#********** art exhibition you will always be famous to me i am so sad i never got to go

[strangedisciple]

being objectum is cool and all until one of the things you're attracted to literally doesn't exist anymore

[elejahfanfic]

klena_

_dream of love

klaus x elena_

ft. elijah & tatia

a/n: a very au story. Klaus is not (yet) the big bad wolf. Elijah doesn't know he is a Mikaelson. He is Elijah Smith, as he was taken by a witch as a baby from Esther.

I always turn everything upside down.

This is a Klena love story.

*

_the klena manip below is not mine.

*

New York

Elijah Smith sat down at the table of his lavish penthouse apartment looking at the photo of his bride to be - Tatia Gilbert.

There was not a day that he didn't miss her. Not a day passed that he did not go to sleep with the thought of her or woke up with his heart beating for his loved one.

Though he had all the money in the world and had spent every possible way he could think of to find her, it seemed that some greater power was holding all his efforts back.

"Hey" Elena walked in the lounge, greeting her  her sister's fiance.

"Hello." Elijah said putting the photographs and letters back in a box.

"You didn't sleep." the brunette stated the obvious as Elijah's ragged look, and crinkled shirt were proof enough.

"Everything just - we were supposed to get married two years ago on this day. And - oh I wish she never went on that expedition."

"Yeah - but you know that she had to go. She breathed archeology. And she is such a free spirit." Elena said, her own heart aching for her twin sister.

"Yes. That is one reason I fell in love with her. She was so full of life," Elijah drew a sad breath,"and I don't believe that she is gone."

"And you think that they will help us find her? And that they would not want anything in return - just the amulet"

"I sincerely hope so. Right," Elijah got up and now took the box, "I will get some sleep. And - you can stay here as long as you like."

"Thanks. But I will look for an apartment. It's about time"

"Damon came looking for you, and I told him not to come calling here again. He was drunk and pretty violent."

"Thank you, Elijah. I am really sorry about - the idiot." Elena said apologetically.

"No problem. I am happy that you finally have opened your eyes regarding this guy." Elijah said.

Elena nodded and turned towards the big window, gazing out, her thoughts swayed to another man and the Ball in New Orleans. 

🦋✨

New Orleans

Algiers

"What do you mean, you're packing your bags and going to New York? You don't know anyone there." Rebekah Mikaelson said to her half-brother stunned as he announced to the blonde that he was leaving.

"Marcel is there. I talked to him and he says that I can crash at his place till I got on my feet. If there is a place to make it as an artist it's there. I got to at least try. You are going away soon with your rich fiance and I will be left alone here anyway."

"Yes" Rebekah sighed, "you do. I don't know why you are not letting Stefan help you. He's got connections - he said that your paintings are good."

"You know how I feel about his snobby friends - and I want to make it on my own. Exhibit with a Gallery that finds your work worth the while. Get a proper art dealer." Kol said.

"I get you. You want to do it the hard way. And I respect that. But Stefan is a good guy -"

"Rebekah please - I know that he is - but - this is something I got to do by myself."

"All right," The blonde nodded, giving her brother a semi-hug, "I will definitely come and visit you."

"I am sure you will." Klaus put on a charming smile and now kissed his sister on a cheek as a small bye. 

"Here" Rebekah took out a wad of money from her purse, "please take this."

"Bex, I'm fine." Klaus refused the money.

"I know that you are. But New York is really expensive and - you will need this. You will give me all of it back when you are famous painter - with interest." Rebekah joked shoving the money in her brother's jacket.

"You bet I will. Thanks, sis." Klaus now took his bag hearing the horn of Jackson's car go. 

With tears in her eyes Rebekah motioned to the man to go and he left.

Well I've been out walking

I don't do that much talking these days

These days

These days I seem to think a lot

About the things that I forgot to do

And all the times I had the chance to

...

I had a lover

I don't think I'll risk another these days

These days

And if I seem to be afraid

To live the life I have made in song

It's just that I've been losing so long

In the cab that headed to the airport, Klaus looked out of the window, his thoughts now fast escaping into a daydream.

He traces her lips lightly with the tip of his finger. As she pouts slightly he feels the urge to kiss it, to wrap her up in his arms and listen to her gentle breathing.

This feeling is so strange. Could it be love? No. Though it stretches throughout his whole body. It's overwhelming.  And yet strangely makes him feel complete. It feels like he is in a dangerous fire, yet completely safe at the same time.  It feels as though his heart is dancing around his chest. He feels so light, like he is on top of the world yet his heart is constricting and it feels as if there's no oxygen in his lungs.

It's strange – frightening even – how one can go from someone being a complete stranger, to then being completely infatuated by them and wondering how it ever was that one was able to live without them. 

Will he ever see her again?

[tiramisiyu]

Tears of Themis: Lu Jinghe’s Birthday - 6.13 “Decision to Compete”

Translation Masterlist

Event Story: 6.13 Decision to Compete | 6.15 Personal Instruction | 6.17 Building Block Dolls | 6.19 Participating in the Competition | 6.21 Birthday Celebration

Event Story Interviews: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Art Gallery Boss: Young miss, all pieces displayed at the Rembrandt exhibition this time are priceless authentic versions. Your request is very…

MC: But he really is my very special friend. Just like you, boss, Rembrandt is also the artist that he holds in highest esteem.

Not long ago, I found out that June 21 was Lu Jinghe’s birthday. To give him a birthday surprise, I came to Stellis City’s antique art gallery, where they were about to hold an exhibition on authentic Rembrandt works. 

With Lu Jinghe’s current identity, if he were suddenly appear in a well-known art exhibition, aside from garnering attention, it might also cause additional problems. So, letting him enjoy the works of the artist he so admired without disturbances should be an excellent idea. After a sincere, long conversation, the boss finally agreed to rent out the venue for me before the exhibition opened.

Art Gallery Boss: You absolutely must be careful – do not bump into or damage them.

MC: I will be careful, don’t worry.

After confirming the venue, I opened my notes, checking over the other things I needed to prepare.

MC: Cake… I’ll order taro mousse, but what should I give as a gift? Watches, leather belts, ties? Lu Jinghe definitely isn’t lacking on these.

I logged into the shopping app, and “Today’s Main Recommendations” on the gift recommendation page caught my attention.

MC: These are… building blocks?

On the product pictures, hundreds of building block components piled together, creating a flowing, miniature city. In an instant, the scenes of what happened at the Lu Mansion played in my head…

--

Three days ago.

 Lu Mansion

Lu Jinghe: Careful!

In the Lu Mansion, gift boxes of all sizes were piled up, making it easy to trip if one weren’t careful. Good thing Lu Jinghe caught me in time.

Lu Jinghe: Jiejie, you’re too careless.

MC: It’s clearly because you have way too many gifts here. So is it almost your birthday? Otherwise, why would so many people give you gifts?

Lu Jinghe: Sure enough, I can’t hide anything from you. There’s still over half a month until my birthday, so those people came running over in a rush.

MC: “Those people” are…?

Lu Jinghe: Past business targets, children of other major families, plus some entertainment stars. Lots of people want to get in on the Lu family’s good graces.

MC: (As expected of Lu Jinghe – even his birthday’s got to shake up all of Stellis City.)

Seeming like Lu Jinghe had seen through my thoughts, he laughed quietly.

Lu Jinghe: So… shouldn’t you also send me a gift?

MC: Lu Jinghe, you’re not lacking on gifts, are you?

Lu Jinghe: For those sent by others, of course I’m not lacking on them. But ones sent by you…

MC: Ahem ahem.

After receiving Lu Jinghe’s hint, I faked a cough. Turning my head around, I saw the “main offender” that had just tripped me. This was a meticulously-wrapped box of building blocks, with modern-looking buildings printed on top, with “limited edition” written on in conspicuous text.

MC: Lu Jinghe, you play with building blocks?

Building blocks were a toy invented by the Austin family. They became popular worldwide as soon as they were launched, and now have nearly a hundred years’ worth of history. If they didn’t suit someone’s tastes here, toys like this would not appear here.

Lu Jinghe: I have played with them before – someone probably remembered that up until now. Although, I haven’t played with them in a long time.

MC: Why?

Lu Jinghe started to speak, then stopped, a troubled look emerging in his clear eyes.

--

Building Blocks Room

MC: So many… did you build them all?

Lu Jinghe took me to a room on the second floor of the Lu Mansion. What appeared before my eyes were innumerable building blocks models. From rich, colourful flower fields to the little roads of a foreign country’s streetscapes – there was even a proportionate reconstruction of Stellis University.

MC: Amazing! You must have spent a lot of time to make so many works, right? You’re so talented, so why didn’t you continue?

Lu Jinghe: Because…

Lu Jinghe walked to the French windows, sinking into a short silence. Golden sunlight shone on his side profile, creating a dappled light effect.

Lu Jinghe: On certain levels, I can no longer continue creating with building blocks…

MC: (What… Certain levels means…)

Lu Jinghe: My mother passed away right after I was born.

Lu Jinghe slowly began to speak, his voice quiet. I suddenly regretted asking a little.

MC: If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t need to force yourself. Everyone has their own secrets.

Lu Jinghe: It’s fine. I have no secrets in front of you.

Lu Jinghe’s words were indescribably gentle, but my heart felt like a little like it had been yanked.

Lu Jinghe: Though I lost my mother, my father and older brother loved me dearly. Compared to others, I’ve never been lacking in anything. I even had more than them. Until I noticed that for both oil paintings or building blocks, I couldn’t create anything related to “family”…

MC: (How could that be… Speaking of which, “Z” has indeed never made anything related to “family”.)

Lu Jinghe: Are you feeling sympathetic? Looks like not being able to create “family” is no big deal, because it’ll at least make you sympathize for me.

MC: … Lu! Jing! He!

I faked anger, but my sad feelings had been swept away by Lu Jinghe’s seemingly joking words.

Lu Jinghe: Alright alright, don’t be sad. I thought about it after – perhaps I can’t create anything with a “family” theme because I’ve never had a major female figure around me, ever since I was little. If…

MC: If what?

Lu Jinghe: Ahem ahem… nothing.

MC: …

--

After coming back to my senses, my fingers slid over the screen.

MC: Since Lu Jinghe likes building blocks, I’ll send him a building blocks set as a gift. Although… which set should I send?

--

Home

To find a suitable gift set, I looked up lots of information online related to building blocks after getting home. Among them, an article titled “The first Stellis Building Blocks Competition will be held soon” caught my attention.

MC: Building blocks creator Mr. Austin’s out-of-print posthumous work – the “Future” series’ first public reveal; only one set worldwide. Cabin in the woods, a glass flower room, and an open-air art studio that faces the mountains. This work is called… “Future Home”?

Note: “Home” and “Family” are the same word in Chinese.

MC: (This set… looks like one that Lu Jinghe would like.)

I couldn’t help thinking of joining the competition, but I froze after scrolling to the next article.

MC: “Z” will appear at the building blocks competition as an evaluator, and many fans have signed up… “The Shepherd Girl” may become a competition topic.

MC: (Lu Jinghe’s going?!)

The theme of this competition was “World-Famous Artworks”, where people were to reconstruct world-famous artworks using building blocks. With Z’s works being so famous, becoming a topic of the competition wasn’t out of the question.

MC: (If he really is an evaluator, my participation will definitely be exposed, and I won’t be able to give him a birthday present.)

But would Lu Jinghe really appear in public under Z’s identity? Though this might be something made up by the hosts, I still decided to call and ask Lu Jinghe, just in case.

Lu Jinghe: Hello?

MC: I-it’s me.

Lu Jinghe: What’s the matter, did something happen?

MC: Nothing, I just wanted to ask – do you know about the building blocks competition being held next month? I heard that “Z” was going to be a competition evaluator.

Lu Jinghe: There’s actually this sort of news, huh. The host probably was probably afraid of being low on hype and let out fake news. If you’re suddenly asking this… did you want to participate? Then I can teach you for free.

MC: (Since Lu Jinghe’s not going, getting taught by him is indeed the best introductory method.)

MC: Is that alright?

Lu Jinghe: Of course. If you need it, I always have time. Besides, after today… Z’s appearances may become very rare.

MC: ?!

MC: I-is it because of Pax?

I brought up the guess I had. Sure enough, Lu Jinghe signed almost inaudibly on the other side of the phone.

Lu Jinghe: Yeah, balancing studies and Pax already expends too much of my energy. After graduating, similar impediments will only continue to increase. To an artist, it’s really easy for these sorts of conditions to cut off creativity, so…

Lu Jinghe’s voice had an exhaustion in it that was impossible to ignore.

MC: Lu Jinghe, if you’re working too hard, you can stop for a bit and rest.

Lu Jinghe: … I understand. But unfortunately, no one will give me time to rest. Before being “Z”, I am first and foremost Lu Jinghe of Pax.

--

After hanging up, Lu Jinghe’s words echoed in my head.

MC: So many people clearly like “Z”. Can Lu Jinghe really give it up?

MC: Right! It just so happens that lots of “Z” fans will be participating at the building blocks competition. I should gather some things that they want to say to “Z” and give them to Lu Jinghe! Even if he really can no longer create in the future, the fans’ encouragement would be memories worth treasuring.

--

That night, I submitted a registration form on the building blocks competition official site, as well as an application to interview the participants to the hosts. After registering, a participant list, including methods of contact, was sent to my inbox.

MC: (Next, I’ll practice building blocks as I interview people for what they want to say to “Z”.)

[recurring-polynya]

@trulytaka​ asked: um i’ve always dreamt about a tattoo artist!renji falling for a client AU. it’s okay if you can’t come up with anything, just a suggestion!

How is it even possible that I have never read a Tattoo Artist! Renji AU?? (If there is one, please, send it to me immediately). Anyway, I got way too enamored of this idea, this is not even remotely a drabble, it is 4400 words and it is incredibly self-indulgent, I am absolutely not sorry.

It takes place in America and everyone is Japanese-American, because I am way more comfortable writing about American tattoo culture. I have never actually read a Tattoo Artist AU, I don’t know how they are supposed to go, this is just based on my own experiences getting inked. It’s mostly a story about Rukia and Renji being incredible nerfballs, there are not nearly enough stories about Rukia being a nerfball around Renji.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

💀     🛹     💕

Izuru Kira found Renji Abarai in the break room, simultaneously trying to cram a burrito into his face and read a Hellboy comic. He was holding the comic open with his elbow in an attempt to avoid spilling guacamole on Abe Sapien.

“Your two o’clock is here,” Izuru informed his distinguished colleague.

“Oh, great!” Renji replied, creasing the foil wrapper into a spout so that he could pour the last of the salsa drippings into his mouth.

“She’s waiting in the consult room,” Izuru went on, watching Renji toss the crumpled foil ball across the room, completely missing the trash can. “Look, have you met her before? A Miss Kuchiki?”

“Just exchanged a few emails,” Renji replied, as he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “Why? Is she scary?”

“Not in the usual way of Abarai clients,” Izuru replied. “I was just… wondering if she was... in the right place.”

“Her request was very specific,” Renji replied, scooping up his comic and the manila folder underneath it. “In fact, I am quite proud of what I came up with for her.” He whipped the folder open.

Izuru stared at it for a moment. “That is so specific.”

“I honestly think this is one of the best tatts I have ever designed. I hope she’s a real weirdo, because not just anyone deserves a masterpiece of this caliber.”

“Mmm,” Izuru agreed. “Yeah. Anyway, if there’s been a, uh, miscommunication, see if you can just… redirect her. Both Momo and I are in today, okay?”

Renji scoffed and stuffed his comic in Izuru’s hand as he marched down the hall toward the consult room. A miscommunication. Renji wondered what was wrong with her. She was probably mousy and wore glasses. Izuru always assumed girls like that would rather have a sad poem about the sea or a sprig of herbs inked on her wrist (conveniently, his specialties). Plenty of mousy girls with glasses would rather rock some fangs or dripping daggers, in Renji’s professional experience.

“Knock knock!” he announced, as he slid the door open. He took one step into the room and stopped dead.

Rukia Kuchiki was not mousy. She did not wear glasses.

Renji didn’t know much about suits. He did not happen to own one himself. But he guessed that Rukia Kuchiki’s suit was expensive, in part because it fit her perfectly, despite her tiny frame. It was jet black, and didn’t have a single speck of lint or cat hair on it. Her perfectly manicured hands were folded neatly on top of her crossed legs. She was wearing very tall, very pointy heels. Their soles were bright red, which Renji had learned from television meant that they were super expensive. He realized that he probably shouldn’t be looking at her legs, even though they were very nice to look at. His eyes snapped up to her face, but that honestly wasn’t any better.

Renji wasn’t often attracted to women, but she had probably the most interesting face he had ever seen-- heart-shaped, with big, dark eyes, a sharp chin, the cutest little nose. Her make-up was subtle and professional, and her hair was swept up with a clip, although it must be fairly short, because a few pieces hung down in front of her ears, and a thick lock dangled between her eyes.

She looked like a mean lawyer from a movie, one that would drive a fancy sportscar like an act of violence. Scary, for sure. But not in the usual way of Abarai clients, who tended toward the large and beefy, not that sharp and sharklike.

That nose, though.

Suddenly, her face split into a big grin. “Hi,” she announced brightly. “I’m Rukia Kuchiki.” She had a deep voice, a very beautiful voice. “You must be Renji Abarai.” Her eyes flicked to his arms. “I mean, of course you are, who else would have those arms? They’re so cool.”

“My arms?” Renji said stupidly. “Are they… famous?”

Rukia’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, well, I follow you on Instagram, and you don’t have any pictures of your face, but your arms are in a lot of the shots and they’re, well, they’re kinda distinctive. Do you think, um, would you mind if I looked at them?”

Renji’s eyebrows shot up. It’s not like he wasn’t used to having his arms checked out, but most people were more… subtle about it. Oh, well, it was her dime. “I didn’t do them myself, obviously,” he pointed out, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt so she could see the baboon skull on his left shoulder. A skeletal arm traced down the rest of that arm, complete with an outline of his own hand bones. On the right side, a snake spine coiled around his bicep, ending with a hissing skull. “I mean, it was my design, but my friends-- the other three tattoo artists here-- all helped ink me up.” He plopped down in the chair that sat catty corner to the couch where Rukia was sitting, and held his arms out. “We’re sort of a full-service studio. I’m the skeletons and monsters guy. Izuru, the guy you met on desk duty today-- is good at calligraphy and watercolors and little, itty bitty tattoos. Momo is our nature girl, she specializes in flowers and animals, and she’s great with bright colors. The snake skull was all her. Shuuhei is really into classic tattoo art-- you need a hula girl or a heart with an arrow through it, he’s your man. He’s also incredibly talented at revamping old regret tattoos, there’s good money in that.”

“Mm,” Rukia agreed, finally tearing her eyes away from his forearms to look up at his face, and abruptly turned even pinker. A lot of people fantasized about getting a tattoo and then got a bad case of nerves when it was time to make the leap. Maybe all this was way out of her comfort zone. Renji was trying his best to be friendly and chatty, which usually helped, but he was not used to dealing with this class of lady. He hoped he wasn’t coming off as too familiar.

“Actually,” Rukia went on, pulling on her fingers nervously. “I picked this place specifically because of you. For your work, I mean. I’m kind of a big fan. I saw some of your paintings at an exhibition over at the Fine Arts College, and I just, you know, fell in love. I’d always thought I’d like to get a tattoo someday, and when I found out that you were a tattoo artist, I knew it had to be you. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, and I’m babbling and I’m really sorry, I’m just very excited.”

Renji blinked. “You’re not babbling,” he replied slowly. He was sort of hoping she might say some more things about how much she liked his art in her beautiful voice. “Wait, an exhibition at the art school? That must have been at least three years ago, when I was doing my MFA.”

“Er, right,” Rukia looked a little sheepish. “A friend of mine had some work in the same exhibit, you probably don’t know her. My favorite one of your paintings was the one with the Black Lagoon creatures eating hamburgers at a diner, but I also really liked the one that was like a huge monster with a big bone mask stalking through a city, the way you did the shadows was just incredible.”

That particular painting was currently wrapped in brown paper and stuffed behind Renji’s couch. His last boyfriend had told him it was “creepy.”

“Uh, glad you liked it,” Renji managed. “Who was your friend?”

“Her name is Inoue. Orihime Inoue.”

“Oh, the robot girl!” Renji exclaimed. “Er, I mean she drew robots. Constantly. For every assignment. I didn’t mean to imply she was… robotic. In any way.” Jeez, Abarai, pull it together, he chided himself. “Yeah, I remember her. I didn’t know her well, but she sure could draw some tight robots. Is, she, uh, doing well?”

“She’s doing storyboards for a stop-motion animation studio,” Rukia replied.

Renji smiled. “That sounds perfect for her.”

Rukia bit her bottom lip and Renji’s throat went dry.

“So, um, you said in your email that you would have a design for me to look at?”

Renji realized that he was gripping the folder like a doofus. “Right! I did a couple of variations,” he explained, passing it from one hand to the other. “But you explained the concept pretty clearly, and I’m really happy with how the first one came out. I mean, obviously, it’s your tattoo! Please give me any feedback you have, you won’t offend me, even if you hate it! Tattoo designs often take a few iterations, it’s very normal, don’t hold back.”

She was staring at him, those big eyes wide and sparkling. “Can I… see it?”

“Oh! Right!” He shoved the folder at her.

Rukia opened it up and gasped.

“I especially love the way you draw skeletons,” Rukia’s email had read. “Do you think you could tattoo a grim reaper doing a sick kickflip on a skateboard onto my outer bicep? I do lift, so I am pretty jacked, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” Rukia sighed in a tiny voice.

“Um, in the first variation (that’s page 2) I added some sunglasses, and in the second one, the grim reaper is flipping the bird and also its head is on fire. I guess I thought that grim reapers should be gender neutral but now I’m wondering if you would have preferred more of a… lady grim reaper?” Renji yammered absently.

“Oh, no,” Rukia murmured softly, flipping through the pages. Renji wasn’t even sure she had listened to a word he had said. “These are amazing. I love the sunglasses, but I also like the way you put little flames in the eye sockets in the first one…” She waved a hand absently. “Oh, and don’t worry, I like a non-binary skeleton.”

A small problem had just occurred to Renji. “Hey, um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I… may have overestimated the size of your arms.”

“Oh?” Rukia asked, and abruptly shucked off her expensive suit jacket. She was wearing a pale purple sleeveless silk blouse underneath. She held one arm out experimentally, and then flexed. The muscle definition on her bicep made Renji take an involuntary swallow, but the fact that she was wicked cut did not buy him much in the way of real estate.

“I’ll just shrink it down maybe 25%,” he reassured her. “I’ll have to simplify some of the detail on--”

“No,” Rukia frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t do that.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not committed to having it on my arm.” She uncrossed her legs and hefted one high-heeled foot onto the coffee table in front of her. “What do you think? Is my thigh big enough?”

Renji tried to make words come out, but it just wasn’t happening.

“Er… sorry,” Rukia said slowly, tugging at her hem. “I forgot I was wearing a skirt today.”

“Huh?” Renji scrambled to recover. He needed to say something. She looked really embarrassed. Say something! Say something professional about her leg! “Sorry, I was, uh, thinking!” Good, good, now keep going. “Don’t be self-conscious, I see people’s bodies all the time. Bodies are no big deal, we all got ‘em, right?” This was true in the abstract sense, but he knew these were blatant lies as they exited his mouth. Most people’s bodies were no big deal. He had only known her for five minutes, but was certain that Rukia Kuchiki’s thighs were a very big deal. He studied her leg, stroking his chin, like he was some kind of anthropologist of thigh tattoos. Mostly he was trying to figure out what would seem like an appropriate amount of time to look at a person’s thigh, a person who was your professional client that you most definitely did not have the hots for. “There’s certainly plenty of room,” he declared. “But, you know, people are going to see it less. Which is a selling point for some people! It’s just a personal decision that you’ll have to make. It sounds like you had a big vision.”

Rukia gingerly placed her foot back on the floor. “I had actually been wondering if maybe the upper arm was too public, anyway,” she admitted. “The fact is, I just got full access to my trust fund, and this is sort of a celebration, but I may have been a little overeager to piss off my big brother. He’s very stodgy.” She contemplated the area of her leg that was covered by her pencil skirt. “But so are a lot of people in my field. I can wait until I’m running my own company before I get started on the full sleeve of my dreams, right?”

“Worked for me,” Renji replied, utterly lost by whatever she was talking about. “What… field are you in?”

“Oh, finance,” she dismissed.

Finance. Of course. Renji tried to shoo away the weight of disappointment that was settling in his stomach. He was talking to a friendly client who was clearly loaded, loved his work, and was contemplating thousands of dollars worth of future business. He should be thrilled. He should probably be trying to sell her one of his old paintings-- they were only gathering dust, anyway. Renji would never break the studio policy about hitting on clients. The fact that she would surely laugh at him if he asked her to his favorite burger joint ought to make things easier, right?

“This is so hard!” Rukia declared, and Renji was shaken from his reverie. She was just contemplating his draft designs again, though, flipping back and forth between them.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he reassured her. “You can think about it and email me. If you’re happy enough, we can schedule your session, and we’ll work out the details between now and then. Chat it over with your pal MechaHime, she’s got good opinions.” He paused. Momo always said he was too nice during consults, they were running a business, but he couldn’t help it. “Or you can just call back when you’re ready. No pressure.”

Rukia slammed her fist down on her knee. “No! Let’s schedule it! Do I pay now?”

“20% deposit. Let’s go out front, Izuru will ring it up.”

“Perfect.” She looked longingly at the drawings again. “Can I take these with me? You’re absolutely right, Orihime will know what to do.”

Renji wrinkled his nose. “It’s actually against studio policy but…”

Rukia’s face suddenly became very serious. “Then it’s against policy.” She winked at him and smiled. “You should take care of your intellectual property, Mr. Abarai.”

“I never get over to this part of town, to be honest,” Rukia admitted as they walked back up to the front. “Is the taco place across the street any good?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” Renji agreed. “Momo and I painted a huge mural on their wall, so they give us free churros.”

“Are tacos a good post-tattoo celebratory meal?” Rukia asked curiously.

“Well, you actually want to eat beforehand,” Renji pointed out. “It’s important to keep your energy up. I don’t estimate yours should take very long, I’m gonna book you a two-hour slot.”

“Ah, okay,” Rukia agreed, and Renji realized belatedly that...maybe… she had been asking him out? No. Surely not. His brain scrabbled for a response, but then he stepped into the reception area and his brain shut down entirely.

“It’s DONE!” Shuuhei bellowed. “Behold my work, ye mighty, and despair!”

Tetsuzaemon Iba, serial client, yakuza enthusiast, and assistant manager at a doggie day care, was flexing. He was not wearing a shirt.

From behind the reception desk, Kira was wearing a dour frown and shaking his head.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Renji declared. “I admit I was skeptical, but it looks fantastic, man. You happy with it?”

“It” was a massive tattoo, covering the wide landscape of Iba’s broad back. It featured a lucky cat, grinning maniacally, its paw held high. It was on fire. The kanji for “lucky charm” was incorporated somehow. It was a disaster. It was perfect.

“How could I not be?” Iba boomed.

“Whoa,” a tiny voice behind Renji said.

Iba’s face went pale when he realized that he was being Peak Iba in front of an elegant, professional woman whose shoes probably cost more than his entire net worth. “Gimme me my shirt!” he demanded of Shuuhei.

“That’s… amazing!” Rukia exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Wow, how long did that take?”

Shuuhei blinked slowly as he passed Iba his shirt. “Five sessions.”

“Well, it’s so cute!” Rukia announced. “You must love cats.”

Iba lifted at the same gym as Renji and watched Momo’s Pomeranian on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was a regular fixture at the tattoo studio, and all four of them liked to drag him, but no one, none of them, had ever roasted him this hard. Renji cursed that no-asking-out-clients rule, because he wanted to buy Rukia Kuchiki her own body weight in tacos and then ask her to be his wife.

“He’s more of a dog person,” Shuuhei supplied.

“Great with dogs,” Izuru added.

“Shut up, you jerks, I am a lover of all animals,” Iba grumbled as he pulled his Hawaiian shirt over his shoulders. “Is this your lawyer, Abarai? Did you finally get arrested for that hairstyle?”

“I have an MBA, actually, not a JD,” Rukia replied matter-of-factly. “And I am his client. Can you show that large man my tattoo design? Is that allowed?”

Renji chuckled, and pulled out his drawing.

“That,” Iba declared, “is a wicked tatt.”

“Oh, you showed me that email!” Shuuhei recalled. “It came out great.” He regarded Rukia. “He was really excited about that one, you made his day.”

Rukia just beamed proudly.

“Are we booking a session, then?” Izuru asked hopefully.

“Yeah, two hours,” Renji nodded.

“Let me just finish ringing up Iba, and I’ll see when you’ve got an opening,” Izuru replied.

“This your first one?” Shuuhei asked Rukia conversationally.

“Mm-hmm,” Rukia nodded.

“Well, you made a good choice. Clean design, mostly black with just a few color pops, should go on quick and easy, and it’ll hold up really well, too.”

“This is Shuuhei, the one I was telling you about, who fixes a lot of bad tattoos.”

“I have never had to fix an Abarai tattoo,” Shuuhei declared. “He’s great with first timers. Very gentle. I’ve fallen asleep while he was inking me.” Shuuhei pointed to the pair of crossed scythes gracing his upper arm. “This is one of his.”

“Oooh, neat!” Rukia agreed.

“You’re being embarrassing,” Renji informed his friend.

“Always,” Shuuhei agreed. “Nice to meet you! I hope I get to see the finished product.” He waved to Iba as he headed off toward the back. “Don’t forget to moisturize!”

“Everyone’s so friendly here,” Rukia said softly to Renji. “This isn’t at all like I pictured it.”

Renji stretched his arms behind his head. “Nah, we’re just a bunch of goofballs who like drawin’ on people. Very lowkey.”

“I guess I’ve thought a lot about the getting tattooed part of getting tattooed, but I never thought of it as… a job. That people have.”

“It’s a great job,” Renji replied. “I love it. I’m just lucky that Izuru over there has enough business sense to keep the other three of us from running it into the ground.”

“That’s certainly the truth,” Izuru agreed, as Iba headed out the door. “Two hours, you said? Renji’s got a 4-6pm block open on a Wednesday, three weeks from now. The 24th, how does that work for you, Ms. Kuchiki?”

“Do you think that’s enough time to settle on a design?” Renji asked. “If you come up with changes, it should only take me a day or two to incorporate them.”

“Oh! Yes, three weeks should be fine. I thought… it might be a little sooner,” Rukia replied, sounding a tad disappointed.

“Abarai’s a busy man, three weeks is actually pretty quick,” Izuru explained.

“Right, of course!” Rukia nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the 24th!”

She then paid her deposit, a process which involved her taking approximately ten thousand items out of her purse, including a full-sized drawing pad, a single fingerless glove, and a Pez dispenser with a duck head. She was the most contradictory person Renji had ever met, and he just wanted to know everything about her. But instead, they were going to exchange a couple of emails about a grim reaper on a skateboard, he was going to spend an hour and a half two inches from her naked thigh in a state of intense, non-sexual concentration, and then he would likely never see her again.

“Okay, I guess that’s it!” Rukia said, stuffing the last of her worldly belongings back into the purse. “Three weeks, then!”

“Three weeks it is,” Renji agreed. “Unless we happen to run into each other at the taco place.”

Rukia blinked. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Right. Ha, ha, of course!” She’d been walking backwards toward the door, an impressive feat in those heels, and she spun suddenly to pull it open.

“It’s a push,” Renji and Izuru chorused together.

“Ha, ha, of course it is!” Rukia laughed nervously, and ducked out.

Izuru stared pointedly at Renji. “Wow,” he said.

“I don’t know what you have against her,” Renji scowled. “So she’s professional. She was really nice. She’s a big fan of my work.”

Izuru cocked his head. “She’s clearly also a big fan of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Renji said.

“Look, I’m sorry I implied that a person who drives a Lotus Exige would not be interested in having your weird skeleton doodles permanently placed on her body,” Izuru held up his hands, “but did you really not notice the little hearts and singing birds floating around her head every time she gazed longingly at you?”

“Since when do you know anything about cars?” Renji snapped.

“It looked fancy and I asked Shuuhei what it was, okay!”

On cue, Shuuhei burst back into the reception area, Momo close on his tail. “Are we talking about the hot client who has a crush on Abarai?”

“Did you ask her out?” Momo asked breathlessly.

“She’s not really his type,” Izuru mused. “Very corporate.”

Renji frowned. Did he have a type? If his type excluded people like Rukia Kuchiki, he might need to get a new type.

“Who cares, she was adorable!” Momo insisted. “I woulda asked her out.”

“Renji, if you go out with her, can you get me a ride in the Exige?” Shuuhei added.

“I’m not gonna ask her out!” Renji protested. “What happened to the no-hitting-on-clients rule?”

“The rule is no creeping on clients,” Shuuhei correctly. “This is different. She’s clearly into you, big time.”

“Also, she seems non-terrible, unlike the questionable human beings you usually take up with,” Izuru pointed out. “We could relax the rule if it netted you an actually decent partner for a change.”

Renji scowled judgmentally at Izuru, as if his own dating history had been remotely better before he and Shuuhei finally hooked up.

“Oh!” Momo waved her phone. “Speaking of which, I googled her, like you told me to, Izuru--”

“Izuru!” Renji protested.

“--and you were right! She’s not just one of the Kuchikis, she’s the granddaughter!” Momo thrust her phone in Renji’s face. It was some article about some fancy charity event, complete with a picture that was clearly Rukia, dressed in a dramatic black and gold evening gown.

Renji wanted to push Momo’s hand away, but he also didn’t want to stop looking at Rukia in that dress. “The who?” he asked.

Izuru and Momo sighed dramatically in synchronized exasperation.

“Embarrassingly rich old money family? I don’t know what they actually do, but they’re always in the newspapers, donating money for something or other--”

“Billionaire philanthropists,” Shuuhei intoned in a fake deep voice.

“--I heard they’re descended from some famous clan of samurai back in Japan,” Momo ignored him. She jerked her phone back and started tapping at it frantically. “I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of the grandson-- Rukia’s brother, I guess. He always makes those lists of top ten hottest bachelors.”

“He’s dreamy,” Shuuhei seconded.

“Impossibly dreamy,” Izuru thirded.

Momo flipped her phone around again, to reveal a picture of a very serious, and very handsome man in a classic three-piece wool suit. Renji supposed “impossibly dreamy” was not an inaccurate description.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen pictures of that guy before,” Renji shrugged. “He’s okay. Rukia has a more interesting face, I think.”

Momo and Shuuhei exchanged raised eyebrows.

“You do like her, then?” Izuru asked, his face brightening. “You’re wrong, by the way, Byakuya Kuchiki has the face of an angel.”

“Rukia says he’s stuffy,” Renji shrugged. “And fine. I like her. She’s cute and nice and had good taste in tattoos. What’s not to like?”

“Are you gonna ask her out, then?” Momo pressed.

“Absolutely not,” Renji replied. “She’s my client. Besides, as you just pointed out, she’s loaded. What’s she want with a scumbag like me?”

All three of his friends groaned.

“You have good delts and sexy hair,” Izuru pointed out.

“You give amazing hugs!” Momo declared.

“You draw fantastic skeletons,” Shuuhei added. “Which, apparently, is relevant to her interests, and not a thing you usually find on Tindr.”

“Also, we’ve already established that she does like you, regardless of whether she has a valid reason for doing so,” Izuru concluded. “So, if you’re at all interested, you really shouldn’t let that stop you.”

“I think you should go for it,” Momo encouraged.

“Me, too,” Shuuhei agreed.

Renji grimaced. She was an amazing girl, too good to be true probably. If she had any sense at all, she would certainly turn him down. But maybe… just maybe… she didn’t have any sense. “Okay,” he grudgingly agreed. “I’ll do it. But not until I’m finished the damn tattoo!”

[galaxychild518]

Pride and acceptance

This was five years ago I was seventeen years old.I was a part of this teen arts organization called Art Connection specifically their TRaC program.It stands for Teen Review and Critics.We would go to different art events and meet artist.After the events we would discuss it and write critiques.This was the last day of the program so every group had to present what we did during the 10 week course.Art Connection held a teen exhibition art gallery called “Where You Been ?”.The theme of the art was migrantation ,transitioning and tradition in today’s society.The painting I was standing in front of is called “Keep Dancing” by Diomar Solano.This painting caught my eye because I saw the traditional Dominican dress.It reminded me of the my great grandmother made for my cousin when she was one.I always tell my grandma that one day I want to go to the Dominican Republic so I could buy one.The painting also was the first time I’ve seen my community represented in art.I saw my self not just as a Dominican ,but as an Dominican New Yorker.The artist statement says “When I was making this art piece, I was thinking about when you migrate to other countries you have to adapt to that culture without disconnecting with your own and the transition of it is hard.The girl is dancing in a Dominican costume because I’m Dominican and on a train because we often see that in NYC.I was born here so I can’t completely relate ,but I hear stories from my family.When my grandmother and her siblings when to school they were always labeled as Puerto Rican.The teacher would even correct them and they believed the Dominican Republic was made up.Great-grandfather would tell my grandmother and her siblings “These people are idiots tell to look at a map it's the island is right near Haiti” and sure enough that shut them up lol.I will never forget that story because my great grandfather showed them to be proud and stand up for where they came from.People make ignorant comments and assumption towards migrant people on a daily basis.It shouldn’t happen ,but I am happy when migrant people call people out for it because it’s unacceptable.It’s already hard for someone to move to and adapt to another culture why question their identity.

The second painting I liked from the exhibit was called “Home” by Wilfred James Rosario.The girl's purple hair caught my eye.Her hair is flowing beautifully in the wind ,but her face shows pain.When I looked at the artist's statement it connected with me in a deeper way.He says “Through the crisis that is occurring in the Dominican Republic, I wanted to express the emotion. People being killed, discriminated, and kicked out of their country,because of the color of their skin. By painting the model, I wanted to show the emotion that person would have felt; how absolutely upsetting this is.”Historically colorism has been a huge issue in the Dominican Republic.When you look at how Haitians are treated in the Dominican Republic.I’ve heard comments like “Oh she really dark skin she must be Haitian” as if Dominicans couldn’t be black.Rafael Trujillo the dictator started the hate with parsley massacre back in 1937.He killed people who didn’t know how to say perejil because he felt Haitians couldn’t say the word with their accent.Over 20,000 Haitians were killed for a simple word.Now haitians are being kicked out of the Dominican Republic.It’s really sad that they are being treated like this because of their skin.Older generation Dominicans need to realize Dominicans have African descent.Luckily things are changing and we are accepting of the term Afro-Latino.For a while I did struggle with my identity because I experienced being discriminated by a past partners mother.They were a lighter skin Dominican behind  my back she would make comments about my hair and question if I was Dominican.I already would get discredited as a Dominican because I barely know spanish so I didn’t need that extra pressure.Now I don’t care because at the end of the day I know who I am.There are these famous faceless dolls in DR called Muñecas Limé they are faceless due to the artist saying there is no specific Dominican features.Till this day I keep that in my mind because they are right I’ve met really light skin and really dark skin Domincians we are all different.

[brieflygorgeouss]

for the prompts 41. i’ll keep you safe and 73. i missed you (the ask with those prompts miraculously disappeared from my inbox! i swear it was real lmao)

On Monday, Eliott comes home.

Lucas is there at the airport, waiting for him. He stands and waits and waits until people from the plane from New York start pouring in through the door. There are screaming kids and messy-haired women and guys in hoodies and sweatpants, all looking rough after such a long flight.

And then there’s Eliott.

Lucas’s field of vision narrows down to the sight of him the moment he as much as catches a glimpse. Eliott looks exactly the same Lucas remembers him, except maybe seems taller, which — that’s unfair. He’s looking around, searching, with a heavy-looking bag hanging from his shoulder and his hair mussed, and when he spots Lucas in the crowd, his face lights up with a smile brighter than any kind of constellation Lucas has ever seen.

Lucas doesn’t quite run to him, but it’s a near thing.

Hi, he wants to scream as he’s walking, as Eliott’s pushing past other people, too, hi, you asshole, welcome back to the country, hello, I can’t believe you’re here.

And then Eliott is right there, still smiling, and his eyes are so, so bright, and Lucas can’t really help the way he throws himself right into his arms, right there and then, amidst all of the noise and the commotion, amidst hundreds of other people. For him, there only matters one.

”Hi, Lu,” Eliott mutters right into Lucas’s hair, presses his face close, warm and real, and finally here, finally not hundreds of kilometres away, not only an image on Lucas’s computer screen or a notification on his phone. His embrace is strong and solid, and Lucas lets himself melt into it, imagines Eliott pressing them closer and closer until they merge together and just stay that way.

”Hi,” he says, not knowing if it’s happiness tightening his throat or something else, something bigger. ”I missed you.”

”Missed you, too,” Eliott says, presses a hand firmer to Lucas’s back. Lucas wonders, briefly, if he can feel just how quickly his heart is beating. Then, Eliott adds, in a slightly quieter voice, ”God, you have no idea.”

Lucas might, actually. If all the restless nights he spent rereading Eliott’s newest texts mean something, or FaceTime calls that are never enough, or staying up late despite the time difference, he actually might have an idea of what Eliott means. It’s the ache in his chest that never really goes away these days. The ache in his chest that slowly starts to dissipate now.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he lets himself lean a little bit heavier into Eliott for one, two, three more seconds, breathes him in and revels, just a little bit, in how reluctant Eliott seems to be to let him go when he, eventually, tries to moves away. 

”Alright,” he says, only an inch away from Eliott’s chest because that’s everything Eliott allows him, and Lucas feels like that’s too much anyway. ”Let’s get you home.”

*

(The last time they were at the airport, Lucas kissed him. 

Which wasn’t a mistake, but was not the right thing to do, either. It was stupid, is what it was. Eliott was going away for a long time, with his two giant suitcases and dreams waiting to be fulfilled somewhere else, and it was idiotic, to try and begin something, whatever this spark in Lucas’s heart was, here in the face of so many things coming to an end. But Lucas was teary-eyed and so, so sad, and his heart was breaking. So he kissed him.

It wasn’t, in hindsight, the best of choices, to show your best friend you’re in love with him mere minutes before said best friend gets on a plane and you don’t see each other for the next 6 months.)

*

On Tuesday, they catch up.

”So,” Lucas says as they’re sitting in the kitchen, Eliott properly at the table and Lucas at the kitchen counter with his legs dangling in the air, although it isn’t even, technically, his own house, ”how’s New York?”

Eliott rolls his eyes at him.

”You ask like you don’t know,” he says. He sounds fond. If Lucas were to describe it, that’s the word he would use. ”In case you forgot already, we call each other every other day.”

That’s true. Lucas’s messed up sleep schedule can attest to that, with how late he stays up sometimes, even when he has a test the next day or stares at the clock at 2 in the morning and already knows he won’t wake up in time to get to class but doesn’t go to sleep anyway. Eliott does things like that, too, and then texts Lucas stuff like, ”the professor yelled at me for falling asleep in class, but it was worth it for getting to talk to you yesterday,” and Lucas stares at the messages for longer than he should, every time. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, but they try — both of them. It’s nice, knowing Eliott doesn’t forget about him, all the way over there at the other end of the world, when they’re both trying as hard as they are.

But he still says, just because he can, ”So what?” and then, raising his eyebrows at Eliott, hoping it comes off as it feels — like a challenge, ”I still don’t really know. I’ve never been there. And whose fault is that, I wonder.”

Eliott smiles at that, but it’s a little crooked where it shouldn’t be, all of a sudden. Lucas wants to reach and straighten it out, smooth it out like creases on a sheet of paper. ”You know I’d take you there with me if I could.”

Lucas knows. They’d talked about it, time and time again, and Lucas even cried once, hoping Eliott couldn’t hear it in his voice as he pressed the phone harder against the side of his face, as if that could make Eliott sound like he was really here. 

Couldn’t you go to film school somewhere closer, he’d told him then, knowing what he was saying was unfair but doing it anyway. Lucas is, you see, selfish like that. You’re so unfair, you asshole.

And Eliott had said, then, I know, and, always, always knowing what it really was that Lucas meant even when he didn’t say it explicitly, I wish you were here, too.

But Lucas can’t really leave, and Eliott can’t really stay. So here’s what they have — a week together, and then they’ll be off to lead their separate lifestyles again, far away, Lucas in Paris, Eliott in New York. That’s how it is. 

Lucas thinks he should be used to it by now. And yet.

”I can’t afford the tickets anyway,” is what he says in response, hopes it’s good enough to mask the sudden notes of sadness creeping into his voice. ”And before you say anything, no, I’m not letting you buy them for me. You can spend your scholarship money in a better way.”

Eliott huffs, but he’s smiling. The last time they argued about this, they stayed up on FaceTime until 3 AM.

”There isn’t a better way to spend it,” Eliott says, but it’s only a weak jab, a reminder of their previous, much more heated argument, and Lucas can see it in his eyes that he brings it up again only to drop it a second later. Lucas swings his legs, kicks at the kitchen cupboards, lets a small smile slip onto his face.

”When you become a famous director,” he says, frames it like it’s a compromise of sorts, ”then you can buy me tickets. How about that?”

Eliott hums and then smiles adorably. Lucas could look at his smile for hours on end. ”I’ll hold you to that.”

*

(They’ve been toeing the line for so long that Lucas wonders, sometimes, if they’ll ever stop at all.

Or maybe it’ll be like this forever — Lucas trying not to read too much into all the things that Eliott is saying, and Eliott saying them anyway. Looking at each other like they’re more than they really are. Staying up all night talking, but not about what matters the most, not about what seems to always echo in the back of Lucas’s head once he hears Eliott’s voice. Kissing at the airport and then not mentioning it once.)

*

On Wednesday, Eliott drags Lucas out of his house and demands that he show him ”what’s new”.

”Nothing’s new,” Lucas tells him, trying to sound upset because Eliott woke him up at 7 am and then proceeded to drag him out of bed without even feeling sorry for it, but he’s not really succeeding much. They’re on the subway. It’s too crowded for Lucas’s liking, but he uses that as an excuse to press a bit closer to Eliott, to lean on him and to grip his shoulder every time they halt to a stop. ”I don’t know what I’m supposed to show you. You know this city just as well as I do.”

Eliott levels him with a look, but can’t hide the sparks of amusement in his voice. ”Lucas, something had to change since I’ve last been here.” He shrugs. Lucas grips his shoulder tighter. ”I just wanna see what.”

So they go. At 8 am, when it’s still a bit chilly here outside, they walk the streets, and Lucas tries to figure it out. They get a coffee at a cafe Eliott used to go to all the time back in high school that has now changed the owner, and Lucas shows him a bookstore they used to pass on their way to the bus station every day that now is not a bookstore anymore but a vegan chain restaurant. 

Eliott tells him, when he sees it, ”I’m devastated.”

Lucas only barks out a laugh.

It’s good to see Eliott back around familiar corners again. A bit surreal, too, but Lucas doesn’t want to think about it too much. Eliott seems to take the city in like it’s his first time here, keeps looking around and smiling at people passing them by as they walk, but at the same time, he just— fits so well in here. He looks like he belongs because he really does. They see a cat at a curb at one point, and Eliott is immediately enchanted, goes over to pet it, and Lucas can’t look away from the picture that it makes.

He’s missed him so much that it hurts a little, even when Eliott’s already here.

They go to an art gallery, too. That is, Lucas guesses, also a part of the city that’s changed, although it barely really counts because it’s just how exhibitions work. But then again, Eliott’s eyes light up like the stars when Lucas suggests it, so. The answer to the question is obvious. 

They pay for the tickets, and then Eliott spends at least 10 minutes in front of every single painting, looking and talking to Lucas in a hushed voice, and Lucas complains weakly about how much time Eliott’s taking but doesn’t move a step away. 

There is a weird feeling in his chest that takes him a while to identify as relief. 

He was worried, in a strange way, about bringing Eliott here. He was worried about many things. So much has changed, during those 6 months — the city, the weather, the weird void in Lucas’s ribcage whenever he thought of Eliott, going from sharply painful to only unpleasantly familiar — that he was afraid Eliott has changed, too. Became someone else, someone who wouldn’t fit in this scene — the art gallery, the fluorescent lights, their casual banter, standing shoulder to shoulder — and Lucas was not there to see. Was not there to catch up with the changes. 

”What do you think this one is called?” Eliott asks, pointing at another art piece, one of many. 

”It’s ’The Summer',” Lucas reads off of a metal nameplate under it, but Eliott’s already shaking his head. 

”No, not the title, I mean,” he says, bumps his shoulder into Lucas’s like when they were kids, and he was trying to rope Lucas into doing something he considered fun, ”what would you call it? What do you think?”

And, see — Eliott hasn’t changed much at all. 

They will be, Lucas thinks, just fine.

*

(Please, he’s thought to himself in the dark hours of the night so many times, staring up at his ceiling, please let us be fine. 

He fucked up, you see. Lucas is aware of that. They both are, really, because Eliott is the smartest guy he knows, and there’s no way in hell he just forgot about it all. And even if he is kind enough to not mention the kiss — just as he was kind enough to kiss Lucas back, briefly, there by the gates, before he turned around and stepped out of sight — they still both know it happened.

Lucas goes through periodical stages of either wanting to erase the kiss from his memory entirely or thinking about it non-stop for days on end.

He knows Eliott only kissed him back because he didn’t want to make a scene, or because he didn’t want to break Lucas’s heart further since it was falling apart already anyway. Lucas knows that. That’s the only explanation that makes sense, really, and he is okay with that. It’s what he eventually gave into, after hours and hours spent on thinking about it, replaying the act of it in his mind until it felt like just another thing he’s made up, until his lips throbbed with the memory.

He’d have to be stupid to hope for Eliott to love him back. He doesn’t. Eliott has never given him any real reason to believe in it, never promised him a thing. 

Eliott doesn’t love him back. If he did, a small, more naive part of Lucas’s mind reminds him from time to time, when he gets a bit too hopeful, when he focuses on the what-if scenarios too much, he would have said something. He would have said, wait for me, maybe, or do it again, or something equally earth-shattering, and wouldn’t have left Lucas at this goddamn airport with only a weak smile and a promise of a phone call. 

They’ve talked so, so many times, for hours and hours on end, and he never said a thing. Not once.

Lucas can recognise a dismissal when he sees one, is the thing. It’s clear enough.)

*

On Thursday, Eliott is stolen away.

”Sorry,” he says when Lucas calls him, asking for the plan for the day, ”my family’s coming over today. I tried to get out of it, but…you know how my parents are. We’re having a big dinner, and all.”

For what it’s worth, he doesn’t really sound pleased with it. It still does very little to dilute the heavy feeling suddenly there in Lucas’s gut.

”Oh,” Lucas says. ”Okay. I mean—”

It’s the kind of sentence that starts somewhere but ends nowhere. Lucas cuts himself off, and the awkwardness of it hangs in the air, stretches thin over the distance between Eliott and him. 

He isn’t upset. He isn’t. But he was excited about the day, maybe, about another couple of hours they’d get to spend together, the prospect of having Eliott within reach where he’s sure to stay, sure to stick around. They didn’t make any plans, but Lucas was hoping something would just fall into their hands like it always did, and that they would take it and make the best of it, anyway. 

But he’s forgotten, maybe, somewhere in the whirlwind of it all, about other people. Of course Eliott’s family wants to spend some time with him, too. Of course. It’s a given when Eliott is so easy to love, and by so, so many people, too. 

Lucas has been selfish, he realises, for thinking he can have Eliott only to himself.

”Have fun, then,” he says. His voice is suddenly something stuck between strung-too-tight and forcefully nonchalant, but over the phone, it doesn’t carry. ”Say hi to your parents from me.”

Eliott huffs.

”Sure,” he says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. Lucas imagines it, and it makes him feel a little better. ”I’ll keep you posted on all the most exciting stuff that’s happening.”

”Like what kind of cake your mom made, you mean.”

”And what my grandma is wearing,” Eliott adds, and Lucas can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, then. On the other end of the line, Eliott chuckles, too, like he’s pleased. Like making Lucas laugh has been his plan all along, perhaps.

”You’re fucking impossible,” Lucas tells him, the stiffness gone from his voice just like that, and then, ”Okay.”

He spends the day in front of the TV, pretending to watch some talk show that Mika likes and in reality waiting for whatever message Eliott sends him next. It’s nice. His whole family seems to be there for him, grandparents and aunts and cousins, and god knows who else, and Eliott is grinning from ear to ear in every single photo he sends him. 

That’s good, Lucas thinks. It’s what Eliott deserves — all this love, all the affection. So many people missing him when he’s away, being so happy when he’s finally home.

A lot of people love him. Lucas is, in the end, only one of many.

*

(He doesn’t know when it happened. It’s as if Lucas blinked, forgot to pay attention for just a second, and there it was already, this feeling.

Or maybe there was never a specific moment at all. Maybe it happened somewhere between when they were kids, then scrawny teenagers, and then more. Between taking Eliott’s hand for the first time and never wanting to let it go, later. Eliott was the one to talk Lucas into riding his bike down the hill and the one to wipe his tears away afterwards, laughing a little. He was the person who showed him the stars, lay on the grass during hot, enveloping summer nights, mapping constellations out in the sky, and didn’t make fun of how childishly fascinated Lucas was by it. He was the person who snuck into closed playgrounds in the middle of the night with him, just for the thrill of it, and who later got grounded for it alongside. Eliott was the person who told him that there was nothing wrong about girls kissing other girls and boys kissing other boys. He was the first person to openly call Lucas’s father a fucking asshole when he left them, and was there to wipe Lucas’s tears away this time around as well.

Maybe that’s what did it. All those things, all at once.

But a small part of Lucas still wishes someone had told him, impossibly, before it happened — watch out, be careful, in a second, you’re going to fall in love.)

*

On Friday, they end up celebrating.

It is, to say the truth, Idriss’s idea. He comes over in the afternoon, with Yann and Sofiane in tow, and instead of a hello says, ”Eliott, we need to get drunk together,” and it all goes downhill from there. Their group is chaotic democracy at its finest, and it shows — Lucas’s weak attempts of refusal go unnoticed, and instead, a bottle of cheap wine gets pushed into his hand, someone makes drinks, someone else puts on some music, and that’s how it goes.

Lucas, honestly, doesn’t drink much. It’s a Friday night, and all his friends are here, and he’s having a good time, but then, there’s also this — he wouldn’t want to miss the way Eliott’s eyes shine in the lights of the party, wouldn’t want to miss the way he pushes his hair away from his forehead or how he throws his head back when he laughs. It’s Friday. On Sunday, Eliott is leaving. 

Lucas doesn’t want to miss a second of him still being here. He wants to remember it all.

It laces his thoughts with a weird sense of urgency, this sudden awareness of time. He finds a spot in the corner of the living room and just sits and looks, and his chest fills with something heavy, stinging. We have two days, he thinks as he swirls his overly sweet drink around in the plastic cup, amidst the heavy beat of music flooding the room, amidst the laughter and the clinking of glasses fitting right beside it, two days and then he leaves me again. 

It’s not fair to think this way. Lucas knows. It’s not like he’s the only one who misses Eliott, or like Eliott doesn’t miss him in return just as much. But he lets himself give in to it, just for a second — missing Eliott already, even when he’s still here, right across the room talking to Arthur, his hair a mess, a bottle of beer in his hand. Lucas doesn’t know what he’ll do when he has to, inevitably, watch Eliott leave again. Stand there at another fucking airport, with their history coming full circle, with his heart breaking again, just like the first time around.

Their eyes lock, then, over the crowd. Eliott smiles at him, his grin wide and genuine and happy, and Lucas tries to smile back in the same manner, wipe away whatever stupid feelings have surfaced on his face, maybe, but he doesn’t think he’s quick enough. Eliott’s smile gets weaker. Something like worry creeps up into his features, etches itself in between his eyebrows.

Lucas gets up from his seat before Eliott can make his way over to him, pushes his way to the bathroom and locks the door, stares at himself in the mirror for a long time, presses his palms to his face when his eyes start to sting.

*

(He wants Eliott to stay. 

He wants a miracle to happen. He wants Eliott to be here, to be close, wants to be able to see him every day, the lines of his smile when he’s happy and the downturn of his mouth then he’s sad, he wants him to be here tomorrow, and the week after that, and later, and later. Lucas wants it all. 

He is a selfish person. He knows that. That’s why he kissed Eliott back then in the first place. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, when he’s sick with sadness and the hollow feeling in his chest, he thinks about asking Eliott to come back. Asking Eliott not to go. All the things he’s never going to say out loud because they would only make matters worse, would only make Eliott hurt. Lucas knows he is happy over there in New York. But it doesn’t stop him from thinking about clutching his hand and saying, please, please just stay. For me.

At least in his own imagination, he’s enough for Eliott to stay. It doesn’t exactly make anything better, but it’s all he has.)

*

On Saturday, something between them shifts.

Lucas misses the exact moment it happens, to tell the truth. He is busy with other things.

Eliott comes over around noon, with tiredness from last night still written into the lines of his face but with his eyes sparkling and with a small smile on his lips. The weather is kind of shitty, he tells Lucas, running a hand through his hair as he steps into the apartment, and Lucas notices then that his hair is a little wet like it’s raining outside, or just starting to. It sticks to his forehead a bit. Lucas fights the urge to reach out and brush the stands away, bites on his lip, and only turns his eyes away when Eliott, shrugging off his jacket and kicking down his shoes, raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

Lucas doesn’t want to answer it. Instead, he says the first thing that comes to his head. ”Wanna watch something, then?”

Eliott says yes because of course he does, and then it goes like this — they sprawl out on the couch and fight over the blanket just a little, and Lucas lets Eliott pick the movie. The rain is playing an uneven rhythm on the windows, one-two-three, irregular and barely there. He leans into Eliott a little more than he has to but not as much as he really wants to, and Eliott only hums quietly, doesn’t turn his eyes away from the screen. His arm winds around Lucas’s waist, firm, bring them close together where Eliott runs warm, from shoulder to hip.

Lucas keeps thinking, this is our last day. 

It’s not a bad way to spend it. Somewhere in a small, quiet corner of his heart, Lucas is grateful for it. It’s nice, almost unfairly so, to be able to lean into Eliott and share his warmth, make sure he’s still right here, listen to his voice when he says, from time to time, ”Look at this scene, Lu,” or, ”Now, now, pay attention.”

Lucas is. Not to the movie, really, but to everything else — the way Eliott smells like the rain and fresh air and cheap cologne Lucas bought him last year for his birthday. The way he sounds like he always does. The way the fabric of his shirt folds over his collar bones and how shadows settle in the hollow of his throat.

There are very few things in the world that Lucas would want more than he wants this.

*

And when it gets dark — after they’ve watched another movie and stuffed their faces with pizza and after Mika and Lisa came home and joined them in the living room, after they argued over Eliott’s terrible music taste and laughed over how familiar it was, too, it’s time for Eliott to go home.

Lucas is scared of it, like a child. He is scared of opening the door and letting Eliott go and letting the world happen to him, a world Lucas is barely present in, a world somewhere far away. But then Eliott is already getting up from the couch and saying his goodbyes to Lisa, letting Mika hug him, and Lucas trails behind him and watches it, then watches him put on his shoes and jacket and get ready to walk out just like that. 

”So,” he says, and if his throat suddenly feels too tight, nobody has to know, ”I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It’s all they have left. They both know that because it’s not like it’s a secret, really. The whole day today, they haven’t spoken a word about Eliott leaving tomorrow, but they both know what is going to happen — Lucas will go to the airport with him, say his goodbyes, try not to cry too much and probably fail, and Eliott will smile at him with his stupid, unbelievable, gorgeous smile and hug him like he never wants to let him go even though it is not true and then leave. 

In the doorway, Eliott hesitates.

Maybe it’s because too many of Lucas’s thoughts are showing on his face. Maybe it’s easier to read him than it usually is, than it was yesterday in the lights of the party. Lucas waits for an answer, but it doesn’t come, and there’s a suddenly tension-heavy moment that passes between them. Eliott just keeps looking at him. Lucas doesn’t know what to do about it.

And then, Eliott says, ”Do you want to walk me home?”

Lucas hears Mika laugh from the living room where he and Lisa are still watching something on TV. The rain is still drumming on the windows, a staccato. Outside, it’s probably cold and windy, and if he goes with Eliott, he won’t be back for another two hours, probably. They both have to get up early tomorrow. It’s very late.

”Sure,” Lucas says, grabbing his own jacket from the hanger. ”Let’s go.”

*

They walk in relative silence for about 2 minutes, when Eliott suddenly grabs Lucas’s hand and pulls him in a different direction and onto a road that, Lucas is pretty sure, doesn’t lead to Eliott’s apartment. 

”Hey,” Lucas says, almost stumbling over the cobblestones of the dark street, ”what are you doing?”

Eliott’s hand is warm in his, and firm, and his grip is strong. He laces their fingers together. Lucas tells himself that it is not the reason his heart does something weird in his chest, that it’s because of the dark, because of the late hour.

”I wanna show you something,” Eliott says, pulls him along, rounds a street corner. ”Come on, it’s not far.”

”Weren’t you going back home?”

”I don’t want to go back home.” The words have a weird quality to them. Lucas wants to ask, but then Eliott adds, a bit quieter, ”not yet.”

So they go. How could Lucas complain, really, if he gets to hang around Eliott for just a while longer, have him all to himself, selfishly and privately, hold his hand and let himself get involved in another one of Eliott’s strange ideas like it’s the old times, still? So Lucas lets Eliott drag him along, only grips his hand tighter and doesn’t say a word. 

It’s Eliott’s last evening here, and somehow, he chose to spend it with Lucas, with Lucas alone. Whatever it means, Lucas will take it.

*

Eliott brings him, apparently, to a closed playground.

”Wait,” Lucas says as he stands in front of it, as Eliott finally lets go of his hand in favour of wrestling with the lock on the gate instead, fighting it until it gives up and the door squeaks open, ”Eliott, seriously?”

”What?” Eliott says and just steps inside. He sounds like he’s smiling. ”You scared? It’s just a playground, Lu.”

”This is illegal,” Lucas informs him but goes in anyway, closes the door with the smallest sound. Apart from that, and their whispers, everything is very quiet. ”Just so you know.”

Eliott chuckles, ”I’m aware,” and then, walking backwards, when the light of the streetlamp catches in his eyes and sets his gaze on fire, he says, ”Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

And whatever response Lucas could make, it dies on his tongue, just like that. Maybe it’s, he thinks with his heart hammering a bit too quickly against his ribcage, actually for the better. 

They find a pair of swings that aren’t, miraculously, wet from the rain somehow, and sit down there. For a second, Lucas feels like he’s in a movie of sorts, the kind that Eliott likes to watch best. It doesn’t feel real, between one beat of his heart and the next, this whole scene — the rain, the fresh air, the stars in the sky. How the streetlamp casts a faint light that doesn’t reach quite to where they are. How he’s allowed, somehow, to sit here with Eliott, the same beautiful, unbelievable person he’s known his whole life.

He asks, ”Why are we here?”

”Do you remember,” Eliott says in response, and when Lucas looks over at him, he’s watching the starts, his fingers wrapped around the chain of the swing, ”when we came here when we were kids? When you were, like, twelve?”

Lucas remembers. It is the same place, he realises suddenly, now when he properly thinks about it and pays attention. The three big oaks to his right are still here, and the fence seems to still be painted the same jarring, chipping-off red, or at least that’s what it looks like in the light of the streetlamp. They used to come here sometimes, when they were younger. Once, Lucas took his dad’s pocket knife and carved an ”L+E” into the wood the fence was made of, not really understanding what the action meant, back then.

”Is this where you took me at midnight that one time and then we both got grounded for the next five years?” Lucas asks, and doesn’t expect it when Eliott laughs, doesn’t expect the way it rings in the night and falls into it, makes the stars seem a little brighter.

”Yeah,” Eliott tells him, ”yeah, that’s the place.”

He sounds happy. He sounds genuine. He sounds like everything is alright, like it’s just another night spent hanging around with a friend, like it’s one of so many nights they spent together ad not much more, and Lucas suddenly…can’t take it. It’s like a wave that sweeps him up and drags him under, and he can’t do it. Something blooms in his chest and makes it too tight to breathe properly. He looks away from Eliott’s profile, feels like he’ll break if he doesn’t.

A moment passes. Lucas feels like his lungs are filled with lead. 

And then, quietly, Eliott says, ”I don’t want tomorrow to happen.”

Lucas snaps his head back up, surprised. For a second, he thinks he imagined it. With how quiet it was, and how stray, that wouldn’t be impossible, he thinks. But then Eliott turns his face away from the sky and looks at Lucas instead, and even if he did sound happy just minutes ago, he doesn’t look like it now. 

”That’s why I didn’t want to go back home yet,” he tells Lucas, like a confession. There’s something muted in his eyes. ”I don’t want tomorrow to come.”

Lucas swallows. 

”What,” he tries, forces a corner of his mouth to lift in a desperate attempt at covering up the tremor in his voice, ”aren’t you excited to go back to New York?”

It’s only half a joke and half a genuine question. Eliott answers it with a shrug that looks heavy.

”Not really. I mean,” he says, and Lucas expects him to backtrack, then, just maybe, for only a second. Start talking about how New York isn’t that bad after all. About how much he’s learning, about how it’s just difficult, is all. But then he says, ”it’s great, but. There’s someone at home I’m going to miss a lot.”

Something in Lucas’s chest quivers. He tries to smother it. ”Idriss, I bet.”

Eliott smiles at that, softly. His eyes crinkle at the corners. 

”You,” he says. ”You.”

And, see — Lucas knew that. He’s known.

It doesn’t make anything easier. 

He turns his eyes away. He wants to say, me too, me too, I’m going to miss you, too. He wants to say, then don’t go, please don’t go, please just stay. He wants to stand up and take the two steps that separate them and wrap Eliott in his arms and don’t let him go, stay with him right here until the rain stops and the sun rises. He wants to kiss him, like back then. Lucas wants so, so much.

It burns in his chest like embers of a fire that should have died long ago. Maybe that’s why he says, ”We’re not going to talk about it, then?”

A pause. ”About what?”

”Me and you,” Lucas replies, then swallows. He takes a breath, tries to steady himself, and then finally says, ”That I kissed you, back then. At the airport.” And when Eliott doesn’t say anything to that, Lucas adds, quieter, ”I think we should talk about it.”

His throat is tight. He’s clutching the chains of the swing so forcefully that they’re digging into his palm. 

Me and you, he said, but there is no such thing, really. That’s what Eliott is going to tell him. No ”L+E” even though it’s carved somewhere into the playground fence, even though the hope of it is etched into Lucas’s stupid heart. He’s sick of hoping for things that will never be true, tired of making so many mistakes, but he can’t help it. He can’t help it.

Eliott is silent. Lucas is afraid of what he’d see if he looks at him, so he just keeps his eyes where they are. He keeps staring at his own shoes, barely visible against the dark background of the grass under his feet. They weren’t supposed to bring it up, he knows. They were supposed to brush it off as inconsequential, lock it somewhere in the corner of their minds and not revisit, pretend it never happened, forget entirely. Maybe that’s what Eliott did, after all. Perhaps the memory of it got pushed to the side, with so many other things going on in his life, with so many different people, new places, better things to pay attention to than Lucas and his stupidity.

For a second, shame burns in his veins like a flame. 

Then, Eliott stands up.

He’s going to go, Lucas’s mind says, and suddenly his breathing needs two tries before it goes anywhere. He’s going to say, don’t come to the airport tomorrow, and he’s going to go. You used up your time. You should have stayed quiet.

It’s true. It’s all true.

Except Eliott doesn’t leave.

He takes two steps, instead, and then crouches in front of Lucas, and before Lucas can register what’s happening, through his loud mind and aching heart, Eliott is unwrapping Lucas’s fingers from around the swing chains and taking his hands in his own. His grip is tight. His hands are warm. 

”Lucas,” he’s saying, ”tell me why you did it. Tell me why you kissed me.”

It doesn’t make sense, but in response, he says, ”You remember, then,” and it comes out weak.

Eliott’s hands tremble in his, minutely, but it’s so slight it might as well only be his imagination. That’s what Lucas writes it off as. 

”Of course I remember,” Eliott says. ”Of course.” And then, brushing Lucas’s knuckles with his thumbs in a gesture that is probably meant to be consoling, he repeats, ”Why?”

For a moment, Lucas doesn’t say anything. 

He’s thought about it so many times. So many times, it was right there on his tongue, and he always kept it in. All his I love you’s, all the things he couldn’t let Eliott hear because it was just Lucas and his stupid, naive heart talking, because it would ruin the best thing he’s ever had. Lucas is not ready to lose it now. He’s not.

But if Eliott’s tight grip is anything to go by, or the way he intertwines their fingers, or the way he doesn’t take his eyes off Lucas at all, then maybe he knows already. Maybe he knows. Lucas isn’t sure what to believe anymore, and it hardly matters anyway, right, hardly matters when Eliott’s going to leave tomorrow anyway, fuck off for another 6 months or so, and Lucas will have to pick his broken heart back up and piece it together nevertheless, just like last time. 

It’s a heartbreak either way, no matter the reason. 

”You know why,” he finally says. It feels like a confession, but of a different sort. ”You know why, Eliott.”

Eliott brushes his knuckles again. ”Tell me.”

And just like that — Lucas closes his eyes and says it.

”Because I’m in love with you,” he says. It feels so raw on his tongue that he feels weak with it. And then again, ”I’m in love with you. I have been in love with you for ages. I loved you when we were kids, and I love you now, and I will love you tomorrow when you get on that fucking plane and leave, and that’s just what it is, Eliott, I’m really—” A breath. ”I love you. I’m so sorry.” 

He keeps looking at his shoes, still, at the same patch of grass. His inhale, the exhale, then inhale again, are all shaky.

”I kissed you because you were leaving, and I didn’t know when I would see you again,” Lucas continues, a little despite himself, but once the words are out there, there’s nothing he can do. ”I kissed you because you were still here, and I missed you already. And because I love you.” He swallows. His throat feels tight. ”That was the main reason.”

They weren’t supposed to talk about it, but here it is. No take-backs; game over. Eliott knows, now. That’s okay. Lucas will get through it, somehow, like he got through many other things. It’s what he tells himself, biting down on his lip so that it stops quivering, listening to the rush of blood in his head and the too-quick beating of his heart. Eliott isn’t saying anything, but Lucas doesn’t expect him to. There’s not much left to say, really.

And then, a shift.

”Lucas,” Eliott is muttering in the next second, and he’s pulling Lucas’s hands closer to himself, closer to his face, and then Lucas watches, dazed, as he presses his lips to Lucas’s knuckles, once, twice, then, again and again, a kiss after a kiss. ”I thought you— I didn’t—”

It has stopped raining, Lucas notes with a tiny part of his mind. He has, suddenly, no idea what’s happening. 

”I thought you didn’t say anything because—” Eliott tries and gets stuck, and in the meager light, he looks…unlike himself, a little. Wide-eyed, breathless, with a few damp strands of his hair stuck to his forehead. His gaze is suddenly so intense it is almost a physical thing. ”You never—” And then like he can’t help himself, Eliott asks, voice caving in, ”Please say it again.”

Lucas blinks at him. He feels like the world has stopped, somehow. Like the time is frozen. ”What?”

”Say it again,” Eliott repeats, and something in his voice changes, then. He’s looking straight at Lucas, with his eyes bright. They’re still holding hands. ”Why you kissed me.”

”I love you,” Lucas tells him, again, just as true as before. His heart is beating too fast.

And Eliott just closes his eyes and presses the back of Lucas’s hand to his lips again, warm and unexpected, and then, when he smiles, Lucas feels the curve of it right against his skin.

”God,” Eliott whispers, barely audible. ”Fuck.”

And then, before Lucas can say anything, Eliott is suddenly untangling their fingers and something passes in his eyes, a notion, and then he’s reaching over and he’s cupping Lucas’s face in his hands, right there at the playground, in the middle of the night and—

When Eliott kisses him, it feels like coming home. 

It’s warm and sweet and the angle is a little off, and it’s nothing like the first time but it’s also exactly like the first time, and Lucas melts into it and he’s kissing Eliott. He’s kissing Eliott. Eliott is kissing him — slow and shy at first, then growing comfortable, and then Lucas is parting his lips and lets Eliott deepen the kiss, lets the thrill of it push all the air out of his lungs. He curls his fingers into the fabric of his jeans when Eliott angles his head. They’re kissing — slow and unhurried and like they have all the time they need, even when they don’t, really. But here, in the dark, with the warmth of Eliott’s lips and the burn of hope coiling in Lucas’s chest, it’s easier to believe.

And then, when they part, Eliott is smiling wider than Lucas ever remembers him to.

”I thought you didn’t say anything because— I thought it was an impulse, then,” he tells him, leans his forehead against Lucas’s, and his eyes are closed. His hands slide down to Lucas’s neck, and he traces the line of Lucas’s jaw with his thumb, gentle. ”That you did it because you didn’t want me to go. That you thought it would make me stay.”

There is a question hiding somewhere in the sentence. Lucas answers it, feeling dazed. Feeling breathless.

”I did want you to stay,” he says, and then, ”I do. But the kiss wasn’t meant to be a bargaining card.”

Eliott huffs out a laugh. His eyes are still closed. ”Why didn’t you say anything, then?”

”Why didn’t you?”

And then Eliott does open his eyes, and even after knowing him for practically his whole life and loving him for almost equally as long, Lucas is not ready for what he sees — all the blinding happiness. All the breathtaking storm of something he’s almost afraid to name.

”If I did, and you told me what you did just now,” he says, ”I would’ve come back here on the next plane.”

Eliott’s still tracing the line of his jaw. For a heartbeat, Lucas just looks at him. ”Why?”

”Because I love you,” Eliott says, smiles that blinding smile again, leans into Lucas like he can’t help it, like he can’t wait, kisses his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. ”Because I love you, too.”

*

(Later, they will go. Leave the playground and close the gate behind, unnoticed and unseen, like they were never there in the first place, like nothing ever happened. They will hold hands and pull each other along the empty streets, then kiss on the doorstep of Eliott’s apartment building where Eliott will push Lucas against the cold brick wall and angle his chin up and kiss him again, again until Lucas loses track of time. Later, they will say ”goodnight” and Eliott will complain, just a little, about how he still needs to pack, and Lucas will laugh at him quietly, laugh until Eliott kisses the smile off his face.

But now, it’s this —

”I would stay,” Eliott tells him, still clutching his hands like it’s a lifeline, ”if you asked me to.”

For a second, Lucas wants to. The possibility of it is blinding — how he could just say two words, and Eliott would stay for him, right there, easy as that. He can taste the words on his tongue. No heartbreak, he thinks, but the opposite of it, for once. 

But in the end, he says, ”I won’t ask you to.” That’s all.

Because, you see — it wouldn’t be fair. Lucas is selfish, but he’s not cruel. He knows how much New York means to Eliott. He can’t ask Eliott to give it up, his future and his dreams and all the bright ideas he has, just because he’s going to miss him, because this is not how love works. And Lucas is no expert, really, but he is learning something new about love every day, it seems like, and tonight, dizzy with relief and throbbing with how thoroughly kissed he’s just been, he learns his — love is not selfish. Love is not painless. Sometimes, love means letting someone go and hoping they will come back.

”I won’t ask you,” he repeats when Eliott doesn’t say anything, only looks. ”But I will wait if you want me to.”

Something passes over Eliott’s face. Like understanding. His gaze softens, warms up.

”Thank you,” he says, and it’s enough of an answer.)

*

On Sunday, Eliott leaves.

Lucas goes to the airport with him, stands there amongst the crowd of people, and only has eyes for Eliott anyway. Eliott, with his heavy suitcases packed in a hurry, with his hair messy and his eyes a little tired and his smile a little crooked. They are, at least in this aspect, mirror reflections of each other — it’s the same, the way they look at each other, the way they hold hands, the way Eliott wraps him in a hug, bone-crushing, and Lucas melts into it and just holds Eliott for a second, wishes for the time to slow down for just a moment. Just a while.

”I’ll miss you,” Eliott says, presses the words into Lucas’s temple, ”so fucking much, you have no idea.”

And Lucas smiles so that he doesn’t cry. ”I do,” he says. ”I do, actually.”

Eliott kisses him goodbye, and the kisses are all like punctuation marks between him saying, I’ll call you when I get there, and I’ll see you soon, I promise, and I love you. His voice quivers a bit as he says it all. Lucas thinks, unreasonably, about ”L+E” carved somewhere into a wooden fence.

And then Eliott goes. It will be a while before they see each other again, but it’s okay.

Lucas can wait for him.

[claryaastark]

Endlessly

04162020

March 25, 1920

Dear You,

I am writing this letter just to let you know that I still miss you so much, my love. Being far from home is not easy, I made a lot of adjustments here in our dormitory. We do a lot of scheduled daily tasks, also the housemistress is very strict. I cannot eat my mom's special calderata, I don't really like the foods here, the amount is small and it tastes way too different from my mom's cooking. I miss the smell of my father's brewed coffee as I woke-up every morning. I miss the sound of the water from the Estero and the cool breeze of the wind from my window. I miss Binondo, and most importanly, you.

It's 8:30 in the evening, the housemistress will do the head count and evening checking at 9. Writing this letter for a short span of time is not easy, especially now that I am expressing how much I long for you. I still remember the first time that we met. I was riding the Kalesa with ate Maria, on the Calle Escolta. And I saw you lifting a sack of flour on the famous Pan De Sal bakery. You held my hand and help me get down from the Kalesa to get the orders from your shop. And that moment of time, I fell inlove with you. I remember the times when I used to sneak from our house's window during dark and we are going to ride the boat and roam along the Estero de Binondo. You are holding my hand, and we are both hoping not to get caught. As we look at the stars above, and the moon shines through us. We used to do a morning walk on the Calle Real Palacio and enjoy the scent of the fresh Kalachuchi. You also love to pick a pink gumamela, and put it beside my ears while telling me how lovely I am and how much you want to be with me.

I can't also forget the time that you held the guitar and sing for me in the Plaza Moraga during the town's feast. I was so happy that time and I feel like I was the luckiest woman in the world. You held my hand, and asked for the permission of my parents. And we danced. We danced under the stars while you speak to me, telling me how beautiful I am that night, telling me how much you appreciate me. After that, you ask me to marry you and I said yes. We were just so happy.

But the world is uncertain and things always change. Two months before our wedding day, a letter came to me. I was accepted by my dream university here in Baguio City. This is something that I've been waiting for a very long time, this is my dream. But chasing this dream for myself also means losing you. And I don't want that to happen. I tried not to chase this dream for myself and just be happy with you. But you pushed me, you pushed me to do this for myself. You made me choose this dream instead of you. It's hard, but you promised that you will wait for me. Even if it takes forever.

But promises are meant to be broken. I know that you won't read this letter and there is no chance of seeing you again. But I want you to know, that I still mourn for you. That I will never have the chance to move on and get over from that night. That night when a letter came to me telling that you died from an accident. It still feels like a dream to me. All our hopes, all of the things that we planned together were just gone, in a snap. I can't do anything, I can't force things to happen. It hurts, I still cry every night my love. I miss you so much. And writing this letter is just my way to live in a dream. A dream that you and I are still together. Maybe another place, maybe another time. Till then, let's say goodbye I see you in another life. You will always be my love, my life and my everything. I know that will meet again, someday. Someday.

Forever Your Love

~

Today is March 25, 1970. It was so weird that I saw this letter out of nowhere while cleaning my dorm. And upon reading this, I didn't notice that I was already crying. I can feel the pain of the woman who wrote this. I don't know who this person is, nor the ending of their story but I hope that she found her happiness.

I pick the letter and put it on the box of my stuff. I insert my newly purchased CD on the Sylvania console stereo. This is a gift from my father before I left Cebu to study here in Baguio city. He knows so well that I love music so much and it was some sort of magic that makes me feel comforted. I played Let It Be, the last song that was released by my favorite band, The Beatles. Two weeks had passed since Paul McCartney stated that he is leaving the band. It was heart breaking especially for me, who is a big fan of this band. Sadly, I prepare for my morning class while listening to their last song.

Long day was over. Everything is just typical. Acads, people, routine. Though it was still tiring. I am a Fine Arts student in University of The Philippines here in Baguio City. Living an independent life is not easy. I miss my family so much, I miss my mom's cooking, my dad's silly joke as we spend our time under the mango tree during siesta. I miss my friends in Cebu, the sea, the farm. I miss everything about my home. The sun is setting and I am walking along the busy street of the Session Road while wearing my earphones. I decided to eat my dinner alone on Inihaws, my favorite restaurant here. While eating my dinner, I noticed a boy who keeps staring at me. I tilted my body to block his view, it feels awkward and creepy. As I continue to eat my food, I can see on my peripheral vision that he is still staring at me. I heaved a sigh and look directly to his eyes, I waved my hand and patted the seat beside me. Asking him to come and sit.

“What are you staring at?" I asked arrogantly.

He pouted his lips, pointing my plates and artworks. Ah, so he's looking at my artworks.

“What about them?" I asked him.

“They're nice and classic, I love them. Fine arts?" He talks so manly and attractive, uhh?

“Yup. There is just something that I saw this morning which inspired me for my plate today"

I explained as we both looked on the sketch of a woman riding a Kalesa, and a man who is holding her hand, they are both alive and smiling. They are the people on the letter that I read this morning.

The conversation went smoothly. I found out that he is an Architecture student on Saint Louis University, we are both into arts. I got no stuff to do this evening, so I decided to go with him as he asked me to have an evening walk along the Session Road. We talk about our interest, arts, music, things that we are fond of. We got a lot of things in common. He talks a lot, and I like how quick-witted he is as he tells a lot of jokes. We didn't notice the hour, it was already 10 in the evening. I do not as well, but I don't feel scared on this man that I just met few hours ago. I feel comfortable and we have this sort of connection like we knew each other on the past. We spent the night telling each other's story. We went to his small art room, and he painted me. He ask me to hold a plastic flower as I smile while he is painting me. It seems like I met a stranger, and this whole night is like a fairy-tale.

It was already 3 in the morning, we are sitting on the grass while we look on the city lights below. It was so beautiful. As well as the man beside me, he is lovely. I didn't ask for his name but it feels like I already know him so well. He tilted his head on my direction and caught me staring at him, he smiled and out of nowhere, his face turns sad.

“I'm married" he said.

I was shocked. I was hurt, and there is something that stings on my chest.

“I know you since we were freshmen, I first saw you sketching on the Inihaws. You are alone and you seem so committed with your passion. I find it so adorable, the way you move your hand, the way you put your hair on the side of your ears. The way you frown your forehead as you make some mistakes. I fell in love with you, the first time I saw you. Since then, I always follow you. I see you walking on the street while wearing your earphones. I always see you eating alone on the Inihaws. I always see you smiling on the street vendors, you are adorable as you say your good morning to them. And when I finally decided to introduce and show myself to you. My mom from Sagada called me. Asking me to come home. That day, I went home to Sagada. I saw my ex-girlfriend, and she has a child — our child. We were a stubborn, inlove teenagers during high school. We broke up just like a typical puppy love story. But I didn't know, that I got her pregnant. My son is already two years old when she showed up. She can't raise our child alone, so she decided to tell it to me and my family. Two months after, we get married."

My heart is aching as I listened to his story, I feel bad for him, I feel bad for us. I didn't speak a word. I just let myself stare on the city lights below. I can't process my thoughts right now. Feels like the fairytale is finally over. Surprisingly, he held my hand.

“I love my son, he is the reason why I am working hard to become an Architect. I love her mother, but not the way that I love you from a far. I fell in love with you and you deserve to know it. I was so happy loving you from afar, and thank you for that. Maybe another place, maybe another time. Till then, let's say goodbye I see you in another life, Stella"

He called my name, and he left.

Those were the last thing that he said that night. And I never saw him again. Maybe, maybe someday we will have the chance to love each other not just from afar. We will be together, someday.

~

March 25, 2020. This is it, this is the day that me and friends are finally seeing each other! After one year of not meeting everyone because of College, we're finally going out today. We chose the art exhibit as a venue for our date today. I'm excited! I kissed my mom as I went downstairs for breakfast, she teased me that our plan for today will be cancelled because of my excitement. I love my mom so much but sometimes, I hate her for ruining my moments hmp. I eat my favorite egg roll and decided to ignore her.

The time is 2:30 in the afternoon. I am already prepared for today's meeting. I drove the car and play my classic OPM playlist. I love music so much, and I can't live without it. Kamikazee's Tagpuan is currently playing, I bang my head and sang along with the melody of the song. It's 4 in the afternoon when I arrived at the venue. It is odd because I see no familiar face here. I opened my phone to ask where they are, and found out that the exhibit plan was cancelled during the last minute. And they decided to just eat on the restaurant nearby our place. I don't know what to feel, I feel bad for not checking my phone before leaving the house. I feel bad for being excited, mom is right. I don't know but I kinda felt lazy to go on the restaurant near our place because I traveled to get here for 2 hours. My excitement just all went down. I get in the car and think. Upon fighting with my thoughts I decided to just stay here and continue the exhibit plan, alone. It is a new experience though.

I went inside and everything feels amazing. I’m not an artsy kind of person, I don’t have any talents in art but one thing is sure — I really do appreciate art. I love to spend my time on looking at the green grass outside, the blue sky above and the beauty of nature. I do love aesthetic things because it reminds me that despite of being cruel, beautiful things on this world still exist. The ambience is nice, the people are few but I can see that they are enjoying the paintings inside the hall. I walk and took a photograph of the artworks. After that, I posted it on my instagram story and send it to our group chat to tell them that I can’t make it on our dinner anymore. And I decided to just stay here and stick to the original plan.

I roam around the hall and appreciate the beauty of art. While walking, a painting caught my attention. It was a woman with curly hair, and she was smiling from ear to ear. She was wearing a floral dress and holding a piece of rose. The woman seems so happy and I can feel the genuine emotion of the one who painted it. Is her boyfriend the one who painted her? It was romantic. Suddenly, I feel something weird and unexplainable on my chest, I can really feel something on this painting. Something that is connected with me.

“It was nice and classic, isn’t it lovely?”

I was shocked when someone has spoken out of nowhere, I tilted my head on the direction of the voice, it was a man. He was wearing a black shirt, and he is holding a camera. He is smiling sincerely while looking at the painting, weird but it seems like the voice came from the painting itself.

“Uhh yes. This painting feels so real and sincere. I can feel the emotion of both the painter and the subject” I said while looking directly at the painting. And I was smiling.

Our conversation went smoothly, and it seems like I found an instant date. He talks a lot and I found out that we were on the same University. He is an Engineering student, and he loves to play the guitar. I felt fascinated because I was attracted with men who are inclined to music. We roam around the hall and we were just so happy. Finally, long day is over and we bid our good byes. But before that, he asked for my phone number.

Oh shoot. I forgot to ask his name. But nevermind, I still have a lot of chance to meet him again. I smiled as my phone beeps and I got a text message from an unknown number.

“Take care, I had a good time. See you around” -Mr. Engineer

That’s the text message. I went home with a big smile on my face, the date with my friends have been cancelled. But I found a new experience today. Something more happy, and amazing. I lay in bed and look at the ceiling of my room along with its fake galaxy. I smiled as I remember the man that I met few hours ago. While giggling, I replied on his text message.

“Good night, Mr. Engineer! Had a good time too” -Ms. Psychologist.

To sum it up, we talk on the phone everyday. He always made my day, he always make me smile. He jokes a lot and he had a lot on his mind. He is quick-witted and very manly. After a few weeks of talking, I admit that I already had a crush on him. Along with that, we decided to spend our time together. And as time passed by, I am knowing him more and more.

We had the same interest in almost everything. We watched the same movies together. We listen to our favorite songs. We eat our favorite foods. Though we never share any of our favorite foods, especially him who can fight with anyone who touches his food, even me. We travelled places to taste various delicacies. We went to church regularly to pray. He became a part of my everyday. He loves picking a flower and putting it on the side of my ears. He loves playing the guitar for me.

It was really nice, to found someone who appreciates every little thing on you. Someone who can lend his ears and shoulder to listen. Someone who can cheer you up whenever you are feeling down. He loves kissing me, but loves hugging me more. I felt home and safe on his arms. It was weird but there is something that is telling me, that we really had the connection and we knew each other a very long time ago. All that he made me feel was something new. It was my first time, to fall inlove with someone. I had no doubts and regrets.

But the world is always uncertain, there are lots of things that we are unsure, so is us. We are just happy, and then in just a snap we parted our ways, and we fell apart. Maybe another place, maybe another time. Till then let’s say good bye, I see you in another life. I know that he is a blessing from God, and whatever it takes. We will meet again, someday.

Parang isang panaginip, Ang muling mapagbigyan, tayo ay muling magkasama.

Panatag na ang kalooban ko, At ika’y kapiling ko na Kay tagal kitang hinintay

I smiled as this classic song by Spongecola played on my car’s stereo. Today is 25th of March, 2025. And I am finally seeing him again. I smiled, a nervous smile mixed with excitement.

It was weird because last night, as I was fixing my stuff in our Ancestral house in Bagac, Bataan, I saw an old box . It was a collection of CDs, some of the albums are from The Beatles. And I saw a very old letter, the pen was already disappearing and it was already stained. The letter was from March 25, 1920. It was very old ; a hundred and five years ago. Along with the letter, I also saw an artwork. A sketch of a woman riding a Kalesa, and a man who is holding her hand, they are both alive and smiling on this artwork. I asked mom about this stuff, and she said that it belongs to my great grandmother, Stella. It was her stuff during her college days on Baguio City.

Anyway, after the very long wait. I am finally seeing him again.

The hall is full of people. I am wearing a red polka dots dress, I know that black is his favorite color but I want to show him something new. It seems like I was lost in the crowd and I can’t see him anywhere. But as I was walking through the sea of people, someone held my hand and whispered.

“You look so beautiful, baby. You never changed” I got teary-eyed as I heard his voice. Oh God, I miss him so much. I miss this man. The man that I lost and the same man that I found again. The long wait is over, we finally have the chance to be with each other. I hugged him tight, the only man that I ever loved, love and I will love wherever and whenever.

“Baby, I’m no angel, I’m just me. But I will love you endlessly” those were the words that I whispered through his ear.

“We parted our ways together, we fell apart but fate will always make a way for us. Time will always tell. In another place, in another time, we will always be together, our love is endless”

Words that I said, while directly looking into his eyes.

It’s 25th of March, year 2030. And today is our wedding day.

[mouldyrubbish]

ok but ... i need to talk about this. My mum truly doesn’t listen to me.. she never has. she’s never attended to my emotional or physical needs. I can’t say this because everyone see’s her as a saint of a mother, she’s so loving... she gives you everything... She is so supportive.

No. she’s a stage mum but for art. she’s a narcissist. she wants to flaunt me. She gets all her ego inflation through me. That’s why she pushes me. As a child she never acknowledged my hurt, my sadness, my stress, my trauma. She ignored my s*xual assault, she told me to just ignore bullies instead of giving me legitimate sympathy and emotional support, she supported my unjust punishment in high school for truanting that was an OBVIOUS sign of my depression and anxiety, and she always, even to this day, takes the side of the other person when I come to her about something I’m upset about. She’s blamed me for ruining her friendships instead of acknowledging a lot of her friends are just bad people and manipulators, she guilts me for everything, from her career choices being made because of me, the fact she’s not a practicing artist because she wanted to give ME a good upbringing (??), she guilts me into doing everything outside of my boundaries and will use every excuse possible not to respect my boundaries until she just decides to walk away from me when I try desperately to enforce them. She gets angry at me for the exact same behaviours that she exhibits on the regular, and when I try to call out her hypocrisy she tells me to shut up......... 

Also talking to her is just having the same five conversations. She complains about work, she bullies me into talking to her about my degree and pushes conversations pertaining my studies even if I tell her ten times I don’t want to have the conversation, she guilts me to do literally anything that she wants me to do, she tries to talk to me about some niche-ly famous person she once met that was mentioned on the arts radio show, and she complains about the dirty dishes/messy house (even though the majority of the mess is exclusively hers). 

i don’t think she’s ever asked me how I’m feeling, what’s going on in my life, what’s getting me down, or what I’m stressed about (and if she ever has, it was never in earnest), and even if I have tried to talk to her about any of these things she always finds a way to turn it back on me and make me feel guilty, ashamed, or embarrassed about it, or make it out like it’s entirely my fault and that I am in the wrong. And don’t even get me started if any of these things have to do with her. She simply will not listen. She’ll ignore me, walk away from me, talk over me, and use anything against me out of spite. Once I tried to confront her about all this pain I was feeling from the way she was treating me, and she smashed the dish drying rack into pieces on the kitchen sink in front of me in a frenzied rage. 

When I say I don’t feel safe or supported here, this is what I mean. When I say I can’t stand living here, this is why. And it’s been 18 years of living with her justifying her treatment of me as ‘you’re the child, I’m the adult’ until I finally realised that that wasn’t the case at all, because even now that I’m an adult, the same kind of behaviour is carried out day after day. And it’s almost been 4 more years of this. I can’t keep letting my maturity be stunted by her treating me like a child, and suppressing my autonomy. I can’t keep letting her use my security as a bribe against me, a reason to undermine and disrespect me freely without any consequence. I don’t have free will in this house, I live a life of ultimatums and manipulative trickery and trauma. I hate to be dramatic, but it’s exhausting, and I want to know what a life of love and joy is like, not one of holding my breath and dreading every second I am awake in this house. 

[caiuscassiuss]

Muse | Painter AU! Taeyong (M)

Description: “You are the apple of my eye, the stars in my sky; you are my muse, and most importantly, you are mine.”

Safe: In all ways, you have always played it safe, never taking risks. However, your stagnant world is shaken up when abstract painter Lee Taeyong propositions to you in the middle of an art galley.

Genre: angst | fluff | humor WC: 18.8k Warnings: graphic smut (virginity loss, rough sex, oral sex, unprotected, 69, etc), profanity

    (A/N: I’m so sorry painter taeyong lowkey turned into pseudo sugar daddy taeyong. Also, there is a detailed notations list at the end noting my references.)

   You scrutinized the lines of various lengths and curvatures that made up the design of your organic building. Your trained eye could pick out the angles were all correct, every detail arithmetically precise, but the building simply didn’t invoke any sort of passion in you. The lines were exactly just that; lines. None of the functional utility of the drawing gave way to any sort of creativity. It was like staring at a paper you’ve written on for hours with invisible ink, only to realize that you’ve forgotten the point and nothing made sense because you didn’t have any way of reading it.    A sigh escapes your lips as you stand up from your stool, a satisfying “crack” resounding throughout the empty room when you stretch your poor back. You roll your head back in a circle, refreshing your eyes from the hours spent on staring at a piece of blue paper hung up on the angled drawing board. 1, 2, 3, you count as you extend your arms out to relieve the muscles from the lack of exertion of a few hours.    Panting after the stretch, you stare at the drawing again. No matter how hard you stared, the drawing desk could not turn into a dirt-stained pottery wheel, nor could the many rulers suddenly morph into chisels, worn with constant use. It was hopeless really, as hopeless as you actually managing to put together a comprehensive design for your architecture final.    Your phone vibrated on the side table and your eyes dart over to the screen. It lay in a halo of rulers and pencils, erasers dotting the surface of the table like water droplets while pencil sketches were interspersed haphazardly. A messy desk was the sign of a messy mind, after all; you just hoped it didn’t reflect in your work.    Olivia, one of your friends at the private arts college you both attended, informed you to “hurry the fuck up” and meet her at the quad. You frowned, not recalling the reason why, but ah-ing when the reason came to you. A famous artist, whom with Olivia was absolutely enamored, was delivering a speech in one of the lecture halls on campus and she wanted you to come along. It escaped your reasoning on why your presence was needed (You were an architect major. What use was an abstract painter’s advice to you?) but you agreed anyway, even if she was acting like some silly teenage girl attending a concert.    Sighing, you did your best to organize the pathetic mess on your workshop table and gave up as soon as you started. What was the point anyway? It was going to be a quick trip, after all. You gathered your essential things in your bag and strode determinedly out of the workshop and into the maze of hallways that made up the famed Parsons School of Design. The midday sun that greeted you outside was a welcome replacement for the fluorescent lighting in the workshop.    Your friend, in her signature monochrome ensemble, was tapping her foot impatiently as she shielded her eyes from the sun. A surge of envy and sadness rose up at the sight of her paint-splattered tote bag and her stained fingers. You admired Olivia for her braveness at pursuing her passion, but also grew green-eyed at the sort of tired joy in her eyes when she recounted her brush technique class. Sighing, you continued walking through the quad, feeling the sunlight warming your skin and melting away your worries. Her disgruntled expression turned even more sour when she caught sight of you moseying along, admiring the the greenery and architecture.    “This is no time for you to enjoy nature! We’ve got to get there soon and grab some front row seats before half of the damn campus floods in!” she lectures grabs your arm. You roll your eyes and increase your pace to keep up, and you both speed walk to the lecture hall.    The lecture hall of Parsons School of Design was the pride and joy of its students and alumni. Designed by one of the alumni of the architecture department, it was a huge, intimidating structure made out of glass and metal in the spirit of postmodern design. A dome made completely out of glass soared over the amphitheater-style seating surrounding a central stage, the signature blood-red banners of your college hanging in this way and that way. Usually used for special occasions, this hall wasn’t your run of the mill lecture hall but a bold statement of creativity.    Even after having attended the venue multiple times, you couldn’t help but be amazed at its sheer size and impressive design. However, the room was filled with loud chatter and buzz, teeming with students and staff.    “Look! Over there!” Olivia exclaimed and tugged you in the direction of the inner ring of seats. You were surprised she could even see over the mass of people with her short stature, and that there happened to be seats available in the huge crowd.    As soon as the pair of you took your seats, a hush swept over the audience. Chitchat is smothered with the blanket of silence and the echoes of conversation no longer reverb across the hall, only a sort of nervous buzz signifying anticipation.    “Good afternoon, everyone. Today is-” your headmaster droned on in a monotone voice.    “This old man needs to hurry the fuck up, my god!” Olivia grumbled, resting her chin on her palm.    You roll your eyes and your thoughts drift to other trivial things. Did you water your plants? Did you save the latest design model in your hard drive? Was the hot barista still working at-    Applause resounds around the lecture hall as your headmaster steps down from the stage and hands the microphone over to a man with sunset orange-red hair and a slender build. His stage presence was immediately more noticeable than your headmaster’s. Him in his black slacks and oxford shirt rolled to the sleeves attracted the crowd’s attention like bees to honey.    “Ehem.”    Olivia, beside you, squeals in delight while you slightly lean forward, intrigued by this man.    “As you may know, I am Lee Taeyong, an artist and alumni of Parsons,” he bows slightly and your classmates murmur about his Korean heritage.    “Today, I would like to talk about inspiration.”    He started pacing the stage, making rounds to address each part of the circular auditorium.    “Inspiration is something easy to find, yet rather hard to grasp. It’s difficult to wrestle with something you see or feel onto a canvas or block of clay that makes sense. But this is basic knowledge to all of you, right?” he grins and the crowd laughs.    As the speech continues, you can never take your eyes off the painter. Lee Taeyong seemed to embody the abstract art he was so famous for, his presence departing independently from the reality around him. It was almost like there was the crowd, the stage, and then him. He cut an alternate shape in the fabric of reality and somehow, and that drew your attention.    “However, inspiration is more than what helps me pick up my paintbrush at 2 am and to pay the bills; it is an energy that I have to constantly grapple with. Inspiration will drive you to your limits or bog you down like an anchor, it can either eat at your mind or push you towards your boundaries. It can consume you or it will be the one that feeds you.”    “Inspiration cannot be underestimated; it is just as much as an energy as the electricity that lights up this building and the kinetic energy in physics. Do not take it for granted; you are under its spell, after all.”    Taeyong’s lecture comes to an end and he bows, which shakes the whole hall out of its trance and into thunderous applause. Your classmates and many staff actually stand up to give this man a standing ovation, which rarely happens. Olivia, by your side, is still starstruck and tugged at your arm in excitement while you suddenly snap out of your daze. Even though you feel like the floor has been taken from beneath your feet, you regain the use of your limbs and get up to applaud.

   The air conditioning hits you in the face like a wrecking ball, and you shiver at the temperature change from outside to inside. You clutch the handles of your tote bag harder. No matter; the cold was endearing and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The art gallery on 18th street was your home away from home, a moment of reprieve from the stressful world of college. A usual college student’s hangout spot would be the coffee shop or even at the library but no; your place of rest and relaxation was within the walls of an art gallery.    You strolled through the various galleries, greeting each piece like an old friend. In a way, they were; when you moved out from your comfy suburbs, the only thing that reprieved you from your homesickness was the paintings on the wall or the sculptures on display.    When you crossover into another exhibition room, you pause momentarily in surprise. While you were expecting to see overhanging metal mobiles by Calder (1), instead, you were greeted by paintings of various sizes in gilded frames. They were painted with a muted color palette, drab and horribly realistic. There were landscapes of wheat or empty, desolate rooms, all of them showcased in moody lighting. The banner above you proclaimed these were the works of Andrew Wyeth, a larger than life black and white photo of him hanging imposingly over the installations.    A central piece draws your eyes to its canvas. It is a rather intimate piece; a woman in full nude sitting on a stool near a barn window, her bright skin contrasted by the darkness of the background surrounding her (2). It was gorgeous and you admire the mastery of detail put into the piece. As you continued to inspect the painting, a presence sidles closely beside you. You pay no mind to the person.    “Was he in love with her?” Your intense concentration on the painting in front of you is broken, and you turn your head towards the sound of the noise. The man on your left is not looking at you, rather, in the position, you were occupying a few seconds ago: transfixed by the painting. His glasses reflect in the studio lights and they highlight his unusually sharp features. He gives off an aura you couldn’t quite identify but are somehow familiar with.    “You are to assume I know of such artistic critique?” you ask bemusedly, cocking an eyebrow at this intriguing man.    He turns towards you, and your memory suddenly clicks together. You didn’t recognize him with the glasses, but the sharp jawline and distinct cheekbones, the ruffled hair and aristocratic nose- Lee Taeyong.    Taeyong’s mouth half pulls into a grin but he motions at your emblazoned tote bag.    “Parson’s?”    “Lee Taeyong! Oh, my, I certainly didn’t expect this.” The lights feel too bright and too warm when he scrutinizes your face with his intense, coal black eyes.    “Pleasure. And you are…?”    “Y/N L/N.”    His mouth pulls into some kind of half-smile for you and he turned back towards the painting.    “So?”    “I’m part of the architecture department,” you explain, bitterness seeping into your tone.    He raises his eyebrows.    “Either way; was Wyeth in love with his muse?”    Your brows furrow at this question. You think for a few seconds before carefully deciding on an answer. There was no telling what this man wanted anyway.    “I feel it was more of an aesthetic appreciation if anything. Nudity is not inherently sexual- Wyeth wanted to just invoke vulnerability through her nude body,” you speak decisively.    “Is there not some sort of love involved in spending time painting and scrutinizing every crevice of her body?” you shiver at the almost seductive tone in his voice, passionate and fiery. His tenor was the stuff of dark rooms and rumpled sheets, dying sunlight and lingering kisses.    Nevertheless, you huff and roll your eyes. “If you see it that way, sure. She was probably just a hired model.” (3)    Taeyong stays silent for a few seconds.    “Interesting,” he hummed.    You both stand, side by side looking at the dark painting.    “I hate to inform you, but my intentions on coming over here were not... purely to ask you about your interpretation of Wyeth.” Taeyong broke the silence.    “What were they, then?” you ask, intrigued,    “Your eyes are wonderful, you know,” Taeyong says abruptly.    “What.” you deadpan, confused at his sudden shift in tone.    “Your eyes are wonderful; I should love to paint them,” he speaks absentmindedly as if he were speaking to himself and not in conversation with another.    “Will you let me paint you?” He turns his smoldering eyes to you, boring into yours like a sucker-punch to the gut.    “I… excuse me?” you sputter, secretly wondering if this esteemed artist your friend so admired was high off of his ass.    “Will you let me paint you?” he draws out as if you were lacking in brain cells.    “Um… no? I don’t pose nude. Nor do I fancy myself a model.”    “You wouldn’t have to pose nude, y/n. You would serve more as… inspiration, rather than a real-life reference. You would be paid, if that helps,” Taeyong spoke quietly, beseeching you to heed his words.    “I’m afraid I don’t have much knowledge with this sort of thing, you know?”    Taeyongs sighs, and reaches into the inner coat pocket to retrieve something white and small. He offers the object, a vellum calling card, to your perusal. His name and contact information are engraved with silver ink and you hesitantly reach up to grab the card.    “Well, if you change your mind… you can contact me.” He brushes his thumb over your knuckles as he hands you the card, the way a cool breeze brushes upon your skin to refresh you from the hot summer air. His touch would seem unintentional if not for the suggestive smirk on his face. You blush slightly at the contact, and he retracts his hands and put them into his pockets.    “I bid you adieu.”    With a final grin, he sweeps out of the room, his presence still lingering like a miasma in the air.

   You slouch into the headboard of the rickety bed of your dorm room, cuddled up with blankets and hot chocolate. It was time to do some research because you were going to be safe.    You typed in “artist model”. All that came up with was a definition, so you decided to go another route. “Artist’s inspiration” brings about nothing relevant, and you pout, frustrated at the lack of information available. You ponder for a moment, the thunderstorm pounding at your window pane. Were you going to be his “muse”? You knew, vaguely, that the term was a loaded concept, subject to controversy and misconceptions. The way Taeyong described, you were acting more like a base for his artwork, something of an anchor for his creativity; a jumping board.    A crack of thunder jump-scares you, and you almost spill your hot chocolate onto your bedsheets. Sighing, you relinquish your grip on the mug and put it on your nightstand.    Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you power off your laptop and set aside on your desk. Today was simply not that day where you would come to a definite conclusion.

   “Say, Olivia, if you were suddenly propositioned by a man to be his model, would you accept?”    “Come again?!”    Her head of blonde hair whips back as she snaps her head towards you. The brushes she is washing in the sink are quickly discarded in favor of her freezing in shock, an amusingly shaken look on her face. You, however, are unperturbed and sit on the couch, staring at the TV display nonchalantly.    You look back at her, an eyebrow raised as her mouth gapes open stupidly in your direction.    “I’m not repeating that.”    Olivia unfreezes and turns off the tap, wiping her hands hurriedly on her jeans as she strides towards the living room of her apartment. Her pretty countenance is marred by furrowed brows, a mixture of confusion and impending alarm in her eyes. She settles into the couch, and unlike usual, she does not flop into it ungracefully but sits into it cautiously with her back ramrod straight.    “Y/n can you please explain?!” she asks.    You sigh and switch off the blaring TV and turn to her.    “An artist I recently met at a gallery asked me to “serve as inspiration for him”.”    At the sight of the doubt on her face, you explain more.    “No! Not like that. I’m not posing nude for him or anything like that, more like… inspiration of sorts.”    Olivia leans her chin onto her palm, deep in thought.    “Okay, who is it?”    You cringe. You knew this question was going to come up.    “... Lee Taeyong,” you whisper.    Olivia actually physically jumps off the couch and stands up.    “WHAT?!”     You cower away from her enthusiasm. Her hair crackles with excitement and her eyes are wide, but you are not surprised by her overzealous reaction.    “Erm… yeah?” you offer hesitantly.    “Oh my god, yes! You should totally do it! This is great, y/n! Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?” she ranted as she threw her hands up in the air. She paced the room in barely contained excitement, while you could only stare.    She calmed down after a while and sat back down. She exhaled then drew a palm over her face, and her face was fine.    “Okay, in all seriousness, I think it would be a great opportunity for you. Y/n… I love you so much, sweetheart, but you always play it so safe in your life.”    You frown and turn your head to the side. While you have known this practically all your life, it still hurts for it be said so raw and out in the open, like a cut wound exposed to the air.    “You never want to go out clubbing with the girls or flirt with some guys. Hell, you didn't even want to pursue scul-”    She shuts up when you cut your eyes towards her, a warning and angry gaze contained in them.    “...sorry. However, you get my point: you need to take risks more. Have fun, take a breather, and get out more! I think… I think this modeling opportunity might get you out of your shell, you know? You should go for it and… just be careful.”    You stay quiet for a while, contemplating over her words. Olivia was right, as much as you hated to admit it. It loathed you to go out of the apartment, no matter how much you yearned for excitement and the vibrancy of city life. Any romantic interest or advance was clinically clipped at the bud, because what if you got hurt? What if you couldn't concentrate on your studies? Safety meant no boys, no parties, no risky decisions. Safe was always...safe for you. But was “safe” good for you?    “... alright. I'll give it a try.”    Olivia squealed and dragged you off the couch, dancing you around in a bastardized version of the waltz. Peals of laughter rang out throughout the apartment as she dragged you into her excitement.

   The numbers of Taeyong’s number glow up from your screen, all ready to be dialed. You, on the other hand, were NOT ready and instead, eyed your phone like it was some sort of bomb that might explode.    Even if Olivia had convinced you at least try and see where it took you, you could not uphold to those promises when it came down to be. The effects of pressing the red little call icon on your phone screen would be… astronomical.     Would things change? Would they be the same? Would you still be the college student struggling to make ends meet? Or would you be something else entirely, something you couldn’t even fathom in your imagination? What would happen?    You know what? Fuck it.    You could do this.    A shiver of nervous anticipation wracked your body as the dialing tone rang through your empty apartment.    “Hello?” a husky tone spoke.    “Hi,” you whisper.    “Who is this?” Taeyong asks disinterestedly.    “It’s… it’s y/n. The girl you met at the gallery on 18th street?”    “Ah, y/n! Hello!” He exclaims, a complete roundabout from the cool detachment apparent in his tone earlier.    “Have you thought about my offer yet?” He asks.    “Erm, yes. I decided I… I’d like to take you up on it.”    There are a few moments of silence until Taeyong breathes out, “Delightful.” You unconsciously let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. Your posture slumps back into the chair behind you from your hunched position over the table.    “Um… yeah.” You don't know quite what to say now.    He laughs, a rich delightful sound that rumbles through the phone line and stirs something in the pit of your stomach. You gulp as his amused chuckle does down.    “You are so cute. I'll text you the details of where we should meet up, alright?”    “Yes, of course.”    “I will see you later. Have a nice night.”    “You too. Goodbye.”    The line clicks off and it is almost like the aftermath of an explosion. You stare, dazed and shell-shocked, at the dark screen of your cell phone.    You really don’t know what you have gotten yourself into.

   Muted jazz music plays softly over the speakers of the cafe you are currently sitting at, and combined with the ambient lighting makes the place attractive indeed. It is one of the classier coffee cafes in New York, one slightly out of the price range of broke college students, so it is an oddity to see one sitting in one of the plush booths that the cafe provides; hence, why you probably stuck out like a sore thumb.    Your fingers fumble with the handle of the coffee mug in front of you as you check your phone repeatedly. You tug nervously at the collar of your shirt and look around the cafe discreetly.    Taeyong had texted you the address of this cafe with no explanation, except a time and a date. It was rather confusing at first; why did he want to meet up with your cafe? You’d think you’d be brought to some sort of studio or informal workplace, but here you were, humming along with the saxophone in a dimly lit cafe.    The display on your phone read 6:40, 10 minutes after when Taeyong had said he would meet you. Normally, you would just wait patiently, but the importance of whom you were meeting with and why had you on edge with anticipation, butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach. You glanced down at your coffee mug; it was ¼ full, which meant you have been guzzling it down pretty quickly in nervousness. A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your attention towards the window.    You were on the fifth floor, so you had a bird’s-eye view of the pedestrians outside. People-watching was a habit of yours, albeit barely explored; it intrigued you to ponder what sort of lives the people passing you had. A woman near the corner caught your eye; she had perfectly coiffed hair and strode confidently through the mess of people with a briefcase and light overcoat. She looked like she might be a working woman, you mused, a yuppie; the sort of person your father dreamt for you to become.    A man with dyed orange hair ensnared your attention next, carrying a skateboard. While you could not see it from your vantage point, you knew he probably had some sort of Supreme-branded clothing on because of the neon yellow of his shirt and the flaming red color of his pants. People around him, particularly of the older generation, stared at him in disdain as he seemed to brush it off, not even acknowledging the world around him. You wished you could be like that; doing what you wanted, not caring about anyone wanted around you.    “Y/n?” a voice broke you out of your thoughts.    You turned your head and there was the man of the hour: Lee Taeyong.    He looked particularly dashing today, although unusually dressed. He wore a loose linen shirt tucked into some skinny jeans, his sunset red-orange hair kept in by a silk green bandana. The picture of a well-dressed, in-style millennial. Taeyong smiled a crooked grin at you and slid into the booth in the seat in front of you.    “How are you?” he asked.    “I’m doing fine myself, and you?”     “Rather well.”    The pair of you sat in silence for a few moments before he broke it.    “You must be wondering why I’ve summoned you to a cafe of all places, right? I can see it in your eyes,” he intoned.    You nod slowly.     “What I have found is that you can’t find the essence of a person while they are contorted on a podium in a studio. You can better express emotions and get a feel for the person better when you can explore all facets of them. What better to do that than to observe them in a natural environment?” Taeyong stares out the window into the crowded street.    He turns his gaze to you.    “Can I know more about you?”    “Erm, sure. What would you like to know?” you ask, unsure.    “Your social security number,” he deadpans, a cloying glint in his dark eyes.     You frown and then see the look in his eyes. Your countenance asks him: really?    Taeyong bursts out in laughter and you giggle along with him, discomfort at least a little bit gone.    “I’m joking, I’m joking. Hmm… perhaps the basic stuff?”    “That’s alright. Like what?”    “What do you like to do in your free time?”    “I… I like to watch Netflix. Um… I like to… cook? Yeah, I like to cook stuff like teriyaki chicken or stir-fry. Perhaps play around with clay or stone, if I have it on hand,” you list out.    “Sculpting? That’s rather fun. I used to do a bit of it before myself before I really got into painting. What do you like to sculpt?”    “People,” you reply immediately. “People.”    “Same as me then, hm? Are you trying to use me as a stepping stone for your career?” he asks playfully.    You laugh while he stares at you intensely as if he’s trying to commit the planes of your face to memory. Perhaps that’s what he meant by “observing”.    “Maybe I’m trying to secretly sabotage your art, so I can get a leg up. What about then, Taeyong, hm?” you tease.     He stares at you in surprise before he laughs, the sound carrying around the cafe and imprinting in your brain.    “Oh, you’re a delight, Y/n. Truly.”

   These meet-ups go along for a few more months, all in different locations. Taeyong never asks to meet up at a location you have already been to before. He takes you through the paths of Central Park, to the bustling chaos of Times Square, even taking you, in a rather memorable trip, to a show on Broadway. Every time you met up, he’s given you fifty dollars for your time. You accept it gratefully, albeit awkwardly.    You’ve exposed a lot of yourself to him now; he knows everything from where you were born, when you were born (he’s 6 years older than you), to your favorite type of frosting and even your hatred of small holes.     You often wonder what he is doing with this knowledge. He has never mentioned to you the progress of his artwork but you can see the paint smudges on his fingers or the rare smudge on his trousers when he visits you in a rush from his studio.    Taeyong, you think, is more artist than scientist; he adds different variables and he observes how you react. You are the proverbial rat in a glass box.    However, as bare as you are to him, he is as closed off to you.    Besides the basic knowledge of his occupation and age and whatnot, you never really got a read on him. Taeyong was like one of those Hanamaya puzzles you struggled with as a child, frustrated at the lack of progress unlocking the intertwined metal structures. Enigmatic, closed off; your regular Sherlock Holmes.     These thoughts ran through your head as you strolled along Battery Park. It was rather warm spring day, and you enjoyed the warm sunlight against your skin. The park was also surprisingly quiet, on such a nice day, but you weren’t complaining; comfortable silence was more conducive to stimulating conversation anyway.    Taeyong had bought you an ice cream that you had been ready to pay for despite your protests, citing “I remember when I was a broke college student. Just take the money, okay?”.    As ate your ice cream, you walked in slowly through the tree-lined path. You grew anxious and wanted to ask him a question, but your voice couldn’t formulate any sort of sound.    “Taeyong… I feel as if you know the bare fabric of me but I… know nothing of you,” you ask, uncharacteristically bold.    He pauses and looks at you, hands still stuffed in his pockets, an unreadable expression on his face.    “I’m Lee Taeyong, I paint, I like strawberry macaroons, and I hate dirty rooms. There’s not much to know about me, you see,” he says shortly as he walks ahead.    I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Lee.

   Taeyong doesn’t text you for a few weeks.  As hard as you try, you cannot be unaffected.    You never really expected how much he has inserted himself into your daily life. He is in your thoughts when you sketch out the facade of an apartment building, and he is with you when you see the strawberry macaroons made in the bakery you always pass by when going to campus.    Did your words… scare him off? Were you perhaps… too forward with him? Did you cross some unspoken boundary as the subject of artistic inspiration? You look down to see that you have traced the same line over 3 times on your architectural sketch. A groan escapes your lips and you lean back in your chair, tossing the pencil haphazardly on the desk. Concentration escaped your grasp like a sand, pouring out of every crack and crevice even when you did your best to capture it. Evasive.    Like Lee Taeyong.    An even louder groan, a gross hybrid between a scream and a groan, escapes your lips and echoes around the empty room. There you go again, thinking about Lee fucking Taeyong.    The display of your phone lights up.    Meet me in the quad ~ TY    See. You were even hallucinating text messages from him.    You shake your head as you rub your temples back and for—    Wait, TY?    You scramble for your phone, which was (as usual) buried under a pile of pencil shavings and protractors. Fishing it out, you unlock the screen and hurriedly scroll through the messages.    It really was Lee Taeyong.    You stared helplessly at your uncompleted project and then back at your phone. Since you couldn’t concentrate anyway, you might as well try to relieve it by going to the source of your distraction.    You pick up your bag and wave goodbye to your very focused classmates, who merely grunt before going back to their boards. A quick walk led you to the square of carefully cultivated trees and flowers, all intentionally grown to create a relaxed and peaceful atmosphere. It also created a visual centerpiece for the school, the flora exploding in vibrant colors to create a gardener’s paradise.    You spot Taeyong’s languid posture draped in one of the many wrought-iron benches, a book held up in one hand and the other resting upon the armrest. You were surprised no one had recognized him, even with his conservatively-dyed black hair that he was sporting recently. Taeyong was one of the rare people whose presence was immediately palpable when you were in his vicinity, magnetic yet jarring.    “Phaedrus? (4) I should’ve known that’s the sort of philosophical nonsense you artists love to read.”    Taeyong turns his head towards you and mock-pouts.    “I’ll have you know that this here book was inspiration for one of my best pieces,” he defends, closing the book with a snap and straightening up.    “Ah, yes, let’s deify our inspiration if it makes money,” you reply sarcastically as you settle into the seat beside him.    “Indeed.”    He stands up and extends a hand towards you, at which you stare at as if he were offering you radioactive waste.    “Well, come on. You didn’t expect me to not do anything for a month, did you? I have something to show you.”     You take his hand hesitantly (surprisingly calloused for a painter) and allow him to pull yourself up. He places a hand upon the small of your back as he leads you to the iron gates of the entrance of the school. After a few short blocks, he guides you to the entrance of a covered entrance way of an imposing skyscraper. A doorman greets him imperiously and opens the glass door with a glove-covered hand and Taeyong nods at him as he steps through. You merely follow, confused as hell, but trusting enough of Taeyong to guide you through.    After going through the elevator, he unlocks a door on the 23rd floor and enters the room.    “Even though I am an abstract artist, the very definition of postmodernism, I still find I have a penchant for carved mahogany bookshelves and gilded mirrors. Irony at its best, hm?”    If you were to describe Lee Taeyong, it would not be ironic. Enigmatic, yes, but not dramatically ironic.    The large suite you stepped into did, indeed, contrast him very greatly. It smelled like old books and cologne, and the dark wood paneling gleamed in the warm lamplight. Rich jewel tones tastefully complimented the decorations, in the furniture or weaved into the carpet. It was like the backdrop of one of those period dramas you saw on TV, in the age where women wore corsets and men, cravats.    However, you only caught a glimpse of the apartment as he ushered you into a room. It was pitch black until he flicked on the lights.    The room you were in was an artist’s dream. There were shelves and displays full of brushes and paints, all organized except for a little part in the corner. Half-finished canvases were slumped like dolls in a dollhouse against the walls, some covered in sheets and some not.    What drew your attention, however, were the 3 easels proudly standing in the middle of the room. The triplet of them was covered in heavy sheets, containing mystery and intrigue.    “As you might’ve guessed, these things make up the “something” I wanted to show you,” Taeyong’s voice rang out from behind you as he shut the door. He led you to the middle and brushed past you to stand next to the paintings. He pulled the sheet off.    You couldn’t contain your gasp as you take in the masterpieces before you.    The leftmost painting was of a barely perceptible outline of a woman, painted in warm yellows, browns, and red. While very comfy, it gave off an almost confused quality, like it was as if the painter were given the face of a person to memorize in 30 seconds and then asked to paint what they remembered. There were details that were hazy, but the areas that weren't were well fleshed-out.    The one in the middle was a clearer impression of the woman, her laughing in the midst of yellows, dark blues, and forest greens. It was a little bit less distorted than the previous, at least her crinkled eyes and open mouth apparent but the rest… not so much.    The one on the right was immediately your favorite. The face of the woman was only defined by the lights of neon signs, painted roughly in haphazard strokes. It contrasted against a totally black background. The placement of strokes was so masterful, however, that you could perceive the glow of amazement in the woman’s eyes and the childish nativity that emanated from her delicate features.    “These… these are beautiful, Taeyong. Absolutely gorgeous. Wow.”    “You know these are of you, right?”    You shake out of your trance and turn quickly towards him.    “What?!”    He smiles his crooked little grin at you and motions to the paintings.    “The first one is at the cafe we first met at, remember? The second was you in Central Park on that wonderful day where I slipped into the dewy grass, leaving a sort of weird bodyprint on it. The third was at the Broadway show… where you took a million photos of the posters. Remember?”    “Of course I do,” you breathe out in amazement.    “I can’t believe such beautiful things were painted because of plain, old, ugly me. Wow, you must’ve had a lot work on your palette,” you laugh suddenly.    “Don’t say that,” he cuts in sharply, his tone dark and ominous. It causes a mysterious heat to rise over your skin and a shiver to race through your nerves, the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end.    “You should give yourself more credit, y/n. You are a beautiful girl and no one can tell you less.”    You stand on your tippy toes to engulf the painter into a tight embrace.    “Thank you,” you whisper into his shoulder.    He merely chuckles while rubbing your back with a tender hand, blazing a trail of heated nerves along the way.

   “2.5 million! Holy shit! Y/n, this is fucking crazy!” Olivia screamed at you while holding a tablet in her hands.    “I fucking know!” you scream back, huddled into a ball at the end of the couch.    Undecipherable screaming filled the apartment as Olivia shouted in amazement of the selling price of the 3 abstract portraits, while you just screamed in disbelief.    The 3 portraits of you had been put on the market last week, and it had already sold to an anonymous buyer for 2.5 million US dollars. Pictures of Taeyong looking dashing in a suit flashed across your news feed, him looking extremely proud as the auctioneer banged his gavel for the ostentatiously high closing bid.    At least you weren’t his failed inspiration, that was sure.

   “Congratulations on your piece, Taeyong. I’m honored to have been part of the creative process,” you smile shyly at him behind your wine glass.    The pair of you were sharing a nice dinner on the expansive balcony of his apartment in celebration of his grand success. The New York skyline was set against a haze of sunlight and dusk, a truly beautiful sight to consume along with the seafood noodles Taeyong had whipped up. It seemed that along with being a marvelous painter, he was a marvelous cook as well. Another facet in the gem that was Lee Taeyong.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, of course. You’re my muse now,” he chuckles as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.    You exhale heavily and stare into the contents of your wine glass. You sloshed the red liquid around, and it stained the sides of the cup momentarily before disappearing. You remember what your father had told you; if the wine stains the side of the glass, you know that it is a good vintage. Of course, Lee Taeyong would have the best.    “What’s the matter, y/n? Does something not agree with you? I can always make something else if you’d like—”    “No, no, it’s quite alright. It’s fantastic actually. It’s just some thoughts that are buzzing around in my head,” you wave off.    “Would you mind sharing?” Taeyong prods.    You smile bittersweetly at him.    “I’m actually quite jealous of you, you know.”    You push out from your seat, the soft satin of your evening dress brushing against your thighs like the caress of a lover when you walked towards the railing.    “What?”    “Jealous, Taeyong. Jealous. Like the green-eyed monster,” you reply, resting your elbows against the railing and staring at the skyline.    “Explain.”    You hear the clink of a glass being set down upon a table and him getting up.    “You were able to take the risk to pursue your dreams. I… was too cowardly.”    “What are your dreams, y/n?” Taeyong whispers into the breeze.    “Sculpting,” you laugh bitterly.    “My father— he was a doctor, you know — absolutely abhorred the idea of the fine arts. A very left-minded man, if you will. When he saw paintings or sculptures, he always scoffed at them. “How are these worth 1 million?” he said, “I wouldn’t pay a cent for these works of kindergarten art!”. As you can imagine, it didn’t endear him to the owners of the local art gallery. However I… I was his complete opposite. When I first got my hands on Play-doh… god. I wasn’t able to be separated from it! My mother told me I always cried when the can was taken away from me. Then I discovered clay and stone and so many other things to make my imagination become reality.”    “Of course, Dad knew of my hobby, but never considered it more than what he thought it was; merely a hobby. He expected me to put down my chisels in favor of books and math problems. I never wanted to.” You look down at your hands momentarily, which were tapping a random beat against the railing.    “When it came time to decide a career, I mustered up my courage and told him I wanted to be an artist. He took one look at me and laughed. “Stop joking, sweetheart. A career like engineering or IT would suit you better.” I… was devastated. But, surprisingly, he brought up the idea of being an architect. I agreed immediately, knowing it would bring me to Parson’s, the school I dreamed of attending ever since I knew what college was.”    You laughed again, bitterly, the sound being absorbed in the night air. “It’s torture here, really; I don’t know why I continue to tantalize myself with what I have wanted since I was 5, but am never really able to have. Call me sadistic, I guess.”    You can feel his heavy gaze on your back as you stare stoically off into the distance. He steps closer and closer until you can smell his musky cologne and aftershave. His hands wrap around your waist and bury his head in your hair.    He didn’t say anything.    You appreciated that.

   Soon enough, brief hugs turn into cheek and forehead kisses, lingering touches into hand-holding and affectionate cuddles. Taeyong can never seem to separate his hands from your waist nowadays, and you are always pressed into his side like a leech. No one says anything because no one sees anything.    Actually, you didn’t quite know what you were now. If you were to really put a label on it, it was a messy blur between a friendship and relationship. A kind of romantic purgatory. Even when he gave you kisses and held you affectionately, Taeyong never asked you to be his girlfriend. Not even a hint of a label or definition.    However, you wanted to be his. You wanted to be the one, his darling that he wined and dined. You wanted to be the one to relax him from the stress of life with soothing words and calming touches. You wanted to be the one that he woke up next morning in bed. You wanted to be his everything.    Alas, like some tragic Greek romance, it was probably never meant to be.    Even in the midst of this confusing haze of a relationship, Taeyong produced more and more phenomenal art inspired by you. You sometimes watched him paint each painting lovingly, stroke by stroke, on those rare days he let you into his art room. The mood of his art was... changing. You could see his abstract style shifting closer and closer into what was semi-impressionism until his portfolio was an eclectic mix of both. Of course, this subtle shift led to some outcry from critics, but his artistic reputation was still on the rise.    Today was one of those rare days Taeyong brought you to his studio. Darkening sunlight shone through the huge industrial windows, juxtaposed by the mahogany paneling and gold light fixtures. You sat in a chaise in the corner with his back to you as he stood, slathering hues of paint over a large canvas. He was painting the background first, it looked like, setting up the stage for a grandiose and show-stopping centerpiece that was sure to come around.    “Y/n? Can you come here for a moment?”    “Yes?” you said, padding across the floorboards in your socks.    He steps back from his painting and comes slightly behind you. “Can you look closer and tell me if you see any dark grey streaks on the background? I’m afraid some of my brushes were contaminated, as it’s supposed to be completely oil black.”    You frown but nonetheless, bent over a bit to inspect the painting. “No? Honestly, I don’t know how you expect me to see slight color variations, you’re the artist here—”    You are cut off as his arms wrap around your waist and bury his head in the crook of your neck. You jump a bit, surprised from the sudden embrace, but quickly adapt and melt back into him. The pads of his thumb attach itself to the slightly exposed skin of your belly, running smooth circles into your skin. Your hands come over the top of his and just stay there, while you close your eyes.    “I lied. I just wanted you to come over here so I could just hug you,” he whispered roughly yet mischievously in your ear, his breath causing the back of your neck to stand up.    “How utterly rude, you nefarious villain,” You murmur as a slight smile tugs at your lips.    He hums in agreement and the two of you bask in each other’s presences for a while before he breaks the silence.    “Man, have I been getting a lot of feedback about my art style for the past few weeks,” he chuckles and lifts his head off your shoulder. “To be honest, you make me want to… want to take my head out of the clouds. Why is imagination needed when you exist, when you are so human yet flawless? I’ve always loved painting the world the way it’s not, but you... you are the way it is, and it is perfect.”        You twist slightly in his hold with wide eyes. Did Taeyong really feel this way about you? Did he see you this way when he put brush to canvas? Were you his sane anchor of reality in his flighty imagination?    Even with these tumultuous thoughts bubbling around in your consciousness, you simply reached up and gave him a peck on his lips. Unexpectedly, he captured your lips with his a tiny bit roughly, causing you to jerk back a bit. He runs his tongue across the seam of your lips and you open it for him, unable to stop him. Taeyong isn’t rough, per say, but he was very persistent in his quest of kissing you, invading your mouth with his tongue and showing his complete dominance. You moan a bit into his kiss and you feel his lips curl up into a smirk.    Taeyong’s right hand cups your chin while his left one lands on your waist, pulling you closer into his hard body. You feel the taut muscles of his chest against your breasts and his warmth completely enveloping you, intoxicating you and making you all the more pliable to his ministrations. His hand moves up while his mouth moves down, his plump lips trailing open-mouthed kisses against your neck leaving a trail of goosebumps. His calloused hands lift up your tank top slightly and rub circles into your hips makes you shiver with delight while you press more insistently against him and thread your hands into his hair.    His lips trail down into the neckline of your top and suddenly top. Instead, Taeyong moves back up to hover his lips around your ear.    “Will you let me have you?” his voice whispers, a rough texture detectable in his voice.    You can’t respond, too caught up in the way his breath caresses your skin and how his hand has moved up to just below your bra cups.    “Say yes, please,” he whispers.    “Please,” he begs as his nimble fingertips play with the edge of your bra.    “Yes,” you breath out as you lean up into him and press his lips to yours.    Taeyong is not hesitant nor gentle when he kisses you now, it is demanding and powerful and dominant. His hands slip below your bra cups and rub your nipples with his thumbs, causing your eyes to flutter shut and as you whine pitifully into his mouth. He drops his hands and scoops you up, a surprised squeal leaving your lips as he strides powerfully down the hall.    He kicks his door open and carefully maneuvers you through the door frame, all the while still attacking your neck with nips and bites. The painter drops you into his bed and climbs in after you. You hurriedly remove your tank top so you could feel his touch and went to unclip your bra, but his hands suddenly tighten over yours and keep them in place. He forces eye contact with you, his eyes burning with a lusty smolder as you can only stare up at him with pleading eyes.    “Taey-- “    He shushes you with a finger against your lips. “I want to savor you.” One of his hands makes you release your bra clasp and replace it with his, unclasping it gently and helping you get it off your breasts.    Your shamelessness retracts for a moment in front of him and you cover your naked breasts with your arms, head turned away in embarrassment. Taeyong’s thumb and forefinger lift your embarrassed gaze to his.    “I want to see you,” Taeyong whispers gently.    Your arms lift slowly from your breasts to bare them to his piercing gaze.    “Absolutely gorgeous,” he whispers reverently, as if in awe.    One of his hands cup your right breasts and a small whine escapes your mouth, not used to man’s hand on such a covered area. He weighs it in his palm briefly and then dives in.    You feel his hot tongue laving over the sensitive skin, leaving traces everywhere but your areola.    “Taeyong,” you whine piteously.    “Say please, darling.” He says. You can feel the vibrations against your chests, your nipples hardening to a point where it is almost painful.    “Please.”    “Of course.” His tongue dives in right in and a burst of pleasure rack your body, causing you to rub your core against his thigh wantonly.    “Patience, darling, I said I would savor you.”    After heaping a sizeable amount of attention to your breasts, his mouth trails down your stomach and to the edge of your shorts. He roughly gets up and pulls off his loose linen shirt, revealing a surprisingly well-built body. Your eyes rake over his sharp collarbones to his defined pectorals and to his chiseled Apollo’s belt. You see a fine dusting of hairs working in tandem with his v-line to bring your eyes down to his bulge, which is pressing against the confines of his trousers. Moisture oozes out of your core as you slip off his belt while he takes off your shorts and panties.    Taeyong forces your legs apart until you are spread out for him to see. Breathing heavily, you see him fixated on the spot between your legs, his lips parted a little. He licks his lips and his right-hand reaches out to prod your entrance. You jump a little, not used to a man touching you tenderly in such a private spot. He prods, even more, pinching your folds and holding them apart while inserting a long finger.    Your head throws back while your spine bends backward, a long groan leaving your lips and filling the room. You don’t see him smirk, but you certainly feel him descend and settle his head between your legs.    The moment his tongue pokes at your clit, you yell out. It prods even more insistently and plays your core like a flute, his touches making you scream.    You can feel yourself reaching an orgasm when he inserts his fingers back in again into your pussy and when the pad of his index fingers hit a spot, ecstasy shoots through your body like a drug and juices flow out of your vagina like a flood.    Taeyong leans back up and he takes his liquid-soaked fingers to his mouth, sucking each one clean while smirking, causing your core to clench tightly. He takes off his trousers and his boxers, his erection popping out. It is a nice pink color but a bit red from strain and arousal, the tip oozing precum.    You lean a bit forward to grasp his manhood, your thumb stroking over his head. His head throws back in ecstasy while his grips on your soft thighs tighten to the point you think there will be bruises the next morning. He rips your hands off his cock while breathing heavily.    “There’s a time for everything, just not now, darling.”    You pout but retract your hands to your sides. He takes his cock and strokes it a bit, but pulls you up and sits you in his lap. You can feel his manhood pressing insistently against your thigh, so close to your entrance yet so far. You move his dick over your pussy, not quite putting it in, but grind down on it, twisting your hips back and forth. Taeyong grits his teeth and grips your hips hard, his hips bucking in pleasure at the contact with your pussy. You can feel the veined skin of his cock slide over your well-lubed folds, his head slightly pressing against your clit as your close your eyes in bliss. This goes on for a while, you moving back and forth while he rolls his hips into your vagina. Taeyong looks you straight in the eyes while he positions his cock slightly into your entrance.   “Do you want to go on?” he asks. You nod while biting your lips.   “I’m… I’m a-" you swallow and avert your eyes, "-virgin. Please… please be gentle, Tae,” you whisper, embarrassed at your lack of experience.   His eyes widen a bit, but a new light enters them, predatorial and hunger extremely apparent even to your inexperienced gaze.   “You can stop whenever you want, okay? Just tell me.”   Psh. Why would you want this little slice of heaven to end?   You slip your pussy over his dick and bottom out on his lap, both of you groaning into the silence of Taeyong’s bedroom. You rose up, left his tip in and then slowly dropped down. You rolled your hips over him while he left harsh hickeys all over your neck, little bursts of pain and pleasure to add to the all-consuming flame.   Taeyong ripped his lips away from your chest and shoves you down roughly into the bed.   “I said I would savor this, darling, but I can’t be patient any longer,” he growls as he looms imposingly over you. He spreads your legs even wider, and thrusts in powerfully, louder groans escaping your mouth. You wrap his legs around his waist and continues in the missionary position. He pistons in and out like a machine, every part of your vagina stimulated by his moving cock, and you can feel his buttocks flex powerfully.   He muffles your moans with his lips and roughly invades your mouth, tongue, and teeth everywhere. He pounds into you even harder, the headboard shaking and creaking under his powerful thrusts. His hips slam into your thighs producing a lewd noise of flesh on flesh throughout his bedroom. You can feel a wave of pleasure rising within you, and you moan even louder.   “Louder, darling,” he growls and then his cock hits the spot.   The wave of pleasure crests and then crashes back down and you nearly scream, you head bent heavenward while your back arches off the bed. Your walls contract around his dick sporadically while lifts you into a new position, never disconnecting from you, and fucks you through your orgasm, heightening the whole experience.   “Taeyong!” you scream, the new position allowing him to thrust deeper. Your mind is in a fog of pleasure and you can feel the pleasurable sting of overstimulation overtake you.   “Taeyong, fuck! I can’t take anymore!’ you cry as tears gather at the edge of your eyes, the bliss too much for your weak body.   “Hold on for me, darling, I’m nearly there.” Taeyong grits out as he thrusts harder and quicker.   Warm cum fills your pussy when you orgasm nearly at the same time, and he groans your name while you scream out his, writhing beneath his erratic thrusts. You can feel the cum dripping out of your pussy and onto his silk bed sheets. He slows down and collapses onto your chest, and the both of you breathe heavily.   Taeyong takes his cock out of your vagina, a stream of cum oozing out as he does so. You open your eyes to see him not tired, but eyes alight with lust as he grins ominously at you. His cock rubs against your entrance, while the aftershocks of pleasure rack your body.   “Get ready darling, you’re in for this all night.”

   Bright sunlight greets you when you wake up, tangled naked beneath silk sheets. You can feel that the spot beneath your legs is sore, but your muscles are relaxed and your mind is satisfied. Taeyong had certainly had it in for you all night, taking you in so many positions and bringing you to release countless times.    It was a good night.    Unfortunately, the man who made it so wasn’t snoring on the bed covers beside you, only rumpled sheets left in his wake. You can smell his cologne in the air and on your skin, but also the stench of sex and lust.    You stretch and get up from the bed, putting on your tank and bra, slipping on your underwear and shorts as you open the door. There is a faint strain of music emanating from one of the rooms down the hall, so you follow the tune. As you get closer, you can decipher a woman warbling sweetly with a roughness from an old-fashioned gramophone.    You silently click open the cold gold handle and peek in through the door. You see Taeyong with his back turned to you, a palette stained with the colors of the rainbow in his left hand and a scrubber brush in his right. He is clad in loose beige trousers and a coal black shirt hanging from his shoulders, while completely focused on the painting in front of him.    You sidle in beside him and speak up.    “I should’ve known you’d be painting, even after such a… late night.”    He jumps a bit but then turns to you. You can now see his black shirt is half unbuttoned, his chest bared out for the world (mostly you and the walls) to see.    Taeyong sighs, sets down his tools and wraps his arms around your waist. He buries his head in your honest-to-god rat nest of hair, and stays there for a few moments, savoring your presence.    “When passion meets inspiration, obsession is born,” he murmurs.    “Where did you get that quote from?” you ask curiously.    “Heard it from… somewhere, I forget,” Taeyong says.    “Probably from one of your artsy-fartsy philosophy books” you shoot back.    Taeyong snorts. “How ironic, hm? I preach and lecture masses people how inspiration can easily become your obsession, only for me to become the heretic to my word. Only for you, darling. Only for you.”    Taeyong rests his chin on your head while you lean back into his arms. You take the time to observe the piece he implies is his obsession, the thing that stomped on his beliefs and scattered them to the wind. You instantly recognize it is startlingly different from his previous works of art.    Of course, there is his dark background and signature jewel tones but it is a lot less jarring than you are used to. That being said there is no lack of passion or skill in this piece, but it is noticeably less abstract and a bit more... realistic?    There is a shoulders-up shot of a woman with her eyes closed, her head leaning into a palm while she is (presumably) naked.  The woman is fleshed out in full detail with a jumbled haze of colors surrounding her, making her the central point in the painting. Your eyes travel from her wispy eyelashes to the tilted nose, to the curve in her slightly parted tinted lips—    Wait a minute.    Your eyebrows knit together as you recognize the arched brows and cheekbones, the lip corners and hell, even the slight mole on the collarbone.    That woman is you.    Your head snaps towards Taeyong in surprise, whom you find is gently smiling at you.    “What do you think?”    You detach yourself from his warm embrace and step closer to the painting.    “You may hear this way too much, but it’s beautiful,” you whisper reverently in awe. Your hand comes up to brush over the surface of the painting, but stops and falls back to your side, afraid that you could mess up the painting.    “Art imitates life, darling,” Taeyong purred.    A blush effused into your cheeks like a dye. Vivid memories flash in your mind’s eye of beads of sweat rolling down the bridge of Taeyong’s aristocratic nose and jawline, eyes closed in ecstasy, and pleasure pleasure pleasure—    You snap back to reality before you could get any more caught up from last night’s tryst, but unfortunately, Taeyong has noticed and wore a shit-eating grin on his chiseled features. The painter stepped closer to you and you could faintly smell his cologne and something that was all too masculine, and he stared down with you with those intense eyes that pulled you in in the first place.    “Would you like me to show you where?”

   17 million ~ TY    You stare at your bright phone screen with bleary eyes, lids half-opened and trying to stay up. You had forgotten to turn off your phone for the night and the text notification startled you into consciousness at 2am. Your pleasant dreams about passing the architecture final were interrupted crudely.    17 million? What does he mean— wait, holy shit!    Your eyes, now completely free of fatigue, widen in surprise as you sit up and unlock your phone. The search engine you used quickly brings up a multitude of articles, but the some of the top headlines read “Lee Taeyong Sells Painting For $17 Million” and “You Won’t Believe What This Simplistic Painting Sold For!” You click on the Art Newspaper article and scroll through the click bait ads and epilepsy-inducing graphics to get to the main article.

  Lee Taeyong, 27 years-old Korean painter, is smiling in the midst of thunderous applause as the final bang of the auctioneer’s gavel signifies his astounding sale. This morning, 12 am EST, his recent portrait of a woman dubbed “Sense and Sensuality” sold for a whopping $17 million USD at the New York Sotheby’s Auction House (5). This is his highest-ever sale yet, and the future is looking bright for this talented young man.

   Congratulations! You type with a growing smile on your face.    Coming over in 10 to celebrate ~ TY    What?    The sheets tangle around your feet as you nearly trip out of your bed in order to get ready. A muffled thump resounds around your bedroom as you heavily land on the floor. You cringe, hoping the grumpy couple downstairs don’t wake up from it.        You should’ve expected this, as eccentric as Taeyong was. It was no surprise he was spontaneous.    You flick the lights on and grab a bra from your drawer. You snap it on while impressively combing your hair, then change into some leggings and old t-shirt because, hell, if Taeyong wanted to see you at 2am when he had to deal with 2am Y/N.    The bronze knocker pounds on your door and you bolt out of your bedroom to get it. A quick look into the peephole shows you gleaming black hair, reminding you of the way ink looked in a bottle.    Taeyong, still in his crisp black-tie suit, is standing in your dimly-lit hallway beaming holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.    “Hey.” His eyes look tired but are sparkling with vitality.    You leap into his arms and he holds you tightly, rocking you back and fourth. You murmur congratulations into his shoulder and he hums back, content in your cuddling. The pair of you stay in the dim light of your apartment hallway, your door half open and probably wasting your valuable air conditioner, however, you couldn’t care less: all that mattered was the man in your arms.    “Taeyong… I’m so proud of you. You deserved this so much,” you lean back and look into his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips.    The painter smiled his usual enigmatic twitch of the lips that you loved so much and leaned forward into to pull you into a deep kiss. His hands pulled you in closer to his body and the smell of his cologne was more prevalent than ever, intoxicating your senses to the point that if there were a fire alarm in the hallway, you would still be kissing his delicious lips.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know,” he whispers against your lips.    You roll your eyes and swat him on the shoulder.    “Oh, psh! It was 100 percent you, I was just kinda... there. A spectator to greatness and all. You don’t have to butter me up, you know?” you laugh as you lead him into the apartment.    He mumbles something you can’t hear as you are locking the door, and you turn around to face him.    “What?”    “Nothing, nothing. Just remembering something.” Taeyong casually deflects, as he tosses his suit jacket onto your kitchen chairs.    “You wanna celebrate? I can put on a movie and make food,” you ask as you clean the mess of your room.    “I’d love to.” The artist loosens his tie and chucks it in the general direction of his suit jacket, then partly unbuttons his oxford shirt until you can see the chiseled expanse of his chest.    “Cool beans.”

   The movie ended, and the credits rolled, leaving your living room blanketed in darkness and the two of you sit in silence.    “Hey… y/n?” Taeyong sounds unusually hesitant, unlike his normally suave and composed persona. You can feel his hands finger with the buttons on his shirt while he strokes your side unconsciously.    “Mmm?” you mumble, half-asleep.    “You… Do you wanna move in with me?”    This completely unexpected statement jolts you into awareness, and you look at his face in shock. Your eyes scan his face in the poor light of your living room, and of what you can see, he is dead serious.    “I- What?”    “Do you want to move in with me? Like, stay in my house?” he enunciates slowly, so alike to your first face-to-face encounter with him, like he was speaking to an idiot. However, you can see his face slightly turning red and his eyes averting downwards to his lap.    A moment lapsed in complete silence while you tried to process the implications of his statement and he tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach.    It was a stupid idea, he thought to himself sourly, too much, too soon, I should just apolo—    “Sure,” you contemplate thoughtfully.    “Yes? You want to move in with me? Live with me? If it’s too soon for you, you don’t have to—”    “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t mean it Tae. Yes, I want to move in with you and live with you. I don’t think it’s too fast.” You stroked his cheek.    “Good,” Taeyong huffs. After a beat, his lips crack into a smirk and he leans in closer.    “I think we can celebrate even more now, no?” he whispers while fumbling with the waistband of your shorts.    You giggled in delight while swooping into to kiss him.

   The two of you collapse in bed, a few weeks later, exhausted from your activities. This particular round was initiated after he caught you trying on lingerie in his bathroom when you thought he wouldn’t be home for a while. He fucked you against the counter, the full-length mirror in your closet, and then finally ending up on his bed. You sighed in delight. What this man could do with his hips was heavenly.    You looked up at the ceiling of his bedroom, where he had decorated it with murals of beautiful angels and clouds. It was just like the Vatican, where the murals had lent an ethereal feeling to the church and made you think you were in a plane above reality. The few weeks in Taeyong’s company had been absolute bliss.  You had moved out of your apartment, moved your stuff into Taeyong’s apartment, and you stayed. He would’ve let you stay for free, but you insisted on paying at least a set fraction of the rent. He gave you the price of the rent to calculate upon, but you think he had lied and lowered it deliberately. Either way: it was heaven, like the murals painted on his ceilings.    “That… That was great, Taeyong,” you pant, naked chest heaving up and down in exhaustion.    “Mmm, yeah. I loved it,” he said, voice muffled by burying his head into the valley of your chest.    “Night, Tae,” you whisper as you doze off.    “Night, y/n,” he says quietly, and you can hear that he has one foot in fairyland right now.    As you consciousness dims and fades, you can still here Taeyong mumbling something. You listen closer.    “I love your body, Y/N.”    Somehow, that doesn’t sit well in your stomach. At all.

   A notification from one of the news sites you followed popped up on your phone.    Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse?     You raise a brow at the message but quickly opened it up. Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse? It said in bright blue, bold letters. A picture of the painting he created the morning the two of you first had sex was below the painting.

   Lee Taeyong, 27, recently has been finding major success among the cutthroat world of fine art. His most recent painting selling for 17 million USD, his artworks have been plastered on every major news site (including this one!) and has been the point of critical acclaim for their intimacy, skill, and emotion. Even after his shocking change of artistic style from completely abstract to pseudo-traditionalist, critics alike have been clamoring for his work. However, each one of his most recent paintings from the past year or so has had one thing in common: a beautiful, doe-eyed lady.

   Yes, most might be able to dismiss as an insignificant part but dear reader, it is the most important. From the painting “Broadway” to “Sense”, a similar lady has been depicted in all of them. She has been the center point of all his works. His earliest paintings of her were a triplet of paintings, her countenance growing more and more detailed with each successive work. The latest painting of her with her eyes closed and half-naked has been by far the most sensual one.

   We, at this site, have suspected from the intimate nature of his works that Taeyong has a muse: a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist. While there has been no reports of an official girlfriend or lover, the editors of this site figure the mysterious Korean painter has a significant other. Each painting of her in successive order has been noticed to have showed the progress of their relationship from friends to intimate lovers. His lauded attention to detail and depiction of emotion definitely comes from the heart, his heavy attraction to his lover.

   However, the subject of muses have been a long and controversial one. Cries of abused and neglected muses have been major headlines in the art world, and acclaimed artists being accused of sexually and emotionally mistreating their muses. Alas, many muses have had terrible ends like the beautiful Camille Claudel and the famous sculptor Auguste Rodin (6), in which Rodin dumped Camille and Camille went insane. Will Taeyong’s muse be his Gala to his Dalí (7), his Floge to his Klimt (8)? One thing’s for certain: this mystery muse will either make or break his career.

   You stared numbly at the lit screen, which grew dark and powered off as you stopped interacting with the screen.    Was... was Taeyong using you?    A range of emotions besieged your tired mind.    Doubt was the first wave, followed by a cavalry of Worry charging through your rather pathetic moat of logic. Hurt came up hard and quick to your flank and mercilessly attacked your mental stronghold, puncturing holes in your defense and riddling your conscious.    Heart pounding, you typed in the password quickly and searched up “muse”. Countless articles popped up before you. You adjusted your searches accordingly and therein, you found your grail. However, with each passing article, you grew more horrified. Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori (9), Picasso and Gilot (10), Bertolucci and Schneider (11)— each one more terrifying than the last. While you were not sexually abused or beaten like some of the poor victims of the past few centuries, the message was clear: Taeyong was using you for his art, and his art only.

   The tea kettle whistled as you busy yourself making your breakfast on the beautiful marble countertops of Taeyong’s kitchen. The late morning sun was out and about, the birds were chirping, and you were all alone.    It wasn’t as if this were an unusual occurrence; for the past few weeks, you rarely woke to see Taeyong sleeping next to you. He came back for a night, fucked you, and left in the morning. Sometimes the empty side of his bed was warm to the touch, and others, his lingering warmth was lone gone- either way, you were left to get ready for class alone, eat breakfast alone, and leave the house alone.    You fully understood why, though. The price of Taeyong’s explosive popularity led to him having to be out and about, whether for interviews or exhibition openings or banquets. It was better than having no work at all, at least, yet Taeyong’s face was plastered everywhere, and sometimes you thought the tabloids knew more about his life than you, his… whatever you were.    A jolt of pain jerks you out of your thoughts, and you yelp and jump back. Your finger had touched the end of your frying pan, and imprinted on the tip of your index fingertip was a bright red mark.    A hiss of pain escapes your mouth which quickly sucked at the tip of your finger, while you turned off the burner. Damn, it stung like hell!    Well, at least the eggs were done.    The plush, mahogany chair of the breakfast table squeaked as you pulled it back, and plopped you in your oversized t-shirt in the chair. The sencha tea bag, which had been steeped in the cup for a few minutes, was quickly retracted and you took a long sip of it.    You dialed up Olivia on facetime, who was sure to already be at school and in some secluded corner painting. A few rings led to Olivia, in newly dyed blue and purple hair, answering her phone with the camera angle at an awkward position.    “I don’t think I really want to see the inside of your nostrils, Livy. No one does, really.”    She stuck out her tongue and snorted.    “Bitch, the boys be paying to see my face, much less my nostrils. No one wants to see your ugly ass face!” Olivia drawled while she turned her attention to her painting.    “Taeyong does. In fact, people pay millions to get a piece!” you snark back.    Olivia drops her paintbrush into a water cup and pouts at her phone screen.    “...fine. Speaking of, how is Mister Big D--”    “OLIVIA!” you shout, almost choking on your eggs.    “Oh fine, fine! Either way, how is he?”    “We’re… we’re doing fine,” you happy smile slowly turns into a frown, and you look down into your tea. You stir the tea a bit and see the minuscule tea leaves swirl around like a  mini tornado.    “It doesn’t sound fine, though,” Olivia raises an eyebrow.    “I… you’re right. I really don’t know anymore, Olivia,” you sigh and look away from the phone screen. Your eyes catch sight of the pristine living room, the late morning sun streaming beautiful rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The TV was as pitch black as the night, the comforter you brought in, untouched, and the pillows, fluffed. All lifeless.    “Oh, sweetie. I’ve been suspecting this for weeks,” Olivia says sympathetically as she dabbles some oil onto the canvas. She sets down the sponge and turns her full attention to you, her brows furrowed.    “It’s just that… Taeyong isn’t around here anymore. When he’s gone, I’m here, and when he’s here, I’m gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks!” you shout, and your fork clatters down on your plate.    “Wow, okay, chill. Y/n. Breathe. Have you at least tried to meet up with him for a date or whatever?”    You pout. “Yes, but he’s always busy or has to cancel. Sometimes, we do manage to make our schedules fit together and everything’s fine, but still!”    “ I really wish I could help, y/n. Really.” Olivia says sympathetically.    You burrow your face into your hands while tears sting at your eyes. Muffled sobs escape your lips while tears finally escape from your eyes. Your breakfast lay beside you cold and uneaten.    “I-I don’t k-know anymore. I-I saw a news article this morning and my mind went crazy and maybe I’m being paranoid or a butthurt bitch but I think he’s using me and-” you sob.    “Oh, sweetie,” all playful insults and snarky wit were gone from Olivia’s tone as she tried to keep you company from miles away in a cold, dark, and dusty penthouse.

   You couldn’t do this anymore.    Gone were the days Taeyong and you would wake up and bed and have another round and eat breakfast together, the days he would take you out to the city and watch an indie band in the local coffee shop, or the days he would bring to art openings. It just stopped.    There were days you woke up in bed alone, after Taeyong pounded you into the mattress the night before, feeling used. Like some dime and dozen whore out of the red light district. Who were you, anymore? What use were you anymore? What did you mean to Taeyong?    School went by, albeit slowly. You passed your architecture final and were in your 2nd year of college. You did pretty decently in the class at least, but the course and the rigor made you more miserable as the months went by. The novelty of your compliance to your father’s wishes wore off and made you wish to escape.    Taeyong, your degree, and emotional distress just made you break down one day. Right in the middle Taeyong’s hallway after class ended. No warning whatsoever. After piecing yourself back together and getting your fatigued and pathetic self into the bed, you started to think.    This was hell.    Olivia warned you weeks and weeks ago, begging you to let go of the artist no matter how much he admired him. She had lost all respect for him and quickly threw away the posters of his paintings she had had before Taeyong met you, completely ignored him when you were with him and her, and ripped up her thesis paper about his artwork. She even offered you refuge from the older man, pleading for you to stay in her apartment to get away from him.    You were done.

   Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.    The keypad clicked open and in walked Lee Taeyong into his apartment. Still clad in a suit, the artist had returned back to his apartment from his negotiations with a famous gallery to display his artwork. A long and arduous meeting, it had lasted way longer than the handsome man expected, and he had finally wrangled out a successful deal. His works would be displayed for a year at the famed Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea.    It was his dream since he was a young, starving art student living paycheck to paycheck in a studio apartment, who could barely speak English and was 7000 miles away from his family.    But why was he so unhappy?    He shut the door and sighed. He loosened his necktie and threw his wine-red blazer onto the coat rack, then ruffled his hair as he walked through the foyer.       He felt bad for leaving you constantly like this. He just kept getting called on and pulled away constantly to the point where he sometimes forgot that there was a woman waiting for him back home. He tried to make it up with nights of passionate sex, pounding you into the mattress and making you cum several times in succession. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken you out somewhere… was it a month ago? A month and a half?    “Y/n?”    No response.    “...Y/n?”    He walked through the halls but there was something... off about his house. He couldn’t smell your scent of peaches of cream strongly, only faintly, like you were long gone. It looked… emptier. Dustier.    Darker.    “Y/N!”    A rising sense of panic surged up and seized Taeyong’s heart beating back and forth. Ba-bump ba bump ba bump. In vain, he tried to calm his mind, his rationale fruitlessly trying to withhold judgment, yet it seemed his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.    It isn’t true, it isn’t true, it isn’t true—    His vision narrowed as he ripped through his house. Every room in the vast apartment suite is empty. He threw open the kitchen cupboard. Your handmade coffee mug from one of the pottery students in Pearson’s isn’t there. He nearly tripped over the ottoman. Your ridiculous throw blanket with cartoon corgis plastered all over it is absent from his leather sectional. He pounds against the floorboards of the hallway, Your subway pass isn’t in the bowl in the hall.    It seems like his loosened tie was choking him as he ran to the end of the hall, your bedroom. He slammed open the door, the doorstop only barely preventing it from hitting and damaging the wood-paneled walls. Taeyong’s carpet muffled his frantic footsteps. The french doors with its billowing curtains were thrown open, but you weren’t on the balcony, lounging on the patio chair or couch reading a book.    The marble bathroom he loved to fuck you in and take long baths in while sipping decades-old wine was deserted. Your combs and products were gone, and the J’Adore Dior perfume he bought you when you were passing by Neiman Marcus sat on the counter, lonely.    Incoherent nonsense escaped his lips as he slid open the large, walk-in closet doors. The other half of the closet you and him had organized together, him grumbling when he had to push his clothes back, was simply abandoned. Wire hangers hanging on the pole, absent of the soft clothes that smelled like peaches and cream.    He clutched his chest through his shirt, and leaned on the dressing table in the middle of the closet, his breaths coming out in staccato, short and sharp. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this to me—    A scrap of paper caught his attention out of his peripheral vision. With trembling hands, he scooped it up and held it to his pale face.    I don’t think I can do this anymore, Taeyong. Thank you.

   You pulled the corgi patterned blanket around you and sipped some hot chocolate, while Olivia was retrieving the cheese Pringles from her pantry. You clicked on the television and scrolled what to watch on Netflix.    “Hey, Livy!”    “What!” she shouted from the back of the kitchen.    “Can we watch the Purge?!” you yelled as you read through the description.    “The fuck! NO!” Olivia said as she walked back in her penguin onesie into the living room.    “I’m the one who’s suffering from a break-up, bitch! I get to choose the movie and I want to scream my ass off!”    “Y/n, I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to do after a breakup? Aren’t you supposed to watch the Notebook while in tears and a tub of ice cream in your hands?” she questions as she plops down on the couch.    You look around exaggeratedly. “The Notebook? Nope, watching the Purge. Tears? Already cried out. Ice cream? I think fuck not, I want cheesy Pringles.” “Fine, fine. Whatever.” Olivia grumbles as she stuffs several cheese pringles into her mouth.    The day you had turned up on Olivia’s doorstep, bags in hand and tears streaming from red-rimmed eyes, she had graciously allowed you to stay with her. Days and days were spent with you crying in her arms, probably going through 3 tissue boxes and ice cream tubs. You were absolutely devastated after packing up and abandoning Taeyong, wondering if it was the right thing to do and if you were a horrible person for doing so.    Olivia dismissed your worries, stating you were totally in the rights and proclaimed “good riddance!” while stomping on a Polaroid of you and Taeyong at Hyde Park.    You were still devastated of course, even after several weeks. The ache in your heart wouldn’t go away no matter how many tubs of ice cream you stuffed down your throat, and a permanent frown was always fixed in place. You missed the red-haired man with all your soul, even if you abandoned him with no warning and quite callously. You blocked his number, his email, his social media, everything you could think of to completely cut him out of your life. Photos of him were trashed and the gifts given to you by him were still in the apartment.    But at the very least, from this complete purge and detox of your life, came something that you had always wanted to do but never could do.    You switched degrees.   You woke up one day and said, fuck it, and went to the administration to completely switch departments.    Yes, it was extremely sudden. Uncharacteristically sudden of you, the girl who was afraid to go out with her friends on a school night. Too sudden of the girl that was afraid to skip class and skive off with her friends. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to make such an important decision on the fly, but at this point, you didn’t care. You wanted to live the way you wanted, the way you needed, and all fucks that were given were thrown carelessly to the wind.   Soon enough, you were transferred into the appropriate classes to obtain a degree in Fine Arts, even taking some classes with Olivia. Your parents were understandably furious, shouting at you over the phone for wasting their money and wrecking your future. Your father, after a long rant that lasted almost 30 minutes, spitefully told you he wasn’t going to support this “destructive behavior” and wouldn’t pay for your next semesters. While you were sad that you and your parent’s relationship would probably be strained for the next few years, you were the happiest you could remember being. The royalties from Taeyong’s paintings you earned could pay your tuition a few times over, so you were stable. You finally could do what you wanted.    But Taeyong.    Your thoughts drifted to the letter you had received from a professor that afternoon previous.

   “Y/n! Could you stay back for a moment?” Professor Andrews called out as the rest of the class shuffled out of the classroom.    You head popped up like a deer in headlights, eyes wide.    “Uh, yes?”    You removed the hood from your head and navigated through your fellow classmates to the teaching podium, where your art history professor was standing imperiously.    Was something wrong? Were your papers not good enough, because you transferred in so late?    Your hands patted down your errant hair and straightened your sweatpants. You swallowed nervously. Professor Andrew was notorious for her strict grading, many people failing and flunking out of the class because of the numerous red marks all over their papers and tests.    “Professor Andrews?” you hesitantly ask as you stand in front of the podium.    “Y/n, just the girl I wanted to see.”    She stepped down from the podium in impossible sky-high heels to stand before you. She smiled, her black hair streaked with gray pulled back in a tight bun and it softened her face. You nervously smiled back.    “A prized former student of mine asked me to give this to you. He begged many of his contacts at Parsons to deliver this directly into your hands but alas, I was the only contact who had you in my class.”        She produced a white envelope from her desk and put it in your hands. From the feel of the paper, it was soft; made of vellum.    Vellum.    The material of the calling card offered to you by… that man was vellum, and who else would deliver you a card made from the expensive material?    “Uh, professor, I’m afraid— “    Professor Andrews grasped my hands with her wrinkled palms and look me directly into my eyes. Her normally piercing gaze that could bring a student to tears was soft and concerned, unfamiliar to you.    “Y/n, I am not supposed to interfere but… he looked so gaunt when he came to me. The sparkle was gone from his eyes, his bravado diminished into a shell of what it was, his tone so tired and beaten down. Especially with his indefinite hiatus—”    “What?” Your head snapped up from the envelope in shock.    Your professor furrowed her brows. “You didn’t know? He announced an indefinite hiatus around the time you first transferred in. He said that no more art would be produced until he decided to become active again.”    “I didn’t know…” you murmured as you stroked your thumb over the envelope.    “I don’t know what sort of relationship the two of you had, as it’s not my business, but whatever it was, he needed you. Desperately.”

   You had only opened it when you came home from school. A polaroid of a painting that you could barely discern placed in a dark room. One message was written on the back.    Please tell me what I did wrong.    What were you supposed to do with that?    In the movie, the doorbell was wrung by the Polite Leader beseeching the Sandins to let them release their prey to hunt.    Should you respond to him? Should you completely ignore him? Which one would be more beneficial to your health?    If you didn’t respond to him, the ache in your heart would forever be there. You would be scarred from men forever because the man who took your virginity broke your heart and used you like a toy. You would never know his side of the story.    But, if you responded to him, you would at least know his side. Have some redemption. Perhaps get in a slap. Maybe you would have a chance to stop the ache in your heart.    Well, if you were brave enough the change degrees, you sure as hell could confront your ex-... whatever he was. Lover? Boyfriend?    You would do this.    “Olivia, I’m going to do something really quickly,” you said as you removed your self from the tangle of food and pillows.    “What!” She squawked. It seemed the Purgers had broken into the house already. “Bitch, you wanted to see this stupid movie and I ain’t seeing it alone!”    “And you can survive for the full minute that I will vacate this room,” as your rushed into the guest bedroom to retrieve your phone.    You scrolled down your recents and found Taeyong’s number. With trembling fingers, you unblocked his number and texted him.    927 New Haven Apartment Complex. Apartment 507. Tuesday at 6 PM.    2 days from now, Olivia was going to be out of the apartment for Thanksgiving Break with her family in South Carolina. You, with the way things were with your father, decided it wouldn’t be the best decision to go home so you decided to stay home Within a minute, a message bubble popped up.    Thank you. I’ll be there. ~ TY

   You tapped your foot impatiently as you sat at the breakfast table of Olivia’s apartment. Looking out the window, you saw a drizzle of rain wash over the foliage below and heard the usual sounds of the city. With the weather like this, you couldn’t blame Taeyong for being at least a bit late.    5:50. It read on the electronic clock in the kitchen. The house was empty, with Olivia bidding you adieu yesterday to visit her family.    You had gotten ready an hour before, you were so nervous. At least 4 outfits were tried on, scrutinized, and then thrown to the ground before deciding the 5th outfit was adequate. The dress was too formal, the sweatshirt too casual, but the skinny jeans and t-shirt combo was perfect. See, you didn’t want to look too desperate when Taeyong came in, in fact, you were trying to be standoffish—    Knock knock knock.    Your heart beat a stamp into your ribs, while the feeling in the pit of your stomach roiled. Your hand clasped the doorknob, unlocked, and swung it open.    Taeyong, in his great glory, stood there. Just seeing the eyes that made you fall in love made your heart stutter, just a tiny bit.    However, Prof. Andrews was not wrong. Taeyong still retained his classical good looks, all sharp lines, and angles, but those lines were sharper and those angles were deeper. He looked gaunt and pale, and dressed in a black button-up it contrasted to his skin so greatly it made him look even paler. There were shadows under his eyes, but his eyes were still smoldering. Still as enigmatic as always.    “Taeyong. Come in,” you regained what little dignity you had left and graciously let him in through the door. He nodded silently and slipped off his glossy black Gucci loafers and took your lead into the kitchen.    “Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?” you asked as you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms.    “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” Taeyong murmured as he sat uncomfortably in his chair.    An awkward silence prevailed as you stood in each other’s presence as the first time in months. Heavy, tense silence grew between the two of you as you fumbled with a knick-knack on the counter and his eyes darted nervously around. It had been far too long, but the way he sat there banished the feeling of something missing from your mind.    “I thought you were on hiatus?” you said, and waved around the Polaroid of the painting.    “I am. I just said no paintings were being released, that’s all; not that I couldn’t paint anything,” Taeyong sighed.    “Ah.”    Another heavy silence.    Annoyed by the lack of action, you harshly slammed the knick-knack onto the counter. Taeyong didn’t jump, but his eyes darted to you far too fast to be casual.    “Well, Lee Taeyong? Why are you in this apartment?” you sarcastically shot at him.    “I wanted to ask why you left me. Humor me; let me into that infuriating brain of yours, Y/n.”    “I think I already made it clear when I vacated the apartment, Lee Taeyong. I even left a note. Or were you far too busy with your obligations to remember that?” you venomously spat.    “Stop calling me that! We’re not fucking strangers!” Taeyong suddenly shouted, scooting back his chair suddenly. His fists were balled up and he had an awful look of fury on his face.    “What? Lee Taeyong? Well, I call you that because we might as well be!” you shout back.    “Damn it, Y/n! Why the fuck did you leave me, huh? Was I not good enough for you? Was I not rich enough for you? Hell, did I not fuck good enough for you?” Taeyong snapped at you, gripping the table tops so hard his knuckles turned white.    “You must one cocky son of a bitch to think I wanted you for your fucking money or your dick! I left because I know nothing about you!”    “What are you talking about?! I shared my home with you—”    “Shut up, Taeyong! I fucking trusted you with my dreams and hopes and life but you gave nothing of yourself to me! I confided in you, I told you about my past and my present, and I bared my soul and body to you! While you, always the goddamn unfathomable and ambiguous Lee Taeyong, gave me nothing of you! Zero! Zilch! Nada! I don’t know what I am to you! What was I supposed to think, y- you bastard?” you voice cracked, as you stared up at his eyes.    “Y-you” your voice broke and turned hoarse “y-you treated me like a toy. You took my virginity. You only called me over to fuck— I felt I was a whore. You gave me the best nights of my life, but you left me scarred for the rest of my nights.    His silence wrung as heavily in your ears as his shouting did. It wrung in your ears like a siren while, he could only look at you with an inscrutable expression of his face, like he couldn’t figure out whether to get angry or cry.    “Get out, Taeyong. Go use someone else to make money off of. Go be dishonest somewhere else.” You spit out and close your eyes. Your back turned to him at you stare at the textured cream wall, desperately not trying to burst out bawling.    “No.”     You spin around on your heel to yell at him some more, but Taeyong appears at your back few inches away from you, far too close for comfort. His inscrutable expression morphed into something that looked like determination, and his smoldering eyes held you in place as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Your mouth drops open in shock at his audacity before he leans his forehead to yours and sighs.    “My name is Lee Taeyong.” he started out quietly, eyes closed as if in prayer. “I am 27. I’m from Seoul, South Korea. I like to paint, I love macarons, and I hate dirty rooms. But you already know that. I am Lee Taeyong. I never really got along with my mother, perhaps that’s the reason I’m doing so bad with you.” He laughed bitterly. “She raised me to close off myself to others, not ever to trust a female. But I can’t blame her for… for my behavior. I am scared of the people who judge me, even though I am an artist and am constantly judged by the public, critics still make me want to put down my paints.”     “I came to the US when I was 19, on scholarship to Parsons. I didn’t know English very well at all, and I struggled to communicate with those around me, and I chose to delve into my craft even deeper. You… inspired me, and remember my speech at Parsons? I didn’t know how true it was until you entered my life. I didn’t know to what extent inspiration turned into obsession, how intensive it went. I’m not using you just to make money; you genuinely make my heart lighter and make me feel things I haven’t ever felt, and these things were hard to communicate. I did the best way I could, by painting you just the way I see you, but I think I didn’t get through to you.”    “I didn’t mean to make you feel like some on-call whore. I thought… I thought I could make up my absences with time spent in bed with you. That my missing days from home could be covered up by a few drawn-out orgasms. Guess it didn’t work, because you aren’t at home. With me. In my studio. In our kitchen. In our bed.” Taeyong lifted his forehead from yours and buried in your hair. He took a deep breath, comforted and saddened all at once at the familiar smell of peaches-and-cream that still plagued his memories like a ghost. The smell that he could faintly smell in the shower that he tried to scrub off until his skin turned red.    “But most importantly, the thing that you should know about me, in all my bumbling attempts to make you mine, is that I… I care for you. Fuck, I love you, and I’m so goddamn sorry I drove you away from our home. Please tell me it isn’t too late, because I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to make you feel used and unwanted. Please.”    His tone, cracked and anguished and interwoven with sadness, wrenched at your heart. He sounded so desperate, so unlike his usual suave baritone that it felt like you were listening to a song and the track skipped ahead a few beats and now all the singing was off-beat.    His mysterious nature, that you thought was permanently affixed to his character, was slowly crumbling around you. The days where you thought the gleam in his eyes was an enigmatic sparkle of that he knew something that you didn’t were gone; you could see that sparkle was of passion and affection, and a million other things in the universe that was all for you.    You didn’t realize you were crying until you could feel the wet button up of Taeyong was pressing into your cheek. Taeyong was making little shushing noises, stroking your back and whispering comforting things into your things.    “I… It’s not too late,” you whisper.    Taeyong’s head snapped up to meet your gaze, mouth partly open in shock. You smiled through your tears and stroked his cheek. You stood on your tippy-toes and gave him a kiss on his cheek, while he stood stutteringly still.    “It’s… it’s my fault too. I didn’t say anything, didn’t try to talk to you about my problems, or rather, didn’t try hard enough. I should’ve at least tried to work this out, instead of sulking about my problems like some child, before walking out of our house. I’m so sorry too, I was so rash and didn’t even let you have a chance to know what you did wrong,” you said while holding his hands.    Taeyong’s face split into a genuine smile, and dipped his head into a deep kiss, pressing you even closer to him. You missed this so much, a part of you that came together, and you responded two-fold, tilting your head to deepen the lip-lock. You gasped as his tongue entered your lips and you moaned softly, running your hands over his broad shoulders. He disengaged from lip-lock and trailed kisses all over your face. Over your brows, over your temples, over the bridge of your nose, everywhere. You giggled, ticklish from the sensation and his lips pulled up into a smirk. The hands you were using to run over his chest wandered to the lapel of his shirt, and tugged. Your hands played with the buttons before Taeyong released you suddenly.    “What?” you pouted, biting your lip and looking at him coquettishly.    His eyes darkened even further before a growl escaped his lips.    “Don’t test me Y/n, we can’t have it now. Later.”    “Why not now? Don’t you want me?”    “I do, fuck, I want to pound you until the mattress breaks, but I don’t wanna introduce sex into our relationship too soon. I don’t want to rush this like last time,” Taeyong says, stroking your fingers.    “Well, if what you said before about not wanting to fuck and chuck is true, I don’t mind it. In fact, I want it.” You take your hands out of his hold and “accidentally” brush it across his rising erection.    “Y/n,” he growls warningly, but you toss caution to the wind and push the palm of your hand into his slacks.    “Please?”    His lips curl up into a menacing smile, and he pushes you to the counter.    “If you want it, well, I live to serve,”    He tugs on your shirt, and assists in alleviating you of your shirt. You keep your lips on him, furiously making out with him. The artist pushes down your skinny jeans, his fingers brushing over your skin teasingly, soaking your panties clear through.    Once he rises up, his eyes darken even more as he scans your body, clad in just a bra and tiny panties while looking up at him with wide eyes. Licking his lips, he leans down and laves at your collarbone enticingly, while you throw your head back in ecstasy. Taeyong’s fingers pull down the cups of your bra, his thumbs rubbing circles on your aeolas making the tips of your breasts even stiffer.    “Mmph!” you moan, one hand covering your mouth while the other one is propped up to support you.    Taeyong scoops you up in his arms while you squeal.    “Which door?”    “The… the first one on the right,” you panted, barely able to talk while kissing him.    He manages to get the door open with you in his arms (an impressive feat) and throws you down on the bed. He rips off his black button up, showcasing his impressive chest that you missed, and loosens his belt.    You lean forward quickly and get back on your knees, pulling down his pants and pulling his cock out his briefs. Turgid and thick, it was exactly how you remembered. You stroked him a bit, while he threw his head back while clutching your shoulders tightly, and your mouth curled up into a cat-like grin. While rubbing the pre-cum over his head, Taeyong interrupted you.    “Y/n, I want to go down you. You can get my dick later,” Taeyong huffs as he rips your hand away from his cock.    “But I want it now, Tae. Can’t we do 69?” you asked while playing the straps of your bra.    “...fine.” Taeyong relents and helps you remove your bra and panties.    He gets down on the bed, while you climb over him and position your core directly on his face. You get eye-level with his pulsating cock and the hard tips of your breast rub his pectorals, stimulating quite nicely.    As soon as your fingers touched his cock, Taeyong sinful tongue poked at the entrance to your pussy. You unintentionally squeezed harder, and he moaned breathily, his hot breath on your vagina. Since Taeyong was rubbing his tongue over your entrance, but never entering, you decided to amp it up a notch.    You opened your lips over his dick, poking your tongue out, but only touching him slightly. He moaned, and you left little licks and kisses over his erection, fleeting touches that made his cock even harder. Taeyong seemed to get annoyed, and just fully inserted his tongue into your pussy. You whined and ground your core into his face, mouth leaving his dick momentarily and it hitting your cheeks you put your head down.    As Taeyong finally got out his hands to touch your clit, you put the length of his in his throat. You could feel the fine tremor of his thighs on your chest, and you alternated between hard and soft suction. However, you could barely think as his tongue moved in patterns on your clit, his fingers pistoning in and out. As his tongue touched your clit and his fingers touched a spot, you clenched hard and felt yourself release. You decided to speed up your handjob, and Taeyong explodes over your hand, streams of white come covering your pumping hand and slightly splattering you in the face.    The two of you rest there for a while before Taeyong’s dick rises a bit. You giggled, and you felt Taeyong lift you up from your position and putting you on your back on the bed. He loomed over you, and you clenched your thighs together to stop your juices from getting everywhere, but he wrenched them open and inserted himself between them.    “You ready, Y/n?”    “Absolutely,” you panted, a bit more wantonly than you would’ve liked.    His lips curled up in that smirk that made you fall in love with him, and he wasted no time in putting himself in.    The two of you groaned from the friction, not used to the pleasurable feelings running through your veins and in your hearts from the past few months. It felt like a homecoming, however cheesy it was, because him, here, with you, made you feel at ease.    Lubricated as you were, he set a gentle yet fast pace, slamming into you and making the bed frame rock. You didn’t know where to put your hands, one moment it was clutched tightly at sheets, and the other it was scratching down Taeyong’s back. He clenched his teeth and rocked into you faster, his biceps bulging with the effort. You every inch and crevice of his dick in your pussy, fitting perfectly with the contour of your walls.    “Taeyong!” you moan, absolutely overwhelmed by the intense pleasure and the emotional homecoming.    “Be my lover. Be my girlfriend. Be mine,” Taeyong gasped as his hips slammed into yours, creating a lewd slapping noise throughout the bedroom.    “My home… our home feels darker without you. It misses you. I miss you,” he continues.    “Say yes, darling.”    “YES!” you nearly screech out, delirious from the pleasure Taeyong was inflicting upon you. Your pussy clenched tightly around his veiny cock and released its juices. Taeyong let out an involuntarily moan and explodes, cum releases in spurts in your vagina. The two of you collapse, feeling as if a nova exploded in the room.    When your breathing as calmed down, and the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fade away, you stroke his hair.    “I think I love you,” you muse, as your fingers run through his soft black hair.    He lifts his head from your chest and smiles at you, pressing a little kiss on your collarbone.    “You’re gonna move with back in with me, right? I didn’t say that without purpose,” Taeyong murmurs, fingers drawing lines over your sensitive skin.    “I will as long as you promise me that we’ll work on communication together.”    “My darling, I would do anything for my muse.”

   The panoramic television Taeyong bought was humming softly in the background, announcing the news of Taeyong’s comeback from hiatus. The adorable corgi the two of you bought was jumping around the living room, your stupid corgi-covered throw blanket settled onto the couch once again.    You scan the small portrait of your likeness as Taeyong cradles you with his body, his head upon your shoulder and arms resting comfortably around your waist. You unconsciously lean back into him, luxuriating in his warmth and familiarity. You reluctantly break from his hold as you circle around the piece, reverent of its attention to detail and intimate vulnerability expressed in the piece. The golden plate near the base caught your eye, gleaming in the dying sunlight.    Raison D’etre.    Purpose for Existence.    Your head quickly snapped up towards his gaze and you stumbled back. 3 tiny words had the effect of a grenade, catching you off guard and leaving you in shell-shock. Just 3 tiny words made you feel like a sonic boom had swept through Taeyong’s studio and you, the unfortunate bystander, were left deafened and dazed. 3 tiny words.    “You… do you not go too far, Taeyong?”    His eyes contain a maelstrom intensive feelings. Love, passion, obsession were all rendered just as clearly with his gaze as with his oils or paints.    “Do I?”

(A/N: this a piece i have been on for a long ass time, so it is one of the best pieces i have ever written in my entire career lmao. i hope you enjoyed it as i did writing it! please like, reblog, and comment!)

Notations:

(1) Alexander Calder, an American sculptor who is best known for his innovative mobiles that embrace chance in their aesthetic and his monumental public sculptures. 

(2) Lovers- Wyeth (1981) - Part of the Helga Pictures, 240 paintings of Helga Testorf (Andrew Wyeth’s Muse and Mistress)

(3) The woman in the picture, Helga Testorf, was not a hired model. Wyeth, while married, embarked on a tempestuous affair with her and created 240 paintings.

(4) Phaedrus is a dialogue between Plato's protagonist, Socrates, and Phaedrus. The central theme of this dialogue is Eros. The problem of love serves as the provocation for the speeches, the content of the speeches and the reflection upon speech as a whole.

(5) Sotheby’s Auction House (NY)- One of the world's largest brokers of fine and decorative art, jewelry, real estate, and collectibles. It’s a big, big deal TY’s painting was sold there.

(6) Camille Claudel was the pupil of Auguste Rodin, a famous sculptor, and she eventually became his mistress. Auguste promised to leave his wife for Camille but that never happened. She went insane and was committed to a mental asylum, while Rodin went on to become an acclaimed artist. There are many doubts on how much Camille contributed to his most famous sculptures like The Thinker (because women as sculptors was unthinkable for the time).

(7) Salvador and Gala Dalí. Gala was married when she met surrealist oil painter Salvador Dalí (who painted The Persistence of Time), and immediately left her husband to be with Salvador. Gala was Salvador’s ultimate muse- he deified her in his paintings. The surrealist movement is often noted for its expression of the human subconscious and dream-state, exploring human desires and wild fantasy. For Dalí to imagine Gala in his dreams, he was extremely obsessed with her (even though she was a gold-digger and abusive).

(8) Gustav Klimt and Emilie Flöge. Gustav, who painted The Kiss, was lifelong partners with Emilie yet there was no proved romantic relationship between them. However, Gustav painted Emilie in The Kiss and many other works, leading many to believe they were romantically involved.

(6, 7, 8)- They say behind every great man is a great woman. The women mentioned above were crucial to each man’s success and artistic style. Each artist and his muse had a different sort of relationship, so that is why the newspaper mused on what type of relationship TY and Y/N had.

(9)- Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori: Nobuyoshi Araki’s long-time model KaoRi has publicly accused the renowned Japanese photographer of misleading her into working without a contract, distributing pictures of her around the world without her knowledge or consent, and failing to compensate her fairly for her time or for her her role in Araki’s work. They weren’t lovers.

(10) Picasso and Gilot. Gilot had 2 children with Picasso and left, infuriating the famous Cubist painter who painted Guernica and The Old Guitarist.

(11) (TW) Bernado Bertolucci and Schneider. Bertolucci, an acclaimed film maker, was accused by actress Schneider for including a rape scene that wasn’t in the original script of the 1972 film Last Tango in Paris. Schneider was raped by her fellow actor Marlon Brando and the tears in the scene were real.

(9, 10 ,11)- These examples of horrible, abusive relationships between artists and their muses causes Y/N some worry, leading her to believe dear TY is using her.

[tinabritton-photography]

National Portrait Gallery and Stills Gallery . . . Not Finished!

Edinburgh Exhibition Trip!

On Wednesday 25th September we travelled by bus to Edinburgh to vistit the National Portrait Gallery and the Stills Gallery. We visited the exhibition titled ‘Artist Rooms: Self Evidence/Woodman,Arbus,Mapplethorpe.

When entering the gallery, the first photographer I encountered at the exhibition is one I have researched before; Francesca Woodman (April 3, 1958 – January 19, 1981) an American photographer. I have long since admired her work. Below is the first ever image I researched of Francesca Woodman, however, due to Tumblr rules, I cannot show it in its entirety.

(AWARE Women artists / Femmes artistes, 2019) (Image above)

I was always particularly interested in the image above. Francesca is sitting in a chair, nude, her hands between her knees. She is far away from the camera. White paper has been nailed up behind her, possibly to prevent prying eyes from viewing her nakedness, or it could be to help diffuse the light, which I believe is most probable. A shadow image of a body is burned into the floor. Is it meant to be her? Some have deduced that she is portending her demise - that the image on the floor is her ‘chalk outline’ like would be seen at the scene of a crime. When I first saw this image, I found the burnt image in the floor distracting. Was this her intention? I believe so. Morbidity outweighs the nude woman in the corner. Death and darkness interest us more that the beautiful woman aglow in the diffuse light from the window. This is how I read this image.

Francesca Woodman was April 3rd 1958 in Denver, Colorado and took her own life, passing away on 19th January, 1981 in New York.

I fell in love with Woodman’s work, before I ever heard her story. And her story, broke my heart. As I write these words, and let’s get this over with, you are all thinking the words that seem to have meaning for everyone who views her images, “But didn’t she kill herself jumping from a window?” I find I am struck with anger each time someone has to mention this fact when speaking of her work. I can speak of Van Gogh’s paintings without first saying, ‘oh, but did you know he cut off his ear?’ Somehow in this crazy screwed up world, someone deems that her work is more viable by mentioning her death, instead of her life. Sad really. There are many, and by many I mean hundreds of amateur and professional psychologists that have analysed her life and death through her works. I prefer to take the link between her death and her work out of the equation.

It was on her 13th birthday when her father, a painter, and mother, a potter, gave Francesca her very first camera; it was a Yashica 24. She used this medium format camera until her passing. Woodman attended the Rhode Island School of Design in Providence, Rhode Island. It is said that she was influenced heavily by fashion photography and Surrealism. I really do believe that her imagery is more centered on self-discovery and identity as I have discovered through my research of her work. Her ethereal and ghost-like depictions are intriguing.

Below is Woodman’s first self-portrait taken at the age of 13 and also one of her first with her new camera.

Is she feeling connected, or tethered. Is she saying she has no identity by turning her head away? Or is the connection of the rope an extension of her cable knit sweater, as it appears to unravel? I love all the questions this image elicits.

(Victoria Miro, 2019)

Another favourite image of mine was this one below, again depicting Woodman herself. Sadly, I felt compelled to cover her exposed skin due to Tumblr rules. She had travelled to Italy to study. While she was there she printed several different poses with eels. Her body is nude as she cups her body around the bowl of eels.I find it striking that the colour of her skin is tied with the colour of the eels. This reduces her and the eels to shape and form. It’s absolutely beautiful. The lighting is perfection.

The second Photographer I encountered when turning the next corner was American photographer, Diane Arbus (14 March 1923, New York, New York - 26 July 1971, Artist Housing, New York). I have seen these images before, but it was fantastic to see them again up close and personal. The first image that I have always loved was ‘A Jewish Giant at Home with his Parents in the Bronx, N.Y. 1970′.

It was Allan Arbus who gifted her first camera to her. They worked together, husband and wife, he a photographer and she an art director and stylist. She spent her life focusing her lens on the people who populated the fringe of society, including transgender, circus people and the mentally ill. This interests me greatly, as I too have a strong affinity for people on the ‘outside-looking-in’. My own artwork has depicted the mentally ill and dementia. It has long since been thought that Diane was bipolar, I think this is why her photography interests me, as I am too. It is important to not just take a pretty picture. Her images invoke viewers to build stories in their minds of the people whose essences she has captured. (Searle, 2019)

Diane Arbus

Robert Mapplethorpe

Snapchats

As an artist I wanted to take in the ‘Long Look’ - The making of a Portrait which explores the relationship that blooms between the artist and his sitter.

Stills Gallery - Cindy Sherman

Last, but NEVER least . . . The Great Cindy Sherman . . .

Cindy Sherman’s work has always centered around identity. She has spent her career trying on the ‘clothes’ of other personalities and photographing herself in different settings. Her untitled film stills are world famous.

After attending the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, the group I was with, walked to the Stills Gallery after we had lunch. It was about a 10-15 minute walk.

(Adams, 2019)

Cindy Sherman, Murder Mystery, 1976

Cindy Sherman, Murder Mystery, 1976

Mystery Actress Side View

Cindy Sherman, Murder Mystery, 1976

Steinhauer, J. (2019). Finding Francesca Woodman. [online] The Paris Review. Available at: https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2012/05/23/finding-francesca-woodman/ [Accessed 29 Sep. 2019]. (Steinhauer, 2019)

AWARE Women artists / Femmes artistes. (2019). Francesca Woodman — AWARE Women artists / Femmes artistes. [online] Available at: https://awarewomenartists.com/en/artiste/francesca-woodman/ [Accessed 29 Sep. 2019]. (leading image) (AWARE Women artists / Femmes artistes, 2019)

Victoria Miro. (2019). Self Portrait at 13, Antella, Italy, 1972 (E.1). [online] Available at: https://www.victoria-miro.com/artists/7-francesca-woodman/works/artworks13614/ [Accessed 26 Sep. 2019].

Friedewald, B. (2018). Women photographers. 2nd ed. Munich, London, New York: Prestel Publishing Ltd. (Friedewald, 2018, pgs 222-225)

Kieffer, M. (2019). Haunted Genius: The Tragic Life and Death of Francesca Woodman. [online] Culture Trip. Available at: https://theculturetrip.com/north-america/usa/new-york/articles/haunted-genius-the-tragic-life-and-death-of-francesca-woodman/ [Accessed 28 Sep. 2019]. (Kieffer, 2019)

Iris Veysey. (2019). On Mental Illness, Suicide and Misreading Francesca Woodman. [online] Available at: https://irisveysey.com/2014/09/04/on-mental-illness-suicide-and-misreading-francesca-woodman/ [Accessed 28 Sep. 2019]. (Iris Veysey, 2019)

Stills.org. (2019). Cindy Sherman: Early Works, 1975-80 | Stills Gallery. [online] Available at: http://www.stills.org/exhibition/current-exhibition/cindy-sherman-early-works-1975-80 [Accessed 28 Sep. 2019]. (Stills.org, 2019)

Britishphotohistory.ning.com. (2019). Exhibition: Cindy Sherman: Early Works, 1975-80 / Edinburgh, from 28 June 2019. [online] Available at: https://britishphotohistory.ning.com/profiles/blogs/exhibition-cindy-sherman-early-works-1975-80-edinburgh-from-28-ju [Accessed 28 Sep. 2019]. (Britishphotohistory.ning.com, 2019)

Searle, A. (2019). Diane Arbus: In the Beginning review – a genius who made every picture a story. [online] the Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2019/feb/12/diane-arbus-in-the-beginning-review-a-genius-who-made-every-picture-a-story [Accessed 29 Sep. 2019]. (Searle, 2019)

Adams, T. (2019). Cindy Sherman: ‘Why am I in these photos?’. [online] the Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2016/jul/03/cindy-sherman-interview-retrospective-motivation [Accessed 19 Oct. 2019].  (Adams, 2019)

The Museum of Modern Art. (2019). Cindy Sherman. Untitled Film Still #58. 1980 | MoMA. [online] Available at: https://www.moma.org/collection/works/57196 [Accessed 29 Sep. 2019]. (The Museum of Modern Art, 2019)

The Museum of Modern Art. (2019). Cindy Sherman | MoMA. [online] Available at: https://www.moma.org/artists/5392?locale=en [Accessed 19 Oct. 2019]. (The Museum of Modern Art, 2019)

Palumbo, J. (2019). Six Women Artists Furthering Cindy Sherman’s Pioneering Vision. [online] Artsy. Available at: https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-six-women-artists-furthering-cindy-shermans-pioneering-vision [Accessed 21 Oct. 2019]. (Palumbo, 2019)

[guylty]

Screenshot bingo continues.

If anything, TI – and that is mainly Richard Armitage as Claude Monet – is a pleasure to look at. Just a cursory glance at my screenshot loot of episode 2 shows that there were smiles and gorgeous galore. But well, it’s not all beauty and joy in the show, and there were things that I felt irked by, too.

Quick summary

Part 2 of the mini series begins after the Franco-Prussian war with Monet and his family returning from London. He reconnects with the scene in Paris and continues to paint – without much success as the salon is still dominated by the Marquis de Chennevières who ridicules the Impressionists’ work. After focusing on Monet and his friendship with Renoir and Bazille, as well as Manet’s groundbreaking work on painting in part 1, this episode still has Monet as the main protagonist but also looks at Edgar Degas. With his eyesight deteriorating and money running scarce after his father’s death, Degas struggles as a painter. Despite producing beautiful work, his treatment of his fragile models is rude and neglectful.

The early worm paints the sunrise. Screenshot

Monet finds himself transfixed by light and colour. The painting that eventually is responsible for the moniker “impressionism”, is a study of the sunrise that he paints in a rush one morning, racing outside to capture the sunlight in all its glory. Similarly, he sets his canvas up in a train station because he wants to paint the whirling steam. What a pioneer! As the salon won’t display the impressionists’ paintings, the group decides to put on their own show, which is to take place in a photographer’s studio. “One passing fad helping another” as the Marquis says… little does he know…

. Renoir, Monet and Degas are on board; Manet declines any participation. Despite great hopes, the exhibition is not a success, neither with critics nor with public.

Consoling Alice Hochedé… well, who wouldn’t want to be consoled by him… Screenshot

At this point, Monet and his wife are living in poverty. Money from Monet’s patron Ernest Hochedé is not forthcoming either. When Monet goes to visit his patron’s home, he meets Hochedé’s wife Alice and the series makes it clear that she will have much influence on Monet later. Meanwhile, Camille’s health deteriorates. She has always been a favourite model for Monet, and even in death he remains transfixed by the play of light on her features. The fortunes of Monet’s patron Hochedé have changes, too, and Alice and her children have moved in with Monet – which leads Degas, jealous of Monet and Renoir finally being represented in the salon with their paintings, puts a hoax article in the newspaper declaring Monet dead, and claiming he has a relationship with Alice Hochedé. Monet confronts Degas – and the impressionist movement seems to splinter…

Some thoughts on part 2

We get another episode opening with Monet on a train. Maybe it has worked out cheaper that way, but whenever I see steam trains and the name Richard Armitage on the credits, I immediately think of NS. And I always wonder whether these things are coincidences or whether some clever scriptwriter has copped on that repeating the earlier crowd pleaser is something that would appeal to the fans? Well, probably not – we are far too small a group to be recognised. But it is funny, nonetheless. And it begs the question what RA thinks about these things? Does he have the same associations? Does he ever suspect he is being used as a babe magnet?

Granted, the more I watch of TI, the more I get used to the straggly hair and the goaty beard. And suddenly Richard looks gorgeous… Especially his blue eyes stood out to me in this episode, where I particularly noticed the intense shade of blue in a number of scenes.

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I have to admit that I am not that interested in the other painters, and that is all down to RA. I want to see Monet’s story, not Degas or Manet. Renoir is acceptable – because he is close friends with Monet and therefore likely to feature in scenes… Mind you, I thought Degas’ story is really interesting because of the connection to the ballet. How the young dancers were taken advantage of by rich men who pretend to be patrons but really only just want to get into the dancers’ knickers… Dirty business…

In contrast, Monet is clean and beautiful art. “The sun was my muse”, he explains, and that whole sequence (around 15:00) of Monet getting up early to paint at sunrise basically is the whole mini-series in one scene. He explains what is so compelling about the impressionists: For the first time, an art movement focuses on light and how it is seen depending on time of day, angle, etc. , hence Monet’s excitement and rush to paint the sunrise. Paintings are not static as such, but they now depict movement – such as the rising sun, or the whirling steam in a train station. And like its distant cousin photography, impressionism for the first time elevates ordinary people, scenes and objects to subject matters, often painting from unusual angles and communicating not just superficial beauty to the spectator, but transporting an atmosphere or emotion. This is a mini lecture on what impressionism is and how it differs from what came before.

Monet worshipping the sun… reminds me of Ricky Deeming calling upon the goddess… Screenshot

That is all very interesting but what is compelling in the series remains the smile, the joy, the happiness, the energy of Monet. Always positive, always hopeful, always a doer. He doesn’t fret when he is poor and unrecognised; when he makes the sale – he spends the money on bread and cheese. And he organises a counter-exhibition to the salon when the art dealer stops buying the impressionists’ art.

As has been remarked on several times in the comments to last week’s re-watch post, the show is very good at putting the famous Monet paintings into context – or visualising them on the screen. And again, this is a wonderful lesson for all art-interested people, seeing what Monet must have seen when he was dabbing the canvas and created his masterpieces.

Talking of dabbing the canvas – another point of discussion last week was a quote by TI‘s art consultant Leo Stevenson who paid Richard the greatest compliment. Thank you to Lilianschild for digging up the quote.

Some actors, like Richard Armitage, actually took to painting extremely well and painted in a really convincing manner. Others were nervous of doing any real painting and so I sometimes stood in for them in their costumes for the close-ups of ‘their’ hands painting or drawing. .”

I had a little look, and while of course it is inconclusive how much he actually painted himself, there is something about the way RA holds the paint brush. Even though he has really large hands and therefore the brush looks very delicate, it appears as if he has the lightest touch. He holds the paint brush properly and dabs lightly at the canvas. Method man is certainly convincing… Clearly some prime porn for fans with a hand fetish, as the extremities are beautifully accentuated by frilly shirt cuffs and  wide puffy sleeves.

Delicate fingers…

What still irks me, is the framing action with old Monet in Giverny. And here is another reason why I don’t like those interludes: I can’t quite reconcile the happy, cheerful, positive young Monet with the old, negative codger from 1920. Old Monet seems to be scolding the journalist for every single question, always correcting him, always defending himself, always the one who knows, always raising his voice, always arguing. Never calm, quiet, benign and wise with age. He’s really not very sympathetic at all. The Four Yorkshiremen by Monty Python come to mind…

While I very much enjoyed all the shiny happy Monet of episode 2, I was also glad to see him expand his scope to some more dramatic emotions. The death of Camille is a truly touching scene – the contrast of the painter, concentrating on shapes, light and composition, seeing beauty in death, presumably, and thus immortalising his dead wife once again on canvas – and then, immediately afterwards the bereaved husband who has just realised the enormity of his loss and helplessly cries. “Jesus, he’s devastating when he cries.” is what I noted down. It reminded me why and how I fell for Armitage the actor, i.e. when he played Lucas North in the final scene of season 9 on the roof and… He needs more roles like that!

Emoting something else than anger

Luckily for us, the episode did not end on a sad note. Instead we see the beginnings of the relationship with Alice Hoschedé, and that is quite beautiful, though. Possibly because it starts out without love, but a bit of a confrontation. The scene in the garden where Monet consoles Alice because she tells him her husband can’t pay him… the soft touch of his hand on her hair. She cries on his shoulder. Yes, that demands three screenshots for illustration #UncompromisingFangirlMode

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Sure, there is the fangirl fluff again. Coupled with puppy eyes and *boom* there go my pants. But when it comes to the man who doesn’t just have a pigeon hole but a whole dovecote for poker-faced, emotionally hardened spy types, this would really be quite a departure.

So, all in all an hour happily spent watching young Monet. At the end of the episode, the tides are finally turning. Monet gets a painting into the salon. He cuts his hair. And he gets quite angry. I leave you with a derp that isn’t meant to make fun of RA – but just to make you laugh. How unrecognisable he is in that screenshot. Thank cod!

The Impressionists  part 3 to follow next week? Hopefully I will get it in – I will be travelling home to Germany on Tuesday, staying one week with my mum.

Feel free to comment below – or to write your own review on your own blog. If you do, don’t forget to link to it in my comments!

Re-Watching The Impressionists [part 2]- Impressed Screenshot bingo continues. If anything, TI - and that is mainly Richard Armitage as Claude Monet - is a pleasure to look at.

[inyournightmares97]

‘LOOK’ - The Art Gallery (4/7)

A/N: This is a drabble series I’m making based on the locations in the ‘Look’ M/V! Credits for the idea go to @daddymarktuan!!

All right, Hyung-Line is down! Maknae-Line is scheduled for tomorrow!

The House Party (1/7)

The Bridge (2/7)

The Woods (3/7)

The Old House (5/7)

The Garden (6/7)

The Record Store (7/7)

“Relax! You look way too nervous. You can do this!” 

You smiled gratefully at the woman who patted on you back. Jieun was the manager of the art gallery, and also the person who had invited you to put your paintings on display at the prestigious center. You had never dared to imagine your paintings being displayed in such a famous gallery, alongside the work of artists whose work sold for millions. It was a dream come true and you were almost trembling in your uncomfortable high heels. 

You smoothed down your expensive dress and grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter. It was nerve-wracking to watch art critics and rich people walk past your paintings. It wasn’t extremely likely that you would manage to sell anything today. It was your first time at an exhibition like this, of course... but if you did manage to sell then the work would probably fetch you a pretty penny. 

Honestly, you could do with the money. 

You spent most of the evening talking to people, trying not to look too flustered as a few people stopped to compliment your paintings and ask questions about. Some of the major critics passed by completely, but one of them nodded appreciatively and another paused to tell you that he was impressed by your technique. It was more than you had expected and you were practically floating on clouds as the evening passed. 

“Do you have a second?” Jieun asked, taking your arm gently to draw you aside once you’d finished speaking to some guests. “There’s a gentleman that’s expressed interest in buying one of your pieces. Should I share the quotes we agreed on with him?” 

You were shocked. “Really? None of the people I spoke to expressed an interest in buying. Which one does he want to buy?” 

Jieun pressed her lips together tightly and sighed. “The... the one of the couple. I know you said that you were only going to put that one up for display but maybe you should consider selling it. This man’s one of our regular patrons and he will probably offer a better price than you could get anywhere else.” 

You bit your lip. That painting had too much sentimental value to you; you had only agreed to have it on display because Jieun had insisted that it was too beautiful to keep locked up. You glanced towards the large framed painting; it was the silhouette of a couple seated in an evening garden, in a gentle pastel tone. It reminded one of innocence, and first love. But for you the meaning was much deeper. 

“I wonder what made him pick that one,” you mumbled. “Can I speak to him?”  

“Of course, I’ll bring him over.” 

You nodded, moving over to stand in front of the painting in question. It was difficult to even look at it because it brought back too many painful memories. But perhaps to someone who was unburdened by the past it might seem like a beautiful painting. You turned around as Jieun escorted a handsome gentleman over towards you. 

“This is Park JInyoung, he’s expressed an interest in purchasing your work,” Jieun explained, gesturing towards the well-dressed gentleman. You felt your stomach lurch as you locked eyes with Park Jinyoung. it had been two years since you had seen those deep, intense eyes and you felt slightly light-headed. 

“Can you give us a moment, Jieun?” Jinyoung asked the manager calmly. The sound of his gentle, smooth voice brought back memories and you could only stare in helpless silence as Jieun nodded and left the two of you alone. 

You turned to him, trying to stay calm. “What are you doing here?” 

He blinked at you. “I’m a regular patron of this art gallery.” 

You resisted the urge to scoff. Jinyoung, the patron of an art gallery? He was certainly rich enough to spend unimaginable amounts of money on works of art, but he had never been interested in such things. Not until you came to his life. You remembered a time when Park Jinyoung didn’t know the difference between acrylics and oil paints and suddenly he was an art connoisseur? 

“That’s not what I meant,” you said firmly. You could see his calm gaze falter slightly at your icy tone. “I mean what are you doing here, on the night that I am part of the exhibition, trying to buy one of my paintings?” you demanded. Your heartbeat thudded as you glanced at the painting. “You know why I painted that one, you know who it was meant for.” 

He nodded calmly. “That’s why I want to buy it.” 

“It’s not for sale.” 

“Jieun said you might be convinced to part with it for a good enough price.” 

The statement sent a jolt through you. Jinyoung seemed to realize he had made a mistake because his eyes widened slightly when you gave him a furious look. “The painting is not for sale. I’m not for sale.” 

Jinyoung closed his eyes. “I never said you were for sale.” 

“I’m sorry, I apologize for jumping to conclusions. But surely you would understand why I felt the need to clarify, considering how events transpired between us two years ago.” You were on the verge of breaking, but you folded your arms across your chest and tried to maintain composure. “You could never offer me a price that would satisfy me.” 

Jinyoung blinked at you. There was a long silence as you both stared at each other, drinking in the sight after two long years of no contact. Jinyoung’s handsome face was just like it had always been. You felt your heart skip a beat when he gently dropped his gaze and gave you a sad smile. “I should have known you would never take my money. Can I offer you an apology instead? I want to, but I feel like you wouldn’t believe me.” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Do you hate me that much?” 

You gave him a dry smile. “Don’t I have a right to? Art is everything to me, and you knew that. You promised to  make me happy and just as I was willing to trust you with the rest of my life, you sat me down in front of your parents and watched silently as they asked me to give up the one thing I loved for you.” 

Your voice cracked as you spoke. You had tried so hard to erase that night from your mind. The night you had gone to Jinyoung’s house to meet his parents, a brand new diamond ring on your finger. You had expected a pleasant dinner and some small talk, not for your prospective mother-in-law to express her desire that you stop trying to sell your paintings and became a trophy wife to her son instead. But it wasn’t her words that had hurt you. it was the fact that JInyoung had sat there silently and waited for you to reply, waited for you to agree to give up your passion to become his property. 

That night it was not only your engagement that broke, but also your trust in Jinyoung. 

“I made a mistake,” he admitted softly. 

“You certainly did.” 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he replied gently. His eyes were glazed over as he spoke. “What I did was unforgivable. It was your passion for art and the beauty in your eyes while you painted that made me fall in love with you. But I grew greedy over time, and I let other people control me. I lost your love and your trust, and they were the most valuable things I have ever called mine.” 

You folded your arms and stood there in silence. Jinyoung took a deep breath and gave you a soft smile. “I guess I really only came here tonight to tell you this. To say that I love you... and that I’m proud of you.” 

He stood there in silence and waited for you to say something, anything. Once he was certain that you were not going to speak to him, he let his gaze fall to the ground and he turned around slowly, his shoulders slumped. There was something about the way he turned away that sent a rush of affection through you. You had loved this man once. He had made you happy, and losing him had been the most difficult thing you had ever gone through. Was it right to let him walk away from you like this? 

“Jinyoung,” you called out softly. 

He whirled around to face you, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Yes-” 

“Take the painting.” 

“I... I thought you didn’t want to sell it,” he said, confused. 

You took a deep breath. “I’m not selling. I’m giving it to you. And maybe someday when I’m ready, I’ll... I’ll come find you to ask for it back.” 

JInyoung smiled softly. “Of course. Any time.” 

[agent-shield-blog]

Art & Stark

Your roommate's art piece is being featured at your ex-boyfriend's event. They usually don't show up to these things, but with your kind of luck all that's left to do is pray and drink.

Pairing: Reader X (Ex)Tony Stark Warnings: A little bit of language Notes: This fic was based off a quote which I’ll put at the bottom so I don’t give anything away. Enjoy!

You knew he was going to be there. He never went to these type of events, but you could just feel that he was going to show up to this one. After all, it was his private art gala exhibition thingy, you weren't quite sure of the name, but he was going be there. And you had to go. Your roommate's piece was going to be featured in the exhibit, and you were her plus one. Of course, that was before you knew it was a Stark event.

You sat nervously in your apartment waiting for your roommate, Anna, to finish getting ready. When she finally finished up, you stood up in your long black gown, that was a little too tight for your taste, but Anna insisted that you wear it for the occasion. Your hair was neatly done up in curls, and you had tried just a little bit harder than usual on your makeup. You followed Anna to the full-length mirror and gave yourself one last look over before sighing.

"(Y/n), you look amazing don't sweat this. Plus he's never at these events anyways. He always sends some Stark representative."

"I know I know I'm sorry. This is your night, and I shouldn't be so freaked out about seeing him."

"Hey your right, this is my night. So let's get to the Met, drink as much free alcohol as we can, and then go out and party!" Anna gently took you by the wrist and escorted you out of the apartment. You hailed a taxi, and within minutes you were pulling up to the Met.

You took one last breath before Anna stepped out of the car and you soon followed. With your black clutch in one hand and your phone in the other, you proudly walked up the steps, until you were met with a thousand flashing lights.

With being so focused on seeing Tony you had forgotten all about the paparazzi. The press would eat this up "(Y/n) (L/n), ex of Tony Stark attends past boyfriends party. "

In these moments you wished you were just one of the many flings. But to date you were the longest standing of Tony's girlfriends, thus making you famous in those regards. You remembered seeing the old newspapers and magazines. There would always be pictures of you and Tony plastered everywhere. Then there were the rumors of the breakup and then the storm to follow.

It only took you a moment to gather yourself before you continued up the steps to where Anna was patiently waiting. She stood at the top while giving you a sad smile.

"You are such a trooper; I'm sorry I completely forgot that paparazzi was a thing I-"

"No no, it's fine. It slipped my mind too. But look, no harm no foul. Now let's go enjoy your night." Anna's face lit up as she quickly walked through the doors. All though this was a private event it had seemed like all of Manhattan had turned up for the night. You did a quick scan of the room. No sign of Tony yet. You continued onward slowly trailing behind Anna. You went from room to room until you finally arrived at her piece. You recorded the moment on your phone, wanting her always to be able to rewatch this event for the rest of her life.

"Oh, my gosh (y/n). That's-That's my painting. On the wall. In the Met. I never thought I'd get this far. I mean I always hoped but." You walked up to her and gave her side hug.

"You deserve this Anna, you do. You have worked so hard, and your pieces are amazing. Congratulations." She turned to you and beamed with happiness before giving you a full on hug. After a second she released you and turned back to her piece.

"Alright. Enough drooling over my piece, it's not moving anytime soon. Let's go get some drinks."

Anna opted for some featured cocktail for the event while you stuck with a glass of red wine. You slowly worked on the drink while you and Anna made your rounds around the rooms. You and Anna ran into some old friends from college and chatted for a bit before Anna went off with them to show them her piece. You decided to stay behind and look at some of the other artwork until they returned.

It had been about five minutes, and you had made your way into the next room. You were stuck on one work of art and honestly couldn't figure it out. As you took a sip from your glass, you heard a voice only feet away that caused you to almost choke on your wine.

"I'm surprised to see you here." Keeping your eyes locked on the painting, you took a moment to catch your breath before responding.

"I could say the same thing. Last time I checked, Tony Stark never showed up to these type of events." You now turned your head meeting Tony's gaze. He looked the same as the day you had met him.

"Meh, I thought I'd switch it up a little. See what my money actually goes towards." You took another sip of wine, casually looking over Tony's shoulder to see if Anna was anywhere nearby, but apparently, you weren't casual enough.

"Can't even last a minute talking to me? I mean I know I can be a bit of an ass sometimes, but I can't be that bad?"

"Look Tony honestly no offense to you, but I really didn't want to run into you tonight, or any night really."

"Ouch, harsh. Considering you're the one that broke up with me, I should be the one not wanting to see you, not the other way around. I didn't realize how much you hated me." At this point Tony flagged down a server carrying around glasses of wine, gently taking your now empty cup from your hand and replacing it. Your hand's barely brushed against each other as he handed you the new glass. You brought your hand back eagerly, not wanting to prolong any contact. At this point, you knew you were stuck with Tony for a bit, and Anna wasn't going to be able to intervene. Tony would just introduce her to some hot shot artist to keep her distracted.

You slowly began to walk past the paintings, with Tony at your side.

"Tony you know I don't hate you right? We talked about this the day I left. I just don't think I can handle seeing you and conversing with you yet."

"Okay, fair point but aren't you conversing with me right now?" You made your way into an almost empty room and stopped in the center. You took a step closer and lowered your voice.

"Yes, and to be honest, it's tearing me apart right now." You nervously took another sip of wine. Tony looked around the room before turning his face back towards you.

"I'm sorry. If I had known that's how you felt, I would have never shown up tonight. But when Friday told me your name had popped up on the guest list, I just- I just felt like I had to be here. I had to see you. I knew that-"

"Tony stop. Please." You looked around nervously at the small groups of people. Their attention seemed to be focused on the art, but you couldn't help but be paranoid that they were ease dropping. It only took Tony a second to notice your discomfort. He gently reached out for your hand which you swiftly drew back. "(Y/n) please just trust me." Fighting every bone in your body, you slowly extended your hand out for Tony to take. He grasped it carefully and led you through some empty rooms before heading past some security guards and up a staircase. You continued into the European Paintings And Sculpture room before Tony let go of your hand. You had always loved the Met. In fact, Tony had gotten you both in at night once, so it was no crowds, no noise, just the two of you. You paced a little around the room before facing Tony.

"We can't keep doing this Tony."

"I agree."

"Then why show up here, if you knew I was going to come?"

"Because I think us breaking up is one of the worse things to ever happen to me." You brought your hands through your hair in stress.

"Really Tony? Really?" You couldn't help but laugh in frustration. "We broke up for a reason. We both wanted different things, we both needed different things. In the end, it was just fighting. We would just shift the blame from one person to the other. That wasn't the relationship I wanted to be in; It's still not the type of relationship I want to be in!"

"I know I feel the same way!" Tony took a few steps closer, causing you to take steps back, wanting to keep distance between the too of you.

"Then what Tony? What makes you think us getting back together will make this relationship any different from the last?"

"Because in this time apart I realized you were my everything. You never stopped being everything to me. Everyday nonstop my thoughts are filled with you. And in the past few months, I've realized I'm not half the man I am without you by my side. I am willing to make sacrifices, and I'll be happy to make these sacrifices so long as I'm with you." This time when Tony took a step forward, you did not fall back. You let him continue until you were only inches away.

"I do always think about you. I'm always wondering how you're doing. If you moved on. If you are happy. It's honestly getting a little distracting, even Cap agrees." Tony softly chuckled to himself. You stayed silent as your body begin to tremble. Tony cautiously lifted his hand up and gently placed in on your cheek. You could feel your heart pounding, and your lips began to tingle. You were going to kiss him, and you were going to regret it. But at that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

In seconds your lips pressed against Tonys, sending sparks through your body. Heat filled your chest, as Tony quickly took you in an embrace. When you finally withdrew from each other, you brought your heads together, lightly touching foreheads. You stole a second to catch your breath before whispering out loud,

"Shit."

Quote:  I was going to kiss him, and I was going to regret it. But at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care.—Michelle Hodkin

[theladyjstyle]

Updated: 07/07/18 | July 7th, 2018

Death is not the end for the residents of Père Lachaise in Paris. Their tombs and graves are gawked at every day by hundreds of camera-touting tourists seeking the cemetery’s famous and not-so-famous inhabitants.

The cemetery was built in 1804 as the city ran out of room for new graves within its limits and was named after Louis XIV’s confessor, Père François de la Chaise (1624–1709), who lived in a house near the cemetery land.

At the time, the locals considered the cemetery too far from the city. Père Lachaise only had 13 graves its first year. However, administrators devised a plan and, with great fanfare, transferred the remains of Jean de La Fontaine (fabulist) and Molière (playwright), two of Paris’s most famous artists, to Père Lachaise, hoping that people would want to be buried near France’s famous heroes!

The strategy worked and people clamored to be interred with the cemetery’s famous new residents. Today, there are over a million people buried here, and it’s still an active cemetery, though to be buried here, you have to have lived or died in Paris.

Waking up on a bright beautiful day, I headed to the cemetery to marvel at the graves, mausoleums, and sepulchers of the dead. While a rainy day may have been more à propos, I welcomed the sun (I lacked an umbrella).

Humans have always had a fascination with death — we’ve been writing, singing, and pondering about it for ages. We dedicate much of our lives to thinking about that eternal question “What comes next?” so it doesn’t surprise me that cemeteries become tourist attractions.

To me, walking among the dead is both uncomfortable and interesting.

I tend to feel uncomfortable because I think, “Here we are, gawking at the graves of the dead like they’re some museum exhibit to be ogled.” The dead become a sideshow as people exclaim, “Hey look, I have a picture of Jim Morrison’s grave! Yay!” Maybe it’s because we want to get close to the famous people we could never get close to in life. I don’t know, but whatever the reason, as I snap a dozen photos of Édith Piaf’s grave, I know I’m guilty of it, too.

But more than being uncomfortable, I’m always interested in the people around me. Who were they? What lives did they lead? Were they happy? Sad? Were they loved, lost souls, artists, hypochondriacs? I like to imagine them going through the ups and downs of life we all face or being witnesses to a historical event we now dissect in history books. What was like for them? Will someone a hundred years hence ponder over my grave and go “I wonder who this guy was.” How quickly will it be before the world’s memory forgets me?

As you move through the cemetery, it’s easy to get lost among the giant crypts and trees. Covering 110 acres, the cemetery rises along a hill, with the older center a mishmash of winding streets and long-worn-out names and the newer tombs laid out in perfect city blocks. The moss-covered tombs and tree-lined cobblestone streets hide the sounds of the city. All that remains are your footsteps and the squawks from crows who remind you that on this day of life, death is all around.

Most visitors are drawn to the cemetery by the famous people buried here: 

Édith Piaf – French singer, songwriter, and actress.

Jim Morrison – The lead singer of The Doors.

Oscar Wilde – The famous Irish poet and writer (he wrote The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest).

Honoré de Balzac – Playwright and author of The Human Comedy

Colette – French novelist and Nobel Prize in Literature nominee.

Michel Petrucciani – Accomplished jazz pianist who overcame osteogenesis imperfecta.

Sadegh Hedayat – Author of The Blind Owl; translator and intellectual

Luigi Cherubini – Classical and pre-Romantic composer.

Samuel Hahnemann – Founder of homeopathy (and also a Freemason!).

Pierre Bourdieu – Famous anthropologist, sociologist, and philosopher.

Molière – Author and playwright; often considered one of the greatest French authors.

Frédéric Chopin – Renowned pianist and composer.

Max Ernst – German artist and poet.

Visitors will usually make a break for these graves while leaving the rest of the dead (and living) undisturbed.

I wandered through the graves, struck by the silence and the enormity of the tombs. Many of the mausoleums seem fit for kings and are spectacularly decorated with statues, art, and sculptures depicting angels and scenes of mourning. These people wanted to be remembered. As I wandered around, I found a contrast to the tombs of the celebrities, who seemed to want the opposite. Celebrity graves were often the simplest as if they no longer wanted in death the spotlight they had in life.

I spent hours visiting the cemetery, often sitting in silence, reflecting on those buried around me. Visiting the graves of so many people that I admire made me feel oddly connected to them. I paid my respects and thanked them for the influence they’ve had on my life. I only hope I’ll accomplish half of what they did in their lives.

How to get to Père Lachaise Cemetery Père Lachaise Cemetery is located at 16 rue du Repos. The best way to get here is to take the no. 2 or no. 3 line and get off at the “Père-Lachaise” stop and walk down the street to the cemetery. You can’t miss its gigantic walls. It’s open daily from 8 am (9 am on Sundays) until 5:30 pm or 6 pm, depending on the season. You can visit their website for more information if you need to.

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Book Your Trip to Paris: Logistical Tips and Tricks

Book Your Flight Find a cheap flight to Paris by using Skyscanner or Momondo. They are my two favorite search engines. Start with Momondo.

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  The post Walking Among the Dead at Père Lachaise Cemetery appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.

Walking Among the Dead at Père Lachaise Cemetery https://ift.tt/2ugZDXc

[radiantbeams]

whats your fav fanfic ma 👀

ic ant beliVE ur making mE CHOOSE

also whoa this list got away from me

here are my top 10 ~personal~ favorites with a description why they’re so amazing (mostly just me yelling) 

bc im horrible person i ordered them by how much i love them plus the last three that aren’t larry

through struggles, to the stars by thedeathchamber - 80K

Star Trek AU okay need I say more?? (im gonna) I LOVE the character development in this fic okay it’s already pretty long but please I need at least 100K more in this universe, star trek was my first love and like wow my two favorite things combined? brilliant! excellent writing and i especially loved how Louis was portrayed

above your head by deadspy - 57K

so I think now we’ve established I fucking love space, I’m also a HUGE fan of NASA (I lowkey am looking at buying a house there in Cape Canaveral) some of the science is off but lol i understand why they wrote it like that and you’d never even know unless you spend most of your free time researching space travel (like I do) the slow burn hurts my heart but in like the best of ways

Cutie and the Boxer by anomalation - 37K trigger warnings for past child abuse, past sexual abuse, ptsd, anxiety attacks

wow okay SO I have a lot a lot to say about this one, there are 2 parts but it’ll never be enough ! amazing asexual representation, beautifully written characters, Louis in this fic is everything I hope to have in a partner one day tbh, I’m always looking for more asexual characters in fics (also everywhere) but I really don’t think I’ll ever top this one I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve probably re-read it at least 5 times since I found it 

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose by certainsadness - 103K

I dont know ??? how to explain ??? how much i love this fic !!! after reading this I became a fake art historian also I think I’ve seen a john singer sargent in person but I’ve gone to so many stupid art exhibits with my parents it all kind of blends together rich people probs ANYWAY this fic is as beautiful as the painting it’s named after, excellent characterization, limited angst (enough to make it interesting but not too much that my heart hurts), and lots of hoity-toity art references 

Like Candy In My Veins by littlelouishiccups - 31K

petition for part 2 !!!! it’s A/B/O which I know some people don’t read but TRUST me you have /got/ to read this one, the alpha/omega thing isn’t even that big of a deal? maybe kind of, but it’s written in such a wonderful way that it doesn’t feel forced like it sometimes can, also: power bottom louis what more do you want? (also, anon, this is the fic i was talking about reading when you asked me for this rec)

Haven by xxPayne - 35K

so I talk about this fic a lot bc it’s actually relatively accurate as far as BDSM relationships/clubs go (yes, I’ve been to some, and yes, I’ve been trained by a Dom, so i know what I’m talking about lol) the sex is kinky but (obviously bc it’s 35K) it’s like porn ~~with feelings~~ i love it and tbh after this I’m probably going to re-read it again (and again)

The King of Spades by hazmesentir - 109K

this fic had ALL of my favorite things okay, rugged Manly Man™ louis, misguided oc kid that louis identifies with and mentors, damsel in distress harry, guns, violence, tattoos. i mean it’s Gay Mafia?? does it get any better than that?? no. no it does not.

the next three aren’t larry so like FYI

The Stars Above Us by 606, create_serenity(Sivany) - Drarry, 19K

surprise surprise another fic about space, and it’s a kidfic (I mean, Teddy’s in it so not ~really~ but) i would rec this to anyone and everyone and i may be biased bc i fucking love harry potter but even if you dont read drarry this one’s worth reading. you’ve got sad draco and thick-headed harry aka perfection

He Who Must Not Be Normal by lettered - Drarry, 40K

so ive read a lot of drarry fics okay and coming across one where /draco/ is the one rescuing harry is pretty rare, but i LOVE it and this fic portrays them both so beautifully, idk i just really love this fic it’s very close to my heart and ive read it many many times

Love and the Purple Palace by  takhallus - Tomlinshaw, 23K

this was one of my first tomlinshaw fics i read and like, nothing will ever compare. their relationship in this fic is perfect and unique and youve got a lot of miscommunication and stubbornness (a defining factor for any good tomlinshaw fic) plus bottom louis plus a relatable quality to it that i cant find anywhere else

so this was about a week late SORRY but thank you for asking this is way more than you probably wanted but seriously, go read all these fics sorry some of them are pretty long

lmk if there are any discrepancies or any of the links dont work please :)

as usual, if your fic is on here and you would prefer me not to rec it just message me (with proof you are the author) and i’ll gladly remove it from this list

if you have any favorite fics feel free to rec them to me im always looking for new ones to read! 

also stay on the lookout for my famous/non-famous au rec coming soon :)

[msarki]

Best Books I Read in 2017

The year 2017 motivated my wife and I to consider making new and enormous changes to our daily lives.  In light of this upheaval, it proved to be a rather good year for serious reading. Returning to Florida after a summer in northern Michigan somehow provided a balm for all that ails us, even while facing the nagging memory of dealing in September 2016 with hurricane Matthew, our first hurricane, and then being freshly attacked by that beast of a lady Irma in 2017. Because of having to repair our wooden fence again, re-staking a few dozen trees, and performing extensive debris cleanup, my wife and I decided to list for sale our little renovation project, buy a travel trailer, and hit the open road.  Our new home on wheels went into production on December 21 and will be ready for us to retrieve come March 6 of 2018. The house has been listed for sale since Thanksgiving.  

In 2017 I did manage to read my fair share of good books, but again woefully lacked the number of five-star reads I historically have grown accustomed to procuring.  I restrict my annual year-end report to only those books that garner a five-star ranking from me. This does not mean the lesser seventy or so books I read were not worthy of my time or trouble. I often remember segments from minor works more vividly than those worthy of five-stars. Notable authors whose books I did read that surprisingly failed to warrant that coveted ranking included Thomas Bernhard, Per Petterson, Henry David Thoreau, Raymond Carver, Sam Shepard, Leo Tolstoy, Thomas Berger, Deborah Levy, Michael Perry, Adam Phillips, Christine Angot, Eric Clapton, Nick Mason, and Karl Ove Knausgård.  I did enjoy reading these authors, and a few of them even more than once. For example I read the entire oeuvre of Wisconsinite Michael Perry and at least three additional titles by my favorite contemporary philosopher Adam Phillips.

The first of my five star classifications for the year went to A Really Big Lunch: Meditations on Food and Life from the Roving Gourmand  by Jim Harrison. Regardless of Harrison’s periodic poetic dirges of drivel, he is an American treasure. An iconic figure cut of gluttonous gourmet and storytelling of the first rank. That is, when his writing centers on food, friends, hunting, and fishing. A sad day indeed when it was reported he had died. But we who read him for over forty years knew it was coming. He drank too much and lived too heartily to have lasted even as long as he did. And this fascinating and rewarding book proves it. Quite an amazing and captivating read.

A courageous new fiction title produced a year ago that has yet to receive its rightful due is my own Ailene Nou, a novella of the first rank regardless of its rather sporadic and spotty readership. I am certain that one day the book will be discovered.  Meanwhile, I am happy simply to continue living my life as I read and I write.  

Damion Searls produced not only a riveting study on the man Rorschach and his Inkblot Test, but what was to come from his labor and where it might be leading us now. The Inkblots: Hermann Rorschach, His Iconic Test, and the Power of Seeing is a work crafted by a master wordsmith obviously willing to delve deeply into his subject.  I could not recommend a book more highly than I do this one.

For probably the fourth time since its publication I again read Pond by Claire-Louise Bennett. Such an amazing book, seemingly about nothing, but brimming with meaning.  Every chapter feels as if you had been sitting there in the kitchen as she relates perhaps insignificant details about her life to you but makes them full and always clever, charming, and extremely interesting.  The more she shares her travails and proclivities the greater involved I become and thus grow more than enamored with her as a person of interest to me.  Never do I deem her choice of words pretentious or out of place with what she is accounting.  Needless to say, I love her style.

For me, Lily Tuck’s Sisters was a barn burner. I first learned of Lily Tuck in a fiction-writing class Gordon Lish was conducting during the summer of 1995 in Bloomington, Indiana.  Tuck was another of the many writers Lish had acquired in his writing stable as editor for seventeen years at Alfred Knopf.  Lish loudly championed the skills of Lily Tuck and brought her to the attention of perhaps hundreds of his students. And because there were so many writers the great Lish published in his tenure at Knopf, and for the most part commercial failures amounting to a high percentage, Tuck has gone basically unnoticed by the mainstream, even though she won the coveted 2004 National Book Award in fiction for her novel The News from Paraguay.  Her first book however, Interviewing Matisse or the Woman Who Died Standing Up, published by Knopf and edited by Gordon Lish, was a tiresome and rattling drivel inaccessible to me which felt somewhat pretentious. But after reading this five-star wonder titled Sisters I am intent now on a sufficiently renewed attack on her other books as soon as possible.  Tuck is certainly sophisticated, obviously born of the cultural elite.  And few writers can make you feel you are with them in the room.  She plays her instrument adroitly, disregarding the consequences of infidelities, and making them all feel worth it.

The Book of Dolores by William T. Vollmann was one of three titles written by him that I read this year. Though very good, the other ones did not measure up to this book. Vollmann put his heart on the line here, and shared with this reader the greatest demand placed on it; his agonizing need to belong.  How many of us are brave enough to say it, and strong enough to thrive in spite of it? Meanwhile, I am slowly plowing my way through some of his other literary offerings, which amount to many.

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf is one of the most beautifully written books I have ever read. Not much to offer in the typical plot-driven genre, but a generous array of dream states in which only the best hallucinogens could induce. Hard to believe it took this long for me to pull this book off the shelf.

Nate Blakeslee in American Wolf: A True Story of Survival and Obsession in the West is a riveting history of the wolf, long-hated and feared for centuries due to myth and innuendo, and its re-introduction to protected lands once eradicated of them. The feature story throughout this sad but fascinating book centers on its main characters, good and bad, both man and wolf.  Uplifting and at times defeating, this fine work brings important focus on a subject well worth our time.  The fact that Congress and our bureaucracies continue to enable and sell-out to the corporate hunting and ranching industry at the cost of the treasured wolf is a travesty.  Every year our government agencies, established to serve and protect us, destroy thousands of wolves on our tax dollar. There is detail galore in this book to help us learn more about the social behavior of wolf and man.  And it is sad that wolves prove themselves more humane and conservative than humans are.

Why Bob Dylan Matters by Richard F. Thomas ranks at the top when it comes to being scholarly.  Part of a long-standing Harvard class taught by Thomas, this distillation dissects no few examples of Dylan’s now-classic role in producing great works by stealing from others.  More importantly, however, Bob Dylan makes what he steals his own.  No small task and something only a very few distinctive artists can pull of successfully. But the great ones in fact do exactly that.  What interests me most is Dylan’s process of creation based on the studies, experience, and knowledge of the professor’s obsession with great Classic art.  It is no stretch to state that Dylan is one of the best in the business and well-deserving of his 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.

Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Bookmarked

by Brian Evenson is a multi-faceted memoir and critical review focusing on the work of Raymond Carver as well as the writing career of the author Brian Evenson. This engaging work highlights the parallels and genesis devolved within both their somewhat parallel literary relationship with the infamous editor Gordon Lish.  Evenson details similar editing practices in his own personal relationship with the editor Lish. To Evenson’s credit he admits to sometimes happily, and at times reluctantly, accepting a Lish revision, but he also had the courage to resist him. Carver did not exhibit the same courage in confronting the great Lish until Carver was already famous. Raymond Carver holds his own personal place setting strapped into the yoke and hardware of sin of their collaborative endeavor.  And as much as I love and admire the fiction of Raymond Carver, he was not exactly honest in his portrayal of what really did occur. This book chronicles a most fascinating piece of literary history.

In I Married You for Happiness by Lily Tuck, Nina’s husband Phillip is dead.  By holding his gradually cooling hand, Nina, for one entire night, remembers the defining moments of their long life together as husband and wife. Private intimacies, dark secrets, and overwhelming joys.  How to connect with someone, even after living forty years with them? All are individuals. Best we can hope for are momentary connections. Memories. Challenges. Threats to what we deem secure. Imagine spending the entire night alone with your dead spouse. Touching, but more importantly, something she needs for closure. And for those contiguous moments she remains too shocked to grieve.  Lily Tuck in 2017 has twice bought me all out with her sophisticated prose.

I finished this five-star year with Joan Richardson in How to Live, What to Do: Thirteen Ways of Looking at Wallace Stevens which produced for us a most distinctive and valuable tool in order to help us view the world through the eyes of Wallace Stevens. And in essence, Stevens provides us new glasses in which we may see for ourselves the possibilities that will always exist if we maintain the courage to keep looking.  Richardson provides an advanced course a scholar might take in discovering an even better way into the mind and work of Wallace Stevens.  But this is not the book to initially begin with.  Too much would be lost on the unspoiled and uninitiated among us.  Instead, the greater primer would be to simply read Wallace Stevens. And if his poems resound, or connect to you in any way, further study may be warranted and result in your seeking out this book.

Stevens’s poems are exercises in meditation, designed to loosen inherited, outworn habits of thought inappropriate to honoring the life of all things on the planet of which we are a part…

To all my friends, please enjoy a happy and safe holiday.