#Cannot wait to give them both a full painted artwork

[imperial-daffodil]

A quick WIP from the sketch book 🜁 ♪

The Emperor and my Gith Tav, Daff!

[yostresswritinggirl]

Researching...

ZETA

You need to see this first then this

The alchemist had been trying all remedies to shake off the stress and fatigue in his system and they all seemed to fail, no amount of sketching or discoveries can pull him away from it. So when you offered a solution he hasn’t heard, he’d jump at it immediately. “You know, some people say having intercourse with someone is a good stress-reliever.” “Intercourse? If it’s true, then please, I wish to have intercourse with you.” “Wha- wait Albedo, do you not know what that is? It’s only done between lovers!” “Convenient, I love you, anything else?”

Pairing -> Albedo x Female Reader

Word Count -> 2944

Themes -> Smut, PwP, PwF, Woohoo, the "thing", the "do"

Series -> #Bonafide Specials (100 followers event)

Warnings -> NSFW CONTENT, DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE UNDERAGED! (this is awkward because you two have no experience, jsyk)

(Z,E)-9,12-tetradecadienyl acetate (TDA, also known as ZETA) are usually emitted by females to attract males for mating. Sex pheromones are defined as odors, produced by either males or females that stimulate one or more behavioral reactions in the opposite sex, bringing the males and females together for the purpose of mating.

The foldered papers at the mahogany desk met with a soft plop at its weight, and you noticed the Alchemist suddenly straighten his back from his spaced out daze on the noise, whipping his head towards where you stand. Albedo's teal eyes were wide from the sudden intrusion, but his eyelids drooped over them once again upon the realization that it was just you who entered as it loses its light once more. This worried you.

The Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius has been in a dilemma recently. And all of Mond knows of this.

Albedo naturally holds himself in a regal and composed aura that draws people to him in admiration and trance. But this Albedo lacks such gait, with shoulders tense and eyebrows furrowed, steps heavy and head hanging low.

He has hit a wall in his never-ending research. And the effect was obvious on him.

Days he'd be cooped up in his laboratory staring at nothing, glaring at his setup. Days he'd be gone beyond the walls with his easel and sketchbook, only to return with unfinished artworks meant to be forgotten. Sucrose had tried placing experiments that are easy to handle and give him at least a sense of self-confidence for solving, but even that cannot pull his mind away from his obstacle.

"You know," leaning on the table with arms crossed, you watched the Kreideprinz drag his foot to where you were, aiming to check on the folder that you just submitted, "Some people say having intercourse with someone is a good stress-reliever." Such words smoothly flowed out of your mouth despite the masked embarrassment you expertly hid through a haughty smirk.

That someone was Kaeya, and that Kaeya threw out that same comment next to you when you two saw Albedo walk through the headquarter's halls like a zombie a few days ago.

The sudden pound of fists on the table at either side of you startled you, expertly caging you in as you looked up. Albedo loomed over you with eyes brightly catching the sun, giving it the luminosity that carried the same curious look he had when faced with the unknown. "Intercourse? If it's true, then please," oh no, "I wish to have intercourse with you."

Excuse me? "Wha-" suddenly, you were hyper-aware of just how close you are to one another. You slightly hiked yourself up against the table, as to preserve what little distance you have. "Wait Albedo, do you not know what that is? It’s only done between lovers!”

And without skipping a beat, he mused, "Convenient, I love you, anything else?" That familiar smirk displayed on his face.

Contrary to his face tho, you greatly contest to Diluc's hair. Really a normal reaction- to this guy suddenly confessing! Your head is already whirling around in confusion and your eyes couldn't set itself straight at him, still mindful of the distance of which reminded you why you were in this predicament in the first place.

Albedo attentively watched your eyes stray to the side as he stands there in silence, seeing it land at the entrance to his laboratory. Ah of course, he thought he'd made a discovery, as he leans away from you to make his way towards the door.

And shut it with a click.

"Wait, wait, why did you lock the door?!" You finally mustered up the courage to speak (breaking away from the shock of his confession) as he finds himself where he stood over you, eyes filled with confusion.

"You were quiet after my confession. I know such moments of romance are intimate and with your eyes, I only wanted to give us privacy," his brows furrowed with confusion before his shoulders dropped, a sharp sigh escaping. "Normally people would express their reciprocation by now," he breathed as he starts pulling back and away, "but voicing your rejection would have been appre-"

Quickly with a yelp, you reached out for his departing form, pulling him back by the grip on his shirt. Albedo's eyes only widened a little as he was quick to grip the table's edge to stabilize himself, one arm wrapped around your waist to ground you. "No! I do- do love you too!" You finally squeezed out the embarrassing confession, "You were just so sudden, it surprised me so much!"

And suddenly he was laughing openly, full of relief and humor, as his shoulders slackened at the validation. The heavy weight on his shoulders eased as if a physical matter left it, the bout of removed tension making him slump on you.

You cradled the tired Albedo in your arms as you let him place his chin on your shoulder. This man is your lover now, you thought as the fact finally dawned on you. The brilliant and most loved in Mond now tied down to you.

Basking in the presence of a person now his, Albedo found himself breathing in. There was a scent to you that always soothes him which now feels emphasized at the closeness. His pupils dilated as his face buries itself closer to the junction where your neck and shoulder meets.

Ah, what was this? Was this the pheromones you once talked about in your research on zoology that attracts those to them? He mused in his mind as those teal eyed fluttered shut, nose brushing at your neck for another whiff.

While Albedo indulged himself with the natural scent of you, you stood there with weak legs, trembling and red from the notions. Oh gods, you whimpered at the feeling of his lips brushing at your skin, you're whipped for this man.

"I'm waiting," you had to hold the shiver when his words vibrated against your neck, "for your answer on my offer, I think it would be good to try." Ah the 'intercourse'. You placed your hands flat on his back as he leans away to stare in attention, and then you finally explained to him what you meant, what you'd do, and what it entails to.

Albedo nods in understanding at your every clause and explanation. And his bright mind understood far too easily how it would help. "We are lovers now," his eyes twinkled at the cute scrunch of your nose upon the embarrassment of the fact, "sooner or later we'd end up doing it anyways. When shouldn't be a matter."

Albedo always make a good point.

With your consent, Albedo slowly lays you on the surface of the table as his other hand makes quick work to swipe away the items that would be in the way, thankfully the carpeted floor prevented anything from breaking. His lips found yours almost naturally as you urged him to take off his coat and you worked on your own, the thoughts spiraling in your head for every clothing that is shed:

Albedo has little to none idea on how sex works between humans, and you had your base knowledge from the things you learned from academics; in short, you're both inexperienced and you are his anchor.

How funny how the master role quickly switched, you thought with an inward laugh before it died in your throat at the sight— he stands there with his undershirt unbuttoned, belt and shorts caught by his knee, and his apparent bulge outlined by his boxers. Your thighs instinctively closed, you don't know what's considered average in size for such things, but you know for a fact there's gonna be some difficulty.

"Is something wrong?" His raw and calloused hands (gloves long gone) softly landed at your squirming thighs, the contact sending a shiver all over. "Am I doing something wrong?"

No, you breathed as you urged him to step closer and settle between your legs at the edge of the table, his form forcing you to spread your limbs apart.

The intoxicating scent that Albedo indulged in earlier was stronger now, drowning him and clouding his thoughts. The waft plunged through his senses so forcefully that he stumbled a bit on you, hips hitting as he grips your sides to keep him steady.

Next came the warmth that touched his sensitive length as it laid between you, the contact had forced out a cute squeak from you and an airy groan from him. His hips buckled to catch the sensation as he finds himself rutting between your folds with ragged breathing.

So good, it felt so good. Albedo finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open from what he now identified to be pleasure, and as he looks up to check on you, you were struggling just the same. Your chest rises and falls in quick successions as you covered your eyes with an arm, whimpers coming out of your slightly parted lips.

Fuck. If only he wasn't so engrossed, he wanted to capture this image through painting. "Am I-," he cleared his throat of the hoarse voice, "Am I hurting you?"

You gasped at the cold and wet feeling swipe from your chin to the corner of your lips, licking the trail of drool you didn't even notice when you opened your eyes to see Albedo's up close. With a shake of your head, you gripped the ponytail of his braid to pull his head for a sudden kiss.

Staggering over your form as your legs hiked up to hook around his waist, you guided the tip of his length to your entrance as he ravaged your mouth without restraint. Lips bruising each other, tongue tracing the underside of yours gingerly before it licks at the roof of your mouth— all the sensations had fogged up your consciousness so badly that you didn't feel an ounce of pain when he finally entered into you, guided by a shy gentleness to his ministrations.

It is only when his tip finally touched the opening of your cervix did you whimper; the way you're being stretched and the fullness of his length in you making you writhe under and around him, the friction only making rousing him more.

Albedo produced a low growl against your lips as he bit down on the bottom one, his trimmed nails digging to your soft-skinned hips as he pins it down. "Stop- nghh- stop moving around so much," a sudden warmth pooled into your stomach as you tightened around him.

Mistake number one: You didn't expect for his gentleness to be gone.

Spurred on by your tightening grip and the pleasure shooting up him everytime his tip came in contact with your edge, Albedo went into a relentless pace, pounding straight into you to hit that spot. Your pants turned into breathless chokes everytime he comes in contact, forcing your raw moans out of you. There's a dull pain by your entrance everytime he grinds against your walls, and he whimpers your name in pure ecstacy every stroke.

Your back arcs as he smacks into you, pulling back halfway through before burying deep into your hole once again. His brutal pace gets sloppy at times, before his strength comes back again to pull you closer. Halfway through Albedo produces a feral growl as he grips one of your legs behind the knee, pushing it closer to your body and slightly angled to the side.

And the moment he thrusts in with the new position, you cried out his name. The tip of his length reached far deeper with this new angle, and had plunged the top right into your cervix— your hips trembled as Albedo's whole body shivers at the new sensation, fingernails digging into your thigh as his other hand intertwines with yours, pinning it down on the table as leverage.

"Ahn," he whispered your name tiredly with tears pricking at the edge of his eyes, for the first time staring at your eyes after he had started, "How are you? Is it okay? Is it..."

Good, you mumbled with a tired smile at his consideration, bumping your hips to emphasize on it- which drew a sharp gasp from the both of you, he was already in so deep, your hips bruised and touching.

He rolled his hips to test out, his thickness rubbing at the walls as he stirs your insides. The sweet moan you produced spurred him on, and he was once again staggering into you, his hips slightly elevated in an angle meant to pierce through you.

The sound of flesh smacking against each other overpowers even your loudest moan as Albedo pleasured himself inside you desperately, the smell of sex filling your sense of smell. He chases the way your hole drips and wafts with the scent, drawing in a huge breathe whenever your mixed cum spills past his tightly locked dick in you.

And soon his pace became more desperate and short, as he makes quick work at hitting you in your most sensitive part to barely give you time to gasp for air. Your walls clenched down on him so tightly as you came, a cry of his name passing your lips as your back arched—

the pressure made him buckle and he thrusts in deep one last time, tip breaking past your cervix, as his climax enters you in thick strings of warmth.

That was mistake number two: you didn't bring protection with you.

But at that moment you couldn't care less (your cycle just ended anyways, you should be fine), watching him whimper your name in full pleasure as his teeth grinds against each other, his forehead and eyebrows knit and furrow as he releases before it relaxes after he is done.

And then he falls face first to your chest, the renowned Alchemist running out of the minimal stamina he had with him. Buried between the valley of your breast, Albedo had the most serene (almost drunk) expression on his face, lips pressed against the skin over your heart where it beats with fervor from your activity.

He tested another experimental thrust, lighter this time, as he felt your mixed fluids moved around the tiny space. You gave a wailing moan at his action, and he breathlessly laughed at your reaction.

Albedo stayed in you and on you for a few more minutes after that. Still trying to regain strength as your tired pants became the white noise that night.

"Albedo..." he hums against your chest as his arms tightened around your waist, enjoying the peace your hands brought to him as you stroke his cheek. "Albedo, I need to clean up." He jests that you should just keep it in you and you responded with rapid pats, whining at the notion. He chuckles.

It took him a lot of willpower to get up and he made it obvious as hell, taking his time to remove himself off your chest, grumbling that his bed was complaining too much. You let out a cute snort before smacking his arm. Albedo grips your hips as he gently pulls out when he stops suddenly, realizing that the liquids would pour out and make an obvious mess if he were to do so.

His head passes around the immediate area as he pinpoints a peculiar object, plucking it from its plastic package, still new from the bubble wrap. A sharp gasp suddenly comes by you at the cold and hard sensation that replaced Albedo inside you, only a few inches deep as the Alchemist walks off to get tissues. Wary, you looked down to see the object, choking out when you saw its end sticking out past your crotch:

A test tube, pristine and clean, was preventing the fluids from dripping out of your hole.

When Albedo came back with the tissues and spare cloth in hand, he muses at how your deep red face was smacked tightly against your palms. He offers to clean up, a gentle hand carefully pulling out the tube, but you refused and got quick work on yourself. That was enough embarrassment for tonight.

Unbeknownst to you with your busied self, Albedo held the glass vial in close inspection and curiosity. The translucent white liquid barely blocks the night light and produced the same strong scent he'd been chasing the whole night— he sticks his tongue out to taste, ah, slightly salty and sticky.

Albedo wonders what kind of experiment he can do with this.

The obvious lift on the shoulders of the Chief Alchemist was greatly acknowledged by everyone in town who were aware of the impasse the young man had troubled himself with for the past few days. The bags under his eyes were gone, and the tealness he has shined with newfound vigor. Besides the mood shift, many of the knights had also noticed the time spent between the two of you. Missions and expeditions were always coinciding with each other and people barely saw you separated, giggling and smiling to yourselves in your pink world.

One day they finally found out about your relationship when a knight barged in to his laboratory for an urgent matter. Blurting out the Chief Alchemist's name before he realized that you were there, lips locked against each other.

The news spreads fast with that little detail and everyone congratulated you on your relationship.

Behind your bashful smiles, you and Albedo sighed in great relief, thankful to the archons that the knight didn't took notice of your hand under his big white coat that time.

This turned out like this cuz alchemy boy very new to things u_u and little stamina, he needs to exercise more ehe-

@creation-magician @dandelion-dreams @zelos-simp @struggljng @youroffical-weirdo @your-local-venti-simp @indigodreamtime47

[theredsuzuran]

Hello! Could I request Douma with a s/o who enjoys art? For instance, painting or drawing then placing their artworks around the paradise cult? They could be demon / human but preferably aware about the whole eating cult members thing? Me being me I would be fine knowing that lol. Sorry if this is too specific but thank you in advance!

Thank you so much for this request, I hope its upto your liking and I apologize if I have messed up🥺

Douma x Reader ~

The warm rays of the sun glistened your skin with a golden hue as you stood there on the long wide corridors holding the remaining pieces of arts that you were pasting on the walls of the busy temple, gazing at the distant sky with full concentration succumbing deep into the abyss of its aesthetics. So much so that you failed to notice your fellow cult members reaching out until someone pat your shoulder startling you suddenly.

"Oh" a soft sigh escape from your mouth as you to snapped out of your thoughts, looking directly at them with eyes still dreaming.

"We have been calling you for so long (y/n) san~ aren't you gonna tell your friends about him?"

"Do you think its going to rain anytime soon?"

"Are you even listening to what am saying?"

Averting your gaze from them you lifted your head upward at the direction of the tremendous vast expanse paying no attention to them while drifting away in your own world.

"If it rains will I see that again?" spacing out yet again but this time evoking vivid memories of a man finding your desolated body covered with blood and mud, drenched under the heavy downpour.

"What?" One or them inquired both curious and annoyed at the same time.

"I told you! (y/n) is weird just leave them alone its fruitless to strike any conversation at all, Lord douma probably shows his pity being a man of virtue" one of them whispered so that you don't hear them badmouthing you.

"Right who cares about those stupid paintings" the other giggled at your face then turned away leaving you behind in the now empty hallway.

All of them associate with you because of the favour you get from Douma, the supreme head of the eternal paradise cult. You have merely smiled knowing that they have always belittle your precious artworks crushing your fragile confidence into pieces although let's say you would never encounter them again and that's a different story, still they were unable to break your devotion. Every painting you made were nurtured and cared with great affection as you put your heart and soul into it. Most importantly there was the charming leader himself who encouraged you rather than making fun of it. That's the exact reason why douma was your savior.

Even though you knew the heinous crimes he have committed, the cannibalistic practices that occurs during midnight inside the temple complex, yes it terrifies you but still you cannot find in your heart to hate him, you wish demons could co exist together alongside mortals although it sounds absurd as predators can never befriend their natural prey but you were an artist who saw the world with a different perspective instead of blaming demons you felt sympathy. Since they were humans too once and due to unavoidable circumstances they are now suffering this fate. Making you wonder what was his story?

However you are quite mad lately since It has been days you last saw your beloved cult leader, afterall he has things to do and you seem to grow lonelier each day due to the lack of his presence. The way he caressed your cheeks and smiled ever so lovingly at you made your heart flutter with ecstacy. Art therefore have always been your escape as your days passes drawing sketches of him. You sat on the wooden engawa, with papers and colours scattered all over the floor holding your brush in hopes of completing his perfect image but your mind wandered to the eromous clouds engulfing the sky above. When suddenly you caught glimpse of a familiar sitting right next you.

"I thought I would wait since you were busy admiring the beautiful nature"

"Douma" a sudden rush of emotions came pouring down, the storm seem to have calm down by the heavy rain. However it was hard for poor (y/n) to decide whether to jump with pure happiness or to just sit and cry for leaving them astray.

"There there my little dove, am here" he replied smiling charmingly engulfing you in a tight embrace.

The two sat on top of the wooden floor. Once again letting the silence to develop, this time droplets of water accompanied the tranquil atmosphere with its drizzling sound.

"Are you hanging your paintings on the walls?" Douma asked enthusiastically breaking the previous calm.

"Yes" you replied politely

"good good" reaching his arms to pat you gently, he praised.

"Douma, where have you been?" You questioned Finally letting those words escape from your quivering lips which you were desperately trying to swallow inside this entire time and regretting because you are afraid of what might happen next for asking such an outrageous question ruining the blissful aura.

"Aww did (y/n) miss me?" Douma answered still maintaining his lively composure. Although there was sudden shift in the atmosphere as it grew a bit tense.

"What if I say I did?" You murmured under your breath blushing slightly to which his eyes widened for he have awaited long for something like this to happen.

"I have some orders to fulfill for that man" the douma chuckled slightly as he began speaking again "and probably he did not like it a bit that I failed to accomplish my mission" when you notice one of his beautiful multicolored orb a little swallowen as if someone have pierced his eyeballs out. You were aware of his supernatural existence and strength because he was not some ordinary demon but witnessing such injury made your heart drop.

"Now (y/n)~ show me what you are drawing" his face gleaming with excitement as he clapped his hands.

"It's not yet completed"

"Don't be like that show me" he made a puppy face.

"Noooo" you cried in protest trying your best to restrain him but failed miserably, since he was faster than you and upon seeing the drawing the sheet of paper he stopped responding. Been living for a century having money, status and almost a perfect immortal body, he still felt hollow. People stand in line for hours to worship him in order to achieve their own desires, to gift him valuable fortunes, antiques, exclusive garments and all sorts of expensive merchandise and sometimes in hope of wooing him but never in his life he felt so content by a simple piece of art made with such adoration. Overwhelming a ruthless uppermoon like him with strong emotions.

"I know it's not that good" you bit your lips in embarrassment but you were taken aback when you felt a pair of muscular arms wrapping your waist resting his head on your lean shoulders. Returning his gesture you smiled and closed your eyes running your hands in his platinum blonde hair in an attempt to soothe him.

"Douma do you remember the time we met?" douma hummed in response.

"Its because of you that am still alive and I can't show my gratitude enough, I have sworn to the art I love I will never break my loyalty towards you", douma looked at you this time when you suddenly reached your arms to cup his face amusing a bit in the process.

"Back when I was a child, I saw a beautiful arc covering the blue sky displaying a wide range of bright colours taking my breath away for I was mesmerized, and I hope I could see that again as I was laying down on the ground reminding the jovial moments of life before my demise, admist the rain I saw a shilloute of a man approaching me- that's when I saw that again in your eyes instilling hope within me, its a monochromatic world when you are not around"

That's when he took your hands into his large ones gently, giving the most lovable expression he could ever make, something so genuine for someone like him. He did not know why he was so attracted to a human like you. Moving his fingers on your lips caressing it softly smudging the colour you have applied before as he leaned closer and closer making your eyes shut tight too flustered to even look. Your face heating up on his cold touch, as you felt a his lips pressed softly onto your nose.

Opening your eyes slightly you found him grinning at your beet red face.

"Let's put that painting on my wall then!"

[ahockeywrites]

Is that a drawing of me?

You sighed. Your professor set you an assignment to draw something that makes you smile. His suggestions included a pet, a sport or a loved one. Naturally, the first thing that came to your head was your boyfriend, the resident pest of Calgary, Matthew Tkachuk. The only problem you had, is that drawing faces was your weakness when it came to your artwork. It wasn’t that you couldn’t draw faces, if it was a life or death situation, yes, you could draw a face. However, when compared to your nature drawings, they were second best.

“So, are we gonna get a drawing of Mr Hockey hotshot this time?” your friend Anna asked. You looked at her with a look only she could read. Realistically, the answer should have easily been yes, but your worry of making him look bad was heightening your anxiety.

“It’s an idea, but you know how I was in our portraits module. How can I do the man I love justice when I can barely draw someone with straight hair,” you said as you slumped into the chair in the small coffee shop. “His curls will be the death of me.” Taking a small sip of your coffee, you noticed a text from the devil himself.

Matty: Hey baby, just wanted to let you know I’m back from practice now! Let me know what you want to do for dinner :) x

You: Urm… I’m good for anything? Something quick bc I’ve got college work to do x

Anna could tell that you were talking to Matt, solely by the way that your face lit up whenever you two spoke. “But, who or what else would you draw?  I mean, I’m planning on doing my family by the lake back home, if that helps?” Anna offered. You knew she was just trying to help, but you had to draw Matthew. You had skirted around it before but you had decided.

“I’m gonna draw him, but hopefully not too well,” you said, “I can’t inflate his ego any more. I think Brady and Taryn would want words with me.” The two of you giggled, knowing that anything that made him look too good in his eyes would just make his head grow 20 sizes.

“Yes my love!!” Anna exclaimed, “shall we stop by the art store before art history?”

“I think I’m gonna need to,” you explained, “I need some new canvases and a lot of red pencils if he’s gonna be in Calgary gear.”

The two of you left the coffee shop for the nearby warehouse full of art supplies. It was just off campus and offered a generous student discount to almost anyone. You wandered down by the canvases, trying to figure out which size would be right for your latest piece. Too small and the picture would look cramped, too large and the image could look out of proportion. Eventually, you settled on a relatively large one and by this time had picked up some very Calgary appropriate red and black pencils. You also spotted a scrapbook that looked perfect to start filling with photos of you and Matthew.

Scrapbooking was something you had always wanted to get into, but it never came up in your studies and you always thought that you should practice line art or painting. But with your second anniversary coming up, it was something you could do in your downtime to relax but also create something beautiful. All you had to do was get a few rolls of washi tape and some photo corners. Everything else, if you had forgotten it, could easily be ordered later.

2 hours and $150 later, you exited the store with Anna and headed to your final lecture of the day. Now, just because you enjoyed both art and history did not mean that you enjoyed the combination of the two. Especially when the professor decided that it would be fun to set a 2000 word essay on the Renaissance period. “I cannot wait for this day to be over,” Anna spoke aimlessly.

“Honestly, same, hopefully Matt has got some food ready for when I’m back,” you hoped, no, prayed to someone above that he had actually made something and hadn’t burnt down your apartment. “I’m gonna head off now, but text me updates of your portrait?” you asked Anna. She nodded and you started your short walk from campus to the apartment.

15 minutes later, you arrived home and tumbled through the door. The smell of something baked filled your nostrils. “Matty baby?” you called out, hoping he would hear you and give you a hand with all the supplies you had bought.

“Y/N!” he called, coming to the hallway. “Need a hand?” he asked, but the two of you knew it was rhetorical. You let out a small giggle and gave him two of the bags you had filled to the brim with scrapbooking items. Now, you could have hidden them from him, but it was likely that he wouldn’t even know what they were so you were safe. The two of you moved in sync to the office of the apartment which very quickly had become your own personal studio with an easel and multiple chests of drawers with the most random supplies in them.

“Just pop them down anywhere, I have a drawing I want to start tonight along with an essay,” you complained.

“Don’t you worry, I have wine and lasagne,” Matthew sang. You audibly groaned at the sound of food, all you wanted was a warm meal and to relax. At least you’d be able to get one of them tonight.

You two sat down at the island that graced the kitchen of the apartment. Matthew had set the table and even put a few candles out, “I thought you could do with an hour or so of doing nothing,” he spoke as he went to grab your hand. He rubbed soft circles over your knuckles as you picked up your wine glass with your other hand.

As you took your first bite of the lasagne, you sent your boyfriend a wink. Lasagne was one of the few things he could cook and not mess up and he knew that. “I am so glad that I have a small amount of time before I start my drawing tonight,” you explained.

“What are you drawing?” Matt asked as he lifted his wine glass to his lips.

“That is something I would rather not share just now, but you’ll find out later,” you winked. You were never particularly secretive when it came to your artwork so he was slightly confused but he went along with it. Maybe, he thought, it was going to be a gift for someone and you didn’t want him to spoil the surprise.

The two of you continued to chat over dinner, talking about practice and how boring your lectures were. The boy sitting across from you never failed to make you laugh and you knew that you couldn’t draw anyone else other than him. As he was talking, you allowed yourself to take in his features and you tried to think of the best way to draw them. “If you’re done staring, I’m gonna sort the dishes out,” Matt laughed. You hadn’t even realised you were looking so intently at him. “I know I’m beautiful,” he got out before you tried to tackle him to the ground, however, your strength was nothing compared to his.

“I think this means it’s time for me to go and get started with my assignment,” you giggled from underneath him. “Come grab me if I’m still working and should be asleep, yeah?” you asked. He nodded and let you head to the office.

Once seated in the office, you pulled out your laptop and google searched Matt’s name, hoping some good images of him came up. Or at least, some that you could try to emulate. You found one of him smiling and celebrating a goal and thought that would be perfect. It also meant that the majority of his curls were underneath a helmet so wouldn’t have to worry.

Grabbing the canvas you had specifically bought for this, you placed it on the easel. You began to sketch out the rough shape of a skater in the foreground. Then, you moved onto the face. You thought if you did the face early on, you could fix any mistakes with it once the rest of the image was done. Starting with the eyes, then the nose and mouth, this wasn’t going as badly as you thought it might have gone. But then, the dreaded curls were staring at you from underneath the helmet. Sighing, you knew that if you didn’t start them now, they would never be done and a bald Matthew was something you never wanted to see.

A knock on the office door startled you, “baby, it’s almost midnight. You have an 8am lecture tomorrow and don’t want you to be late,” Matt said in a soft voice.

“Yeah, just gimme a few minutes,” you replied. By this time you had moved onto the logo on his shirt and if anyone saw, it would be incredibly obvious who you were drawing. Curly hair, Calgary Flames player, number 19, with an A on his chest. You were so engrossed in the drawing, you hadn’t noticed Matthew open the door and walk to be behind you.

“Is that a drawing of me?” he asked. You jumped out of your skin and he had to put his hand on your shoulder to stable you. You meekly nodded and looked up to him. “It’s amazing,” he said as he took in the drawing. Suddenly, he put two and two together, “this is why you wouldn’t tell me what you were doing, eh?”

“Maybe,” you said softly, trying to hide yourself in his chest. “Didn’t want to inflate your ego anymore.”

“Baby, if every drawing you do of me is this good,” he said as he pressed his forehead to yours, “my family better make an entire room back in St. Louis for my ego.” You slowly pressed your lips to his as a sign of appreciation.

“I take it you like it then?”

“Like is the wrong word, I love it. I also can’t wait to send a picture of this to the family group chat to get their thoughts,” he laughed.

“Well, as long as your mom doesn’t want me to do another one, I think I’ll be okay,” you said as you kissed him again.

[gohyuck]

↠ na jaemin; assassin in florence, italy, year 1469

the brotherhood: guide

pairing: assassin!na jaemin x renaissance artist!reader; based on assassin’s creed

genre: fluff, angst, suggestive (explicit allusions to sex)

word count: 2.8k

warnings: minor characters die, excessive overuse of the term “my love”

“i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” - sarah williams

↳ personality: he’s flirtatious, almost too flirtatious, as he walks through the streets of florence, decked in the beautiful and extravagant cloths of italian nobility; you don’t mind it, though, not when he pulls you from your fruit stall in the central market and into a neighboring alleyway to trail open-mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, tugging your own, coarser neckline down to access the skin he wants to nip at. there’s a tiny hole at your waist where your skirt starts, one you haven’t mended yet, and he doesn’t fail to exploit it, placing his thumb against your skin to rub circles into it as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

there’s something arrogant, but bearable, about the way he carries himself. he’s boisterous, impossible to ignore when out with others. you’re dragged along to lavish parties, draped in dresses he gets specially made for you, even if it’s a life you’re unused to. still, with jaemin, you’re the center of every party. though people whisper about you - how you do not belong to any family, how you stay alone and all by yourself - their badly hidden passing glances bounce off of you when you’re with jaemin.

sometimes, he’s loud even when you’re alone with him, vocal in his pleasure as he forces you deeper, deeper into his mattress, which is a luxury you yourself cannot afford. you firmly believe that he’s the most beautiful in these moments - bare in front of you, larger than life and still so very human all at once. you run your fingers over his collarbones to ground you as your eyes roll back into your head, his own grunts and gentle, loving words muffled against your neck. 

other times when you’re alone with him, though, in the little space of your home that you use as a makeshift studio, he’s quiet. jaemin insists on sitting crosslegged in the corner, elbow on his knee and chin in his palm, as he watches you paint. sometimes it’s a sunset, dazzling against the open sky. sometimes it’s a bird you’d seen while peddling your foodstuff. often, it’s jaemin himself - his eyes, especially. there’s something playful but serious, sweet but cunning about them. he’s not one to hide his feelings, but his eyes tell stories nobody else will ever get from his mouth. you always make sure to listen. 

↳ origin: you’re forced to watch from the back of the crowd and through a flurry of tears, hand over your mouth and shoulders shaking, as jaemin’s brothers and father are hanged in the center of town, not a stone’s throw away from where your stall usually operates. jaemin himself is nowhere to be seen, but that doesn’t stop worry from pricking at the back of your mind - could they be torturing him extra? the florence nobility are ruthless, even amongst themselves, and you don’t even know what the na’s had done to deserve such a cruel end.

jaemin’s mother had died years ago. he is now all alone in this world. you may be the only soul he has left.

still, even as the bodies are cut down and thrown carelessly into an awaiting cart, you know that you can’t go looking for jaemin. he will come to you when he’s ready, if he’s ever ready. you pray that he’ll be ready.

you sit at home, and you wait. 

he drops in through your window that night, scaling your walls by moonlight. jaemin is stoic, silent, and that’s how you know that something, everything is wrong. the air around him is still, and for the first time since you’ve known and loved him, you feel almost suffocated. he has a hood drawn over his head, nowhere near as rich or flashy as the clothing you’re used to seeing him in, and you can just make out glinting metal against his clothes and skin.

you have no time to ask anything, no time to get out a word. he forces what looks like a document - you later find that it’s a letter to you - into your hands before pressing a quick, chaste kiss that holds more meaning than you want it to to your lips. you can’t even move and reach out to touch him before he’s gone, back out the window he’d come through.

in your disarray, something on the document catches your eye, drawing your eyes down towards it.

discard after reading is scrawled on top of the folded parchment.

↳ i have loved the stars too fondly...: you gather up the rainwater from the storm that night in the closest thing to a small tub you have. as you thoroughly soak the paper - tear-stained, already, as it is - running it under the water over and over again as the words into the paper and all of it dissolves into a mushy, inky mess that falls apart in your fingers, you can’t help but wonder why it’s your life that is like this, why it’s your jaemin that must face this. 

the words swim before your eyes, running through your mind even as you destroy them.

my father was hanged as he discovered a plot to... displace the medici family, he’d written. the very people he trusted with his knowledge were the ones that had the ropes tied to his neck. i must go - it is no longer safe here for me. more importantly, i must go so they do not come for you. i must go, and train for revenge. you deserve much more than a killer. 

the paper is practically destroyed by now, the water entirely murky and a grayish color. still, you continue kneading whatever you can grasp, if only to maintain the little composure you have left. 

i will not be back for a long, long time, my love. i should not even be telling you of this, but i have business to attend to far, far away from florence. it is not business you need to find yourself a part of. i will pray nightly that you do not find yourself a part of this aspect of my life. i know you will want to be with me, to care for me, but the best thing you can do for me is live without me. you let out a small whimper as you go over the letter, again and again and again, in your mind’s eye. whatever ‘aspect of his life’ he was talking about is consuming him, you know it because you know jaemin. it’s possible - too possible - that he is no longer a part of your life and that you are no longer a part of his. 

you are all that i have left. i cannot promise you much, but if i can promise you anything, it is that i will keep you safe. be well, my love, my adoration, my flower. apple of my eye. be well for the both of us. 

forever yours through distance and through time, 

jaemin, house of na 

you don’t quite want to part with the letter, knowing full well that it may be the last thing you ever get from the love of your life. still, you know you must kill the fact of its existence somehow. the next morning, you throw the leftover papery mush out with the rotting old fruits that remain at your stand after a full day of selling. you ignore the way your hands tremble, the way you wipe your hands hastily on your skirt to be done with the whole affair.

you use the inky water as paint, sheer and gray against your canvas. thicker paint goes on top of it as if to hide your bare soul, your truths, your sins, and though your days are far emptier than they had been, once, you find some respite in your art.

you paint jaemin with the words he’d written specially for you. it takes months, twisting itself into a project with a scale unprecedented to you. you paint a larger-than-life portrait of his face, his hand holding a bitten-into peach - it was meant to be an apple, though you’d miscolored the inside of it - against his thin lips. there’s boredom in his eyes, something you’d never truly seen in them in person. if you give his eyes the feelings you remember seeing reflected in them, you think that you’ll break for good.

the painting of jaemin becomes a symbol of your compartmentalization. 

in the mornings and throughout your days, you’re the same fruit vendor you’ve been for ages, trading whatever is in season for much-needed money or amenities. you give children free apples when they run up to you, chat easily with the woman who sells bread right next to you. all is well. 

in the evenings, you speak to the painting. it’s no substitute for the real man - jaemin, your jaemin, always responded to your woes by pulling you close and holding you closer - but at least the artwork can’t be made to leave you. you have no anger towards your love - not when you know why he had to go, not when you’d witnessed the gruesome deaths of his family members - but you do have a never-ending sadness. you tell it of your day, of how you grit your teeth subconsciously when you see the people who’d caused the real jaemin to leave. you speak of the things you would’ve painted in your life before what you’ve mentally dubbed The Departure - there was a young child who looked so angelic in the sunlight this morning, a droplet of water against an old man’s beard. your fingers twitch when you speak of creating art, but you make no move to actually do so. you have a feeling you’ve already created your magnum opus.

the nights are the hardest. no matter how hard you try, you cannot escape them - the dreams. flashes of jaemin’s bright smile, snippets of his teasing laughter, soundbytes of his voice against the side of your face as his lips brush against your earlobe, they all haunt you. the feeling of his fingers dragging across your jawline, running down your side, pushing into you as he stares into your eyes with all the love in the world pooled in his own. no matter what you do - covering the painting before going to sleep, switching positions, sleeping fully clothed - you cannot get them to stop.

you ignore the fact that you don’t really want them to.

↳ ...to be fearful of the night.: in the end, over a full year later, it’s your evenings that get you. 

there’s not much of an explanation to be gleaned from the men that barge into your living quarters, pull you up from your bed, and tie your wrists together. you’re too harried to make out what they’re saying, but you’re present enough to realize that the painting isn’t covered. 

jaemin had been a member of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in florence once. most everyone knows his face. 

you don’t struggle - you can’t, really, but you refuse to even make an effort - because you find no reason. you feel fear, great fear, yes, but there’s nothing you can do about it. from the snippets of harsh conversation that float around you between the men who are twisting your arms, you realize that someone must have heard you speaking to the painting, referring to it as your lost love, not long ago. 

you’d never closed the makeshift shutters of your one window in the hope that, someday, jaemin would climb through them again. 

before you know it, you’re tossed into a prison cell, wrists raw from rope chafing but finally untied nonetheless. to your surprise, you’re confined alone. this realization almost makes you laugh.

you’re a vip - very important prisoner. 

you hope your death is worth it for whatever greater good is out there. 

↳ full circle: they decide to hang you at night, under the stars of the city that’s given you so much and taken so much from you. you’re glad - you don’t want an audience to witness your end. you wonder if you’ll join jaemin in the afterlife, or if he’ll join you. 

the bag is already over your head and the rope is being placed around your neck by coarse hands that crush purposefully against your windpipe when it happens. 

a soft thwack, followed by another, and then two low groans and drawn out gurgles. the pressure against your throat lets up, but you don’t hang. the box underneath your feet remains there. your hands are still tied behind your back, and the itchy bag remains pressing against the skin of your face, but you’re still alive.

why are you still alive?

before you can try to figure out what’s happening around you, someone’s soft breath appears against your neck, and nimble fingers work at pulling the noose off of you and undoing the ropes around your wrists. the bag is lifted last, and your heart jumps to your throat. 

although it’s what you’ve been waiting for for all this time, you’re still shaken at seeing jaemin in front of you in all his rugged glory. 

he sets his hands on your waist, pulling you off of the box and into his arms at once. although his white robes feel foreign against your skin as you burrow your face into his chest, he still smells the same. the way his hands trek over your back is the same, the way you feel in his arms is the same. you’re overcome, overwhelmed with emotion, and judging by the steel grip he has on you, jaemin feels the same. 

“how did you know?” you manage to ask, voice tight with nerves as you survey him and he surveys you. he doesn’t seem to expect you to be afraid; he’s unperturbed by your lack of hysteria. out of your periphery, you can see that the two men who were fated to kill you are now dead, crossbow arrows piercing through both of their throats. you assume the arrows had come from the gauntlet that adorns jaemin’s hand, though you don’t voice this out loud. he smiles down at you - a genuine smile, one that leaks into his eyes - and you realize that he’ll never tell you. 

he’s so different from the man you fell in love with, yet he is still so much of the same. 

“i’m here to stay, my love, at least to leave my roots here. the danger that forced me to leave no longer exists.” he finally speaks, deflecting your question as you knew he would. jaemin takes one of your hands in one of his, and your fingers trace over the rough callouses of his palms as if it’s second nature. you hear his breath hitch at this, and you realize how likely it is that, whatever he’s been doing, he hasn’t felt the touch of someone that truly loves him in a long, long time. 

“even if you leave, you’ll come back, right, my love?” you ask, startling yourself with how your voice wavers at the prospect. the moon illuminates jaemin’s face as he raises a hand to cup your cheek, tracing a thumb against your cheekbone. it comes back wet, and you realize that, sometime in between seeing him for the first time in so long and now, you’ve begun crying. he nods, belatedly answering your question. 

“you know,” he starts, and you realize that tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes, too. still, you’re more drawn to the way his lips quirk up. “i always liked to see you cry. for different reasons, of course.”

the tension in the air is not broken entirely, but with his in-character quip, jaemin eases both of you into being around each other again. you smack a hand against his sturdy chest indignantly, though you can’t help the grin that splits your face in half. 

“you’re utterly indecent,” you claim as you both finally step off of the base of the gallows. he pulls you into the shadows almost immediately, placing his arm around your shoulders and practically attaching you to his side as he does. his body language screams that he’s worried, but he still cracks a smile at your response. jaemin leans in, his lips brushing your ear. 

“take me back to your home and i’ll show you how utterly indecent i can be.” he whispers, and the smirk is audible in his words. as the moon begins illuminating your world and jaemin’s brilliant grin outshines it, you can’t help but think one thing.

maybe everything will be alright, after all. 

[maybeimamuppet]

hi, me again. i just wanted to preface this by saying this work features cady having a meltdown as a result of sensory overload (i headcanon her as autistic) so if that could be triggering for you please skip this. i based this off a personal experience so if you are a person who experiences sensory overload and things are different for you, kindly Do Not Come For Me. also, cadnis has only been dating for about a month and a half in this one so they’re still deep in it. anyway, enjoy!

——-

“Ooh, Jayjay, what’s that one?” Cady asks, dragging Janis and Damian by the hand towards yet another painting. Janis is honestly convinced Cady is having more fun here than she is; hauling her and Damian around and asking a thousand questions every second, but she happily answers what she can.

“Caddy, darling, you know I love you, but my delicate hands cannot take this kind of manhandling,” Damian whines dramatically, pulling gently out of her grip. “I saw a place that looked like it had food back that way, do either of you want anything?” He asks, already backing towards it.

“I’m good. Cads?” Janis responds. Cady doesn’t, still lost in the artwork around her. “Cads. Caddy. Cady. Baby.” The last name finally gets Cady’s attention as she suddenly snaps back into the real world.

“Huh? Oh, no, I’m good. Thanks Damian,” Cady says, seemingly still in a daze. That’s strange for her, she’s usually much more alert. Janis looks at her oddly but decides not to mention it.

She rolls her eyes as Damian shoots both of them finger guns and continues dancing away, putting her arms around Cady’s waist and peppering kisses up the column of her neck, ending with one on her cheek.

“Are you having fun, Peanut?”

“Uhhuh,” Cady nods, leaning back into her embrace. “I love listening to you talk about this kind of stuff. Your eyes just light up every time you know something I’ve asked about. It’s adorable.” Janis flushes scarlet, tucking her face deeper into Cady’s shoulder.

They stand there a while longer before Cady grabs Janis’ hand again, much gentler this time, and leads them to where Damian is standing dejectedly.

“What’s up, Dame?”

“No food. But I took about twelve maps and some free souvenir magnets instead,” He says, brandishing the maps and fanning himself with them.

“Christ, dude, how did you even- never mind.” Janis mutters, shaking her head at his antics. “Anyway, are you guys ready to go?”

“Ugh, yes, please. This was fun but I’ve had too much Da Vinci and not enough Dicaprio for one day, thank you very much. Also I demand to be fed so we will be stopping by that McDonalds on the way.”

“I’m ready to go too, I left my allergy pills at home and I can already feel the pollen,” Cady says, ending with a violent sneeze that prompts a giggle from Janis. “I brought four different medicines with me in case someone got hurt but left the ones I was most likely to need at home.” It’s nearly April now, so her allergies are in full force and will be for several weeks, much to her dismay.

——-

Cady feels off. She’s much more on edge than she was a few minutes ago, and hyper-aware of everything going on around her. She takes deep breaths and tries to process everything as best she can, realizing she’s over-sensitized from her time at the museum. She’s never been great at realizing when input gets to be too much for her until it’s too late. Luckily, she’ll be home soon. All they have to do is follow Damian through the drive through and then she can go home and spend some time in her quiet room with her weighted blanket.

She’s not expecting Janis to pull into a parking space in the lot at McDonalds, and looks around confusedly before realizing this McDonalds doesn’t have a drive through. This was not in the plan. She doesn’t realize she’s basically locked in her seat until Janis pokes her head in through the window.

“Cads, you coming?” She asks, holding out her hand for Cady to take.

“Can I just stay out here and wait for you?”

“But the line goes on for, like, ages. I don’t wanna be away from you for that long,” Janis whines with a pout. Damn those expressive brown eyes; Cady can never resist her no matter how hard she tries. Shakily, she undoes her seatbelt and steps out, taking Janis’ outstretched hand and trying to hide the tension in her shoulders.

Surprisingly, she makes it about five minutes in the restaurant before it all gets to be too much and she finally breaks. She can feel it building inside her, the buzzing pressure in her chest threatening to burst through her ribs. She’s still trying to process all the input from the museum, now with the added stimuli of the brightly colored booths and menu and the smells of grease and salt and the muffled conversations of everyone around her and the way her hair is down and tickling her face and how her shoes are new and still a little too tight and the pressure in her nose from her allergies and Janis’ tight but gentle grip on her hand and- it’s too much.

She wrenches out of Janis’ grasp to slam both hands over her ears, pressing as hard as she can, but it’s still not enough to block out the noise. She can feel the tears streaming rapidly down her face, which also isn’t helping. Janis turns to look at her, understandably confused. Cady loves holding her hand, loves when Janis touches her, she’s never pulled away before.

“Babe, what- oh shit. Angel, what’s wrong?” Janis asks, eyes full of concern as she reaches out to Cady. She only grows more worried when she lunges away and starts shivering violently, still clutching desperately at her ears. “Okay, no touching. Let me go tell Damian real quick and I’ll get you out of here. You’ll be okay, my butterfly.” Janis rambles, running to Damian a few places ahead in line. Cady watches her tap his shoulder and gesture to her, sees his shocked and worried face when he takes in her current state. Janis hands him her debit card and then comes jogging back to her side.

“Alright Caddy, come on, let’s get you home.” Janis says, holding the door for her. Cady sprints across the parking lot, practically jumping into her seat and slamming the door after her. She’s in such a state she barely remembers to buckle herself in before putting her hands back over her ears and shutting her eyes tightly. She feels Janis slide into her seat and start the car, feels the car back out of the lot and onto the road. She’s nearly home. Home is safe, she’ll be okay there.

——

Janis is terrified. She’s seen Cady sick, seen her cry, seen her scared near out of her mind whenever they watch Janis’ favorite horror movies. She has never seen Cady like this. She has no idea how to help her, no idea how to even approach this.

She did a fair bit of research on autism when Cady had first told her and Damian about hers after they had all reconciled at Spring Fling last year, but everything she can use in this situation varies by person and situation. She thinks it’s a sensory overload, Cady certainly seems to be having an issue with noise if the hands over the ears is anything to go by. She tries to whisper “It’s okay, angel, we’re nearly home,” in what she hopes is a comforting tone, but Cady only sobs harder and clutches at her ears with so much force Janis is worried they might bruise. Wrong choice.

She finally pulls into the Heron’s driveway, not even having time to shut the car off before Cady is ripping her seatbelt off and flying into the house at full speed. Secretly, she’s glad Cady’s parents are out of town for the weekend, not wanting them to think she’s done something to hurt their daughter this severely, especially this early in their relationship. What the fuck, she thinks to herself as she closes the car doors. How did I fuck up this bad?

She follows Cady inside, closing and locking the front door behind her. Damian has the key Cady gave him, he can let himself in whenever he gets here. She decides to check Cady’s room first, it’s the most logical place for her to be.

Sure enough, there’s a little Cady-shaped lump under the weighted blanket on her bed, still shaking, and she can still hear muffled sobs coming from it. Janis sits at the foot of the bed, not knowing what to do other than wait this out and see what happens. Holding as still as she can so she doesn’t jostle her girlfriend too much, she pulls out her phone to shoot Damian a text, letting him know where they are. He answers once he pulls into the driveway that he’ll be waiting downstairs with their food, and to take all the time they need until Cady is better.

She relaxes a bit knowing Damian is there, but still wrings her hands in front of her, scared for her Peanut. She about jumps out of her skin when a small hand suddenly rockets out from under the blanket and starts frantically patting around on the bedspread, seemingly searching for something. Unsure of what to do, she grabs it and squeezes gently, wincing a little when Cady grabs back with a vice grip. The shaking seems to lessen once she does, though, so Janis decides she doesn’t mind the loud popping of her knuckles.

After what feels like several hours but couldn’t have been more than 45 minutes, Cady’s tear-streaked face peeks out from under the blanket and her hand starts making shapes in Janis’ grasp. Cady is fluent in sign language and started teaching Janis a while ago. They started with the alphabet so they could spell things out for each other if one of them ever went nonverbal (and sometimes just for fun). Janis lets go and watches as Cady spells out “hold me?”

As if Janis would ever deny her. She nods and holds out her arms, letting out a soft “oof” as Cady jumps into her, throwing her arms around her neck and legs around her waist, continuing to let out little sobs and whimpers into her shoulder. She tries gently rubbing circles on Cady’s back, but she gives an uncomfortable shudder so she stops almost immediately and settles for just holding her to her chest gently, worried about hurting her.

Cady chokes out a soft “tighter, please,” into her ear, so Janis squeezes, increasing the pressure until Cady gives a relieved sigh. She rocks them side to side gently, which seems to soothe her further. Finally did something right, she thinks.

After a very long, very tense period of rocking and Cady desperately trying to match her breathing, her sobs gradually slow before finally ending with a snuffle. Janis stops rocking but doesn’t move otherwise, content to just hold Cady close for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Cady mutters after several minutes, crying lightly again.

“Oh, baby, no. Don’t be sorry, why would you be sorry?” Janis squeezes her before inching her back so she can see her face, wiping tears from under her eyes.

“You-you just wanted to have more fun and get food with D-damian but instead you had to-to bring me home and then you stayed to take c-care of me-“ Cady sobs out before Janis cuts her off with a soft kiss.

“Princess, it’s McDonalds. I can get garbage fast food with Damian anytime. He brought some back for us anyway, he’s downstairs. I care more about making sure you’re okay and healthy and happy. I want to keep the one Caddy I’ve got safe much more than I want to sit in a loud, garish restaurant and eat shit that’ll clog my arteries anyway. Understand?” Janis says, cupping her chin to look into Cady’s clear blue eyes until she gives a sheepish nod.

“You have questions,” Cady says bluntly after another few minutes, now calmed down again.

“Um, a few, yeah,” Janis responds anxiously, looking briefly at her lap. Cady’s been through the wringer today, she doesn’t need Janis accosting her.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you okay?” Janis bursts out desperately. Cady gives a chuckle and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“I am now, yeah. You helped a lot, actually. This time was a lot shorter than normal.” Jesus. They’d been in Cady’s room for at least an hour, and that doesn’t even include the time in the restaurant or the ride home.

“What happened? What do I need to do if it happens again?” Janis is still near frantic with worry. She hates feeling helpless, and she had no idea what to do for Cady while it was happening.

“That was a sensory overload turned meltdown. I didn’t realize it was so bad until we were in the car, there was a lot happening at the museum but I was focusing on you and the art and Damian. I get overloaded a lot, but I haven’t had a meltdown because of it since I was still a Plastic.” Nearly a year, and she had one because of Janis. God, she feels like such an idiot. Cady seems to notice the guilt in her eyes, because she cups her cheeks and says, “Hey, stop beating yourself up over this, mpenzi. I can see you thinking. This was not your fault, okay? You had no way of knowing, and I should’ve told you I was feeling bad. Once it started you did almost everything right.” Janis gives a weak nod, feeling slightly better and finally grinning widely as Cady pecks her nose.

“As for what you can do, that usually depends on the situation, unfortunately. But, as some general rules, don’t touch unless I reach out or ask you to, and try not to talk. If you have to, just speak softly, don’t whisper. I don’t like the way it sounds even when I’m not overloaded, but when I am it’s like nails on a chalkboard.” Janis nods again, taking in the information.

There is one thing Janis really wants to know. “What-um. What does it feel like?” She asks gently.

Cady thinks for a moment. “That’s a good question, I don’t really know how to explain it without sounding totally nuts.”

“Try me,” Janis responds with a chuckle. She knows that feeling at least, some of the metaphors she’s come up with to explain what her panic attacks feel like have bordered on nonsensical.

“Okay, well, um. Physically all I really feel is a kind of buzzing or pounding in my chest and my muscles lock up. Most of it is mental, for me anyway. It’s sort of like- what’s that game we played with Damian and your sister last time we had game night? With the little blocks? Jungle?”

“Jenga.” Janis laughs, kissing her forehead.

“Yeah, that one! Anyway, it’s kind of like that. Every piece of sensory input is like a block gets taken away. In the beginning it’s only a few, so it’s still pretty stable. But after a while it starts to build up and get more wobbly. That’s usually when I notice what’s happening and most of the time I can do things to soothe myself and get back, but every once in a while something happens that just knocks the whole tower over and I fall apart. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, actually. It really does. Good job Peanut.” Janis says, slightly stunned. “What about now? Are you still good for movie night or do you want Damian and I to go home...?”

“No don’t go!” Cady yelps, locking tight around Janis again. “I don’t wanna be alone. But I don’t know if I can handle a movie, could we play Animal Crossing together instead?” She murmurs, burying her head in Janis’ hair, inhaling her comforting scent of apples, vanilla and paint. An odd combination, but Cady absolutely loves it.

“Hey, whoa, easy baby.” Janis soothes, easing her back again. “We won’t go if you want us to stay, I just wanted to check. Animal Crossing sounds great, I’ll send Damian to grab some stuff from our houses while we eat. Speaking of Damian, he has been downstairs this whole time, can we go let him know you’re okay?”

“Oh god, yeah. I’m gonna change, I’ll be down in a minute, you go get him. I totally forgot,” Cady says frantically, scrambling off of Janis and rushing to her dresser. Janis laughs at her sudden haste, walking towards the door until she hears Cady call her back. “Janis?” She turns to look at her with a questioning hum. “Thank you.” She says softly, melting Janis’ heart just a little further.

“Always, baby.” She answers with a cheeky wink, closing the door behind her.

The second she hits the last stair Damian is there, frantically pestering her with worried questions. “What the hell happened to her? Where is she? Is she okay? Is she dead?”

Janis bursts out laughing at the last one. “Damdam, chill, she’s totally fine, she’s just changing. She had a sensory overload, I’m sure she’ll tell you more once she comes down.” She hugs him tightly to calm them both before making her way to the kitchen to heat up their food.

“God, thank fuck. She was shaking so hard I thought she’d explode and we’d get done for manslaughter.” Damian jokes as Janis arranges Cady’s chicken nugget happy meal into a smile on a plate before sticking it in the microwave. That’ll cheer her up a little more.

Sure enough, Cady comes padding down the stairs as Janis makes the apple slices into hair, now wearing a soft t-shirt she definitely stole from Janis along with a pair of leggings and her hedgehog slippers. She’s also wearing her clunky, thick glasses instead of her contacts, and Janis has to bite her lip to prevent her lesbian monkey brain from saying anything totally embarrassing.

She shuffles up to Damian for a hug, and Janis watches her lead him to the couch to explain what happened as she grabs Cady’s allergy pills from the counter and pours a couple out for her.

This conversation is much shorter, and after a few minutes Cady takes a seat at the counter, laughing goofily when she sees what Janis has done with her meal. “Alright, I’ll be back in, like, ten. I’m gonna go grab our sleepover stuff. No canoodling while I’m gone.” Damian says, pointing at Janis accusingly, laughing as she raises her hands in surrender.

——-

They’re just finishing eating as Damian comes bursting back in with his and Janis’ sleepover bags and Nintendo Switches. “Your mom and Juliana say hi and they love you, Jan.” He says; heaving a sigh as he puts his bounty down by the door. She makes a mental note to text them before bed.

Cady puts her dishes in the sink and goes to grab her switch, settling in on the couch with her favorite blanket and making grabby hands at the both of them. She’s much more lethargic than normal, having spent a lot of energy during her meltdown.

Janis and Damian take turns changing into their pjs before grabbing their own consoles and settling in on either side of her. Janis had introduced Cady to Animal Crossing around New Years and she had become absolutely obsessed, begging her parents to buy it for her until they finally caved for her birthday. She’s designing her island to be half Kenya and half Chicago, and Janis is frankly amazed at the progress she’s made. Her birthday was only in February.

——

As they run around playing hide and seek on each other’s islands, Cady is secretly deep in thought. She never thought she’d have people she’d be able to trust the way she does Janis and Damian. She’d hoped, obviously, but quickly lost hold of that after her move from Kenya. Once she’d turned full Plastic, it had gone entirely.

But as she sits here, nestled firmly between her two favorite people and falling asleep on her girlfriends shoulder, she realizes she’s finally found her group, her herd, her flock.

She’s found where she belongs.

———

hope you enjoyed this, do please tell me what you thought! i also wanted to make it clear that janis is the one blaming herself for the meltdown. cady doesn’t blame her and neither do i as the author. also, i’m not totally familiar with tumblr yet so please let me know of any formatting things i can improve. (also my works probably won’t be this long in the future. got carried away :/)

lots of love, ezzy 🦕

[juliamc1003]

I have always been interested in the printmaking process of Collagraphy. This genre of printing allows room for experimentation, surprising mistakes and interesting outcomes. I’m also interested in Collage making and Collagraphy is a great way for me to combine the two. Even when drawing on paper, I usually feel the need to add something physical to it, to create a texture or create something more tactile. Throughout this research for collagraph artists I have learned more about the genre and I am excited to progress and experiment now that I have inspiration. I enjoy the process of finding day to day objects around me, and to find out how they take ink and print. To create a collagraphy print it’s imperative to correctly and properly prepare your ‘plate’. Your plate is a firm surface which can be scored, etched and different textured paper,gels and paint can be added to create an image. You can transfer your chosen image the plate as if creating a Lino cut image. You must use the correct glue to when building your plate and you can also use string, buttons etc as long as the material used isn’t too soft or absorbent which will affect the inking process. The plate image is then sealed with gloss or varnish (also the back and sides to prevent curving of the plate when being washed). The inking process can be the relief or intaglio method (adding ink on top of the image or adding ink into the image and wiping off then using a press similar to the etching method) I have chosen three artists and of the three I was happy to find Donald Stoltenberg. I also was happy to find information on Atelier 17, a famous print studio in Paris and later New York, set up by a British artist, Stanley William Hayter. He encouraged lots of experimental ways of printing and encouraged artists such as Sue Fuller.

Donald Stoltenberg

Donald Stoltenberg’s collagraph ‘Central Station’, immediately sets the scene. The viewer feels caught up in a timeless romantic narrative filled with anticipation and excitement. We cannot see other passengers which eludes to a journey or travel out-with the humdrum and the rat race. The warm red and orange hues and bright white of daylight from the archway are enticing as if there is another life outside of the dirty smokey city. The title ‘Central station’ reflects the mood of the occasion, perhaps we are waiting to meet a friend we’ve not seen for a long time or we are taking a long train journey. We, as the viewer are given the choice to create the story...the train arriving - who are you there to meet? There is a huge sense of anticipation surrounding this image.

The scene seems to be dateless, could be 100 years ago or yesterday. The image has a heavy vignette and this gives focus to the huge archway of the station entrance and gives the viewer a sense of smokey hazy station. The train to the left of the image... is it arriving, departing or stationary? We are able to create our own narrative and that’s why I feel this image is of a romantic nature.

Stoltenberg trained as a graphic designer before starting his career as an artist. The artist also had a passion for architecture and maritime structures. He has published books in his career, popular books being ‘The Artist and the Built environment” and Collagraph Printmaking. Although Stoltenberg was a successful collagrapher and printmaker, later in life he dedicated his life to watercolour and oil painting as these techniques were less laborious, although his subject matters remained the same. (Destroyer At DryDock for example and can been seen in the link for the Anderson Gallery)

The addition of the bold text and numbers seem to act like a calendar or stopwatch - the countdown to a rendezvous or a holiday. The number 8 seems to be a favourite of Stoltenberg as we see this figure of 8 in his train triptych. Stoltenberg also favours a circular object when fixing his collagraph plate. We can see the circle plays a vital role in many of his other works. (Shipyard 1982, Warship, Wooden bridge, Relic and Coin collection again, in the link provided). The lettering in the station’s large arch window are not recognisable or familiar, therefore I would presume that due to the technique of collography, the letters were used purely for aesthetic reasons rather than for any symbolic reason. With this collagraph, the fonts and figures would have been deliberately chosen in order to sit well on the plate.

The Artist has achieved a sense of movement with the train lines and carriages moving from the foreground of the image into the distance. He has also achieved the sense of direction and movement with the hazy shadows from the outside of the station tunnel. The artist has used both vertical and horizontal lines overlapping giving a sense of the enormous structure of the station and how it seems to loom or envelope the trains and passengers. The glass archway is almost central to the image and our eye is led to the incoming train with it’s white dot as a light. The viewer easily places themselves standing on the platform in anticipation...

Works Cited

ARCHIVE, ARTWORK. “Art Collection from Anderson Gallery - BSU.” Artwork Archive, 2021, www.artworkarchive.com/profile/jay-block/artist/donald-stoltenberg. Accessed 8 Mar. 2021.

“Donald Stoltenberg.” Wikipedia, 18 May 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Stoltenberg.

“Zullo Gallery - Current Exhibit.” Www.zullogallery.org, www.zullogallery.org/printmakers_page_1.html. Accessed 8 Mar. 2021. ‌

KATHLEEN BUCHANAN

This image is by the Collagraph artist Kathleen Buchanan. Titled ‘Flock and Sea” is conveys a sense of silence and serenity - a slow pace. We find ourselves in quietness, stopping to appreciate the landscape on a hazy Scottish island perhaps.

The sheep are in a restful mood, however there is a humorous element to them. Our eye is drawn to the crumpled sheep coat - like an old paper bag, random like litter in the lush green grass being anchored by the boulders. In a light hearted way we could see that the boulders are preventing them from sliding down the hill. There is also a sculptural feel to the sheep’s coats which gives them a comical look, like they’re are wrapped up in a duvet keeping warm.

It’s Spring time but still cold, the slight haziness and speckled effect in the blue of the sky reminds me of the Scottish midge fly buzzing around with the sheep unperturbed.

The sheep are relaxed, reminding us of the harmonious relationship between nature and animals.

The viewer cannot see the eyes of the sheep, but Buchanan has caught the personality of sheep - one always seems to be curious or suspicious. The distant sheep of the flock could be the dreamer or the outsider - the ‘black sheep’. The other sheep make the viewer feel ignored by the deliberate positioning of the animals .

The boundary line, between the sea and the hillside divides the image. There are many outlines in this image - around the boulders, the sheep coats and the island - giving a sense of heaviness and solidity.

Kate Buchanan, by profession is a biologist and her background in science links well with printmaking. Both fields of study involve great observational skills and this is obvious with her great understanding of the natural landscape and its inhabitants.

Works Cited

Design, Doug Felton Web. Kathleen Walsh Buchanan Fine Art Printmaking | about Me. www.greysealpress.com/about. Accessed 8 Mar. 2021. ‌

SARAH AMOS

Sarah Amos, is a master printmaker who divides her time between Australia and America and her art combines collagraphy with mixed-media or more recently, stitching. Her recent work is based on images from the vast Australian landscapes. This collagraph is from 2011 and is not so typical of her recent work however it immediately caught my attention. The title is called Little Red Wonder and it’s an apt title. There’s no obvious narrative, but the artist evokes nostalgia, and grabs your attention through the colour and lines and form alone. So many words spring to mind on viewing this image - it feels like Christmas. It’s candy canes and gift wrapped boxes under the tree. It’s like a hazy red glow of the fairy lights and the warm fire. The image reminds me of sweeties and paper straws, strawberry shoe laces, and toffee apples at Halloween. The geometric lines and shapes and the vibrancy and the mottled marks conjure up visions of and old-fashioned circus and the high trapeze -the big top. Or a slice of cool watermelon or Summer Cup cocktail. The white lines, in strange directions, as if holding up the makeshift tent, cosy and warm, safely camping in your bedroom. The image is fairytales of Dorothy and her ruby red shoes and The Queen of Hearts in Wonderland all in one box of wonder.

As much as the image gives a sweet naive impression, we can also imagine the polar opposite. The colour red is a very symbolic colour, maybe the artist chose this particular hue of red to translate an emotion. Could this be an angry expression with the jutting disjointed lines. The lines are hard and edgy and there is no flow. Is the emotion aggression - the white lines in the centre of the image seem to puncture the composition - like exposed bones through blood. The viewer feels small, as if we are underneath a structure and it feels looming and foreboding. The two blocks each side of the image seem to be leaning in and are imposing.

With the nature of collagraphy, the inking and printing process almost always gives a dreamlike quality, a little hazy but alway an honest and sincere image.

Reference list

AMOS, S. (2021). Master Printmaker | Sarah Amos Studio. [online] sarahamosstudio.com. Available at: http://sarahamosstudio.com/index.php [Accessed 8 Mar. 2021].

Bunyan, D.M. (2001). Sarah Amos. [online] Art Blart. Available at: https://artblart.com/tag/sarah-amos/ [Accessed 8 Mar. 2021].

‌

[always-andshewrites]

In chapter 2 Katniss has a talk with Madge and inadvertently learns some new information, pushing her to have a talk with her dad. Peeta initiates a talk with Mr. Everdeen, thinking he is going to get scolded for his and Katniss' "late night visits" only to have Mr. Everdeen thank him for helping his family out all those years ago. Dylan takes Katniss to the secret place in the woods where she hopes to get some answers, only to have more questions. Haymitch (with inspiration from Hazelle) does a nice thing for Madge; Poppy chats with her dad with a fancy coin that disrupts the Capitol's "bugs" with an idea to share it with K & P.; Madge and Katniss have "girl talk" and we even get a little bit of Madge/Prim. Katniss wakes up blindfolded, as Peeta whisks her away to the woods for some "alone time" before the tour. Katniss and Peeta wake Haymitch up and on their way home they see a car in his driveway... It can only be one person, right?In Chapter 3 Katniss and Peeta come face to face with the devil himself . . . And let the games begin . . .

Summary:

Katniss and Peeta made it out of the arena together, but little do they know the games are only beginning. Who can they trust as secrets are exposed and identities are revealed? This is the sequel to "Changing the Game"; a Hunger Games - Catching Fire rewrite. Told in several different character POV's.

Chapter 3 - Deal with the Devil

| Peeta |

Using my free hand to open the door because my other hand is being held hostage by the death grip from Katniss’ hand, I slowly push the door open.  I tense up when I feel my heart begin to accelerate from the thought of some Capitolite laying their filthy hands on any of my things.  It’s true that this is my home, but technically, it is the property of the Capitol, and thus, belongs to President Snow.  However, the thought of him or any of his goons in my home sends a murderous rage festering inside me.

The moment my foot passes the threshold my head snaps to the left, meeting Katniss' stare.  Both of us immediately recognize the all too familiar rancid aroma of blood and roses filling the air, informing us, without a doubt, who our intruder is.

‘Snow.’ Katniss conveys, casting me a worried glance and gripping even tighter onto my hand.

No one appears to be on the main level of the house, so we tiptoe, quietly making our way up the steps and to the second floor.  Stealthily, we creep down the hallway, eager to face our intruder, yet anxious at the same time.  I instantly take notice of the door to my art studio, which is always, without fail kept shut and locked up tight; is slightly ajar.  It is what grabs my attention, confirming that something is amiss.  All of our friends and family; or really anyone who visits us knows to steer clear of that room, aware of what lies beyond the threshold.

Curiosity overpowers our fear, and together we make our way into that room.  This is the one and only room I ask Katniss to stay out of, not because I have anything to hide but because I know the sight of my paintings will most likely trigger her gag reflex, in addition to causing her now dormant nightmares to return.  They are not so much paintings, but a visual timeline of each of my nightmares, a vivid recollection of our time in the arena.  

When I glance down the row of paintings, for the first time I see them as an onlooker would and cannot help but notice how each one is more vibrant than its neighbor.  Most likely because the nightmares become more lucid and lifelike the closer the Victory Tour gets.

Katniss doesn’t want or need a visual to remind her of the horrors we faced in the arena. But for me, it’s like . . . like a form of therapy.  It’s like if I have the ability to remove the images from my mind and transfer them onto a canvas; by turning them into a still life portrait, something tangible, it grants me control; the power to lock them away forever, or even burn them if that’s what I wanted to do.

As much as I want to forget the horrors we faced and as much as I want to expunge the memories from my mind, at the same time I don’t want to forget.  If I forget, then who would remember Thresh and Rue?  And what about the other tributes?  No, I need to remember, it’s what gives me the motivation to continue living my life.  The drive to fight our battle.

Once the door is open, we see the backside of a man with fluffy snow-white hair.  He is dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, slowly pacing the length of the room.  His hands are clasped behind his back, giving a slight nod here and there, as if offering his approval at the paintings lining the wall.

“Dammit— Lucy . . . Kill . . . Mock—jay . . .” I think I hear him mumble to himself just as his body tenses for a moment.  I am instantly intrigued and wonder who this “Lucy” is.

‘Did you—’ I meet Katniss’ eyes, curious as to if I’m hearing things.  She nods, confirming my sanity.

'Peeta, I'm scared.'  She shudders, squeezing my hand a little tighter, if that is even possible.  I reciprocate, entwining our fingers, assuring her that I am not going anywhere.

'It's going to be okay; he's not going to hurt us.' I tell her, though not quite certain myself.  It is moments such as these that I am grateful for whatever forces have bestowed us with our telepathic link.  The ability to communicate silently while in the presence of others has proven to be more than . . . useful.

“Aghhem . . . Excuse me, can I help you?”  I announce our presence, clearing my throat to grab his attention.  I would recognize that snowy white hair anywhere, I do not need to see his face to know his identity, but I still need him to turn around and face us.

“These are quite remarkable.”  President Snow takes his time turning around as he compliments the painting behind him, presenting his face with an approving smirk.  This particular painting details one of his ferocious mutts from the arena; a squirrel foaming at its mouth fills the page, while Katniss and I are drawn as miniscule beings in the far bottom left corner of the canvas.  I am leaning over the side of the cornucopia gripping firmly onto Katniss’ calves while she aims the golden arrow at the Queen.  Why am I not surprised that this painting brings him pleasure?

On the other hand, I do not miss the way he sneers disapprovingly at the canvas portraying me and Katniss with our allies from District Eleven.  I have captured us high up in a tree with our friends, seeking refuge from those who mean us harm.  Katniss and I are settled in our sleeping bag on a branch; just below us are Thresh and Rue in an almost mirroring position.  I remember that night so clearly as we swapped stories from our district’s.

“President Snow, what an honor, what—” Katniss begins to offer pleasantries, but the deleterious man in front of us cuts her off before she brings it to completion.

“I think we’ll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.  What do you think?”  Snow says with his affected Capitol accent and a hint of arrogancy. His lips are plump and full, the skin appearing painfully tight as he speaks, causing me to believe they must be surgically altered.  Lips that full just aren’t natural.

‘I think it’s meant to highlight his features.’ Katniss quips and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to mask my amusement.

“Yes, I think that would save time.”  Katniss affirms, her voice confident and steady as she stands tall.  She has one hell of a poker face but she can’t fool me.  She is utterly terrified, as am I.

Snow continues to marvel over the neighboring paintings for a moment before a sly grin appears on his face.  He follows it up with a nod of approval and then his eyes are back on me.  “I heard you were talented Mr. Mellark, but I just had to see it for myself.  I would never believe that someone from as lowly a district as Twelve could produce such . . . works of art.”  He begins, slithering to the far corner of the room and taking a seat in a chair behind a desk.  Wait a minute, where did that desk come from?  Before today, this room contained only my artwork, an easel, a handful of blank canvases, various containers of paint, my brushes, and a few other random art supplies.  Either I’m losing it or, or— did he bring this furniture with him?  Is it meant to . . . intimidate us?

'What do you think he wants?' Katniss presses, never removing President Snow from her line of sight.

“Please, why don’t you have a seat?”  Snow affirms, motioning for us to take a seat in the sophisticated looking high back chairs in front of him.  However, I get the distinct impression the “please” was not merely a request.  Katniss and I take a seat, refusing to release our grip on the other’s hand and scoot our chairs closer to the other so that our knees are brushing.

'I have no idea, but I have a feeling we are about to find out.  And . . . where did the desk and chairs come from?'

‘No clue.’ She answers without missing a beat.

Unsure as to how I should respond to President Snow’s remark, I say the first thing that pops into my head.  “President Snow, my paintings will be on display in the Capitol in just a few weeks, so I know you didn’t come all the way out here just to see them.  Why don’t we forgo the pleasantries, and you can tell us why you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”  I assert, holding my head up high, recalling my lessons on proper etiquette with Effie as I come off as unperturbed.  I really hope he can’t see how utterly terrified I truly am.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 27

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: We update weekly, have a masterlist, and a tag list.

Warnings: Swearing?

Abstract: don’t shun it fun it

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

John Deacon saw himself in the mirror looping his necktie into a perfect full Windsor knot. It was a fancy knot, entirely sophisticated and completely ironic regarding the rest of his carefully chosen ensemble. Clothes could be used to intimidate, to beguile, and to disarm. Deacy knew more about this than most people. Clothes could repel and repulse others or compel them through charm and sex appeal. Deacy might not have the obvious raw beauty of Roger Taylor, but he was attractive in a different way: his style was his own and he committed to it with every inch of his gigantic heart. His style was a reflection of his paradoxical personality, and he was proud of that. He always wanted to simultaneously bring people close and push them away. It was unexpected and always a success. If you wanted to fight for him, fight with him, play with him and join the chase, well, he’d be down; he usually didn’t find someone who was able to do this, to understand him and his innate shyness and his unflappable confidence. He was more handsome than pretty and more lupine in the lines of his face than cherubic. His shy, almost reserved confidence was tempered by his natural wit and sharp tongue; he liked the power he had in knowing he could destroy anyone with a few chosen words. The power wasn’t from being able to do this, but from not doing it. From his holding back, from his benign sparing of one person to his ruthless random attack on another; this meant people were always kept guessing and paralyzed in a glorious suspense entirely controlled by Deacy. They never knew when he would strike. And his fashion was a reflection of this chaotic energy, and every piece of clothing he was wearing tonight was a play, a game, just like everything else in his carefully controlled life. Deacy kept looping the tie, smiling to himself.

Brian dragged an unhinged Roger into the bathroom; his arms were looping through the air, trying to get at Brian’s hair, trying to get away; Brian’s arms were so unnaturally long, and Roger knew it was a fool’s errand to try and wrench himself away. He shoved Roger into the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the water. Cold sheets of moisture cascaded onto Roger’s shaking frame. Brain saw Roger’s perfect blond hair fold into lackluster browns under the water’s transformative powers. He growled, wiping water from his long eyelashes. His white shirt was soaked through in a matter of seconds and his tuxedo pants immediately weighed him down. Despite this, he tried to heave himself out of the shower. He gripped the once azure marble frame around the sliding glass door, and used his slippery leverage to regain his footing. Brain, in the mood to suffer no fools, immediately pushed Roger back into the shower and onto its cerise and cerulean tiles; those tiles, a daring choice from Roger, now only looked grey to him. Everything was grey. He felt more stable and less panicked since being forcibly emerged into the water; he had been hoping this shock to the system would reboot his sense. But it hadn’t. He was still as blind to the colors of world as he was to the whispering of his own heart.

You knew what your heart was saying, however. You didn’t want to ignore it or deny it. If anything, you wanted to tell everyone about your budding feelings. You couldn’t wait for Lydia to get home; though considering the timing of the dinner, you might miss her altogether; you hadn’t seen each other all day, and whereas this wasn’t uncommon, it was unfortunate as you were as curious about her night as she might be about yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what a night with Roger Taylor would look like or feel like, but you were intrigued to hear from your best friend what the details of that experience were like. You rather thought it would be different from your night with John Deacon; they were two very different kinds of people. Roger was a clear choice, meaning that he was overtly attractive, charmingly abrasive, and mostly harmless. His depth was hidden, carefully so; yet Deacy kept everything, or so you thought, mostly transparent and out in the open. You had felt if you asked him any question he’d give you an honest answer. You had told each other you didn’t want to hide things from each other, no matter what; and yet, and yet, he hadn’t told you about his dead wife. You didn’t want to push him into talking about her; you couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for him to do so, and what his relationship with you made him feel regarding her; you didn't want to speculate; you’d rather hear the truth from him. So you had decided to wait for him to bring her up, and then as kindly as you could let him know you already knew and why, and that you weren’t hurt by her or his keeping the story of them back, but that you did deserve to know what you were getting into, and not to hear it from someone else, but from Deacy personally; you hoped this wouldn’t come to ahead anytime soon.

You were trying to brush out your hair; you had just had a bath, and the entire time, you only thought of Deacy, and how excited you were to see him tonight. You had a black towel wrapped around your body as you slid a comb through your hectic dark hair. With your glasses off your olive eyes shined in the light of the black and white bathroom. Lydia was obsessed with this bathroom; it was her design; she had, more or less, financed the entire decoration process of your shared apartment; childhood friends, you knew everything about each other. She had money. Lots of money. Her family was embarrassingly well-off, and even at university she lived off a generous trust fund that would, to your understanding, triple upon her graduation. What she loved most about this bathroom was the color scheme. She was a large scale artist. Her bedroom was covered in her original artworks; she also had a painting studio in the apartment full of ongoing projects. Her obsession had always been painting in black and white. You had never seen anything like her pieces. No matter what she painted, no matter what style she was using, landscape, abstract, or portrait, she would paint only using blacks and greys and whites. And her scale was terrifyingly large, so these pieces that should be in color were shockingly powerful when all the color was sucked out of them, and the feeling upon looking at one of her creations was powerfully confusing and thought-provoking. The absence of color did not render the feelings or the mind inept. Rather, the mind did what it did best: it filled in the subtext into glorious juxtaposition creating a sense of dissonance so delicate it was exactly was Lydia wanted the viewer to feel. Sickened and awe-inspired, in short. So the black and white baroque bathroom caused Lydia nothing short of divine ecstasy when she conceived of it, with your help. You pulled the towel up and put the comb down. You needed to pick out the perfect outfit to feel good in and to impress Deacy; you wanted to render him speechless.

Freddie Mercury was speechless. Jim had just come clean about his entire afternoon with you.

“Jim…” Freddie said, frowning into the runway mirrors. He was taking off his sweatshirt and picking out an outfit for tonight. He turned to the mirror so he could see Jim’s face better. Jim always came clean to Freddie; it was just what they did, especially if they felt guilty about something. They were each other’s confidants, each other’s shoulders to cry on, each other’s shelter from the storm. It was a guiding principle in their marriage: full disclosure, compassion, and caring understanding no matter what. It was a promise they made to each other since the day of the Jim’s white pants: if they couldn’t be transparent with their feelings, be truly vulnerable, then they needed to end it; if you don’t have vulnerability, you don’t have honesty, and if you don’t have honesty, you cannot have trust. They’ve never found it easier to keep a promise before in their lives. This was compatibility and reciprocity at its finest.

“I don’t regret it.” Jim’s Irish lilt was always more pronounced when he was angry.

Removing his undershirt, Freddie said, “I’m not asking you to regret it, darling.”

“She needed to know; I won’t be made to feel bad for protecting Johnny.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry, my love.” Freddie stopped undressing and walked over to Jim, who was sitting on one of the white patterned elaborate sofas. He took his husband’s hand. “You need to tell Deacy you told her.”

“I know.” Jim was no longer angrily defensive; he was resigned to having to make a fuzzy situation less complicated somehow.

“That’s all I’m asking; they deserve an equal playing field. And it is unfair,” he said, kissing Jim to make sure he was listening, “to ask her to bring it up to him, when it is privileged information she shouldn’t already have. I can’t even imagine the courage that would take.”

“Nor I.”

“And you don’t want to set them up to fail or distrust each other or doubt what they have, especially since you hold them both in such high esteem.”

Jim nodded, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“Nice pants, by the way; exceptionally snug.” Freddie’s eyebrows bopped up and down suggestively.

“Oh, there will be none of that Mr. Mercury.” Jim said standing up and making his way towards the exit of this closet and towards his own. The teal satin pants were a tight statement piece Freddie was proud to see his love wearing.

“We don’t have the time.” Jim reasoned.

“There’s always time, darling.”

“Not for what I have planned there isn’t.” Jim winked at Freddie.

Freddie beamed up at his husband. “I guess I’ll just have to be patient, then.”

“Indeed.”

“One of the white ones, maybe?” Freddie suggested, starting to sift for the perfect ensemble himself.

“I think you’d like that a bit too much, Fred.”

“But that’s the point, love.”

Jim laughed.

Miami Beach pulled up to the restaurant in his cream Rolls-Royce.

Deacy ran a hand through his bouncy hair, checking his reflection one more time. The black and orange spoon-patterned tie clashed brilliantly with his fitted forest green button-down. The shirt was covered in mauve and sandy-colored bird silhouettes. He wore a baggy grey blazer over it, and a simple pair of tailored ivory-colored trousers. It was a twofold curiosity he felt: 1) what on earth would you think and say about his ungodly attire tonight 2) how angry would Roger be when he saw him, since it would be clear to them all, though especially Rog, that something was meant by this beyond just the typical utility clothing served. Roger would know it was a game crafted to make them furious. He slipped on a pair of grey loafers, and headed for the front door.

Brian had closed the shower’s glass door and was doing his best to hold it closed. Roger was taking turns switching between banging on it and tugging on the handle. His hands were slippery and he couldn’t get enough traction to open it.

“Open the door, you sod.” Roger yelled. “I’m soaked through to the bone. I’m dying. Let me out.”

“You’re not dying; you’re drunk and you need to sober up for this meeting.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Come off it! You can’t lie to me, Rog; we’ve known each other too long.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, and a sober person vomits all over their treasured sunglasses collection. Please; give me some credit here.”

Roger gave up fighting then. He knew what this looked like. He understood why Bri thought he was drunk. He also knew he’d sound like a lunatic if he tried to explain to his friend what was really wrong with him. This bizarre water torture wasn’t helping him calm down, however; sure, he wasn’t having a panic attack any longer, but he was growing angrier and angrier wet second by wet second. He was angry at himself, angry at Brian, and angry at Lydia. Angry at Lydia for fucking up his life, angry at Lydia whom he loved. Whom he loved. No, Roger thought, stop that; you don’t love her. You don’t know her. She’s not important. It isn’t like she’s thinking of you, wanting you; you’re nothing. She’s better off without you, mate. Roger let the water hit him, and he breathed in and out, trying to slow his breath, trying to mask his anger and self-loathing. If he ever wanted to get out of his shower, he’d had to make Brian believe he was fine. To do that, he’d have to conceal his rage and sorrow, and put on a happy face, or at least an apologetic one; in short, he’d have to lie.

“You’re right.” Roger sounded contrite, but wasn’t.

“I’m sorry! I can’t hear you.” Brian was deliberately plugging his ears.

“You can hear me, you bugger.”

“Try again, then.”

“You’re right, Bri. I had a drink to steady myself before the meeting and over did it.” Roger had his lips up against the glass door, dramatically screaming into it.

“And you’re a bit too drunk now to see you could have turned the water off on your own, hey?”

Roger spun around and growled at full volume in his shower before turning off the faucets. He had been distracted, yes, but not drunk. All the same, he hadn’t noticed when Brian locked him in here he had full control over the water. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to break the glass door with his fists.

Brian, perhaps sensing this, opened the door. He reached a hand in and turned off the faucets for Rog.

“I hate you,” Roger said.

“I hate you, too.” Brian said.

It was how they said I love you, and always had been. They laughed together, and Brian felt his concern melt away and become a thing of the past.

“Pass me a towel, mate?” Roger was shaking. Brian thought it was from the cold, but it was from Roger’s barely controlled fury.

Brian passed Roger a canary yellow towel; Roger took the grey towel and began patting himself down.

“I’ll get you something to put on.” Brian left the bathroom.

Roger’s tears were mixing with the moisture on his face. His grey eyes sparkled back at him. He wanted to die. And since he couldn’t die, he settle for hurting someone or something.

You were in your bedroom, throwing clothing options on your bed, and rejects to the floor.

You found yourself unable to settle on one style over another, maybe it was leftovers from the impromptu costume party you and Jim had, but for the life of you, you had never had so many problems picking out what to wear. Lydia would say it was because you suddenly cared so much about what you had on because it would be taken off of you by someone else. And whereas she might not have been wrong, there was also the direct notion someone else you liked very much would be at a dinner with you, and his closest friends, and you’d have the opportunity to stare at each other all night. It had very little to do with touching for you. You felt compelled to have a visual impact that would draw attention.

Lydia was so much better at this than you; you wished she was home. You had a few outstanding pieces chosen, and even though Deacy had said it was a casual event, you had suspicions these men never dressed to not kill. You put on the top first. It was a golden brocade long-sleeved peplum. The raised pattern was adorned with pastel flowers, very small, very delicate. You paired the spectacular top with a pair of sky blue fitted velvet pants. You knew the shoes you needed, but they were Lydia’s. You both had an open door for fashion policy. You squeaked out of your bedroom and headed for Lydia’s room. You knocked on the door again, just to be sure, just to be polite--you knew she wasn’t home though. You opened the red crystal door knob and entered your best friend’s room.

The skylight was hexagonal and raised as if to kiss the sun itself. The bed was four poster with gauzy black hangings that did little much to obscure the view of whatever would happen in her bed. Unlike your room, where the walls were visible at certain points, Lydia’s walls were entirely covered by her artworks. Her black and white art screamed softly and sang loudly to you as you went for her closet. The canvases were all types of sizes, tetris-ed into perfect fits on her large walls (she had the largest bedroom). Though most of her pieces were at least four feet tall and wider when possible; she liked everything to be larger than life in all aspects of her life. In her closet you found them fast. You had your heart set on a pair of bright orange patent leather pumps. You threw them on, and ran to the bathroom to check your hair quick. Large and fluffy was as close to taming it as you could get. It would have to do. You put your large black plastic frames on, but still felt your outfit was missing something. Earrings, maybe? You went back into Lydia’s room and took her extra large golden hoop earrings and put them on; instinctually, you reached for her emerald bird-shaped ring, and slipped it on your finger. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, breathed in and out, and felt right. There was a knock at the door. You picked up the balloon string, you had removed it to shower, and went to answer the door.

Freddie and Jim were examining themselves in the runway mirror. Jim had on a pair of his white trousers with a bright red basic tee shirt tucked into them. He was combing his mustache and considering the white derbys Freddie had insisted he wear. This fashion stuff meant more to his husband than it did to him; he wasn’t used to it. He would never get used to having money; he just didn’t know what to do with it, and felt guilty every time he spent money on something nice for himself. It was perhaps nonsensical, but the principles we are taught as children never really leave us, and Jim was raised to be frugal and not spend money on himself--not that he ever really had any extra to spend on himself anyway.

“You look wonderful,” Freddie said, sensing Jim’s discomfort. “You are allowed to look wonderful, and to not feel like you’re neglecting anyone because of it.”

“I know.” Jim said sheepishly. “Learned behavior is hard to ignore.”

“Wait--what is that?” Freddie said dramatically, as if straining to hear an invisible caller, “It’s your mother’s siren call, darling!”

“Oh, give it a rest, angel.” Jim said, a laugh in his heart.

“You first.” Freddie had his hands on Jim’s shoulders, smiling at him, willing him to relax about money; when you grew up always worrying about money, it was impossible to never worry about it, even when you had it, it was always in the back of your mind like itch you couldn’t scratch, or a breath on the back of your neck you can’t find the source for, or the feeling when your shoes always come untied: it is the perpetual feeling of never being able to do enough to take care of yourself. And Freddie, since the white pants incident, had taken care of Jim, without even asking; it was like breathing for him, meaning, it was just what he did to live: he looked after others because he could.

Jim exhaled, “I love you.”

“I love you.” Freddie kissed Jim, then examined himself in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Freddie had on a yellow muscle shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, and a pair of red adidas boxing shoes: in few words, his current favorite look.

“Very sporty,” Jim said, smiling.

“Sporty?” Freddie said, mock-insulted, “This is fashion, darling!”

“I don’t understand why you get to wear that and I’m stuck wearing this.”

“Well, because all night, whenever I see you in those white trousers, I’ll get the immense pleasure of reliving the most important night of my life.”

Jim looked at Freddie, then. And what he saw was love.

“Reservation?” The maitre d’ asked.

“The reservation is under Beach.”

“For seven of you?”

“Yes; one chair for each of their massive egos.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, seven.”

You opened the door and saw John Deacon. And you were rendered momentarily speechless, though not for the usual reason he had that effect on you.

“Wonderful!” He said excitedly leaning in for a kiss. “That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Were you robbed?” You asked, returning the kiss.

“Not one bit.” John saw you then, really saw you, and a bewildered smile grew large on his face. He took in your outfit, the bird-shaped ring, almost the same color as his bird-patterned shirt, and breathed slowly. You were glorious, and you both were gloriously synchronized.

“Ah, that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” You said, copying his exact delivery.

“Do you usually dress like this?” He was searching for something in your face, keenly; the gears in his mind were working fast.

“I think I was just insulted.” You muttered to yourself.

“Not at all.” Deacy said, taking your hand. “Honest answer?”

“I don’t, no. But I followed my intuition--which is never wrong.”

“Ditto; it is why I asked.” Deacy started leading you down the stairs. “You see, this is all for a specific purpose.”

“To make your friends vomit at the table when they see you?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want them to be off their game.” He said, trying to explain years of psychology only he could know about his friends. “It is the only way to win.”

“This is that kind of dinner, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll make it up to you forever if you’ll let me?”

You stopped on the stairs thinking of Veronica. You understood why he was able to make promises like this, even last night so close after meeting. It all suddenly and loudly made sense. Now you understood perfectly why those kinds of vainglorious-seeming vows could escape his lips and sound believable and were believable because they were the honest truth, his honest truth: he could say them and mean them because he had before; he had made those promises before to someone before, and he had meant them entirely, and was able to keep them. You steadied your breath before he could notice your epiphany, and said, “I will let you, Deacy.”

He smiled up at you, and noticed your wrist. A small frown appeared on his face.

“Oh! I removed it to shower.” You said, fast. “I was hoping you’d help me tie back on.” You held out the string to him. “Lydia wasn’t here to help.”

He took the string from you, and tied it perfectly on your wrist once more. It wasn’t full of diamonds or even anything remotely valuable conventionally, but its intrinsic worth was more than anything else you owned.

On the street, he led you to a different car than before.

“I thought your Mercedes was green?”

“Didn’t I mention the blue one, too?” He couldn’t recall completely.

“I thought you were joking.” You said.

And you realized this was her car.

It was a light blue Mercedes-Benz.

You didn’t know how you knew it, but it was what your gut was telling you, and you always trusted your gut, because it was always right.

“Roger fixed this one for me.”

“Fixed it for you?” You questioned. You felt bad, because you had a very good idea why it had to be fixed, but you didn’t want to pressure him before he was ready to tell you, or hint that you knew more than you should.

“It was out of commission for a spell.” Deacy said hesitantly. “Technically, this one is my car. My main car, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” There was something sad in Deacy’s voice, and you wanted more than anything to take that sadness away. He opened the door for you, and closed it once you had gotten inside.

He walked around to the driver’s side and entered.

“Thank you for coming to this dinner with me.” He said, suddenly very serious.

You took his hand, hoping he’d hear you. You made sure he was looking you in the eyes. Your olive eyes shone and his grey ones were slightly cold. “It is my pleasure to help in anyway I can.”

He smiled at you, and nodded. He put the key in the ignition and began heading towards the restaurant.

Roger Taylor’s hair was dry. He was in a white and grey fitted plaid blazer, at least that’s what he saw. It’s actual colors, because he knew his wardrobe, were a pale blue and grey. But color wasn’t a thing anymore, and all he saw was the grey. He was wearing a grey tee shirt, which should have been the same pale blue, but wasn’t. He was in a pair of actual dark grey trousers with a full break, and a pair of purple-colored oxfords that looked only black to him. Brian had handed him his baby blue aviators, which looked only light grey to him, and turned him to the mirror.

“It’s not as good as anything you could put together, but it’ll suffice.” Brian sounded impatient; he was in no mood to humor Roger anymore tonight.

“You’re right on both accounts.” Roger said, trying to lighten the mood. He felt like vomiting again; he missed color. He missed it dearly.

“Can we please go now?”

“Ready when you are, Bri.” Roger tried to smile enough to fool his lifelong friend.

“Let’s motor.”

Freddie and Jim arrived at the restaurant, surprised to find they had beaten everyone else when they were led to a table in the back and only saw their manager sitting there waiting alone.

“Miami, darling!” Freddie embraced Beach with a full-on hug compete with loud cheek air kisses that made everyone in the dining room turn and stare. This is what the public expected, and it was what Freddie would deliver with panache.

“Hello, Freddie. Jim! How are you?” Miami shook Jim’s hand, happy to see someone normal here for the night’s entertainment.

“Hello, Jim.” Jim Hutton said, smiling widely at his same-named friend.

“Listen, I’ll be at the head of the table for mediation, and I was thinking the band would be here in these four chairs, and the guests at the end.”

“Thank god,” Hutton said, happily sitting at the other end of the table; he knew what was coming. At least he thought he did. They all thought they did.

Roger was trying to shake Brian off him. “Stop fixing my lapel; leave me alone!” His mood had not improved during the ride to the restaurant. He was seething. He could make ice boil just by looking at it. They were walking up to the maitre d’, who wasn’t pleased at Roger’s outburst.

“Reservation?”

“Beach, please.” Brian responded as congenial as possible; next to him Roger kept taking off his sunglasses and polishing them compulsively. “Would you please stop it.” Brain said opening his mouth as little as possible and attempting to still smile at the host.

“Me stop it? You stop it!” Roger said way too loudly to be considered even the neighbor to polite behavior.

“Right this way, please.” The maitre d’ was doing his best to ignore Roger Meddows Taylor. The hard thing about that was, he was so gorgeous, especially when angry, that it was hard to look away. That unique charm Roger had to stop people in their tracks occurred the entire way to the table. People turned to look at the Blond God, and they loved every second of it. Roger, who usually loved the attention, just found himself getting more viciously furious by the second. What kind of black and white film hell had he stepped into? He enjoyed a good film noir like the rest of everyone else, but this was too fucking much; he didn't want to live in one.

Hutton was hugging Brian and Freddie came over to embrace Roger, who distractedly hugged him back.

“Hello, Miami. How’s the family?” Brian asked.

“Wonderful, thank you. Wife is pregnant again, actually.”

“Congratulations!” Brian smiled warmly. “That calls for champagne, I think.”

“Absolutely!” Freddie agreed.

Roger and Brian sat across from Freddie.

Shortly thereafter, you and Deacy arrived at the restaurant.

“Miami Beach, please.” Deacy said to the flustered-looking maitre d’.

“Miami?” You asked bemusedly.

“It’s a long story.” Deacy said, “I’ll tell you later.”

The maitre d’, whose night was about to get a million times worse than he could ever have imagined, led you and Deacy to a table in the back. You had never been to a place this fancy before. It was the kind of place with more than one type of fork and spoon.

“Here is your table, Mr. Deacon.”

Deacy hadn’t given his name, and blushed instantly; he’d never get used to be recognized in public. “Thank you.” He said graciously.

The table was full, except for two sets, belonging to you and Deacy. You saw they were apart from each other, but that was okay, and, if anything, facilitated the odds of being able to steal glances at each other, which was all part of the game.

You both stood at the back of the table near what would be your chair, when Roger looked up and noticed you both.

The look on his face shifted from casual, un-targeted annoyance to a direct venomous glare of absolute detestation.

Looking at you, he shouted loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What in bloody hell is she doing here?!”

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

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[haydenandtrish]

Welcome to Paris, the grandest city in the world.

Remember everything that you have ever heard, now forget it all. Because the city we are about to tell you about is far greater than you will ever expect and more incredible than what anyone can ever describe. It has history. It has monument after monument. It has beauty and detail. It is the city of love. It is the city of lights. It is Paris.

Yes, it can be dirty, but it’s not from neglect. Yes, it’s a city proud to be French and yes, some may hate this, but a Parisians arrogance comes from a place of deep love and pride for their heritage. However, If you try, they will too.

All I can recommend for you to do is to allow yourself to get lost with an open mind and an appreciation for all things. We did. And what we discovered was incredible. Here, let us show you.

Montmartre

For accommodation, we stayed at the Le Mont Clair, a hostel in the 18th Arrondissement of Paris. This area is also known as the village of Montmartre, made famous by artists such and Vincent Van Gogh and Picasso, who both called it home at one point in time. Originally it was farmland for the peasants who were kicked out of the newly renovated Paris in the 1870’s - after a 17-year facelift. The redesign was commissioned by the then Emporer Napoleon III who declared Paris to be too small, too dirty, too overcrowded and too smelly. An already accomplished man of his time by the name of Barron Haussman was who the emperor tasked with the mammoth job. I will not get into the controversy that still surrounds the decision to completely change the city, but in my opinion, it was a necessary decision that helped stop the spread of diseases and added a new level of elegance that we now get to admire. An addition that set this renovation apart was the sewer system that was put in place then and is still used to this day. For a more in-depth description read here, it’s incredibly interesting how it all works.

The (not so) funny thing is, the people who were banished were the bodies who did the physical labour that transformed the city. Unfortunately, with over 20,000 buildings torn down, roads widened and a completely new sewage system put in place, there was no room left for them. So the rich stayed put and the poor were exiled to the lands just outside the main area. However, the city continued to grow and the space became a necessary area for more housing during an era where exponential growth was experienced. Now it is a beautiful addition on the outer skirts of Paris with much to see and do.

We explored Montmartre during our second day. what captivates us about this area - and all of Paris really - is that every single street is so innately beautiful with their detailed stone buildings and wrought iron balconies. Look up, you will not be disappointed.

I was also surprised at how up and down the cobblestone terrain was – so be prepared for that. From our hostel we walked directly up to a cafe called La Maison Rose - a walk filled with fantastic views along the way. We continued down some of the prettiest streets we had ever seen, all pink, green and white with vines covering the houses.

It seemed only fitting to stop into one of the many cafes and try the local cuisine in this eclectic part of town. We were seated and served and all we ordered was 6 garlic snails, a plate of fries, a beer and champagne. Like I’ve said before, we’re backpacking… so money mindfulness is necessary, but we still want to experience things. The verdict? To me they tasted like a garlicky oyster, Hayden agreed and says “I would only eat an oyster Kilpatrick and I would only eat a snail with garlic butter”. Fair enough.

We walked past many art galleries, and one artist we want to mention is Andre Martins De Barros. If we were not travelling for so long, I am positive we would have bought something. Being unable to take pictures of the artwork directly, we elected to take one of the artist’s website. So please feel free to check it out if you have the time, or better yet, if you are in the area visit the gallery. Here are two websites to check out his art: https://www.artmajeur.com/amartinsdebarros

http://amdbartiste.free.fr/  

Our walk led us to the Sacre – Coeur Basilica, a beautiful sanctuary sitting atop the hillock of Montmartre. We walked the 222 steps to the bottom and unfortunately, we didn’t escape unscathed. Hayden was haggled into spending 3 Euro on some cotton bracelet. Admittedly, it was pretty cool because the man used three pieces of string and made the bracelet right then and there. But the hagglers are a little full on and it was a waste of money – he’s still wearing it though.

The bottom of the steps led to a number of little side streets full of restaurants, shops and chocolate stores. We got a bargain on a Lindt chocolate bunny as it was just after Easter. We would highly recommend exploring this area, it’s simply a nice little touristy part of town.

Later that night we ventured out of the Montmartre area and visited the Eiffel Tower. The experience was so special to me, I want to leave that story for another time. All I will say here is every part of it was incredible and so worth my lifetime wait.

The Moulin Rouge is also located in this area. We will not give any spoilers away, instead, here’s the website, splurge on an activity and get prepared for the most tasteful, artistic, dreamy burlesque show you will ever see. I mean, you can’t really be surprised, it is the birthplace of burlesque after all. There are cheaper options around and although I haven’t seen them for myself, I cannot imagine them living up to the extravagance that is Moulin Rouge. We cannot recommend it enough.

There are so many things to see on this side of town so if you are up for it then most definitely make the hike to the 18th ARR, either on your own or with a tour guide. The tour company we went with during our last day also does one of the Montmartre area and if it’s anything like the one we experienced, I’m sure it will be worth the Euros. I will leave their details further down. For now, we’ll continue on to another area.

Champs Elysees

We were told by a lovely fellow traveller that on the 1stSunday of every month theChamps Elysees avenue is open only to pedestrians. Luckily enough, it happened to fall on the Sunday we were in town. Just like that, our plans were sorted. We headed off in the general direction of that avenue, with stops along the way of course.

The avenue its self is beautiful. Wide sidewalks path the way for a window shoppers dream. Glass lines the buildings, gold adorns the entrances and bellmen are ready to greet you at the front.

If you can ball then Avenue Montaigne may be the place for you. Every designer shop is somewhere down there. But just walking down it and appreciating the wealth was enough for us.

A few monuments we came across included: Palais Garnier (Le’Opera House) Just go see it, it is such an incredible building. And if you get to see a show there, I’m already jealous.

Arc de Triumph An arc that was commissioned at the beginning of the 1800’s and completed in 1836 is dedicated to the celebrations of Napoleon I great army. After each victory they would march into the city and straight under the arc, all the way to the kings palace (which is now the Louvre).

Luxor Obelisk An ancient Egyptian obelisk that is placed in the centre of Place de la Concorde - one of the most famous traffic circles in the world. The triangular shaped needle is said to date back 3,300 years and is one of the oldest monuments within Paris. 

We will note that on this day the main destination we had in the back of our minds was the Pantheon. Unfortunately, we never did make it there during our stay, we just kept getting sidetracked. The furthest we got was the Louvre, but I’ll address that further down because we visited it again during our tour. I cannot stress enough how huge Paris is and how much there is to see and learn about. There is so much much I know we still need to see, and I am positive Paris is a city we will always come and visit, so we have time to explore more in the future. For now, we will leave you with our last day. 

Sandeman’s New Europe: Free walking tour (tip based).

Here we are, our last day in Paris. We woke up, packed our bags and checked out. We left the big backpacks in storage at the hostel and set off for one last exploration. We were finally able to do our free walking tour and before we go any further please do this on the first day. You learn so much about the city - the best spots to see, the cheapest places to eat, you glimpse some of the best monuments to visit and if you are lucky, you’ll have a guide as incredible as ours.

His name was Dawie and I could sing his praises all day. He was the funniest, most informative tour guide I have ever come across and because of him, we have so much new knowledge about the history of Paris, from its small tribe beginnings to the grand city it is now, from the different monarchs to the different monuments. For three hours he kept us engaged and wanting more. He held little back while speaking about gruesome topics and painted an incredible picture in our minds of what Paris and it’s people have been through. A few things I cannot go without mentioning, please, do your research before proposing to your beloved at the Eiffel tower, if you know the history of its surrounding land then it isn’t the most romantic spot in the city. The lock bridge is no longer there, and it was only ever made famous from sex and the city. Just trust that you and your love will be together forever – a lock isn’t a necessity. It’s still the city of pickpockets so never let your guard down.

Now, where were we?

Ahhh the tour. We were able to see monuments such as the Notre Dame, the first pedestrian bridge ever built in the city, the original jail and courthouse plus so much more - all with a vivid description from our amazing guide. Finally, we finished at the Louvre.

Let me just say, it is not just a glass pyramid if that's what you are thinking. No, the Louvre is an art museum that has lived many different lives. It was first created to be a fortress for war in 1190. It was then reconstructed in the 16th century and became the Royal Palace. This explains its grand beauty. Each monarch believed that they were far greater than the last and could do everything better, so they would add their own touch. If you don’t know anything yourself, do a tour and have someone point out the distinguishing differences of each monarch, it’s awesome to see that every single detail has a back story. It was only made into an art museum in 1793 (18th century) with only 537 pieces of art. Now, centuries on, there are over 330, 000 pieces. If you want to see them all, all you have to do is visit the museum every single day for 100 days and view each piece for 30 seconds. Too easy.

Outside is just as beautiful. Of course, you are instantly drawn to the huge glass pyramid in the middle of the square. It’s one over the top front door that’s for sure. But like our tour guide told us, just get that damn tourist picture! Don’t snidely look at others who look ridiculous in person trying to get that famous tourist shot and not get amongst it yourself. You will look back in your Paris photo album and notice that photo of you pinching the top of the pyramid in the Louvre is missing. And you’ll be sorry for it. I am so glad we did ours, I laugh every time I look at it because it’s a classic, and it could be one of my personal favs in our collection.

So, my advice to you (in the Louvre and in life) is this, don’t stand on the outside feeling too cool to do it but secretly wishing you were. Maybe Nike’s on to something because…JUST DO IT. Get in there, get that photo, talk to that stranger, dance in that circle, smile at that person making eye contact with you. Stop shouldering life away because you’ll find yourself watching others living theirs instead of being immersed in your own. You hear it all the time but until you lower your ego and let yourself be free, are you truly experiencing everything that comes your way? I was once that person who stood on the sidelines and judged, now this is my mantra every day and I’m so happy because of it. I have that photo, I danced in that circle, I made friends with that stranger and I’m living my best damn life every single day.

Anyway, inspirational rant over.

Here’s our tip for taking the perfect illusion shot: Hold your arm straight and at an angle. Move the camera, not your arm! Life will be a whole lot easier. You’re welcome.

After you get your picture, wander through the incredible Tuileries Gardens (located in between the Louvre and Place de la Concorde). It seems like the perfect park to enjoy a bottle of seasonal wine, cheese and a baguette. Walk through the hedge mazes, admire the countless statues, see the artists painting their own vision. It is all so breathtaking.

So go visit and fall in love, with the city, with its monuments, with its history and with its art. If it’s a once in a lifetime trip then give yourself a week. Otherwise, be sure to revisit it. We will, maybe we’ll even see you there one day.

The rest of our day will be in our next blog, where we tell you about our first ever overnight journey… or should we say first two? So, for now, this is goodbye.

Always with love,  Trish.

[hazeleyedfloozy]

Work of Art. Part 1.

Heyyyyy friends so i haven’t written in a really long while because my life has been a real shit show. But now that it’s getting back to normal; I’m gonna try to write again. This a John Deacon x OC because I need me some COMFORT. And if I can’t have it I’ll write about instead. OKAY BYE. 

Warnings: Mentions of death, drunk driving, anxiety. Funerals, loss, angst angst angsty angst. 

Bouquets of flowers cluttered the dining table, counter space and foyer of the now very empty home. The smell of wilting plants invaded her lungs as she attempted to pour a bowl of cereal.

It had been five days since the funeral.  Two weeks since the accident. And what seem like an endless amount nights since her entire life fell apart. The walls were still hung with treasured photographs of the lives that had been so selfishly taken. A loving, somewhat dysfunctional family torn apart over such a stupid decision.

If I ever have the opportunity, I’ll kill him myself. That was the only phrase that ran through her head over the past week and a half.

Her parents and younger brother had been involved in a car accident, her parents killed instantly from impact. Thankfully, her brother was only banged up slightly; a broken rib and concussion. The accident was caused by a drunk driver; slamming into the Ford Cortina that had been so deeply loved by the family.

She’d heard so many people. So many voices complementing how well she was taking all of this. How strong she was for her brother; still an adolescent. How well she was keeping everything together. She could only nod and whisper a small “thank you” ; careful to not express any real emotions.

Her brother had returned to classes today; and she attempted to return to work that morning. Unable to reach the front door without a considerable amount of difficulty, her boss had recommended she take another week off.

She promised him she’d be back tomorrow morning; them both knowing full well that probably wasn’t the case.

What made matters worse; is that her childhood best friend; the love of her life… was nowhere to be found. John Deacon had become her best friend after a dare on the playground had gone sour; both too nervous to kiss the other on the lips. (The then eleven year olds promised they’d wait until they were ready. That day never came.)  Unable to form a full sentence for the first few days following the accident; she didn’t bother calling him. When Brian (the lead guitarist from his band) phoned to acknowledge his condolences; even offering to come home early from the tour to be there for her… and yet he still didn’t bother to even write. She’d wanted to feel angry. To feel upset. To be heartbroken over the fact that her best friend couldn’t make it to her parent’s joint funeral.

It was a celebration of life, really. She didn’t want people reliving her trauma for hours on end; it was enough to experience it in cinemascope every moment of every day.

The doorbell rang; jolting her out of the trance she was in. Dropping a Lily she’d picked from one of the many arrangements that had been sent to the house over the past few weeks. She was growing bored of them, really.

Knowing it was either another floral arrangement or takeaway from a concerned neighbor; she opened the door slowly.

It was neither.

John stood in front on the other side of the door frame; a single red rose outstretched to her. Her mouth dropped a bit; blinking furiously at the long haired, handsome man. His eyes met hers softly; him recognizing the pain hiding in them so effortlessly. The guard and shield did not have to be present around John. She’d been bullied, almost tormented through their years of school. For her height, untamable curly auburn hair, and freckles cascading over every free patch of skin. She’d been through the worst (or what she thought was the worst) with him. She’d been through the best next to him, too. The success of his band; her graduation from art school and subsequent portfolio showing at a fancy, London hotel. When the band really started to grow; she’d been put to the wayside. (Or so it felt that way.) The last time they’d had an actual conversation on the telephone was on her birthday, eight months ago. He’d tried to protect her from the media, from obnoxious names in the music industry who’d made fun of the lass when she’d left a party at Freddie’s one evening. He vowed to never let them hurt her again; thus distancing himself from her completely. (Even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process)

“Niamh… you look… tired.” He spoke softly, breaking the awkward silence with a knife.

“Did Brian send you?” Niamh asked flatly, letting him stand in the entryway of the house.

“Freddie mentioned it… actually.”

“Of course he did. As if the four bouquets and takeaway twice a week wasn’t enough.” Niamh rolled her eyes, attempting to quite literally shut the shy bassist out of her home.

“Niamh! You can ignore me all you want. But I’m just here to try and make sure you’re keeping yourself well. The band is concerned.” He rushed out; hoping the words would hit her ears before the door latched shut.

“And why should they be? Loss is a part of life. All of you know this.”

“They’re hoping you’ll come out on tour with us.”

“As if I don’t have a life here? As if I don’t have a brother that is LITERALLY my responsibility, John?! But of course you don’t know any of that because you’ve pushed me out of your life.”

“Life gets busy… I just…”

“You didn’t want the public to know about me. About your friendship with the ugly, freckle faced girl from a crappy part of London.” Niamh croaked.

Rain started to fall against the shutters of the once beloved home; now filled with distant memories and painful reminders of all that was lost. She motioned from him to come inside.

“I was trying to protect you, love.”

“Protect me from what, John? That’s not a fucking excuse.” She whispered tearfully, slamming the door shut. The impact of the noise making John’s shoulders jump.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.. love.”

“That’s the last thing I need to hear right now.” Niamh wrapped her arms around herself, keeping her guard up higher than usual.

“What do you need to hear? What can I do, Niamh?”

The cold, frigid exterior she kept was melting away as her heart began process what was actually happening. Her childhood best friend standing in her in her living room; the backdrop of childhood paintings and vacation photos spread across every single each of wall.

“I do believe this oil painting was created right after our first album was released.” John giggled softly, his hand brushing against the artwork.

“You never quite learned to not touch the masterpieces, hm?” Niamh joked.

The only masterpiece I want to touch is you. He thought to himself. He’d harbored feelings for Niamh longer than any one human should; unable to let her go. Unable to get the fire haired, ferocious woman out of his head. Whenever Freddie would sing the haunting lyrics of “Love of my Life.” in concerts and gigs, he’d think of the girl he’d always dreamt of kissing. The girl he knew he would spend the rest of his life pining for.

But I’d rather spend one hundred years pining after you; than losing you because of a puppy dog crush. He’d tell himself as Freddie finished out the beloved song.

“I hung all of these a couple of nights ago when I couldn’t sleep. It makes them seem closer somehow.” Niamh’s eyes filed with hot tears. She grabbed ahold of the pencil silhouette she’d done of John about one year before Queen experienced their first surge of success.

“I meant to always give you this… but… I never did because I felt like you were here with me… even when you were…”

“Countries away?”

She nodded softly.

“I miss you, Niamh. I want you in my life forever.”

“Then why did you leave in the first place John?!” She screeched, her voice almost hoarse. A hand flew over her trembling lips; stifling a sob.

“I’m so sorry… please… let me back in… anything I can do… I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t even know what I need right now.”

“Well I’ll stay until we figure it out. Together. We can have a fresh start. Together.”

She could only nod; the sobs controlling her entire being. He felt his heart shatter as he watched his best friend in such a state of misery. To see the strong, beautiful woman he’d fallen so deeply in love with, so broken and in a state of mourning. She turned to face him; her broken eyes filled with such exhaustion. Instinctively; he wrapped her in his arms. It was an awkward angle; as she quite literally towered over him at 6’4.

“As much as I enjoy holding you, I do believe this isn’t comfortable for either of us.” He suggested, nudging her side. She tipped her head back, laughing the hoarse laugh he’d treasured all of these years.

“Lets get you to bed.” He whispered, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She agreed, her body so exhausted from almost two weeks worth of little to no sleep.

Softly climbing the stairs; she’d taken the lead, wanting to retreat to her comforting bed.

He smiled at her room; unchanged since the last time he’d come to visit. The same photo from a summer night was placed on her nightstand. He had decided to play “leapfrog” only to have Niamh’s younger brother capture it on film. Gently pulling the quilts over her (what seemed tiny when she was in such a state of disbelief and heartache) frame; he kissed her forehead. Grabbing an extra pillow and blanket from the linen closet; he plopped himself down on the floor of her childhood bedroom. “The floor cannot be comfortable. You’re not seventeen anymore.”

“Still used to…”

“My Mum threatening to call your Mum if you tried any ‘funny business’ when you crashed here?” Niamh laughed.

“Come up here. It’s fine, really.” She convinced him. Thanking the gods above that he wouldn’t wake up with a stiff back; he settled in beside her.

“It feels good to have you home.” She whispered, before letting her eyes droop shut.

“Home.”

[gludzilla]

Sachiko’s Moustache (Part II)

“...I see now.”

Wato closes the volume protected by a fabric book cover and lets out a sigh. It is night at 221B. Sherlock skulks at her desk by the window and does not spare Wato a glance. She has been in this state ever since they returned home. Wato pointedly clears her throat and stands up from her chair. Holding the open book to her chest, she approaches her roommate.

“...I’m reading Saneatsu Kishida’s biography, and I feel like I now understand why Mrs. Maibara’s husband gave that painting to her. Apparently, it was the last work he painted before dying that year of pulmonary tuberculosis. At that time, his painting weren’t selling and he lived a life of poverty. The only one who supported him to the end was his wife, Sachiko. Using her as a model, he painted Sachiko. Hey, isn’t it a beautiful story?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to Wato before immediately turning back to her desk. Still hugging the book to her chest, Wato tries again.

“A painting full of love for his beloved wife. Hey! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“How naive. Maybe the husband had a mistress and to atone for his sin he gave her a present. Or maybe he meant it as a joke, telling his wife to be more devoted to her husband like the women in pre-war Japan,” she replies in a single breath, leaving Wato open-mouthed. She waits for Sherlock to move her face away from her microscope before firmly grasping her shoulder.

“Hey! Why do you have to be such a contrarian? Have you never felt love for someone else?”

“Emotions only get in the way of objective reasoning. And you…”

Sherlock shakes off Wato’s hand, turns in her chair, and begins observing the whole of Wato’s body. It feels like her eyes can strip her naked just by looking at her. Wato covers her face and frantically tries to escape her gaze.

“You’re observing me. Stop, hey, don’t look. Stop, stop...”

“Well, well, seems like you two are getting along,” they hear a cheerful voice say as the door opens - it is Mrs. Hatano. Holding a long tray in her hands, she looks at Wato and Sherlock’s playful bickering and smiles. The two of them abruptly look away from each other and speak simultaneously.

“Not at all.”

“Not by one millimeter.”

Her smile growing increasingly more delighted, Hatano puts down the tray on the table. On it, there is steaming black tea and a plate of golden brown castella. This castella, it has chestnuts in it!

“It’s a gift from Mrs. Maibara? Do you want some?”

“Yes!”

Wato cheerfully takes a wooden skewer in her hand, but Sherlock keeps on facing her desk and does not look away.

Hatano, still smiling, exchanges glances with Wato and turns to look at Sherlock’s back.

“So, how is the investigation progressing?”

“Accordingly.”

A short answer.

Hatano takes a sudden breath and continues, “Ever since she lost her husband, Mrs. Maibara hardly ever leaves her home. Because of her bad leg and because she has nothing to do, she just stays inside all day watching TV. I wish she would go outside and interact with people a bit more...Well then, I’ll see myself out.”

Even after Hatano leaves, Sherlock still remains glued to her desk. Wato takes a castella slice with the skewer and approaches her. She peeks at her hands. Her roommate holds a heavy mineral identification manual propped open and is comparing an amber-colored stone in a petri dish to the images in it.

“What’s that?”

“Manila copal. Fossilized plant resin. If you’re not trying to extract dinosaur DNA from it, it has one other use.”

Sherlock picks up the amber stone with a pair of tweezers and holds it in the light. She narrows her piercing eyes at the fragment. Light reflects on the fragment, and it flickers momentarily.

“This - is the clue that ties the two cases together.”

“...Wow. It’s coming off perfectly.”

An old house remodeled into a studio. While watching the art restorer Kuwabata’s hands, Wato lets out a sigh. Through an excellent procedure, the moustache drawn on Sachiko is disappearing.

“The surface was covered in varnish, so the marker’s ink didn’t penetrate the paint below.”

Even when Wato and Sherlock had suddenly dropped in unannounced, Kuwabata had shown them in without complaint. Not showing any interest in Kuwabata’s actions, Sherlock paces around the studio looking at the artworks left around on the ground. Taking one of them, still with her back to him she asks, “Did you have plans to have a solo exhibition?”

Kuwabata turns.“...Yes. How did you know?” He replies ambiguously.

“These were all done at different times, but you signed them all at once, with the same brush and paint. Other than opening a solo exhibition, I cannot think of any other reason for you to do that.”

“It was in talks, but it fell through.”

Wato sees Kuwabata advert his eyes, then turns to look at the landscape in Sherlock’s hands and the other paintings that surround them. She doesn’t quite get the finer points to them, but feels like any would look nice as decoration in any room.

“Mr. Kuwabata, do you like pastel colors?”

“More than painting things I like, I kind of end up painting whatever is popular at the moment.”

That’s harsh, thinks Wato, looking at both Sherlock and Kuwabata. Kuwabata’s ears only redden and he gives her a rueful smile.

“I need to sell paintings. It can’t be helped.”

He shakes his head, and once again Sherlock proceeds.

“The curator of the Gables Museum of Art told me that you called them just after the incident took place.”

“Ah, it’s part of the job. I get in contact with various museums periodically,” Kuwabata replies. He notices Sherlock grabbing an object from his shelves and he twitches. It is a jar full of amber stones.

“Manila copal. If you melt it down, you can use it as a type of varnish.”

“...You’re well-informed.”

“I also have one. I picked it up recently.”

Saying that, she pulls out a test tube from her pocket containing a little stone and holds it against the light. Before Kuwabata can even open his mouth, she presses him further, “It was on the roof of Mr. Yanagisawa’s office building.”

Wato takes a deep breath, but Kuwabata only tilts his head weakly. He observes the stone inside the test tube.

“Must have been hard to find such a small stone,” he says, sounding impressed.

“...Did you know Mr. Yanagisawa?”

“Of course. Everyone in the business knows him.”

“Have you been to his office?”

“A couple times, on business.”

“Where were you and what were you doing on the night of Mr. Yanagisawa’s death?”

“I was here the whole night, working. Ah, well, I went to the convenience store at some point, so I might have been recorded by the security cameras there,” he replies smoothly. Am I only imagining that he’s hiding something? Wato tries to discreetly look at Sherlock, but she says nothing and intently observes Sachiko, still on the workbench. As if perhaps an as of yet unseen clue lies hidden within it.

“...So it was a waste of time. Both Takakura and Kuwabata have alibis.”

While climbing the hill on their way back to 221B, Wato kicks a tiny pebble away. Takakura and Kuwabata keep cropping up near Sachiko. She had thought one of them might be the mastermind, but it seems like things are not quite that simple. On the other hand, Sherlock does not seem to be put down by the futile situation, but walks at her usual fast pace. She’s quite lively.

“An alibi means nothing in regards to Yanagisawa’s murder. The culprit used a timing device to kill him.”

“Huh?”

Hearing her companion’s unexpected words, Wato stops in her tracks. When she sees she’s being left behind, she quickens her pace once again, disconcerted.

“Wait, what do you mean timing device?”

“The culprit visited Yanagisawa’s office a few hours before he fell. He spiked his drink with sleeping pills, and then…”

She waves her finger, as if keeping a beat. Abruptly she retracts her hand and raises it, as if elevating something with it, and continues, “They carried him to the roof. There is a scaffolding just wide enough for a person to sleep on it beyond the roof’s railing. The culprit laid Yanagisawa on the scaffolding and fled. After a couple hours passed, the medicine wore off and Yanagisawa awoke. But he wouldn’t even dream of taking a nap in such a place. After waking up from a deep sleep, his footing would have been unsteady.”

“And so - he falls to the ground.” Wato concludes. Sherlock grins pointedly at her. Oh, are you praising me? Wato thinks, just before gasping at the picture of a dead body suddenly thrust under her nose. Even if it is something she is used to seeing, of course she would be startled by something shown to her without warning. It is a man lying face-down. His head is cracked open.

“This is Yaganisawa after he fell. Even though he landed face-down, his back is covered by a considerable amount of white paint.”

“I see,” Wato replies, at the same time that Sherlock’s phone vibrates. It’s Reimon. It’s not a call, it looks like a message. Sherlock checks its contents immediately.

Seeing what is displayed on the screen, Wato says, “What’s that?”

There is only an image attached. It is Shibata in a dirty suit presenting a skull-shaped earring to the camera and grinning proudly.

“...It’s one of our original works, yes.”

Inside of Silver Accessory’s studio, the tanned shopkeeper says this after seeing the picture Wato and Sherlock show him. Tattoos covering his skin peek out from beneath his loose tank top.

“We’re looking for the person who purchased this piercing. Do you know who that might be?” asks Wato, stopping Sherlock’s hand from cheerfully touching his tattoos.

Booting up a tablet next to the cash register, he replies, “It was a custom order, so I think we’ve got a picture.”

He swipes at the screen. Among the photographs of tough-looking customers, an image catches Wato’s eye. Sherlock stops the shopkeeper’s hand. It is a picture of a young man wearing a skull earring. The shopkeeper immediately reveals his name.

“That’s Kijima.”

“Do you know him?”

He looks up, thinking. Finally, he replies, “He’s the type of man who would do things from volunteer in drug trials to work as a host, he’d do anything to get money.”

“Has he worked in a museum?”

“...He said he’d worked transporting paintings a while ago.”

“Around when?”

“About a year ago. If I’m not mistaken, it was at a gallery in Ginza.”

“A gallery in Ginza - that’s the connection!” Wato exclaims. The man who had defaced Sachiko and gotten hit by a car. Yanagisawa’s gallery in Ginza where he had been killed. The two dots were beginning to connect. Yes. Sherlock had gotten Shibata to look for the earring to expose this invisible link. Slowly but surely, the hidden pattern emerges - the shopkeeper turns his head to look at Kijima’s photo, Wato, and finally Sherlock, who still stares intently at the photograph, so violently even his nose ring swings with the motion.

The smell of pizza. The smell of biryani. The smell of wonton soup. The various smells combine and permeate 221B while Wato brings an adorable nigiri sushi to her mouth. Trying to make sense of the information they had acquired, Wato begins speaking slowly.

“Kijima the freeter had a job at Yanagisawa’s gallery, and Yanagisawa had him deface Sachiko. Then, Kuwabata made a business call to the museum just when Kijima drew the moustache on Sachiko.”

“Kijima the freeter, Yanagisawa the gallery owner, and Kuwabata the art restorer are all connected behind the scenes,” Sherlock continues while taking temari sushi one by one and placing them on a plate.

“But why was Yanagisawa killed?”

They had found the relation between the three men - but that only means that Wato understood that connection. She still cannot find the pattern. But what about Sherlock? Wato looks at Sherlock expectantly as she picks only at the pastrami on the pizza. The consulting detective stuffs the stack of pastrami into her mouth and says as if giving a university lecture, “To clarify that, we need to solve the Stradivarius mystery.”

“Stradivarius?”

“There was a book on Antonio Stradivari on Yanagisawa’s desk. Stradivari was an italian string instrument maker. His violins and cellos are the best in the world.”

“So an art broker would also work buying and selling instruments?” Wato tilts her head. She still doesn’t get how how an instrument maker and paintings are related.

“He’d need to be familiar with specialists for that. It’s not an easy world to get into.”

“Well, perhaps he has an interest in classical music?”

“Judging by his office, I cannot see him as someone who has any taste for classical music.”

Then was is it? Wato pouts. This Sherlock, she doesn’t explain to others what only she seems to understand. Perhaps it is her philosophy to not reveal anything until it all ties together perfectly, but it is still vexing to wait around for her to do so. Wato leans in to say, if you have an answer already, then tell me, but before she can do so, a knock on the door interrupts her. Wato’s eyes widen.

“What?! Another delivery?! Are you planning to eat all of what you ordered?”

“There’s obviously no way I can eat all of this. It’s just that I couldn’t decide what I wanted to eat.”

Sherlock grins while rubbing her hands together, and Wato gapes at her, exasperated. They hear the door opening, followed by Hatano’s voice, “Come on in, this way.”

A man with a large build wearing an elegant striped overcoat and clutching a handbag follows her inside. No matter how you look at it, it is not another delivery. As soon as the man with the shaved head sees Sherlock, he bursts out, “Sherlock! It’s been so long! How are you?”

He rushes over to her and Sherlock stands up to greet him, smiling. It seems like they know each other. The man waves his hand happily before letting his eyes fall on Wato, when he asks with a smile, “Oh, a friend?”

“She’s not my friend.”

“No, not at all.”

Sherlock and Wato reply at the same time. Yes. She is not her friend. She is just an intentionally oppressive, uncompromising and unforgivable simple-minded monster of a roommate.

“He says he was running an errand in the area, so...Um, how do you know each other?” Hatano asks with interest, and the man chuckles and shrugs his shoulders.

“Just call me Mickey. Four years ago, there was an incident in which a Matisse painting on display in a museum was stolen and replaced by a forgery. Sherlock had me appraise the piece.”

“Ah, then if you two hadn’t discovered it, the fake would still be on display today?”

Sherlock smiles proudly at Hatano.

Mickey nods and continues, “It happens a lot. There is a person who was arrested in London that produced more than 2,000 forgeries, and only 30 of them have been identified. The best forgers are very skillful. This one worked as an art restorer.”

“Art...restorer.”

A fake that cannot be told apart from the original. A forger. Replaced - An art restorer.

“Ah -”

Wato drops her chopsticks. Sherlock and the others look at her cocking their heads and she murmurs, “I think I just solved this case.”

In his dimly lit studio, Kuwabata faces his workbench.

He finishes polishing the picture frame, straightens, and surveys his work - it’s perfect. Even if they placed the two of them side by side, there was no way to tell. The woman’s eyes bore into him. While staring back at her vacantly, the phone sitting on the table rings. It’s Takakura. Kuwabata answers immediately.

“...Yes. It’s fine. It’s identical. Yes,” he replies softly.

Sachiko almost shines softly in the dim light. Kuwabata smiles to himself. Ah. It’s perfect. No one can notice it. He only has to hand it over to Takakura. There is no way to know what is going on inside his head. But the woman inside the picture frame’s eyes focus intently on him.

“...I wasn’t sure how it was going happen, but you saved us.”

“I’m glad that it came off. Give my regards to Mrs. Maibara,” Kuwabata replies and smiles at Yamashita, the curator of the Gables Museum of Art, while the other man breathes a sigh of relief. A courier begins to package Sachiko, which rests on top of the workbench, now back to its original state. Now they only had to take it back to Maibara. But then -

“Please wait!” Wato cries as she storms in, and everyone turns to look at her. She tugs a man with a large build inside by his hand. And behind them follows a tall and slender woman - Sherlock. Bewildered, Yamashita looks around him.

Kuwabata takes a step forward and calmly asks, “What is it?”

“The painting you are currently packaging is not an original Saneatsu. It was painted by Mr. Kuwabata, forged… it’s a fake!”

Wato points her finger at Kuwabata. Yamashita jumps, startled, and the courier’s hands inadvertently stop. Silence. Confusion. Kuwabata frowns as Wato presses him further.

“You planned to return the forgery to Mrs. Maibara and sell the restored original to Mr. Takakura from Takakura Resort Development. You could get a very high price from him,” Wato says in a single breath before glancing back at Sherlock. She says nothing, only watching the events unfold before her.

...I see. If that’s how you’re going to be, how about I prove it?

Kuwabata and Takakura are accomplices. Kuwabata planned to give the fake back to Maibara. And Sherlock had said to Wato. That they could go see. That they could take Mickey as an appraiser and inspect Sachiko in Kuwabata’s studio. Wato gulps. Maybe she could solve the mystery before Sherlock. If she did, then maybe her oppressive roommate’s self-important attitude might even become a bit more bearable!

“I verified the painting myself before it was packaged. There is no way -” Yamashita nervously objects.

Wato nudges the man she’d dragged in with her forward and declares passionately, “It’s not something you can identify with a glance. We’ve brought an appraiser with us.”

Mickey looks at Kuwabata, a little uncomfortable. Kuwabata nods calmly.

“Very well. Unpack it, please,” he says to the man that had started packaging the painting.

He pulls away the protective paper and Sachiko, back to its proper condition, is exposed.

Mickey bows his head to Kuwabata and slowly approaches the painting. He pulls out a flashlight from his pocket and intently observes Sachiko’s face, her kimono, her obi, and the signature on the lower right corner. And then.

He extinguishes the flashlight and shakes his head slowly. Wato perks up.

“So -”

“This painting is real.” He promptly replies. There is an unshakeable confidence in his words.

“Eh?!”

A laugh comes from Sherlock, who still watches everything unfold before her. Stunned, Wato glances at her before turning back to Mickey and waiting for him to continue. Yamashita and Kuwabata both stare at her. Mickey shakes his head and claps his hands lightly before explaining.

“This is an authentic Saneatsu Kishida. I’ve appraised three of his paintings before. Well done on the restoration.”

“But that’s…”

“That was troublesome,” Kuwabata says indignantly. “I’m sorry. Please, repackage the painting.” He points to the courier. Yamashita makes an unpleasant face and looks at Wato, now an intruder in their eyes, at Sherlock, and at Mickey in turn. Wato is shocked. I...I had thought that was was the truth.

“Um, I, I’m sorry, I-”

“Wait,” a clear voice cuts through the tense atmosphere.

“...Sherlock?!”

“Let me look at it too.”

Sherlock, who had just watched the events unfold before her, brushes Yamashita and the courier aside and approaches Sachiko. Her eyes focus intently on the broad strokes that make up the woman’s face, the signature on the lower right corner, the edges of the picture frame, and finally they widen.

Light dances in her eyes. Her sharp expression softens slightly and she raises her head. With a low voice, she says, “Return it to Mrs. Maibara.”

Having said that, Sherlock turns on her heel and swiftly exits Kuwabata’s studio. Wato, disconcerted, begins chasing after her. Noticing Yamashita and the others’ doubtful expressions, she bows her head deeply.

“I’m sorry - excuse me!”

Wato runs. She catches up to Sherlock and takes hold of the hem of her coat. After gracefully shaking off her hand, her roommate smiles boldly. She’s not angry - but she doesn’t look her way. Because I was impertinent. Engulfed by indescribable shame, Wato ducks her head.

“...I’m sorry for getting ahead of myself,” she says with a small voice.

Sherlock looks down at Wato, and once again her lips curl into a smile. Her expression is full of confidence. This change is clearly visible, even to Wato.

“...Did you figure something out?”

“The size is the same. For Sachiko and the painting of the dancer in Takakura’s study. Their dimensions are precisely the same.”

“Is there a connection there?”

“More than a connection, that’s where it all began. In a certain problem, if you eliminate the impossible, the truth will show itself. No matter how improbable the conclusion.”

She turns her gaze back at Wato and raises her index finger. Confidently, she declares, “We’re going to Mrs. Maibara’s place. If I can confirm something there, everything will come surely together.”

Hirotsugu Takakura looks down at the streets of Tokyo from his office and sighs deeply. Ten minutes to the time they had agreed on. Nine minutes. He had heard that Sachiko had been delivered without trouble to Mrs. Maibara - that’s fine. Eight minutes. Seven minutes. He hears a knock. He turns his head quickly and greets the person who walks inside.

“You’re here. I was waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry for taking so long.”

The man carrying a package, Kuwabata, bows his head deeply. Without even looking at his face, Takakura carefully reaches for the wrapped package.

“It’s finally here.”

Kuwabata quickly pulls it out of his reach and stares at Takakura, still with his arm outstretched.

“...What is it?” Takakura asks softly, as a cold light flashes in his eyes.

“I want to make sure. From now on, you’ll support my work and help me in the art industry, right?”

“Of course. I am a man of my word. I am different from that irresponsible broker, Yanagisawa.”

There is no hesitation in Takakura’s words. He just stares at Kuwabata and stretches his arm towards the package he carries. Kuwabata tightens his jaw and gives a quick nod.

“I believe you,” he says thickly.

He hands over the package. He traces the edges of the rectangular shape with his eyes and his mouth softens with contentment. His hand touches the packing material. He peels off the tape and tears off the paper, and then -

“That package, could you give it back?”

At the sudden voice, Takakura freezes.

“That does not belong to you. It belongs to Mrs. Maibara. A piece of art should go back to someone that loves it, wouldn’t you say?”

“What is this?! You can’t just come in whenever you feel like it!”

Sherlock approaches him and Wato peeks her head from behind her. Takakura glares at the two intruders, and yet, Sherlock is unaffected. She pulls a paper knife from her pocket, and with its blade glinting in the light, she faces Takakura - and the package still in his arms - and smiles boldly.

“Wha-what are you -”

“If you don’t, I’ll just take it by force.”

As the same time as she begins moving, Takakura lets out a shriek. The distance between them shortens. Something rips audibly. Wato gasps. Sherlock jumps at Takakura’s chest. Her knife stabs through the center of the package - and rips the paper covering it.

Wato, Takakura, and Kuwabata all gasp at the same time. In the middle of the square package, there is nothing. There is only a gaping empty space.

“What you actually wanted was this, right?”

Sherlock rips off the rest of the paper in one go. The object concealed by it is uncovered. A deep smell hanging over it. Painstakingly carved details. Having survived through a long, long history. A picture frame.

Takakura’s face twists into a grimace as he gnashes his teeth, while Kuwabata averts his eyes. Wato looks at it all while standing a little farther away.

Boldly, Sherlock continues, “At Mrs. Maibara’s home, we had her show us her husband’s records. He purchased this 20 years prior, at the Sothesthie’s Auction. It was made in the 18th century, in Cremona, Italy. And the maker was - Antonio Stradivari.”

Sherlock turns the picture frame around and points directly at a signature in a corner. It is a little blurry with age, but it is definitely still visible. A. Stradivari, it reads. Still looking away, Kuwabata shakes his head softly. Takakura squints his eyes and glares at Sherlock peeking at him from behind the picture frame.

“Stradivari is a renowned Italian string instrument maker, and his works can cost from tens of millions to billions of yen. How much would a picture frame fetch, I wonder?”

“I have no interest in the picture frame’s cost. Here, give it back.”

“Indeed, for the sake of that thing you wanted to take the frame back.”

Sherlock grows silent and approaches the mantlepiece positioned by the wall. She raises her eyes to the picture of the dancer resting on top of it and matches the frame to it. Their sizes match perfectly. To Wato, it seems like the painting is happy to finally be reunited with its frame.

“You had been searching for this frame for a very long time for your beloved dancer’s sake.”

Inside her dark, wooden frame, the dancer has a ceaseless smile. It is as if she had unexpectedly reunited with a lover she had missed dearly. Takakura looks tenderly at this image. Sherlock removes the frame from the painting and starts speaking once again. Her mouth curls into a confident smile.

“Originally, Stradivari made this frame as a show of love to the girl who danced to the sound of a violin. But, throughout 300 years, the picture and the frame were separated and they both walked different paths. Through the hands of very many collectors, the frame ended up with Mrs. Maibara. The painting went to you. Even when they both ended up in Japan, they never crossed paths. Until now, that is.”

“...When I saw this frame with Sachiko in it at the museum, I could not believe my eyes.”

Takakura takes a sudden breath and gazes once again at the painting of the dancer. The two works who had been separated for so long. Wato, for a single second, for a mere instant, empathizes with this man’s feelings. To reunite two things he loved so much. It would be so beautiful. However, as Sherlock would say, this is not reason enough to make stealing from others okay. Of course, it is not reason enough to steal someone’s life, either.

“Mrs. Maibara did not have any intention to part with either the painting or the picture frame. Therefore, you decided to create a replacement.”

Kuwabata, who had stayed silent all this while, once again looks away. Pointing a finger at him, Sherlock continues, “Yanagisawa used you, an art restorer, to acquire the picture frame, as per Mr. Takakura’s request.”

Kuwabata frowns deeply. It is almost as if he is trying to swallow back the emotions that threaten to overflow from inside him.

Feeling a sharp pang in her chest when she sees this, Wato blurts out, “Why? Why did you go along with Mr. Yanagisawa’s plans?”

Kuwabata does not answer. Even as he keeps his mouth shut, Sherlock presses on, “An art dealer is exactly what an artist that doesn’t sell needs. When he was offered a solo exhibition, there was no way he could refuse.”

He lets out a bitter groan. Shaking his hand, he resolutely opens his mouth.

“...Having a solo exhibition has been my dream for a very long time. He knew that too, and that’s why he approached me. But, what that man said to me were nothing but lies. He never intended to let me have a solo exhibition. Whenever I asked him about it, his attitude would suddenly change -”

“And he told you he never made that promise, and that he would not give you your exhibition,” Sherlock finishes ruthlessly. Kuwabata, who had raised his head full of determination, begins to tremble. He tightens his hands into fists so tightly it seems like he is about to draw blood. His eyes are full of rage. He shakes his head.

He does not shy away from them anymore as he says, “He...he said that he never considered it, and...and he just denied what we had agreed on. And that’s not all. He said that my...my paintings...that they are incredibly boring, that they won’t ever sell, that people don’t even notice them, he shouted abuse at them...and that I have no talent. That someone with talent would have prospered a long time ago. That my painting wouldn’t sell. Even if I had a solo exhibition, not a single person would come, and he laughed, he laughed -”

Tears trickle down Kuwabata’s cheeks. Wato opens her mouth, but Sherlock interrupts her before she can speak, saying with a clear voice, “And then, you killed Yanagisawa.”

“I gave him his just desserts. To that devil, who never appreciated the arts.”

“I’ll let you in on something.”

Sherlock turns back to Takakura, who had just been observing the events unfold, and points a finger at him. To Kuwabata, who has raised his head, she says, “Once you handed over the picture frame, this man had no intention of selling your works.”

He gasps audibly. Kuwabata draws his body back. Takakura watches him, expressionless.

“Obviously,” he says, harshly.

Kuwabata sags, his strength leaving his body.

On Sherlock’s signal, a group of police officers gallantly storm into the room, but Kuwabata only stands frozen, looking into the distance. He does not resist. He just look at what happens around him as if from far away, dazed and with his spirit thoroughly broken. Sherlock looks at Kuwabata, his arms immobilized by the police.

“It’s okay to dream about being a famous painter and all,” she says to the wide-eyed man. “But shouldn’t you work on your people-reading skills a bit more?”

A little after the rest of the police squad, Reimon and Shibata enter the room. Without paying them any mind, Sherlock once again calls out to Kuwabata as he is being taken away.

“A person’s value becomes an artwork’s value. If the person can empathize with it, it’ll leave a strong impression in them, but if they’re not interested in it, they’ll just see it as junk. If a work can find a person that can be moved by it, then it’ll be able to be loved.”

Wato feels suddenly breathless. Kuwabata does not reply. When he finally disappears behind the door, Reimon says gratefully, “So it was a murder after all. I’m glad we didn’t jump to conclusions.”

“I am honored to contribute to raising your arrest-rate, Inspector. Make sure Mrs. Maibara gets her frame back.”

Sherlock pushes the frame into Shibata’s arms. He staggers in surprise but still holds it securely. He hums and shrugs his shoulders.

“Stradivari, huh. It doesn’t seem all that valuable to me.”

“To you, that is. Well then.”

And with that short farewell, Sherlock begins walking away at a brisk pace. Hurrying after her, Wato thinks about the meaning of her earlier words. A person’s value becomes an artwork’s value. If a work can find a person that can be moved by it, then it’ll be able to be loved. Were they meant as encouragement for the unrecognized Kuwabata? Were they directed to the dancer and her picture frame, separated again? Love, Wato whispers to herself, her mouth softening. Perhaps I could grow to like this simple-minded monster of a person a little.

In the midday light, the low, lamenting sound of a cello is heard.

Listening to the music from beyond the door, Kimie Hatano waits for the last note to fade away before knocking. She enters the room without waiting for a response and says to Sherlock as she carefully puts her cello away, “Oh? Where’s Wato?”

“Counseling.”

Sherlock gives her a short answer and throws a look at the chair that has already become exclusively Wato’s. Hatano laughs.

Slowly, she continues, “Mrs. Maibara called a short while ago. She said she loaned Sachiko to the museum again.”

“Again? Why?”

“Because of this case, she realized that it is best when a work of art is shared with everybody, and that the work itself will be happier because of it.”

“Would be nice if it wasn’t vandalized again, though.”

“It’ll be fine. Mrs. Maibara herself will be guarding the painting. She sounded happy to have found something to do. Saneatsu’s and Sachiko’s love. Mrs. Maibara’s and her husband’s love. Stradivari’s and the painting of the dancer’s love. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“...Is it now?” Sherlock replies with a tone of voice that says that she cannot not comprehend that at all, and shrugs her shoulders. Looking at her cheeky expression, Hatano lets out another small laugh.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. I’ve dropped in for a chat, as you suggested, doctor.”

Inside the brightly lit room, Wato shrugs her shoulders in a childish manner. Irikawa cheerfully shows Wato in when she appears without an appointment. She offers her a cup of amber-colored herbal tea and smiles softly.

“I’ve been waiting for you. We can talk about whatever you feel like.”

“Hmm...then, let me tell you about the story of Sachiko’s moustache.”

“Moustache? Ha ha, what do you mean?”

“It’s a very interesting story that happened recently. First of all…”

Gesturing from time to time, Wato begins speaking as a warmth spreads inside of her. The things she and Sherlock had learned. The case unfolding before her eyes. Telling all of this to someone, how much of it is pleasant and how much of it is anxiety-inducing? Wato continues her tale even if she is still not sure.

Notes

Fabric book cover: In many Japanese book stores, when you buy a book, they’ll give it to you with a paper book cover with the store’s branding, but some people also get reusable fabric covers, maybe to protect their book from the elements, maybe to keep the title from prying eyes in the train (or probably a bit of both).

Playful bickering: as @legacy-of-the-westside-prince had already mentioned in their own translation, the word used here is じゃれあう (jareau) which usually means “messing around” but which also seems to imply flirting in some circumstances (here’s the source they found), and the author emphasized the word so there’s that. (tl;dr: the author ships watolock) 

Castella: A Japanese sponge cake brought over by the Portuguese in the 16th century.

Wooden skewers: Kuromoji (or kuromonji?) are wooden skewers made from a plant called Lindera umbellata, usually used to eat traditional Japanese sweets.

Freeter: A person who is not employed full-time (excluding housewives and students) or underemployed. They earn money from part-time or temporary jobs. I thought about translating it, but it has a Wikipedia page, so it sounded kinda legit (plus it’s fun to learn new things).

Sothesthie’s Auction: Totally sounded like a reference to me, so I googled it. The only thing I found was this person on Twitter who suggested it is a combination of Sotheby’s and Christie’s.

Back to Table of Contents

[andersonsallpurpose]

Swedish Vice (is there such a thing? apparently) visit the Archives for the Unexplained (AFU) in Norrköping, Sweden, and their collection of UFO reports from all over the world. I’ve probably mentioned them before because I think the idea is pretty cool, even though I’m not particularly into UFOs. The article is in Swedish, but I took the liberty of editing the google translate version a bit (a lot) into something resembling actual English. If you are the copyright holder and disapprove, please don’t sue, I’m super broke. Under a cut because long:

We visited the world's largest UFO archive

by Benjamin Wirström and Ingrid Altino, okt 19 2018, 5:54pm

In Norrköping there's an archive that collects all of the world's UFO-related reports and objects. Why?

It is a dark September evening in 1989. Mother Kerstin and her 13-year-old daughter Tina are in the car on the way to their home in Björkvik, an urban center just outside Katrineholm in Södermanland. Suddenly they spot an object in the sky, floating above a grove of trees next to the road. It is about five meters in diameter, flashing, and shaped like a saucer. Kerstin reportedly gets out of the car to take a closer look, when the craft quickly shoots off across the lake Yngaren on the other side of the road, out of sight.

Reports of "sightings" such as this there are thousands of in Sweden - about 200-250 come in each year - and all of them get filed in the world's largest UFO archive in Norrköping: Archives of the Unexplained, or AFU.

When we found out about the existence of the archive, we obviously went straight there to get our millions of questions answered. Why is there an archive for UFO-related items at all? Why in Sweden? Are they sitting on some kind of evidence that could potentially solve one of today's greatest mysteries?

The archive, it turns out, is located in what seems to be an ordinary residential area, just ten minutes by tram from Norrköping Central Station. For those who have not had the opportunity to visit Norrköping, the city looks exactly like every other Swedish city with around 100,000 inhabitants: picturesque, pastel, and full of bicycles. The fact that the world's largest UFO archive is allegedly squeezed in here somewhere among townhouses and playgrounds doesn't seem entirely reasonable, but after searching for a while we find a door that leads into the ground floor of a four-story house, subtly marked with "AFU"- the acronym of the archive. The door is open.

We enter a room that looks like any other office, with desks and shelves full of ring binders and books. Wherever you look, there's something UFO-related. On one wall hangs paintings depicting different types of flying saucers, next to old posters from the mid-20th century telling of info meetings on extraterrestrial life.

As we're standing there looking lost, a man comes in through the door behind us. Anders Liljegren, archive coordinator, has agreed to give us a tour. Anders is a 68-year-old pensioner and one of the founders of the national organization UFO Sweden in 1970, and later in 1973 the AFU. Today he spends most of his spare time supervising all the activities at the archive.

Anders tells us that the archive is about 600 square meters, stuffed full with more than 30,000 books, about 50,000 UFO reports from different countries in Europe, around 80,000 magazines, half a million news notices, and loads of different UFO-related items.

Before we begin the tour, we ask Anders about the plaques on the wall, which he tells us belonged to various Swedish UFO societies that used to be around, but sooner or later closed down. "Even the Stockholm UFO Association has shut down," he tells us. "They've been trying to revive it. Today there are two or three societies left within UFO Sweden. It's a fading existence, but we have the archives of about 120 former Swedish societies."

We enter the first archive, which Anders tells us contains documents from the UFO Sweden national organization and other material that's been donated to them. It feels a bit like entering a very organized underground bunker, filled to the brim with information that might prove very useful when aliens sooner or later arrive and enslave humanity.

Everywhere there are archived reports, news articles, and recorded material from the last 200 years. Material indicating the existence of some kind of life out there in space, which may or may not be stopping by our planet in saucerlike craft. Some of it is neatly sorted alphabetically and thematically onto shelves; some is packed away in boxes, waiting to one day be properly archived. As can be expected of a well-stocked archive, there is a constant layer of dust in the air, making you constantly feel like sneezing.

We ask Anders the obvious question whether he believes in everything on the shelves. "Believe in what, exactly?" Anders counters, gesturing to the documents around him. These subjects are way too complex to be able to say that you believe everything or nothing, Anders says. "Rather you have to look at individual cases."

"Some of us believe in a small piece of this cake, which the rest of us don't believe in. We're all different shades," Anders says, referring to the archive’s ten employees. "We have one guy who is very interested in alien contact cases, while I am more interested in abduction cases - in my opinion they carry more weight than those old contact cases. But we have different opinions."

According to Anders, "about 95 percent" of the reports coming in about people who have seen aliens and flying saucers can be explained with the help of science - often it's about people mistaking different light phenomena for something alien or paranormal. The remaining five percent of cases that cannot be dismissed are the reason why many, not least those at AFU, are interested in the topic at all.

The national organization UFO Sweden sometimes carries out its own investigations of reports to try to get closer to the truth. This summer they went door to door in Björkvik to try and find more witnesses to the event that the mother and daughter experienced in 1989.

We ask Anders if he is convinced that some UFO reports are 100 percent correct, or if it's more about being open to the possibility of something happening in a certain way. "What we're absolutely dead sure of is that either way, that woman and her daughter in Björkvik did experience an objective event," Anders replies. "Then there's a lot of things I don't think are worth taking seriously", by which he means reports of people who "keep seeing phenomena all the time". At the archive, they distinguish between these types of reports and more credible statements.

AFU is neither a group of fanatics trying to convince the rest of the world of their "truth", or a bunch of skeptics whose purpose is to try to disprove the submitted hypotheses and theories. The main mission of the association is to archive and preserve materials for the future, and try to approach the subject as scientifically as possible.

Anders leads us through room after room, past shelf after shelf. Some rooms are reminiscent of the science fiction department at a library, others look more like exhibition venues in a museum, while some rooms are more sterile with rows of tall white archive shelves. The majority of the books are non-fiction - the small proportion that is fiction is packed away in boxes.

The deeper into the archives you get, the more obvious it becomes why this archive became the world's largest when it comes to UFO-related documents - so big that aficionados travel here from all over the world to access certain documents. There's a steady trickle of donations from private collectors and libraries. Anders tells us that they have a private contact in London who works as a lawyer, but who in their spare time visits institutions to ask for material to send to the AFU for archiving.

It is also through private donations that the archive is kept afloat, as it is run entirely non-profit. "Right now, we're mainly living off donations we received a few years ago from the US," says Anders. "We received nearly half a million (SEK) from an American who sent us $60,000. So that's what we live off and have as backup funds."

Recorded radio shows, VHS cassettes, 35-milimeter movies, old news notices (both analog and digitized), books, newspapers, reports, correspondence, artwork - every conceivable medium is represented. Is it easy to become conspiratorially inclined when you're exposed to so many reports of abductions, flying saucers, crop circles, and paranormal phenomena? Anders doesn't think so. "I don't feel particularly conspiratorially inclined. It decreases with time, actually. We're taking in so many aspects of things, it would be impossible. I read through the conspiracy literature, but it holds almost no interest for me."

(Image: Fabric badges from Swedish UFO societies)

It is natural, however, that conspiracy theorists are drawn to an institution such as AFU - which is why those at the archive have chosen to keep a low profile. "We don't want conspiracy theorists and people with a transient interest," says Anders. "We all know how many hobbies we went through as teenagers."

Anders has never had a supernatural experience himself. His fascination with UFO's came when he was interested in aircraft as a child - a hobby he inherited from an older brother who passed away when Anders was only three years old. His brother left behind a heap of drawings of craft which piqued Anders's interest.

Five basement rooms, 1.5 kilometers of shelves and three hours later. Going through the archive feels a bit like a journey back in time to when you were little, when pretty much everything was still analog. To a time that wasn't necessarily better, but simpler. And as Anders says, "Why does everything have to be digitized?"

,

[theolddarkmachine]

Gather All Our Ghosts- Ch. 3

“We don’t welcome strangers here,” he growled through gritted teeth as he looked down the bridge of his nose. Catching the sharp line of his stare, Shiro held it within the pliable metallic of his own, careful to time his breathing just to make sure he kept it up. Moments passed as they held the contact, Keith challenging Shiro to say something.

To say anything.

And Shiro just trying to memorize the exact way the sun lit the strong curves of his face.

A sharp crack echoed through the cavity of his chest as the mark hidden by his clothing flared with a near searing pain.

“But we aren’t strangers, are we?” Shiro managed around his surprised gasp, catching Keith’s eyes going wide before he looked away. Carefully, he rubbed his fingers against the floral mark and the phantom sting that was already gone. “Don’t I know you?”

For @sheithreversebang

Partners: @dyedgreyillusion and @dudettemal

Part 3 of 10

AO3 (Artwork Included!)

Link to Art 

Tags: Inugami, Kitsune, Tengu oh my; Magic and Curses; Slow Burn; Mild Action and Gore

A/N: I highly suggest you read this chapter on AO3 because then you can see that amazing artwork! and cry with me about it omg the colors are to die for yall It will be linked here when Kai posts it, but until then, give her a follow so you don’t miss it when she posts it!

*************************

Keith.

His name was Keith, and something deep within Shiro’s chest cracked with the sound of his name rolling off of the larger man’s tongue when he finally answered the one question he had. It was the only information he seemed willing to share about the smaller kitsune, but it was enough.

Because now Shiro knew his name.

Keith.

“Hey, big guy, aren’t you going to defend our honor or something?” Lance’s voice was loud as it snapped him back to the meeting room that he, his companions, and the apparent Marmora leader now sat in. The tengu shot a cutting glance towards Kolivan as he squinted in what Shiro could only guess was meant to be intimidation.

As it turned out, Hunk and Lance had not been met with the same hospitality that he had as they both found themselves thrown into a cell tucked beneath the main temple. That very fact seemed to have ruffled both of their feathers as they sat side-by-side waiting for Shiro to say something to the kitsune before them.

Though, as far as he could tell, their treatment couldn’t quite be classified as terrible either.

“We were trespassing, Lance,” was all he said as he nodded toward Kolivan to continue as the tengu pushed himself further down in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Shiro didn’t miss the way Hunk gently pat him on the shoulder in a show of silent apology.

“We are sorry for the treatment, young tengu,” Kolivan said as he turned his yellow stare towards Lance. “The Blades have many enemies, and we cannot take the presence of strangers lightly on our land. You must understand that much?”

Lance’s mouth opened around a retort as Hunk cut him off with a quick squeeze of his shoulder as he leant forward.

“We understand,” he said before cutting his dark eyes towards his friend and smiling. “It isn’t the first time we’ve spent a night in a cell. Honestly, we’ve had worse.”

Hunk’s chuckle was light and eased the tension in the room as a collective sigh of relief deflated all members seated around the table. Shiro sent a silent thanks up to the heavens and all the gods that kept the situation from devolving into chaos.

They had come too far to fail now.

“Tell me, Shiro,” Kolivan started as he turned his attention back to him and folded his hands on top of the table before him. “What has brought you and your companions to our temple.”

Straightening his back, Shiro mirrored Kolivan’s posture, ignoring the way his eyes pulled down the the black skin pulled across the top of his hand.

“We’ve come to ask for your help,” he said lamely, noting the leader’s solemn nod at his words.

There were only ever two reasons anyone sought out the Blades, and if it wasn’t for help, it was for destruction.

“The priestess of the Northern Forest found me without memory and with this curse,” he continued, raising his arm unnecessarily as he drew Kolivan’s full attention back down to his hand. “She did what she could but even she is not powerful enough to push away the darkness of the spell.”

Both tengu sat silently as they watched the kitsune nod slowly once more, his cool gaze never leaving Shiro as he pushed his weight into his forearms.

“And you think we can purify the curse.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Shiro affirmed, shifting himself forward in his seat as he swallowed loudly. “I have nothing to give and I know that Blades keep to their own affairs—”

Raising his hand, Kolivan cut him off swiftly. A single line of foreboding made his shoulders tight as he prepared for the inevitable denial of the clan’s help.

“We will help you,” he said instead, his voice low with authority. Quiet confusion fell like a hush over the room as Shiro, Lance and Hunk exchanged quick glances.

“It will take time though,” he continued with warning. “I have my suspicions of who cursed you, and if they are true, you may already be too late. But we will try to help you, Shiro.”

Shiro’s name was wrapped in something soft, a lot like fondness that was much too familiar for having just met. Ears flicking back in curiosity, the inugami eyed Kolivan as he tilted his head to the side in silent question.

“Just like that?” Lance asked incredulously as his head snapped between his companions and the kitsune, eyes wide with bewilderment. Dragging his stare away from Kolivan, Shiro shot a warning glare to Lance who only mouthed a defensive what.

It earned them a chuckle as Kolivan pushed his chair back and slowly stood.

“Yes, young tengu. Just like that,” he said as he looked over the trio before offering an unnecessary explanation. “It is the right thing to do.”

Moving away from the table, the kitsune turned his back to his confused guests as he made his way to the door.

“Shiro, you may travel the grounds as you please. I will be showing your friends to their rooms.”

Hesitating slightly, both tengu turned to Shiro as Kolivan looked over his shoulder at the doorway.

“Unless you prefer the cells,” he said, lips turning up in a half grin. The joke warmed his features as Hunk and Lance balked, jumping up from their seats and falling in line behind him like ducklings.

Shiro listened to their steps fade as they followed Kolivan away from the room until they disappeared entirely, leaving him with the silence of solitude as he sighed. Rolling low into his chair, he turned his eyes upward toward the ceiling, tracing his gaze back and forth over the grain of the wood beams that stretched above him.

It all was just too easy.

Not that he had any right to complain. He knew that Hunk and Lance were tired after so many months of travel, and that they deserved to come upon some sort of luck. Yet all his nerves screamed out at him that something was wrong.

The entire time he had spent with Kolivan, he caught the edges of something the leader held within his knowledge that he did not.

It felt almost as if he knew Shiro already.

Shaking the thoughts from his head quickly, Shiro pushed away from the table. He couldn’t dwell on the things he didn’t know. As it was, the Blades would help them if they could.

If it wasn’t already too late.

All he had to do was wait for that verdict. Sighing again he made his way back to the hallway, following the hall he’d been in earlier until he reached the exit out into the courtyard.

Rolling his neck, he felt the sharp pops of his bones realigning as he rubbed a palm against his nape. The fresh air filled his lungs and cleared his head a bit as he took in the area around him.

Where they were had been the sleeping quarters for the clan, with the main temple off in the distance, and both were surrounded by a thick forest.

Admiring them closely, he began to follow the path that skirted the line of the woods and led away from the secondary house.

There was something calming about the trees that stood guard around the temple, protecting it from the outside world with its strong bark and wide reaching limbs. It brought him a sense of ease and belonging as he continued to follow the slightly worn path, tracking his gaze across the various tree types that stood around him. Shiro and his companions had traveled across the land and seen many forests, but none brought him the same sense of belonging as this one did.

Somehow, it felt like home, which was ridiculous given Shiro didn’t remember enough about a home to feel like he even had one.

But it felt that way all the same.

He painted the tree line with the molten silver of his stare as he tried to etch each strong limb into the impression of his memory.

Kolivan said that the Blades would help him, but he never agreed to let them stay for long, and he wanted to make sure he never forgot the sense of ease that the temple seemed to pull from deep within his bones. It was as if he’d finally found what he had been looking for, trapped within the shadows of the trees.

“You don’t want to go in there alone,” a voice called out, snapping his concentration as he pulled his attention back from the forest. He had strayed quite far from the smaller home that served as the clan’s sleeping quarters and out towards the larger temple meant for prayer and purifications. It stood tall and proud atop a rising hill that sat it overlooking the forest. With its exterior set in contrasting reds and dark wood, it was beautiful and powerful, a true symbol of a safe haven.

And before that, standing like a silent guardian just before the temple’s steps, was a tall, crimson torii gate.

And on top of it, was Keith.

With his knee pulled up into his chest and arms wrapped around his shin, the kitsune rested his chin atop his bent leg as he stared down at him. The earlier heat from his stare had faded into something a bit more tepid, more weary, as he swathed the long line of Shiro’s body in its warmth.

“Is that something you know from experience?” He asked, biting down on the hard syllable of Keith’s name. Everything within him screamed out to the kitsune, wanting to hear his name from the man himself.

The pause from its absence left the question almost open ended as he waited for Keith’s reply.

“You could say something like that,” he finally replied, a barely there grin flicked the corner of his mouth upward. It was a momentary thing, lost almost as quickly as it appeared, but Shiro held onto it as he just took him in.

Find me, he had said.

Now he had, but he still felt impossibly far away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Keith continued, filling each space between his words with a double meaning that eluded Shiro.

It sounded almost like the sadness of something lost.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Shiro breathed before he could stop the question. Keith’s eyes hardened at it as he pushed himself upward from his seated position, keeping his hands fisted at his sides in defiance as he stood.

“We don’t welcome strangers here,” he growled through gritted teeth as he looked down the bridge of his nose. Catching the sharp line of his stare, Shiro held it within the pliable metallic of his own, careful to time his breathing just to make sure he kept it up. Moments passed as they held the contact, Keith challenging Shiro to say something.

To say anything.

And Shiro just trying to memorize the exact way the sun lit the strong curves of his face.

A sharp crack echoed through the cavity of his chest as the mark hidden by his clothing flared with a near searing pain.

“But we aren’t strangers, are we?” Shiro managed around his surprised gasp, catching Keith’s eyes going wide before he looked away. Carefully, he rubbed his fingers against the floral mark and the phantom sting that was already gone. “Don’t I know you?”

Amethyst flared as Keith’s fists tightened further at his sides as he sized Shiro up. Mouth opening around silent words, the kitsune’s brows furrowed with indecision before they finally smoothed out with his resolution. Squaring his shoulders, he swallowed what he was going to say.

“No, you don’t,” he said instead, his voice hard as he turned away, not bothering to turn back towards him as he continued to speak. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

A spasm rocked over Shiro’s sternum as he took an involuntary step forward, raising his arm as if he could grab Keith and stop him.

“Wait!” He yelled, the soft ache of fear cracking the word as Keith threw a questioning look over his shoulder. “I want to know you then.”

Color brushed itself over the high of Keith’s cheek, turning it a soft shade of pink as he went rigid much like he had earlier when Shiro had made himself known. Turning slowly, he openly stared down at him with curiosity and a strange light that brightened his gaze.

The pause was insignificant in its length. Nothing more than the space of a breath but it was enough. Shiro took another step forward as he dropped his hand back to his side.

“What’s your name?”

Deja vu turned his stomach as he stared up at the kitsune, watching closely as something a lot like pain twitched at the edges of his expression. The blush across his cheeks darkened further as he looked off to the side.

“I’m Keith.”

His answer was low and soft, but Shiro heard it all the same. Electricity zinged through his veins as his lips turned upward into a bright smile that reflected the light of the sun above.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Keith.” Keith’s eyes flicked back towards him as he raised his unmarked hand up to his chest.

“I’m Shiro.”

*******************

[armeniaitn]

Revealing Their Abstraction: Moko Khachatryan and Vahan Rumelyan’s Debut Art Exhibit

New Post has been published on https://armenia.in-the.news/culture/revealing-their-abstraction-moko-khachatryan-and-vahan-rumelyans-debut-art-exhibit-71005-22-03-2021/

Revealing Their Abstraction: Moko Khachatryan and Vahan Rumelyan’s Debut Art Exhibit

Vahan Rumelyan and Moko Khachatryan

Moko Khachatryan’s “Purple Shadows,” 2020, Oil on canvas, 74.80h x 51.18w in, and Vahan Rumelyan’s “Opus,” 2019, Oil on canvas, 58.27h x 75.39w in

Rumelyan’s “Untitled,” 2019, 148 x 191 cm (h x w) Oil on canvas and Khachatryan’s “Purple Shadows”

Khachatryan’s “Long Time No See,” 2020, 100 x 100 cm (h x w) Oil on canvas and “Yellow Shadow,” 2019, 140 x 100 cm (h x w) Oil on canvas

Khachatryan’s “Purple Shadows”

BY NARE GARIBYAN

As I entered the gallery at Tufenkian Fine Arts, in Glendale, CA and began to view Moko’s and Vahan’s art, I appreciated the juxtaposition of their artwork adjacent to one another. Meanwhile, in another corner of the gallery, I was transported to the individual spaces of Moko and Vahan. They both create works of abstract expressionism, and at first glance, their work might seem similar, yet at a closer look, their style and sensibilities vary.

Vahan’s paint strokes are raw and orbital, containing tangible, almost edible, clumps of bold colored paint, chaotic, yet, reflective. The circularity found in his work, has also manifested onto an actual circular canvas, which gives his art multidimensionality.

Moko’s canvases have a meditative, confident, and strong quality, bright and dark paint expands and drapes along the canvas with a sense of verticality. Her placement of color on the canvas speaks to her visionary dexterousness.

In both instances, the viewer is enthralled and a dialogue is roused between the viewer, the artists and the viewer’s own sense of abstraction, which stems from an unconscious, authentic place.

When Vahan begins his process of creation, he says, “ I become part of my painting; I become that line, that gesture; I disappear, detached from my ego; I disappear from my being and become part of my painting, as if I find myself in a cosmic world, where I have been given the sole purpose to become what I must expose to my viewer.” Vahan’s work aligns with Arshile Gorky, Willem de Kooning, Jackson Pollock, and Franz Kline; “I am continuing their unfinished work,” Vahan affirms. His description of abstract art appears on the canvas, “it is really a psychological, transcendental reality, it is meditative.”

Moko roots abstract art in the unconscious, unworldly, and spiritual realms. She asserts that “abstract art is not drawing or painting, it is a mentality, a lifestyle, and it is a thought process that is deep and philosophical.” She thinks of Mark Rothko, Joan Mitchell and Helen Frankenthaler as she connects authenticity to abstract art. She comments that “in other art forms you can hide your feelings and disguise your inner world, but in abstract art you cannot lie to the viewer.” This is also evident in Moko’s description of her process; she works on a painting all day and decides to continue her work the next day. But the next day, “the painting completely changes because yesterday and today no longer coincide; I am the same person, but my essence for that new day does not coincide [with the work from the previous day], it is not repetitive because there can’t be repetition from yesterday and today.”

Thus it is not surprising that this mind and body connection, found in both Vahan’s and Moko’s art alludes to the influence of the aesthetics of Japanese art. Vahan says that the foundation of his art is based on Japanese calligraphy. He further describes that, “Japanese calligraphy is created with haste and speed, if it is created in a slower pace, it will not work. If I paint in a slower pace, it becomes fake and inauthentic. “ Moko appreciates the Japanese aesthetic that aligns with restraint and simplicity, which is visible in her work.

After the untimely death of Moko’s father, the internationally, renowned artist, Rudolf Khachatryan, she shares that “something happened to me…I have created so much work in the past 13 years since my father’s passing; I was working morning to night, everyday, it was all unbelievable what was happening to me.” Moko is proud to be an established artist. She started her abstract explorations at a much later time; “I started out as a figurative artist and slowly my style cleansed itself into abstraction.” She regrets that her father did not live to see her full developmental arc as an artist.

Both Vahan and Moko have exhibited extensively; solo or group shows, spanning various countries between them, from France, Germany, Switzerland, Russia, Lebanon, Kuwait, Armenia, and the US. Moko and Vahan are such prolific and active artists because they have found harmony between each other. Moko states, “we disturb and help each other, sometimes we live apart, and come back together as it is difficult to live as two serious artists under one roof.” But somehow it works for them. Moko and Vahan look forward to one day, performing together, creating live art, as the viewers watch in anticipation, waiting to decipher their abstraction.

Hope you enjoy the exhibition.

“Poetry in Space,” Moko Khachatryan and Vahan Rumelyan’s debut joint exhibit is on view at Tufenkian Fine Arts by appointment through April 23. Gallery hours are Tuesday to Saturday from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Visit the website to make an appointment online. Follow Tufenkian Fine Arts on Facebook and Instagram for updates about the gallery, new works, artist updates, and exhibition dates.

Read original article here.

[always-andshewrites]

Chapter 3 : Deal with the Devil

| Peeta |

Using my free hand to open the door because my other hand is being held hostage by the death grip from Katniss’ hand, I slowly push the door open.  I tense up when I feel my heart begin to accelerate from the thought of some Capitolite laying their filthy hands on any of my things.  It’s true that this is my home, but technically, it is the property of the Capitol, and thus, belongs to President Snow.  However, the thought of him or any of his goons in my home sends a murderous rage festering inside me.

The moment my foot passes the threshold my head snaps to the left, meeting Katniss' stare.  Both of us immediately recognize the all too familiar rancid aroma of blood and roses filling the air, informing us, without a doubt, who our intruder is.

‘Snow.’ Katniss conveys, casting me a worried glance and gripping even tighter onto my hand.

No one appears to be on the main level of the house, so we tiptoe, quietly making our way up the steps and to the second floor.  Stealthily, we creep down the hallway, eager to face our intruder, yet anxious at the same time.  I instantly take notice of the door to my art studio, which is always, without fail kept shut and locked up tight; is slightly ajar.  It is what grabs my attention, confirming that something is amiss.  All of our friends and family; or really anyone who visits us knows to steer clear of that room, aware of what lies beyond the threshold.

Curiosity overpowers our fear, and together we make our way into that room.  This is the one and only room I ask Katniss to stay out of, not because I have anything to hide but because I know the sight of my paintings will most likely trigger her gag reflex, in addition to causing her now dormant nightmares to return.  They are not so much paintings, but a visual timeline of each of my nightmares, a vivid recollection of our time in the arena.  

When I glance down the row of paintings, for the first time I see them as an onlooker would and cannot help but notice how each one is more vibrant than its neighbor.  Most likely because the nightmares become more lucid and lifelike the closer the Victory Tour gets.

Katniss doesn’t want or need a visual to remind her of the horrors we faced in the arena. But for me, it’s like . . . like a form of therapy.  It’s like if I have the ability to remove the images from my mind and transfer them onto a canvas; by turning them into a still life portrait, something tangible, it grants me control; the power to lock them away forever, or even burn them if that’s what I wanted to do.

As much as I want to forget the horrors we faced and as much as I want to expunge the memories from my mind, at the same time I don’t want to forget.  If I forget, then who would remember Thresh and Rue?  And what about the other tributes?  No, I need to remember, it’s what gives me the motivation to continue living my life.  The drive to fight our battle.

Once the door is open, we see the backside of a man with fluffy snow-white hair.  He is dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, slowly pacing the length of the room.  His hands are clasped behind his back, giving a slight nod here and there, as if offering his approval at the paintings lining the wall.

“Dammit— Lucy . . . Kill . . . Mock—jay . . .” I think I hear him mumble to himself just as his body tenses for a moment.  I am instantly intrigued and wonder who this “Lucy” is.

‘Did you—’ I meet Katniss’ eyes, curious as to if I’m hearing things.  She nods, confirming my sanity.

'Peeta, I'm scared.'  She shudders, squeezing my hand a little tighter, if that is even possible.  I reciprocate, entwining our fingers, assuring her that I am not going anywhere.

'It's going to be okay; he's not going to hurt us.' I tell her, though not quite certain myself.  It is moments such as these that I am grateful for whatever forces have bestowed us with our telepathic link.  The ability to communicate silently while in the presence of others has proven to be more than . . . useful.

“Aghhem . . . Excuse me, can I help you?”  I announce our presence, clearing my throat to grab his attention.  I would recognize that snowy white hair anywhere, I do not need to see his face to know his identity, but I still need him to turn around and face us.

“These are quite remarkable.”  President Snow takes his time turning around as he compliments the painting behind him, presenting his face with an approving smirk.  This particular painting details one of his ferocious mutts from the arena; a squirrel foaming at its mouth fills the page, while Katniss and I are drawn as miniscule beings in the far bottom left corner of the canvas.  I am leaning over the side of the cornucopia gripping firmly onto Katniss’ calves while she aims the golden arrow at the Queen.  Why am I not surprised that this painting brings him pleasure?

On the other hand, I do not miss the way he sneers disapprovingly at the canvas portraying me and Katniss with our allies from District Eleven.  I have captured us high up in a tree with our friends, seeking refuge from those who mean us harm.  Katniss and I are settled in our sleeping bag on a branch; just below us are Thresh and Rue in an almost mirroring position.  I remember that night so clearly as we swapped stories from our district’s.

“President Snow, what an honor, what—” Katniss begins to offer pleasantries, but the deleterious man in front of us cuts her off before she brings it to completion.

“I think we’ll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other.  What do you think?”  Snow says with his affected Capitol accent and a hint of arrogancy. His lips are plump and full, the skin appearing painfully tight as he speaks, causing me to believe they must be surgically altered.  Lips that full just aren’t natural.

‘I think it’s meant to highlight his features.’ Katniss quips and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to mask my amusement.

“Yes, I think that would save time.”  Katniss affirms, her voice confident and steady as she stands tall.  She has one hell of a poker face but she can’t fool me.  She is utterly terrified, as am I.

Snow continues to marvel over the neighboring paintings for a moment before a sly grin appears on his face.  He follows it up with a nod of approval and then his eyes are back on me.  “I heard you were talented Mr. Mellark, but I just had to see it for myself.  I would never believe that someone from as lowly a district as Twelve could produce such . . . works of art.”  He begins, slithering to the far corner of the room and taking a seat in a chair behind a desk.  Wait a minute, where did that desk come from?  Before today, this room contained only my artwork, an easel, a handful of blank canvases, various containers of paint, my brushes, and a few other random art supplies.  Either I’m losing it or, or— did he bring this furniture with him?  Is it meant to . . . intimidate us?

'What do you think he wants?' Katniss presses, never removing President Snow from her line of sight.

“Please, why don’t you have a seat?”  Snow affirms, motioning for us to take a seat in the sophisticated looking high back chairs in front of him.  However, I get the distinct impression the “please” was not merely a request.  Katniss and I take a seat, refusing to release our grip on the other’s hand and scoot our chairs closer to the other so that our knees are brushing.

'I have no idea, but I have a feeling we are about to find out.  And . . . where did the desk and chairs come from?'

‘No clue.’ She answers without missing a beat.

Unsure as to how I should respond to President Snow’s remark, I say the first thing that pops into my head.  “President Snow, my paintings will be on display in the Capitol in just a few weeks, so I know you didn’t come all the way out here just to see them.  Why don’t we forgo the pleasantries, and you can tell us why you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”  I assert, holding my head up high, recalling my lessons on proper etiquette with Effie as I come off as unperturbed.  I really hope he can’t see how utterly terrified I truly am.

“My advisors recommended I steer clear of you both; that you would be ah . . . difficult.  But you are not planning to be difficult, are you Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark?”  He articulates each syllable, hissing at the tail end of Katniss' name and clicking mine as it rolls off his tongue.  I cringe from his condescending and taunting voice and suddenly, it feels as if my veins are filled with ice.