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enibas22 · 1 year ago

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TOM WLASCHIHA IM FRAGEBOGEN:„Keine Rituale, keine schwarzen Katzen“

link https://www.faz.net/aktuell/stil/trends-nischen/tom-wlaschiha-schokolade-dunkle-schokolade-19024851.html

TOM WLASCHIHA IM FRAGEBOGEN:„Keine Rituale, keine schwarzen Katzen“

Tom Wlaschihas Name dürfte vielen „Game of Thrones“-Fans ein Begriff sein.

VON JOHANNA CHRISTNER, BERLIN 31.07.2023-17:24

Tom Wlaschiha ist seit einer Hauptrolle in „Game of Thrones“ weltweit bekannt. Im Stil-Fragebogen verrät er, was er immer im Kühlschrank hat und was ihn an Postkarten nervt.

Nach Nebenrollen in internationalen Filmen wie „Operation Walküre – das Stauffenberg Attentat“ ist das Gesicht von Tom Wlaschiha den meisten inzwischen wohl aus der amerikanischen Fantasy-Serie „Game of Thrones“ bekannt, in der er über mehrere Staffeln hinweg als Jagen H'ghar einen der Hauptcharaktere verkörperte. Der Fünfzigjährige war zudem in Großproduktionen wie „Stranger Things“ und „Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan“ zu sehen. Das Schauspielhandwerk erlernte der gebürtige Sachse, der in einer Kleinstadt nahe Dresden aufwuchs, an der Hochschule für Musik und Theater „Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy“ in Leipzig – und kann sich bis heute auch für deutsche Produktionen wie den „Tatort“ begeistern. Für die Podcast-Serie „Marvel's Wastelanders: Star-Lord“, erschienen Ende Juni auf Audible.de, darf es auch wieder deutsch sein: Zehn Episoden lang leiht Wlaschiha darin dem Marvel-Helden Peter Quill seine Stimme.

Was essen Sie zum Frühstück?

Einen Kaffee und eine Zigarette. Manchmal noch ein Müsli hinterher.

Wo kaufen Sie Ihre Kleidung ein?

Ich kaufe nur sehr selten Kleidung ein. Und wenn, dann komme ich zufällig an irgendeinem Laden vorbei, gehe mit einer halben Stunde Zeit rein, und mir gefällt etwas. Das ist wirklich völlig ohne System. In den vergangenen Jahren habe ich hauptsächlich historische und Fantasy-Filme gedreht, da war nicht viel Alltagstaugliches dabei, was ich von einem Dreh hätte mitnehmen können. Obwohl das in Kreuzberg, wo ich wohne, wahrscheinlich gar nicht so auffallen würde, wenn ich das anhätte.

Was ist das älteste Kleidungsstück in Ihrem Schrank?

Ich habe T-Shirts aus den Neunzigern, die für mich damals oversized waren und mir heute passen. Die Shirts sind teilweise einfarbig, teilweise mit Prints. Das allerälteste Shirt aus dieser Sammlung ist ein orangefarbenes Ripp-T-Shirt aus dem Fundus der Schauspielschule in Leipzig von 1992 – das ist auch schon an mehreren Stellen geflickt. Ich habe es schon lange nicht mehr angehabt, aber es hat einen sentimentalen Wert für mich.

Wann haben Sie zuletzt handschriftlich einen Brief verfasst?

Früher habe ich wahnsinnig viele Briefe geschrieben, aber den letzten bestimmt vor zehn Jahren. Vor einigen Urlauben habe ich wieder angefangen, Postkarten zu schreiben. Ich finde diese analoge Schneckenpost ganz cool. Häufig habe ich dann aber das Problem, dass ich Briefmarken kaufen will, die aber nicht bekomme und die Postkarten erst von zu Hause aus verschicken muss. Meine letzte Postkarte kam dann mit einer deutschen Briefmarke. Das ist dann nicht ganz so cool.

Welches Buch hat Sie im Leben am meisten beeindruckt?

Da gab es verschiedene Bücher in verschiedenen Lebensphasen. Als Kind und Jugendlicher habe ich sehr viel Karl May gelesen, in späteren Zeiten fand ich Milan Kundera toll. Mein jetziger deutscher Lieblingsschriftsteller ist Christian Kracht. „Die Toten“ und „Eurotrash“ mochte ich zum Beispiel sehr. Kracht schafft es über eine Sprachreduktion, dass jedes seiner Worte notwendig ist. Und obwohl es Prosa ist, ist da diese wunderschöne Poesie in seiner Sprache – das finde ich toll.

Wie informieren Sie sich über das Weltgeschehen?

Ich bin ein News-Junkie. Ich habe mehrere Zeitungen abonniert und lese die, hauptsächlich auf dem Handy.

Was ist Ihr bestes Smalltalk-Thema?

Ich hasse Smalltalk, halte ihn aber notgedrungen oft. Ich kann zum Beispiel gut über die Absurditäten der Berliner Politik reden.

Bei welchem Film haben Sie zuletzt geweint?

Bei meinen, wenn sie nicht gut waren.

Sind Sie abergläubisch?

Nein, überhaupt nicht. Keine Rituale, keine schwarzen Katzen, die von links nach rechts laufen. Ich laufe auch gerne mal absichtlich unter einer Leiter durch.

Worüber können Sie lachen?

Über ganz viel, über mich zum Beispiel. Ich glaube, ich bin manchmal viel zu albern für mein Alter.

Ihr Lieblingsvorname?

Aktuell wohl Peter und Rocket – die Protagonisten der Podcast-Serie „Marvel's Wastelanders: Star-Lord“, in der ich Peter Quill die Stimme leihe.

Bekannt als Auftragsmörder Jaqen H'ghar aus „Game Of Trones“: Tom Wlaschiha 2015 bei der Eröffnung einer Ausstellung zur Serie

Machen Sie eine Mittagspause?

Ich mache keine Mittagspause, aber was ich echt gerne mag, ist so eine kleine Siesta tagsüber. Es gibt nichts Besseres, als tagsüber zu schlafen.

In welchem Land würden Sie gerne leben?

Ich bin ganz glücklich in Deutschland, habe aber ansonsten eine große Affinität zu Italien. Weil ich das italienische Lebensgefühl sehr mag, die Leichtigkeit, die Italianità. Das Gefühl für Schönheit und Leichtigkeit in Kombination mit der Geschichte. Ich fühle mich in Italien immer sehr wohl.

Was fehlt nie in Ihrem Kühlschrank?

Schokolade! Dunkle Schokolade.

Fühlen Sie sich mit oder ohne Auto freier?

Mit. Ich fahre sehr gerne Auto. Und ich habe ein durchaus erotisches Verhältnis zu meinem Auto.

Was ist Ihr größtes Talent?

Ich bin sehr flexibel und kann mich gut auf Menschen und Situationen einlassen.

Was tun Sie, obwohl es unvernünftig ist?

Kaffee und Zigarette vor dem Müsli.

Welcher historischen Person würden Sie gerne begegnen?

Karl Marx. Weil ich denke, dass er einer der missverstandensten Philosophen ist. Und ich auch denke, dass die Theorie, die er ursprünglich entwickelt hat, mit der Praxis, die ihm zugeschrieben wird, nichts zu tun hat.

Tragen Sie Schmuck? Und eine Uhr ?

Schmuck nur selten. Ich habe ein paar Armbänder, aber ich mag es eigentlich nicht, viel an den Armen zu tragen. Meine Uhr trage ich oft, nur nicht im Fitnessstudio.

Haben Sie einen Lieblingsduft?

Ja, Oud Minérale von Tom Ford, aber das Parfum wird nicht mehr verkauft. Ich habe mir im vergangenen Jahr über dubiose Online-Kanäle noch etwas davon gesichert. Was ich mache, wenn mein Vorrat leer ist, weiß ich noch nicht.

Was war Ihr schönstes Ferienerlebnis?

Da gab es viele. Eines meiner schönsten Ferienerlebnisse war zu Schauspielschul-Zeiten, da sind wir mit Freunden nach Sardinien getrampt. Drei Wochen waren wir dort– und haben nichts gesehen außer dem Strand.

Auf welchem Konzert waren Sie zuletzt?

Das war im Dezember, ein Klassik-Konzert in Barcelona. Bei Ivo Pogorelich, einem tollen kroatischen Pianisten.

Was fehlt Ihnen zum Glück?

Glück ist ein großes Wort. Aber ich bin ziemlich zufrieden, mir fehlt es an nichts.

Was trinken Sie zum Abendessen?

Oft Wein. Im Sommer weißen und im Winter roten. Ein Weinkenner bin ich nicht, aber ich mag zum Beispiel südafrikanischen Rotwein.

#tom wlaschiha #german interview #article #style questinnaire #july 2023 #worth reading

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vampnyx · 2 years ago

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vigorously made this new OC after getting a new story idea- meet Rafiq, local snake boy gardener and Diaval's housemate

adding my character details

Race: Naga

Occupation: Gardener/botanist

Personality: caring, smooth talker, mature therapist vibes, fun loving, mischievous, easygoing, extrovert-leaning ambivert

Family: Both of his parents were naga, he lived with them a long time in the desert before moving to the city and frequently visits them. Only child.

Background: Has a unique background as one of few monsters who have had a relatively normal upbringing. His parents put him through school for biology and botany and he eventually opened his own landscaping/gardening firm. Lycaon pays him to tend his greenhouse, but they have done some work together on the landscaping around his property as well.

Likes: plants & greenery, basking in the sun, pop music, people watching, building pottery, seeing drama he is not involved in unfold, dancing (but like, at the club)

Dislikes: being a part of drama, gloomy days, winter, seeing his friends sad/upset, when his pottery breaks in the kiln, leaving his plant babies (only Lycaon can be trusted to water them), violence

Strengths: very encouraging presence, charismatic, better at talking than fighting and will try to resolve things without a physical fight, very kind and understanding

Weaknesses: a bit shady, seems to have ulterior motives, everything he does is self-serving (even genuine relationships are usually because he wants something out of it)

Beliefs/Morals: has a strong moral compass and generally encourages his friends to make the right choice. However, he does not care much about morals that do not serve him and has been known to ignore the right choice when it impacts him negatively (this is a very rare occurrence and only Lycaon knows this about him)

Appearance: middle-eastern, curly black hair, very clean, always smells good, forked tongue

Human form: not particularly tall but lanky, eyes have slits (might wear sunglasses in a human-dense area)

Naga form: larger than his human form, black and brown scales (like an asp), long tail (like 5x his normal body), long fangs & more snakelike tongue

Style: loose-fitting shirts, snakeskin patterns, kinda eurotrash vibes ngl

Distinguishing marks: mole near his left eye

Habits: falling asleep in a beam of sunlight, talking to his plants, not noticing people are around and acting surprised when they greet him

Favorites [music, movies, foods, etc.]: top 40s music mostly, loves drama & historical shows/movies, eats a lot of greens (is favorite is caesar salad),

Hobbies: sculpting pottery (especially new pots for his plants), tending the greenhouse, plant breeding to get the strangest plants possible

Cardinal Sin: envy, pride

#yeah I'm doing a monster boyfriend thing #it's gonna be self insert/choose your own adventure style #gonna slow drip lore as i make it #yes he is single and dateable btw #my art #oc rafiq #and they were housemates...

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ao3feed-briennejaime · 2 years ago

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Oh baby, I'm a fool (for you)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/12VgNUY

by LadyRhiyana

“There are threats everywhere,” she says, as he takes the best seat in the VIP area, calls for champagne and caviar. “Half the people in this club want to kill you. Why make it easy for them?”

Sprawling in the chair, his shirt open halfway down his chest, he flicks her a mocking smile. “That’s what you’re here for.” He tips the server, lion-headed gold coins spilling from his fingers, and pours himself an overflowing glass. “To kill when I say kill. To protect me, even if your beloved Catelyn Stark should come back from the grave –”

Her eyes blaze with furious hatred. “There’s little chance of that. Your men buried her so deeply, after all.”

He laughs. “Ah, sweetling. What would I do if you stopped hating me?”

Words: 1280, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 19 of Etchings

Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth

Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eurotrash Gang Boss Jaime, Assassin turned bodyguard Brienne, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vague sort of John Wick AU

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/12VgNUY

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #jaime x brienne #braime

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johnnydoe69 · 4 years ago

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Beware the Evil Eye

In the peaceful twilight on the island of Euboea, a bright yellow Hummer sped down the road leading to a grand villa, Eurotrash music blasting over the speakers.

Kosmas watched this from the front windows and sighed. The clouds of dust kicked up by the Hummer were dirtying the grapes that grew on both sides of the road.

When the Hummer loomed from only a few miles away, Kosmas rang the service bell. At once, four other servants crowded into the foyer.

A nervous electricity rippled between them as everyone got into position.

“You better not fuck this up,” Giorgos hissed from behind.

Kosmas flipped Girogos a warm and comforting smile, “Oh, don’t be pessimistic. It’s always been harder to keep that boy in his clothes, rather than out. I’ll have that nazar in the palm of my hand within the hour.”

Behind his confident grin and laidback tone, however, Kosmas had his doubts. In all his years working for his grandmother, Kosmas had never seen Paul take off his nazar. It was a protective amulet meant to ward off the evil eye- spiteful magic aimed to target sources of envy and disgust- and it directly prohibited Kosmas from using his magic on him.

If Kosmas couldn’t convince Paul to take it off from around his neck, or at least sneak it off without him noticing, there was little chance he could take it by force. The man was built like a dump truck and would break him in half if he was seen as a possible threat. With little other choice, but to go forward, Kosmas took a deep breath and opened the foyer doors. The five of them quickly trotted out the front door and down the marble staircase leading into the driveway.

By the time they reached the last few steps, Paul’s truck had come to a complete stop, a few feet away from the steps.

For a few seconds no one moved. Even from inside the massive vehicle, Kosmas could see the dark blue energy radiating from underneath Paul’s tank top.

Kosmas immediately began to sweat and had to dab himself with a handkerchief before Giorgos nudged him from behind. Paul was glaring at them from the Hummer.

Remembering himself, Kosmas quickly ran to the driver’s side door and opened it. Paul came out with a thud, his massive feet stomping into the dirt.

Walking back around the car he came before the servants, a scowl prominently on his face, but before Paul could yell at them Kosmas interjected.

“Paul, it’s so good to see you,” Kosmas exclaimed, a smile plastered on his face.

“It’s good to see you too,” Paul said, lazily, striding past him.

Paul turned his attention to Girgos and threw his car keys at the massive man’s chest.

“Put this in the garage after the others get my bags. Kosmas, follow,” he ordered, walking past them and ascending the stairs.

Kosmas looked to the others for one last bit of assurance, but they had already moved on to taking care of Paul’s possessions, their backs turned to him.

Seeing that Paul had already made his way up several steps, Kosmas sprinted after him. “How was New York?” Kosmas asked, panting.

“Miserable. I was trapped on the Upper East side for six months with nothing to do but work from home and exercise in my private gym,” Paul said, glumbly.

“Have you tried reaching out to Dimitri and Lysandros?” Kosmas asked, trying not to trip as he shared Paul’s massive strides up the steps. “I remember you telling me about how you always had the best workouts together.”

Paul grunted approvingly, “We did, but everyone’s too afraid to go anywhere. Lysandros promised he’d swing by Greece after his visit to the Caribbean, but that’s in two weeks. Now, look at these biceps, do you think my body can wait another two weeks?”

Paul paused on the staircase and flexed inches from Kosmas’s face. Thick blue veins popped out from underneath his pale skin and stretched over his cannonball bicep.

“This arm used to be at least three inches larger. I was practically wasting away back there,” Paul said.

In the past, Kosmas would have been weak at the sight of Paul’s raw muscle in his face, but he couldn’t let himself get distracted.

“What about the private gym you said you had at home?” Kosmas asked, trying not to let his annoyance show.

“Pft, I barely had any weights. I only had a treadmill and bowflex to keep me together.” Paul said, as they resumed their climb.

“Well, I’m sure you won’t have any problem maintaining a pump here. Your grandmother had the whole basement refurbished into a private gym for your arrival,” Kosmas said, sweating profusely through his white linen shirt.

They reached the top of the stairs shortly after, Kosmas having to lean over and take a quick breath, while Paul beamed down at him without a drop of sweat on his body.

“Some things never change, right, Kosmas?” Paul asked, slapping Kosmas hard on the back.

“Yes, of course,” Kosmas wheezed, balling his hands into tight fists.

Paul left him there as he journeyed inside, while Kosmas once he collected himself and un-balled his fists followed behind.

“So where is Evita anyway?” Paul asked when Kosmas entered the foyer, taking off his baseball cap to scan the balcony above them.

“She had some business to attend to in Athens, but she told me to offer you the warmest greeting in her absence. She should be home by morning,” Kosmas said, still panting a little.

Paul nodded and without another word strode into the lounge. Kosmas rushed ahead of him and quickly started getting together a bottle of bourbon and shot glasses.

“What’s this, Kosmas? If this is from Evita’s private stash she’ll have Giorgos beat you like last time,” Paul said, taking a shot when it was offered to him, and plopping himself down on the couch.

“Don’t worry, Paul. I haven’t forgotten about last time.” Kosmas said, with a polite smile. It was only until recently that he recovered feeling in his toes and it still hurt to curl them.

“I bought this bourbon in advance for your return home.”

The liquor in this case had been drugged, weakening both the protective power of the nazar and increasing Paul’s sex drive. Kosmas made sure not to drink any of it himself, he couldn’t allow himself to get twisted up by Paul’s influence. It was always hard to say no to the man as it was.

He poured Paul another glass and placed it in his pitcher’s mitt sized palm.

Paul looked around, curiously, “shouldn’t there be more servants milling around? I’d hate to think that I would have to fetch my own meals.”

“Oh, it won’t come to that, the few servants who are left are more than capable of picking up the slack after your grandmother fired most of the staff,” Kosmas said, cheerily, dying a little inside as he sat down besides Paul.

“Wow, covid really hitting everyone hard,” Paul said, stretching out his thick arms and legs, before resting against the back of the couch.

“Most of my friends in New York had to lay off their serving staff too. Too much risk of infection and with the stock market the way it is, it doesn’t hurt to remove extra liabilities.”

Paul kicked up his legs on the coffee table, forcing Kosmas to work around him as he poured him another glass.

“Did she fire your father, too?” Paul asked, glancing down at Kosmas’s bowed head.

“Yes, she did,” Kosmas said, gritting his teeth, handing Paul the finished shot glass.

“Wow, harsh,” Paul said, snatching the drink out of Kosmas’s hand and gulping it down.

“And knowing Evita, I bet she’s not giving that old fuck his severance pay,” Paul said with a chuckle.

The dark blue aura around Paul’s neck was fading and Kosmas could feel his own powers surging as Paul’s slowly declined. He was so close to taking Paul’s body he could taste the sweat dripping off him. Kosmas slowly inched over to Paul, leaning his arm behind the big man’s neck. He was going to enjoy this.

Just before he could grab it, Paul turned to him and with a serious look in his eyes asked, “And that good for nothing fisherman hasn’t been coming around, has he?”

Kosmas shrank away from Paul. The idea of touching him, even to steal his body suddenly repulsed him. To keep his sanity, Kosmas had banished all thought of what had happened to Andros from his mind, and Paul had once promised him that the man would never come up again.

“No,” Kosmas said, weakly. “He died in prison. Covid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said, sliding his large vascular hand on Kosmas’s thigh. Kosmas felt his dick harden and he saw that even through his jeans Paul was full mast as well.

“I know you think I’m cruel for what happened and I’m sorry you feel that way. But I did it because I love you Kosmas. I couldn’t stand anyone coming between us,” Paul said, kissing Kosmas lightly on the cheek.

“Don’t give me that. You have fucked every gay man from here to Istanbul. You just couldn’t handle me paying attention to someone that wasn’t you,” Kosmas said, bitterly. He poured himself a glass and choked it down. Fuck the plan, whatever was going to happen wasn’t going to happen with him sober.

Paul frowned, and grabbed Kosmas by his chin, pulling him in close. His grip was strong and Kosmas was terrified the man might accidentally break his jaw. His hot breath was blowing in Kosmas’s face and he could smell the faint tinge of spearmint gum on his breath.

“I can handle competition. What I couldn’t accept was that you would choose someone so beneath me as a rival for your affection. You easily could have picked any of my friends, any of the wealthy bachelors on the island and you picked filth scraped off the bottom of a boat?”

Kosmas glanced over at the nazar, its energy had nearly faded from around Paul’s neck. He reached for it as Paul shot him a carnivorous smile.

“But it’s okay now, because we both know I’m the only man for you,” Paul whispered, grabbing Kosmas’s hand and placing it on the back of his neck. He leaned in and began kissing his neck, sending sharp electric pulses all up and down Kosmas’s body.

Kosmas, feeling his chance slipping away, but unwilling or unable to act, gave himself over to the pleasure of the enchanted booze and Paul’s embrace.

Paul moved his hand off Kosmas’s chin and foisted the smaller man onto his lap. He ripped at Kosmas’s work shirt, buttons tearing off and bouncing to the floor.

His dick shot through the fabric of his jeans, massaging Kosmas’s ass as he moaned. It had been years, since he was fucked by another man and as much as he hated him, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Wait. I don’t want the other servants to see,” Paul said, pulling away.

“Then, let’s take it upstairs to your room,” Kosmas said, pulling playfully at the small strands of hair on Paul’s head.

Paul shoved Kosmas off him, nearly knocking him off the coffee table, before snatching him by the wrist and pulling him out of the lounge and up the stairs.

They threw themselves into Paul’s bedroom and on his bed, kissing furiously and grabbing at each other. Paul briefly pulled away and threw off his tank top, his charm necklace now prominently displayed on his chest. But instead, of the menacing power it once had, the amulet was now powerless, all its energy being soaked into the enchanted booze that seeped out through Paul’s sweat.

Feeling his power return to him came with a sense of lucidity as Kosmas tested out the control he had over Paul.

When Paul leaned in to rip the underwear off Kosmas’s legs he found that he could no longer move. Every muscle strained against him as his blood vessels contracted, leaving him terrified and utterly helpless.

Kosmas overcome with his sense of success laughed at the display of the larger man hanging over him. He slid out from underneath him and traced a finger along Paul’s back feeling the many hills and ridges of his massive muscular frame.

Small, confused grunts escaped Paul’s lips as he tried to make sense of what was happening, so Kosmas decided to let the man speak.

His body partially freed from Kosmas’s control, Paul panted and took a deep shuddering breath.

“What are you doing to me?” Paul asked, quietly, his breathing labored.

“Remember, when you told me that I was to be yours forever?” Kosmas asked, kicking his underwear to the floor.

“In a way, I am going to be yours forever, just not in the way you thought,” Kosmas said. He got in the bed behind Paul, using his control over Paul’s body to make him shrug off his jeans, while he faced the headboard, unable to look back.

“For you see, in all our years together a resentment has been building. An intense hatred. You treated me as a plaything, because your family controlled my father’s paycheck. You hurt me whenever you wanted, fucked me whenever you wanted, and killed anyone that came in danger of severing your control of me.”

After Paul pushed off his jeans, Kosmas decided to do the extra work of pulling Paul’s tight red jock strap off his ass. The soft fabric curled in his fingers as he pulled downwards, Paul whimpering slightly.

“I didn’t know he would die in there. It was a mistake,” Paul stammered, cowed probably for the only time in his life.

“That’s the fun bit about the magic of the evil eye, Paul. It doesn’t give a shit about accidents or circumstances,” Kosmas said, sliding the jockstrap out of Paul’s dick and ass before sliding it down his thighs.

“It only cares about outcomes. The outcome in this case being, the only man I’ve ever loved is dead because of you.” Kosmas said, calmly, throwing the underwear behind him.

“So, to repay your earlier favor I’m taking your life because you stole mine,” Kosmas whispered into Paul’s ear as he rubbed his back.

“Please, my grandmother will give you anything. Just don’t kill me,” Paul begged, tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Oh don’t worry, you won’t die, not really. I’ll just be taking your body and your identity as my own. And don’t worry about Evita either, the other servants and I have big plans for her,” Kosmas said, plucking a baseball cap off the nightstand and placing it on Paul’s head.

Kosmas grinned.

“There’s my favorite sports star,” he whispered, kissing Paul’s ear.

Paul said nothing as Kosmas gathered himself into trance, using the entirety of his magic to make his body into a superfluous membrane.

Within a few minutes, his body had become a clear viscous like substance. Still in trance, he pushed against Paul’s back, feeling him gasp with pain as Kosmas entered his body.

He slid inside the man in seconds, but he was left in pitch darkness. His form had to grow and stretch against the confines of Paul’s body, his legs inflating, his back adding several inches of spine.

Paul bucked against this of course, frothing with rage as he engaged in a losing battle against his own body, but within a few moments it was done.

His essence was constrained and then enveloped by Kosmas’s, sucking in his emotions and memories, before crushing what remained of his free will and sense of self. By the time he was done with him, all that was left of Paul was a library of thoughts that Kosmas would have full access to.

Finally in full control, Kosmas allowed himself to concentrate on his body’s physical sensations.

He felt his massive chest breathing in and out. Around his neck the nazar still hung off his neck, once again glowing with a blue intensity, but instead of the sharp pain or weakness Kosmas feared there was nothing. The nazar recognized this body as his own.

He cracked his neck and pulled his arms over his head, surprised at their weight. He pulled his arms down and opened his eyes. Crawling off the bed, Kosmas took a few unsteady steps forward and curled his toes. No pain.

He grinned.

As the years passed, Kosmas or Paul as he was known publicly, whittled away at Evita’s title and fortune using lawsuits, bribes, and blackmail until he could finally run her off the estate.

With Evita removed from power, the fired workers were able to return and together with several nearby villages were able to operate an agricultural co-opt that guaranteed housing and jobs to the people.

Kosmas thrived as an administrator of the co-opt, keeping things running smoothly with his eye for finances, while his well-muscled body helped out in the fields.

He still felt conflicted about wearing the body of someone he hated, but he found ways to alter his appearance without drastic measures, growing out a beard and letting thick brown hair grow all over his chest. He was in control of things for the first time in his life and Kosmas couldn’t be happier.

#male transformation #male tf #Possession

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thenostalgicfashionista · 3 years ago

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A series of photos of JPG himself, wearing that breton shirt he has made iconic beyond the French borders.

Photos 1 and 2 by Paul van Riel, shot on Oct. 15,1982 during the show for the Jean-Paul Gaultier spring-summer 1983 women's ready-to-wear collection.

Photo 3: https://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/news-photo/french-fashion-designer-jean-paul-gaultier-with-irish-news-photo/558933659?adppopup=true

Photos 4, 8, 9: photo Jean-Marie Périer. Published in Elle Spécial Gaultier, issue 2546, October 17, 1994. Archived and edited by The Nostalgic Fashionista.

Photo 5: with Victoria Abril, to illustrate an article about Gaultier’s collaboration with Almodovar for Kika. Photo Nacho Pinedo. Published in Elle France, issue 2462, July 2, 1993. Archived and edited by The Nostalgic Fashionista.

Photo 6: the iconic Pierre et Gilles’portrait of JPG on the cover of his book published in 1990. Archived and edited by The Nostalgic Fashionista.

Photo 7: with Antoine de Caunes in an insert in Elle France promoting the TV show Eurotrash. Archived and edited by The Nostalgic Fashionista.

#jeanpaulgaultier #personalstyle #marinière

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abri-chan · 4 years ago

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But what if old Prosciutto in the train: unbuttoned/deep-v shirt, chest hair, gold chain--eurotrash look tm.

#anime manga rambles #jojo #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #Prosciutto

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conduitandconjurer · 4 years ago

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Here's a cute character question. What do you think Klaus's favorite outfits are? Why? Anything you can come up with that hasn't been seen in the show?

Oh my gosh oh my gosh. I don’t know where to begin.

I think Klaus is someone who genuinely wears as little as he possibly can as often as he can, because A) sensory issues (ADHD out the bum, yo) B) he runs hot, and everytime he’s coming down off a high he sweats and has hot flashes C) he’s very vain and takes very good care of his body, working out to tone those arms, legs, and abs--they may be slender but they’re solid, and he wants to show that off. I also think that vanity stems from looking healthy = being undeniably ALIVE, which, given that he’s steeped in needy dead people 24/7, is a way of self-soothing.

SO.

Klaus likes outfits that combine a somewhat rebellious, avant-garde (think “Eurotrash” lmao) fashion sense with comfort. He also starts out as a child wearing Lisa Frank esque colors and pastels, to defy death, but then he kind of cynically embraces a mostly-black wardrobe, and then we see, as he becomes more emotionally stable in the 1960s (the second time in the 60s I mean) him branching back out to that original casual flamboyance (including a bright palette).

It’s rare that those things (fashion and comfort) intersect but he makes it happen. For instance:

Favorite shoes: black Converse high-tops. Casual yet snappily counter-cultural.

Favorite pants: those iconically slutty black leather skinny pants with the lace-up sides. Like, he LIVES in those. And when he loses them in the sixties, I insist he gets a new pair in the 21st century.

Favorite shirts: CROP TOPS. And. VESTS. There’s the black lace one with the star patterns. There’s the closed black vest with no shirt under it. There’s a striped crop top with the olive green vest. This enables him to show off his emotionally significant tattoos (like the sky soldiers one on his left shoulder). It helps him overcome the unpleasant itchy-stimulation of sleeves.

SKIRTS SKIRTS SKIRTS SKIRTS DID I MENTION SKIRTS. AND COMBAT BOOTS!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!

I personally want to see Klaus in booty shorts (bc it’s funny); in more faux fur necklined coats; in black ankle boots; in more trenchcoats (yummy); and in something softly hippie, like maybe one of those alpaca fur oversized sweater things. I think he’d look adorable in scarves. I’d like to see him playing with a punk meets prep vibe, so like, the scarf would be tan plaid, but then the rest of his outfit would be solid black. And I don’t want him to ever give up jewelry. I love how he wears big long necklaces, and Dave’s dog tags. Omg and screen printed shirts with like iconic eighties and nineties things, like Pac Man! Or the Ninja Turtles! But girl sizes so he can wear THOSE as crop tops too!

Also NEVER STOP LETTING KLAUS WEAR MAKEUP! Let him wear tons of eyeliner, shadow, and mascara!!!!! Let him experiment with tinted lip gloss! Let him get just barely back into the Goth vibe and let him play up his genderqueer expression as he sees fit!

God I could go on but this got long enough.

#Klaus Hargreeves #alxnetxgether #headcanons #the seance

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nomanwalksalone · 4 years ago

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THE WOLFE AT THE BAR

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

The Hemingway Bar at the Paris Ritz, the original Ritz hotel, is certainly not the only Paris bar that could be named for Hemingway. While, according to legend, he “liberated” the bar during the Liberation of Paris, Papa was to bars what the Duke of Windsor was to tailors – if it existed, he patronized it. The bar that bears Hemingway’s name was less prepossessing – less grand – than I’d imagined it being. Tiny, with most of the tables held with “Reserved” markers for what I assumed were stratospherically high rollers, guests of the hotel whose means were so large they dwarfed any need to pay attention to taste, elegance, heritage, history, all the things that the Hemingway’s walls ostensibly bled, all the things that breathless travel guides promised their readers would find at its tables… instead of those little signs that they were held for those invisible others.

I hadn’t come to the Ritz voluntarily. A business acquaintance had suggested it. In another of the Ritz’s bars, more spacious than the Hemingway and less obnoxious than a third bar, across the hallway from the Hemingway, from whose dark depths thudded a deafening beat, I ordered a sidecar and found it somewhat disappointing, rather like the waiter, at once both obsequious and patronizing, who offered my companion bar snacks. It wasn’t until later that I learned the sidecar was supposedly invented there at the Ritz, by a British army officer towards the end of the First World War.

I had a long history with the sidecar, perhaps the second mixed drink I’d ever heard of (the first is too easy to guess). And I owe it, my favorite drink, to Tom Wolfe, the most unequivocally positive thing about him and his writing. Looking back, it’s much easier to find much to question in The Bonfire of the Vanities, beginning with the unlikelihood that two of its three New York-based protagonists would be customers of the same small London shop Wolfe himself once favored (New & Lingwood and its defunct satellite Bowring Arundel). But Wolfe’s fluid, colorful writing with its seductive faux-naïveté and feigned shock drew its reader in, no matter how intimidatingly long Bonfire had looked to me, back in my early teens. Back then I devoured the book and came away with the indelible memory of a character only present by evocation, Willi Nordhoff, recalled by his signature drink, the sidecar “mit Courvoisier VSOP.”

I didn’t know what a sidecar was. I didn’t know what Courvoisier or VSOP was. But damned if it didn’t sound indescribably sophisticated, Wolfe’s added Germanism making it that extra bit more cosmopolitan. So I ordered it at dinner with my parents soon afterwards, until they realized what it was and made their young son send it back.

Many years passed, and Courvoisier became more familiar to me as the tipple of Léon Phelps, The Ladies’ Man. It was, of course, the first brandy I tasted, with a burger at the Eurotrash café that didn’t card in my college town.

By early adulthood, I had learned to distrust Wolfe’s leering pretend astonishment, his modus operandi for tilting at windmills like the political correctness that pillories an innocent white man (in Bonfire) or the campus permissiveness that makes sheltered college kids re-enact the orgies of Elagabalus (in I Am Charlotte Simmons). I had also learned to love the sidecar.

Some of my best e-friends are huge fans of Wolfe, but I suspect his dress sense, those Kabbaz shirts and Gaziano & Girling custom shoes, contributes. I can empathize: I like Bryan Ferry and can’t deny some of my worship is for his unrivalled sense of style rather than for his sometimes elusive music. I just wish my friends would admit their worship had more to do with Wolfe’s #steez than his muse.

And, I suppose, his drink sense. Even though I’ve settled on Hennessy VS as my go-to cognac mixer (finally, something LVMH does right), Courvoisier VSOP is just a smidge better. And when I’ve run out of that and had to use an XO or my Camus Borderies, those are better still, so sadly the taste of a mixed drink does improve with more exalted liquors. The Ritz Paris itself recently announced its own house variant on the recipe with a cognac from 1830 (a “Ritz Reserve,” of course), resulting in the most expensive mixed drink in France. However, I suspect it’s not trying to attract discerning palates as much as undiscerning wallets.

But what is a sidecar? An ungainly dependency of a motorcycle, or a mix of citrus, a curaçao or citrus brandy, and brandy. The brandy gives it richness and depth and splendid warmth, the curacao dimension, the citrus direction. There are many recipes and ratios, and it’s best not to order it in a bar you’re not sure of lest you end up with some nasty orange juice concoction served on the rocks (or out 1350 euros at the Ritz). A 1920s recipe from my antique Le Barman shaker advises equal parts lemon juice, Cointreau and cognac, shaken and served up. That appears to reflect the era’s drinking habits, rather weaker than today’s (I have a suspicion that’s how people survived the three-martini lunch). My cocktail guide from midcentury has two recipes, including that old one and a slightly more modern one, calling for a splash of lime, one part Cointreau and two parts cognac, served up in a martini glass with a sugared rim. After some experimentation I’ve settled on the following ratio: 1:2:4. One part fresh squeezed lime juice, two parts Cointreau, four parts brandy. Shake vigorously, strain and serve up in a martini glass with a sugared rim. To sugar rims, take the glass out of the freezer, rotate the rim in a shallow bowl of sugar until coated. Blessed escapism in a glass, a fantasy Deco Paris confection where every sour note has its sweetness, and even Tom Wolfe can have a seat at the bar, provided it’s not reserved.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in January 2017.

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mistressemmedi · 4 years ago

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His hair is a real fashion crime and maybe he and sharl should go to 100% hotter or queer eye

Him, Charles and Dany should really get together and discuss fashion.

Between bad hair, the Floral Shirt of Doom and the weapon of mass destruction that are Charles' Dior pants... Peak Eurotrash

#anon #q&a #I feel personally attacked by the bad hajd #*hair

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forthegothicheroine · 6 years ago

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10 Vampires You Shouldn’t Date As A Heroine But Let’s Face It, You Probably Will

1. The Shapeshifter

You don’t want a vampire lover, you just want a pet. I guarantee it. And maybe if you’re lucky they won’t notice how much happier you are when they’re in animal form and just letting you scratch them behind the ears, but seriously, get a cat or a dog or a bat or whatever the real form of the animal is. Real pets eat pet food. Vampire lovers eat blood. One is much more convenient than the other.

2. The Warrior Poet

A knight, a berserker, a samuri- whatever they call themselves, this vampire seems like the complete package of brains, brawn and a sensitive soul. They have courtly manners from days gone by tempered by a dangerous streak a mile wide (even by vampire standards) they are willing to direct towards your enemies. The big thing you have to watch out for with this vampire is their tendency to amass an army and try to take over the kingdom (although depending on the country you live in, maybe that’s not the worst thing ever.)

3. The Non-Warrior Poet

Theoretically safer than the Warrior Poet, the Non-Warrior Poet is the one who comes to mind when anyone recalls poorly thought-out vampire love affairs. Bedecked in a ruffly shirt, corset or both, they will pen you odes to your beauty and dance like an angel, then flop around your house moping because it’s so hard to find good servants these days, and why does the club think their ID is fake? Basically, this vampire is so wrapped up in the glamour of it all that they can barely function in the actual mortal world, and you’ll probably end up giving them the boot after one too many scornful comments about how ‘Humans are the real living dead, did you ever think of that?’

4. The Amateur Philosopher

Best case scenario, this vampire is a genuine history buff eager to share scholarly trivia with you. Medium case scenario, they’re a patronizing jerkwad who lives to ‘educate’ mere mortals like you about how the world really works, and how evil is a point of view and you’ve been holding yourself back from all your innate murder talents. Worst case scenario, they’re literally Satan.

5. The Nemesis

You know how this one goes. You swear to destroy them, they stand aloft a tower cursing your name, you have a really hideous portrait painted in their likeness and leave it to your grandchildren in your will. Sometimes you kiss. Sure, it’s a mistake, but it’s an understandable mistake. If you really need a justification, tell your friends that every hour Lord Darkravenmidnight is engaging you in mortal combat is an hour when he isn’t picking off villagers.

6. The Retro Fashionista

Stuck dressing like the era they died in. Pray it’s the 1920s and not the 1690s.

7. The One Trying Too Hard to Not Be Dracula

Leather coat, motorcycle, lots of guns. This vampire is tough as nails, stoic about their tragic past, and absolutely determined that you don’t take them for one of those wimpy Eurotrash pretty kids. They do look cool, so you won’t have the heart to tell them that the leather and guns look is exactly as overdone as the Dracula look these days. Don’t feel bad when you leave them, because they’ll have something else to be cool and stoic and not-Dracula about.

8. The One Who Actually Is Dracula

Run.

9. The One Who Doesn’t Drink Blood

It’s psychic energy, duh. Or sexual energy. Or something else that lets them seem dangerous while not having to kill people to survive. This seems like the best of both worlds, until you realize how exhausting it is to be around someone literally, physically sucking the life out of you. Psychic and sexual vampirism may not be lethal, but it is still a dick move. (Not to be confused with the One Who Only Eats Animals, who can also be combined with the Shapeshifter, the Non-Warrior Poet, or extremely benign versions of the Amateur Philosopher.)

10. The One Who Is Very Sorry About Being A Vampire And Has A Quest To Redeem Themselves

Cool. Let them get to it!

#morethanprinceofcats #vampires

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merrysithmas · 5 years ago

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tgf headcanons that are useless:

-one time theo asphyxiates someone with a baguette and ties him up and puts him in his closet and calls boris at 4am leaving him like 20 disjointed voicemails peppered with varying levels of hysteria bc he doesn’t know what to do

-At One Point boris and theo bury a body together in the dark at night in Holland and Theo is like “Cover the head first cover the head!” because he’s convinced he’s being “looked at” and is disturbed people’s eyes don’t just close like in the movies and Boris is like can you please PULL YOUR FUCKING WEIGHT you Emotionally Fragile American Ox and HELP ME as boris is like 5ft deep in this grave digging and Done with this crybaby american bitch

-theo is at his Wit’s End because boris is always “off selling cocaine to the royal family AGAIN” whenever his kid has a PTA meeting and theo’s like frazzled Stressed Mom about to commit arson and picks up a gun boris casually has laying on the fireplace mantle and points it at boris like “IT’S TUESDAY AT 8PM YOU HAD BETTER BE THERE BORIS OR SO FUCKING HELP ME” like practically shaking and boris has his hands up totally nonplussed like HONEY, chill o u t and theo’s like god. trembling putting it back down and sliding into the dining room chair all fazed out and disassociating like “ok ok” totally calm: “I’m sorry threatened you with a gun.” and boris is like eh! happens! just nodding soberly sliding down across from him thinking about how he never IS at any of the pta meetings

-boris likes watching theo snort coke

-boris likes watching theo get blowjobs

-theo likes watching boris make out with other people

-pippa is ace and has a shirt that says “while you were busy experiencing sexual attraction i studied the blade”

-boris buys hobie a mug that says “World’s Oldest Antique” and hobie is HUMORED and feels so hip and Ironic and uses it whenever his Ent-like friends come over as a Big Delightful Joke

-pippa does cosplay. theo is scandalized.

-theo is the best man at all of Boris’ 6 weddings (two of which happen while boris and theo are hitched)

-theo and boris fight over their flight miles at their divorce mediation and theo says they’re HIS because it’s HIS credit card, and boris says HE earned them, and theo says “yeah flying to denmark to meet your whore” and boris is like sighhh “she’s not afraid to express herself sexually if that’s what you mean!” “her name is charo she is EUROTRASH. just like you.” and then they remember a soft memory of happy times and boris is like isjsjsjs u take the miles baby. and theo is like popping valium for “his nerves” and boris is like 💓 “can someone get him some water so he can take that please” and theo is like 💞

-everett (pippa’s bf) is in like 10 secs roped into boris’ charm and thinks they are best drinking buddies and that boris works for doctors without borders as a pharmacist

-kitsey still invites theo to Everything and he wants to Die bc he has to show up at least once a year

-one time theo throws wine in boris’ face at a fancy restaurant and boris is like “pfft ! can you believe this high priced hooker?” to the senator from NY’s wife that happens to have been sitting at the table next to them

-boris buys theo a car (theo can’t drive and doesn’t have a license)

-gyuri teaches theo how to drive

-shirley T eats ALL of their snacks ALL of them and sometimes crashes on the couch bc he has few places to go and occasionally his Polish mother kicks him out of the house for pulling gang jobs and not going to orthodox church but she LOVES boris and boris frequently has to go Talk To Her and has tea with her and she calms down “me! part guidance counselor! part kingpin!”

-myriam and theo are bffs and text constantly

-what they text About is a persistant giant and niggling Mystery to boris and he cant stand it

-boris and pippa get shitfaced every time they hang out and pippa is like “theo theo THEO this GUY lmao Guy hes ! this guy!” and theo tries to say something but they both start laughing every time he does. and pippa ships them so hard she’s like “ughhh mood” every time Theo looks at Boris and Theo is Not Amused but boris loves it

#the goldfinch #sorry #lmao #the divorce one is from wedding crashers #and half are from me and terriblygrimm lmao

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naomixhill · 5 years ago

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28 April 2020

It’s midmorning as I find myself giving a presentation to twenty-eight eyeballs in a cramped room where there is seemingly no oxygen. I am sweaty and right on the cusp of fainting, or a massive anxiety attack, so as I pace the room and continue talking, I am searching my pockets for Valium or Klonopin or Xanax. I feel a pill and take it with a fake masked cough and sip on the mango fizzy beverage that appeared on my speaker podium, but I couldn’t tell you where it came from or if it’s even mine. I roll up the striped cuffs to my Giorgio Armani blazer and smile...

It takes an agonizing amount of time before I realize someone in the far back asked a question in between my slides. I look over the young professional: his face is red and uneven, his collared white shirt is wrinkled with a drop of coffee stained on the right breast. Next to him, his bimbo wife that looks like eurotrash, with platinum blonde, stringy hair and leather boots, even though it’s April, is eating off a paper plate filled with papaya slices. Two others in the back are laughing, and I am fully certain their snide laughter is directed at me. I don’t want to fucking be here....in fact, I can’t. I have nothing to say to or learn from any of these people.

So I just leave.

Outside, the air is thick and there’s a faint drizzle, almost a mist. I drive to a nearby nature preserve, which is more like an Ohio swamp forest with a handful of spring flowers. Back almost eighteen months ago now when I worked in an office park nearby, I used to spend lunches here on the rare occasion that I got them. I roll down my window, light a cigarette, and close my eyes.

I am tired, I am tired, I am weary.

#bpd #depressed

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drgrlfriend · 5 years ago

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Squeaking in under the wire (maybe) — my fic for @mandatoryfunday!

Excerpt:

Luke’s is still lively, people making the most of the hour before last call.

Clint does an instinctive sweep of the bar, checking for threats and exits, and then a second sweep, looking for likely prospects.

He’s dressed in his tightest shirt and the jeans that make his ass look fantastic, hoping that in the dim light that’ll be enough for someone to overlook the two-week stakeout-beard he was too lazy to shave, the dark circles under his eyes, and the fresh row of sutures disappearing into his hairline.

There’s two women at the bar who spotted him the moment he walked in. One or both of them look like they’d be up for it. They look soft, and a little sweet. Maybe too sweet for the mood he’s in tonight.

There’s a guy leaning against the side of the bar. He’s got a bit of a Eurotrash look to him — shirt unbuttoned halfway and a gold chain resting against his hairy chest. He’s definitely looking, but when Clint looks back his lips twist derisively. And, no, Clint doesn’t want sweet, but he doesn’t want someone who’s gonna get off on hurting him either.

A gleam of metal catches his attention at the other end of the bar. It’s not a gun or knife, though, just — strangely enough — a metal hand. Huh. That’s something new, but tech is changing all the time, and Clint knows better than to think he’s keeping up.

He’s been staring a beat too long, and when he looks up the guy attached to the hand is looking back, his eyebrows raised in a bit of a challenge. He’s sitting with his back against the wall, something in his posture a little guarded, and Clint adds that and the hand together and comes to the conclusion of ex-military.

And, fuck, but he’s pretty — long dark hair falling in his face, lips made for sin, and eyes such a clear slate blue that Clint can see them all the way across the dim bar. The guy drags his gaze down Clint’s torso, slow and deliberate, and — yeah. That’ll do.

“Buy you a drink?” And, okay, it’s a cliche, but Clint never saw the need to be creative. Hopefully they both know what he’s really asking.

“Sure,” the guy agrees, and Luke is already setting them up — Clint’s usual double whiskey and another beer for the guy.

“Bucky,” the guy says, tipping his beer toward Clint in a half-hearted toast.

“Clint.”

This close up the guy’s — Bucky’s — eyes are almost a little too keen. Clint can see them marking the cut at his temple, the circles under his eyes — even the cracked rib that Clint didn’t think his posture was showing. Clint’s wearing the tiny flesh-colored in-ear hearing aids he wears on ops, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the guy’s noticed them too.

The scrutiny is a little too much for the way he’s feeling right now, so Clint leans his elbows back against the bar, scanning the crowd so he doesn’t have to watch while the guy looks his fill.

“Someone hurt you, Clint?”

It’s so surprising Clint almost spills his drink on the way to his mouth. Maybe not so much the question, because much as he’s trying to hide it Clint probably does look beat to hell, but more the soft, gentle way the guy asks it. Like he really cares about the answer. Cares about Clint.

For a moment Clint feels himself teetering on the edge — the horrors of the mission clogging up his throat as if they are going to come spilling out in a tearful confession to the first fucking stranger who’d asked.

He claws it back, biting his tongue hard to keep it still. He smiles instead, even though he’s sure the smile comes out a little twisted.

“Not as much as I hurt ‘em back,” he finally says, and that’s just enough truth to settle his stomach a little.

Bucky nods as if that’s good enough for him, and takes a long, thoughtful pull of his beer. Clint watches his throat work, the way those plush lips wrap around the bottle. He hopes to hell he hasn’t blown this already.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets his empty bottle deliberately on the bar. “Okay,” he says. “You got a place?”

#winterhawk #the winter soldier #bucky barnes #clint barton #hawkeye #fanfiction #mandatory funday #au #no powers au #deaf!clint barton #fraction/aja comic!clint #war veteran!bucky barnes #shield agent!clint barton #pretty when you cry

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