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gkutfdvnn · 9 months

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Just like every year chaos had unfolded right before Christmas. Flights were delayed and cancelled, disgruntled passengers were screaming at the employees desperately making phone calls, while some others had decided to just lay down on the seats to sleep.

As soon as you heard that your flight back from Paris was cancelled due to bad weather, you had taken your leave from the International Airport. Right now you were waiting for the metro, drinking some bear you were given at the airport by a stranger, some french dude you couldn't understand. With it came a leaflet to some party tonight, the only thing you understood was that it was Christmas themed, everything else just was gibberish to you.

Finally the metro came, mostly empty given the hour, so you just sat down and closed your eyes thinking about the last few days in Paris. Honestly, you liked the city. It wasn't as glamorous as seen on TV, yes the folks could be rude, but it had some sort of rustic charm, and for every unfriendly guy you had met twice the amount of kind people. You were thinking about the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, both the good and bad food you had eaten, the crêpes and the gauffres, and the beautiful Christmas market. The "vin chaud", you chuckled as you thought about the word in French, was actually delicious and you had gotten quite tipsy of it, to the point at which your friends had to accompany you to your hotel.

Shit, you must have fallen asleep. The can you were holding had fallen out of your grip and spilled beer all over your clothes. The doors opened and you looked up to the board. You were now a few stops too far ! Grabbing everything you could you rushed out of the wagon just before the doors closed again, falling face down on the floor. Luckily no one was there to witness your embarrassing fall. You cursed aloud, the "putains" and "merdes" leaving your mouth as if you had spoken french since birth. Too caught up in the moment you failed to notice the growing hairs that had appeared on your cheeks and chins, covering your lower face in a dusting of dark black dots. You looked back at the now empty railroad, a new series of French curse words escaping your lips as you noticed most of your things missing. The jacket, your gloves, your backpack and your suitcase were gone with the tram, lost in the maze of Paris Metro, all you had taken with you were the can of beer, and the pamphlet. Worst of all your wet jeans were starting to cool.

It was best to get on the move before freezing to death. You made your way through the white-tiled walkways of the underground metro while rubbing your arms and shivering. The rubbing seemed to help though, your skin was getting warmer each time you caressed it with your hands, your fingers pushing through the softer muscle. It was strange feeling around your arms with your palms, they both felt bigger and a bit softer, like they had swollen just a little bit. Soon, you didn't even need to rub your arms anymore but you still continued to, your own touch felt amazing, the tingling provoked by the tips of your fingers felt pleasant, great even !

After the corridors came the stairs, at first you were taking two, even three steps at the time. Being tall surely helped in these kinds of situations. But soon you were even having issues keeping the speed up, your feet were hitting the steps and you almost tripped and fell down, gripping the handrail as you were about to fall. That was close ! You waited a moment as some sort of dizziness settled around your stomach, you were sure the steps must have gotten slightly bigger on your way up, although your clothes also seemed a bit looser on your frame. Even though the dizziness didn't fade completely, you began your ascent again. Your whole body felt weird and out of place, just like you were shrinking, step by step. It wasn't much, enough to be almost unnoticeable. Each step you took altered your body just a little bit more. Your arms continued to swell while getting shorter with the rest of your body. Your legs lost in length and your back grew shorter too as they swelled with muscle, eating your rat away. Soon even your shoes didn't fit you properly anymore, your feet having left a bit of width and length. Your thighs expand to a fit and healthy girth, soon followed by your calves. Your back strains and stretches to the side as the muscles grow and expand there too. On the last steps, just before the automatic gates, you took a break as you caught your reflection in a broken screen.

The changes had been slow and gone unnoticed by you until now, there in the reflection stood a person you couldn't recognise. You wouldn't describe what you felt in that moment as panic, it was more like.. dissociation? As if the person you were looking at didn't match the person that was inside. You rubbed your hand through your beard that was still a few shades darker as your hair, then you lifted your shirt quite hesitantly revealing a lean stomach and then.. two pierced nipples set on a pair of girthy pectorals. You rubbed the silver rings and bit your lips. That tingling you felt earlier was spreading through your body again but this time it was transforming into growing pleasure. With one hand you continued to rub one ring, with the other you took your shirt off and threw it away. You looked back at the screen and pressed your lips together, a soft moan escaping your lips as the boner grew in your underwear.

You looked just like some handsome and not so average Parisian dude. You pushed your pants down and kicked them off with your shoes, exploring your body from top to bottom, gliding your hands in every crevasse and on every curve. Your thighs and calves jingled slightly as you moved around in front of the screen.

The mental changes didn't come suddenly, but were slowly rewriting your thoughts and memories. It was really more like acceptance. Of course that handsome guy's reflection couldn't be anything else than french. In fact, every second you spent in front of that screen made you feel ever slightly more french. You weren't working as a cashier abroad, but studying hard for a master's degree in economics. Paris was of course your only choice since you had grown up in a small french village without much to do, it was quite a lonely place for a gay dude like you. Soon, even your basic thoughts were expressed in French, every trace of your mother tongue erased and left forever forgotten. New moans escaped your soft lips as your hair darkened to match with your beard, and a fine layer of black hairs covered the rest of your body. Finally, with a few strokes, you came, and with it the last remnants of your past life vanished, just a stain on the floor, nothing more. You were now Pierre, a Parisian student, living your best life in Paris.

Some of your cum had landed on the flyer to the gay Christmas party you were going, you looked around for your clothes, somehow you had scattered them all around you. But hey, you sure damn didn't need them, the party was just above the entry to the metro, and you always enjoyed coming of strong !

With one jump above the automatic gates you left your past behind, ready to enjoy the Parisian city life !

#male transformation #male tf #race change #muscle tf

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the-offside-rule · 1 year

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Declan Rice (Arsenal) - Cupid and Psyche

Requested: yes

Prompt: meeting Declan at an art museum

Warnings: none

A casual Thursday in Paris for Y/n, the art student. When she decided to take a leap of faith and move to Paris, she didn't think it'd get her into such predicaments. Missing metros, causing arguments accidentally in street markets, meeting strange and exciting people. But this was life. It was going to happen to someone, it just so happened to be Y/n. Her parents implored her to stay close to home and study locally, but no. She had to go for her own sanity.

Now that leap of faith brings us to the louvre in Paris at half past two on a Thursday afternoon. She walked delicately and quietly around the famous museum with her headphones blocking out any sort of human distraction. The Mona Lisa; too busy. Medusa's raft; not as busy but it had been seen before. Her favourite piece was a marble sculpture, sculpted by Antonio Canova. It depicted Cupid reviving his lover Psyche with a kiss. Looking at it was tender, it was blissful. It made her believe in love and gave her hope that one day she would one day find someone that equally made her feel this way.

"I don't understand this at all." Y/n turned her head to the man beside her, looking up at the marble as if it were just another stone. "Then you've never experienced love." Y/n mumbled quietly, but not quietly enough. The stranger turned his head and his look of confusion stayed the same. "Excuse me?" He asked, his British accent clear and thick. "I said you've never experienced love. I like to think this depicts love in its physical form." She repeated. "And why is that?"

"Well, the story goes that Psyche-" She pauses and points to the woman. "Was so beautiful, that Venus herself felt threatened and decided to send Cupid to seek her revenge and to kill her." She explained. "And what about that screams love in its physical form?" The man asked even more bewildered than he once was before. "Well Cupid fell in love with Psyche and instead of killing her, he hid her away in his Palace to protect her. He then visited her each night and warned her to never look at him. Her sister however convinces her that Cupid must be a hideous monster so one night, while he is asleep,she looks at him and he leaves her for breaking their bond."

"Once again, I beg the question."

"Let me finish!" The man sighs and allows her to continue her story. "Distraught, she goes to Venus for help who sends her on quests to find her lover. For her last task, she has to go retrieve Propserina's beauty fron the underworld but opens it on the way back up and falls into a lifeless sleep. Cupid then finds her and returns the beauty to the box and kisses Psyche, granting her immortality so they could be married as equals." The man nodded and looked at the marble again, this time taking in the story and understanding the meaning differently. He appreciated it more and she could see that. "That's a beautiful story." Y/n nodded along and smiled as if she had seen the sculpture for the first time. She looked down as she caught a glimpse of a hand in front of her, before she turned and saw the man smiling at her. "I'm Declan, by the way." He said. Y/n took his hand and returned the smile. "Y/n."

"Lovely name. You from Paris?" He asked. "No. I'm guessing by the accent you aren't either?" She said. "What? I don't sound French?" He asked in a ridiculously stereotypical French accent, making the girl giggle. "What brings you to Paris?" Y/n asked after she calmed down from laughing. "Single. Very single." He replied. Y/n's eyebrows twisted into those of confusion. "And how is coming to Paris going to help you with that?" She asked. "Well, I figured the dating apps weren't working. May as well pretend to be confused in an art gallery."

"And how is that going for you?" She scoffed, folding her arms and looking up to him. "Not too bad, I reckon." He replied, making the once confident and sure woman now crumble and turn bright red. "Well it doesn't count if you don't intend on meeting someone later." Y/n said. "Good point." Declan whipped out his phone and handed it to her, with a new contact ready to be dialled in. Y/n grinned and took the phone, throwing her number in and handing it back. "So how about we finish off looking at the gallery and grabbing a coffee afterwards?" He suggested. "I think that's a marvellous idea, Declan." She smiled. Declan hooked his arm around hers and looked down to her. "Then let's go, madame."

#football #football blurbs #football imagines #declan rice imagine #declan rice imagines #declan rice

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hasdrubal-gisco · 3 months

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what are the best things to do in prague as a tourist?

depends how long you're visiting for, and what you normally like to see. writing this with the intent of giving you things to google/pin to your map, hence not going too in-depth on everything.

if 2-3 days such as on an extended weekend or part of a larger eurotrip, i'd say start at national museum, see whatever temporary exhibit they have at the time (which is in the historic building - permanent exhibit is in the former federal parliament building, which is a very good building but gutted inside, and the exhibit is relatively generic) then walk down václavské náměstí, try to take a detour through one of the many passages (fénix, lucerna, světozor), continue down to staroměstské námestí (where orloj is). from there go either jewish quarter and then up to the metronome across the river, or go towards rudolfínum and across the river. kunsthalle is an art gallery with consistently very good exhibits, and it's a good space, worth seeing if you have a mustache (male)/bangs (female). begrudgingly i will admit charles bridge is good to see if you haven't been to prague before, what i like to show people when they visit is a very small pillar (viniční sloup) on the east bank which has the oldest cobble-stones in prague, supposedly dating to the late 1300s. not remarkable to see with your eyes but it doesn't show up on any TOP 10 THINGS TO SEE lists and it's a neat curio. the public transit system can be scary, but you should use metros and trams to get around, even if just for the experience.

for each additional day, you should wander around more, and see these additional things: petřín (get ice-cream from angelato near the enterance to the funicular - which you should take even if the line is very long), prague castle (yes it is rated this low), everyone who has been to the zoo says it is miles better than the zoo in their city (i am myself indifferent to zoos in general), you could see a concert at obecní dům/ballet/opera at national theater if that's your thing - the venues are comparable to those in the rest of austria-hungary, so it depends on what consitututes a "normal" concert hall/theater to you. dancing building by frank gehry, masaryčka by zaha hadid are cool newer buildings to look at. žižkov TV tower is neat, but i'm not sure how much entrance costs. don't eat there !

re: gastro, for czech food i'd say u medvídků and mincovna are a good balance of authentic and interesting. you can get good czech pub food in grimier pubs if you want, maybe better for a longer visit/if you have someone to tourguide you to a local joint. cafe louvre is good, smetanaq on the river if you want gluten free pancakes with microgreens (saying this derisively as if i don't also eat there sometimes). for drinks kavárna na boršově, for light snack out of the center, the cafe of hotel mosaic.

EDIT: gambrinus 12° number 1 beer worldwide

EDIT2: @yugotrash said: dont forget scheduling a day-trip to Kutná Hora to see the bones (author's note: "sedlec" is what you're googling here)

#mewchies i've tour-gode around the city what else am i missing

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ithinkineedamoment · 15 days

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2. Paris, France

1 of 1,000

I feel like it’s way too early in this process to even fully begin to unpack this one, but here we go.

Realistically, it makes sense. Barely a month ago, Sergio and I got off a plane from attending the 2024 Summer Olympics in France. It was a once in a lifetime event that I had been planning and replanning tediously since January 2023. There were tickets to be won, booked out hotels, over priced planes, and a whole lot of unknowns.

Sergio had never been to Paris or France. I, on the other hand, grew up no less than 20 minutes from the French border, in Germany, for my teenage years. Birthdays, long weekends, grocery shopping, flea marketing - it’d all happen in France. So in planning this Tour de France, it was less about me, and more about what I thought was worth seeing in France for Mr. Man’s first time. I stressed over every detail - was it worth going out of our way to Mont Saint Michel? Will he like staying in this neighborhood in Marseille or should I pick somewhere closer to the water? I begged and pleaded for his engagement for over a year and piecemealed together a plan. So much needed to be figured out, but not for a single minute did I worry about our weeklong stay in Paris.

It was September 25th, 2010 and our high speed train from Kaiserslautern had just arrived in Gare Montparnasse. My family had barely been in Europe for two months and there we were, dressed in our American best pretending we were citizens of the world. The photos of this trip are hilarious given that these were before years of military propaganda and attempts at assimilation (our military TV, AFN or Armed Forces Network, showed several commercials threatening terrorist attacks if you left your military base looking or acting like an American).

Regardless, we were there for one day to celebrate Mom’s birthday. It had not been an easy move to Europe. Over the past few months, Dad returned home from a year long deployment and he and I quickly fell into a quasi-estranged relationship. Weeks later, we found ourselves in Germany living in a concrete box on a military base, ostensibly, in the middle of nowhere. Mom would lash out, leaving scuffs and indents in the walls of the staircase that would never be fixed. The four of us were each other’s only support system, changed by the reintroduction of Dad to the mix after his yearlong absence. Who we were to each other and how we operated as a family unit was actively being rewritten in a militaristic world we had always been a part of but never formalized. It’s been 14 years, but I don’t remember we were ever happy in those early months. So stepping off that train felt energizing. Here we were in Paris - Paris! We were finally fulfilling the promise we were told of travel and seeing the wonders of Europe. It felt like the pain of getting to this point was finally paying off.

Truth be told, I barely remember anything from this specific trip to Paris. Scenes of this trip playback like the photographic screensaver that used to run on the family computer. But there would be more trips. A Memorial Day foray through the Louvre and the Gardens of Versailles with family friends, a spring break stay at EuroDisney, the three of us zipping through the Metro to catch sights of Mom running her first and only half marathon, a couple days here, an evening or two there - all these visits from our time in Europe exist in my mind as a living map of the city. “Remember when we were here last?” we would ask each other, only to respond “of course! New years 2011,” while standing under the Eiffel Tower. Each trip was significant enough to be noteworthy, but when played back over and over again, they lose their place in time.

This timelessness, I feel, is the point. When you’re sneaking down the Cour du Commerce Saint-Andre, just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain on the Left Bank, it makes sense. The stories you hear of winding streets flush with candlelight, the chattering of wine glasses and the clinking of vape pens against the metal tables, and somewhere, a street performer playing an Edith Piaf song because beauty is innate in every Parisien (and not because they’re catering to a tourist economy) - all of this combines to reaffirm your preconceived notions. Some find it romantic, others, a caricature to be avoided at all costs. And yet, we visit - experiencing a city designed to be beautiful by people who inspired its destruction. For every cathedral vault, there is a riot and barricade, for every newly built city wall, there was a force itching to invade.

In the fall of 2019, in the “blissful” months of post-college “freedom” that usually consisted of downing a bottle of wine by myself in bed watching old seasons of “The Amazing Race”, I felt the need to leave. I had some extra cash, not because my job paid well, but because I was paying next to nothing to live in the converted living room of a shared apartment with two former classmates. It was lonely - feeling as if you were entering adulthood having spent the past four years destroying yourself for a chance at success. So I planned a trip that I knew would hopefully spark some joy into my life. I booked my first solo trip to Paris.

Except it wasn’t solo. Within a few weeks of booking, I reconnected with Rick for the first time in months. I don’t remember who reached out first but after my fallout with Sergio, it felt harmless enough. While sipping a margarita at some restaurant in Midtown New York, long since closed, we caught up. He pummeled me with questions about what I was doing, where I was living, who I was fucking - convincing himself that the two classmates I was sharing an apartment with were my two boyfriends. I sipped on my drink and wondered what I was even doing there. It was just good to see him.

Eventually, we parted ways, tearfully. Texts became more frequent and the fear of repercussions dwindled and I mentioned that I was going to France - had booked a whole trip to go to Paris and see other places in the country I had never been to as a treat for myself. I never asked him to or made any indication it was something I wanted, but the next thing I knew, I was planning a trip for two. It’s funny how organizing a trip with someone who has money makes the entire planning process significantly easier. I didn’t complain, but knew that it was most likely a disaster in the long run.

A few days before the trip, Rick visited the doctor with a horrendous cough. He was told it was the flu and it’d pass, but it certainly wasn’t contagious anymore (Covid was knocking at the door). He could walk only steps at a time before needing a break and was constantly breaking out in a cold sweat. He was adamant that he’d still go on the trip. So there we went.

The trip was emotionally brutal for the most part. Traveling to Paris with him felt like trying to recover from alcoholism in a winery. Insane on my part. But he was sick! He couldn’t do anything. I’d leave the hotel and roam for hours just to return back to sweaty and upset Rick. I didn’t blame him. He could barely talk yet wanted to know everything, he couldn’t walk, but wanted to experience the city. I felt bound by some duty to give up the things that I wanted to do to support a man who I had loved through the city of it. Suddenly, the sights and sounds of the city I had treasured as the escape from my life through my youth felt like a prison. I was there but I shouldn’t be, I wanted to grow but I couldn’t. I was reminded of all the ways I would minimize my existence growing up in my parents house and performed them with wine stained lips - filling the silence while refusing to acknowledge my part in it. I missed him and I missed his company. I still do now, at times. However, that shouldn’t have been the reason I let him come on this trip. A part of the depression and mess I had been recovering from in New York was now sitting across from me at the dinner table in a foreign country I wasn’t supposed to be in. He wanted so desperately for me to love him again, and I knew a part of me did, but to admit that would have destroyed what was left of me.

So on the day before we were to leave Paris for our next city, I set off on the day’s journey. I remember the streets being quiet as I crossed the Île de la Cité. In December, the cold hangs over the city like a layer of frost no amount of warmth could penetrate. The buildings, the sky, everything seems a bit paler than it should be. I roamed and I roamed, climbing to Montmartre and realizing I had never been there. Ascending the winding streets and into Sacre Coeur, my mind flicked through the rolodex of bad ideas that could save me from my current situation. After cresting the hill, I found myself going west and eventually to Montmartre Cemetery. The sun was peeking through the grates of the Pont de Caulaincourt while the trees’ remaining leaves swirled down to their crunchy grave. It was cold, and it was quiet.

I took to the uneven cobblestones that lined the cluttered pathways of the cemetery. The tombs and mausoleums crowded each other like the misshapen buildings of a neglected city. I was alone in this necropolis, the city of the dead.

At a certain point, surrounded by the silence, I found a bench under a Maple tree. I don’t remember how long I sat there, sipping in the silence as one might a Vin Chaud, letting it numb me. Hector Berlioz, Edgar Degas, thousands of others all lay in their final resting place around me at peace and I was living. Why couldn’t I be at peace? Why did I have to be living? Living with the regret of not being strong enough to save myself, with the want of falling asleep there in the cold and praying I’d awaken to a different life. I had loved so hard and loved so deeply, but could never seem to love correctly. I gave everything I had to everyone else, and with everyone gone - I had nothing left.

Almost in response to my isolation, a small black cat emerged quietly from the untrimmed brush that twisted between the two tombs in front of me. The only other sign of life in the cemetery curled their way to the top of the tomb and pawed gently at the leaves, clearing a place to rest. I don’t remember whose tomb it was but time seemed to collapse. It didn’t matter whether the interred died 100 years ago or 500 years ago. Side by side, they were all equal in death. And we, the cat and I, were there now.

In the epilogue of Alistair Horne’s Seven Ages of Paris, which I only read this past year, he muses on the significance of the French words for love and death being so similar. Paris, to me, had always been a city of history, of art, of good food, and of love. It was an escape - a vision of a better world, a better life. It was never anything real. Love, as I knew it growing up, was using and being used - it wasn’t care. Paris was a city I used. Now death - death I could understand. Growing up in the military, it surrounded me. I begged for death several times before I should have. Death is inevitable and everyone will know it. All around Paris are markers of this knowledge - these memento mori. Cemeteries, catacombs, monuments, statues - all in remembrance of those who have come before us and had made this city beautiful. It is on the mounds of the dead that the sprouts of new love and life are able to be shared. It is in death that a tomb can become a bed to a sleepy cat.

I can’t say I bounded from the cemetery, energized by the notion of life. I did not run back to Rick and take him in my arms and promise myself to him forever. I knew that France would be the last time I would ever see him and as of today I’ve yet to be proven wrong. For the rest of the trip, I treated the death of our connection with patience and care, lulling it to sleep as you would a child. I knew that I could not give more of myself to him and I had to stop pretending that I could. What mattered more now was remembering that I will, in fact, die having lived a life for myself. I knew what was left of me was worth saving. I might have felt there was nothing left for me to give, but I could always create more. I couldn’t die without ensuring I left even the smallest bit of beauty behind.

Now, almost 5 years later, I’m freshly returned from another stint in France, this time with Sergio. We still have never discussed what happened between Rick and I or what happened in France, and I don’t know if we ever will. As I stated at the beginning, we were there for the Olympics and I cannot overemphasize how incredible it was. Yes, most of the city was empty save for the hordes of tourists, but who am I to complain? We were tourists too. It was exciting to return to a city I felt I had history with and not for the city’s sake. Seeing Sergio witness the city with fresh eyes and fresh criticism brought the city to life. In walking hand in hand down the banks of the Seine, it didn’t matter that we were passing the Musée d’Orsay. It mattered that we were there together. We had multiple, lengthy conversations about the struggles of our relationships and the ways we don’t show up for each other while also unpacking complicated feelings of family and home. It was hard, tiring, emotional - but the person I was 5 years ago could never have done so. My parents, who were also attending the games, made guest appearances a few times during our trip. It’s worth noting that shortly after that cemetery visit in 2019, my parents and I fell out of touch - no longer on speaking terms for years. Yet, here we were, back in the city that started it all in 2010, each willing to give Paris and each other another chance.

On our final night in Paris, as the Olympics drew to a close, Sergio and I grabbed a bottle of wine and made our way to the Jardin du Carrousel. The Olympic cauldron, as made famous by the fact it wasn’t a fire, was a giant hot air balloon whose basket was a ring of lights and smoke that would lift into the air at sunset and shine over the city and all the various arenas. I posited that it was most likely because the first manned hot air balloon ride that brought man to the skies back in the 1800s had taken place in Paris. Either way, we stayed in the garden commenting on the past 16 days of travel and what it meant to each other. For him, an opportunity to discover and appreciate a history he had always known but had strong prejudice against due to France’s imperialism (fair, lol). And for me, an appreciation of feeling present in a place with a history that had not always been easy. Home is a concept that I struggle with, but sitting there with him, it felt like home.

The sun set and the crowd around us leapt to their feet as the giant balloon in front of us unceremoniously slid into the sky. The empty wine bottle laid at our feet as the two of us stayed seated. The city had never felt so magical and this love had never felt so beautiful.

#1001 places #1001 movies #1001 albums #architecture #cemetery #france #paris #paris france #essay #olympics #paris olympics #tw sui ideation #relationship #project #cat

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