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racingtoaredlight · 4 years

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The Gibson ES-335

“Yeah this guitar is the one that I played the majority of my sessions and solo records on. The choice to get the 335 was actually a very practical choice for me. So I play a lot of different styles of music and I wanted to get a guitar that could cover a lot of bags, so I didn't always have to switch to a bebop guitar for this...blues guitar for that...this one covers most of the bags that I want to play or was called on to play.

So that's how I ended up picking the 335, and the little store I went to in 1969 to buy a 335, there were three hanging on the wall and I chose this one because it sounded the best to me, and the rest is really history, isn't it? Brand new...yeah 1969...although I ended up carrying everything but this one seemed to cover most, so I didn't have to keep pulling a new guitar out."

-Larry “Mr. 335″ Carlton

***

The “big three” of the electric guitar are the Fender Stratocaster and Telecaster, and the Gibson Les Paul. The extent to which these three models dominate just about every era is about as close to complete as possible.

The Telecaster has had an almost total lockdown on country music since the 1960′s. I’ve since deleted the posts, but in my rundown of the greatest guitarists ever, a legitimate 2/3′s main guitar was a Stratocaster. And the louder music became, the more the Les Paul came into play...the guitar which, thanks to Jimmy Page and Slash’s iconic imagery, might be the defining guitar of rock music.

Of those three, the two Fenders would be on most guitarist’s lists of most versatile...with some compromises. The Les Paul can get around ok in cleaner settings, but not like the Fenders. It’s just too thick of a sound and, combined with the humbucking pickups, overdrive amps at lower volumes. Where the Fenders are crystal clear, the Les Paul is muddy.

Enter the ES-335. Arguably the most versatile electric guitar.

***

There are variants of the ES-335 that I’m going to lump in just to make things easier. The ES-345 and ES-355 both had fancy things that the 335 didn’t...mainly a variable tone switch that was fucking stupid, and a Bigsby tailpiece that knocked you out of tune and was fucking stupid. Oh, the 355 had an ebony fretboard with block inlays...you’d know this one as BB King’s “Lucille.” They all sound about the same.

If you want a rundown of notable users of the ES-335 and its variants...Eric Clapton (above), BB King, Freddie King, Chuck Berry (and Marty McFly), Dave Grohl, Rich Robinson (Black Crowes), Otis Rush, Alex Lifeson (Rush), Chris Cornell, Roy Orbison, Alvin Lee, Larry Carlton (Steely Dan and a million other people), Duane Allman, Eric Johnson, Joe Bonnamassa. If we include Epiphone variants, we can add Gary Clark Jr. and Robben Ford to the list too. I guess the Beatles too, if we’re doing that, but fuck them.

What makes the 335 different than the Les Paul...even though many guitarists consider them relatively interchangeable (as long as you’re not playing anything high-gain)...is, obviously, that it’s hollow. Kinda.

***

“Semi-hollow” refers to the solid block of maple running down the middle of the body, which the pickups and neck are mounted to. The top, bottom and sides are made of layers of laminated maple, the two parts are pressed together, and there you have it.

A kinda solid body, kinda hollow body, hybridy type thing.

It still has a lot of that heft that a Les Paul has, and adds a sweetness the Lester sacrifices power for. And while they absolutely cover a lot of the same ground...personally, I consider them interchangeable...the biggest differentiator is if you play jazz, it’s the 335, and if you play high gain stuff, it’s the Les Paul. Solely due to the 335′s feedback issues from being hollow.

That sweetness is what makes the 335 so versatile. That heft the Les Paul brings to the table is a liability in lighter styles of music. Not light in terms of “smooth jazz” or whatever, but in terms of requiring a musician to be nimble. Genres like funk and R&B and country don’t need a guitar sound that’s huge and heavy and in your face. But the 335 has clarity, and that clarity is what makes it a more versatile instrument.

***

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So if you’re reading this and thinking that I’m setting this up as some sort of “335 is the greatest guitar” type thing, you’re not far off.

Everything that Larry Carlton said about the 335 at the very top, I said when I bought my Fender Stratocaster. The reason I went with a Strat over a 335 was a value proposition, more than a musical one...I got my Strat and a professional-quality leather gig bag for $1,500 while you’re going to spend about $3,000 on a 335 (average-condition used 335′s from undesirable Gibson eras start the pricing around $2,300). Combine that with the Fender not having Gibson’s fragility issues*, again, it was almost purely a value proposition...you can’t play a guitar if it’s in the shop.

*The Gibson headstock is angled backwards in order to ensure a proper break angle for the strings passing through the nut. While this gives every string the proper break angle, it creates an Achilles’ Heel where these beatifully crafted instruments that feel like they could go through war, can actually be rendered useless with nothing more than a fall from a couple feet.

But make no mistake, essentially from my 2nd year of music school, I knew the 335 was the guitar for me. I’ve played hundreds of 335′s and its variants. Played a ‘59 with mini-block inlays in Dallas, a ‘62 sunburst at the Dallas Guitar Show, a Memphis Custom Shop gold top in Nashville, a ‘69 ES-345 here in Cleveland...

Not to mention countless “regular” and Custom Shop models at various guitar stores through the years. The 335 is a natural landing spot for jazz guys who play rock and blues, and it was where I naturally gravitated towards. Before I bought my Strat, I had passed on opportunities to get a 335 because I knew how well they suited my style of playing, and how many opportunities I’d have down the road to pick one up.

I could say that “I miss nothing when I play my Strat” but that’s not true. I miss that heft and control you get with humbuckers, and with the 335 I get some of those Strat qualities without the Les Paul’s muddiness. It’s just...again...the Strat was half the price and I can beat it to shit without feeling bad.

***

The 335 doesn’t have the stardom of the Les Paul, which is fine.

While there are some stars who used a 335 variant, in reality, the 335 was designed for the guys behind the star. Despite it being a huge instrument in either red or super glossy black, it’s an instrument made for the background. The stars can pick and choose what they want to play, but if you’re hired to support that musician and cover a ton of bases, you want something that gives you the most bang for your buck.

Things are different today, but back in the good old days a professional backup guitarist might be asked to play jazz, country, blues, rock and maybe even disco in the same night. There are really only two guitars that can cover all of those bases and not miss a beat, the Strat and the 335.

Now, I haven’t included many sound examples on purpose.

Philosophically, I boil guitar down into two macro “tones”...clean and dirty. This is in reference to level of overdrive...you can play clean but still dirty, like funk rhythms...as well as dirty and clean, like playing precise leads with a lot of overdrive. But if we’re talking about music in the middle...i.e. not extreme metal or sterile minimalist stuff...you can break it down into clean or dirty.

Effects, processing, all that shit that goes down with pedals and modelers and simulators...all that stuff is, is a more convenient way to improve a lacking sound. The better your playing and note choice is...something only possible with hours and hours of experience...the less reliant you are on these things, and the more the equipment you do use shines.

Larry Carlton is known as “Mr. 335.” His biggest solo hit was titled “Room 335.” His home studio is known as “Room 335.” He reached the pinnacle of the session world, despite not really playing on as many sessions as his peers, because of how incredible his skills as a musician, producer and bandleader were. And he did almost all of it on a 335.

He’s the perfect guitarist to use as an example of what the 335 is capable of. These tracks have no effects, are just Carlton straight into a Fender Tweed Deluxe. The first track “Josie” is a clean example...just listen to the beginning gutiar part and then the fills during the last 45 seconds of the song...beautiful clean tone. The second is “Kid Charlemagne”...the comping during the verses has great clean tone too, but focus on the leads. Especially the closing solo during the last minute. It’s very overdriven, very saturated, but still clean where the notes are distinct.

That’s the beauty of the 335.

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chrystening · 5 years

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All That Glitters | Sinbad / Male Reader

Title: All That Glitters Fandom: Magi Rating: M Words: 4k Summary: Anyone who’s taken a second to look past the glimmering, faux-perfect exterior knows Sinbad must be up to no good. You were convinced that the King of Sindria has everyone under his spell… and now you are too. Warnings: hypnosis, probably dubcon, forced masturbation, sinbad being sneaky and awful

The dregs of war had clearly not dimmed the Sindrian spirit, because the celebration of the war’s end was well under way.

Sindria was lively and beautiful, glittering and festive. Under the night sky, torches burned bright, lighting the paved roads. Women danced in their silky outfits, feathers and jewels against their skin, as men juggled torches to the delight of watching children. The people were kind and generous, handing out masks and other festival paraphernalia. Where usually, there’d be some danger lurking about, criminals seeking to rob unsuspecting festival goers, you found none. There was only generosity, happiness, fun.

A string of flowers, vibrant in their color, was suddenly shoved in your face. You blinked dumbly at the intrusion, before focusing your sights past their petals, to the innocent girl holding them out to you. Her toothy grin widened.

“Flowers, mister?”

You paused before smiling kindly down at her, taking them gingerly.

“Thank you,” you said, pulling the lei over your head.

She nodded, before skipping off gleefully.

You absentmindedly watched her bounce off, smelling the savory aroma of meat. Grills lined the path, smoke wafting up like signals for festival goers to follow.

There didn’t seem to be a single problem with Sindria that you could point out. It had a flourishing economy, low crime rate, swift justice system, and a seemingly benevolent king. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that this country’s prosperity was all due to one man.

You sighed, a dim figure amidst the joy and festivities. Your thoughts were interrupted as someone small bumped into you. You managed not to stumble forward as you felt him gather his bearings, still leaning most of his weight on your back.

“Ah!” you heard. From the childish lilt, you surmised it was your blue-headed friend.

“Aladdin?”

You heard his soft, earnest feet pad around. He skipped into your view, blessing you with his countenance. You smiled at seeing his smile, always pleased at the pure joy and wonder he found in everything.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Alibaba, Morg, and I are going to go talk to Uncle Sinbad!” Your eyebrows rose. The two aforementioned suddenly came into your sight, Alibaba sheepishly scratching his head and Morgiana with a polite smile. Aladdin clasped his hands together and gleamed up at you. “Would you like to come?”

You grinned sheepishly. “I’m fine.”

The thought of being in Sinbad’s presence unnerved you. You knew if given the chance, you’d fall for his charms, as had everyone else.

Aladdin deflated, puffing his cheeks. “You haven’t joined us in anything tonight! Just now you missed the reenactment of our journey into Zagan’s dungeon!” At the mention of that you cringed; if you were recalling correctly, it was due to Sinbad’s encouragement they left. They could’ve died… You looked them over. They were just kids, you thought, looking over their faces.

“It’s true. You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself tonight,” Morgiana supplied, gentle concern in her features. Alibaba looked at you questioningly as well. You scratched your head.

“I know, I know, but—“

“Come on,” Aladdin urged, pushing you along. “You need to at least meet the eight generals!” A perverted look appeared on his face. “Ah, Big Sis Yam is so pretty and soft~”

Aladdin cooed over his magic teacher as he guided you forward, Alibaba and Morgiana in tow.

You didn’t blame their excitement, blinded by the glamour of Sindria and its king. Neither of them had seen what you had. You remember much too vividly seeing Sinbad in his djinn equip—intense, crushing power surging off him in waves, as the wrath of what felt like God rained down from the sky at his command. While such power was becoming commonplace in the age of dungeon conquering, there was just an abnormality to his strength. Men that strong didn’t just build empires on islands, ruling peacefully and fairly. You thought of your own childhood.

They just didn’t.

You allowed yourself reluctantly to be pushed, a murky feeling in your heart as you went to see the esteemed King of Sindria.

Yeah… You didn’t like him.

You reached this conclusion at the sight of him being fawned about by women, their eyes batting coyly at your entrance. You grimaced, immediately reminded of the gluttonous, lustful king your own country suffered under. Seeing your entry with your young companions, the horde swarming him was gently shooed away. The jewels and gold they wore clang together like songs as they exited. You absentmindedly watched them go, as opposed to Alibaba and Aladdin’s ogling, before returning your attention to Sinbad.

You stilled, terror racing up your veins.

His eyes, pools of deep amber, were acutely focused on you. They were highly attentive, unblinking and observant. The ghost of a smirk on his lips sent shivers down your spine. No one else seemed to be under the same effect as you, your young friends chattering as usual. His presence grew only more oppressive as he didn’t turn from you at all. No one seemed to notice his staring.

You ripped your eyes away from his, feeling uncomfortable.

You were right. This man couldn’t just be… as perfect as everyone claimed.

While the trio were introducing you to the eight generals, you kept your eyes anywhere except Sinbad, only making eye contact when greeting the guardians humbly. They were all interesting, some energetic and others stoic. They all appeared… honest. Kind-hearted. At the very least, well-intentioned. None of them gave you the same chill as their leader.

After introductions were done, you retreated behind Alibaba and Aladdin, who lead the conversations thanks to their extroverted personalities. You lost track of the topic at hand, the chatter becoming peripheral to your mind until screams broke out.

“What did you say?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you hard of hearing?”

Your eyes darted up to Yamraiha and Sharrkan. Everyone’s attentions were diverted from the matter at hand. Whatever—it was an opening. The more responsible guardians endeavored to calm the situation, while the others watched in amusement. You dared to look at Sinbad again, relieved to find him not looking back. He was leaning back in a lavish chair, his visage framed with the metal vessels he carried. He laughed in merriment, amused by the argument between his retainers. Frustration clawed at you.

He had to be hiding something. And you had to find out what.

You tore your eyes away from Sinbad, and they fell to your young friends. Their colorful heads bobbed, and their faces were pink from laughter and youth. You had to find out soon, before it put your friends in danger.

Managing to ease your way out of sight, you were soon ducking behind a corner to escape.

You weren’t the only master of stealth, unknown to you. Once you looked away, Sinbad’s eyes trailed your every movement. He watched as you withdrew from the situation, eyes lingering on the wall you had disappeared behind once you were out of sight. He stood naturally and quietly, only catching the attention of the most observant person present.

Jafar, standing to the side as always, looked up. He folded his arms, his sleeves linking together.

“My king?”

Sinbad glided past him, speaking without interrupting his stride.

“I’ll be away for a minute or so. Don’t let anyone follow.”

Jafar bowed his head slightly, sinking it lower into the cover of his sleeves.

You found yourself walking deeper into the confines of the palace grounds. The festive music was little more than a whisper in the air, growing ever fainter as your steps continued. The liveliness of Sindria was beginning to fade into the distance. That mirage of delight and liveliness was a world away.

The presence of light was becoming harder and harder to come by, only supplied by the occasional torch. But you didn’t mind; you, in fact, preferred the dark, and the cover it provided. You’d need the darkness in this mission.

Step.

The relaxing atmosphere dissipated and your senses were sent on high alert.

You froze. You hadn’t sensed anybody in the nearby vicinity.

This stranger only let you hear their approach because they wanted you to.

You whirled around, fingers itching at your right side. They cackled threateningly with hissing electricity, before fizzling out in your shock of who it was.

You were confronted by Sinbad, his face in drastic shadow. You blinked dumbly—it was all you could do. He didn’t move or say anything, allowing you to become uncomfortable in the silence.

You collected yourself, urging your body to stop its reluctant tremble. You made an attempt to veil the poison in your eyes, smiling politely. You bowed your head, breaking eye contact.

“King Sinbad,” you spoke.

You flinched at his hearty laugh, followed by the clink of jewelry as he folded his arms. “Where’s that fight I just saw a second ago?” You didn’t respond. “Don’t tell me it’s all gone. And please, call me Sinbad.”

You looked up, focusing on red jewel that sat in his hairpiece, winking dangerously at you.

“You aren’t enjoying yourself?” Your eyes snapped to his—a mistake. “What are you doing so far away from the entertainment?” He smiled amicably, but every word was a loaded question. He sounded so sure of himself, so sure of you. In fact, you’d be surprised if he didn’t already know your intentions. Your eyebrows furrowed. Did he?

You furrowed your eyebrows, mind grasping at what to say. What was it about him that kept you from lying? You had done so easily in the past.

“Are you… spying on me?” he continued, grin withstanding. You flinched, blanching and speechless as you found it impossible to lie to him. He let out a hearty laugh at your face, and you narrowed your eyes. You reassured yourself as he bent over in mirth. He didn’t have any idea. He was playing with you.

“You…” you muttered, folding your arms and looking away.

“Well, either way, Yamraiha’s security enchantments are down, so I suppose you have the run of the place…” you heard him say amicably. Your ears perked at that.

You didn’t reply, standing there awkwardly in the silence. You weren’t looking, but Sinbad was looking at you through half-lidded eyes. You were a problem, yes, but a good-looking one nonetheless.

Your nerves then went on high alert when you heard him take a step forward. They screamed at you when he took another. You took a step back. He took a step forward.

Step back, step forward.

Step back, step forward, until he was almost right on top of you.

You gasped when your back hit a pillar.

Sinbad was not affected by your hysterics at all. He gave you a knowing smile, his face framed with locks of violet. He shifted, his jewels clanging against one another melodically. They resounded in your ears like chimes. Warm torchlight refracted off his jewelry like molten sunlight, dizzying to look at. You swallowed, unable to look away from his eyes. His eyes were dangerously gold.

“Forgive me if I’ve gotten the wrong impression,” he started, before advancing one more step. His voice grew lower, right above a whisper. “But I get the feeling you aren’t very fond of me.” You visibly shivered, embarrassing to admit. Torchlight made the ring on his finger glimmer. “Tell me.”

Your entire being trembled once he said that, his voice tinny and bouncing off the walls. You blinked. Was that your imagination?

You could feel the strength radiating off of him, washing over you in waves. You felt your legs grow weaker. Sinbad was silent, waiting for a response from you. His molten gaze was unwavering. Your jaw tightened; you couldn’t stand those eyes. They were sharp, possessing a gross omniscience. He could see right through you, you knew. Look away, look away! you begged him inwardly.

Only the crackling of fire was audible, almost drowned out by your heart’s pounding. You opened your mouth.

“I–” An eyebrow cocked tauntingly. “I… don’t,” you responded, finally. His smile deepened, his eyes becoming gold slits in his shadowed face.

“Oho~” His voice was playful. “If I’ve done anything wrong, please, let me formally apologize.”

“As if you’d mean it,” you breathed before being able to stop yourself. His eyebrows rose imperceptibly. Newfound courage flooded your body seeing his façade falter, if only for a bit. You stepped forward, almost chest to chest with him.

“From what I’ve seen… I-I don’t know if I can trust you.” What exactly were you doing? You were insulting a king, in his own country, in his own palace, after indulging in his food and entertainment. Sure you wanted to get to the bottom of this, but there were… smarter ways.

But you didn’t care. Something about Sinbad was decidedly off.

Humor entered his visage. “And here I thought my hospitality was more than generous.” You stiffened when you felt his fingers play with your lei. You shook him off, eyes darting to a bracelet you were sure was a metal vessel.

“For your own benefit, I’m sure,” you countered.

He gestured to his luxurious palace. “And what are these benefits I could get that I don’t already have?”

You narrowed your eyes; he must’ve known by now you weren’t a fool.

“Alibaba’s the displaced prince of Balbadd. When he comes of age to take back his kingdom, he will be a powerful ally. Aladdin’s a magi, a magician of creation. His power and influence could be limitless.” You were babbling at this point, unable to stop talking. “You could even make use of Morgiana if you wanted; she’ll become a formidable warrior.”

He didn’t say anything, still grinning. And? he seemed to be saying through his silence.

“And they all listen to me.” Your eyes narrowed as you and him stared at one another. “And I might tell them something you don’t like.”

Sinbad’s eyes were heavy on you, level and calm. He still had that damn smirk on his face, as if he was winning. He didn’t step back from you.

“Well?” He placed his hands on his hips, leveling a dare on you with his gaze. “And if I ‘wanted to make use of them,’ what would you do about it?”

At the thinly veiled threat, you summoned your magoi, letting it surge around you in a small sphere. It didn’t faze him at all, not that you expected it to. Sinbad was more powerful than you could imagine. Frankly, you didn’t know what you meant by this display of power.

“Then I’ll stop you.”

He appraised you for a moment, before learning forward. He was completely unaffected by your power, penetrating its barrier with a flagrant hand. Your eyebrows furrowed. It took all the power you had in your body not to dart away. Sinbad’s hand cupped your face, and you gasped. He bent down to your ear. You put your hands on his chest to push him away as your magoi dissipated, but you had no strength to.

He moved, his lips just brushing with the sensitive shell of your ear. He was beginning to whisper when you turned away, looking towards the moonlit fountains. You couldn’t move. Or didn’t want to? You scanned the vicinity, embarrassed. What would this look like to a passerby?

You struggled to even focus on his exact words, but you knew you were absorbing them somehow .

Whenever you–

–touch–

–ally with–

–heat–

–pleasure–

– think of me.

What he was saying was enough to make you blush, but what was this intense effect? There was a definite ring to his voice, hollow and hypnotic. You were panting, the shell of your ear where his breath tickled turning numb. You struggled to keep your eyes open, not to close them and fall against his chest. Your insides were swirling with fire. You grew panicked once you felt the beginnings of an erection.

But you went flaccid once he withdrew his lips from your ear, your eyes shooting wide open. You looked at his face–God, it was smug. He smiled down at you, eyes glittering, before turning away.

He began his departure, continuing and exiting around a corner. Once you knew he was gone, your knees failed you. You leaned on the wall and exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You sank to the floor, clutching your chest. Your heart racked against your ribs. All he said… since when had Sinbad felt that way for you? Or was he playing around again? You felt the need to scurry back to your room–

You frowned. No, you steeled. You felt the niggling that you should go back, but there was no time for that. You bounded back up, and made your way throughout the palace grounds. You avoided the eye of any guards walking about, hopping from roof to roof until Sinbad’s office was in sight. You scanned the area, no one appearing to look your way. Sinbad had so carelessly admitted that Yamraiha’s spells were down.

You flew up to an open window. How careless his hubris had made him…

You set foot in his office, the room dim and shrouded in shadow. It was still, books on shelves and papers on his desks your only companion. How unsettling it was to be here at night. It felt a whole lot smaller. You traipsed to Sinbad’s desk, bending over to open a drawer.

When you reached for it, It was as if it was happening in slow motion. You absently wondered why. Your fingers made contact with the knob, and a jolt flickered in your brain.

You blinked, hand curled around the knob. Then you moaned suddenly–you slapped a hand over your traitorous mouth. From your hand’s place on your face, you could feel the heat of your cheeks. You bristled. In fact, all of you was hot. Why… were you so hot? You stood up straight, releasing the drawer knob against your own volition. Perhaps Yam enchanted sudden fever on trespassers?

You had to get back to your room. You walked away from the desk, steps growing weaker. Towards the door you went. Something was at work here, a spell, an enchantment, something. You could pinpoint the moment your mind began to fuzz. You could hear your heavy breathing in the silence of the room. You tripped—over what, you weren’t sure—and landed on all fours. You let out a deep groan, feeling searing heat pool to your groin. You scooted until your back was against the wall adjacent to the doors. Seeing no shadows underneath the crack of the doors, you surmised you were truly alone. No guards even? Was Sinbad always this trusting? You folded your arms as you sat against the wall.

You wanted to be touched, you realized. Of all times... You gritted your teeth.

… You were alone…

“No one…” you panted aloud. You writhed, blushing. “It’s…” Fine, your mind whispered to you. But that wasn’t your mind’s voice...

You’re alone, it’s fine, it said.

To your shame, your trembling hands fell tentatively from the fabric on your chest, instead slipping under them. As if by themselves, they ran across your warm skin. Behind the fuzziness of your mind, you were aware you should stop. But ‘Keep going,’ sang the choir in your mind, in voices that weren’t yours or anyone’s you knew. The pads of your fingertips ran over the buds of your nipples. Just a graze against them and you were hissing. Your touch felt like fire and ice. Forget slow and sensual, you thought. Your hands dove quickly underneath your waistband.

You gripped your length, groaning in relief. You could feel the pulse of your own erection, and you stroked it affectionately. Your head hit against the wall as it lolled back.

You closed your eyes. Firm touch, bronzed skin, and long, long hair like ink. Amber eyes, grinning lips, gold earrings. Your mind was flooded with flashes of a man with eager hands, kneading you. His face escaped you, but that didn’t matter. His tongue–that mattered. His body– that mattered. The feeling of him sinking into you– that mattered.

You let out a delirious sound, hand a pistoning blur on your erection. It leaked profusely, your makings falling onto your pants, dripping down your balls. You bucked into your own hand, an embarrassing motion but one you didn’t dare stop.

You brought your knees up as you curled into a ball on the floor. The sparse jewelry you wore–thin bands of gold and a layered pendant–clanged together in gold noises. Alongside your gasping, pleading, they were the only sounds that accompanied you in the dark of Sinbad’s office.

Sinbad– he was brought to mind suddenly. So suddenly you jerked at the thought of him. Yes… Sinbad .

Your frenzied eyes relaxed, glazing over.

“Sinbad,” you whispered like a secret. The fading logic in your brain was connecting the dots. He had something to do with this. He wanted to stop you. He had only left you alone because he knew you’d be–

You drew a breath, those thoughts lost in a breeze.

“Sinbad,” you said again, this time louder, more wanting. He wasn’t there to answer, but your mind conjured his body for you to beg at. His smile just a while ago, his whispering. How could he have left you like this? You whined with abandon, completely unconcerned with keeping quiet.

“Sinbad, Sinbad, Sinbad,” you gasped, unable to think or say anything else as you pumped your hands between your thighs.

You wanted him. You knew your administrations were enough to drive you to finish, but not to be satisfied. Not until he was there to help you. Your eyebrows knotted as you felt yourself push over the edge.

You came with a purr, mouth open and wet. It was nearly painful as you were rigid for a moment, before falling lax. You were a boneless pile on the floor, eyes closed and listening to your own breathing.

You wouldn’t be surprised if you fell asleep right there, basking in the silence and warmth of an orgasm.

There was the wind outside... the rustle of leaves... the soft beat of dreams… the chanting of citizens… One of your eyes opened a sliver. You bristled when the music from the city registered in your head again. Oh my God… oh my God –

You pushed off the floor to sit up in Sinbad’s office– Sinbad’s office! Your cheeks flamed once more, but with humiliation. You looked at the hands holding you up. Your right hand was slick with cum and sweat, soiled with your shame. A niggle in your mind bode you to bring it to your lips.

“Oh my God,” you gasped. You rose to your feet, your knees wobbly and legs protesting, but rising nonetheless. Your mind was still a hazy cloud, but clearing.

You looked around the office. It looked so normal and untouched, as if nothing of note had occurred. As if you hadn’t just pleasured yourself in the king’s office, while pleasuring yourself to the king. You eyes fell to the floor, which beheld the only evidence of your being here. Your seed painted the carpet, so out of place and almost mockingly innocent. You hurriedly swiped at it with your fingers, wiping them on your clothes before you fell prey to the voice in your head telling you to taste them. This was mortifying.

You took one last sweep around the room under a nervous brow, before striding to the window and leaping out of it without a second thought. You’d retire to your room for the night. Hell to the festivities–you were too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye. How could you even look Sinbad in the eye again after this...

At least no one had been here to witness this… whatever this was, you thought furtively, descending like a feather to the ground with red cheeks.

At the same time, from outside the door, Sinbad applauded his restraint, having been eager the whole time to join you. He stepped away from where he had been listening and slipped out his hand from under his robes. You had just been too cute. And naive.

He began walking down the corridor, making his way back to the festivities. How lucky you can go back to your room, whereas a king will surely be missed... he thought, sighing with a smile. Sinbad licked his own fingers clean. And I’ve already overstayed my welcome.

#sinbad male reader #sinbad imagine #magi imagines #sinbad x male reader #zepar #fic #fic commissions #mine

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kyoune · 7 years

Text

wisteria

i’ll cling to you.

fandom: midnight cinderella notes: suitors/reader, a collection of fluff drabbles for the suitors of midnight cinderella (minus one). mostly spoiler free (watch out for leo’s, at least)

alyn

the fairytales say that princesses are dainty little things. they dance, they wear dresses and chatter over afternoon tea, they find a prince charming, and live happily ever after. princesses do not handle blades - danger is not meant to reach them, for what is what knights are for.

damn what the fairytales say.

there’s no drop of royal blood in you anyways, and this is what comforts you when your fingers slide down the cold metal. it does not feel like danger, but it does feel like home.

“are you sure you want to do this?” alyn’s voice is paranoid, overprotective. you can’t blame him, because accidents do happen, and your smooth, clean skin is a temptation for calamity. yet at the same time, as princess elect of wysteria, you have but one duty, and a wound to your flesh is a mere paper cut compared to a kingdom without a ruler.

most of all, you remind him, luxurious silk gowns don’t go well with princess blood.

a sigh tumbles out, but so does “fair point”. he reaches out and takes your hand in his, starting off with the basics. with his guidance, you mimic and practice the exercises, trying not to imagine the inevitable bloodshed and violence. his fingers trace the skin where it is most vulnerable, where it is most efficient to stick blades in, and now you know why pocket knives are such popular weapons, even for the common thief.

a stab to the heart, a simple knock to the head, just one little mishap and perhaps you’ll never see the light of day again.

“now, come at me. i’ll test you.”

alyn assumes the role of guard on watch, back turned. the veins in your hands pulse like a ticking clock, and as your arms lift up, you can just feel it, the adrenaline behind your force, the almost frightful thrill that shocks your body as you swing the blade forward -

.. and his fingers snatch your arm. alyn’s other hand steadies you, and he steals a kiss when you whirl around in confusion.

“not bad, not bad.” he laughs, “fierce is a good look on you.”

giles

of all the things you’d expect to see, giles sleeping, face smashed against the oak desk, was not one of them. sleep makes his face look gentle, less like a strict tutor and more like the kindhearted cat lover you know.

maybe it’s not that surprising. he wears many hats, some of which should not rest on his head. yet they fall on him anyway, for there is always something to do, something to achieve. for giles christophe, being busy is a way to prove that his life has worth, even if it meant he couldn’t be a knight, even if it meant he’d have to tire the hell out of himself every night.

without him, the palace could crumble. few men can carry the weight of a country on their shoulders. speaking of shoulders, you figure adding a blanket to those wouldn’t hurt; it is rather cold, and oh, those windows will need to be shut too. around his office do you go, your feet automatically moving, your hands cleaning up a bit here and there.

minutes pass until your hands latch on to some amethyst fabric, embossed in the wysterian crest. bunching it up around your fists, you deem it warm enough, and layer it upon his shoulders.

the moment it touches him, he springs to life.

“princess…?” your title cracks on his tongue, bruised by the grogginess of his voice. how tired he sounds could break your heart.

“please don’t worry about me.” you add, “and … take care of yourself more.”

giles says nothing, though the outer corners of his lips turn up gently as you tuck the layer in. a few more finishing adjustments, and you are satisfied with your work, heels turning to let him rest in peace.

before you can even take a step away, however, familiar hands intertwine with one of yours.

“i love you, princess.”

louis

the harp really does suit him. it’s the picture of elegance; the strings and the base are as slender as he, the notes resonate with an unmatched gentleness, and the way his fingers pluck at it is just so, so graceful.

“would you like to try?”

ah. you’ve been staring too long, it seems. the lovely chimes have long stopped, and the heat of iced eyes gnaws at you. expectant, the duke’s gaze lays down a heavy peer pressure, but you know he’s being nothing but kind - you’d never have the guts to ask or intrude otherwise.

he eases when you break out into smiles and nods, ice melting into water. a featherlight smile balances on his lips, which kiss your knuckles as he takes your hand in his.

lithe fingers cover yours, and while your mind spins into a spell, all you can think about is how this is exactly like your dance lessons: he’s close, you’re blushing, and god is your heart pounding. blond bangs sweep across your forehead for a second, and his warm, soft lips press a kiss to your nose.

“don’t lose concentration now.” his voice is soft, edging on teasing.

“ah, sorry!“

leo

he’s the rumpelstiltskin of words. smooth talker, charismatic aristocrat - he takes words and spins them into gold. whether it was written or spoken did not matter; he was a master of both. paperwork ran in his blood, his speeches just came to him, and on the tip of his tongue always lies a jest, a pick-up line. with them, he crafts a mask to hide behind, locking the secret of who he was behind insincere pleasantries and vague hints.

and you, your heart is too full of compassion, your tiny body can’t possibly hold it all. it’s why your emotions spill so easily on your face, your eyes and lips swinging from one expression to another. in a way, the two of you are opposites, leo with his cryptic, static smiles, and you with your whirlwind face.

maybe that’s why you don’t get him sometimes.

hovering over the palace balcony with his face pulled taut, the bureaucrat appears to be set in stone. red, red eyes burn downwards, as if daring to peek at the midnight blue above would hurt. for the fifth consecutive night, leo hasn’t seen a wink of sleep, and you are beginning to wonder if he’s fallen into the past again.

it worries you, and you want to say something, anything, but you know better than anyone that forcing words is treading on thin ice. the past is thick waves of flames and dead parents, the lost childhood that burnt down with the crawford estate. it is a past that you have no part of, because you are his future, the future of healing waters and happy memories, and he wants you nowhere near that fire, lest it start burning once more.

from the bedroom, you bore hores into his back with your own eyes, adamant. tomorrow he will be gone, off to sort his fiasco of a family, diving back into the matter he hates most. this time, however, you will not let him go alone.

“you know, i’d do anything to keep you safe.” it’s a phrase that sounds foreign on your tongue, so foreign that it quivers. but it does take his eyes away, distracts from whatever might be tormenting him.

“so let me come too.”

he breaks from his statuesque stance, pulls you close, and it’s a mess of limbs and stray bedsheets; his hair tickles your neck when he inclines for a cuddle, and there’s so much squirming that you fear the shuffling could reach giles’ ears. when you two finally settle, with you sitting upright and his head on your lap, the silence is replaced by laughter.

“thanks.”

robert

when robert had asked to paint you, you were excited. as crown princess, it really shouldn’t have been a big deal - portraits were nearly tradition to royalty, and never had they not been painted. but when you’ve spent the last decade of your life in the shoes of a commoner, however, such things were new; they were a privilege, a dream so far that it’d never be truer than a fairy tale.

but this was not how you thought it would be.

perhaps you’ve misconstrued his words somehow. hm… yes, yes that must have been it. rainbows of colours surround you, held captive in glass bottles. brushes of duck feathers and horse tail skim the floor lazily. the painter himself wields one now, dyed in some fusion of scarlet… and gently swipes the end over the curve of your lips.

it’s soft, and it tickles. clutching at the hem of your favourite dress, you bunch up the fabric in imitation of the courage you’re trying to muster, the courage to ask hey, aren’t paintings made on mediums such as canvases, and you know… not me?

before the words can even catch in your throat, robert slips his fingers under your chin, and tilts your face towards him. “what’s wrong, love?”

the affectionate term makes you flush.

“aren’t you supposed to be painting me and not on me?” it’s an innocent question, honest, but somehow it makes him raise a brow and chuckle.

“i’d have to paint your portrait sooner or later, princess. i just thought… something more personal would be nice.“ he smiles, and within that small quirk of his lip, you see mischievous intent.

so you play along.

“tell me what you mean by ‘personal’.”

another grin surfaces on his face, this one a tinge more wolffish. he leans in close, kisses the lip colour off your mouth, and prepares his brush in a new color, a pale peach.

“mmm…i’ll tell you when i’m done with you.”

sid

“they makin’ you study again, princess?” disdain stains the informant’s voice, his fingers clipping up the pages of the book with disgust, as if it were contaminated. “bullshit.”

he continues this game as he tours your study, long legs taking wide strides, sneering at every article. if you didn’t know him any better, he’d seem like he were impersonating the bureaucrats around you, with his nose pointed high, his steps taken with arrogance.

you purse your lips, hide your smile. amused as you are, the matter of your duties takes priority, and the princess of wysteria has much more important things to do over entertaining her local bad boy.

at least, that is what you tell yourself, eyes endlessly fixated on him. damn him for being so alluring, so distracting in a way.

"I need to study.” it comes out colder than you want it to be, but hey, that’s not your problem. not like it’d affect him much, anyway; he gets this treatment from a fellow blonde duke all the time, does he not?

yet his face collapses in exasperation nonetheless, as if he were already tired of this “princess” thing. dark brows knit for a split second, and when they relax back, his voice takes on a sensual edge.

“really?” another book is tossed to the ground, “guess i’ll have to tutor ya myself.”

“and why, exactly, would you be a good tutor?”

“because i know shit.”

you can practically hear the grin in his voice. it’s his trademark smirk, the one you always want to slap off. or kiss off. either works.

“i really need to study, sid.”

and you whip back, intending to tackle your problem subject yet again, but what you don’t know is that sid has you too close to let you go.

the minute your skin flushes against the leather bound cover of the textbook, his hands have slammed down on either side of you, and the birch desk creaks in protest to the added weight.

“nah. you don’t.”

the man has you straddled in no more than three minutes. lips nipping at the tender side of your ear, he’s got a grin that taunts “just try to get rid of me”.

it would be worthless to resist. like a lion, sid arnault gets what he wants, and he will fight for it.

“fine. just this once, okay?”

your fingers press against the thick fur of his coat, slipping under the layer and peeling it off. the husky chuckle that chafes your ears is telling of his approval, and he glides his fingers down your thighs, tapping the bone of your knees before tracing to your hip.

“this,” he murmurs, “is the femur.”

“that’s… not what i need to learn.”

“yeah, i know. but see? i know shit.”

your laugh stifles into a gasp when he leans in and bites your lip.

nico

fevers are weird.

they’re cold, and then they’re hot. they’re somewhere in between that isn’t “warm” nor “comfortable”, and the only relief for the affected comes from the sweet unconsciousness that sleep brings. most of all, however, they are an unwelcome visitor.

much like nico himself, you suppose, though colds cannot react to chilled glares and whispers of “who let this child into the palace?”, to the unrelenting judgement of haughty nobles and veteran staff, the treatment that you know all too well.

it’s a miracle how all that cheer can fit into him, now that you think about it.

nico meier, he’s always sprightly smiles and spring flowers around you (or perhaps, for you). your personal butler and self-established cheerleader, there is not a day where he has failed to brighten you up, sneaking in extra food from the pantry, or making silly faces when giles dives into another one of his motherly lectures. it never mattered if blurred figures of nobility looked down upon him, it never mattered if it hurt to be an outsider, but what did matter to him was you.

you drench the towel in ice water, fold it into neat rectangles for his forehead. as the cloth wrings in your hands, your heart does too. he does so much for you, never complains, and yet… perhaps you’ve taken him for granted.

the flutter of weak fingertips halts you. nico’s eyes settle open, a hoarse “hey..” escaping as the butler attempts to wrangle on a grin. a few seconds pass, and he’s betrayed by his own body, shivering as he tosses around with a groan.

a finger to your lips, you shush him, ushering him back under the comforter.

“just for today, let me serve you.”

bryon

novels stack his desk, the tower of books neatly aligned in a pillar. normally, they wouldn’t matter to you; it’s usually yet another cocktail of history texts, spiced with a math book or two. if you were lucky, perhaps there’d be a pamphlet about stargazing or the native flora. today, everything in the queue alarms you: they’re all silly romance novels, a “guide to love”, and… wait, is he reading a book about pick up lines? the king of stein, a stoic with hawk eyes, byron wagner.. studying romance?

“bryon?”

you’re tempted to ask why, but the shock chains your voice away. he looks up, but only briefly, flashing his focus back down to a dog eared page.

“are you a library book? because i am checking you out.”

“…”

the intention is sweet. the execution? questionable. you haven’t heard of many men who could charm women with monotone lines. in fact, you haven’t heard of any, nor have you ever met any other man who would say such things with a gaze so sharp it could kill.

you suck in a breath, pretending as if you’ve just eaten a sour candy.

“did sid do th- no. don’t answer that. i already know.”

the king’s expression hardens at the response, forehead scrunching up in thought. it’s almost as if the cogs in his brain were visible, really; there they were, churning about what went wrong.

then, a minute later, he picks up the book and begins again.

“are you a -”

not even three syllables leave his parted lips before you press a hand against him, silencing his efforts. they were appreciated, they (honest-to-god!) really were, but it just doesn’t suit him, and you beg with desperate eyes that he gets the memo.

“is my performance… so intolerable?”

“well, it’s not very you.”

his dejection shows in the way his shoulders slump, his stature frigid as his brain goes back to the drawing board. you take it upon yourself to drape arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, but he’s unresponsive, unmoving. a mile-yard stare extending down his study, and his voice strains.

“what do I do with all these books now?”

albert

daisies splatter the meadow in patches here and there, splashes of white and yellow invading the greenery. though small by stein standards, it feels rather endless - though that may be due to the absurd amount of rabbits dotting the field.

you’d been told that it was the closest thing the country had to a petting zoo. correction: a petting zoo that specializes in only rabbits, but still, one nonetheless.

the brown fluff underneath your fingers feels like luxury. soft, light, and smooth, you wonder what kind of haircare products could achieve this sort of texture and sheen. surely, it would involve part intensive care and part good genetics-

“er… excuse me, princess of wysteria, but i am not one of the rabbits.” albert stammers, in that all too familiar, all too judging ‘what are you doing?’ tone of his. he’s part flustered and part annoyed, such a typical albert mood, and it makes you want to tease him more.

and so, hands still tangled in that neat, neat fluff of hair he has, you smile and nod, “yes, albert. i’m very aware of that.”

the sing-song tone makes his face contort into displeasure, and his lips sputter to voice a complaint. silly albert, always so stiff, even when you’re obviously playing games with him.

you sigh and offer him a practiced pout, fingers escaping onto benjamin’s fur. rubbing behind the rabbit’s ears, you coo, eye faking sorrow, “you appreciate my touch, don’t you?”

the bunny stares with wide eyes, innocent and unknowing. burying his nose into your palm, he sniffs, once, twice, and twitches before settling snugly under your attentive fingers, satisfied.

its approval elicits another string of babyish babble from you, and out of the corner of your eyes, albert huffs, giving in to jealously. ha! beaten by a mere bunny rabbit, hm?

scooting closer to you, his knees knock against yours, and the sensation of cold fingers running up your scalp forces a squeal out of you. the knight flushes to his ears, mumbles something incoherent in his bumbling.

“my hair is soft as well, princess.”

you don’t know what shocks you more: the fact that albert’s statement sounds like a complaint, or the fact that he’s acting a bit…. childish.

“really?” your response is mockingly dramatic, spoken to provoke. “I wouldn’t know.”

the shade of red he turns nearly makes you think he invented a new colour.

author’s notes: AHAHAHA (!!) i finally got all of it down…. if anyone’s curious why rayvis isn’t here it’s because i know too little of him to write him, and i fear writing the suitors ooc already… i’ve only done louis/alyn/leo’s routes so i have no idea what’s up with the rest and had to spoil myself

the title is just the alternative spelling to wysteria, which is both the name of the country and that really nice lavender plant. in the victorian language of flowers, its meaning derives from its tendency to cling to walls and grow, thus the flavor text.

pretend this is a celebratory piece for albert’s route coming out since i know i won’t be able to finish a piece for him before then

#midnight cinderella #midcin #cybird #im so tired #me to myself: die

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