#everyone wants to call him a renaissance painting

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

The man is a living Caravaggio painting

[feroluce]

On Sampo's name (ALL of his names!)

I feel like everyone who's a fan knows the meaning of Sampo's full name by now- the sampo was a legendary item that could magically make endless supplies of gold, flour, and salt, all priceless items at the time! So it works perfectly for a scammer businessman like Sampo. ☆

"Koski" is the Finnish word for "water rapids" which might seem kinda random but actually makes sense for him, since Aha and the Masked Fools are also referred to with water terms:

This kind of analogy isn't specific to only Aha and the Masked Fools, but it does still tie them together. So water rapids fits perfectly! Sampo wants to stir the pot! He likes to shake things around and spice things up! He's taking that stagnant pool and turning it into water rapids! It would actually explain his ridiculous hair color, too; a dark blue wave tipped with white foam haha

EDIT: an amazing contribution from @ricochetlovebombs, who heard it from hoyolab user Rattaboy. If you interpret his first and last name together, instead of separately like I did, you would get something like "money river."

In other words, Sampo's name literally means CASH FLOW SKXJMDMDMD

What I really wanted to talk about is his drag alias name, though, Brughel Poisson, because to me that's where it gets really interesting.

So like in the English version, Sampo goes by Brughel Poisson when he's in disguise. Searching for just "Brughel" itself doesn't seem to get you much at first: a Flemish and Dutch Renaissance painter named Pieter Brueghel the Elder, who was famous for his landscapes and peasant scenery, especially Hunters in the Snow and The Blue Cloak.

He's referred to as "the Elder" because he had a son also named Pieter Brueghel (the Younger), and he began a long line of painters, all named Brueghel. Some of them did original work, and many of them created reproductions of the Elder's art to sell. The Elder was also famous as a printmaker. All of this is hilarious when you remember that Sampo is an infamous counterfeiter and has sold a relic called the Parallel Universe Printer JSKZJSMD

There is also something called Brueghel's Syndrome, named after one of Brueghel's paintings called De Gaper, which pictured a man yawning widely. It's a condition that causes the mouth to open and gape uncontrollably, twisting a person's countenance into a distorted mask of their usual face.

Tumblr doesn't have a way of censoring pics like twitter, so for the sake of the medically squeamish, I'm just showing De Gaper here. But if you look up Brueghel's Syndrome, you can find pictures of actual patients, some of whom really do make faces resembling Aha's comedy and tragedy masks!

In the Chinese and Japanese versions, his alias last name is a lot more silly- In those, "Sampo" is phonetically written as "san-bo" and "san-po." And in disguise, his last names are phonetically written as... "Bo-san" and "Po-san." The Chinese version uses different tones, but still. This smug asshole seriously just decided to write his own name backwards and called it a day NDMKXMDMD

In the English version, Poisson itself is kind of a reused Hoyo asset- it's also the name of Navia's fishing village in Genshin Impact. Which is a really silly name for a village, because it literally just means "fish" in French smzjxkdkdk but!

Again, more water imagery. And in English, if something is suspicious, we say that it's "fishy," which is perhaps the most fitting association yet for someone as shady as Sampo ☆

And for a good while I thought that was the only connection. But then. My beloved @hydrachea, who is an actual native French speaker, dropped this on me right after April Fool's Day:

Poisson is literally the word you use to pull an April Fool's prank.

[rottenpumpkin13]

ASG go to the mall: what chaos ensues and who comes along for the ride?

Things that happen at the mall, a list

• Genesis drags everyone into a high-end fashion store, loudly proclaiming it's time for "cultural enrichment." Sephiroth is trying to figure out why pants come pre-ripped, holding up a pair of distressed jeans and asking "Is this a defective product?" Angeal doesn't answer because he saw a plain white tee for 12,000 gil and is having a heart attack.

• Sephiroth discovers bubble tea and likes it, but he drinks too fast, and ignores Genesis when he tells Sephiroth to slow down. "I like this, I wonder if they have chocolate—hhhaakkkhh!" <- the choking sounds of a man who has underestimated the power of tapioca pearls.

• Angeal lectures a teenage shoplifter about honor and dignity for so long, the kid hands over the stolen bracelet, his wallet, and a half-eaten sandwich just to escape. "Take it all, man, I swear I'll never sin again."

• Sephiroth stands motionless in front of a pet store window, making intense eye contact with a hamster for concerning periods of time. He's concerned. "This creature's containment seems inadequate for its potential. I've seen it devise seventeen possible escape routes in the last five minutes." Angeal and Genesis then have to drag him away because he wants to purchase the hamster to then free it.

• Angeal clips coupons. So many coupons. He has a special folder for them organized by expiration date and Genesis pretends not to know him at the checkout when he pulls out a meticulously organized binder to save 50 gil on premium shampoo. Sephiroth, noticing Genesis' mortification, helpfully announces "I can confirm this is indeed Angeal Hewley of SOLDIER First Class, and that's his childhood friend, Genesis Rhapsodos hiding his face in his coat" to the entire store.

• Sephiroth gets trapped in a crowd of elderly mall walkers who are completely unafraid of him. They keep pinching his cheeks, calling him "such a nice young man," and insisting he needs to eat more. One particularly bold grandmother tries to set him up with her granddaughter while showing him photos from her wallet

• Sephiroth discovers one of those massage chairs and spends an 20 minutes in it with a completely unchanged expression.

Genesis: Are you enjoying it? Sephiroth: This device's attempt to defeat my muscle tension is admirable but futile. *Genesis cranks up the setting* Sephiroth: *purring* Genesis: ?

• Angeal's trip to a fancy kitchenware store lasts 2 minutes. He finds a 400 gil banana peeler and has a nervous breakdown.

• Genesis and Sephiroth enter a gaming arcade "for posterity."

Genesis: This is where the youth of today come to hone their strategic skills. Sephiroth, watching a person playing DDR aggressively twerk: Oh my god.

• They pass a photo booth, and Genesis insists they need "documentation of this expedition." The resulting photos show:

Photo 1: An awkward photo where all three of these 6-foot-something men built like trees are trying to fit into the booth. Genesis' hand is in Angeal's face. Sephiroth is a ailver blur of motion because he's falling. Chaos. Photo 2: Sephiroth sitting rigidly with his perfect posture, holding a fake mustache above his lip like he's been forced into this at gunpoint, while Genesis and Angeal are yelling at him to smile. Photo 3: A nice, normal photo of them smiling <3 Photo 4: Looks like a renaissance painting. Zack pulled open the curtain because he recognized them from afar. Genesis is dramatically fallen back, draped across Angeal because he fainted from the surprise. Angeal has a bloody nose because as Genesis fell he punched him in the nose. Zack is excitedly waving at them. Sephiroth is looking directly into the camera, eyes screaming "help."

[tmwcs]

Hsjaksis this idea has been in my brain for so long but imagine demon heeseung who watches little church girl y/n ever since she turned of age, he's smitten,he wants her but also knows that her purity is too strong and he can only touch her body if she gives him permission,so he has to use deception. Pretend to be someone else to earn ur trust, making u suck on his fingers by telling u that it will earn u god's grace. Overall heavy on corruption if u catch my drift. He will slowly prepare you for himself cuz u r oh so sweet and innocent completely unaware of the pleasures of the human body

”A Test of Will.”

WARNINGS: Unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, corruption, deception, demonic HS x Y/N. Stealing y/n's virginity, possessiveness, secret admiring, cursing, I think that's it.

I apologize it took me so long to post. I got super jet-lagged after our flight back home the other day. But without further ado, here is (sorry it's not proofread) the one shot, "A Test of Will." REQUESTED.

Begin Read:

For as long as you can remember, you loved and praised God, taught to submit into his will whenever he desired or called upon you. As a young girl, you wanted nothing more than to become a bride of Jesus and yearned to remain everlasting and pure. It was a life you loved and respected, being the daughter of a pastor and the wife of a devoted homemaker. From the moment you understood speech, and emotional love, it had always been ingrained in your head to please him and only him.

So, you did.

The first moment you realized the importance of your obedience to the Holy spirit was after you turned seven and your family coordinated your Baptism at the local church, one your family had been attending for years. Donning all white, looking as angelic as the Renaissance paintings, you gained holiness and rebirth as God's child, watching as everyone gathered around and sang praises and cheers. It was a joyous event that displayed your conformance to the standards of God's holy will. Among the chanting choir, one particular guest lurked from above, watching with intrigue. Despite being uninvited, he remained to observe the Holy ritual while being unheard and unseen.

He hovered high above, over the large grand fountain, and watched as the priest gently dipped your frail body in the water, allowing you to rise and take your first breath. Seeing how you smiled delicately, accepting your dedication to fulfilling God's will, creates a smirk in defiance to form gracefully on his dark lips. Now, this ritualistic occurrence was not unique to him, but he could care less, for the event wasn't the reason for his stay. It was you that he was interested in. Your innocence appealed to him, and the strength of your devotion, especially at such a young age, what an enchanting young girl you were. Perhaps he'll possess you and devour your soul while you sleep, letting you die while he tucks your spirit away for safe keeping.

Spreading his wings wide, they rested against the cathedral ceiling; the darkness of the spikes and bat-like features looked as if it smeared the face of the great mother Mary and baby Jesus, tainting their warm faces with the hue of black and blood red. His lithe frame is sharply adorned in an all-black suit with fingerless gloves, while his hair is stained royal purple. Gravity did not affect his demonic nature; no one would have been able to notice him even if he decided to become visible to the mortal eye. He took on a perfect stance of a straight stand, parallel to the roof of the ceiling, with arms carelessly crossed and a raised hand stroking his lips by the lead index. Chuckling, he becomes amused and admires your happiness in becoming one of them, another tribal animal that falls into the pretenses of spiritual love and devotion, neglecting the nature of your mortal existence and desire. That won't do for him, considering he can only devour your spirit when it is strong in faith.

……………..

Years have passed since then, and the hellish guest permanently remained in your life, unbeknownst to you. It was enjoyable for him to watch you grow, molding into a prideful young woman. He admired your dedication but grew infatuated by your stubbornness. You had no problems remaining vigilant in keeping your chastity, but it wasn't easy. As you came of age, you longed for a sense of touch and physical companionship. Most times, you continued to plow through life with your dedication strong and steady, yet some moments you questioned if you were doing enough, feeling complacent with your current path and therefore drifting in thought, wondering if there is more to life than just serving the Lord.

It had hit you hard upon graduating high school, you realized that your greatest wish was to do more, thus furthering your motivation to stay on the current course. Especially after observing your peers, watching them take part in dating, following the natural courses of love, marriage, and family life. You did everything you could to take your mind off it, from actively volunteering in holy community services to leading Bible study every day, but none of it gave you the strength you needed to stay engaged with your dedication to God. Unfortunately for you, he had sensed it and took great delight watching as you tried fighting off your instinctive desires as a mortal woman.

There were times when his invisibility was clicked on or off, depending on his mood, yet it didn't matter for each time that he was present, he remained undetected. Whether it was appearing as the air itself, or disguising as one of your friends, teachers, or even your parents, he gained interaction to hear how lovely your voice became with age. He had found you peculiar upon discovering you as a young girl, but seeing how you grew into the dedicated young woman you are today, he was obsessed. Who could have ever thought that demons could gain affection and desire for humans? It wasn't natural nor was it normal, but there is a first for everything, including him. The last straw was when he lay, relaxing himself on your bedspread, watching as you remained oblivious to his unobtrusive presence. Figuring you were going to conduct your normal routine in changing inside your closet space, he relaxes on your bedding, already knowing that your inclusive habit was due to your shyness in changing out in the open, despite being nestled in the privacy of your room…or so you thought.

It's true, that you have made a habit of changing in discrete areas such as your closet or your bathroom, but time has an effect on everyone, even God's most dutiful child. Sure, you were still fruitful and pure, but as you matured, you found it nearly silly

you weren't as shy as you were before. You were a fully, blossomed young woman who helped and loved her family and had prospects to attend the university of your choice in the oncoming months, all with the attending hopes of joining a nunnery and becoming a bride of his holiness.

His brow raises when he notices you undressing. Shifting his gaze, he looked confused for a moment as you broke out of your traditional habit, and stripped off your clothing delicately until you reached full nudeness. It takes a lot for him to become shaken, it's never happened before, but you accomplished a feat that many, including the demons of Hell, found impossible to achieve. There he lay, iris expanding and glowing red as he noted the suppleness of your soft skin, how you tenderly removed your skirt, blouse, and the undergarments that cradled your luscious breasts and the simple white lace that protected the heart of your core. It was at that moment for the first time since he discovered you, he realized that he was not just intrigued, but obsessed with having you. His infatuation develops into something deeper and stronger upon seeing your bare form, he had to keep you, shower you with his darkness, and hide your lightened heart away for only him to admire.

………………

"Y/N, come here sweetheart, and meet the new priest who has graciously volunteered his services to our church."

You had just returned from your college orientation and noted an unfamiliar umbrella staged by the front door upon entry. Your steps were timid, but you approached the living room steadily, catching sight of your mother and father both speaking to a tall figure, with his back facing you. Your mother catches your entry and bids you to introduce yourself, and you had every means of doing so gracefully, until he turned around.

"Y/N, this is Father Ethan, he has come from far away and is blessing our church with his devotion and preaching of God." Your father added on, continuing your mother's praise of the rather young-looking man that stood before you. He had dark, shiny black hair, was lean, and had a handsome face; for a priest, he was unlike any holy servant you had ever seen before. He was Asian, though you couldn't pinpoint which national region his ethnic background came from, and didn't probe to ask as it would have been too rude. You smiled sweetly and finally gulped faith before emitting your first words in greeting him.

"It's…nice to meet you, Father Ethan. My name is Y/N…."

"Well hello, it's very nice to finally meet you, Y/n. Your parents were spending the last hour boasting about you."

Looking over to your parents, Father Ethan displays a sly smirk as he crosses his arms and swings his body before returning his gaze to your direction. Your parents nod with approval and gleam proudly. You couldn't be entirely sure but there was something strange about your meeting with Father Ethan; there was an unusual level of attraction that you felt towards, and from him.

The next day, you carried out your diligent duties in leading Bible study for the younger age group. Walking in, you immediately became aware of the stark emptiness inside; no one was around, yet the candles were lit. Making your way down the aisle, you looked around and peeked between the benches, only to find that the main hall was just as empty. You stood before the holy cross, admiring the small statues and chalices that decorate the platform where the priest conducted his prayer and Biblical lecture, when suddenly a deep voice emerges from behind you. "You're here for Bible study?"

Sharply turning, you set your eyes on Father Ethan. He stood straight and tall, wearing a casual black suit with a white undershirt, partially unbuttoned. "Oh, I'm sorry Father, I didn't know you were here."

"Pay no mind, and no need to apologize." he slyly smiles in response.

Surrendering a faint nod, you smiled sweetly before clearing your throat. "Are the children here?"

"Oh you mean the ones you're leading for the lecture? I'm afraid not, everyone had prior engagements set in stone and couldn't make it."

Stroking his chin, he flares his infamous smirk once more, locking his gaze and finding you heavenly and delectable.

"You know…y/n….your diligence and faith towards God is astonishing."

"It is?"

"Mmhmm…I wonder if there is anything you wouldn't do, all in the name of your love for him."

Your eyes slightly widen as you lean in, enhancing the value of your statement. "There isn't…I would do anything to show my loyalty and to become closer, I intend to be a bride of God."

"You want to be a nun?"

Nodding, you shifted your gaze to the side upon feeling his gaze examining you with intrigue.

"Interesting." Walking towards you, his hand reaches down and gently cups your cheek. Just as he expected, your skin was soft and supple, the strands of your hair grazing against his knuckle felt like silk threads, and you warmed his coldness in an instant. "Hm…pretty."

You were taken aback by his statement, as he displays a devious smile. "No-no…it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you…in fact, I'm here to help you to get closer…"

"Closer to God?" your eyes began to water, yet you couldn't help it, you became curious by his rather bold statement. Chuckling, he bites down on his lower lip and steps back. "You wanna see proof?… You wanna see a miracle…y/n?"

Nodding once more, you watch as he takes one of the empty chalices in his hand and flicks it. The chime of the brass echoes through the main hall and into the massive foyer. Presenting it to you, you gently cradle the cup in both hands and become stunned upon seeing that the chalice was filled with blood-red wine. "I-is….is this?…. How?" You snapped your gaze over to him, curious for an explanation as you were quite sure the chalice was empty a moment ago.

"Are…you an….are you an angel?… Father Ethan?"

"Something like that." tilting his head, he continues to flash his devilish smile before whispering once again, "Something….like that."

Looking down at the chalice, you smile softly. "Can I ask why you're here?"

Playfully rolling his eyes to the side, he shrugs his shoulders before emitting an answer. "Just here to help preach his desire."

"….What is his desire?"

"You really want to know?"

"…..Yes…."

Snapping his hand forward, he snags your wrist and rapidly pulls you close, pressing you chest to chest. "First…." he softly lets out into your ear before he slowly licks the nook of your neck.

"Father! W-what…!"

"Shh….I said…everything is going to be alright…don't you trust me?….If you don't, I guess I can leave and you'll be forever marked in his eye as someone who went against his will…."

Gasping, you desperately voiced out your objection. "No! That's not true! I would do anything for him, even if it meant giving up my happiness. That's how much I love him."

"Huh…that right?" Rolling his tongue, he tilts his head and peers his gaze into yours. "You know what would make him happy?"

"….No…would you tell me?"

"Its easier if I showed you…come here."

Gripping your shoulders, he straightens your posture and squares you up with his frame. He leans in and places a soft and sensual kiss on your neck, stirring a vibrating sense to riddle deep inside your gut. Giving you the thrill of passion, he presses his parted lips against yours and harshly breathes out, coating your skin with the warmth of his exhale. Slowly, his tongue trails through his mouth, feeding its way through your lips and smears his saliva over your tongue and cheek. Your brows furrow in fear and worry, but slowly transitions into delight once you reminded yourself of how Father Ethan was bringing you closer to God, or so he says. No one could blame you, after all, seeing his talent with what he did to the chalice was proof enough that he was not an ordinary person. But what was he exactly?

Your thoughts were interrupted when his grip changes, holding your firmly by your waist while he buries his tongue deeper. As soon as you let out a gasping moan, he takes things a step further by smoothing his palms over every curve of your body. Hesitant, you try to push yourself away, yet his hold on you remained strong and he continues to shower you with the passion of his sinful touch. "Stay close to me, I promise I'll show you heaven."

"O-okay…." you faintly whispered, unable to make any sense of what was going on. You knew that what he was doing was a sin, something your parents had warned you to avoid. However, when he began feeding his hand under the hem of your dress, and smother your neck and chin with his dangerous kisses, you faltered at the sensation, keeping in mind that you were displaying your loyalty to God and his will.

"F-Father Ethan…I…I can't breathe…" you whimper as he forces your head to tilt back, allowing him a wider range to lick and nibble the skin on your throat. "It's okay, I'll fix that in a second." He mumbles.

Turning you around, he was abrupt and rough with his movements, he could tell that you didn't seem to mind, at least it didn't sound like it. Since he started to rub your inner thighs, your pitch sounded more pleasurable and less fearful. Either you were too trusting towards him, or you were melting at the feeling of being ravished by his hands and mouth.

Piercing your entry, you gasped in shock upon realizing that his hand had made its way under your panties, taking advantage of your partially exposed cavity. "Wait! Wh-what are you doing!?" you gasped out, placing your hands on his shoulders as he inserts his fingers, lifting you upwards in the process. "Dont worry…its all in his will, remember?" Father Ethan smirks as he burrows his face into your neck, groaning against your skin. "You wanna be closer to heaven, riiiiight?" Gripping a handfull of your hair, he forcefully tilts your head to the side and bites, "Ah! That hurts!" Resetting your position, he looks down at you under heavy lids, his smirk completley gone but the lust in his eye remains. "Tell you what, if you're good, I'll show you my wings."

You looked up, completely bewildered. "You have…wings?" He nods his head as he pets your hair, it was at that moment you were convinced he really was an angel. Sensing your instant will and obedience, he ignores in confirming the validity of your submission and instead, turns you around while ripping your dress in half. Shredding off your undergarments, you cover yourself as you stood fully nude with his frame pressing against you from behind. "Did you know that you've been lied to all your life?" kissing your back, he leaves a lengthy trail down your spine as he plasters his lips onto your skin.

"W-what do you mean?" You ask in all earnesty, trying to refrain from releasing your desperate moans of pleasure as you relish in the sensation of each kiss. With his lips pressed onto your lower back, he grips the back of your thighs before mumbling against you, giving a slight tickle. "God would never demand that his creations to be so ignorant as to dismiss their instinctive will to learn the life lessons of pleasure, pain, and happiness. It's what humans are meant to do in their short lifespan." Biting down, you felt the sting of his demeanor on the back of your shoulder. "I'm sure he appreciates the spiritual faith in his name, but what good is flesh and blood if not without the practice of tasting, feasting, and desiring the need to touch and be touched."

Counterattacking his resolve, you whimper your words, trying your best to maintain composure. "Flesh and blood is all but a facade, its our will that remains everlasting and true."

Chuckling, you feel his teeth against the back of your neck as he responds in amusement. "Hmph…that right? Well then princess, let's see if we can break that will of yours."

He wastes no time and begins to insert his lengthy shaft into your womanhood. Even though you hadn't given him consent, you weren't resisting to the act, so long as he kept his promise in bringing you closer to God, among other things. True, you wanted to be closer, you wanted to see Father Ethan's wings, and you wanted to enter heaven, but there was also the longing built up within you that desired for him to do more. The feeling of his thickness filling you became the most painful and pleasurable sensation you've ever felt; you nearly questioned how you could have gone so long without experiencing it, when a quick thrust on his part pinched you with sharp pain.

"Ugh….it-it hurts! F-Father Ethan…."

"Call me Heeseung baby." Be breathes out in a low groan.

"He-Heeseung?"

Noting your perfect pronunciation, he showers you with praise as he continues to lick your neck. "Very good. You have a gift of tongues, don't you?"

Fully leaned forward, he coats your back with his chest, sealing his muscle as he stuffs his entire girth in between your wet folds. "Ready to see Heaven?"

You hesitated for a second, but nodded as your body shook vigorously from the immense pressure. "Alrighty then." he smirks, just as he starts his thrusts back up. "Wow…you're fucking perfect, aren't you?"

He starts slow, but picks up the pace as he continues to pump his lengthy cock in and out of your entry. The bulging tip harshly taps against a sweet spot that lays dormant inside of you, something you never knew existed until now. In and out, he steadily increases the pace, the sound of your skin wrapping his, squelching as he thrusts ferociously with the hidden intentions of staining your internal spirit with the darkness of Hell. He goes faster, your body jolts forward as he slams his cock deep inside each time, with his thighs slamming against your own and his groin popping against your derriere. Lost in the whirlpool of erotic pleasure, your moans were interrupted as you felt his fingers crawling up, around your neck, and onto you chin. Tapping his finger against your lips, he lets out an indiscriminate tone and smirks out another one of his chuckles. "Open." Bidding to his demand, you part your lips and watch as he slips his index in and rubs the inside of your cheek. "Good girl…"

Just as you started to question his claims, his voice punctures your thoughts when he asks you, "Can you see them?"

Never losing his momentum, he continues to pump his cock, disrupting the tightness and elasticity of your feminine virtue, jerking your body back and forth from his performance. Confused by his formulation, you were about to bid him to elaborate when suddenly you saw the glowing of spheres surrounding your bodies. Thrusting, your body motions forward and back as he pulls you by the hips, making it nearly impossible for you to admire the majestic beauty of what appeared to be stars, encircling you.

"W-what….ugh!"

"I told you, didn't I?…I'd show you heaven…"

Seeing the evidence of what you could only surmise as divine intervention, you submit fully by extending your arms overhead and plastering your forearms against the wall, spreading your legs even more and allowing him unbarricaded access. Arching your back, you perk your rear cheeks upward, wanting to see and feel more.

"Yeah? Bet you wanna see more, don't you?" he scoffs in between his growls. Nodding, you bend and submit every inch of your will and begged him to do more. "Huh….if only everyone you know could see you right now….what would dear mommy and daddy think if they were to see their precious daughter getting fucked…hmm?" Following his words, he speeds up his thrusts as he firmly grips the center of your throat. "Keep yourself steady baby….you feel so fucking tight like this."

Following his instructions, you keep yourself arched as you feel his thrusts going in deeper and harder. His fingers rubbing the side of your neck as he holds you down, pinning you against the wall while he takes advantage in fully penetrating you. The more he did, the more you saw. Soon the entire hall was filled with the glowing spheres; you watched as they fluttered around and looked too beautiful to be real. They had to be angels; small and delicate cherubs that were enhancing the legitimacy of his claims.

In between your pleading moans, you faintly smile as you felt wholesome in seeing what others could not, all due to giving yourself up to this man. Letting him continue, he delightfully takes you in and punctures your entry for hours, painting your skin blue, purple, and red by his licks and nibbles. He kept going and going, your body became numb and the pleasure wore off, the only thing you could feel at this point was prickling pain and sting, yet each time he sensed your weakened state, he taunted you with his words, teasing as he scoffs them out. "Are you giving up on me? Should I stop?"

You shook your head every single time, maintaining your stance so that you could continue to be closer to your faith, to which he would respond with a chuckle, and a dark decree. "Gonna fucking break you to pieces, girl."

You barely had enough time to process his word's let alone respond, all due to his last and final effort in increasing his speed. "Oh fuck you feel so good…going to make me cum."

With tears staining your cheeks, you shook your head as you helplessely leaned your head against the wall's surface, already having done too much to suddenly stop now, not that he would ever let you. Punching your internal gut, he goes faster, deeper, and harder. Your breasts bounce fiercly as your hair flies forward, your skin tainted red as he drags his nails and digs them in. Reaching your breaking point, a sharp, stabbing sensation pierces your clit as overstimulation takes effect from the constant throbbing of his cock. "Please! No more! I-I cant!"

Your scream was all he needed to hear before he releases, fully submerging his cock deep as he groans into your ear. "My little slut...you feel me turning us into parents?" Filling you, your walls become stained by the creaminess of his seed, the warmth of it all eases you inside and out. When he was finally done, he slowly exits, releasing his grip and letting you drop to the floor. You whimper as you lay weakened, your womanhood destroyed and beaten, and all he did was stand feircly tall as he smiled deviously. Grabbing hold of his cock, he slowly strokes it as he watches you faintly struggle up. "How pretty…I'm going to have fun keeping you all to myself."

Looking up, you tearfully watch as his blackened hair turns purple, his eyes glowed dangerously red, and his lips darken. The white spheres around suddenly turned black, formulating into wild shapes of various demons with jagged teeth and elongated tongues that practically reached the floor. Beyond frightened, you gasped out a series of whimpers as you used your arms to back away, only to meet with the wall behind.

"What?…Scared?" he chuckles, taking his steps closer to you. "Didn't I promise to show you my wings? My pretty...pretty....pretty wife..."

Furrowing your brows, you looked at him mercifully when he abruptly stretches his neck. From left to right, a series of cracks could be heard as he hovers his chin over each shoulder, his lids remained partially shut, revealing the rolling of his eyes towards the back of his head; with a subtle groan, he releases his bat-like wings as they extend high and wide. Covering your mouth, you gasp in horror as you begin to sob hysterically. What have you done? Who was he and just what did you allow him to do to you? The entire afternoon spent with him taking away your purity.

"Y-you're….you're not an angel…." you muttered out, watching as he reopens his eyes and tilts his head. Gazing at you with a smirk that pitied your oblivious state of mind, his eyes drift and takes in the miraculous sight of you from head to toe. He loved how broken and helpless you looked, trapped against the wall as you attempt to cover your breasts and bring your closed legs in. With a pleading tone, you asked with sweet innocence in your voice as your eyes pushed out fresh tears. "A-are you….the Devil?"

Smirking, he takes in a final step and kneels down before you, leaning in for a kiss. Holding your head steady by a fistful of hair, he gently pulls your head back, and whispers before sealing your fate eternally, having special plans in store for when he brings you back home with him, leaving you unfound and forever a mystery in the world you were born into.

With a deep tone, his lips brush against your own as he responds…

"Something like that…"

Taglist: aiden2001 , heeseung-min , lathan1510 , rayofsunshineeee

[wistfulcynic]

a non-izzy-centric reading of the events of season two

i didn't really want to get into this because it's so, so tiresome and i'd rather talk about the things i loved about this season. Poison, positivity, etc. But.

reading this post about people doubting their own judgement due to the overwhelming noise from Izzy stans along with a rewatch of season two from start to finish made me realise that i too had been influenced by a year and a half of being intensely frustrated by people insisting so loudly that OFMD was in fact the Izzy Hands Show. My initial issues with S2 mostly stemmed from overcompensating for that by resenting any development of Izzy on the screen because i did not want it to feed those people. Which meant that i also was centring Izzy in a way that he should not be centred! i was letting their noise lead me to read him as far more important than he actually is.

So i looked back at several points from the season that had me feeling uncomfortable and which, from a cursory browse through the Izzy tag i've concluded his stans see as a contradiction or a betrayal or something and re-evaluated them from the perspective of Izzy not being a main fucking character.

point one: "He's our dick."

When Archie (a newcomer and therefore a fairly effective audience stand-in for anyone not balls deep in fandom bullshit) asks Jim why they're going to so much trouble for Izzy, who she has immediately clocked as "kind of a dick", Jim gives this response. Which, if you think Izzy is important, may read as an expression of reluctant fondness. But then, Jim continues: "There was a time when life meant something on this ship. When we lived for each other, not just to survive." These lines are punctuated by a flashback to the famous Revenge crew found-family Renaissance-painting moment. Jim is nostalgic for the "good old days" of the Revenge under Stede's people-positive management style. It is out of respect for that (seemingly) lost way of life that they take the trouble for Izzy, not for Izzy himself. They'd have done the same for anyone, because they desperately want life to matter again. Izzy, as the person whose gamy leg is a direct result of his threatening Ed and bringing the kraken era down on all of them, is simply the one whose life happens to be on the line.

(honestly, i love this from Jim, who was one of Stede's boldest detractors in season one and still the crew member most likely to call him out on his bullshit. That's your "reluctant fondness" moment right there.)

point two: the new unicorn

apparently Izzy stans see the gift of the unicorn leg prosthetic as a symbol of deep love and respect from the crew to Izzy. Which is an absolutely wild reading when you look at what led up to it.

There's tension on the ship. Divisions. Lucius is chain-smoking and jump-scared by his own shadow. Jim, Archie, Frenchie, and Fang are overcome by guilt over their mutiny and frantically scrubbing nonexistent blood from the deck in what is a fantastically darkly funny Lady Macbeth moment for them. Izzy is sloppy drunk and yelling nonsensical abuse at the unicorn masthead. Roach, Pete, Oluwande, and Wee John make a well-intentioned but ill-conceived attempt to bring everyone back together (i say "everyone" but Izzy, significantly, is not included) which leads to them all being at each other's throats in the sort of mutually-assured-destruction configuration that starts world wars. It's a great scene. Izzy is not a part of it.

until he interrupts them, throws the unicorn legs at them and in his drunken clumsiness breaks his prosthetic. He then pointedly refuses their offers of assistance and drags himself away along the floor by his arms.

my friends. This is peak pathos. The crew do not respect Izzy in this moment, they feel sorry for him. They realise that he's worse off than any of the rest of them and that knowledge brings them back together. Making the unicorn prosthetic is barely about Izzy at all. It's about the crew coming together, repairing the rifts in their found family and as a bonus helping out their grumpy second cousin who doesn't really want to be there but has nowhere else to go. It's also a very generous offer of a new place on the ship--as the new unicorn--and a fresh start. Because that's what life on the Revenge is. For everyone.

point three: la vie en rose

much has been made of Izzy putting on drag makeup and singing at the Calypso birthday party, and fair enough. That's a big character development point for him. i don't hate it, though i wish there'd been more build-up to it, a longer conversation between Izzy and Wee John at least (insert obligatory "fuck Max" here) but regardless, if we accept Izzy's amputated leg as cutting off his old self and replacing it with the unicorn then we can arrive at a place where he's able to participate in a drag performance without too much cognitive gymnastics.

i've written before about the curious choice to have Izzy sing La Vie En Rose in French (after he initially sang it in English) at the very moment when Ed and Stede are having sex for the first time. On first watch i felt viscerally troubled by it, it felt like a validation of the obsessive psychosexual reading of Izzy's feelings for Ed. Looking at the season as a whole, it feels more like a (cringy, creepy, waaaay over the line) attempt on his part to signal approval for Ed and Stede's relationship. Especially when taken in conjunction with his (super creepy, like wtf who greenlit this) interruption of their breakfast in bed the next morning to make a ham-fisted innuendo. Weird but okay i guess, it's not like Izzy and social niceties have ever gone hand in hand.

many people point to the drag scene as the crew embracing Izzy and welcoming him as one of them. Again, i don't disagree. But, also again, this is not specific to Izzy. This is just what they do. They also embraced Archie with her snake-cult stories, they re-embraced Ed (who yes, they do love, refutations of arguments that they don't love Ed are a whole other essay though) and later they embrace Zheng and Auntie and also Jackie who once stole their savings jar and threatened to cut off their noses. That's what they do! They embrace people! That's what the show is about!

point four: the death scene

i have to be honest, i still hate this. i don't hate that Izzy died, i hate that he died in Ed's arms with Ed calling him his only family. That still feels unearned to me, and alas was probably another victim of the shortened season. But even with this extremely kind and forgiving death scene, the stans are not satisfied! They feel that the entire crew should have been gathered round, assuring Izzy of their profound love for him. There should have been weeping at the funeral, wailing and gnashing of teeth, rending of garments etc. It's what he deserves as such a beloved member of the crew!

except he wasn't beloved. He was accepted, yes. Welcomed, even. But acceptance is a far cry from love. Cheering as someone sings a song at a party does not mean you feel ready to weep at their deathbed or proclaim your undying affection for them.

yet even so, the crew are visibly distraught at his death scene. There are tears in many eyes! But effusive declarations of feeling from any one of them other than Ed would have felt (to anyone not convinced Izzy is the main character) completely wrong and very weird. You can headcanon what you like to fill the gaps in canon but on screen we have seen very few meaningful interactions between Izzy and any of the existing crew aside from Fang and Lucius and to a lesser extent Wee John. Izzy's primary relationship with another character is with Ed and so, as much as i still don't like it, Ed is the only one who has any real reason to be at Izzy's side as he dies.

as for the brevity of the funeral and the fact that they went straight from it to Pete and Lucius's wedding instead of having, idk, a prolonged wake at which everyone speaks at length about how important Izzy was to them, i mean. Obviously that wasn't going to happen. More than enough screen time had already been given to a side character who spent most of it either being miserable himself or making others so. It was time for the rest of them to find some moments of joy. As Izzy himself said, not moving on is worse.

in conclusion, i'd like to address the people saying that Izzy should have lived so he could continue his arc of self-discovery and sure, that would have been great--on the Izzy Hands Show. But OFMD is about Ed and Stede and Izzy had served his purpose in their story. i feel certain there will be copious fanfics to soothe anyone who feels Izzy was shortchanged.

on the show, though, he was treated in a very logical and foreseeable way as the antagonist who was able to see the light at the end but not necessarily to thrive in such a well-lit environment. Literature (by which i mean also films and tv) abounds with examples of this sort of character. They see the error of their ways but they are too stuck in them, shaped by them, to exist comfortably in any other way. They help bring about change to benefit others and not for themselves, that is the bittersweet beauty of their endings.

Izzy let Ed go. He embraced the softer parts of himself. He died surrounded by people who may not have loved him but at least accepted him as one of their own and felt genuine sorrow about his passing. That is a satisfying narrative end for a reformed antagonist! If you truly feel that he was shortchanged by it then you have forgotten what show you're watching and what sort of character he was.

Izzy Hands: not the main character, still an interesting one, absolute nightmare, what a guy.

[easybrainrot34]

🖼️Lil Benedict Bridgerton Headcanons Pt 2🖼️

Woohoo part 2 baby!! Part 1 is right here! Some of these are modern!AU some of these are Regency era. As I said before I am truly a ✨slut✨ for this man. Hope y’all enjoy 😊

All r fluff and crack. Bonus Polin Headcanon ❤️

🎨= modern!AU

🎻= Renaissance era

🎨🎻= either

Also mentioned : Colin, Anthony, Kathony, Queer!Eloise, Gregory, and Polin

Ps, my ask and request r open :)

🎨 He went on a gap year before college to travel the world. He went kinda everywhere but he’s not one of those people that’s pretentious and has to talk about it all the time (no shade Colin, he’s more of an excited puppy about where he’s been anyway)

🎨 During cov!d he really honed in on his skills as an artist but also got really into skincare and hair care. Now he does a whole curly hair care routine because even though I can see him keeping his hair on the shorter side, he still likes it to have a little body.

🎨🎻 He would never admit it to Anthony (at least sober) but he wants the love that Kate and Anthony have for each other. He is such a hopeless romantic and I think he wants nothing more in this world than to find someone he feels he truly can’t live without.

🎻 Now we all know Benedict goes to balls more out of family obligation than actually wanting to, but I truly feel like once he’s married, he wants you to throw balls every season. He loves being able to show you off and what better setting them a ball with you as the person of honor. I also feel like he would enjoy throwing balls/parties for his more artistic, not part of the ton friends.

🎨 Now let’s say this is a modern AU where Eloise is a lesbian and our dear Ben is bisexual. I feel like when Eloise came out to him and said “I’m gay” he said, with no hesitation “you too?” I feel like the next day this man would just barge into her place with a gift bag full of Girl in Red, Chappell Roan, and Raneé Rapp albums, a pride flag, and a Carabiner. She would give him the “these are all stereotypes” lecture, but truly she appreciates it.

🎨🎻 I feel like he is very weak willed when it comes to his nieces and nephews. Like he is the favorite uncle, yes it took him bribing the kiddos, and yes he has no shame about it. He would stay firm with them (respecting the majority of set rules) but he will let them get away with small things. It will take him having his own kiddos to understand where everyone is coming from. (trust & believe that the siblings take their revenge)

🎨 He’s weak for a sundress. Weather it’s a cute little flower print, or a simple solid color, he just loves a little flowy sundress. I can’t explain it. It’s just this man’s weakness. (Btw this is what I mean when I say sundress, because apparently the Internet is having a debate about this right now lol)

🎻 Y’all remember when people were painting on each other’s bodies during Covid? Yeah he would do that. I feel like he would very much use u as a canvas during yall’s honeymoon. I feel like it would also end in a little ✨spicy time✨

🎨 While I can really see this man not giving a fck about whether he is fit or not I feel like as he starts to get a little bit older (late 30s early 40s) he would sign up for the gym. I feel like this will be a combination of him wanting to, but also Anthony, Colin, and Gregory would tease him about getting a “dad bod”. He knows though that you love it so he wouldn’t try to get too fit, just enough to be a little toned.

🎨🎻BONUS🎻🎨

He has such a fondness for Pen. This man is in her corner, if her and Colin get into a fight he automatically is taking her side. If he sees Cressida doing some shady sh!t he’s calling her out right then and there. I also feel once Colin and Pen announce their engagement, he would go to her and say “I’m sorry it took him so long to realize what we all knew” AHHH I JUST KNOW HE SHIPS POLIN!!!

[idkelly]

Painting

Travis bickle x reader

Summary: 3 encounters lead to 3 words on their minds.

Warnings: none; fluff

FIRST ENCOUNTER

Her knuckles were turning white.

Her grip didn’t soften as she pressed her notebook into her stomach. She stood on the edge of the sidewalk, shivering in her boots. She cursed herself for going out of her comfort zone that day. It was an important day on her calendar, yet at the end, she regretted her outfit. Upon moving here two months prior, she came to the realization that not many people had ‘style’. or at least a pop in what they choose to wear, everyone is so mundane in New York City that it clashes with what actually happens in the shadows.

As she stood there waiting, her mind wandered off to earlier that day. She had officially made it, and her agency is finally letting her step foot onto the field. Back in her hometown, she had worked tremendously for years on end on her craft; art wasn’t easy to master, or at least memorable art. Now that she's achieved what she’s been wanting, her work is recognized and in high demand.

But that was all on paper; she, on the other hand, wasn’t. She felt as if she were a ghost roaming around, creating what people thought were the most breathtaking paintings ever. At the back of her mind, an encounter a few months ago had stuck with her. She heard a higher-up phone call about the upcoming sales, and the topic switched to the products. Then he rambled on and on about how her paintings are basically Renaissance-made today. She was never much of a talker, yet she mustered up the courage to go up and talk to him, though his confused gaze threw her off.

"Uh, who are you exactly?"

It was fate; it had followed her everywhere. Sometimes she thinks that it’s because she was bland, basic, ordinary, and vanilla. But those thoughts left as soon as they came; she knew she wasn’t any of that. She was someone’s cup of tea for sure—not the vast majority thought so��and she was okay with it. Most of the time, she was alone, yet she never felt lonely.

Her cowboy boots were killer, red and bright, but so was the blood running down the back of her ankles; it was the first time she wore them. but she didn’t think it would mean a miserable way back home. Someone was supposed to pick her up, but guessing by the time they'd probably forgotten, she didn’t have anywhere near to go; her apartment was almost an hour away, and she hadn't seen a cab in a long while.

Behind her, illuminatingly, was a night café. Shaking her purse, she guessed she had enough money for some coffee and waffles.

She sat on the bar stool; she always liked it better than the regular seats; it was taller and bigger, almost like she was on top of the world. She liked the little stuff like this; it seemed silly to an outsider, but at least she’s having fun on her own, especially facing the window and looking at whoever walks by. A few minutes later, the waiter brought her food. She kicked off her boots to rest her feet a bit. It was going to be a long walk home.

She sat her bag on her lap and pulled out her small sketchbook. As if on cue, she noticed small rain drops clinging to the window before her; it added to the atmosphere, making her smile to herself. In her ear buds, killing me softly by fugees played, and her head swayed with the rhythm.

Half an hour passes as she’s lost in her sketchbook, her pencil dancing along the page, creating another beautiful portrait. That was her specialty. Her train of thought stops for a second when she notices someone sitting at the end of her row. Her head turns around, and she realizes that the place is basically full.

She glanced beside her at the figure; it was a guy in a green jacket and some jeans; he seemed to have ordered a coffee and some waffles; he had a mole on the side of his face. She didn’t spend much time staring at the man; it was rude. She just went back to drawing. but out of the corner of her eye, she saw what shoes he was wearing. cowboy boots.

"Cowboy boots!" It slipped out of her mouth before she could think.

The man looked startled. He looked at her, then turned his head behind him, making sure she was talking to him. His eyebrows rose as he looked at her confusedly. "Huh?"

She smiled, a bit embarrassed. I'm sorry, I meant—your boots! Cowboy boots, I like ‘em."

Her eyes never left his; they were dark, almost black, yet pretty. He hadn’t spoken a word yet, but he was smiling now.

"These are mine," she pointed to the pair that’s beneath her. I had to take them off because my feet were all bloody. She laughed, not taking it seriously at all. He looked at them and smiled, saying, "Hey, they’re just like mine, just in a different color."

She looked closer, and he could see her eyes light up at the realization. "we’re matching!"

"matching?"

"Yeah, matching"

A moment of silence passed, not an awkward one, though; they were both staring at each other, smiling a bit, her eyes drifting to his plate, then back to him.

"We don’t have matching taste buds, though; I hate waffles. This surprised him, making him chuckle and take a sip of his coffee. He wasn’t used to this; he didn’t know how to act when people approached him. Whenever he responds, he usually says the wrong thing, ruining the encounter. He didn’t respond to her; he simply didn’t know what to say. It felt like her eyes burned holes through his side, but soon enough she went back to her small book.

Her legs were crossed, and her black skirt hiked up to her mid-thigh because of her position. She wore a colorful dress shirt that was predominantly red, matching her boots. Her hair rested on her shoulder. A few pieces kept falling in front of her face, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Staring is rude, you know. "His head whipped straight back. She laughed; it was almost contagious, creeping on his lips. He mumbled an apology.

"What’re you writing?"

“I'm not writing, I'm drawing."

"oh"

She seemed focused now, unlike a few seconds ago, when she was pushing him to have a conversation. He felt a bit blue, but once he mustered up the courage to talk to her, she was over it. After the incident last year, Travis has been more weary of how he talks with other people, though that didn’t stop the screw-ups from time to time. He now understands how to read the room.

He was already done with his food; the coffee turned out to be bitter, so he barely touched it. As he got up and put on his jacket, he heard her.

"Wait, where’re you going?"

“Uh, I finished my food; I'm going home. Why?"

“Just," she started scribbling faster on her paper without looking at him, "sit down for a few more minutes, ‘kay?"

He stood still for a few seconds before agreeing to the request. He looked around the place; everyone had left by this point. Subconsciously, he yawns. He never feels sleepy, but he could feel his eyelids getting heavier by the second. She spares him a glance, smirking.

"Don’t fall asleep on me, alright? Here—ya go, take this." She handed him her right earbud between her slender fingers, and suddenly Travis took hold of it. They were sharing earbuds.

"Just two cowboys listening to music."

"You’re a cowgirl, not a cowboy."

"Saying cowboys is much easier than saying cow enthusiasts," they laughed.

She stayed quiet for a while, then suddenly stood up with her book in hand. The earbud fell out of her ear, and her face displayed an ear-to-ear smile. He had never seen someone smile this much in this city.

"It's done!" "Here you go. She ripped a piece of paper and handed it to him. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name."

"I'm Travis, he said, looking down at the paper in his hand, absolutely stunned. She could tell he almost lost control of his face as his mouth hung open.

"Well, Travis, you might want to close your mouth, or a fly might fly in there." She was getting her boots on with a bag over her shoulder with all of her belongings in it.

Travis was flabbergasted as he looked at the drawing of himself; it was almost like someone had taken a black and white photo of him, but she barely looked at him while drawing. How did she do this? She saw him. She’d seen him. The man’s hands started to shake a bit. He composed himself and looked up at her figure; she was smiling, as she always had. Words couldn’t leave his mouth once again. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t say the wrong thing.

"Well, if you didn’t like it, it's completely fine; don’t sweat it."

"No! No, I, uh, do like it; I'm just, uh, surprised, that’s all. Thank you." He didn’t catch her name, but she chuckled and told him. He made a mental note that she wasn’t from here; it was the first time he heard a name like

"Now it’s time for me to go, Travis. See you around, yeah?"

Yeah, he breathed.

As she walked towards the door, his eyes couldn’t stop following him, but he raised a brow once she stood dead in her tracks, turned around, and headed towards him again.

"Did you forget something?

She kissed his forehead and went away, like it was nothing. Travis wasn’t sleepy anymore; his mind was working full force, and he was only thinking of one thing: the way her lips felt on his skin.

[jelliezellie]

A Sweet Escape - Levi Ackerman x Reader

The moon glowed softly on you as the cold air revealed your breaths. Beyond the beaming lanterns and loud conversations in the bar, you sat alone on the steps. Nobody kicked you out, or anything; you just needed to be alone. Or, at least, away from the crowd. 

Muffled steps made their way toward you, but you didn’t bother looking at who it was. Only one person could have walked so quietly. “Going somewhere, Captain?” You called out. 

He sat down next to you, somehow managing to keep his grace. “Actually, I was searching for you.”

“Why?” Your head swiveled in his direction, but his focus remained forward. The stars shimmered in the reflection of his silver eyes. 

“You don’t normally skip out on a party. You and Hange like to be around people,” his gaze met yours, “or am I wrong?”

You shrugged. “People are strange. They’re a touchy subject.”

“No, they’re a stupid subject. My point was, you shouldn’t be alone,” he grumbled. 

You smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Don’t get clingy now,” he scoffed but didn’t push you away. You looked up at the sky, but his eyes were on you. “Do you want to get a better view?” 

“What?”

“The sky—do you want to see it from a better angle?”

You nodded and without hesitation, he stood, taking you with him. The two of you strolled through the empty streets of the night, a comfortable silence surrounding you. He didn’t want anyone to notice, but when Levi wasn’t tearing his hair out from stress, it was usually because you were near. 

You and Levi stood on a wooden platform that connected to the top of the walls by strong ropes. He pulled the rope, scaling the two of you up the walls slowly. You stared down at the town underneath. Everything and everyone looked so small when you were reaching for the heavens. 

Levi secured the rope and helped you step onto the ground. He followed you as you sat on the edge of the wall, his sunken eyes ever so slightly widened as your legs dangled off the wall. He sat next to you, a little further away from the edge since he had seen his fair share of soldiers fall from the walls. The only difference was that they had ODM gear equipped. You did not. 

“The sky is beautiful,” you commented, your expression glimmering with awe. The moon cast a gentle light on your features, one that he could only describe as something he’d see in a renaissance painting. 

When you turned to him, he swiftly looked down at the titans pawing at the walls. “It is,” was all he could muster out. 

“Hey,” you called softly, “did you know you have moons in your eyes?”

He turned to you. “Did you know you have stars in yours?” He hadn’t realized what he said until the words left his chapped lips. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? It’s a nice compliment.”

“It sounded too cheesy. Too gross.”

“I love cheesy; you’ve seen me in the mess hall, Captain,” you teased. 

Levi shook his head, his baggy eyes lifting up to the sky as he balled his hands into fists on the tough pavement. He wondered if he deserved to see such a beautiful canvas, one that the heavens were sweet enough to let him enjoy. Did he do enough to make up for the lost soldiers? The people he could have saved? They called it the “Levi Curse” for a reason—every soldier working under his name would soon die, no matter what.

You placed your hand on top of his. “You think too much, Captain.”

He stared at you, his expression hardening. “What else is there to do when I’m not fighting?”

“You’re always fighting, I think,” you murmured, “you just don’t realize it. This thick skull of yours,” —You flicked the side of his head— “wages civil wars against itself every day. ‘Regret versus Reason’, ‘Loss versus Logic’. When will you ever think of anything other than your failures, Captain?”

He tsked, swatting your hand away, but the words got to him. There was something about you that always just knew. You always knew what he was thinking. You always knew what he was going to tell you before the words could manufacture in his brain. “I don’t always think about my failures.”

You tilted your head. “What are you thinking about right now, then,?” 

He turned his entire body towards you and studied. He studied the way the breeze ran through your hair. The way your lashes fell into each other every time you blinked. The way your posture was god awful, no matter how many times he told you to fix it. The way you were looking into his eyes with a smile. 

“I’m thinking about you.”

The words caught you off guard, but you positioned yourself to face him. “What about me?”

“How you should’ve combed your hair. How you still call me ‘Captain’ even though we are equal. How you should fix your posture,” he paused, his gaze captivated by yours. “And… how your smile is contagious. How your eyes are captivating. How your eyelashes suit you, as strange as it sounds.” Before you could speak, his tired eyes flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “But more than anything, I’m thinking of how much I want to kiss you.”

His calloused hand cupped the side of your face and he leaned in close, his lips softly brushing up against yours. Your hand found its way to the back of his head, where the fuzzy hair of his undercut grew out. His lips tasted like tea and you nearly had to stifle a laugh—was he drinking tea in the bar? 

His other hand tucked your hair behind your ear as he pulled away slowly, his thumb rubbing your bottom lip. “God,” he breathed, “you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.”

[holystormfire]

Luke 6:12-19

Feast of Saints Simon and Jude, Apostles

Saints Simon and Thaddeus (Jude),

Painted by Ugolino di Nerio (documented 1317-27; died possibly 1329),

Painted circa 1325-1328,

Egg tempera on poplar panel

© The National Gallery, London

Gospel Reading

Jesus went out into the hills to pray; and he spent the whole night in prayer to God. When day came he summoned his disciples and picked out twelve of them; he called them ‘apostles’: Simon whom he called Peter, and his brother Andrew; James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James son of Alphaeus, Simon called the Zealot, Judas son of James, and Judas Iscariot who became a traitor.

He then came down with them and stopped at a piece of level ground where there was a large gathering of his disciples with a great crowd of people from all parts of Judaea and from Jerusalem and from the coastal region of Tyre and Sidon who had come to hear him and to be cured of their diseases. People tormented by unclean spirits were also cured, and everyone in the crowd was trying to touch him because power came out of him that cured them all.

Reflection on the painting

Bartimaeus, the central figure in today's Gospel reading, has always struck me as a person of remarkable spirit, despite the challenging circumstances of his life. His determination to make contact with Jesus is evident. He didn’t quietly or politely approach the Lord; instead, he shouted out with boldness, “Son of David, Jesus, have pity on me.” Even when the crowd scolded him and told him to be silent, Bartimaeus only raised his voice louder. Here was a man utterly focused on reaching Jesus, undeterred by those trying to put him in his place. It was his deep, desperate need that drove him to seek the Lord with such unwavering resolve.

And his determination bore fruit. Jesus took notice and, significantly, asked those very people who had tried to silence Bartimaeus to call him over. This first part of the story speaks volumes to us today. It encourages us to persist in seeking the Lord, even when we encounter resistance from those who might try to hold us back. Especially in a highly secularised society, most people would not want us to get close to Christ. In many ways, the culture around us often pressures us to remain silent about our faith. But we are called to embody the spirit of Bartimaeus—bold, determined, and relentless in our pursuit of God.

Our small stained glass roundel was made in Nuremberg between 1517-1527. One of the most significant developments in 16th century Nuremberg was the influence of the Italian Renaissance, which brought a more naturalistic style to stained glass designs. The glassmakers combined Gothic traditions with emerging Renaissance aesthetics, leading to more sophisticated shading techniques and three-dimensional effects. Artists like Veit Hirsvogel and the Hirschvogel family were notable figures in this period, contributing to the city’s reputation for producing high-quality stained glass. These smaller roundels (only 30cm. in diameter) would have been made for private devotional worship. We see Bartimaeus depicted with exquisite detailing, sitting outside the walls of Jericho. A man is seen in the distance, stubborn, with arms crossed. He was probably one of the people who didn't want Bartimaeus to meet Jesus.

by Father Patrick van der Vorst

[c0pper0tter]

Hi my brain has been rotting over the idea of Midnight adopting Kaminari Denki and being the best mother ever but I couldn't find any fanfic for this silly little idea or any other content in general so I'm making it by spewing word vomit about my headcanons.

This is all my headcanons, if you dont like it shut up and go find something you do like leave me to my thoughts so I can ignore canon

Anyway this all spawned because this scene obviously

So my brain thought of multiple different scenarios of how she ended up adopting him and a bunch of wacky situations but that don't matter what matters is I think Midnight is a great mom.

She is the mom who is actually friends with her kid. They have a similar sense of humor and enjoy doing stuff together. She is the most supportive and is always hyping kaminari up and boosting his confidence. But she also doesn't sugarcoat things or lie to him. She tells it to him straight.

This isn't important really but it's very important to me. I think they would bond over watching trashy TV and laughing at how horrible it is while getting deeply invested.

Kaminari loves his mom she's just great. She is his biggest supporter. Not only does she encourage him to be his best and validate his interests but she calls him out when he needs it. She also helps him whenever he needs her without being a helicopter parent. Her motto is go be independent but if you get hurt call me and tell me who's ass I need to beat up including if its your's. She gives good life lessons.

I also think it would be funny if both kaminari and midnight just tend to not tell people they are mother and son just to see how long it takes for people to figure it out. Aizawa finds out immediately, the bakusquad take a really long time.

Kaminari is a mama's boy and he is proud of it. "You have mommy issues? What's that like can't relate".

They have mother son shopping trips where they just try to find the weirdest shit they can and buy it. Don't tell me they wouldn't midnight has mop slippers and have you seen kaminari's room!

I don't know why but they give eachother annoying yet endearing nicknames. Im tired of people giving their children adorable nicknames, give your kid something weird out of context.

Midnight: "Wall Socket can you check if the dryer turned off"

Denki: "on it Nightey Night"

They are the type of family where to everyone else they always seem like they are bullying eachother but this is just how they vibe. Kaminari calls his mom a bitch and she responds by calling him a mistake with a smile, they laugh about it after they proceed to call eachother a bunch of crude or mean names.

Also I Headcanon that Kaminari short circuiting actually frightens him alot and can be painful. Midnight is always there to comfort him through it.

They both also have a love for old or classical literature and art and can go on for hours on the weird history and conspiracies about classical novels and Renaissance paintings.

Midnight goes mama bear anytime anyone dares hurt her baby. She gets teasing and jokes but when she gets the vibe someone is being genuinely mean it's on sight. Same goes with kaminari, if anyone says something disrespectful to his mama it's drained batteries and extreme static shock for a year.

I just want them both to be a happy chaotic Lil found family man is that too much to ask, apparently yes.

*cries over headcanons*

[egobless]

i'll keep my ting brief! - ares (she/her) here bringing you cha wontaek, a muse i've worked with a while back. for some light reading, head on down below the cut. otherwise take a gander at his power, profile & bio. if you want to get some plotting going you can find me on *scord ( gcntlemonster ) but defo hit this with a like and i'll swing by your dms for now

tw loss of family member

lore

seoul born and perhaps not so happily bred, he hails from a disgustingly rich family although the prejudice runs rife within this one.

suspicions were had when the oldest cha married a woman of lower class but imagine the chaos when they find that their child was born an anomaly.

hotheaded and prone to tempers that sent shadows and apparitions flitting around empty rooms, wontaek was more or less a living nightmare. if he didn't get his way, he would send a blight of darkness to obscure his nanny's vision or frighten his mother with moving shadows. there were times where he would get stuck in a wall and frighten his father into a near heart attack.

his aunts and uncles kept his cousins at bay, worried that somehow his predilection would rub off onto them. they all saw him as liability but to everyone's surprise, grandpa cha, founder of a mega conglomerate saw him as a gift.

where the rest of the family had their reservations about him he was undoubtedly spoiled by his grandfather. when wontaek acted up as a teen, he defended him and said he had a warrior spirit and needed an outlet. when his mother decided parenting a demon was no longer feasible, grandfather cha called her weak and invited wontaek to live with him. there he was given the finest tutors, his interests in the arts cultivated and he lived mostly free from any prejudice for being an anomaly.

art became a happy medium for his troubled disposition, and his grandfather's embrace kept him in line. he won art competitions for his sprawling paintings and profound sketches.

life's good for a while but then grandfather is struck by a degenerative illness. the vultures come out to play and wontaek sees his family scramble for that fat inheritance.

university becomes a place he can build more of a name for himself and keep him on the straight and narrow. grandfather always stressed the importance of an education so his days at sua mean something.

campus life

absolutely hates wearing the patch but will admit it helps temper the darkness on those harder days when his moods take over (c.f his personality below)

studied fine arts as a bachelors and went on to study a masters after a break of travelling and twenty-something debauchery. currently in the 2nd year of his masters and working his way through his disso in the form as an art exhibition.

yin member of house gangcheori, joined the sporting rallies for a little slice of the campus celebrity pie.

has really adopted the frat boy personality but make it art boy coded?

outside of practicing and being a bro, you'll find him in the postgrad art studio or in his dorm (blue hall represent!) sketching or painting. his fingers are perpetually stained with dried paint or charcoal. his works feature reimaginings of famous european renaissance paintings and he favours working on large canvases.

personality

leo sun, pisces moon and leo rising.

if you thought he was a cocky bastard, then you're right. he thinks the world was made for him and he is a god amongst men. hasn't got the memo that other people have interesting abiltiies too.

as mentioned before since being in uni he has really adopted this frat boy persona and stays fiending for a good time. live fast, die pretty.

his upbringing and estranged relo with his parents makes him cerebral and prone to moodiness, and rather than causing trouble nowadays he airs out his shit on the canvas.

i should also mention that the more he uses his ability the more he gets stuck in a dark place, mentally and emotionally.

when he's in that place he's selfish (more than usual), callous, and critical. his paintings take on a sinister tone and his shadow animations behave erratically too.

otherwise he's good vibes on a good day. if you can get past the entitlement.

[livebloggingmydescentintomadness]

Recently I broke up with someone who was a mean drunk. In one of our last fights, when he was blacked out, he called all my paintings bullshit and damaged one of them. I think I can fix it but every time I look at it I think of him, and I'm questioning whether I have any talent. What if everyone is just being nice and they all think my art is bullshit?

i'm so sorry, sweetheart, that was an incredibly vindictive and hurtful thing for him to do and it's totally understandable that it caused you a lot of pain. i'm really proud of you for breaking up with him.

i think there's a lot of things i could say here about trusting your friends and not letting this one asshole ruin everything for you, but i think you're probably smart enough to expect me to say that, so i'm going to try saying something else.

first of all, since the awful thought is in your head, let's entertain the idea for a second - let's say your art IS bullshit and other people don't actually like it.

do YOU like your art? does your art make YOU happy?

you're not a renaissance artist drawing to please your patron, you're not painting portraits for a royal family - you're making YOUR art for YOU. do you enjoy making your art? do feel pride when you complete a piece and see the finished work in your hands? does it make you happy to share it with other people and to dream about the next thing you want to work on? does it feel fulfilling and satisfying to look at your work and know that you MADE that?

if all that's true, then it wouldn't actually matter if your art was "bullshit", because humans don't just make art for other people to admire. the creative process itself is valuable and worth doing, no matter how "ugly" the result.

then there's the fact that "good art" is wildly subjective. let me tell you a secret: i don't really like van gogh's work. i mean, starry night is cool, but every other painting of his i've seen, i just don't really get the hype. i think a lot of them are kind of ugly. i sure as FUCK don't get rothko. practically every day i see a drawing on tumblr with like 10k notes and, to be frank, i think it's hideous. then i see a gorgeous drawing with 200 notes and i'm like, why doesn't this have 10k notes?? i can't watch the spiderverse movies because, even though it's technically genius, the jerky art style really bothers me.

even if 10k people hated your art, 10k more would love it. and even if your closest friend didn't like it, that could simply be because it doesn't match their personal taste.

and lastly... ask yourself if you actually WANT a mean, vindictive drunk to like your art. i mean, i'm pretty proud of my writing, but i'm also pretty proud of who would hate my writing. i don't want miserable assholes to enjoy my craft. a person who hurts other people doesn't like what i do? good. fucking choke on it.

i know, i do, that validation means so much to creators. i know that getting comments and kudos on my fic is a thrill, and makes me more excited to write. i haven't gotten any hate, thank goodness, but i'm sure it'd be really upsetting if i did. and yet, i know that i have to write for me, and that outside validation, while nice, can't be the pillar that props up your creative process. it's too unstable, too easily knocked out from under you.

fuck that guy. your art is yours, and it will only improve the more you do it. create for spite, create for grief, create for love, create for hope. create because you are an artist, and no one gets to take that away from you.

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

charlotte talks art history: carravagesque baroque art

And we are back at it again!

Hi everyone, and welcome to the second “charlotte talks art history!” Today the topic is baroque art, and specifically baroque painting in the Caravaggesque style! (this one’s for you @ilikeitbetterangsty 🥰 I hope you like it!!)

I do just want to quickly note that in the future I will likely not be able to do these kinds of longer posts so close together, but I had a lot of extra time this week and really wanted to write this one

Quick note: As with any art period, there were many styles of baroque art and many artists working in this period. My favorite kind of baroque art happens to be Caravaggesque, so we will be focusing on him and his style, but just know that there are many other forms of baroque art to explore if you’re interested!

Content warning for depictions of violence (specifically beheading), blood, and death throughout the post

~2800 words

As always, I’d like to start by defining some terms and giving a general overview

The term “baroque” generally refers to artwork created in the period after the Renaissance. Dating periods is really difficult, but generally the baroque period took place from the mid-1500s through the mid-1700s. It’s not fully clear where the term “baroque” originated, but some scholars suggest that it had to do with a fad for flawed pearls rather than perfectly round ones, suggesting a wider cultural interest in the unusual and the complex. Baroque encapsulates pretty much all artforms, from sculpture to music, but I will be focusing on painting in this post.

“Tenebrism” is a term associated with baroque art, and it describes the dramatic contrast of light and shadow in a painting 

“Caravaggesque” means “in the style of Caravaggio,” a deeply influential baroque artist who I will discuss in more depth below

“Caravaggisti” refers to artists who paint in the style of Caravaggio

And now, the man himself: Caravaggio. A little bit of a bad boy in the art world, Caravaggio had a penchant for drunkenness and brawling, and he *might* have killed a guy that one time. As a result of his uh… more abrasive nature, he spent much of his adult life in exile and on the run (primarily in Italy). Aside from his personal habits, many artists of the time also really disliked his work. There are a number of reasons for this, and they’re worth exploring since they’re also what makes his art so distinctive and influential

Without further ado, let’s immerse ourselves in the drama of Caravaggesque baroque art!

One reason that Caravaggio’s painting was disliked by other artists was the fact that he flaunted many of the “rules” of painting held sacred by the influential artists and scholars of the Renaissance. I might do a whole post on the Renaissance later, but for now, here are some important tenets of Renaissance art you’ll need to know to understand why Caravaggio’s art was so shocking to some people:

Linear perspective: developed in the early 1400s by Brunelleschi (and also other people, but he typically gets the credit), linear perspective (also called one-point perspective) is something you might have done in art class. Essentially, you pick a single vanishing point, and all the lines point back to that one point, so everything is scaled based on distance. Linear perspective is actually a bit odd, since it’s not actually how humans perceive space (we receive visual input from both eyes, thus we do not perceive things as actually having a single vanishing point), however, it is an effective tool for suggesting receding space in 2-D works. Anyway, as soon as this method was discovered, people became completely obsessed with it, especially in Italy. On a wider cultural level, it also represented a kind of ordering of the world and served as proof of the development of art based on human intellect and careful study and observation. 

I also want to note here that linear perspective was hailed as a way to make paintings seem like a “window onto the world,” showing viewers a possible reality rather than a constructed art piece. However, prior to this time, that was simply not necessarily a goal of art. Rather, it was meant to evoke emotional response, act as a catalyst for meditation, or even aid in religious devotion. So it’s not that earlier artists didn’t understand recession into space or were “bad” artists, it just simply wasn’t something that was as important to them. Even after the system of linear perspective was discovered, artists in some places just chose not to use it, since it didn’t serve the goals of their art, and it can actually distort scenes in its own way, since – as I mentioned above – it’s not a totally accurate representation of how humans perceive space.

Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi’s Adoration of the Magi (ca. 1440-1460) does not use linear perspective. Although things that are farther away are smaller, there is no real “rule” for how they should be scaled, leaving the whole scene feel a little wonky and “off” (look particularly at the barn and its relationship to the landscape and the other architectural elements). Again, this is not because the artists are incompetent, but because this art had different goals and didn’t place as much importance on being "realistic." Compare this to Raphael’s Marriage of the Virgin (1502) which does use linear perspective. You can see the clearly defined space as delineated by the receding lines in the pavement that all point back to the structure in the background. It gives the overall piece a much more static, geometric feeling.

Exactness/realism (kind of): connected to the use of linear perspective to make paintings seem more “real,” many artists of the Italian Renaissance prioritized the study of anatomy and the careful construction of the human form. This attention to physical “accuracy” was called disegno (meaning drawing, design, drafting, etc.) and is epitomized by artists like Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo. Leonardo dissected corpses to study anatomy and made thousands of anatomical drawings in his notebooks. A Renaissance writer named Giorgio Vasari (who I have huge beef with btw 😂 – maybe in the future I’ll write out a full Vasari callout post lmao) championed Michelangelo’s use of disegno, especially the way that Michelangelo articulated muscles and movement in his figures (I actually think that Mikey’s figures are hella ugly and the muscles look like weird bulbous growths but that's just my opinion lol). This interest in exacting realism led artists to place an importance not only on the delineation of space – as we saw with linear perspective – but also on crisp, clear lines that defined each figure in the composition, with each element being individually designed. Those in favor of disegno also criticized artists who favored “colore” (color, but in this sense also often meaning a looser handling of paint). Those in the colore camp used a more blended style that favored a more overall atmospheric affect achieved through color and texture rather than the clean, individualized figures of the disegno supporters. Colore artists like Titian were often criticized by saying that they could be “great” artists if only they learned disegno. Ultimately, we can see who “won” this debate by the fact that disegno artists like Leonardo and Michelangelo are vastly more well known then colore artists like Titian.

Here's an example of one of Mikey’s figures as opposed to one of Titian’s works (Michelangelo’s Expulsion from Paradise from the Sistine Chapel versus Titian’s La Gloria). You can see the careful articulation of anatomy in Mikey’s, whereas the figures appear softer and more blended in Titian’s piece, leading to a sense of overall cohesion rather than Mikey’s exactitude in each individual figure. 

Idealization/restraint: lastly, we should discuss the Renaissance’s interest in idealizing their figures – especially those of religious importance – and the emotional restraint demonstrated by the vast majority of these figures. By idealization, I mean that artists made their figures beautiful – they made sure they conformed to the beauty ideals of their own time and culture. Though they would use models to help them capture movement and poses, most of the faces of these figures are not based on real people, but rather represent the artist's idea of “perfection.” This interest in perfection also ties into the emotional restraint found in much of Renaissance art. Put bluntly, people don’t typically look conventionally beautiful when they are doing anything that contorts the face, such as yelling, crying, scowling, etc. Therefore, many Renaissance figures tend to have very placid expressions, even in distressing situations. 

Here are some examples of that idealized beauty and placid, emotionally restrained expressions: one of Raphael’s many Madonnas and Paolo Uccello’s Battle of San Romano (idk about y’all but to me those guys are looking pretty chill for being actively involved in combat)

But what does all of this have to do with Caravaggio and baroque art? A lot, actually, since Caravaggio looked at all these rules and conventions and basically said “artists really have to conform to a lot of expectations. Not me bc I do what I want – y’all stay safe tho.” Then he preceded to do absolutely none of the things listed above which created a compelling new style of painting and pissed a lot of Renaissance-lovers off in the process (so a win-win imo) 

(sorry for all the Renaissance talk, but it's important for understanding the drastic changes found in Caravaggio's art)

So, finally – to the baroque!

If there’s one word to encapsulate baroque art, it would be this:

✨Drama✨

Movement, lighting, color, action – baroque art has it all!

Caravaggio really starts this transformation with his Calling of Saint Matthew (1599-1600). There are a few things to note here. While not as dramatic as it will become in the future, there is still a fairly high contrast between the light and shadows (tenebrism), leaving some parts of the composition obscured in shadow (which folks like Vasari would not have liked lol). In addition, the light here actually acts as a character itself; rather than being represented by an old man on a cloud or a disembodied hand reaching down from the sky, God is present in this piece as the beam of light, calling on Matthew by illuminating him. Another thing we see here is biblical figures being dressed in clothing that was contemporary to Caravaggio’s own time. Although this had been done before, it was with baroque art that this trend really took off. In addition to that, these people don’t look “special.” They don’t have halos, they’re not glowing with an otherworldly light, their features aren’t supernaturally perfect. Instead, they're depicted as un-idealized, normal people that you might pass on the street. And with that, we have the beginning of the Caravaggesque baroque

As Caravaggio continues to paint in this style, his departure from Renaissance ideals becomes even more dramatic. In The Calling of Saint Matthew, we perhaps still could have seen a deference to linear perspective and an interest in constructing realistic space, but this fades as we move further into Caravaggio’s career. He exchanges a “believable” space for a kind of murky darkness behind his figures that pushes the characters to the front of the picture plane, quite literally putting them in the spotlight. Here is where tenebrism becomes even more noticeable: we have deep shadows in the background contrasted with a bright light illuminating the figures, throwing them into sharp relief against the darkness. This also connects to the idea of drama, since Caravaggio’s canvases now almost appear to be stages. His figures are the actors, performing their roles at the front of the stage and the darkness behind them is the recesses of the stage, mostly obscured but perhaps revealing a few important props or set pieces. Here are a couple examples of this: The Deposition (1602-1604) and The Supper at Emmaus (1606)

Caravaggio also introduces much more movement and expression to his works. Connecting again to the idea of his compositions acting as stage plays, we see characters in the midst of dramatic actions filled with energy and passion. One good example of this is in The Taking of Christ (ca. 1602). The swirls of fabric, desperate reaching of hands, entangled body parts, and emotive expressions bring the piece to life and create a spiral of frenetic movement around Christ. Even in more still scenes, such as Saint Francis in Mediation (1606), Caravaggio’s depiction of forms and use of expressiveness in both facial features and body language still conveys powerful emotions to the viewer. 

So, let’s check Caravaggio’s work against the Renaissance ideals for art:

Linear perspective – nope! In fact, he does away with any real sense of recession into space and instead pushes his figures to the very foreground of his compositions, leaving the background dark and obscured

Exactness – also nope! His use of paint is much more reminiscent of Titian than of Leonardo or Mikey. His figures swirl with motion and tend to blur into the shadows and other objects around them. Rather than clearly delineating each figure and object, they instead move together to create a cohesive scene united by color and movement

Realism/idealization – yes and no. Caravaggio embraces a kind of realism that the Renaissance scorned. He chose to depict the features of real, everyday people rather than idealizing his figures. Instead of making his backgrounds appear like realistic windows onto the world, he turns his canvases into stages, emphasizing the performativity and constructed nature of art rather than trying to convince us we’re looking at a possible reality

Restraint – hell no! Caravaggio’s figures are in motion, performing dramatic actions, and conveying intense emotions

So, in short, Caravaggio saw the Renaissance expectations for art and said “nah, fuck that.” And although he may have infuriated the Vasaris and Renaissance-lovers of the world, his new, compelling style was incredibly appealing to a large swath of patrons and other artists

Caravaggio’s influence was widespread, and his dramatic style was picked up by fellow Italian artists, but also as far away as France and Spain. The Caravaggisti (artists inspired by Caravaggio who painted in his style) could be its own post, so I will just quickly cover a few here.

In Spain, we see artists like Juan Sanchez Cotan and Diego Velazquez clearly taking inspiration from the Caravaggesque style of painting. Although there is a heated debate about where and when Velazquez could have been exposed to Caravaggesque work, it is nevertheless clear that the Spanish painter’s bodegones (scenes of everyday life) and the unidealized figures found even in some of his historical and mythological paintings pull from Caravaggio’s interest in depicting real people. Here we have a bodegone from 1618 titled Old Woman Frying Eggs and a mythological painting, Apollo in the Forge of Vulcan (1630)

Even an artist like Cotan who mainly created still life paintings seems to be taking inspiration from Caravaggesque art. In these images, we see food items pressed closely to the picture plane, and even projecting out into our space. They are brightly lit with a deep, shadowed void behind them. This dramatic use of tenebrism is very Caravaggesque (the examples here are Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber (ca. 1602) and Carrots and Cardoon (early 1600s))

And because I simply could not make a post about baroque painting without her, let’s talk about Artemisia Gentileschi (I love her, your honor). One of a very limited number of female painters from this period who have been widely discussed, Gentileschi used a distinctly Caravaggesque style with unidealized figures, dramatic contrasts of light and shadow, and emotionally-charged scenes filled with movement (the paintings here are Jael and Sisera (ca. 1620) and Annunciation (ca. 1630))

Let me end on one of my favorite paintings: Judith Beheading Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi (ca. 1620). This is an incredibly compelling piece, and is also a perfect example of the Caravaggesque style of painting. First, we have a very dramatic (and brutal) scene that is actively occurring as we look on. Judith is still in the act of beheading Holofernes, who is not quite dead yet, with his blood spraying outward in a gush of red. Holofernes’ face is contorted in fear and pain, while Judith wears a determined, focused expression as she passes the sword through his neck. The characters and action are front and center, brightly illuminated with the background dissolving into shadow. This piece screams drama and is quintessentially baroque

Okay, damn so this is even longer than my last one – sorry! If you read this far, thank you so incredibly much, and I hope this was informative or at least interesting!

Let me know how you feel about baroque art, and if you had a favorite piece. Does anyone else also have beef with Vasari lol? Are there any artists or works that I should talk about in the future?

If you’re interested in baroque sculpture, go check out Bernini – his work is so cool!

As always, thank you so much for being here and for listening to my unhinged ramblings about art!

Yours in Artemisia Gentileschi appreciation,

charlotte 💙

[anonymousmothman]

I had another weird dream surrounding star trek (this time with jackie chan and thundercat???)

So basically I won this thing (idk if it was a giveaway or something) to hang out with thundercat. We were walking around chicago and he kept talking about being a werewolf and that was weird cuz . You know... cat is in his name. But then he turned into a werewolf and tried to hunt me.

Then I went to this star trek convention but for some reason star trek was real? And I got to talk to worf and ezri they were really nice. Some other stuff happened but I legitimately remember none of it. I then was watching a jackie chan movie with the ferengi (basically all the guys from the magnificent ferengi episode) and suddenly got transported back in time to when rush hour got released. I was sitting in the audience just minding my buisness then Quark started to film the movie cuz yay piracy! But he was horrible at hiding his camera and everybody kept staring at him because they knew. His camera didn't have a zoom feature so Brunt gave him this can you were supposed to put in place of the lens and it'd act as a zoom for you. But then, of course, everyone was like 'wtf are they doing with a can' so Quark gave the empty one to me and I had to pretend like it was Tuna I was eating. I was really bad at it. Then, at the end of the movie, a cardassian was playing with his baby (throwing her up in the air and stuff) and a founder took it from him while he was doing that then dangled it over the side of the railing (idk the seats in the theatre were high) and said "a sacrifice to the founders..." but then everyone started booing them and throwing popcorn at them so they gave the baby back.

After that, I went to this weird renaissance fair mixed with comic con thing (still in the past atp). A dude dressed up as an ensign knocked down this stand of books and I helped him to pick it up. Then, I wanted to buy one, so I was looking through them and eliminating options and was gonna buy something on dinosaurs? Idk it was weird it looked like a dork diaries book though. But another one caught my eye and it had medieval paintings on the front despite the fact it was a book about mesopotamian chemistry. So I went to buy it, but I got tied up in (honestly I forgot what happened) so had to leave it for the time being. When I came back though, a lot of people were bidding and arguing over who should get it. The only way you could buy it was by messaging the shop owner on discord so I tried to text them but I kept misspelling 'shop' as 'Schofield' so none of the messages would go through (there was a bot that prevented you from sending a message unless it had the word shop). I don't think I was ever able to get it, or maybe I was, also sort of forgot this part....

Then it cut to my backyard where Picard was stuck in my garage. He kept asking to be let out but when I let him out there were two animals on leashes in there. One was Porthos so I let him off, but another was those klingon dogs.. I forgot what they're called. Picard kept telling me to let that one off it's leash and I said "but its your pet :(" and he said hed pay me 30 coins so I did it. Then I finally let Picard out of my garage and it cut yet again to another scene.

I was on ds9 laying down to go to bed when Damar and Keevan entered and Damar was like "you weren't at Quarks" and I said "I had a really long day today man..." so they layed down with me and we cuddled YAYYYY but then I woke up BOOOOO

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Model AU Masterlist

And My Heart's Skipping Like the Oceans in Your Eyes (ao3) - motherfuxing luke/ashton, michael/calum T, 7k

Summary: But I was so fucking wrong.

Because when Calum calls out one particular name, this beautiful, amazing name, everything fades away.

The music video, the other models, the band.

Everything.

Because a tall, extremely attractive boy steps forward at the name, "Luke Hemmings," and fuck I was so damn wrong.

Art Affair (ao3) - Hoodie, orphan_account michael/ashton E, 3k

Summary: "Why the fuck would you want me for a model?"

"Because you are exactly what I would want. A rebel but you have class and you aren't like everyone else. I would really love to paint you."

Awkward Is The New Cute (ao3) - ashsparagus calum/ashton N/R, 3k

Summary: Ashton's awkward, Calum's in love, Luke sets them up, and Michael isn't in this one.

be your teenage dream tonight (ao3) - burningthefutures luke/ashton E, 8k

Summary: Ashton, a photographer living in NYC, finds himself entranced when he sets his eyes on Luke Hemmings, a famous model, at a party.

death do us part (ao3) - aliciaxadrienne luke/ashton M, 8k

Summary: He reinvents himself every day because he loves Luke so much, wants to fit in so badly, that he becomes a whole different person compared to who he was when they first met.

In His Natural State (ao3) - Born_to_Riot calum/ashton, michael/luke T, 2k

Summary: The newest photographer for GoodGirls Magazine, Ashton Irwin, arrives at his first day of work only to find out that his first assignment is to do a photoshoot of Calum Hood, the hottest male model in the industry. The first thing his mind flickers to after he finds out is that poster of the model that he may or may not have pinned up on his wall.

Jumping before the Gunshot has Gone Off (ao3) - tigerlily_sunshine michael/luke, calum/ashton, luke/louis E, 128k

Summary: (In which Michael’s hated Luke since they met, and Luke’s hated him back—except, somehow, they can’t stop having sex with one another. To make matters worse, Luke is dumb enough to go and fall in love with the man who hates him.)

Paint Me (ao3) - cornflowerblue (daydadahlias) luke/ashton E, 17k

Summary: “Holy shit, hold on a minute,” Calum says, “is that who we’re supposed to be drawing?”

“I can’t draw him,” Michael gawks, “I’m not a Goddamn renaissance painter.”

Or, the one where Luke is an art student practicing realism for a month and Ashton is the nude model in his portrait class.

Small Talk (ao3) - FayeHunter michael/luke T, 2k 

Summary: Michael runs into Luke at a Fashion Week party. He’s not expecting the model to flirt with him.

you're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece (ao3) - punchinginadream luke/ashton N/R, 2k

Summary: In a room full of art, Ashton would still be staring at Luke.

-

or, Luke is Ashton's muse and his model.

[crulwrld]

Stew

They say if you’re the smartest person in a room, you need to get out of that room. It rings to me, it’s why I stopped going to bars after getting sober. I’m lighting in a bottle. I’m clever. If I drink, I promise you I’ll end up coked out at the end of the night, getting fucked by a stranger I seduced in the back of an unmarked cab.

I have a boyfriend now, Brandon, he drinks wine on the weekends. He’s a bartender at a fine dining restaurant—a “mixologist,” he professes, so I’m sure he drinks on the job. I can’t say I’m tempted by it. I don’t like being depressed for three days after I drink. It makes me homicidal and suicidal. I also like to think it makes Brandon less conscious than me.

There are three men who I work with at the coffee shop. I’m pretty, they like to listen to me talk about myself. I do lots of things. I paint and draw portraits of people. I put my face in the right light, show the men my work and they say,

“Oh wow, that’s better than I thought it would be!”

Like most men, they’re shocked women can be good at things.

I feel supercharged with powerful emotions, and it makes me become a very rambunctious woman. I scream songs to stay sober. I paint dead animals, maybe a Renaissance woman dismembered by a fierce set of hounds, shredded out next to them, ouroboros, wilderness. My creative process is not evergreen. It only comes out the way I like when I have more energy than I can handle. I’m very insecure that what I create may say nothing or isn’t worth it. I scrap most of what I conjure, and that makes me very sad. It feels as though my light flickers out almost the instant it’s ignited, I melt into a pool of wax that goes hard and cold.

I hate hearing other people talk about themselves. You could call it misanthropy, I don’t care. Try as I might against it, I’m pretty self-absorbed. I can’t avoid getting stuck in the mirror. My camera roll is gluttonous with selfies. It’s true, I nitpick, myself especially. I dissect my own behavior at all times and forget everyone else has their own universe, intelligence inside of them. It’s believable to me that I’m more strategic and on a level of awareness above those around me, and it makes life quite bleak. I was going to be a Gender Studies major in college, but learned quickly after research that I was more in the misandrist camp—but not even that encapsulates how I feel—I despise most everything and everyone, and hate injecting a fluffy, philosophical attitude into my lived experience. I find that stance too altruistic and flighty. I feel like it’s how stupid people, who are confused about who they are, overcompensate. It’s simple: I keep score of how I’ve been wronged and make sure to get back at people, usually by making them feel insecure. Like Lana Del Rey said, “Peace by vengeance brings the end.” I use their secrets and fears as ammunition. You don’t want to tell me a secret and then offend me. Not at all.

I want my existence to make people question the stories they tell themselves. I like to think I have that hypnotic effect. Dilating the pupils.

I used to do cocaine often, daily, I felt very dirty all the time. In mind and body. Though, I do miss how skinny I was on it, food was utterly disgusting to me back then, now, it’s moderately disgusting—and sadly, I just get hungry. Sometimes I feel the gross fat giggle around my body here and there. I’d slice it off if I was rich enough.

One of the times I spent with blow, I had a man I was dealing with, and he left me at a dive bar to go do meth with some wack bitch, it made me feel real shitty. I left him a voicemail, let him know,

“Hey, it’s Monica. Understand, it’s guys like you that make me want to commit suicide. Tell that chick you're with to watch her back, and you should probably watch yours too. See a doctor. Because I have horrible chlamydia, the one with the deep smell. It feels like someone bombed my pussy with mustard gas. So yeah. Y’all can have fun with that.”

It wasn’t true. But he should have to pay for that visit, I thought.

The drugs made me less analytical, but more wild and creative with my way of expressing fury. Colorful lies. Not very mindful. Such is a luxury of looking like me. At that point in my life, my mind was like a bunch of knives bound together with rubber bands. When you act out of rage, you humiliate yourself. When you create art out of rage, you embrace yourself. I feel like I chose that lesson to be my purpose. If I’m being honest though, which I guess that’s what I’m doing, telling you all my secrets, I still smoke about a thousand cigarettes a day for the buzz, because consciousness is pretty intolerable, you know?

I think at some point in my childhood my brain hired a bodyguard, sifting through all of my thoughts, keeping me from falling apart while also invalidating my struggle. I’ve been tired for a while of belittling my own emotions. I feel split into two people, like I’m barely fitting in.

As I’ve said, I position myself in the right light at work, I pose when I stand. I’m hyper aware of what and who I look like to other people. I feel like there’s a camera on me at all times, somewhere secret and out in the distance. At least I know I’d look okay, my sculptural face with fine swooshes, alert eyes, the reliable pretty smile. Narrow boned. There’s something rewarding about the attention I garner. People think I’m a cool girl, my looks do half the work, a fourth is my reflective nature, the other fourth my art. I don’t have drugs to fuck that all up for me anymore, to send me on manic tirades. I don’t rage against the machine. I work with the patriarchy to receive advances.

I listen to what the men like and somehow relate that to what I get up to, my path. You can always rely on being interesting. Boys are intimidated by smart and turned off by batshit. There’s a balance in there somewhere. In their eyes, to my understanding, I make fly art, I’m the strong silent type, I’m a reformed bad girl who doesn’t give too much away. Has her finger on the pulse, where she sparks from.

I’ve cheated on my boyfriend twice since I met him. We met a few months ago, while two months into my sober journey. Before I met him I thought it was best I get out of town, save myself the embarrassment from my past life. Most of my old friends still did drugs, so we parted ways. I felt completely alone. But then he came along. I was in the pink cloud, high on sobriety, thought I’d choose a “smart,” “docile” boy with a smaller dick. I thought a flashy sex life wasn’t all it’s cut out to be, at the time.

His best friend Camden works with me at the coffee shop. He’s blonde including his eyebrows and facial hair, he’s built, and he dreams of being a rapper. There’s speculation that he’s bisexual—he has a very seductive energy, also hideous cystic acne on pallid veiny skin. I’d assume from drinking or steroids. He wears Hey Dudes and that disgusts me. He’s a stupid idiot. Once he told me,

“I smoke all day and eat like shit, but it doesn’t affect me. I don’t even have to work out every day, I’m just a mass magnet. The doctors say I have amazing blood work, I’m like Caitlyn Jenner… well, how he used to be, I’m a natural born athlete.”

He’s a rambler. I’d tap him on his hard ass, shuffle his wavy mullet, or rub his back with sharp nails as he showed me photos of a new deer he shot. Eventually, I blew him in the back seat of his Jeep truck while listening to $uicideboy$. Crawled on top of him, rested my weight in his lap, and kissed him with his dick on my breath.

He always got high on a weed pen in the cooler at work, surrounded by gallons of milk and whipped cream prepared for later, and we’d talk about how dumb and boring our lovers were. He says I’m cooler, more fresh than his girlfriend. I tell him no one lives up to my standards. Brandon is a fucking snore, I’ll say it. He’s boring. He’s about as attractive as any bartender, you know what I’m talking about. That horrible Portland bartender air about him, put on. Everything about him devastates me. His basic side-shaven hair. The thick, rounded tortoise-shell glasses made for hipsters. Those gross wiry torso pubes that swirl and gather in stormish patterns hidden beneath a button up from his plethora of flannels, and, he’s a little fat. Just a little, nothing out of hand, let’s make that clear. Let’s say pudgy for everyone’s comfort. I hate it. Also… his happy-trail is bushier than the hair above his penis… weird, right? Another weird thing about him is that he likes to watch me piss in the shower, or wants me to hold his flaccid penis while he pisses, or, he will piss behind the curtain while I’m in the shower. He says he likes the vulnerability aspect. This is the riskiest he gets. The sex is normal, not painful at all, and his interests include making drinks and watching Suits and listening to self-help podcasts. Sure, he sits and acts like he’s absorbing what I’m saying, but he reminds me of my dad in the way he patronizes me, intellectualizes my emotions, sips from his mug of wine…

“Let’s dig deeper into this…”

“There’s always a bright side…”

“Everything happens for a reason…”

“How you feel is your choice…”

As if he’s a psychotherapist. He’s not. He calls my thoughts “fleeting” and “cascading.” Idiot. Maybe cashapp me you flannel-wearing motherfucker, maybe then I’ll feel better.

For the past three months, I haven’t been on my medication. My pharmacy and psychiatrist, who I ghosted, had a miscommunication and I just never cared to sort it out. I never bothered to ask about my diagnosis.

The other guy I cheated on Brandon with was a hot Indian maintenance man. He had a wife and kids. He goes by “the maintenance man” in my mind, I must’ve heard his name before but I don’t recall. We would make out often while no one was looking. I brought him to the cooler, too, and held his cock under his pants, finagled, while talking randomly about my plans to unwind after work. Behind black wire eyebrows and a bushy beard, a Carhartt hat, his sun-speckled face was so hopeful and sweet. I love black eyes. He got super huffy and puffy when I was showing Camden attention and fled the coffee shop scene. Sayonara, I thought.

Once, one of the new hires at my job was flirting with Camden, she was a heavy-set, strawberry blonde, granola Christian with a cross around her neck, her fiddling with it while laughing at everything Camden said. Standing closer and closer, then leaning on the food prep table with her chin in her hands, her elbows sitting in the crumbs and memories of mayonnaise, a foot kicking cheerfully back and forth. Her body looked strange to me, like clay. Camden was feeding into her charade, this upset me. He showed her pictures of the dead deer, too. Oh, wow, how cool. Wow wow wow. Bitch.

I talked to her, acted nice, asked her about what she does in her free time. She said she was on a fitness journey. How she owes this process of “bettering herself” to “god.”

Every day after that I walked into work and talked about how fat I felt, and made sure she heard. It wasn’t true, I’m anything but fat. I look like Mia Goth when I love myself, and Kate Moss when I hate myself. Honey brunette and tall and beautiful from the start. She looked like The Penguin standing next to me. On one of these hilarious days I made sure to catch her and Camden in the break area and lead their conversation towards the beyond, afterlife, karma, “once upon a time,” you know? Lofty thoughts. I went on about how,

“I just don’t think there’s any ‘cosmic supreme being’ that’s up above magically granting blessings and curses. Nothing happens for a reason. The concept of god doesn’t sound ethical, it doesn’t make any actual sense. It’s actually quite desperate and stupid. Spiritual people are like Dumbo with his red feather. Like, stop grasping at meaning and take some accountability like the rest of us. You’re not the second coming of Jesus, you’re just experiencing suffering, cracker. Like, are you autistic? Cut the narrative.”

I enjoyed how uncomfortable she looked. Drained.

I’m miserable every day I work, especially if there’s no one there to flirt with or give me attention. Every movement I make is a pain. I do not like having tasks, and I especially hate being of service to the lardos of my city. It’s genuinely sickening to me, watching them gorge on pastries—pastries as doughy as them, blubbery fat under their chin emulating a busted can of cinnamon rolls, supporting their puffy faces like a neck brace, acned from all the lactose they flood their guts with. Coming up to me at the counter, holding their hands in insecurity over their sliding tummies, wrists pinched in as though squeezed by rubber bands, arms like loaves squishing their breasts inward—man or woman.

“I would like a cookies and cream frappe, no coffee in it please.”

“What size?” I ask.

“The largest you’ve got.”

“Well of course,” I respond, “would you like whipped cream on that?”

I don’t even know why I ask. I already know the answer.

When they turn around I have to look down at my feet, catching a glimpse of their asscrack breaking out of their athleisure makes my stomach turn.

I notice two types of silhouettes in these types of people. One of a stack of doughnuts with legs, the other an upside down apple with legs—and they both seem to flaunt it, bounce back and forth between hips as they hit the world, usually with a limp, ankles gasping for air, too big for their disproportionate feet crammed into extra wide loafers. Slamming their rear down, taking a load off, catching their breath, licking their fingers of cream cheese frosting, then finishing their grown up milkshake at light speed, poking their straw around the bottom of their twenty-four ounce cup to catch any remnants of whip. Greedy greedy greedy. Horrifying. You have to understand, I don’t hate obese people, it’s just the mere fact of having to cater to them, co-opt their disgusting behavior, that highly irritates me.

I’m tired of being a different thing to everybody I meet. I’ve let go of all conscientiousness. Maybe I don’t wanna govern myself all the time and maybe that doesn’t make me a goner or a lost cause or a loose cannon. I just wanna let my hair down. I stopped going to AA meetings, stopped looking for a sponsor, dropped out of school, everyone thinks they can tell you how to be all the time. I was an eleven compared to those bogus AA people, fuck that. Maybe I’m just fine the way I am, people don’t have to like that. I don’t care. My life is dull and frustrating and monotonous without drugs in it. Every day is drab and a duplicate of the last, I’m just seeking a thrill. That’s natural. I’m as whole as possible. Fuck blowing dandelions off the stem. I know how to be me.

Every time I’m around a man or two I’m thinking of ways to seduce them. I’m self-conscious about my facial expression, my hair, the ideas I share. I have no clue what the goal is, though. I’m not sure if I’m being mindful, but what I know for sure is, I’m definitely not being natural. I don’t want them to think that I desire them. I want them to think they have a desire for me, aroused through their own accord. It makes me depressed when I don’t win them over.

Another day comes, a day like any other. Hating opening my eyes in the morning. Hating showering. Hating my job. Sober.

I get off work. I came home and Camden and Brandon were hanging out in the kitchen. Camden’s girlfriend, Alasia, was there too. She was almost as pretty as me. Imagine me, but Mexican with a bunch of makeup on. They were doing mushrooms and offered me some, said it was my choice. I thought, well, I’ve been sober for a proper amount of time. Mushrooms shouldn’t hurt anything, they probably don’t even count as a relapse. Mushrooms and tea, it sounded so sensical. Like some self-development thing, maybe I’d come to some due realizations.

But then, my world had to be rocked with temptation: Brandon was drinking a mug full of wine per usual, and I finished it while he wasn’t looking. I already broke my sobriety, might as well go all in, I reasoned.

I was sitting on the rug in Brandon’s room. They were smoking weed and I decided I’d take a few hits of the blunt. Camden blurted to me,

“Look at her go, she’s got it all figured out. You handling yourself okay, Monica?”

Idiot, die.

“Why are you, as a man, blonde?” I asked him.

I remember, at one point, I was alone. No one in the room but me. What was past and what is future overlay in the present moment, I begin to understand. I can feel my flesh wrapped around my muscle, like clothing. There was a can of nitrous gas in Brandon’s closet. I took a big gulp of the air. I felt static electricity shoot up and through my head, hit the ceiling, and drop back into my body and through my toes. I felt pressure in the back of my head and saw black nats swarming the edges of my vision. I heard my name, like a choir of whispers,

“Monica?”

I come to, through a widening tunnel, opening up towards a vision of the tapestry on the ceiling. Brandon’s gay tapestry that I hate so much. I had been knocked onto my back. I lean upwards and Brandon and Camden were on the bed, to my left. The bed set’s color was roving between sage and blue-gray. I felt my eyes flex. I put my palms to my face and pressed into my lids.

Alasia is going to walk into the room, I thought. Then, she did. Brandon is staring at me, I thought. I looked at him and he was. I focused into the rug in front of my crossed legs and saw the air multiplying. Molecules spawning from one into two into four into eight. I saw the particles of air generating. Static stacking like the pages of a book. I suspect space and time are one, it feels as though this information is a secret, and I had just pieced together the clues. Music drifted in tactile wavelengths and sounded like moans from the underworld. It made no sense. My phone flashed on at 5:55. I saw spirals of atoms sinking into the screen. There must be alternate, more complex dimensions that are processing through me, revealing themselves to me, I mean, look at the air. It’s multidimensional. I’m seeing sides of consciousness that I didn’t know were available. What dimension did I happen upon? Which page?

I start to think of my cells and how they generate at a rapid pace, how they transform under the sway of trauma, how most everything that takes place is trauma to the human body—humans crave stasis—and any amount of happening changes you, scars you, even if on a microscopic level, and I think of how my neuroplasticity in response to men has taken a perverted turn. I see now that even the smallest of thoughts build up a world that eventually becomes a mindset, micro-decisions sculpt a belief system, my own universe that I project through, and that my understanding of men is anything but neutral, it has skewed in the face of adversity.

I see men as subhuman because, the ones I’ve come across, have had a pattern of making me feel undermined and stupid and subordinate. I’m a walking chasm, an open wound, and trying my best to knock down the patriarchy, peg by peg, man by man. Take control. I’ve made it my life’s purpose. And at the end of the day, as much as I denounce manhood, I’m still putting all my energy and focus into it. I’ve tried using sex as a weapon. I’ve tried to hurt them by scaring them bad enough. I’ve tried to appease them. I’ve thought that if I loosen my screws, I’d get more in touch with some baser, more wild nature. And now I’m here, with too much hatred to hold. A walking trauma response. I’m humiliated by my existence.

Who am I to expect a man to understand my pain? They themselves are traumatized by the patriarchy. Always having a big dick contest with one another. They could never handle the level of criticism they dish out if it were splashed back onto them. Layered over all their insecurities, they’re all up in arms if you so much as suspect that they have a bit of femininity inside. They’re dramatic if you call them dramatic. The ones who do adopt femininity do it performatively, as a persuasion tactic. Meanwhile, their ideal partners are other men in actuality. They’re practically faggots, the lot of them. Flicking each other’s nipples and other weird shit. I read an essay once in school that painted it clearly: They idolize and find kinship in other men and expect sex and servitude from women.

I’ve wanted to create a shocking, spilling slit to escape from this mortal mold, act boldly in a way that says, “I’m here, I’m free, don’t fuck with me.” But now all I am is red-handed. A freak. Everyone freaks me out and that must be a reflection of my internal world. I feel as though the people around me can see my thoughts painting the way I hit the scene, and will catch me analyzing too intently.

Alasia interrupts my flight of thought and begins a sentence that her, Brandon, and Camden throw in a circle.

“I’m”

“Tripping,” Brandon said back.

“So,” Camden said next.

“Hard”

“Right”

“Now”

“Dude,” Alasia concluded the sentence.

I must be losing my mind, I thought. Am I all-knowing? Why are they playing games with me? Am I not in on some joke? All breath ceases. I got up and exited the room, slammed the door shut.

I sat on the floor in front of the door and began questioning my thoughts. When did they have time to craft a plan to make me feel excluded? Is this really happening to me? How am I touching base with the future? What has transpired, and what will continue to transpire—it all seems to happen simultaneously. Years of what my subconscious has absorbed from the lessons it’s faced, those ideas are conjoined in one great, glorious, horrible coil of data that seems to unravel in front of me and have a weight and light body of it’s own. I see my past, and I’m mortified by it, but can’t seem to separate from it fast enough. I have no plan. I want all the idiots that have ever wronged me to just die, and I want everyone I’ve ever wronged to vaporize. I’m feeling my thoughts—not thinking words. If I let the thoughts flow through me, will I see what happens next? What if what’s next is the end?

I see every event as a silver loop linked to the next loop in an infinite chainmail tapestry, the pattern slapped over my skull, deafeningly cold. Each fold influencing the next. That loop affects the other one over there, every situation and action interconnected. We wake up, we go to sleep, the seasons cycle constantly, after soaring on mania we fall short once again and hit a depressive stretch, then something comes along to get all high and obsessive for, manic about again, we wash our hands, they grow dirty, we get thirsty then have to piss—it’s all loops.

I can hear them talking about me through the wall. I swear they’re talking mess. I listen intently. It sounds like a group of a thousand people, a crowd or clan laughing at me. Camden was saying I cheated on Brandon with him, joking about it like a standup comedian, and the crowd broke with laughter, excitement to see me fall. I did cheat, but no, it couldn’t be true that he was saying it aloud, and that they were all engaged and listening. Everybody knew. They tricked me. I claw up and down my scalp, trying to rip through the chainmail, to sever myself from this timeline. I’ve been tricked. I swing the door wide.

“You all tricked me!” I yelled, “Alasia, your boyfriend is a whore, he forced himself on me, it wasn’t my choice, I didn’t have a choice! You’re all pieces of shit, making me feel crazy! I’m not crazy! I know what you’re doing!”

If this is what life is like, if I’ve cracked the code, found a higher dimension, and I still hate everything, feel so used, then I don’t wanna be here anymore, I want to return to the source from which I originate to save myself from all the humiliation I’ve ever experienced. Everything happens in a vacuum. I feel as though everyone I’ve ever known is here to make me the fool, yet none of them hear me crying out for help. Begging to be understood. It’s like I’m invisible yet the center of everyone’s universe. Like I’m on the operating table, cut open, and my insides are being broadcast live on the laptops of everyone I’ve ever encountered. I feel objectified, completely ashamed. I touch my chest to make sure I feel a beat. I don’t know where I am anymore. I’m self-destructing. Coming undone. From the most cavernous points of my being, I understand that I need to be isolated from society.

I jet to the bathroom and lock myself inside. I projectile all around and up and over the toilet. I sit myself on the toilet seat, vomit sticking to the backs of my thighs. The vomit seems to swell and slither as though alive on the tile, I hear it creep. I rested my head in my hands and slipped slowly to the ground. I hobbled on my knees over to the tub and ran a bath. I stumbled to grab my razor and slashed my thighs with it back and forth until I saw flesh irritate and rise, it looks like cottage cheese. It’s so ugly, I don’t want to look damaged. I’d rather get shot in the head then cut myself to death. It stings. Can I go back? No.

I try to remember my name but it’s lost. I don’t think my name is true to me anymore. I don’t know anyone’s true name. I don’t remember my family’s faces. I’ve lost the plot. Everything is useless, in this moment. I’m self-destructing. I’m self-destructing. I’m self-destructing. My mind floods with random artifacts and information, clues to who I am, I hear them loud and clear, spoken out to me in my own voice. My name is Monica, yes, Monica. I hate men. I paint. I was once a drug addict. I have regrets. These are the things that make me human. I can feel my eyeballs shoot back and forth in their sockets, they seem to pulsate. I bang my skull into the side of the tub because it’s all too much, readjust, Monica, readjust. I cup my hands under the water and bring it to my mouth. All slips into darkness.

~

I wake up in a new day laying in a bath full of murky pink water, strands of skin afloat, brown clumpy flecks of what I understand to be feces. I submerge myself in it once, keep my head underwater and tousle it. I don’t understand consciousness. I get out, barely dry off, and don’t drain the water. I take a moment of silence, in awe of the grotesque toilet.

I text my manager. I’m quitting my job. I think of calling Alasia and apologizing but I don’t have the guts. Brandon isn’t home, no one is. I boil a pot of water, my wet hair falls forth into it and the steam opens up my face. I slice vegetables in very conscious symmetrical sections. I push into the point of the blade until a dot of blood wells up. It’s sharp, very sharp. Hot bubbles snap around and stir in my intestines, like water bugs, wafts of strong acid double over themselves, rumble from the caverns of my guttural void, and fizz comes in sheets that reach and dissolve at the top, I can imagine it—taste the reflux on my teeth. I stare deep into the pot’s bloating tide. I have a clear, shocked mind. Whiplash. I make a stew. I make stew.