#Beer with a Painter

[galleryofart]

The Fallen Star

Artist: Jan van Beers (Belgian, 1852–1927)

Date: 1874

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp, Belgium

[sai-aeko]

A poster advertisement for Kirin Beer

by Tada Hoku'u (多田北烏)

1939

[izumikawamacfly]

「メレ・カリキマカ」 暖炉のそばで奏でるウクレレのリズムとうらはらに 窓の外にしんと雪がつもる夜。 部屋にはクリスマスツリーとプレゼント一個。 猫がウクレレの音色にじっと耳を傾ける。 優しいメロディが部屋いっぱいに広がった。 「メレ・カリキマカ」と伝えるよ。 クリスマスなのにココに君がいないなんて妙だな。 雪が積もるこの街で、ウクレレを奏でてる僕みたい。 お前、クリスマスにそんなさびしそうな顔して 歌うんじゃない。と、猫に言われた気がした。 楽しいよ。でもきっと見透かされてる。 せっかく家族になれたのに はるかハワイの島くらい、遠くにいってしまったね。 プレゼントはヤシの木柄のマフラーだよ。 心配しないで、近所の子どもにあげるんだ。 「メレ・カリキマカ」と伝えるよ。 今夜は星が見えないけど、ワインが一本空きそうだ。

[theaskew]

NIcole Eisenman (American, born in France b. 1965), Biergarten at Night, 2007. Oil on canvas, 165.1 x 208.3 cm. | 65 x 82 in.

[pardefaut-julienfesil]

🌲

« Plein-air_05 »

" .Lab " [série ~ Peinture de vieux]

Huile sur papier/Oil on paper

Par ∫ Défaut

{2024}

•

' ... just garbage but fun to make. '

Démo de 25 min & photos in situ des apprenti.e.s de mes ateliers du Chevalet, à l'œuvre & affairé.e.s.

[En]

25 min demo & analog photographs, in situ, of the apprentices of my art studios « Le Chevalet sans tête », at work & busy.

! ✌️ ¡

[bottegapowerpoint]

Hans Makart, Clothilde Beer

[saintlucyrepresents]

Scott Slusher 805 Beer

Scott Slusher photographed artist David Bond for 805 Beer. Featured in the second volume of the brand’s Properly Chill magazine, Scott captured black and white images of the artist hand-painting motorcycle helmets with the 805 Beer logo, showcasing the brand's gritty yet down-to-earth identity. 

See more of Scott Slusher’s Lifestyle and Makers portfolios online.

[mbanotes]

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[galleryofart]

The Mirror; The Toilet

Artist: Gunnar Berndtson (Finnish, 1854-1895)

Date: 1889

Medium: Oil painting

Collection: The Finnish National Gallery, Helsinki, FInland

[stephenist]

The Lovers by Jan van Beers *1

[tomashache]

Almost done.

[humansofnewyork]

“Occasionally I’ll have a beer after work and break out the sketchbook. But I had wanted to be this great painter. I wanted to do these grand things: big, huge oil paintings. But those days of painting all the time were such a roller coaster. There were these periods of extreme depression, followed by manic states of trying to put myself out there. I couldn’t do it anymore. I mainly felt sorry for my dad. I know it was rough for him. My mom hadn’t wanted me to go to art school. She wanted me to do something more practical, but my dad said: ‘No. This is what he wants to do, and I want to support his dream.’ And then I abandoned it. That was the first time I had to deal with real failure. A lot of times when you’re an artist, it’s your job, it’s your lifestyle, it’s your entire fucking identity. It wasn’t like I failed to do a thing. It was like: I failed to be something, you know? It was a failure to live up to what I thought was my destiny. But then on the other side of that, there was this figuring out that there was nothing wrong with me the entire time. I didn’t need to be something else to have meaningful friendships, or a good relationship. I didn’t need to be something else to be loved and cared about. After work tonight I’m going to meet up with a person who’s in love with me, and I can’t wait. And that person met me long after I gave up on being a full-time artist. They met me when I wasn’t even a chef yet. I was a piss-poor, part-time line cook. But even then, they decided I was worth it. So you know, there’s something there. There’s something there that’s enough.”

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

2: The Garden - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art series)

Summary: 2.7k words. here’s part 2 of Life imitates art, by popular demand :) A glimpse into your dates with Jack and his first of many visits to the museum. Here's the series (ahh!!) master list <3

The Art: The above artwork, "My Garden" (1915), is by a painter from Pittsburgh named Johanna W. Hailman. The Carnegie Museum of Art and the Westmoreland Museum of American Art house many of her works. I highly recommend checking out their sites! I had a lot of fun researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series.

Warnings: reference to reader’s shellfish allergy (no description of allergic reaction though). Excessive and perhaps irresponsible use of italics and commas. Implied smut but nothing explicit, 18+ regardless,, mdni please. Reader is a Real Housewives fan.

a/n: I am now a Pittsburgh tour guide. at least my search history and the hours I poured into this instead of studying for my exam say so. Divider credit!

Doctor Abbot often lingered after his shifts. Doctors Shen and Ellis were ready to bolt home once the clock hit 07:01, but not Jack. He’d pause at the provider station and catch up with Robby. He’d hang around too close to the edge of the roof, sometimes with a beer in hand.

Today, he gave shift report in record-breaking time and was walking out the doors at 19:03 with his go bag slung over one shoulder and his phone pressed to his ear as he placed a pick-up order. 

Abbot didn’t ask you what food you liked, so he took a wild guess. He had a rare moment of downtime during his day at the Pitt, so he scrolled through takeout places near the museum that you might frequent. It was out of the way, nowhere near the conveniently short trip between the hospital and your apartment, but Jack figured the extra time would be worth it.

The museum director sent you home for the day, so you’d spent the past several hours rotting on the couch and looking disdainfully at the wheelchair you wrestled out from the back of your closet. The wheels needed a good greasing and it could benefit from dusting, but you decided that would be a tomorrow problem. Tonight, you were paying half attention to reruns of Real Housewives episodes.

I’d make a good house wife, you thought. Not in the actual sense though. If you were stuck at home all day, homemaking for a man that was more married to his job than you, well… stir crazy might be the understatement of the century. No, you imagined yourself with a Real Housewife’s budget and real estate space to start an art collection of your own. You imagined yourself in the dramatic dresses and strappy heels. You imagined yourself with a foot that fit into strappy heels.

Instead, said leg was covered underneath a blanket, which was covered in a stain or two of Ben & Jerry’s. The angry red skin was a reminder of the weeks to come. Confronting reality would also be a tomorrow problem, along with the wheelchair’s maintenance.

The episode’s cat fight was interrupted by a ping from your phone.

On my way.

You didn’t recognize the number or have it saved to your contacts, but you had a pretty good idea of who it was. Amidst the blues that painted the rest of the day, your date with the doc was somehow forgotten.

Shit. The sweat shorts and oversized tee shirt you’d since changed into didn’t exactly align with your typical presentation for a date, but given the circumstances, Jack might understand. Jack. To most of the hospital he was Doctor Abbot, but you got to call him Jack. It felt oddly intimate, even though it was just his first name.

Four knocks in quick succession. Not too loud, he wasn’t trying to break down your door, but loud enough to get your attention. Predictable, in a way.

The door’s peephole gave you a glimpse of his salty curls. They were tousled, like he’d been running his fingers through them—maybe even nervously so.

“What’s the password?” The day had drained you, but that didn’t mean you weren’t up for some more of the banter from earlier. Besides, you liked a man who could work for you. You loved a good chase.

“Uh, Union Grill,” Jack replied, the corner of his lip upturned as his gaze flickered between the bag of food and the peephole he imagined you were pressed up against.

Two comically loud unlocked locks and one unfastened door chain later, you stood, well, leaned on crutches face to face with Jack. Sure enough, the brown paper bag in his hand had Union’s logo stamped on the side. It was a short hike from the museum—you arguably visited the restaurant too frequently.

Jack smiled softly as he took you in. He took note that you traded your earlier floor-length dress for some comfier lounge clothes. God forgive him, he was still a man at the end of the day, and he’d be lying if he said your shorts weren’t a little distractingly short.

Jack looked different too. This time, you shamelessly let your eyes drag up and down his toned body. He looked worn, bordering on weary, but his eyes were bright. Brighter than you’d ever seen them, with a hint of mischief lingering. His black scrub top was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of his truck, he stood before you in a tight undershirt and his black scrub pants. 

His smile transformed into a smirk as he met your eyes. Caught ya lookin’, his eyebrow raised at you with a flirty glint in his eyes. You cleared your throat and let him in, cheeks heating up at being caught. So the chase begins.

“I got four different meals, didn’t know what you liked. And uh, made sure there’s no shellfish,” Jack scratched the back of his head and gestured to the abundant food covering your kitchen counter. If anyone from the hospital’s IT department, or God forbid Gloria were to ask him why he accessed a patient’s chart after they’d been discharged, he certainly wouldn’t tell them it was so he could see if his patient had any food allergies before he bought food for a date.

It was your turn to pin Jack with a raised eyebrow. You never told him about your allergy, but he evidently had his ways of knowing.

Conversation flowed easily. You opted to eat on the sectional instead of at the small kitchen table—which was covered in books, anyway. Plus, you could drape the blanket over your lap again. Out of sight, out of mind. Minus the throbbing. Jack clocked the wheelchair shoved into the corner of the room, but didn’t bring it up. He figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would.

Instead, you talked about Real Housewives, the rest of the doctor’s day in the Pitt, and the museum over your favorite Union dish. Jack couldn’t offer much in response to your tangents on art, but he was happy to listen. He was eager to learn.

Not too long after your second date, which was less than 24 hours after the first date, Jack visits you at the art museum. He’s pleased to see you’re off your leg during the tour and instead using the wheelchair that he helped you tune up. (The word “help” was doing a lot of heavy lifting. Abbot greased the wheels and tightened fixtures you hadn’t even thought to check while you observed from the sectional, snacking on the previous night’s leftovers.)

Jack is glad that the device doesn’t seem to slow you down. If anything, it seems like you’d taken advantage of the large open spaces in the museum after hours to learn some new wheelchair tricks.

The trauma physician was undoubtedly out of his depth at the Carnegie Museum of Art. He doesn’t understand about half of what you’re saying as you guide the group through the museum’s many rooms, but he’s determined to learn. The traveling exhibits are what most of the regular guests come on tours for, but you always find yourself lingering in the museum’s permanent collection. You point out different art styles and dive into the historical context. You have the artist’s biographies memorized like the back of your hand.

On your third date, Jack builds you a bookshelf to house the dozens of art history books and collections stowed around your apartment, on coffee tables and above your kitchen cabinets, wherever they would fit. It didn’t look too dissimilar from Jack’s dozens of medical journals. You’re more of an active participant in this project than the wheelchair tune-up. You hand him tools, but most importantly, you curate the perfect order of the books on the shelves, including ornate bookends and trinkets throughout the mini library. In seemingly no time at all, it seamlessly blends in with the rest of your apartment, which is also so you. 

It isn’t until your third date that Jack touches you beyond a fleeting squeeze of your hand. He’s been itching to feel your smooth skin against his calloused palms. Despite all his mental fortitude, he found himself bordering on anxious. He felt like a kid with a crush again, but worried that he might be misreading the situation. He liked spending time with you, a lot, and it would cut deep if you pulled back because he moved too fast.

Needless to say, he was more than pleased when you reciprocated his gentle kiss with a much firmer, sure one.

“Fucking finally, you old man,” you teased breathlessly before diving back in for more.

Jack pushed you back by your hips gently with a mock offended look on his face.

“Old man?” he squeezed your thighs with his large hands, awaiting your response with a chuckle. You both sat on his apartment couch, your legs straddled over his. You half-heartedly rolled your eyes and let your hands trail south to deal with his pesky pants button and zipper.

“You heard me. Fossil. Relic, if you will. Took you long enough to make a move,” he doesn’t resist when your lips meet his fervent ones again.

The first appointment with the prosthetist following your visit to the Pitt doesn’t go well. You need to be fitted for a new socket. The process is anything but fast… or cheap. Ironically, the new socket will cost an arm and another leg if insurance won’t cover it.

To no one’s surprise, you use your wheelchair as little as possible in the meantime. You’re no stranger to hopping around your apartment, using furniture for support as needed. You use crutches if you have to, and really only use the wheelchair at the museum.

While you’ve been down a leg, Jack offers himself for you to lean on. The doctor subtly eyes your leg when he thinks you won’t notice—which is his mistake; you always notice him—to check its healing progress. He supports your weight without complaint; your arm linked through his flexed elbow or his strong arm splayed across your back.

The second your prosthetist clears you to wear the new socket, you slide it on enthusiastically and practically skip out of the medical office like you’d never taken a break in the first place.

The amputee support group leader doesn’t comment on you and Jack showing up to and leaving meetings together. During a break, Abbot sees the younger girl you’ve spoken with before high five and grin with you as her eyes glance over at him. Subtle, Jack smirks.

Your floral tote bag hangs comfortably on Jack’s shoulder when you’re using your crutches. When you’re walking independently again, he still carries the heavy stuff for you, literally and metaphorically. Jack wordlessly grabs your bags—though they aren’t quite his style—and books and you never protest; it gives you a free hand to grasp his larger one. 

Pittsburgh’s Summer temperatures aren’t nearly as forgiving as late Spring.

The dresses that draped down to the floor of your closet were becoming less and less practical with the encroaching heat. You rediscovered some shorter dresses and skirts that you’d shied away from in the back of your closet, but were still hesitant to wear them outside of the 700 square foot apartment a certain trauma doc was spending more and more time at.

You assured Jack that you’re not ashamed of the prosthetic, though the words don’t even sound entirely convincing to you as they leave your lips.

“I just don’t like calling attention to it,” you admit, hands twisted together. You avoid his gaze as you sit side by side on the sectional sofa (Real Housewives plays in the background, as always). He nods and gently knocks his scarred thigh against yours. He doesn’t push for you to say more. The quiet is comfortable. A silent understanding passes between you two. It’s wordless, but it speaks volumes. When you burrow your head against his weathered neck, he kisses your forehead and pulls you into him.

Eventually Jack helps you build up the confidence to wear the shorter dresses and skirts that offer a clear view of your prosthetic out in public.

“Unfortunately I can’t pull off the dresses as well as you, so here’s the next best thing,” Jack announced as he shut your apartment door behind him. The spare key you hid outside had essentially become his key. He let himself in with a picnic basket.

Doctor Jack Abbot, emergency medicine physician, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center attending, and veteran war hero was holding a damn picnic basket. For you. Admittedly, he couldn’t take responsibility for the food within; it was all from Union Grill. It’s the thought that counts… right?

“Hmm?” you hummed, peaking out your bedroom door as you put the final touches on your outfit. Your boyfriend told you he had a surprise for you, and oh boy did he. Jack stood before you in a pair of chino shorts you’d never seen before.

The sturdy material of his prosthetic bumped against yours when he pulled you in for a chaste kiss.

“Did you just… cheers our legs together?” confusion and humor laced your tone as you mimed champagne flutes clinking against each other.

“Yes. And?” He countered, as if it was a normal thing to do. You shook your head with a smile and captured his lips in another kiss that lingered longer than the last.

A trip to the botanical gardens in late June could be a bit of a gamble, but today the stars (and clouds and humidity and low heat) aligned for a picturesque picnic date.

A handful of sideways glances were dealt your way. The dress’s hem brushed your midthigh and Jack’s “dad shorts”, as you called them, gave a full view of his right prosthetic. Abbot and you strolled through the gardens, your matching prosthetics moving in sync, though they aren’t identical. Jack kindly opted against the intricate designs you carefully painted on yours.

Abbot’s fingers intertwined with yours and gripped the picnic basket in his other hand. The breeze was relaxing, the garden was beautiful, but most importantly, you were comfortable. At ease. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt this safe. 

A young child ran up to you and Jack. He skipped the pleasantries and instead dove straight into rapid-fire questions, shamelessly pointing at your prosthetic. Abbot felt you tense, and he was two seconds away from finding the kid’s parent to give them a piece of his mind, before you crouched down to the child’s eye-level, using Jack’s steady form to support yourself.

With a deep breath, you answered his questions. If you can handle three elementary school field trip groups in one day, you can handle one kiddo in the park asking well-intentioned questions. You spared the boy the gorey details—you don’t tell him that your leg got amputated because you had cancer. You don’t tell the child that the alternative was a slow, painful battle that you probably wouldn’t have survived—instead, you told the boy that your leg got sick and he didn’t ask any more questions.

A frazzled mother rounded the maze of bougainvilleas next. Her shoulders dropped in relief and her heaving slowed. In between exasperated breaths, she lectured the boy about running off without permission.

You offered the woman a smile as she hoisted her baby boy in her arms. Your eyes are soft and kind, but your lips don’t part to reveal your teeth. You were reserved. Apprehensive and defensive, maybe. The family doesn’t stay long before the boy demands to go to the seasonal jurassic-themed garden.

Jack wordlessly offered you a hand to help you stand back up. You ran a hand against your skirt—not to clear it of nonexistent debris, but to keep your hands busy, otherwise you’re certain they would twist together in an anxious grip. You squeezed Jack’s hand back tighter as you rose up to your full height.

In the brief time that you had the privilege of calling Jack Abbot your boyfriend, you both promised to help each other back up to your feet, sealed with a pinky swear.

a/n 2: Jack Abbot is a DILF minus the kids idc. You guys left so many nice comments and reblogs on part 1, it made me so happy!! Feedback is really appreciated mwah ❤️

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[pardefaut-julienfesil]

🍾 • « Bodegones_02 » " .Lab " [série ~ Peinture de vieux] Huile sur papier / Oil on paper 2024 •

« Meester snijt die keye ras. » •

• ! 👉 ¡ • • • *démos pour apprenti.e.s

[catoslvt]

Ben Hargreeves x Reader

I would've married you if you'd stuck around🐙

sorta s4 spoilers? but nobody takes the Marigold and lived their life.

plus I'm changing things because... yeah.

I walk into the birthday party for little Grace, who is one of Diego and Lila's children with her birthday present in my hand. It's just a silly child's keyboard because what the fuck do you get a six year old?

I make my way through the swarm of running and screaming children, the part of me that never grew up hurting because that's the childhood I always wished to have, yknow, running about, screaming my head off with all my friends but no, at the age of six I was learning how to disarm gunmen and learning how to control my powers.

God my life has gotten so much better without them.

Once I'm out the swarm of children, my eyes instantly fall on Sloane, Luther, and Ben, and I feel a slight shiver go down my spine at the sight of ben, I mean it's weird to think he has the face of the boy I used to love when we were like thirteen, but he's not the boy I love, I think anyway, I mean okay I sorta have feelings for this Ben, but I don't want him to think it's because he has the face of my old Ben, its confusing isn't it?

"y/n hi!" Sloane exclaims, waving me over with her hands, and I put on a wide smile as I make my way over to her, setting my present for Grace on the table beside her before she wraps me into a tight hug, which I return with an awkward laugh.

"I heard you're a firefighter now? that's sick." I say, turning to Luther with a smile and he just nods.

"we brought the Umbrella Academy, we're currently renovating it, I'd love for you to come stay some time." He tells me, and I widen my eyes, pretending to be interested as I make small 'oo' noises.

I hate when our family gather together, I mean Luther is married with a child, Diego is married with kids, I don't know what the fuck is going on with Allison, weve hardly spoken since we got to this time line and its not exactly that i dont want to talk to her, i just dont know what id say, Klaus doesn't need love, Five is technically married to a piece of plastic, Ben's just out of prison, Viktor has basically dated every girl in his town and I'm just.. there, I end up feeling extremely left out at the family gatherings when they start talking about issues with their kids or relationship problems because the only relationship problem was the fact Ben died on me.

"How was prison?" I ask ben, my eyes lighting up slightly as I turn to face him, all my attention now on him.

"I can't exactly say I enjoyed it." He tells me, raising a bottle of beer to his lips and taking a sip, and I just know his parole officer is gonna be pissed so I just let out a quiet laugh.

"So where are you staying then? I can't imagine your parole officer would let you live far." I then go onto ask, and he groans slightly, pointing at Luther and Sloane who are now talking to Diego.

"but I'm seriously debating robbing a bank just to get thrown back in." He then adds, looking around and I can't help but laugh a little louder.

"You're staying with them?" I scoff, turning to look at him with raised eyebrows.

"hardly by choice, I just needed a permanent address." He sighs, and I laugh again.

"Fresh out prison, and you're gonna be turned into a painter, electrician, plumber and babysitter. good luck." I tell him and he lets out a small chuckle before taking another drink from his beer.

"How have you been then?" Ben asks, and I shrug slightly.

"I mean, yeah, I've been.. living." I answer with a laugh, and he nods in agreement.

"Why don't we go get you a drink, we can sit at a table at the very back, and you can let it all out." He offers and I rapidly nod.

I sit at the table with Ben, taking a small sip from my beer before clearing my throat.

"I'm a child psychologist now." I tell him, and he nods slightly.

"I mean, it just felt right, yknow? I want to help kids so they don't end up with a childhood that we had. Well, I mean, without the powers, the robotic mom, the alien dad, you get what I mean." I tell him with a small wave of my hand, and he continues to nod, a small smile on his face.

"I get it." He tells me, and we both fall into a comfortable silence before he breaks it right as I take a mouthful of beer.

"don't you miss your powers?"

that question almost makes me spit my beer everywhere, my eyes widening as I stare at him.

"God, no, I don't miss them in this time line Nobody knows who I am, nobody takes a double take or gawks at me waiting to see my powers in use, I can be whatever I want to be in this timeline and I plan on using that to my hearts content." I tell him, and he just looks at me.

"You don't miss them? not even a little bit?" He asks, and I shake my head, which causes him to shrug slightly.

"I miss my powers, I feel.. ordinary without them." He tells me, and I furrow my eyebrows slightly.

"No offence, but I'm glad you don't have your powers. You died because of them in my original timeline, and it's good to see what my ben would've looked like grown up." I tell him, and he gives me a sad smile before we fall quiet yet again.

"and i think it's good to feel ordinary, I spent my whole childhood wanting to be normal to fit in, and now I do." I then add, and he scoffs.

"There's nothing ordinary about us y/n. Apart from the Umbrella Academy and the Sparrow Academy, nobody in the world has gone through even a fraction of what we have, and you've technically went through more than me because the Umbrellas ended the world in 2019, just to then go and do it again back in the 60s, to come back for it to end in 2019 again.." Ben says, and I just scoff, but I can't help but laugh and nod.

"and both times was technically Viktors fault." I argue, and we both smile before Five appears from under a slide somewhere and nods, a bottle of beer in his hand.

"it was Viktors fault both times. Actually, she's not making that up." He tells ben as he makes his way over to our table, dragging a chair along behind him, and ben just raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly pissed off our conversation had been distributed by Five, who still looks like a kid.

"Well, isn't this just a sad table of losers who feel out of place at their nieces birthday party with all the married couples and kids." Five says as he sits his beer down on our table with a large clink.

"I don't feel out of place, I could easily find someone I could marry and have kids with. you couldn't because you look like you're 18." I argue, and five leans back in his seat and crosses his arms slightly, mouthing ben so subtly so that ben can't see.

"Wait, y/n, did you ever even move on after your ben died?" My other Ben asks, and I look at him, my eyes wide as I try to muster an answer.

I try to muster up and answer, but none suitable come to my mind because the truth is I didn't even try to move on, I felt like there was no point, my whole childhood my heart was set on the fact that I'd be marrying Ben, I wanted to at the time despite how young we were and the fact we didn't fully understand the whole concept of marrige and he said he wanted to aswell. when he died I just blamed myself, I thought it was my fault he had died and I convinced myself everyone I love will die because of me, as a sort of reminder that my powers were a curse. obviously, that fact was proven false because my powers are gone. but even now, I'm still cautious to open myself back up to love, but when I'm with this ben, I feel myself slowly opening up again.

"I tried, but nobody stuck around." I lie, and Five shoots me a knowing glare, and Ben just nods, yet another comfortable silence falling over us as I take a large drink from my beer, staring down at my hands before Five starts a conversation with Ben and I can't help but sigh a sigh of relief.

somehow, Luther and Sloane have convinced me to come to theirs to stay the night.

"I think it'll have beneficial effects on releasing your childhood trauma y/n." Luther tells me as I sit in the back of his car, ben at the other side as sloane sits in the front and stares out the window.

"I'm the child psychologist Luther. You just stick to putting out fires." I state, crossing my arms slightly as I stare out the car window, watching the world go by the single frame of glass, trying to hide my smile as I hear Ben laugh at my comment.

"Do you ever sit and look at people and just laugh to yourself because you've saved their asses from the end of the world three times now?" I ask to Luther mainly due to the fact the Sparrow Academy have only had to save the world once, which ended up in all but two of them dying and he just shrugs as he continues to drive.

"Imagine how Viktor feels, knowing he almost killed them twice." Ben says, and that causes me to laugh, slapping a hand over my mouth as I try to stop it.

"That's nasty! the first time wasn't fully his fault. He just discovered his powers and didn't know how to stop them." I tell him, leaning over to gently slap his arm, but I'm still laughing.

"Plus, it's also semi Luther fault for locking him in this weird, safe thing." I add, and Luther groans, muttering something under his breath, leaving me to smile proudly.

"Let's just sit in silence till we get home." Luther suggests, and nobody says a single word to protest and I guess it would be sorta rude if I did seeing as I'm staying at his house tonight.

I sit in my old room, looking around at how empty it is because the Umbrella Academy doesn't exist in this timeline, meaning this room is just a room where I just so happened to share all of my good childhood memories, or atleast the handful I can call good.

"Why would you actually agree to come back here?" Ben asks with a laugh as he stands at the doorframe, staring down at me with questioning eyes.

"I think it's actually partly to do with what Luther said, I think it's good for myself to come see the place and realise that everything that happened back in my time line is just memories now, I dont know I guess I'm trying to give myself some closure." I answer with a shrug as ben walks further into the room, now sitting beside me on the bed.

"What were we like? in your timeline anyway?" ben asks, and I feel my heart stop for a second as I look at him for a brief moment.

"Really young but you -" I cut myself off. Is it wrong to address this ben as my Ben? because it is the same person, but it's not at the same time.

"we understood each other, he- *you* were one of the only people at the Umbrella Academy who showed me love despite our age. if we were doing paired work, we'd always be together, at meals we'd always pass notes, during training we always went easy on each other, during missions we always had a close eye on each other, we'd always spend time in my room. yeah, we were really young, but we still loved each other." I tell him, and he just looks at me, a sad smile on his face.

"we were convinced we were gonna get married, and in all honesty, I would've married you if you stuck around." I then add, looking away as I get an unbearable feeling of sadness.

"I would've married you if you came to the Sparrow Academy timeline earlier." Ben tells me, and I almost choke on my spit as I look at him, my eyes wide.

"What?" I ask, shaking my head slightly.

"I felt myself changing slightly the minute I looked at you when our academies met, but I was too.." He trails off trying to find the words.

"stuck up? full of yourself?" I begin listing and he rolls his eyes but he smiles slightly.

"Yeah, yeah, I was too stuck up to actually allow myself to change for you, and also, I was too scared because I know im nothing like your ben so I didn't want to cause a disappointment as though you lost him again." Ben admits, and I just stare at him.

"Ben, you are my ben." I state, my eyes not leaving his face, not even when his eyes light up slightly, not even when he turns to look at me.

"I didn't want to tell you in case you thought I'm just using you because of what happened with Umbrella Ben, but I promise you that is not the case. You are my ben." I then add, and I see his eyes softening as a small smile appears on the edge of his lips.

"so it's safe to say we like each other then?" He asks after a moment of us just staring at each other.

"I guess so." I jokingly groan, but I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him into a hug, just savouring the feeling of ben in my arms, my ben as one of his arms wrap around my waist, the other one coming up to reach into my hair, pressing the back of my head closer into him.

"I can't believe you went to prison, you asshole! I was gonna tell you I had feelings for you once we all settled into the new timeline, and then you went to prison."I scoff, and he pulls away from the embrace slightly and looks at me.

"You could've always written a letter or something." He tells me, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I would've been better using a carrier pigeon. No chance was I gonna have a prison pen pal." I scoff, rolling my eyes, but I did write, and then I wrote again, and again, and guess what? I wrote again.

"I did write to you, over and over again, I just never had the courage to send them, because imagine you got one of the letters, wrote back but it didn't send to me?" I ask, a shiver going down my spine at the thought of never knowing if he felt the same way.

"Well, I would've rewrote the same letter every day and sent it to you until you got it." Ben says, a slight hint of promise in his words, and with that, I press a kiss to his lips, and he instantly returns it, his hand on my waist tightening, gently pushing my head closer to his as he depends the kiss and we continue in our kissing embrace got a few moments, before we hear a:

"When I said coming here would help to release your childhood trauma, I didn't mean by doing.. this." Luther says, and I just pull away laughing.

[eqt-95]

Easter put together an amazing flash fiction challenge that I've finally gotten around to attempting incorrectly*:

Genre: crack

Premise: sentenced to community service

Trope: in vino veritas

Subject: paint samples

*it is definitely longer than 1,000 words. my hand slipped.

also on AO3

----------------

Luthor Green

HOUR 1

"This would go a lot faster if someone picked up the tempo a bit," Alex said with a side-eye.

"Superspeed won't teach us any valuable lessons," Kara explained, carrying an armful of painting supplies.

Alex's side-eye became an eye-roll. "Listen, we aren't some rag tag group of teenagers who graffitied the centennial monument-"

"The Tag Teens," Nia whispered.

"-we are superheroes who-"

"Who caused seventy-three million dollars in damages fighting off an illusion," came a stern but familiar voice from behind Alex.

"Lena!" Kara exclaimed. Her hands sent the supplies sprawling across a drop cloth as they lifted toward the LuthorCorp CEO.

"It's Ms. Luthor, Supergirl."

The same hands fell lifelessly back to Kara's sides. Nia grinned mischievously. Alex was already over the entire thing.

"And she's right, Agent Danvers: powers won't teach any valuable lessons nor are they permitted," Lena continued, heels crisply clacking across the empty lobby floor. "Court orders."

"Rich coming from a Luthor," Alex mumbled, knuckles whitening as they tightened a paint roller to a long reach pole.

"But that'll take all weekend," Nia scowled.

"50 hours, actually," Brainy advised.

"Good thing you're getting an early start," Lena offered cooly. "Friday nights tend to be rather quiet around here-"

"I'm sorry, what?" Alex said, eyes fluttering with disbelief. "As in five-zero?"

"Correct," Brainy nodded. "Assuming no breaks except for the advisable pause between paint coats. That, and we should each average 300 square feet an hour for the base layer which is approximately 50% faster than the average professional painter - aggressive, but I have confidence in us. It also requires 20 square feet an hour for the rather intricate mural Ms. Luthor's marketing team has requested; however, I have gone ahead and simplified it to project as a paint-by-number scheme which seems quite popular among-"

"Mural?" Alex gawked. "No, no, we did not agree to a mural-"

"You agreed to paint LuthorCorp's lobby in preparation for the NC Science Summer Camp we are now hosting because a rag tag group of superheroes destroyed its original venue," Lena interrupted, gaze stern and voice in a tone that felt like an undressing. Alex glanced toward Kara whose chest was puffed out like she was jealous it wasn't directed at her.

"But I had plans," Nia huffed, eyeing the red cooler she was sitting on.

"That's hardly my concern and frankly, the task hardly fits the crime," Lena replied, fingers tapping against her crossed forearms. "If it were up to me, you'd be reinstalling the LuthorCorp signage you destroyed as well."

"It wasn't a crime," Kara grumbled. "And you were replacing that anyway."

"There's scaffolding in the corridor," Lena continued, "try not to turn this into a total circus."

HOUR 4

"What are you shaking? Is that spray paint?" Kara asked from the top of a questionably supported ladder.

"We can use spray paint?" Alex called from the other end of the wall.

"Interior use without proper ventilation is frowned upon," Brainy chimed in from his own end of the wall.

"Relax. It's a shaker," Nia answered.

"For what?" Kara asked.

"From what?" Alex added.

"Court orders said nothing about doing this sober."

HOUR 9

"Here champ," Nia said. A hand offered an ice cold beer.

"No thanks; I don't plan on being here that long," Alex replied stubbornly.

Nia examined an imaginary watch and shrugged. "Suit yourself," she continued before turning toward the questionably supported ladder: "Hey red, wanna do shots? I've got rum."

HOUR 10

"I'm telling you, it's the wrong color," Kara repeated.

"And I could care less-"

"Couldn't," Nia corrected. A drop of condensation fell from her latest concoction as the scaffolding creaked under her movements above.

"I don't care," Alex said, eyes narrowed toward the blue-booted feet dangling from overhead. "If they gave us the wrong paint, that's on them."

"But-"

"And it's 2am. Name a paint store that's open at 2am."

"If I just hop over to Europe and-"

"Oh!" Nia exclaimed, head peering out overhead. "That's a great idea. Maybe you could grab some scones-"

"No, nope. No powers," Alex glared at Nia who pouted and retreated from view. "I am not about to get called out on a technicality by a Luthor."

"She's just doing her job," Kara defended with flushed cheeks that screamed Kara was at least two shots deep.

"Are we just ignoring the whole trapped-in-kryptonite bit now?" Alex gawked.

"I just think we need to take a different perspective: new timeline, new me, you know?" Kara offered.

"Perhaps when we're between coats Supergirl can acquire the correct paint," Brainy suggested.

Kara's eyes widened and head nodded like a bobblehead. The only thing missing was a lolling tongue. Alex lungs expelled in a slow, centering sigh Kelly taught her. "Fine. New us, whatever."

HOUR 15

"You missed a spot."

"And you could help," Alex muttered, pressing her forehead to the extension pole dripping SW 6364, Eggwhite. "New us," she whispered until her eyes caught sight of something giant and purple: "Is that a bean bag chair?"

"Can't," Nia explained from within the giant purple bean bag chair that also arrived just as mysteriously as the Mary Poppins cooler offering up an endless stream of drinks. "M'waiting for my section to dry."

"There are other sections."

Nia shook her head. "Uh-uh," she managed between handfuls of popcorn. "Those are Supergirl's."

"She isn't back yet?" Alex balked. "How long does it take to get paint?"

"Maybe she's stopping by Noonan's for some sticky-buns," Nia said dreamily.

Brainy cleared his throat: "Accounting for typical Saturday morning traffic and the quantity of paint to be mixed-"

"And don't forget she'll want to learn how the paint mixer works-" Nia added.

"Fair point," Brainy replied and gave due thought to his recalculation. "With that in mind, my estimates indicate she is twelve minutes overdue."

HOUR 18

"Where the hell are you?" Alex hollered the moment Kara picked up.

"They were insisting it's right," came Kara's voice over speakerphone.

"Which is exactly what I told you eight hours ago. Now get back here-"

"So now I'm trying to get them to tweak the recipe and-"

"Absolutely not, Supergirl."

"But-"

"Get back here. That's an order."

HOUR 23

"Hey, Supergirl, help a girl lift that bean bag chair up here, will ya?" Nia called out.

"You've got paint in your hair," Brainy said from Alex's left.

"Gee, I wonder how that happened," Alex said, glancing up between the slats of scaffolding where Nia was humming the latest pop sensation and taking long sips of her self-named mixed drink.

"Initial deduction would indicate it's coming from-"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Ah, right."

HOUR 34

"Where did you get that?"

"Dreamer," Kara explained after a pull. The bottle sloshed with far too little liquid. A paintbrush lay forgotten on the floor. Paint drops were everywhere but the wall they'd been sentenced to complete. "I wonder if she still has any Red Vines. Ooh, or maybe Goldfish."

Alex's gaze scanned for the youngest superfriend who had most recently been adlibbing science puns about the phallic-looking test tube Brainy had painted. It was purgatory bordering on hell.

"And what if someone sees you? Did you think about that, Supergirl?"

"No one works this late on the weekend, Alex," Kara slurred, rubbing at dripped paint on her cape, "'cept Lena." A hiccup followed. The cape was now stained a moss green. "Lena," she continued in a sing-songy way that made sober Alex want to hurl.

"Dear god," Alex sighed, reaching for the bottle of Alderbaran Rum. "Give me that. You're done-"

"Not unless you admit the color is wrong," Kara pouted. Another hiccup. More spilled paint. Mrs. Fischer was going to be pissed.

"Do you ever think maybe we shouldn't be allowed to operate life-saving missions?" Nia posited from her perch two storeys up.

HOUR 39

"Ok, the Pewter on the beaker and microscope is finished. With any luck we can all be home by dinner. How are we doing with the rest?"

"The Polished Concrete has been applied to the shaded regions," Brainy advised. "I will commence outlining with the Charcoal Dust to the mitochondria and rocketship."

"Beautiful. Dreamer, how is the African Violet and Passionate Purple coming along?"

"Well…" Nia began from the depths of her cooler, "the DNA, bunsen burner, and solar system would be done," she continued, reappearing with a bottle of neon blue liquid.

"Would be? What do you mean 'would be'?" Alex asked, jumping with a thud from the scaffolding to take in the three-storey wall.

"I can't exactly do my portion until someone finishes her part."

"Finishes?" Alex repeated.

"'Start' would be more accurate," Brainy corrected, swirling his own Nia-Nal-authored cocktail.

Alex didn't have time to give that a double-take. Instead she backed up to survey the progress. Sure enough not a single paint stroke of green had been applied. A forefinger and thumb found the bridge of Alex's nose. The slow exhale didn't work as well this time.

"Supergirl?" she called and waited. And waited. "Supergirl? Super- where is she?"

"Follow the paint splotches," Nia answered before the rattle of a shaker interrupted further conversation.

HOUR 45

Alex let her brush drop into the empty pail. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck before checking the time and letting out a tired sigh. So much for dinner at home.

"How are we looking?" she called warily. "Any chance we'll be finished before the sun sets?"

"Nearly there," Nia called, somehow uninhibited by the conveyor belt of drinks she'd been knocking back all weekend.

"I've begun disassembling the scaffolding," Brainy affirmed, slightly more inhibited by the string of beverages he'd been knocking back.

"And Supergirl?" Alex asked. It was met with silence. Alex's hope vanished. A grimace took its place. "Supergirl?"

"This still isn't right."

Alex looked upward. To what, Alex wasn't sure - heaven was too far away because this was most definitely the last level of hell. "What isn't?"

Kara waved a handful of paint chips at the group. "This green - the paint sample still isn't right."

"How?" Alex huffed, landing with a thud from the scaffolding. She glanced between the chip and the sample they'd been given. "Looks right to me: foreboding, villainous, manipulative; it's 'Luthor' in color form - it's even written on the can. See? SW-6921, Luthor Green."

"And there's only one?" Kara continued, ignoring Alex's running commentary.

"Maybe it should glow in the dark?" Nia offered through the crunch of a cheese puff.

Kara's frown deepened. "I'm going to mix our own."

"Supergirl, hang on, no; and Dreamer will you please stop mixing drinks and pick up a paintbrush - Brainy, a little help here?"

"Far be it from me to tell Nia Nal what to do," he slurred from what was the vacant bean bag.

"Guys, can we please focus. I want to go home."

"And I want to run…" a hiccup, "run this to a head."

"She means 'ground'," Nia clarified before the sound of ice cubes jingled into an empty glass.

"Is that another bottle of Rum?" Alex asked. "Nia!"

HOUR 53

"Ok, guys, I'm close."

"To finishing?" Alex begged. Her head hadn't left her hands in an hour. "Close to finishing, right?"

"I've narrowed it to four different shades for the left half. I'm working with greys and purples which like, isn't ideal, but I think it's close. Now, the right half will be a bit trickier-"

"It's one color!" Alex erupted. "It's a single green. Why are we talking in multitudes when it is one - one - color," she shouted, stretching one extended finger for emphasis.

"Perhaps Supergirl is simply considering the lack of color neutrality coming through the glazing due to the slight tint of the low-e coating," Brainy postulated.

"Right," Nia snorted. A used lemon wedge sat in one hand and a salt shaker was held in the other. "It's the quality of the Sherwin Williams Luthor Green that Kara's all hung up on."

"What do you mean?" Alex pressed.

"I mean that-"

"I realize your limited competence lies in your powers, but I honestly thought you'd all be further along by now."

Alex looked up to find Lena standing, once again, in the middle of the lobby. "It is midnight on a Sunday, Luthor."

"Precisely. In less than eight hours this lobby will be bustling with children, their parents, and a hoard of my employees. This is what you've got to show for a weekend of work?"

"Look, see?" Kara exclaimed, finger pointing toward Lena. She stumbled to her feet, cape tangled around her and other hand gripping a dozen paint-filled brushes.

"See what?" Alex shouted. Her wits had ended hours earlier.

Kara marched toward Lena who lifted a single eyebrow in silent judgement. "It's not just one!" Kara slurred. "It's… a lot."

Alex looked between Lena and Kara's outstretched hand of brushes with dawning realization.

"Hang on: you thought 'Luthor Green' meant Lena Luthor's eye color?" Alex fumed.

A quiet 'ohh' from Brainy was interrupted by a howl of laughter from Nia.

"Um… yea?" Kara confessed, expression sheepish and confused.

"'Luthor Green' is part of LuthorCorp's marketing color scheme," Lena clarified curtly though her cheeks flushed red.

"Wait, it's not…" Kara started, nose scrunched in thought. "But why not? It'd be so much prettier. See? Lena, don't you think it'd be so much prettier?"

Alex's mouth fell open. "What?"

"I expect this finished before registration opens tomorrow," Lena continued through a crack in her voice.

Kara nodded eagerly. "So does that mean-"

"Use the 'Luthor Green', Supergirl."