A little surprise for @fuckmeupexo I love your writing and I hope you enjoy mine too!
Genre: Smut, bit of fluff
Warning: Explicit sexual content
You hadn’t been particularly looking forward to this art class — not any more than others. The teacher had told you all last week you’d be drawing a nude model today. But you expected it to be from a picture, or your mind. Not real life.
Yet here he was, a cotton-candy-haired man, waiting by the door, wearing a white bath robe that exposed his well-built legs and elegant collar bones — most probably naked beneath. Your breath hitched in your throat for a split second, before you nodded your head firmly back to reason. He was here to be drawn, not flirted with. And anyway, there were prettier girls — in fact, he could very well have a girlfriend.
You gathered your utensils around your easel and set a square canvas on it — you simply thought the square would fit the model better than a rectangle. In the corner of your eye, you noticed all the other students imitating you, some nudging each other as they giggled about the man, some puffing out their chests as if to prove they were better than him — you would’ve sworn he rolled his eyes at that behaviour.
Finally, as the artists and gossip had settled, the model walked to the center of the room, where a pedestal had been installed for him, and the teacher accompanied him.
“Students,” the elderly professor started, “This is the model I told you about. He is a graduate from our school who accepted to lend us his time and body, so be respectful and kind, all right?” She stared around with a kind smile and pointed look. “Well then, get drawing!”
She strutted off to a corner of the room, and the model shed his bath robe, a movement that seemed so casual yet so arousing from him. He considered the assembly for a while, choosing after scads of seconds to sit on the elevated area, propped up on his arms, one leg dangling off and the other pulled up, chin pointed high and prideful — eyes transfixed on you.
You shivered, but payed not much mind to it, following your classmates as they fished out pencils, brushes, crayons, pastels, paints, and all other artistic paraphernalia from their cases. Grabbing three grey pencils, you expertly switched from one to the other as you sketched him in details, outlining his body and shading in his muscles, bones, tendons.
So far, you had looked at him no more than necessary, were doing rather well, and still had control over your heart and face. But as soon as you realised you’d have to draw his dick, your blood froze in your veins and boiled scorching enough to cook you well done. Oh no, was all your brain could come up with.
You glanced at your watch — forty minutes left — then at the clock — still forty minutes. Damn. You couldn’t do nothing, that’d be ridiculous — but you couldn’t scrutinise his thing, that’d be embarrassing and honestly perverted. The longer you pondered over it, the more you lost touch with reality.
Until the bell rang out in the school building. Blinking in confusion, you regained your senses; you hadn’t progressed in any way since you started bickering with yourself over what to do. With a disgruntled huff, you put away your half-finished sketch in a cupboard, and started cleaning up.
All the other students were gone, and you weren’t even halfway done packing. When all paintbrushes, pencils, crayons, stencils were neatly arranged in your wooden case, you stood and scrutinised the room in case you’d forgotten one, semi-jumping back when you saw the model still seated on the pedestal — staring intensely at you.
“Wha- What are you doing?” Abashed at how squeaky and startled your voice sounded, a state that would’ve never happened had he been a fellow teenager, you glanced down at the floor between you and — he hadn’t given his name.
He chuckled, “Just admiring… Can’t I? You spent the last three hours drooling over me, don’t I get a lil’ something in return?”
Ruddy tinged your face as you vehemently shook your head, denying the obvious with vain non sequiturs.
“What? No! I didn’t — It wasn’t like — I was drawing, and you… You’re just a model!”
You pursed your lips in a tight line, realising you were digging your own grave, and the stranger looked like his smile couldn’t grow any larger.
“Just a model, huh?” His voice got in your brain through your very skin, nestling in the deepest corner to stay. “A tall, toned, handsome, older, male model — who seems to have quite the effect on you, ain’t I right?”
Had he been your age, or in your class, you would’ve shunned him with a whack and a roll of your eyes, but an unsettling detail about him kept you mute. You gradually drove your eyes up, trailing along his body as though it physically stopped your sight and you couldn’t keep looking without going through each sinuous path, until you stuck to his own eyes.
“I’m Chanyeol, if you need to know,” he beckoned, “Come closer, will ya?”
You obliged, stepped towards him — Chanyeol, your perfect model — and took in more of him with each inch walked. The DON’T TOUCH museum warning was almost explicit by how sculpturesque the man looked. But you craved to regardless.
You bowed your head abashedly, hesitant as you rose your hand towards him.
“May I?” You whispered in a hush.
Chanyeol smirked, leaning into you to murmur in your ear, breath and heat hovering above you without ever coming into contact — a jarring frustration, pleasurable in its quiet promise. “May you what?”
“May I touch you?”
But he moved for you. His chest hit your hand, let it mould itself around the toned muscles, the crevices and bumps, inches of skin free to roam. As you glided over his shoulders, around his neck, finally settling between his shoulder blades, he grabbed your chin in his slender fingers, tilting you. He faced your slanted head, now directly before his, and trailed kisses anywhere he saw fit, save for your lips.
You mewled when he nibbled your earlobe, giggled when he ordered your eyelids to flutter shut, sighed when he pressed his lips to your cheeks, and moaned louder than you thought possible when he harshly worked against your neck. When he looked back up, a smug curve on his mouth, you knew you’d be harbouring hickeys for the next few days. Still, a slight disappointment remained in you.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” You pouted, licking your lower lip to attract Chanyeol’s attention to it.
“I’m saving the best for last.” He craned his neck, his lips grazing yours, and he breathed out: “What is your name?”
The upward movement of his lips tickled yours. “Ah, Y/N, what a pretty name for such a princess. Y/N…”
Chanyeol gently pecked your lips, as if to prepare you, then crashed back with a keen, hungry growl. His fingers grazed your face up to your hair and wove themselves in it, pulling you all the closer to him.
His lips, dripping and melding with yours like syrup, warm and sinuous, made you desire him, a taste of him, all of him, with famine. Your mouth gaped, tongue slithering to his, as if to beg him to kiss you deeper. He complied with a groan, entering and filling you like honey against your taste buds, delicious, driving you crazy. You bit his lower lip, drawing droplets of blood, and lapped them up in a swift lick.
He tutted, tugging your head backwards with one hand while the other cupped your chin, thumb slipping in your mouth. “Now, now, darling, don’t you think that’s a bit much?”
As you stayed silent, an embarrassed gnawing in your stomach and pink hue tinting your cheeks, Chanyeol arched an expectant brow. To get a reaction out of you, he played his thumb with your tongue, humming approvingly when you sucked on it.
“Ah, what a good girl,” he mused, his eyes darting up as you emptied the air from your mouth, enclosing your cheeks on his finger as if it were his cock. “I’d almost want to fuck you senseless.”
You perked up at the near promise — more of an allusion, a prize you didn’t have access to yet. With revamped motivation, you removed his thumb from your mouth, earning a menacing leer from Chanyeol, and once again entrapped his lips with yours. Yearning to deepen the feeling, you straddled his bare thighs, pushing your chest up against his, destroying all space and chasms until you couldn’t differentiate his burning skin from your searing, soaring heartbeat.
He acted in synch with you, a harmony of moans to complement the dance of your lips, bites and licks and nips. Your hands found their way to his face, nails burrowing below his jaw to haul him ever so close to you — never close enough, never quite perfect, never fully satisfying.
His fingers strolled over your hips up to your chest, and you awaited for your breast to be groped and fondled and kneaded — and were confused, yelping out in surprise when he pushed you apart. His mouth broke from yours, pecking its way to your ear, where it stayed a moment nibbling and tugging as if to apologise for shattering your ecstasy, then he heaved out, “Let’s bring this to my home.”
You won your prize.
Now, you just had to collect it.
Sheepishly, a sudden bashfulness and innocence gripping you as the full extent of what you’d almost done — wanted to do so badly — in the school dawned on you, you stood from his lap.
“Oops,” you muttered as you averted your stare in every direction but his.
You heard him growl with that same anger he had when your removed his hand, “You almost fucked me on the spot, don’t you ‘oops’ me, sweetie.”
You apologised and bowed, and as you straightened up… noticed his erect cock dripping with pre-cum.
“Oh Lord.” You were at a loss for word. Had you seriously done that? To an adult? To one as hot as Chanyeol? Oh Lord indeed.
He patted your head affectionately. “Don’t think about it, I can deal with an erection for a little while.” He gestured towards the door. “Just go ahead while I find clothes. My car’s in the car park in front of the school, beside the supermarket, you see the one?”
You nodded, picked up your stuff and walked out, a new pride swelling in your chest, something you’d never felt in your life.
Of course you’d had sex with other boys your age, in your class, friends and friends of your friends, but none compared to what Chanyeol made you feel in just these kisses. Heavenly, paradisiac, a scene you’d paint in the richest, warmest colours. The very thought of it heated your core.
At this hour and in this part of town, the car park was empty save for one black BMW, which you assumed to be Chanyeol’s. Leaning against it, you waited for him to arrive, dreaming up scenarios of your future time with him. You bit the inside of your cheeks at the lewd images your mind conjured, each more obscene and unlike you than the last.
When Chanyeol finally strolled through the door, in a turtleneck that hugged his arms and pecs in ways your brain would’ve never imagined and skinny black pants through which you could guess the outline of his hard member, you could’ve dropped to your knees and let him bang you into the ground right then and there.
All lost in your revery, you didn’t see him right before you, staring you down with hooded, amused eyes. “How long was it since you last slept with someone that you’re staring at a fully clothed man like he’s pure sin?” He suddenly seemed to consider something. “Oh, you’re not a virgin, are you?”
“No,” you answered, hoping he didn’t prefer you to be.
“Good,” he smirked as he helped you in the shotgun seat, “it would’ve had its charm, but I’m glad I won’t have to hold back.”
The engine revved to life with a vibration and a purr, getting the car reversing out of its parking lot then rolling into the street. A chill ran up your spine at the sensation, and you glanced at Chanyeol to check if he was holding up.
“Uhm, are you — er, is it, uh, your thing — is it fine?”
He earnestly laughed at your trouble to muster those words, eliciting a huff on your part. He ruffled up your hair, then responded.
“I told you, I can deal with it.” An idea popped in his mind, shown by the leer in his eyes. “If you’re really worried, why don’t you let me even things out?”
You stared at him, equal parts puzzled and expectant. He interpreted your silence as a yes, and detached one hand from the steering wheel, blindly reaching it in your direction. It landed first a little above your knee, then stroked and caressed its way up, earning mewls and moans from you. His fingers dug between your thighs, prodding at your clothed clit, and you arched your back over the carseat, a silent scream opening your mouth.
No boy had ever taken the time for such foreplay with you. Chanyeol’s fingers, even through jeans, excited your sensitivity and made you throw your head back.
The bundle of nerves in your guts burned up, tightening without ever snapping. You wanted, craved, needed more. Shaky, you unzipped your jeans and wrung your fingers around Chanyeol’s, guiding them under your clothes and underwear. He smirked, forgetting to watch the road for two seconds, yet you couldn’t care about that. All you minded was his hand in yours, rubbing and sliding between your folds as you directed it.
But you still yearned for more of it, more of the joy, more of him. You lurched your hips against his hand, and slipped a finger within your core.
“Ah — Chanyeol — ah…”
He shook his head, a content smile growing across his face as he watched you pleasure yourself with his hand. However, he knew he could do better — so much better. Jiggling your hand off his, he twisted it slightly to fill you with a second, then a third finger, curling and uncurling them within you, pushing against your walls, applying more force the louder you moaned.
You closed your eyes and were instantly entranced, pulled miles under water, with nothing but your heat and the contact, the pressure on your raw nerves. The feeling got deeper, deeper, deeper, until you could hardly catch your breath and think more than a chorus of Chanyeol, Chanyeol, Oh God, Chanyeol…
As abruptly as it came, the feeling disappeared. You surfaced with a gulp of air, acutely aware of how much you’d been missing it.
You glanced to your left at a grinning Chanyeol, the man responsible for your distress, who radiated with enjoyment from the turmoil he put you through and the unachieved knot in your guts he left you with.
“You cruel man,” you mumbled, craving for his touch to return.
He laughed. “Oh, Y/N, didn’t I say I was evening things out? Now you understand how you left me in the art room.”
“You’re the one who pushed me away!” You argued, crossing your arms defiantly, although you did secretly appreciate this mutual torment, more than you’d confess.
“I’m not only talking about that… I mean the entirety of these three and a half hours in your presence,” he explained, just as the car skidded to a halt in his garage. He stopped the engine and turned to face you. “Y/N, you drove me mad the second I saw you blushing at me and fumbling not to show it.”
“What.” You focused your eyes on the glovebox, your question not much of one to begin with.
Chanyeol flashed you a bright smile and changed the subject, stepping out of his car. “Don’t move, darling.”
He skirted the BMW, came up to your door, opened it gallantly, and invited you out. Holding unto him, you unfolded out of the confines, stretching your limbs and fighting off the wetness in your legs.
Chanyeol pulled you against his body. “Jump,” he ordered, and you obeyed promptly. He snaked an arm under your butt and the other around your waist, maintaining you to him. Out of instinct, you wrapped your legs around him, hands resting on his shoulders.
“Nice,” you commented, kissing the corner of his lips. He carried you in his house, somehow balancing you while he fumbled with the keys to open and shut the door.
You slammed against the wall, air dwindling out of your lungs in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to discard his obligations and start with you again so fast. With a gasp, your eyes widened then zeroed in on Chanyeol’s focused expression as he sucked on your neck, aiming to mark you black and blue, undeniably his, bruised for his pleasure.
You ran your fingers through his pink hair, admired his honey skin a thin layer of sweat was already starting to cover, busy with nothing less than the idea of him being yours. He covered your chest with a hand, massaging one breast, heating your skin and wracking you with bolts of pleasure, and all you had to give in return were moans and a tighter grip on his waist.
When an eternity later, he reclined away from your intoxicating skin, a sly grin adorned his face.
“Let’s get to what we came here to do, sweetheart.”
He rested you on the kitchen island, the polished marble cooling you down. Chanyeol slid your shirt off your shoulders and unhooked your bra, then waited, standing between your legs, admiring your naked body.
“Oh, baby Y/N,” his hands touched your tummy, trailing up to your neck, feeling each and every inch he could find under his fingers, “your perfect body… I can’t wait to take it all for myself.”
He lunged at you, locking your lips together like a closed circuit, electricity running through. His hands were dragged over your upper body, fondling and kneading your bosom, swallowing your moans as they left your lips into his. He inched up to your nipple, titillating and twisting it in one hand while the other slid down to your unzipped pants. Between mewls and shallow breaths, a flash of lucidity in all the ecstasy, you stopped his hand.
Chanyeol looked up at you with curiosity and disappointment.
“Wait,” you murmured, “you take it off too.”
You hooked your fingers in the belt loops, tugging his pants down and him towards you. A blink later, he’d removed your and his clothes entirely, and you were once again stunned, marvelling at his nude form.
Chanyeol leaned back against you, this time determined to stay. His fingers slid from your abused nipples to your womanhood, sending an unnerving wave through you. You groaned into the kiss neither of you seemed able to break for too long. He slid two digits in at the same time, grinning at the yips he got out of you.
Thrusting slow at first, his pace picked up, heating and wetting you more, stretching your walls for his cock. You clenched around his fingers, lust running rampant in a network of veins and nerves. A dull ache, shrouded by pleasure, was winning your body over. Chanyeol noticed it, and slowed himself down to a stop.
You whined in an exhausted breath.
“No! Continue, please!”
He stepped closer to you, his erection prodding at your entrance.
“Are you tired?” He asked, and although you were, you denied it. He sighed. “What kind of experiences of sex you must’ve had… Typical young stupid boys, can’t last longer than their own high.” He trailed kisses along your hairline, nipping at your ear shell. “I’ll show you what a man can do for you, baby girl.”
He thrusted forward, entering you completely, and your muscles all tensed at once. Your head was thrown back, a string of incoherent Chanyeols and pleads and curses escaped your heaving lungs, stars danced before your eyes. He pulled back, then slammed into you again. You screamed out, then murmured in a broken voice, then shouted again as he repeated the violent motion.
“Chanyeol, Chanyeol, ah, ah, please, Chany —”
Another harsh thrust knocked your breath short, and the knot in your guts tightened to a fault.
“Y/N, ah, Y/N, you feel so fucking perfect, sweetie.”
His hips kept lurching forward, you bent over in his shape, forehead nestled in the crook of his neck, and the pain became pleasure, and the pleasure became pain. You couldn’t tell, except that you were so, so near. The woven sensation was cut through, releasing on Chanyeol as a last moan echoed from your throat, followed by soft whimpers.
“Ah, ah, ah… Thank you, Chanyeollie.”
He sat beside you, considering you with an amorous look, before picking you up in a careful cradle and carrying you to the bathroom. Turning the faucet on, Chanyeol eased you and himself in the tub. He stroked your hair out of your face and planted a kiss on your forehead.
“Once we’re done washing up, I’ll take you to my bed. We’ll sleep there. Tomorrow, you can call your friends and family and explain why you didn’t warn anyone you weren’t coming home. Then maybe we can eat breakfast together. What do you like most, Y/N?” Chanyeol babbled on and on about the two of you, exploring even the far future of children and marriage. You nodded absentmindedly at his words, thinking about the warm body holding you, the man who loved a girl so unreasonably.
“I see Louis, stone-carved, sculpturesque; Neville, scissor-cutting, exact; Susan with eyes like lumps of crystal; Jinny dancing like a flame, febrile, hot over dry earth; and Rhoda the nymph of the fountain always wet. These are fantastic pictures—these are figments, these visions of friends in absence, grotesque, dropsical, vanishing at the first touch of the toe of a real boot. Yet they drum me alive.” —from The Waves by Virginia Woolf
As the end date of the Museum’s Pompeii exhibit ticked closer, I made a habit of visiting one set of artifacts above all others. Tucked away in the corner of the gallery was a curious case of melted, misshapen glass, that seemed to draw me in whenever I passed by.
Removed of their volcanic context, the glass containers are of no significant historical importance- Roman society two millennia ago was full of perfume and oil jars. But due to the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79AD these regular pieces of glassware took on a whole new sculptural form, that give a brief snapshot of the horrors seen on the final day of Pompeii.
But the connection to the volcano is not what I originally thought.
Though the pyroclastic surges of rock & gas that rained upon Pompeii brought temperatures of up to 300 degrees Celsius, Roman glass melts at heat roughly three times as high. Archeologists suggest that something far more domestic than a volcanic eruption reshaped the glass- an oil lamp, perhaps toppled over in panic may have set ablaze the cupboard they were contained in. The temperatures inside would have increased dramatically, superheating the glass into their now gorgeous forms.
I can just imagine a mother and father grabbing their children to escape the city and in the chaos knocking over an oil lamp. The lamp then ignited the cloth wrap strung over the glassware cabinet, setting forth a series of events that put the specimens on display today.
Of the many impressive artifacts brought together for the Pompeii exhibit, from the body casts to the preserved olives, the glass containers, their sculpturesque shape a thing of art, are what I’ll miss the most.
Bani means tradition. It’s the dance technique and style specific to the guru/school. These are named according to the village of the guru (with the exception of a couple banis).
Here’s a breakdown:
Pandanallur (for the sake of brevity, I’m grouping Pandanallur and Thanjavur styles together). This style stems from the Thanjavur Quartet, four brothers who worked in the early 19th century Thanjavur Royal Court as musicians and dance composers. This style mainly draws from their repertoire, maintaining some of the oldest compositions in dance. Pure dance movements are linear and geometric, and abhinaya is more classically stylized rather than realistic. They’re also responsible for creating the current structure of the Margam.
Alarmel Valli - Learned from the doyen guru of Pandanallur, Chokalingam Pillai (who descended from the Thanjavur Quartet) and his son Subbarayya Pillai. She’s a little more fluid with her movements, owing to her training in Odissi.
T. Balasaraswati - The famous Balasaraswati was a student of Kandappa Pillai (also a descendant of the Thanjavur Quartet). Her style is renowned for it’s exquisite abhinaya, though the nritta is not as polished as the other styles. In my estimation it’s what I would imagine the Devadasis used to dance like. Beautiful abhinaya, but unrefined nritta.
Students of Kalakshetra and Rukmini Devi - Rukmini learned from Pandanallur Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai (father in law of Chokalingam Pillai), and made several changes to the Pandanallur bani, creating the Kalakshetra style. It’s even more linear and geometric, and certain moves are exaggerated (like the torso bending in the arudi here). Abhinaya is also very stylized and unrealistic, and there is less emphasis on overly sringara based items.
Vazhuvoor - Created by Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai, this style is more feminine, emphasizing laasya over tandavam. Most traditional performances begin with a Thodaya Mangalam in praise of Gnana Sabesa, the reigning deity of Vazhuvoor town.
Chitra Visweswaran - Chitra learned from Ramiah Pillai the doyen guru of Vazhuvoor. Very fluid and feminine, with realistic abhinaya. Lots of poses as well.
Padma Subramaniam - Also a student of Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai. Here you can definitely see the realistic abhinaya. Her nritta is a little different with more emphasis on poses and karanas and she developed a different style later on, calling it BharataNrityam.
Kamala Lakshmanan - Star disciple of Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai, she also performed dances for Tamil Cinema, many of which were choreographed by her guru.
Sumitra Nitin & Sunanda Narayan and Rhadha - Radha is Kamala’s sister and also learned from Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai. As you can see there’s little more linearity and precision. Also note how the knees are bent in the dith-ith thei’s instead of extended out.
Priyadarsini Govind - Student of Rajaratnam Pillai, who was a disciple of Vazhuvoor Ramiah. To contrast her with Chitra Visweswaran, you can see she’s very precise with linear movements. Malavika Sarukkai, another student of Rajaratnam, is also similar.
Mellatur - Created by Mangudi Dorairaja Iyer, who revived Shudda Nritta and Perani (dancing on clay pots). His style eschews items praising living patrons (thus most of the Thanjavur Quartet repertoire) and encourages dancers to stamp the floor softly, focusing on the sound created by the salangai.
hello! Could you do gender neutral reader sfw/ nsfw headcanons w/ mccree, hanzo, and soldier 76? thanks!!!!!
Ahhhh! H/cs flowed in~ There you go, love!
Note: I decided not to do much NSFW this time. Just to set a proper beginning, haha (=´∀｀) I hope you don’t mind! And while reading stuff about Hanzo, you might want to listen to a song called “Lullaby” by One Republic. I PRAY you like it :з
Henri Matisse drawing the model Zita as odalisque in his third-floor apartment and studio in Nice, c.1928.
Matisse arranged an “Oriental” alcove, creating an atmosphere of reverie and exoticism reminiscent of the Moorish interiors he had seen in Morocco. The model’s sculpturesque body, languorously stretching on the couch, exudes sensuality and carnality, enhanced by the warm rosy red color scheme. The mood of “luxe, calme et volupté” is clearly palpable.
Bharata Natyam (Tamil: பரதநாட்டியம், Kannada: ಭರತನಾಟ್ಯ, Marathi: भरतनाट्यम) also spelled Bharatanatyam, is a classical Indian dance form that originated in the temples of South India. This dance form denotes various 19th- and 20th-century reconstructions of Sadir, the art of temple dancers called Devadasis. It was described in the treatise Natya Shastra by Bharata around the beginning of the common era. Bharata Natyam is known for its grace, purity, tenderness, and sculpturesque poses. Lord Shiva is considered the God of this dance form. Today, it is one of the most popular and widely performed dance styles and is practiced by male and female dancers all over the world.
ficlet: The Strangest of Nights, The Loneliest of Places
Cophine meeting in a bar AU, prompted from this post Word Count: 2,358 thosefarplaces can be blamed for this entire atrocity
It was one of those nights. One of those nights. When Cosima’s skin began to itch and hastily inspired pot vapours wouldn’t put the feeling to rest. When the shadows typically confined to the corners of her small apartment began reaching out, smoky tendrils stealing around the edge of her resolve. She wasn’t strongly opposed to living in solitude, but some nights she began to feel as if the cobwebs were settling in the spaces between her fingers. This was one of those nights.