing fully on top of the bed, both hands on either side of your head, hovering above you.

"I never said that" you bit back, though it was hard to focus as he started leaving trails of kisses on your neck, going down to your chest, and on your navel, biting your shirt and pulling it - removing the last layer of clothing you possessed.

"Then what do you want?" he asked, face in between your thighs, just above where you wanted him to be buried. Max's grin didn't hide the fact that he knew exactly the answer to this - but, just like you, he was stubborn, loving to hear the words escape your lips, to know that you wanted him to ruin you completely.

His hand now caressed your thigh, fingers softly moving up and down, drawing invisible nothings on your skin.

You fought against your will to just say it, although you wanted to give it up and just admit it. As if reading your thoughts, his eyes pierced yours with amusement as his cheek rested against your thigh, stubble scratching your skin pleasurably. "We don't have all night, sweetheart" he whispered.

The nickname caused your heart to race, but what came out of your mouth was a scoff, arrogance still coating your actual feelings despite the situation you were both in. "You're just as desperate as I am" you told him, lifting your right leg to caress his bag with your foot.

"Desperate for what, hm?" he asked, biting the inside of your thigh as he climbed back up, facing you.

"To fuck me" you finally replied, knowing it was less of an admition and more of a dare.

"Is that what you want me to do? To fuck you?" the question was rhetorical, almost mocking, but at that moment you didn't quite care. Not when the tip of his cock rubbed against you, not when he tried so hard to steady his breath.

You could only nod, carnal insticts getting the best out of you. That was all he needed to let himself go, to let go of all restraints previously holding him back - if there were any.

He sinked inside you slowly, as if to prolong your pain and your pleasure simultaneously, savoring your reactions - your whine of pleasure, your closed eyes and teeth biting your lip, your eyebrows furrowed. You felt and looked so good it took all of his strength to focus on being the stronger, composed person in the room - something he never struggled this hard to achieve.

He dropped his head low, his forehead against yours as he steadied himself. "Fuck" he managed to say, along with a loud exhale. "You feel so fucking good" he continued, words leaving his mouth almost impulsively.

"Then don't stop, Max" you demanded, almost aggressively, as your body ached for more of him.

He pulled himself almost fully out and slammed back inside you, harder now, making you let out a loud whine - one which you rapidly covered by placing your hands over your mouth.

He kept going, hips slamming against yours with a steady rhythm as you uhmed in pleasure, eyes teary already as they rolled to the back of your head.

He wanted to hear you. In fact, he wanted to know others could hear you, hear how good he was making you feel, hear how his cock drove you absolutely insane. With an assertive movement, his hand grabbed yours and pulled it away from your mouth, then held your cheeks tightly as he made you look at him.

"Don't cover your mouth" he ordered, hungrily, feeling you tighten around him as he said it. "Let everyone hear how well you take it" he continued, speeding up his pace and laying on top of you as you wrapped your hands around his waist, caging him.

"F-fuck, Max" you started, unable to resist much longer, feeling his hot body against yours, your hands pulling his hair as he moved almost animalistically, so focused on your sounds he could only get off to them.

"You sound so pretty" Max growled, close to exploding as well. "So fucking hot" he continued, and you had to bury your teeth in his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming - all you could let out was his name as you felt him inside you, and his hips rolled against you, unmatched amounts of pleasure running through you.

"I'm so close, Max, I'm so close" you said, not realizing how often his name was being uttered by you, how it seemed like one of the few words you had left to say.

Driven to a state of total lack of control, Max let moans escape his own lips, his animal vulnerability resulting in your own orgasm.

Feelings you tighten and pulsing around his cock was the tipping point for him, as his body shuddered, pulling himself out of you as fast as he could.

“Open your mouth” he said, gesturing at you to sit back. You did as he demanded, still drunk from your orgasm, still completely at his mercy, and he came finally, warm come filling your mouth.

The view was Max’s dream come true - your mouth wide open and filled with him, so obediently taking his orders and so beautifully contrasting with your previous attitude. 

“Now swallow” he said, tapping your cheeks slightly with his hand as you closed your mouth and did as he said, the slightly salty flavour filling your tastebuds.

You laid down on his bed, exhausted and completely fulfilled, while also dizzy with the amount of emotions running through your head. You closed your eyes, but felt and heard him laying down next to you, his arm brushing yours shyly now. 

“Was that close enough?” he asked.

[reminiscingtonight]

Surprise Visits (Pt. 2)

Ana-Maria Crnogorčević x Reader

Word Count: 676

A/N: Everyone thank the reign girls for this

Part One

[WOSO Masterlist]

Getting traded while at camp is never a good feeling. 

You’re in the middle of trying to convince Emily not to put dye into Rose’s shampoo bottle when the notification goes off. You don’t think twice about it, or about the way your phone keeps buzzing until you put it on silent without even sparing it a glance. You don’t think about it when the two of you are strolling into a film session, when everyone’s looking at you with wide and pitiful eyes. 

“Did I run over Wilma without knowing?” you whisper to Sonnett, ignoring the snicker and elbow it earns you. 

“Are you okay?” Rose asks instead, ignoring your joke. 

You cock your head at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It makes everyone else uneasy how unbothered you seem to be about the whole thing. 

Sure, knowing you have only a week to pack up your life and move across the country after finishing up in Paris is never the best feeling, but knowing what is waiting for you in rainy Seattle is a much better one. 

The next day when the pictures go up, that’s when the confusion settles in. 

“When did you go down to Seattle?” 

It’s clearly you in the picture, signing the contract, smiling at the camera with a jersey with your last name on the back, touring the stadium. You shrug but say nothing else.

So maybe you’ve known about this trade for a while now. And maybe you took some time to explore the city before you left for the farewell tour. There’s already an apartment with your name on it, perfect for two, and in a nice part of Seattle. 

It settles in then that you never quite got around to telling your friends about this. 

“Oh right… surprise?”

When Seattle announces Ana’s contract days later, Lynn tracks you down before punching you right in the arm. “Ditching us to go be with your wife? Uncalled for.”

You roll your eyes before wiggling your bare hand at her. “No ring, no wife.”

“Yet,” she corrects. “Repeat after me, ‘no ring, no wife yet’.”

When all is said and done and you’re flying to Seattle with a new medal in tow, Ana picks you up at the airport. 

You’ve already told her she didn’t need to, but your girlfriend is nothing if not a gentlewoman so she’s already waiting by the carousel when you get out. 

You all but collapse into her arms, soaking in everything that’s your girlfriend as she tightens her arms around you. There’s a warmth tingling from your head where she’s planted a kiss, and you tighten the grip you have on the back of her shirt. If it was up to you you’d never move, but eventually the exhaustion of nearly a month long tournament catches up to you and you pull back to start wheeling your luggage towards the exit. 

Before you can take another step Ana’s ducking down. 

Your eyes flutter close when she presses the softest kiss against your lips. You sigh out happily, not missing the smile on Ana’s face when the two of you finally pull apart again. 

“You ready to go home?”

It’s not hard to imagine the messy clutter of shoes that will be strewn by the front door, and the inevitable way Ana will get annoyed and chuck them into the closet. The two toothbrushes that will be sitting side by side on the bathroom sink, one in each of your favorite colors. Your king size bed will no longer be too big, forever warm and always smelling like your favorite person. Of course you’re going to need a new place to hide the ring that’s currently sitting in the bottom of a box back in New York but that’s something you can figure out on the fly when you finally get everything moved in. 

You can already imagine just how nice of a life you’re going to have here in Seattle with Ana. 

And all of that sounds… perfect.

You grin. “Let’s go.”

[pmamtraveller]

CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE /1885/ by JOHN SINGER SARGENT

The painting shows two young girls lighting lanterns in what seems to be a garden at dusk. The artist used the 'en plein air' technique to capture the beautiful floral hues, which are pink roses, yellow carnations, and white lilies.

The painting's title was inspired by the song "Ye Shepherds Tell Me" by Joseph Mazzinghi. In the song's refrain, Mazzinghi mentions, "A wreath around her head, around her head she wore, Carnation, lily, lily, rose" when you think about it this directly relates to the flowers in the painting.

While in England, Sargent worked on this painting, he moved there because of the scandal from his 1884 painting 'Portrait of Madame X', which damaged his reputation in Paris. The painting, rather controversial, depicts Virginie Gautreau in ways that sparked outrage in Paris due to its provocative elements.

Ultimately, this painting revived Sargent's career after the 1887 Royal Academy exhibition. Some critics praised it for originality, with one radical publication calling it "the most interesting and original picture in the whole show" due to its innovative use of color and light.

[littlesparklight]

Got the (foolish lol) idea to go through some of the works I know give physical descriptions of at least some Trojan war characters and collate them. They aren't in alphabetic order, sorry, but the works/authors are colour coded, at least!

Trojans in this post!

Priam The Iliad: "beautiful as a god" = theoeides Dares: a handsome face and a pleasant voice. He was large and swarthy. Malalas, Chronographia: tall for the age, big, good, ruddy-colored, light-eyed, long-nosed, eyebrows meeting, keen-eyed, gray, restrained. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: meeting eyebrows and large nose, a fiercely glaring, flame-coloured skin and an admirable face, well-equipped, with thick hair and beautiful eyes.

Hecuba Dares: beautiful, her figure large, her complexion dark. She thought like a man and was pious and just. Malalas, Chronographia: dark, good eyes, full grown, good nose, beautiful, generous, talkative, calm. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: dark skin, tall and pretty, of a mature age, ambitious, gentle though.

Hektor Dares: Hector spoke with a slight lisp. His complexion was fair, his hair curly. His eyes would blink attractively. His movements were swift. His face, with its beard, was noble. He was handsome, fierce, and high-spirited, merciful to the citizens, and deserving of love. Philostratus, Heroicus: [Hektor and Aeneas] were both of the same age and height, and although Aeneas's appearance seemed less radiant[…], He was smaller than the son of Telamon, but not at all inferior in fighting, […] Short hair. His ears were damaged, not by wrestling […] but he fought against bulls and considered engagement with such beasts warlike. […] He died probably at the age of thirty. Malalas, Chronographia: dark-skinned, tall, very stoutly built, strong, good nose, wooly-haired, good beard, squinting, speech defect, noble, fearsome warrior, deep-voiced.

Andromache Dares: bright-eyed and fair, with a tall and beautiful body. She was modest, wise, chaste, and charming. Malalas, Chronographia: above average height, thin, well turned out, good nose, good breasts, good eyes, good brows, wooly hair, blondish hair long in back, large-featured, good neck, dimples on her cheeks, charming, quick. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: spirited, of middle age, with a long face, delightful; she had dimples on her cheeks when laughed.

Paris/Alexander The Iliad: "beautiful as a god" = theoeides, (beautiful hair - not direct quote, merely taken by how his hair is talked about) Dares: fair, tall, and brave. His eyes were very beautiful, his hair soft and blond, his mouth charming, and his voice pleasant. He was swift, and eager to take command. Philostratus, Heroicus: appearance was most pleasing, and his voice and character were charming[…] He had a rather aquiline nose and white skin, his eyes were painted, and his left eyebrow rose above the eye. […] at eighteen he also sailed to Hellas, […] not yet thirty years old when he died. (calls him as good as Pandaros as an archer. He also gets compared to a peacock lol (for the beauty AND the (supposed) vanity of the bird) Malalas, Chronographia: well-grown, sturdy, white, good nose, good eyes, black pupils, black hair, incipient beard, long-faced, heavy eyebrows, big mouth, charming, eloquent, agile, an accurate archer, cowardly, hedonist. [He is in his early thirties when he goes to Sparta, due to being confined until that age, when he's brought back to Troy] Tzetzes, Antehomerica: had his beauty from the Graces. He was white, of a proper age [he is in his early thirties when he goes to Sparta, due to being confined until that age, when he's brought back to Troy], charming and well-bearded; he had his hair long and blond.

Deiphobos Dares: Deiphobus […] looked like [his] father, but [his] character(s) were not alike. Deiphobus was the man of forceful action[…] Malalas, Chronographia: above average stature, keen-eyed, somewhat snub-nosed, dark-skinned, flat-faced, brave, good beard. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: with a large face, with a small nose and dark skin, beautiful face and well-bearded.

Helenos Dares: Helenus […] looked like [his] father, but [his] character(s) were not alike. […] Helenus was the gentle, learned prophet. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, well set up, white, strong, blond, wine-colored eyes, long-nosed, incipient beard, slightly stooped, sensible, warrior. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: well-adapted, tall, with the beard just sprouting, white, blond, with a big nose and a pale face. He had a soft back, he could escape notice of many.

Troilos Dares: a large and handsome boy, was strong for his age, brave, and eager for glory. Malalas, Chronographia: big, good nose, dark, good eyes, black hair, thick beard, strong warrior and runner. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: big, of quick feet and dark skin, with a delightful face, shaggy-bearded and with long hair.

Kassandra The Iliad: like to golden Aphrodite Dares: moderate stature, round-mouthed, and auburn-haired. Her eyes flashed. She knew the future. Malalas, Chronographia: shortish, round-faced, white, mannish figure, good nose, good eyes, dark pupils, blondish, curly, good neck, bulky breasts, small feet, calm, noble, priestly, an accurate prophet foreseeing everything, practicing hard, virgin. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: a small bodily frame, like of a man, whiter than the milk with perfectly round eyes, she had huge breasts, a small face and she was gentle.

Polyxena Dares: fair, tall, and beautiful. Her neck was slender, her eyes lovely her hair blond and long, her body well-proportioned, her fingers tapering, her legs straight, and her feet the best. Surpassing all the others in beauty, she remained a completely ingenuous and kind-hearted woman. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, pure, very white, large-eyed, black-haired, with her hair worn long behind, a good nose and cheeks, blooming-lipped, small-footed, virgin, charming, very beautiful, 18 years old when they killed her. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: a beautiful aspect and a really long neck; she was tall and white; She had small feet, beautiful breasts and lips like flowers, so outstanding. She was eighteen years old, the age of the youth.

Laodike The Iliad: the most outstanding in beauty of [Hecuba's/Priam's] daughters.

Aeneas Dares: auburn-haired, stocky, eloquent, courteous, prudent, pious, and charming. His eyes were black and twinkling. Philostratus, Heroicus: [Hektor and Aeneas] were both of the same age and height, and although Aeneas's appearance seemed less radiant, he resembled Hektor more when that man had settled down, and he wore his hair long without offense. He did not adorn his hair, nor was he enslaved to it. Instead, he made virtue alone his adornment, and he looked at things so vehemently that even his glance itself was sufficient against the unruly. Malalas, Chronographia: shortish, thick, good chest, strong, ruddy, flat-faced, good nose, pale, balding, good beard. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: short but fat and had a big chest. He had white skin; he was bold with a large face.

Antenor Dares: tall, graceful, swift, crafty, and cautious. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, thin, white, blond, small-eyed, hook-nosed, crafty, cowardly, secure, a story-teller, eloquent. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: tall, slim and had the skin like the milk, white, with a curved nose and blond hair.

Euphorbos The Iliad: His hair gets compared to the Graces' hair. Philostratus, Heroicus: His hair […] he dyed golden-yellow […] He says that his beauty charmed even the Achaeans, for he resembled a statue whenever Apollo appears his own most lovely self with unshorn hair and grace. Protesilaos thinks that Euphorbus was his own age [adolescent]

Briseis/Hippodamia The Iliad: like to golden Aphrodite, a woman like the immortal goddesses Dares: beautiful. She was small and blond, with soft yellow hair. Her eyebrows were joined above her lovely eyes. Her body was well-proportioned. She was charming, friendly, modest, ingenuous, and pious. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, fair, beautiful-breasted, well-dressed, with close-knit eyebrows, a good nose, big eyes, eyelashes with kohl, curly hair worn long in back, with a ready smile, age 21. Tzetzes, Antehomerica: tall and white, her hair was black and curly; she had beautiful breasts and cheeks and nose; she was, also, well-behaved; her smile was bright, her eyebrows big; […] she was twenty-one years old.

Diomede of Lesbos Malalas, Chronographia: fair-skinned, round-faced, blue-eyed, fully grown, not quite blonde, a little snub-nosed, 22 years old, a virgin.

Chryseis/Astynome Malalas, Chronographia: rather short, slender fair, blonde, with a nice nose, small breasts, 19 years old. Tzetzes, Antehomerica: very young and thin, with milky skin. She had blond hair and small breasts; she was nineteen years old; she was still a virgin.

[frary-us]

x x x x

Toby at Dream It Fest Paris 03/25/2023

[spookberry]

Shadow High series 3 my new beloved

I didnt even like most of em until i saw them in person, but the knowledge that they'll probably never be in the show has my brain in a "well its free realestate" kinda mood

Random list of information cuz ive been plotting out friend dynamics and background lore

-i like to pretend Rainbow High/Shadow High are actually Rainbow University/Shadow University cuz im in art college Right Now and i think it makes more sense with the whole dorm room situation. And also major makes more sense than focus IMO

-I changed Pinkie's major from film to just undeclared. I think she eventually does land on Film. She just has a lot of interests! Her dream has always been to one day direct films, and I think she comes to love them even more while developing ideas her with the group as she winds up in a Director/Producer position for most of them. BUT also every time she takes a class in a different program she cant help but fall in love with that way of making art too. So she has a hard time picking for a while and changed her major a couple times before landing on Film.

-Pinkie and Berrie bond a lot over a shared interest in vocal synths (tho Berrie knows more about them than her).

-The two made Pinkie's vtuber model together!

-the fandom wiki says PJ is from germany?? Idk how canon that is tbh but ive decided to embrace it i guess

-Rooney's canon name is Scarlet Rose, but i thought it was kinda lame especially when Rosie Redwood is also in this line sooo I renamed her! Stuck to the color name puns tho. Mar Rooney. Maroon. Haha

-Speaking on her though i love that shes from texas and likes writing scifi mystery type stuff and that being said i just Know deep in my bones that she was a Voltron Legendary Defender fan and Keith was/is 100% her favorite. She has a continued fondness for mothman specifically cuz of this.

-PJ and Rooney actually talk about fandom and shows/movies ALL the time. They dont have a ton of overlapping interests, but where they do? The two literally never shut up.

-Rosie is such a random character, like outside of her design she feels very poorly considered. So I scrapped the cosmetology thing and made her an illustrator instead! I think it works better with her love of making art in nature. I can see her being really into illustrated guide books. I think shes a bit snooty when it comes to art too. It takes being friends with other artists to become more open minded.

-I like the idea that Rosie is mainly friends with Rooney and Berrie ontop of that. The three of them often tag team storylines and how theyd interpret them into different mediums. Rosie will draw up a bunch of concept stuff while Rooney writes up a pitch bible and Berrie will start making shit move and throwing in her own ideas on camera angles and character designs.

-as an animation major Berrie was required to take a sound design class early on, which is where she met Oliver! Hes very laid back, and likes to go with the flow, but functions a little like the "mom" of the group. Often reminding the girls to take breaks, drink water, stop looking at their screens lest they get eye strain etc. He's multi-talented tbh but Music is his one true passion and he likes how the girls are always giving him collaboration opportunities.

-Oliver and Rosie like to talk sports a lot, both having played a bunch when they were younger and throughout high school.

-Lavender Lynn is Oliver's number one "person who needs constant reminders to settle down" she is in a constant buzz of trying to get the best shots and is utterly obsessed with the process of artistic documentation. Everything must be documented.

-the whole school loves her for this actually, she has a whole side gig where other students hire her to help photograph their projects. She saves everything she earns from this for her future dream plans to visit paris. She has it set really, many of the artists who she helps photograph now will remain steadfast clients of hers forever onward.

-PJ and Lynn actually took a print media class together at one point. Which didnt at the time spark an everlasting friendship. But it did give PJ an easier in to ask for Lynn's help documenting a project the group was working on. One of Lynn's first times photographing them work happened to fall on a day where Rosie had planned to trick everyone into going on a nature walk sans devices... Lynn wound up really appreciating this outing and decided to continue hanging around the group even after that project had ended.

[formulaforza]

diamond ring-- c.leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader word count: 990 a/n: i melt i melt i melttttt

He told Lorenzo he was going to marry you on the plane from France to Austria. He’d kissed you goodbye at four in the morning in your shared hotel room because you had a flight to catch back to Monaco for work that morning. You were supposed to leave the night before, right after the race on Sunday, but, you didn’t want to leave him to his thoughts, so you changed your flight. 

You’ve known her for eight months, his brother told him, eight months and you want to marry her? 

Charles had laughed, shrugged, nodded. “I just. I know.”

It wasn’t until after the season ended that he finally got to the jewelers. One in Paris, because he thought a million people would notice him ring shopping in Monaco. He’d made Pierre come along, for moral support, and FaceTimed his mother for a woman’s perspective. 

They were at the jewler’s for three hours, and looked at just about every ring there was in the whole place before Charles finally decided that he needed to create something custom for you. Sounds like your girl is one of a kind, the associate helping them said, maybe she needs a ring to match. It’s another hour and a half before he’d made his decisions. He calls them once he’s home and three days later and is still making changes. 

Once it’s actually in his hands, little velvet box and all, his worry shifts to how to ask you. It has to be perfect, he thinks. Something you���ll beam about in twenty years when you tell your kids all about Mom and Dad’s love story. He could do it on a Monday morning over coffee, him on his way to the gym and you barely up, pajama clad and hugging a coffee mug like your life depends on it. He could do it after a long day at the track, where he’s exhausted and looking for a fight and you let him be, let him feel what he needs to feel. He could do it whenever, wherever, and as long as it was with you, it would be perfect for him. 

It needed to be perfect for you. He thought about filling the apartment with a million roses and balloons and champagne. It was private but grand. He thought about the cinema classics–a restaurant full of people, a ring in the desert. You would probably swallow it, he figured. Maybe he could do it in an airport–no. That idea didn’t even last long enough to become complete in his mind. You would kill him, everyone else in the airport would kill him. Just, no. Scratch the aiprort. 

Maybe out on the water, in the middle of a day of fun. He could do it then, in the heat of the sun and in the salty air just off the coast. What if you said no? Then he’s stuck with you, on a boat, in the middle of the ocean. That’s like…nightmare fuel, the stuff that haunts his dreams for six straight nights. 

He decides he’s going to do it at the beach. One of the private ones that nobody is really supposed to know about but everyone does, the one he’d referred to as his secret spot when he’d first met you. The one you’d named with a deadpan expression on your face right after he said that stupid, cheesy line. 

He forced Joris and Antoine to hide in the bushes far out of your sight on the evening he finally did it. The sun was setting on the French Riviera and every color in the sky seemed to highlight something stunning about you, complimenting your eyes, your dress, your hair, your smile. The wind ran its fingers through your hair and danced in the flowing fabric of your dress and he thought he could never be deserving of you, all good and right and ethereal like this. He couldn’t wait to spend his entire life trying to live up to the standard that was you.

There was a picnic spot set up in the sand at the end of the beach. “I love that,” you’d commented when you saw it, clueless that it was there for you. “It's so sweet.”

"It's for you," he hums, voice shaky and nervous.

"What?"

He says your name, all sweet and soft and you know. You don’t know, because you never really know until it’s happening, but, you know. “Charles,” You beam back at him with giddy, hopeful eyes. You are just as enamored as he is. He repeats your name again, draws out the sounds of the last syllable and you both laugh, fight back tears because this is really happening and you don’t want a single memory to be clouded and fuzzy with love in its purest, saltiest form. 

“I love you in ways words will never be able to explain,” He starts. “In the early mornings and the late nights and the average afternoons, I am completely in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, trying to find the words,” he continues. You laugh, choked and teary, soft fingers on your smile in disbelief. He pulls a tiny velvet box from the inside pocket of his jacket and drops to one knee in the sand. “So,” he laughs, pops open the box and you’re eyes are too fixed on the man you love to even look at the ring. “Will you marry me?”

You smile, try so hard not to cry only for them to fall down your cheeks anyway. You nod, hold your left hand out for him. “Yeah?” He says, pulls the ring from the box and slides it on your finger. Perfect fit. 

“Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot.” You grin, both laugh, curl over to kiss him while he’s still on his knees in the sand. “I love you so much,” you tell him, hands on either side of his face, kiss him again.

“I love you, too.”

[asnowperson]

An essay on the theme of children-parent relationships in Hagio Moto's works by Murakami Tomohiko

For years, I avoided reading the essays that were included at the end of bunkoban volumes. Reading Japanese prose felt like a chore to me, to be honest. A too high of a hurdle. And most of the time, the contents went over my head.

That being said, since I started reading them, I've come across some pretty interesting ones. The analysis written by Murakami Tomohiko, manga critic, at the end of Mesh's vol. 3 (Hakusensha Bunko, 1994) was particularly interesting for me. So, I tried my hand at translating butchering it. The author compares the boys in Hagio's manga and their family issues. You can find it below the cut.

If anyone wants to read the original, I can send pics/scans!

Province of children 

Murakami Tomohiko  (Manga critic) 

For a child, what does it feel like to be neglected by their parents? 

Mesh is the protagonist of this story. His mother, elopes with a man when he was young. His father, doubting whether he’s Mesh’s real father or not, drives him away from himself, and places him in a boarding school in the faraway Switzerland. For 12 years of his life, he believes that his mother abandoned him, and his father hates him. It’s not hard to imagine how deep the scars such feelings left in Mesh’s heart are.  

Mesh’s mother gave him a girl’s name, “Françoise-Marie.” We do not know if she wanted to have a daughter that bad, but as Mesh was separated from his mother when he was 2, he never knew the truth. But how much of a deciding factor that name became for him, and how it kept bearing heavy on him in his later years, are beyond any doubt.

When Mesh was 12, silver locks started to appear on both sides of his blond hair. After seeing a proof of genetics at work, his father finally recognized him as his own son. But that wasn’t the salvation the he was looking for. When his father shifted the blame on Mesh’s mother’s licentious behavior  for doubting his paternity, a new wound was opened on the young boy's heart.  

“I won’t say that my mother was a saint. But for a child who lives in a dormitory... a mother something that he needs.” 

Thus, in chapter 1, "Mesh,” our protagonist runs away from his paternal home. He is picked up from the streets of Paris by Millon, a young art forger. In the final chapter, “Sure Love and  Real Death,” he is reunited with his mother, now living in her homeland of Lorraine. She is mentally instable and still running after the image of her "daughter" who never existed. Mesh is an abandoned child who hates his father so much that he wants to kill him, and who is struggling to break free from her mother’s chains. This manga chronicles his story of breaking free from his parents.  

Children discarded by their parents. Children separated from their parents. Such children fumbling their way in their quest to find their personal salvation had been recurring motif in Hagio Moto’s works before Mesh. It is also is the principal theme of this work.

If we look back, in "Bianca (ビアンカ)," she drew a girl who danced away the stress the divorce of her parents caused in a forest. In “Girl on Porch with Puppy (ポーチで少女が小犬と),” she shows us another girl who sees the world through rose-colored glasses. Grown-ups who lost their dreams point their fingers at her, and shoot her with death rays. Or take Emil Bruckhardt from “Snow Child (雪の子).”  He was taken in by his grandfather after his parents’ death, who anly accepted for taking the child in if it was a "boy." 12 years of Emil's life was spent by his side, pretending to be a boy. Young Tim from “Poor Mama (かわいそうなママ)” pushes his mother out of the window. He could no longer bear witnessing her misery, as she spent her days sitting at the window sill, gazing off in the distance, and sighing. The free-spirited and brave Eru of the Nobe family in “Red-haired Cousin (赤ッ毛のいとこ)" shows no sign that would make you think that she is an orphan.  

They were all children torn apart from their parents.They had to find somewhere to belong, and find it themselves.  

The Poe Clan has two boys who were taken away from their biological human parents and turned into vampires, destined to live until eternity. If we think about under the same light, we can say it's their story of trying their hardest to create a pseudo-family for themselves time and time again on their endless journey. The beautiful Poe instalment, "Birds’ Nest (小鳥の巣)," and works like "Heart of Thoma (トーマの心臓)" that followed it, all take place in worlds that have nothing but boys torn apart from their families. It is no coincidence that dormitories were chosen as their settings.  

Mesh was published in Shogakukan’s Petit Flower magazine between the 1980 summer issue and 1984 June issue. Mesh was preceded by "The Visitor (訪問者)" in the 1980 Spring issue.  

In "The Visitor," we follow a central character from "The Heart of Thomas," Oskar Reiser, during his childhood, before he starts to live at the dormitory. Its main theme is directly connected to that of Mesh. Young Oskar’s parents quarrel over his birth. One day, a single gunshot steals that little boy’s mother from him forever. The one who fired the shot was his father. The boy covers up for his father, and the two set out on journey with no destination. However, Oskar’s father leaves him at the school, of which the principal is an old friend of his and Oskar's real father, and leaves for Southern America alone.  

Oskar kept yearning for his father, the father who stole his mother away from him, without begrudging him. He did so, because he had nothing else in life to cling onto. As his father and mother argued about his paternity, the child lost that household as the place he belonged. Young Oskar’s only wish was to be forgiven by his parents, and to believe that he would be acknowledged as the son of that family. To make his wish come true, to beg for his father’s forgiveness, Oskar covers up for his father, the murderer of his mother, and sticks even closer to him.

Our protagonist Mesh is a direct continuation of the image of boyhood we see in  "The Visitor"s Oskar Reiser. This link continues until Hagio’s current serialization, "A Cruel God Reigns", and shapes the main plot of her stories. “Children abandoned by their parents” has been present as a principal theme since Hagio Moto's early works. The turning point which made this theme even deeper, might be just this period that connects "The Visitor" to "Mesh."

How did Mesh rationalize his mother giving him a girl’s name? He mostly introduces himself using his alias, “Mesh,” to new acquaintances, and he is very adamant about it. Those who are unaware of the circumstances are left perplexed by that name, and mistake Mesh for a girl. He seems to find that amusing deep down. He crossdresses and appears on stage, and he is approached by homosexual men. Both makes him feel uncomfortable. Yet, he doesn’t seem to have a the willpower to resist.

Actually, I have also experienced something similar. So I believe I understand how Mesh feels a little.  

When I was roughly Mesh’s age, I was a child who liked to act like a girl. In high school, I put a tablecloth on my desk in class, made flower arrangements with artificial flowers in an empty wine bottle instead of a proper vase, and listened to lectures while holding a stuffed doll. Mine was quite a free-minded school, and it was an age when all kinds of rebellious acts were "in." But still, when I think back upon it, what I did seems outrageous to me. Maybe I was just too eccentric, which is why my teachers never said anything to me.  

I was jealous of my mother’s colorful outfits. I often borrowed and wore them. Her sleek green trench coat and tank top with pink and white borders from Kamoi Youko’s underwear brand, Tunic, were my favorites. I once even made a dress for myself. I chose the fabric with my girlfriend, did the basting at her place, and she sewed it for me. She tagged along because she found it to be fun, but I’m certain that she was weirded out.  

I am still a sucker for stationary and fancy items girls would like. If I go to Sony Plaza or American Pharmacy, I am confident that I can spend half a day there. There aren’t many fathers who would go to buy picture books and plushies for their kid, but get carried out and just buy whatever they want. 

Putting it like that makes me sound like a man with perverse hobbies, but sadly, I am not such inclined. I have never felt attracted to men, and never have I ever wanted to be a woman. My interest in crossdressing had something different in it. But I am interested in feminine, rather, “girlish” things, but it only means that I am slightly different than your average, common man.  

That being said, my mother’s influence on me cannot be ignored. When I finished my dress, it was her who was the happiest and told me to wear it and take a little tour outside. During my freshman year in university, she was the one who lamented the most when I cut my hair that was reaching my butt, and made a hairpiece with my hair for me. When I was in grade school, I once trimmed my eyelashes with a pair of scissors because they were getting in the way when I was using the microscope. I remember her being frustrated to the point of bursting into tears, and getting so angry with me.  

I believe it was my mother who slowly created my very particular aesthetic sense by praising things like long eyelashes, lustrous, straight hair, a slender physique which becomes female school uniforms. All things that would be the charm points of budding young girls, and she did it at every chance. I am an only child, and have no siblings. When I was a child, my mother once asked me if I wanted to have little brothers or sisters. I told her that I would like to have an older brother, which seemed to perplex her. Maybe my mother wanted to have a daughter. She could be looking for the shadow of the daughter she never had in me.  

I don’t really know the truth of it. Maybe she just said that I looked like a girl just to express how cute her son was, without putting much thought into it. But the words she said, words I have no recollection of, very likely had a huge impact on me and awakened something deep inside my soul. My personal preferences took shape around that idea, and before I knew it, it seeped into my entire being.  

My mother was a beautician, and was often away from home on business. After she opened her own store, she was always busy with work. But that was all there was to it, and it was not like she had left me, or we were separated by death.  And it never became a reason for my parents to hurt or to oppress me. I can say that overall, I grew up in a your rather ordinary, warm household. I still started to shape my very own personality, alongside the one my parents took part in creating. Then how about a child who feels hated, or abandoned by his parents? How would he feel? To heal the wounds he got from his parents and to ail himself, would he acknowledge it all, and accept everything? Or would complete denial be his only choice? 

That's why Mesh wanted to kill his father and break free from his mother’s curse. While he wanted to be freed from his mother’s desire to have a daughter, in some corner of his mind, he was curious about what would happen if he complied. Maybe that’s what made him stand on the stage as a woman, and occasionally enjoy being photographed as one. Maybe that’s why he sometimes shut up and endured it when men treated him like a girl.  

Maybe fulfilling his mother’s wish meant securing a place in her heart for him. It might have been a self-defense mechanism — a feeling that only children abandoned by their parents know. That’s why when he faced her, and saw that his mentally ailing mother would never accept him, a boy, Mesh said: “Just what does Marché want? How can I get close to what she wants? What should I become? Marché’s dreams, and my dreams... If only I knew...” 

“A thousand pairs of scissors. Scissors that cut and mince. I could have become a flower, a bird, a daughter... I could have become anything you wanted. I could have died a thousand deaths if you wished for it.” 

We do not know the reasons why she wanted to have a daughter. No matter what they might be, accepting them as they are, that complete subordination, is an expression of his willingness to bend to his mother's will. What does it feel like to hear “I hate this child” from a mother who can’t even tell his son apart? But Mesh even accepts his mother trying to stab him with shears without saying a single word.  

Where does Mesh’s determination, which is almost commendable, come from? What steeled his resolve so? I think it was something closer to despair, rather than a wish to be delivered. Mesh’s hatred and his murderous thoughts towards his father are the two sides of the same coin. Killing his father, who hated both him and his mother, and accepting death by the hands of the mother who forgot her own son: They are actually one and the same. Thus, the child abandoned by his parents try to erase his ties to them. By resetting everything, he tries to make it as if he never existed.  

There is probably just one thing he’s trying to say with his behavior.  

"I’m sorry.  

"I couldn’t be the child you wanted.  

"I couldn’t meet your expectations.  

"I’m sorry that I was born..." 

In “The Visitor”, in the middle of his endless journey with his father, Oskar says these words time and time again: "I will be a good child. I won’t talk about my mom anymore. I’m sorry." Then he obliges his father by starting to live in a dormitory, and waits for his father to be back from South America. This must have been no different than choosing death for Oskar, a child who wanted to be the son of a warm household. 

When he doesn’t resist his mother’s attempt to kill him, something inside of Mesh shattered to pieces. He arrives at Paris train station with his broken hopes as his baggage, and he catches a glimpse of his father boarding a train. His father, who acknowledged him as “his son who shares the same blood as him” without so much as a thought about how that made Mesh feel. All Mesh can do is to stand there, motionless. Even if that's the only place he can come back to now.

All children need a place they belong. A place where they feel they can just “be.” Children do not belong to their parents, or other adults. No one shall undermine their right to self-determination. Mesh shows us how much hardship children have to endure, and the sacrifices they have to make when grown-ups forget this fact.   

[vaperarmand]

it's iwtv fanfic friday and everyone's getting involved

some recs from all corners of the vampolycule <3

someone buy me roses by indigostohelit lestat/louis, e, 3.2k words

Lestat's frown deepens. “My God, Louis!” he says. “I am not some petty voyeur. My motives are noble. My heart is unselfish. Frankly this is an act of chivalry. Please take off your pants.”

(one thing about me is i go crazy for a religious metaphor. also louis is sooooo catholic in this. it's awesome)

it's been a long, hard twenty year summer vacation by moonieangel aka @loumandivorce louis/armand, e, 7k words

"Let me," Armand said. Louis looked down at him, uncertain, but his pupils were already dilated until the rings of green fire were almost invisible in his eyes. "I haven't been able to drink anything properly, recently," he said, as Armand knew he would say. "And?" Louis' jaw clicked shut. He looked affronted, almost embarrassed, and Armand was strangely delighted at the sight. "You're going to get off on sucking a soft cock?" he asked in disbelief. (Armand and Louis travel.)

(*aggressive tiktok influencer voice* if you haven't read this yet literally what are you even doing with your life. this is such a defining loumand fic for me it's crazy. it's like their true essence on paper. what loumand is like at home. it's so good. sooooo good)

He's Piano; You're Not Forte by Galadriel armand/daniel + armand/lestat, m, 4.2k words

The Vampire Lestat's album has just dropped, and it's causing discord in the Armand-Molloy household.

(armand is SOOOOOOO good in this. i love you obsessive armand. it's been too long since i've reread this one. going to do that now actually)

two-headed mother by tisiphones armand/lestat, e, 8.7k words

"Poor darling," Armand says, and the condescension in his voice is so awful and so offensive and Lestat wants to curl up in it and never, ever leave. "It's okay to let yourself be taken care of for just one night. You can't help what you need." --- It's Lestat's last night in Paris. Armand makes it a memorable one.

(yeah. this one's just. yeah. fellas is it gay to do a roleplay where your boyfriend pretends to be your mommy. probably not gay but it's definitely something)

every few centuries, somebody reinvents the coven by katplanet armand/daniel/louis/lestat, e, 20.5k words

Daniel asks Louis if he's sure when he first suggests it. He asks him again a few days later, to see if he's changed his mind. He makes a psychic collect call to Lestat, of all people, and asks if he's sure. Asks Armand if he's sure when he accepts the invitation, when they're packing, when they're on the way to the airport. When they're walking up to arrivals, Armand’s grip crushing Daniel's fingers, Louis smiling at the back of the crowd with his hands in his pockets, casual as anything, like they do this every day. They're all sure and sure and sure, so Daniel lets Louis pull him in with one arm, Armand with the other, and hug them both while a planeful of tired New Yorkers filters out around them into the muggy bayou dark.

(look okay i know this fic is mostly smut and all but it literally made me cry multiple times. it changed my worldview. it made me see colors previously not experienced by the human perception. it's everything to me. if you haven't read it just like. please please do.)

[mc-lukanette]

One might think that having the most incredible, most creative, most skilled, and most beautiful girlfriend in the world would be hard, but it wasn't for Luka. What would destroy the confidence of hyper-sensitive boys only bolstered Luka's, knowing that such a wonderful girl picked him.

He had no idea what he'd done to deserve Marinette, Paris's sole hero and the guardian of the miraculouses, but he wasn't going to argue.

"Which one are you showing me today?" he asked, leaning forward on her chaise lounge.

She grinned, raising a finger to gesture for him to wait. "You'll see! I don't want to spoil the surprise."

There was a bounce in her step as she walked over to the Miracle Box, her hands gliding along its edges before opening it up. Luka kept himself rooted in place, fighting the contagious excitement but unable to help tilting to the side to try and see better.

It was common for her to show him the various miraculouses in the box and explain their powers, ever since her master had handed it over to her and left the country with his own lover. It wasn't just for fun either - even if they did have fun doing it - as Luka was Marinette's hero of choice when she needed someone to wield a miraculous for her.

She insisted every time that it was a completely unbiased decision, that it wasn't her fault that he could fit so many of them, and who was he to question a guardian?

Marinette turned to face him, holding up a shiny black ring and waving it about. Gesturing at it with her free hand, she explained, "This one's special. It's not safe to use since it's one of the ones Hawk Moth wants, but who knows? You might need to someday."

There was a playfulness to her voice that made him raise a brow, but he suspected that it might have to do with the thought of actually seeing him transformed. He wasn't oblivious to the once-over she'd give him any time he transformed with a miraculous he hadn't used before, and he'd do the same back to her.

That was because, rather than simply explaining the miraculous to him, she would ditch her earrings and don it herself like some superhero version of dressing up for one's significant other. While Luka knew nothing of fashion nor design, he could still appreciate seeing her in something new.

Marinette slipped the miraculous onto her finger, raising it up to watch it shrink just enough to fit her. It transformed, disguising itself to be a simple, rose gold ring, and out came another kwami for Luka to meet.

Said kwami, easily fitting the black and cat theme the ring had previously given off, yawned and stretched now that he was properly outside of the box. His green eyes popped open, tail swishing curiously as his cat-like pupils took in the scene before him.

"Oh, we're finally doing this, huh?" he asked, flying over to Luka. He looked him up and down, then went closer to bat at his bangs. "Hair's soft at least. Would make a nice bed."

"Plagg," Marinette called sternly, putting her hands on her hips.

Luka moved his head to look past Plagg and smile at her. "It's alright. He's not bothering me."

Also, though he didn't say it out loud, meeting each kwami felt vaguely like trying to impress future in-laws, so he gave all of them an extra dose of his patience.

"Good kid," Plagg said, hovering around Luka in a circle before laying himself atop his head. "Just keep the mushy stuff to a minimum whenever I'm here and we'll be fine. I got sick enough hearing her talk to me about it."

Luka looked up despite his inability to actually see Plagg. "You were talking about it?"

"Well—"

"Plagg!" Marinette burst out, panicked. "Transform me!"

Luka heard a mischievous snicker just before Plagg was pulled off of his head and into the miraculous. The rose gold ring returned to its original shape and color, light flowing out of it and transforming Marinette.

As if the fake cat ears that popped out of her head weren't already cute enough, her hair grew in length and fashioned itself into a long braid to represent a cat tail. Lining her black bodysuit were streaks of blue, accentuating her body properly as one would expect of a future fashion designer, and her sclera turned to a lighter blue while her pupils turned into vertical slits to mirror Plagg's.

Luka didn't realize his mouth had opened at all until she strutted up to him and closed it with a clawed hand. He smiled warmly, not subtle about looking her over.

"I love the black and blue," he said, doing his best to compliment her as an artist might. "The blue stripes harmonize with your eyes."

The pink blush didn't do anything for the look she was going for, but he cherished it all the same.

"Thanks~" Her voice came out a little higher-pitched, shyness blending with her earlier confidence. She reached out for him, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders, then began to let herself up onto his lap.

It wasn't usual for them to cuddle during her mini lessons - not right away, at least - but muscle memory kicked in nonetheless and his hands found her sides. Her hair brushed his skin as she buried her face into the crook of his neck and slipped her arms around his back.

"I didn't know you could give lessons from there," he said jokingly, though his own voice was a smidge higher as well.

She didn't joke back, which he found a little odd. Beyond the sound of her shuffling to get even closer to him, she wasn't making a noise of any sort.

He rubbed her sides in tiny circles with his thumb, calling out curiously, "Marinette?"

Now, Luka had a mental log of all of the various sounds that Marinette made over the course of them knowing each other. She had sounds for when she was jumping in excitement, for when she slept, for when she was distressed, and for when she was being cuddled.

But the sound she was making at that moment was entirely foreign to him. It was low, rumbling, and consistent, repeating in almost a rhythmic pattern. He tried to place it without getting distracted by the way she almost seemed to be vibrating against him, but then it clicked.

She was wearing the cat miraculous. He didn't have a cat himself, but they did go to a few pet shelters one day to see the animals and talk about if they'd want one when they were old enough to move out together. He still remembered getting to pet one of the cats, rubbing its side not unlike what he was doing with Marinette.

She was purring.

"Mmm," she hummed, sensing that he'd gotten it, "I...I know I'm not always good with words. We're dating, but nothing I really want to say comes out the way it is in my head. Even when you don't say anything, you can still play music, so..." She sighed, nuzzling him. "I wanted to find a way to speak your language?"

Luka froze, blushing as he looked down at her. Plagg's earlier words came back to mind - that she had been talking to him about their contact - and he realized that it must've been this: that she wanted to know if cat heroes could purr so she could tell Luka what she felt without words: that she was comfortable with him, that she loved him, and that she felt happy whenever he touched her.

Luka wasn't self-conscious about his role in the world, but at the end of the day he was just some guy. He wasn't conventionally attractive like a celebrity on a magazine, he had what many would consider a lower class part-time job, and he didn't have any presence in the public eye. He didn't have any problem with that - less eyes on him meant more time he could eye Marinette - but it left him awestruck yet again thinking of how many boys must've been after her (or how many stupid ones weren't) when her gaze focused solely on him.

"...Luka?" Marinette called when he didn't say anything. The purring stopped as she raised up enough to look at him, the fake cat ears drooping in concern.

He snapped himself out of his reverie. Smiling at her, he took one hand off her side to cup the back on her head, bringing her in to press their foreheads together. He took a deep breath, finding calm in her scent, and assured, "You're already speaking my language, Marinette. Music doesn't mean playing an instrument or purring like a cat does. You're the song in my head, all the time, even if you're not singing."

"Really?" She sounded skeptical.

With a chuckle, he asked, "Do you want to know what my favorite part of your look is?"

She perked up, pulling back so he could better gesture at said part. "What? What is it?"

His smile tilted up to the side in a smirk. He brought a hand to her face, pressing a finger to her lips. "Right here."

Her brows soared, eyes going wide. She pushed his hand away and turned her face to the side so she could laugh, even as her face flushed. "That didn't change at all!"

He pulled her back in, eyes glinting in amusement but no less genuine. "So? You don't need words to tell me how you feel. I know with everything you do for me, and the sounds you make are already music to my ears, especially when we're..." His eyes flicked to her lips instead of saying anything further.

Her blush deepened, her claws raking shyly through her bangs. "S-so... all that practice of hugging my pillow and trying to imagine it was you to see if I could purr? That was all for nothing?"

She asked it lightly, but Luka had never been jealous of a pillow before that day, knowing that it got the experience before him.

"No," he replied with a shrug. "I love hearing whatever you want to give me, but you're already so much. You're more than enough."

He could see her visibly swallow, the stiff embarrassment melting away as she relaxed against him. She bit her bottom lip - carefully due to her fangs - and slowly slid the back of her claws up his stomach, his chest, then over his shoulder.

"Then—do you want to hear a little more?"

It was a request, not a question, and a request he was happy to indulge in.

He kissed her, immediately rewarded with a squeak that transitioned smoothly into a moan. Whenever one of them were in superhero form, it was inevitable that the other would be underneath them eventually due to the strength imbalance, thus leaving him laying flat on the chaise lounge as she kissed him back.

He could hear the purr starting up again, but he much preferred the tune they were creating with their mouths.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 32, 11 août 1867, Paris. Toilettes de Mme Bréant-Castel 28.r. Nve des Pts Champs Envois de la Mon de Commission-generale. 53. rue d'Hauteville. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Jupon de taffetas gris-Suède, bordé d'un volant ruché dont la tête est fixée par un galon de paille. Robe de dessus pareille au jupon; deux écharpes très-longues, encadrées de grelots en paille, forment par devant une ceinture en se croisant, puis passent sous les bras, et sont encore croisées par derrière; des grelots en paille simulent une sorte de pèlerine sur le corsage montant; manches très-larges et très-longues; manches étroites en mousseline bouillonnée; entre chaque bouillon un galon de paille. Chapeau en tulle gris de Suède, orné de roses. Ombrelle pareille à la robe.

Grey-Suede taffeta petticoat, edged with a ruched flounce whose head is fixed by a straw braid. Overdress similar to the petticoat; two very long scarves, framed with straw bells, form a belt in front by crossing, then pass under the arms, and are crossed again at the back; straw bells simulate a sort of cape on the rising bodice; very wide and very long sleeves; narrow sleeves in bubbled muslin; between each bubble a straw braid. Hat in grey-Suede tulle, decorated with roses. Parasol similar to the dress.

—

Costume en deux teintes Bismark. Le jupon (teinte claire) est bordé de dents foncées, surmontées d'un biais. Robe courte (teinte foncée) avec rouleaux clairs sur toutes les coutures, et sur le bord inférieur dents claires, surmontées d'un biais. Depuis le col jusqu'au bord inférieur, gros boutons recouverts en teinte clair; corsage montant en teinte claire; corselet de teinte foncée, orné de dents claires; manches étroites, claires; manches larges et longues, foncées doublées de teinte claire, avec dents claires. Chapeau de même couleur que le costume.

Two-tone Bismark suit. The petticoat (light shade) is edged with dark teeth, topped with a bias. Short dress (dark shade) with light rolls on all seams, and on the lower edge light teeth, topped with a bias. From the collar to the lower edge, large buttons covered in light shade; high bodice in light shade; dark bodice, decorated with light teeth; narrow, light sleeves; wide and long, dark sleeves lined with light shade, with light teeth. Hat in the same color as the costume.

[dwreader]

Emphasizing Louis's Beauty

I've talked previously about how Louis in the 2nd half of the season is rarely seen in suits anymore but what about the earlier episodes when he wears a wide array of colorful suits while he is still performing his role in human society? What stands out is how many vibrant colors and patterns we see him in vs. Lestat who is always in some kind of tan, gray or navy. A lot of this is simply historical record as vibrant colors were more typical of black male dress of the era and we see that Louis is trying to maintain appearances, but on the show his bright costuming always stands out from other background male characters black OR white (confirmed by the costume designer that his colors are like a flame drawing Lestat in) and the tailoring and color choices often stands in contrast to Lestat on screen next to him in a more traditional masculine (aka duller) color. I mean compare this to how romantic period dramas typically style the men and women.

Beyond the historical nods, which most tv viewers don't have detailed references to as there aren't many color images we have from that era, I think the show does a great job of connecting cultural references everyone can immediately pick up on (the Leydecker outfits were obvious examples). For example, if you think of a white stripey suit from the 1910s, the image that came to mind was probably Rose in Titanic. So even as Louis is projecting what was period standard masculinity, what the modern viewer is likely thinking of is a tailored suit worn by the female protagonist in one of the biggest movies of all time. These looks screams high fashion latest designs from Paris, decked out pampered princess of the ship ("prince of your district").

In the same vein, when you imagine an iconic green period costume you're probably thinking of Keira Knightley in Atonement. In fact if you google "green suit in period film" all the results are of women. Rarely are men put in these colors in period romances particularly. I mean I think they put Keira in that green dress simply because she looks incredibly beautiful in that color and that's also how I feel about Louis in his green outfit.

I've talked before about the use of red on Louis but looking at the actual context of when Louis wears red they are specifically scenes of lust (w/ Jonah), shame (the slutshamig w/ the soliders) or anger/revenge (killing the Alderman) and hello look at these!!

And this is really an exclusively female character trope where vivid color costuming is used to convey mood or emotion! When a man is angry or lustful in a film, he's never wearing red, he's just wearing a boring color like black or grey. Evil and goodness are conveyed by black vs. white costuming with men (i.e Lestat's evil black darth vader get up) but rarely any colors not on that b&w scale.

Also speaking of cultural references in costuming here's this again.