#like clearly he used oils on both paper and canvas

[shmreduplication]

my only issue with the Rothko On Paper exhibit is the curators did not talk about paper

like the fact that these Rothkos are On Paper is significant enough to be included in the title. A lot of the plaques mentioned that Rothko thought very highly of his works On Paper (he would gift them to friends and display them in his own house, and made some commissioned pieces on paper too)

there definitely is an idear in museamy art that paper=practice=not as important and on the one hand it pisses me right off due to papercraft being my primary medium (i'm a generalist but if I had to pick just one I'd go with paper) but on the other hand I get it because paper is cheaper than canvas and Museams Are Full Of Canvasses From The Old Masters. See also: the Cezanne Drawing exhibit at the NYC MoMA in 2021, a lot of those were legit sketchbook/practice/unfinished pieces unlike the Rothko On Paper pieces which were all (except for four) finished pieces

I legitimately don't think this is from my bias as a papercraft or science person, I do think this is an oversight on the curators that they didn't talk about the paper. The plaques would say wove paper water color paper or just like not mention the type of paper. The paints were tempura or oil or water color or ink and all of those sit on top or soak into different kinds of paper in different ways

idk I just think that the material that the art is on is part of the art, it's more than just a holder for the art. and I think that's especially true for Rothko's technique of diluting and layering paints. There's a clear disconnect that the works being on paper is important enough to be part of the title of the exhibit but not important enough to be talked about within the exhibit.

the selection of the pieces was great, the order that the pieces were presented in was great, the quotes from Rothko and his personal history that was included on the plaques were great but like why even call it Rothko On Paper if you're only going to talk only about Rothko and nothing about paper. Like ok he thought there was no hierarchy between paper and canvas but WHY? what are the differences between paper and canvas?

[alteredsilicone]

Painting

The waxflowers were blooming, filling the halls with a gentle, pleasant smell. Loid was arranging dried flowers in a vase, he was most at peace when allowed to fuss with the small things. The afternoon sun was gently dancing in his hair, creating a radiant halo around his head. He was beautiful.

Before Loid had entered his life, Albrecht never saw the worth in fragrances or decorations or the art of flower arrangement. Perhaps it was yet another fault of his - frigid pragmatism. They both agreed on the merits of the written word, yet Loid also had an eye for the visual arts, thus Albrecht had allowed him to express himself in the Necralisk. Perhaps he liked seeing little reminders of Loid everywhere he went, a selfish indulgence Albrecht allowed himself.

"Loid." The moment his name escaped Albrecht's lips, Loid turned his head, dried rose still in hand.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever sat for a painting?"

Loid smiled, then uttered something under his breath. Not offended, but amused.

"I am not nearly important enough for anyone to desire to capture my likeness. Is this about the commission?"

Not quite. The true purpose of Albrecht's question was to stay hidden, for now.

"Yes," Albrecht decided to move the conversation along. "I cannot seem to decide which artist to pursue, perhaps you could help me with that. I was thinking of either Polonia or Timofei."

Hearing Polonia's name made Loid grimace, but he quickly composed himself and returned to finishing the flower arrangement, clearly a way for him to pretend to be mulling over the question, but Albrecht knew which choice would be made before a single word was said.

"Polonia is an excellent wildlife artist. The birds she paints are one of a kind and her use of color is creative, however..." then came the truth. "Her figures are gaudy, exaggerated and occasionally lean into the pornographic. I am afraid she might take some creative liberties while painting you and then we will end up with wasted money and a worthless painting."

Polonia was an eccentric, that much was true. An old family friend of the Entratis, Albrecht kept contact with her for only one purpose - she knew people in less than polite circles, which often proved valuable when procuring reagents for some of Albrecht's more alchemical experiments. She would not ask questions and never kept a paper trail. Unfortunately, she was also an Orokin eccentric and harbored a disdain for Loid, which he was not afraid of returning.

In the name of objectivity, however, Albrecht had to weigh all the options that were offered to him.

"Timofei is the better option. He is classically trained, he has painted portraits for the Galleria before," Loid pointed at a painting mounted on the wall. "He is reliable."

Albrecht turned to face the painting Loid had pointed at. Euleria's graduation portrait. Timofei excelled at accentuating his subjects in a way that was true to life, yet also had an air of uniqueness that couldn't be captured neither by photograph or hologram. His daughter, ever the critic, tormented the painter at every step of the process, yet he endured with reserved professionalism.

Truth be told, Albrecht had no interest in being painted, yet the Galleria demanded a painting of him. His great scientific achievements beckoned to be immortalized as oil on canvas, that's what the Archimedeans told him. At least he had Loid to help him with the headache of picking an artist.

"Call Timofei. Have him come as soon as possible."

"Of course."

---

The doors to the Sanctum rumbled as the Tenno returned from their mission. Another Netracell run, with Tagfer leading the squad. Loid was already used to the routine, his assistance was not needed so he could busy himself with other tasks.

"Loid!"

He turned his head. Artemis was floating nearby and holding something that looked like a folder.

"What is it?"

"Viri wanted you to have this. Knowing her, a bunch of sentimental junk."

Loid took the folder from the Wisp and looked over it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, just a standard folder for keeping documents.

"Viri was so excited to show you this. I didn't even look inside, I don't care!" Artemis declared. Loid secretly appreciated her disinterest - he had heard his fair share of snappy comments and had no interest in finding out what creative epithets Artemis may conjure this time.

"Thank you, Artemis."

"Don't mention it," she floated off, joined her squad and the Tenno left for another round of Netracells.

Loid was curious, yet also scared. The Netracells were treasure troves of Albrecht's most personal possessions. Things that were so close and personal to him even Loid was not allowed to see inside.

It was just a folder, Loid told himself. It was light, so probably only a couple documents inside. Maybe another collection of poems Albrecht had written and then tossed away in self-critical shame.

The Tenno occasionally brought some of Albrecht's personal affects that they deemed Loid might find interest in. They were mostly related either to him, Euleria or literature. Nothing Loid didn't know about, just things he was surprised Albrecht bothered to keep.

Inside the folder was a single page. It was a sketch - of Loid. Drawn in the middle of a motion - he was reaching for something out of bounds of the canvas. Around his figure a mixture of flowers were hastily scribbled, Albrecht was not particularly good at natural objects. Yet Loid's face was lovingly rendered, a halo was carefully drawn around him. At the bottom of the page was what Loid assumed to be the title of the illustration - three times crossed out, four times rewritten. The fourth title simply said: Loid. Unlike the previous titles, it was carefully calligraphed. The final choice.

[earlofbats]

Eight Hours of Vigorous Praxis

The curdling hiss of the water pot sputters, the evening light creeps through the grates of the cage built atop the tenement building. Two young student communists read silently amongst themselves, a comfortable width apart, on a couch refuged from the side of some degrading road or back alley.

The scent of cheap coffee grounds, also likely salvaged from the garbage bin of some upscale Bougie cafe alongside the collection of dust-ridden rugs, almost covers up the smell of drying petrol oil, bright red as it drips off of white canvas onto gray concrete.

“Uli-” Steban looks up from the book he wasn't reading.

“Yes, Steban?” Ulixies acknowledges, flipping a page over, perched atop the highest vantage point the couch's shambled body has to offer.

“You remember when the gendarme slapped me?” Steban taps a nervous finger against the cover of his book.

Tap Tap Tap

Against the cheap waxy paperback.

“Yes.” Uli scans the words down the page, he's read this book perhaps a dozen times before.

“I'm concerned about how much I enjoyed it.” Steban closes the book over his finger, holding its place over the sentence he hadn't been reading.

“What do you mean?” Ulixies perks up from his reading, the words are mostly known, the essence absorbed, only the nuances left and the particular turns of phrase.

“I mean that the scenario was stimulating.” Steban elaborates.

“Stimulating?” Uli raises an inquisitive brow, glancing shortly between the text and his compatriot, unsure as to where the most appropriate place to place his gaze would be.

“Yes.”

“…In what sense?” Ulixies makes sure to tread carefully, lowering the book slightly to show he is present.

“You know what sense, Uli. Don’t be thick.” Steban rolls his eyes, bending the cover of the book over his finger, curling the paper around it.

Uli raises his free hand up in a placating manner “Okay, I was just making sure.” lets his book rest against his knee “Well, what element of it was concerning? You said you enjoyed it. Was it the physical stimulation? In the way that the pain may have activated your fight or flight responses? We’re academics. It’s only natural that we would be susceptible to the effects of endorphins.” Ulixies explains.

Steban nods sagely in agreement “Too many comrades have been addicted to substances. That hadn’t occurred to me, but does add to my concerns that my need for academic stimulation is an extension of a physiological need for addictive substances.”

They both turn to the coffee pot. Its feeble body is dented, paint chipped off and tarnished by use.

Steban shakes his head “But no, it wasn’t just that…” trails off.

Ulixies closes his book “You’re being cagey, then. I think you know what it is that’s concerning.”

Steban pinches his chin in thought, presses the knuckle of his pointer against his lips “The stimulation of pain and the rush of endorphins was definitely part of it, but I fear mostly that the key part of my–ehm–interest was the dynamics at play.”

Uli's eyes stare in direct line with the top of Stebans head “ I see.”

Steban looks up “Exactly.”

Uli doesn’t break the eye contact. “ I have a confession to make, Steban.”

“Go ahead, comrade.” Steban urges.

“I also found the situation stimulating.”

“…”

“…”

“Physically?” Steban asks.

“… “

“…”

“Okay.” Steban turns his head back towards its previously front facing position.

Uli, however, does not turn his gaze away “The question is: Do we address the fascist elephant in the room or not?”

Steban nods “We should address the fascist elephant.”

“Alright. So.”

“So-” Steban takes a long sigh “Clearly, fascism predicates itself on being an ideology founded in violence and force; this is often done through fetishizing strength and authority.”

“The gendarme, of course, being an unfortunate extension of the fascist ultraliberal and moralist state. “ Uli continues.

“Yes.” Steban exclaims, punctuating a finger in the air.

“The uniform was hot.” Uli remarks.

“It was.” Steban concurs, thoughts drifting off for a moment as he reconstructs the outfit in his mind.

Once again Steban shakes his head, forcing himself to reorient in the discussion “But this is by design. The regalia of the RCM is fetishistic costuming meant to impose a sense of authority and violence.”

“This simply means we’ve succumbed to the propaganda.” Uli reasons, “No one is immune to propaganda.”

Steban nods once again in agreement “So now that we’ve established that our excitement is simply the intended effect of the state, we can overcome it by acknowledging and recognizing it, thus robbing it of its power.”

“Excellent. Good work, comrade.” Uli gives a curt smile, opening his book back up.

“Awesome.” Steban follows suit, tracing over the words with his finger to follow back to where he was.

A moment of disquieted silence maneuvers through the space.

“ …Actually Uli?” restlessly Steban folds the book over again.

Uli does not remove his attention from his book “Yes?”

“You said you were also excited by the scenario. Does that mean you were empathizing with my position?”

“What do you mean?” Uli thumbs over to the next page.

“Were you imagining yourself being subjected to the fetishistic power of the fascism?” Steban worries his bottom lip.

Uli gives a moment of pause “…Why do you ask?” Hesitant to answer.

Steban takes a moment to think, crossing one leg over the other “Well, if you were similarly affected by me being subjected, wouldn't that be direct evidence of plasm exchange?” Steban uncrosses and recrosses his legs “Normally, when one sees another being assaulted, the reaction would be of fear and panic, which could be an expression of plasm or could be survival instinct; but in the situation in which I, the subject, was reacting atypically, you having a similar, mirrored result would be definitive evidence of plasm and psychic connection!”

“That would definitely be a strong argument.” Uli nods in agreement, eyes still locked onto the page.

Another pause.

“So, were you?”

Ulixies gives a sigh and closes his book once again “I have another confession, comrade.” He stares out beyond the grates, at the place where the ocean must meet the horizon.

Steban swallows, nervous at the sudden intensity of his companion. “Go ahead.”

“I was not imagining myself in your position. Shamefully, I was imagining myself in Gendarme’s position.” Uli continues to look out where the sea air finds its way through the warm colors of the sky.

Steban looks down to his hands, “Hm, that is a dilemma.” There's a small scar across his left hand that he doesn't remember being there.

“I know I’ve always had a penchant for violence,” Uli explains, “but it’s always been in the context of liberation or academic understanding of the enemy's tactics.”

Steban turns to look toward Uli, arm reaching out over the back of the couch. “I know this,Uli. I do.” his hand rests just next to where Uli sits “… Perhaps we’ve been looking at this from the wrong perspective.”

Uli looks down at the hand, he remembers the scar, remembers that Steban got it trying to shave while a little too intoxicated.

“Perhaps engaging in these kinds of theatrics is a matter of subversion; a kind of parody of the fascist propaganda, a forceful reclaiming of iconography for the sake of pleasure. Empowerment of the proletariat through choice. “ Steban argues.

Uli gives a quirked brow “Steban,” a small incredulous smile slipping over his face “what the fuck are you talking about?”.

“We invited the gendarme to slap me; that was a decision we made together.” He gestures between the two of them “The state never gives the people a choice when they enact violence against us, but in this scenario, we had full control over what was going to take place. It wasn’t a genuine partaking in violence. I wasn’t in real danger, and the expression was intended for show, not for subjugation. We, in this situation, subverted the power by dictating how it was going to be wielded.”

Uli mulls it over for a moment before responding “I think I understand your position, but is roleplaying fascism any different materially to being a fascist?”

“Hmm,” Steban pulls his hand back to brush the underside of his chin in thought.

“ If I were to put myself into the position of the gendarme and slapped you around, would I not be partaking in enforcing the virtues of the fascist dichotomy between oppressor and oppressed?” Uli questions.

“I guess it would be like If a woman asked me to hit her. Hitting her would still be wrong, because it's wrong to hit women.” Steban reasons.

Uli shakes his head “But you’re not a woman. Also, I feel like not hitting her would be more sexist than iIndulging her because it would perpetuate the idea that men and women aren't equal.”

“Okay, that was a bad analogy.“ Steban admits.

Uli lets out a small sigh “But I guess, in that same line of logic, would it be more oppressive to deny your request for me to slap you around, in the same way that not hitting a woman ,on the virtue of her being a woman, would undermine her autonomy?”

Steban gives a sigh in return, “But my point is that, even in any given situation when a woman might request to be slapped, wouldn't doing so perpetuate the idea that hitting women is okay, even if it's theatrics?”

Ulixies adjusts his glasses “Mhh.” he takes another moment, ruminating over his thoughts, “This was the same argument made in your oppositional essay regarding tiptop; that the sport was an exercise in glorifying violence and over consumption and that, regardless of the external reason, those who enjoyed the sport were ultimately partaking in the fetishization of those elements.”

Stebans eyes widen in realization “Yes, and the gendarme did a fairly good deconstruction of that argument, didn't he?”

“That the circumstances of capital requires funding into all pastimes and thusly twisting the subject to its will; if there were no branding, tiptop would not be able to exist.” Uli runs a hand over his beard, “This isn't the fault of tiptop but of the way capital subsumes all things into itself and corrupts it.” gestures the hand outward in front of him, “That, while the destruction and violence of the vehicles and injury to drivers is a real present threat, the goal of the sport isn’t in this destruction, but in the execution of sportsmanship towards a collective spirit, as well as creating and innovating under the name of bettering the engineering and strategies involved. Most people who are actually fans of the sport are radically displeased when the vehicles crash, only the sensationalization of the coverage of these events paints them as exciting.”

Steban deflates “He even sourced the way that two competitors -despite the sport’s desire to have them be in opposition with one another in the way that Capital would like us to be in opposition with one another- through the sport, fell in love.”

“Jacob Irw and Alfie Deletraz. High Speed Love, yes.” Uli Interjects, “After it was mentioned, I went ahead and read it. They were brought together through the sport and the competition but ultimately were separated through the ruthlessness of capitalist greed and demagoguery.”

“So,” Steban raises his finger inquisitively into the air “If we are to assume that you slapping me was a neutral behavior due to my personal enjoyment of the action -and is only wrong in the context that capitalism and fascism's monopoly on violence has made any act of harm outside of their direct control taboo-, you and I partaking in the power dynamic for our own pleasure would actually be a subversion of that power.”

“Correct.” Uli concurs.

“I see.” Steban rubs a thumb across his jawline.

“ …”

“… “

“… Does that mean you should slap me?”

“… “ Uli gives it a moment of thought “I suppose… but I think my intention matters.”

“Your intention?”

“Yes.” Uli continues “Your intention in wanting me to slap you is about subverting the dynamics of oppression by dictating the circumstances in which that oppression takes place. That control gives you comfort and that pain, through your physiological responses, gives you pleasure, correct? “

“Yes, I suppose that's it. Like choosing to get on a roller coaster.” Steban adds.

“No, Steban.” Uli chides, “Roller coasters are bourgeois. We’ve already established this.”

“Right, sorry. Continue.” Steban apologizes, gesturing for Uli to proceed.

“What about my motivations?” Uli proposes, “Me partaking in your oppression isn’t a neutral act for me because I know something about that dynamic is giving me pleasure.”

Steban taps his book against his knee “I mean, would you giving me pleasure not in itself be pleasurable? In the same way seeing fellow comrades succeed produces plasm?”

Uli shakes his head “ If that were the extent of it. But there's something particularly appealing to being A: In a position of authority and B: Enacting violence on you.”

“Hmm.” Steban steeples his fingers in thought.

“Especially the violence part.” Uli reiterates voice slipping down an octave.

Steban swallows “You want to hurt me?”

Uli turns to look back down at Steban, “I would want whatever I did to you to hurt, yes.”

“Past my desire to be hurt?” Steban darts his eyes over nervously to where Uli’s feet rest against the couch cushion.

“Possibly…Hypotheticals aren’t as concrete as realities. Imagining doing something and actually executing on that image are very different things.”

Steban nods in understanding “Subject vs Object.”

Uli gives a small smile.

The two share a quick glance at one another, “‘This is not a pipe.’” they state in unison.

Steban gives another moment of consideration “Hmm… I mean, what if we just tried... doing it?” he offers.

Uli shakes his head “No, that would be dangerous. Especially if we don’t know the source of the desire. Perhaps this is a manifestation of years of anger towards the oppressive nature of capital taking form as a strong desire to enact violence and abuse indiscriminately.”

Steban hums contemplatively “The continuation of the cycle of abuse.”

“Capitalism does corrupt and put people in opposition with one another. Perhaps this is another prong of the propaganda I’ve been subjected to unwittingly.” Uli readjusts his glasses.

“It is true.” Steban stretches his legs out, nudging his chin to gesture at the coffee cup stationed directly to Uli’s left “No one is immune to propaganda.”

Uli obliges, haphazardly tossing the book to the side. He leans his body over to grab the mug, gently taking hold of the pot and pouring the coffee a little more than half way.

He turns his head to look up at Uli, an odd affection in his voice. “But do you think you want to abuse me?”

“I’ve already said; I want whatever I do to you to hurt.” He hands Steban the cup of coffee, the steam fogging up the lenses of his spectacles as he passes it over.

Steban dips his head in thanks, “I don’t think wanting to hurt me is the same thing as wanting to abuse me.”

“In what way?”

“In the same way that the subject isn’t always the object and that causation isn’t correlation. Think about it in this way; do you want the outcome of the violence to be that of my subjugation, to break my communist spirit?” Steban blows a few soft puffs of air over the top of the coffee, the steam floating off and away in streams of whispering vapor.

“…” Uli pauses, swallows.

Steban tips the cup up to his lips, eyes looking up to check on Uli.

Uli looks upwards and away “No, I want that look in your eyes…”

Steban sputters “Ehk,” Hot coffee spills from his lips and down his chin “Sorry, uhmm… What ‘look’?”

Uli flinches, moving to find some way of helping “Ah. Sorry, comrade. I didn’t mean to-”

Steban waves him off “No no. Its fine, just unexpected. ‘Look’?” he asks.

Uli waffles, shifting in his seat “Yes, ah- not to insult you, but you have a tendency to have a far off look. I actually don’t mind it. It reminds me of the portrait of Mazov actually. It gives the impression you are in deep philosophical thought.”

Steban places his book to his side, balancing the cup in one hand. He pulls a handkerchief from his inner pocket. “I usually am, comrade. That’s probably why I look like that.” He explains, dabbing the coffee off from his neck and chin.

“Right, and I appreciate this about you, but… “ Uli drifts off, seemingly transfixed on some far away thought.

“But?” Steban urges.

“But'' Uli continues “when you were slapped by the gendarme, it seemed like you didn’t have a single thought in your head… and then, uhmm, that you, uhh…” Uli trails off once again

Steban gesticulates for Uli to continue … “Yes?”

Bashful, Uli looks back to his friend, “Then you looked like you wanted it to happen again.”

Steban lets out a breathy self deprecating laugh. “I have to admit that, at the time, I most definitely did, which was concerning. “

“I think I want you to want me to hurt you.” Uli hypothesizes.

“Interesting.” Steban squeaks.

“Hmm.” Uli hums absentmindedly, digesting this newfound observation.

“Perhaps my prior theory isn’t entirely wrong then.” Steban raises his coffee to his lips, hiding his face. “That this is an extension of our camaraderie, that you’re understanding of me wanting to feel pain because pain gives me pleasure is then extended into you wanting to be the one who provides me this pleasure by inflicting pain.”

“Hm… That's possible. I’m still worried that some part of me wants to do this for the thrill of inflicting pain; for the power it would give me.” Uli taps his finger against his temple, along the thin line of wire that slips behind his ear.

“Why would you think that?” Steban lowers his cup.

“Because I don’t just want to slap you.” Uli admits.

“Okay.” Steban gives one long extended nod “Elaborate on that for me here.”

“Since the incident, I’ve gone beyond thinking about things that I know you would find enjoyable and have created fantasies of things I know I would find enjoyable to subject you to.” Uli elaborates.

“Hng, o-ohkay.” Steban stammers, “Wh-what kinds of things?” Steban asks, deciding to forgo holding onto his cup during such a precarious conversation, shakily moving to abandon it off to the shitty, industrially produced end table to the side of the couch.

“The most appealing one is choking you.” Uli watches Steban as he goes about gingerly moving the cup.

“Huhng Ohkay-” Flustered Steban lurches forward as he places the cup down, sloshing a bit of its contents over his nervously trembling fingers and onto the small pile of snuffed out cigarette stubs that litter the end tables surface “What about that sounds appealing?”

Uli takes a heavy disappointed sigh “Unfortunately, it’s hard not to interpret this as a subliminal desire for control. Restricting your access to air? The very essence of life? I fear there’s nothing more capitalist or fascist than that…”

“B-breath,” Steban stutters “-in a symbolic sense, has uhm, long been associated with love…D-Dolores Dei and her lungs as well as the stations of breath. Perhaps this is just an evolution of our camaraderie that we-” Steban swallows, “-through our ideological proximity- have likened ourselves to Mazov and Nilsen, a- a desire to receive and control my very breath…” and runs a nervous hand through his hair.

“But that's the crux of the issue. There, control is a hierarchical structure. Mazov and Nilsen were equals. They allowed each other to breathe freely.” Uli frets a tight, pursed frown curling at the sides of his mouth.

“But perhaps you were simply intuiting my desires subconsciously?” Steban offers.

“What do you mean?” Uli asks tentatively.

“I also want you to choke me.”

“God.” Uli gasps, gut-punched and breathless.

“M-maybe if you tell me more of the fantasies you’ve had since then,” Steban words slur around their edges, tongue heavy in his mouth. “perhaps we can compare notes and see if there's a correlation.”

“Thats-” Uli hesitates, unsure.

“It could be evidence for the psychic connection Mazov and Nilsen had; maybe this is the first step.” Steban assures, “Sexuality is a base primality. Maybe you’re just connecting onto a leyline of plasm that has bound us together?”

“Okay, that's a fairly sound theory.” Uli admits. “I want to leave marks on you-”

“Mhmm” Steban squeeks affirmatively.

“…I want to leave marks so that, when you look at them or if people saw them, they'd think that you… belonged to me.” Uli mulls over each word carefully in a strange mix of sultry and academic.

“That is pretty problematic.” Steban attests, “It insinuates ownership. That's definitely antithetical to non-hierarchy.”

“I told you.” Uli sighs forlorn “I've definitely been affected by capitalist propaganda. It's wedged itself into my brain.” Uli places an exasperated hand to his mouth and chin.

“Confession:” Steban states with clear and concise intent. “I want you to put a collar around my neck and treat me like a dog.”

Ulixies runs his hand up his face, pinching at his brow, nudging his glasses up to his forehead as he groans.

Uli shakes his head in exasperation “Like a dog, Steban? Really?”

Steban turns his head down in shame “Uli, I think we might be bad communists…”

“Shit.” Uli bewails, slumping down from his perch and firmly next to Steban with an audible Humph from the couch as he lands.

They look to one another with utter unabashed defeat “…”

“No.” Steban exclaims. “No, we can fix this, right? We’ve already established that by the virtue of me being the subject of oppression, by dictating a version of self-inflicted oppression for the sake of my gratification, that I can't be perpetuating my own oppression.” Steban, frantic, turns his body to face Uli, waving his hands about in the air. “I'm simply subverting it and in this case, my theory still stands that as our camaraderie is so deeply and ideologically intertwined, you're just reflexively drawn into meeting my needs. It's a perfect synergistic loop.”

“Right, but what if it's actually you intuiting my desires?” Uli counters.

“Hmm… Desires that you feel have been corrupted by the system's propagandizing.” Steban states, contemplative.

“Exactly!” Uli stresses “What if we're both being complicit in engaging with fascistic fetishism because we're being conditioned to do so.”

“Then I’d say we're fucked, Uli.” Steban mutters “Because, I'll be honest,” shakes his head in utter loss. “I've never been this horny in my life.”

“Me neither Steban,” Uli concurs “me neither.”

There's another moment of pause as they stare out numbly into the distance, unfocused and haunted.

“Uli,” Steban absently breaks the silence “it just occurred to me…We've been discussing this in the context of specifically you enacting violence against me as a potential continuation and propagation of state violence, but I feel like we're skimming over the other, perhaps slightly smaller or larger, non-fascist elephant in the room.”

“Which elephant is that?” Uli responds, inattentive, unpresent.

“Well,” Steban wavers “I guess we got so caught up in the praxis, I forgot to ask if this is at all explicitly sexual in nature or not.”

“Oh. Huh,” Uli marvels “I guess we didn't specify explicitly whether or not fetish was being used academically or colloquially.”

“We were definitely using it interchangeably.” Steban assures.

“Right.”

“So?” Steban urges.

“Huh?” Uli turns to Steban

“Did you want to fuck me or not?”

“OH!” Uli snaps back to himself “Uh, yes, having sex and achieving sexual gratification is a big element here. You're right.”

“I mean, couldn't we simply…write it off as…” Steban trails off.

“Steban!” Uli scolds.

“No, no, you're right.” Steban acquiesces. “Sex and sexuality are also valuable venues of political thought and shouldn't be brushed aside. Otherwise, we might risk undermining the serious nature of sexual violence and sexuality itself as a tool of the state.”

“Right, exactly.” Uli gives a curt nod.

“So I guess another avenue of questioning is whether or not you only want to cause me pleasure through physical harm, assuming we've definitely established that ultimately you want your pain to be pleasurable for me.”

“I’m not entirely convinced in either scenario yet, but we can circle back to that later.” Uli muses, gesturing for Steban to continue.

“Excellent!” Steban chirps “In that case, I'll ask you this: do you want to kiss me, Uli?”

“Hmm, yes I think so.” Uli ruminates, “For the sake of closeness, I would. But that isn't necessarily romantic. The platonic fraternal kiss of the communards is something I've wanted to explore for a while now, even prior to this.”

“Okay, and about you fucking me?” Steban asks.

“What about it? If you mean whether or not I’d like you to take the -” Uli trails off again, struggling to find the right words.

“Uli?” Steban probes.

“Sorry,” Uli cringes. “I can't think of a better term for this- the feminine role?”

“Oh, yeah.” Steban winces, “Hmm, that doesn't sound very good.”

“You're not a woman,” Uli laments “and using that as a comparison would once again relegate women to a specific role.”

“The patriarchy really is a slippery bastard. “ Steban tuts.

“That it is.” Uli shakes his head in disappointment.

“Though if you think about it,” Steban wags his finger in thought ,” similar to capitalism, patriarchy also corrupts. Being the one to be on the receiving end of ‘insertion’ is only seen as demeaning because of the way it's been associated with women through the sexist framework of the patriarchy. Just in the same way that being a proletariat is seen as lesser than being a member of the ruling class.”

“Good observation Steban!” Uli nods in agreement, before shaking his head in disappointment, once again. “But once again I fear it's that exact subjugation of the dynamic that I find appealing.”

“In what sense?”

Uli wrings his hands together, nervous fingers running over the tight tendons and stray veins that pop through his skin “In the sense I would like to fuck you like a woman. Which includes the insinuation that I want to demean you in some way. That I would be exerting power over you.”

Steban wheezes all the air leaving his lungs fast and fleeting, his head spinning as he pats a limp hand over his pockets “I need a cigarette…” He mumbles to himself breathlessly.

“But in that situation I would also want you to feel good, very good, maybe even too good.”

Steban pats over his pockets more fervently “Ff-fuck, where the hell did I put those cigarettes.”

Somewhere in the distance, the Gendarme and his partner lie in bed with one another. One of them picks a white lounge jacket from off the duvet only to have a pack fall out of the coat's inner pocket. Pleasantly surprised by the find, the two of them decide to share the last of the cigarettes amongst themselves, their legs tangled over one another beneath the sheets.

Uli, entirely caught in the maze of his own mind, continues, unaware or uncaring of Steban’s current predicament. “I think in that situation you losing control of yourself would be the goal. Mostly for the reaction or satisfaction of relegating you to something more sub-human, or maybe it'd be better to say primal.”

Steban remembers that Cindy keeps a pack somewhere, briefly he returns his attention to Uli “I mean- one moment.”

Steban leans forward, rummages his hand below the couch. He feels over the underside of it for the pack Cindy stashes there and tugs at it- it gives, and Steban holds his prize up, victorious.

Steban hits the bottom end of the carton, freeing a cigarette from its confines.

He raises it to his mouth. “Light?” Steban murmurs through pursed lips.

Uli pulls a lighter from his pocket, rips the cord from its casing and holds the stick to light Stebans cigarette.

Steban takes a few soft puffs before pulling the cigarette away from his lips. “What was I saying-” he waves the smoke off and away from his face “Oh! Right I mean I brought up the collar thing before, so I feel like we're in line with that.”

Uli tucks the stick back into its home “Yes, but that was extremely problematic. ‘Communist dog?’ It's a little on the nose, isn't it?”

Steban taps a bit of ash off to the side. “Perhaps that's what makes it enjoyable? I bet you Gendarme and his buddies are all into being ‘pigs’ in their free time, heh.” He pulls the cigarette back to his mouth and draws in.

Uli watches the ember glow red “…Which gendarme do you think…” He shakes his head. “No, sorry, that's wildly off topic.”

Steban lets the smoke pool out from his nose “what was it that the-”

Uli jumps to interrupt, the thought already at the tip of his tongue: “‘Thrashed like a schoolboy.”

“Yeah,” Steban agrees absentmindedly, pulling the cigarette back away from his mouth.

“Yeah” Uli keeps his attention on Stebans lips. “Do you want me to kiss you by the way?”

Steban gives a shy little smile “…Yeah, I do. I like the dip of your cupid's bow.”

Uli touches his upper lip “…My?”

Stebans smile widens at the display “Uli…”

Uli whips his hand away from his face. “Yes?”

Steban tucks his smile back into his cheek and thumbs the filter of his cigarette nervously. “I realized there's yet another elephant.”

Uli nods for Steban to continue, giving a little grunt of affirmation.

“Does this make us homo-sexual?”

Steban puts the cigarette to his lips and intakes air once again.

Uli takes a measured pause to think. “Not necessarily.”

“We've both admitted to wanting to engage sexually with one another, and we both- you do identify as a man right?” Smoke trails out from his mouth as he speaks.

“Yes.”

Steban nods “Right. Me too.”

Uli holds his hands over themselves “I mean it's often rumored Nilsen and Mazov were-”

“I always thought that was slander, perpetuated by the moralists to condemn communism by associating it with a disliked minority outgroup.” Steban rubs the worry lines of his furrowed brow, cigarette hanging loose from his fingers

“Which ironically probably just drew in support for communism from that outgroup.” Uli muses.

“I think any minority outgroup is more likely to engage with communism because as an outsider they're able to get a better understanding of the mechanics and flaws of the current system via the fact they're typically on the outskirts and the most victimized by said system.”

Uli nods. “When you're told your existence is wrong by the system, but you know better, it forces you to question what else the system is wrong about. Or you fall victim to internalizing those harms, which I would consider a tragic spiritual death.”

“Exactly.” Steban gestures for Uli to continue

“There's nothing wrong with being homo-sexual.” Uli states.

Steban purses his lips “so are you?”

Uli turns his chin up in contemplation “I still don't know.”

Steban gives an impatient little sigh. “Have you ever been attracted to a woman?”

Uli shakes his head. “No, but equally I've never been attracted to a man, other than you.”

Steban twitches upright in genuine surprise “You find me attractive?”

“Steban,” Uli rolls his eyes and gives a petulant huff. “You are by all standards extremely handsome, you know this, we’ve had actual hours of discussion about the ethics of utilizing your looks as a means to facilitate the spread of awareness for the cause.”

Steban rolls his eyes in return, “right, but that doesn't necessarily mean you find me attractive, just that general society does, a society that mind you is built around creating an extremely narrow definition of beauty. I wouldn't assume that you of all people were affected so easily by the way society dictates beauty standards.”

Ulis' brows cinch together, a small frustrated frown curling over his lips. “I think we're still narrowing down on the fact that I am clearly the worst communist here, but yes, I find you extremely attractive.”

There's a moment of pause. Ulis expression softens, becomes reserved and private as he speaks “However, I don't think it's just a physical thing, I find you most attractive when you are saying something enlightening. I find your ‘philosophical essence’ beautiful.”

Steban gapes, cigarette ash falling as he lets it burn to the filter. “ I think there's another, other elephant.”

Uli turns tentatively to look towards Steban. “Go on,” he urges.

“I think I might be in love with you.”

Uli nods “I see. I feel like what I just expressed is probably something you could fairly argue as being a result of me also being in love with you, that would be the most sound explanation.”

“So.. do you think all of this subjugation and fetishization would be fine under the pretense that we were in love with one another?” Steban asks, gnawing at his lower lip.

“That's an excellent question, Comrade. I guess that comes down to how we quantify love as an antithesis of capital.”

“Capital is about the prioritization of ownership and hierarchy, something we're afraid of engaging with in the fear that by living under capital we are being influenced to perpetuate capital,” Steban elucidates.

“But love is definitionally about collectivism.” Uli agrees.

“When reciprocated.”

“When reciprocated.”

“Which it is?” Steban asks.

“Yes, it is.”

“Right, good,” Steban nods “so if we apply Gendarmes critique of tiptop-”

Uli continues the thought, “that tiptop itself isn't the issue because ultimately the sport is about collectivism and that without the influences of capital it would still stand to be a worthy pursuit.”

Steban takes the cigarette back to his lips “If it weren't for capital and the fascistic nature of hierarchy imposing meaning onto acts like choking, slapping, and being inserted upon they would be worthwhile pursuits.”

Uli watches as the cigarette gives way and burns into smoke “-in the context that we both found the acts pleasurable.”

“Yes.” Steban exhales out towards the ceiling.

“Circling back to my point earlier, regarding the idea of whether or not my desire to cause you pain is in alignment with your desire to feel pain. When I think about it in this specific wider framework I realize I only really want to cause you harm in an explicitly sexual context which would insinuate that the end goal is to cause pleasure and not just pain.” Uli explains.

Steban stares down at the fading gray wisps as they trail off into the atmosphere. “right.”

“So I believe you are correct, I concede, well argued once again.” Uli offers his hand in congratulations.

Steban looks down and awkwardly crosses over his hand to shake Uli’s, trading off his cigarette to his free one. “Wonderful.”

Uli gives a polite smile and squeezes down harder as he gives a firm jerk before pulling away.

Steban turns to pull the cigarette back to his lips, only to find that it had burned too close to the filter. With a sigh, he snuffs it out against the small saucer on the side table, its crumpled form joining its compatriots in the growing pile. “So you think we can actually fuck now?”

Uli scoffs “Oh? Don’t be ridiculous, do you think we're really ready to put this theory into practice?”

“Uli- I-”

“We haven't even worked out any logistics Steban, how were you intending to apply any of this without doing that first, you should know better.” Uli interjects.

“No, no you're right. Okay, so, you're better at logistics than me, so I think you should lead this section of discussion.” Steban raises his hands up in defeat.

Uli straightens up, adjusting the lay of his sweater vest with a firm tug. “Alright”

Steban swallows, runs a nervous hand down his chest “do you mind if I touch myself while we do this though?”

Uli looks toward Steban, eyes narrowing “…Yes. I do.”

Steban throws his head back against the couch, a lazy hand ushering Uli to continue “Fine, go on then. I know you're doing this on purpose though, so hurry it up.”

Uli presses steepled fingers over his lips, “kissing should be fine, do we want tongue involved?”

Steban looks up at the ceiling, contemplating the answer as well as the rest of his life and everything that has brought him to this point, “hmm, I don't think I have any particular preferences, we should be able to work that out as we go.”

“Fair enough, I want to slap you and choke you, we've established that's good and on the table.”

Steban swallows. “Yes”

Uli gives a curt bow of his head “I remember what the Gendarmes said and did so I should be able to replicate the slapping with little issue. Choking on the other hand, I can't be sure I'll be able to do safely, we might want to do that another time.”

“I concur.” Steban concurs.

“We should probably not fuck here in Cindys studio.” Uli gestures to the space.

“I agree comrade, that'd be kinda gross and rude, we can just do it in my apartment.” Steban points down to the general area where his apartment lies beneath them.

“The light is good in there and the neighbors are all mostly away or drunk.” Uli adds.

Steban shifts his finger out to where his neighbors would be. “This is true, we won't have to worry too much about noise level but we should still try to be considerate.”

“Maybe some kind of gag or device to muffle…” Uli offers, miming the general shape of said device.

Steban shakes his head, hair swishing against the cheap fabric of the couch, “I can just bite a pillow I think.”

“Right, another question, should we turn the Mazov statue away or cover up the poster or not?” Uli asks, squirming nervously in his seat.

Steban waves off Uli’s apprehension with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “We can see how we feel when we're actually in the space.”

Uli huffs, flicking his fingers at the air in front of him, “always one to play it by ear I guess, okay now unless there's something I don't know about your physiology, we need some kind of lubricant right?”

“I am male, yes,” Steban assures “I have lube in my apartment, another reason we should go there.”

“I feel like it’d be more responsible of us to make sure we have the proper protections in place, condoms?” Uli asks, adjusting the fit of his glasses up his nose.

“Hmm, we would need to head down to the Fritte for condoms.” Steban scratches the stubble at the base of his jaw, where his hairs meet the skin of his neck.

Uli shakes his head in solemn condemnation “I’m realizing another unfortunate reality of capitalism is that condoms aren’t freely available.”

Steban sticks a swift finger in the air, “noting that we should add that to the docket for discussion. “

“Noted,” Uli gives a curt nod and then a small grimace, “I hate to have to bring it up, but, sanitation?”

Steban gives a small chortle “I can get some towels for the bed, and I have actually experimented in the past with this kind of thing on my own time, so I generally know what to do.”

“Have you had other partners?” Uli’s expression darkens.

“No, I mean,” Steban waffles, “none that were men and not in that particular fashion. It’s also been awhile- I’ve been to the doctor and am clean if that's a concern.”

Uli nods, apprehensive “It wasn’t much of a concern and I’ve never partaken myself, so I am also healthy in that regard. By the way, I feel like using the term ‘clean’ might be problematic in that it insinuates that those who do have sexually transmitted diseases are somehow ‘dirty’ or ‘impure’, which I feel like is an extension of the way sex and sexuality is demonized by moralism and the patriarchy. “

Steban gives a small deprecative smile, gripping at the collar of his shirt “True, that's my bad, blood is not being used for the important parts right now I fear.”

“I didn’t mean to call you out on it, just a passing observation.” Uli dismisses.

Strained, Steban clenches harder onto his shirt, “Uli can I please touch myself?”

“No.” Uli rejects, swiftly moving on, “you mentioned having done this sort of thing on your own time before?”

Steban gives a rattled sigh of defeat. “Yes, I had a time where I was deconstructing the way that patriarchal masculinity robs men of exploring their ability to express themselves in certain ways- when i started growing my hair out, I also felt like I should become more comfortable with my body and heard that the male g spot was the prostate and, well-”

“Does that mean you have toys?” Uli interjects, shifting one leg over the other.

“HA! In this economy?” Steban guffaws, “Uli we hardly ever have enough money for the coffee, you know how expensive those things are?”

Uli raises a brow.

Steban deflates “No I- I felt like they were too much of a luxury at the time and your ribs had been showing under your shirt. I also couldn't have afforded a hair cut so it was honestly cheaper to just grow it out.” He trails his fingers through the ends of his locks.

Uli tracks the movement “We should thank Cindy again for always cutting our hair.”

Steban gives a look around the room. “ And letting us use her space for our talks.”

Uli turns his head to look out towards the entrance. “We should probably do as the Gendarme insinuated and be less selective with who we let into the reading group.”

Steban gives a frustrated huff. “But it is a reading group, and Cindy refuses to do the reading.”

Uli slumps “But she is a comrade. Biting my own tongue here I think Gendarme is right about the intellectual purity crippling the movement.”

“Perhaps.”

Uli shakes his head and reorients himself “but that's irrelevant to the current project.”

“What else do we need to figure out the logistics for? Location, material, intent, ethicality…” Steban counts out the list on his fingers.

“Do you have money for condoms?”

“…”

“…”

Steban stares out dumbfounded, the realization dawning slowly but surely as the facts of his material reality present themselves.

“This is honestly devastating,” Steban huffs in disbelief “I can’t believe we’re too broke to fuck Uli, this can’t be happening.”

Uli winces “We could collect tare like the Gendarme? Or we could ask Cindy?”

Steban points a stern finger to Uli “We are not asking Cindy for condom money.”

Uli gives out a rattled sigh, “maybe it's better we don't jump straight to penetrative sex right away then.”

“Yeah, maybe that was a bit overzealous of us. Also, did you insinuate earlier that you've never had sex before?”

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

“You're a virgin?”

Uli rolls his eyes “Virginity is a social construct, one that I also feel is an extension of the purity apparatus upheld by patriarchy and moralism. But in the definitional sense, no I've never had sex before.”

Steban swallows thickly, “not even, like, a blowjob?”

Uli grits his teeth in annoyance “I've never had another person with whom I've engaged in sexual activities before. Is that clear enough? I feel like you're creating some kind of idea of me in your head right now.” Uli narrows his eyes.

Steban waves off the accusation “No no, I just, it's nice to know that you trust me.” Places his hand against his heart.

“Sex isn't special, Steban, it's capitalism that gives any credence to it, don't forget virginity was originally about the selling and buying of women as material goods…” Uli crosses his arms over his chest and slumps back further into the couch, shoulders raising up to the dip of his skull.

Steban levels a placating hand next to where Uli sits “No, you're right, I just, it makes me feel special I guess. It's something I'll have to unpack within myself at a later time.”

Uli looks down at the hand and softens his posture “No I'm sorry, I fear I was just being reactionary there. Not that what I was saying was not valid critique, I just mean I was being overly defensive.”

Steban looks over the small scar across Uli’s cheek, tender, “That's okay Uli, it happens to the best of us.”

Uli raises himself back up “Thank you Comrade.”

Steban gives a small pat to the space where his hand has been resting “You’re welcome.”

Uli strokes an inquisitive run of his fingers over his chin “You mentioned blowjobs, that might be a good substitute in this situation. Also why do they call it a blow job? Aren’t you supposed to suck on it? Shouldn’t it be called a Suck job? Also, bit odd to call it a job, not that it couldn't be labor, sex work is work, an unfortunate form of work given the way capitalism forces us to commodify ourselves, but no more or less virtuous than any other kind of physical labor.”

“Blow was an old euphemism for an orgasm, not the act of blowing on something.”

“Oh, interesting.”

Steban runs his gaze over Uli’s form, “but honestly I'd be fine with sucking you off.”

“But would you sucking me off be equitable?”

“What?” Steban snaps his attention back to Uli’s face in confusion.

“Sucking someone off is a fairly one sided ordeal is it not?” Uli postures.

Steban’s brows crinkle “ I mean I could suck you off and then you could suck me off.”

Uli lingers in thought before giving his rebuttal “True but then it feels like the act is transactional.”

“I … suppose.” Steban looks at Uli, slack jawed and disbelieving, before throwing his hands up in frustration

“ I just want this to all be reciprocal if that makes sense.” Uli tuts.

“What, are we trying to make this efficient as well?” Steban scoffs, cocking his head back in indignation.

“…” Uli Stares off in deep, reverent contemplation

“Uli?” Steban warns.

Uli jerks back from his trance “N-no, no, sorry.”

“Were you actually considering efficiency just now?” Steban asks with barely contained aggravation In his voice.

“Only in a purely hypothetical sense.” Uli defends

“Dolores fucking Dei Uli.” Seban huffs in exasperation

“I’m sorry, the bean counting has clearly rotted my brain to the stem.”

“that or the lack of blood flow…” Steban grumbles, folding his arms over himself in a pout.

“Sorry, what was that Steban?” Uli asks, feigning ignorance.

“NOthing!” Steban deflects, “Nothing. Can I please touch myself?” then begs.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be so impatient, comrade, however are we supposed to produce enough plasm at this rate?” Uli chides, poised and smug.

Steban freezes in place and turns a disbelieving head towards Ulis side profile “Plasm…. Uli, do not tell me that you have been dragging this along for-”

Steban jerks back his jacket sleeve to look at his watch.

“Eight hours Steban,” Uli interjects “That's how long the most devoted infra-materialists would engage in intercourse.”

Steban keels over, hands falling over the sides of his head in anguish.

“Uli,” Steban begs, voice cracking with desperation “Why? Why would this be relevant to our current scenario, there is no possible way in which anything we could engage with could last even remotely that long. We haven’t the time or physicality for it, and you haven’t even had sex before.”

“Right but I feel like physicality is less important than the mindset.”

“The.... mindset!?” Steban asks, at an utter loss.

“Yes, Plasm is an ideological pursuit not a physical one, similarly I theorize we could apply this to intercourse.” Uli speculates.

“Uli,” Steban runs his hands over his face in exasperation “We haven't even been able to get the matchboxes to work, the closest we’ve gotten was when the Gendarme was involved.”

Uli pauses, taps a finger to his chin “ …Hm, Do you think getting either the Gendarme or a third member involved would lead to better results?”

“N-! ….” Steban jumps before halting “Do you mean in the case of lasting longer or producing more plasm?”

Uli shrugs. “Hmm, both?”

“I- don’t know how I feel about having another member involved in this specific case.” Steban demures sheepishly.

“Not that I'm disagreeing here but I have to do my due diligence and ask, why not?” Uli tilts his head to the side, curious.

“I think I want this entire thing to be a one on one affair.” Steban mumbles.

“You mean you want us to be monogamous?”

Steban gives out a long sigh “yes…”

“Similarly, I feel like monogamy is another patriarchal capitalist framework meant to divide us as people. It’s another system that encourages putting ownership over another human being.”

Steban turns his head slowly to Uli, “No, Uli, our bodies aren’t resources, saying so would be commodifying and objectifying, this is a matter of autonomy.”

“Steban, the expectation of monogamy is a rejection of polyamory or the notion that affection or love is a finite resource that must be rationed accordingly.”

“Does that mean you’d like for us to be polyamorous?”

Uli gives a short huff of a laugh, “Oh, no, I very much would like to own you Steban. It’s something I have to wrestle with. A kind of internal ideological war between mind and body,” he adds, hand coming to fret over his brow.

“Oh, I can definitely sympathize with that comrade,” Steban grits, hands coming to grab fistfuls of pant fabric, white knuckled and tense at his knees.

Uli’s expression curls into a self satisfied smirk, “I didn’t know you were so *in need* comrade.. would you think it patronizing if i thought it was cute?”

“Yes. I would.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be patronized?” Uli crosses his legs and lounges back into the couch, hands politely folded over his knee.

“If it means I was going to be rewarded for being a good boy maybe?” Steban shrugs his shoulders, gripping tighter onto the fabric.

“A good boy?” Uli raises a perplexed brow.

“Yes” Steban hisses, knee beginning to quiver in impatience.

“Because of the dog thing?” Uli runs a hand over the back of his nape.

“Is that actually really such an issue for you Uli?” Steban runs his hands over his knee, flattening out the fabric, wiping his clammy palm of its sweat against his slacks.

“No, it just raises a few questions for me.” Uli releases his nape, calmly lowering his hand back to his lap.

“Questions?” Steban groans, free hand coming to run through the dew accumulating at his brow and into his greased locks.

“Yes… hmm.” Uli hums.

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, don't take this the wrong way but are you perhaps a-” Uli lowers his voice to a conspiratorial level “-furkin?”

Steban’s brows collapse into one another, forehead wrinkling into slopes and valleys of confused worry lines. “I’m sorry, I don't know what that is Uli. Is it some sort of welkin?”

“Oh!” Uli perks up. “No, It's a subculture of individuals who have a heraldic animal they identify with and will occasionally dress up as.”

“No, Uli, I am not a ‘furkin’ ” Steban quotes the word in the air, “This is completely unrelated to anything actually having to do with being a dog”

“Are you certain? You did say you wanted to wear a collar.” Uli points out.

“That's just because it would be demeaning-” Steban argues.

“And the ‘good boy’?”

“Uli, Im not a ‘furkin’ ” Steban strictly assures.

“So nothing to do with heraldic animal connections?” Uli queries, a subtle hint of disappointment simmering beneath the surface.

“Uli?” Steban questions hesitantly, picking up on the possible disappointment “are you a furkin?”

“Mm, no, I don't think so.” Uli states casually.

“What do you mean you don't think so?”

“I mean don’t be ridiculous, I've never really thought about it until now.”

“Of course not…” Steban bemoans, leg now bouncing in frustration.

“Besides, I swear if there were another elephant in this room, I fear we would be obligated to start a circus, Steban.”

“We’ve been over this, Uli, circuses are also bourgeois” Steban bites at his lips, hands clasped in a tight vice over his lap.

“Right, right, apologies comrade.” Uli gives a small pat to Stebans shoulder.

The only point of contact made all evening.

It’s too much, Steban jumps, startling to his feet, primed and vibrating in his skin.

He whips around and turns to loom over Uli, fists bunched at his sides. Unsure of what it is he is planning or going to do, pushed so far to the edge.

“Do you think it would be praxis to be a furkin?” Uli muses. Placid, he turns to look up to his compatriot.

There is an unfathomable and boundless, unfettered hunger in Stebans eyes.

“Is this truly what you’re asking me right now?” Steban simmers, voice mounting slowly in passion and volume as he speaks, “If me debasing myself? Embracing the anima, embodying the heraldic spirit of a sick and decrepit beast, getting on my hands and knees and barking for my scraps?! Would be PRAXIS?”

Steban reaches a crescendo voice shaking his frame “ Yes! YES! COMRADE, It WOULD be! If only I truly embraced being a dog?! Who knows maybe we’d even be producing enough plasm to resurrect Kraz Mazov himself, YOU ABsoLUTE COCK TEASE-” Steban lurches forward, fists coming to grasp with desperation at Uli’s lapels.

Faces intimately near one another, a breath’s width apart, the phantom heat of tepid air the only separation between the two.

It’s then there is a clattering shift of metal against concrete as the grate drags against the floor.

There, in the now open door frame, adorned in a long military coat, soaked in the scent of oil and sea with dark, striking, owl-like eyes, stands Cindy.

“Uhm, What?” she asks.

[t-o-m-hollands]

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

*

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

*

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

*

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

*

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

*

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

*

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

*

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

[aphrodite-would-be-proud]

I just read the Erwin date scenarios and it’s so hood AGH could you please do one for armin? Plz 😚

You read my mind👀 ngl I think about Armin each time I write something for Erwin, despite them being alike i like to compare the differences and think they have different tastes and love languages.

Erwin strikes me a more act of services and gift giving guy while Armin would definitely go for words of affirmation and quality time.

Type of dates with Armin PT.1 {pt.2 in masterlist}

{ Armin x reader | tw: none | fluff, romance | modern }

{ "in bloom" by Abbott Fuller Graves 1859–1936 }

Ideal dates : these are dates he plans up ahead, makes sure they go smoothly and you're both are having fun. He really looks forward to these dates, they're like an event for him. He saves them up for important occasions like your anniversary, valentine's day, birthday, etc.

1. Spending a full day on the beach: when i say a full day I mean it, he's driving you there really early in the morning while you're struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat. He doesn't even need coffee he's running on 100% pure determination and will.

You'd arrive before anyone there, to get the best spot of course. It's close enough to the sea that you can feel the humidity of the water in the air, yet far enough from the rest of the beach that other people won't bother you.

He'd understand if you were too sleepy to help him set things up, he'd just kiss your forehead before letting you go back to sleep, promising he'll get you something to drink when the stores open.

You wake up to the smell of your favourite hot drink, just around 8am. The sun is up and the air is refreshing, you can hear the quiet chatter of people far away just arriving here. You sip your drink as Armin guides you to the small comfortable space he made, proudly showing off his work.

Please praise him and give him a kiss on the cheek, he will melt.

The rest of the day is spent with you two swimming lazily in the water, feeling the warm sunlight on your skin. Collecting whatever pretty seashell you see, using some to decorate the sandcastle Armin built with you. He takes a pictures of you at seemingly random moments, he promises to show you when he devolps them later.

You help him dry his hair afterwards, he take you to get ice cream. Despite getting you one too, he still ends up sharing his own with you, and if you're up for seconds he'd happily oblige.

When night falls and the people began leaving, the waves of the ocean get a little higher, wind turning colder. Don't worry, Armin thought about that, that's why he brought blankets.

He'd wrap you both in the same one, even holding you close to him, it's for warmth he says and yet he seems like he was looking forward for this. You help him in making a small bonfire, he brought marshmallows.

The rest of the night is spent with you laying against him while huddled in a blanket, looking at the heavens above and the constellation of the stars.

He takes your hand in his, guiding your finger to where polaris is. "It never changes" he says "no matter what" and from that star, he guides you through the formation of the little dipper.

Just right under it, directly under the polaris, begins the big dipper, a close replica to its little sister.

You spend hours like this, looking at the stars as new formations come and go with the time. You were early enough to catch Aries as it was leaving, pleiades, the seven sisters shining brightly next to it.

And just after midnight it was Sirius turn to say goodbye. That's when both of you decided to call it a night, he hugged you close to him, you could feel his heartbeat slowing down, he was oh so warm and tasted just like chocolate and marshmallows when you kissed goodnight.

2. Going on an adventure and trying new things: Armin has the need to try new things and gain new experiences, despite being someone who prefers small groups of friends and getting lost in a book than socialising. It's something that's been a part of him since he was a child, he wants to experience what the world has to offer and won't say no despite how utterly terrifying it can be to him.

And he wants to have those experiences with you, to share his love for the unknown with you, to see your reactions and share his own thoughts. The only thing that's better than going on adventures to him is going on adventures with you.

An adventure could be anything really, it could be going diving underwater or going to that creepy looking supermarket that never closes, you never know. An adventure is an adventure after all. The possibilities are endless.

So don't be surprised when he asks for you to go with him sky diving for his birthday despite knowing how terrfied he is of heights and how even a carnaval ride can make him sick.

Good or bad he doesn't care, he just wants to try and learn everything. He's full of curiosity and surprises that you'd never get bored, although a good thing about him is that he never is unprepared.

Yes he will take you on seemingly dangerous adventures but know that he really deeply thought about this before hand and is prepared for all the different scenarios that could happen, he likes the unknown but he's smart and cautious on how to approche it.

Not to mention that a single adventure can leave him satisfied for a long time before craving a new rush, probably once or twice a year. Just frequent enough to be something to look forward to but not too frequent that it becomes boring or too repetitive, he manages to keep that balance and walk on that thin line.

3. Hot air ballon ride: just imagine, it's early autumn, the weather is just right to wear those cozy yet good looking clothes, the earth seems like it's turning slower than usual as the trees change colours.

Around sunrise or sunset, both of you are high up in the air, the sun clearly in view with the golden clouds surrounding it. The world managing to look so small yet so vast at the same time.

Armin is wearing his favourite sweater and scarf combo, he's holding your hand in his pocket to keep it warm. It's just you and him isolated from the rest of the world like other people dont exist anymore, and strangely he's okay with that, at peace even.

He brings a camera and captures how the sun reflects in your eyes, how the chilly air makes you rub your hands together for warmth and how utterly breathtaking you look.

Beautiful, gorgeous even, these are the only thoughts in his mind at that moment.

And so Armin made a promise to himself that in the far future, when he wants to be even closer to you, to vow his life to yours, he'd propose on a hot air balloon.

But as much as he likes staying up in the air with you being his angel, the process of booking a ride is much more complicated and time consuming than he originally thought. Meaning he doesn't get to enjoy these rare heavenly moments as he wants to.

He needs to make reservations in advance, not to mention how important it is to choose a trustworthy company. Lastly how rides depend on the weather conditions, needing to reschedule if the weather takes a turn to the worse.

4. Visiting the aquarium or planetarium: he's just a boy with oceans for eyes and stars in his smile, can you really blame him for gravitating towards these places? Or for diving too deep in knowledge about the sky above and sea below?

Whenever the weather is too harsh for a beach trip or the sky is too cloudy for a stargazing night, these two places are his to go backups.

He's memorised the place like the back of his hand, no need for a map. Want to see the shark tanks and how they're doing? He'll take you there and introduce to them and the silly nicknames he gave them. Or how about saying hello to the dolphins who'll show off some moves just for your attention, or maybe you miss seeing the adorable penguins wobble around?

He knows endless facts about each fish kind, he makes it seem so fascinating and the way he phrases the information and coats them in milk and honey makes it impossible for you not to engage.

You both could have a slow with few words spoken walk and it still be as interesting, he'd even make special playlists to listen to while walking around and sharing his earphones.

Meanwhile at the planetarium, sometimes in the early mornings you'd run into kids just arriving for their school trip. Racing each other to the solar system panel and looking in amazement when the stars show begins. You and Armin have a nostalgic feeling when watching them, yet when you look at each other you remember how good it feels like to be grown and have someone special.

You never could get bored of seeing the stars, especially not with Armin.

5. Trying a new kind of art: one time you asked him what does he think the meaning of art is, what even is art?

"Art is communication" he said.

Armin has a deep love and appreciation for all kind of art, from classic oil canvas paintings to old greek sculptures. He doesn't pick a side, he likes both the modren and classic.

Music is art, writing is art and even making pottery is a form of art too. He wants to experience it, not for a need to acolmplish something or to rival Shakespeare, but for a need to communicate his emotions in a more subtle and personal way.

Like a secret language only he can decipher the meaning of, after all he was the one to create it.

Whenever he tries a new form of art, his usual fear of failure and absurdly high expectations actually go out the window. There isn't good and bad art, there's just different levels of communication and different styles.

So to him, the act of bringing you both some watercolours and cotton papers to paint on for a date is incredibly intimate, that's his true feelings and emotions he's showing you. But don't worry, he isn't here to take the whole thing seriously, he's actually playful and mellow most of the time.

Or maybe he'd like to make pottery with you, an excuse to put his hands around yours while sitting intimately close, maybe even give your shoulder a couple kisses while you shape the vase you agreed on making.

The next day, you find the finished vase near the window with a sunflower arrangements inside.

It also could be you two sitting next to each other, working together on a page of an adult colouring book or maybe to each one his own book. He'd hog the color blue most of the time so watch out, and don't lend him yours because he will hog it too.

Or maybe as a fun past time, you'd both attempt to make poetry, expect you're getting more and more drunk on the fruit flavoured beer he brought with him. You had fun laughing while reading what you came up with the next morning.

6. Going fruit picking in summer: it's his favourite way to celebrate the arrival of his favourite season, wear something light, pack some lemonade and go enjoy what mother nature has to offer.

You two would walk around in the fields, he's wearing a straw hat to block the sun, he thinks it looks better on you. Both of you looking at the fruits waiting to be picked, choosing the really unique shaped ones, the colourful ones and the especially delicious looking ones.

You might meet some small friends along the way, like a couple ladybugs that were crawling up Armin's arm. Two butterflies dancing in the air and even a frog that's taking a walk from its lake home nearby.

Going home that day with baskets full of different fruits waiting for your use, Armin and you discuss all the different ways you could use them for, like making delicious smoothies, or maybe saving them for baking a pie or cake. Maybe cutting them in small bites and covering them with different kinds of chocolate, maybe just making a fruits salad to enjoy while Armin reads you a book

Or maybe, maybe just washing them and eating them raw. Yeah that option sounds the most appealing after a day of walking through fields in the sun.

He'd feed you some, push them against your lips and smile when your eyes subtly light up at the sweet taste....maybe a kiss after so he could taste it too?

[lobakmerahs]

One: Painting and Its Secrets

Summary: This series is about Levi’s slow burn relationship with the reader who is not only a squad leader but a spy who works under Scouts Regiment.

Warning: mentions of death

A/n: I hope you, whoever you are that will read my series will enjoy it as much as I do when I wrote it. Thanks and have a pleasant reading! :)

~ 🎨

3 weeks before...

A blond platinum wig in a pixie cut, button down shirt in beige, a dark brown suspenders, a pair of pants in olive green with a jacket in the same colour. Last but not least a black fedora on top of the head. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, making sure that you looked completely different from the real you at the same time not wanting the disguise you were wearing would catch unnecessary attention. After you were fully satisfied with your look, you took your steps outside your little home.

It was supposedly your off day and you were strolling at the Stohess District and went to buy a newspaper before taking your seat at an empty bench while facing the river. After a few moments had passed, you glanced at your watch and stood up to head to your destination. 

Hans Art Gallery. You were on time when you stood in front of the art shop as the business was just begun and you were the first one to enter. 

“Good morning and welcome to Hans Art Gallery. Is there anything that I can help you, Mrs?,” the gentleman asked. 

“A bouquet of tulips for the man with the black shoes.” You answered to the gentleman who was not wearing a pair of black shoes but upon hearing your sentence and clearly understood your code, he went to the back of the gallery before returned to you and handed the canvas piece that was neatly wrapped with an oil paper. 

You calmly walked to your home and naturally looked around you to make sure no one was tailing before you entered your house and produced a soft click sound as you locked the wooden door behind you. You didn’t go straight to your room, instead you climbed to the attic and yet again locked the door. Slowly you unwrapped the frame and brought out your forceps as well as your scalpels, no need to ask how did you get those. The canvas held a drawing of an evening sky which was rich with every shades of orange colour capturing the beauty of the sunset, it seemed like it could bring calmness to whoever that laid their eyes on it, but what people didn’t know, didn’t have to know as well as didn’t have the right to know was what lied beneath the drawing. Yes, the drawing was undeniably beautiful, it was made by none other than one of your assets in the Wall Sina that disguised as an art dealer among the nobles. The said asset had planted a few layers of documents under his drawing which was the main reason you were about to form a surgery on the work of art. Meticulously, you ran your scalpel on the border of the drawing, next you brushed your thumb along the already cut borders to make the edges curled upwards then you used your forceps to peal the drawing away, revealing layers of papers which were believed to be the documents that were hidden beneath it. 

“Hmmh.. hmmm~ yare yare, found ya’.” You whispered to yourself and smiled in relief, taking out the pieces of papers and gave it a read. 

The documents contained the Military Police reports of Nicholas Lovof’s crimes that included bribery, kidnapping, murders and any other atrocities that were enough to put someone under justified punishments. Not only that, the documents also included a detailed descriptions as well as names of the people that were in charge to kill Erwin Smith, a good colleague of yours, thanks to Nicholos’s manipulations. The said people were; a young red-haired girl styled in pigtails, another young man with a light-brown hair and persumably the oldest one of the pack,a sharp dull blue eyes man with a black hair styled in an uppercut. 

Then, you made a copy of the documents and kept them in a scroll so you could send them to Erwin, where the original copy of them were properly sealed in an envelope for you to send them to none other than Dhalis Zachary.

~🎨

You took a deep breath, inhaling the morning’s crisp while staring at the blue sky. It was always your favorite thing to do, starring at the sky, focusing on the colours that it held. From the wide ranges of blues, to the variety tones of the white from the clouds and sometimes the contrast colours of orange or pink that appears during dusk or dawn. 

After you had enough of your morning pill from the sky, you stepped out of your chamber and was greeted by your best friend, Hange with a raised of both your eyebrows. Both of you did not need much words to greet each other most of the times. You were best friends since your Training Corps years. Morning wasn’t the time for you guys to start acting real with each other. So, both of you walked by each other to the mess hall to get your breakfast then attended the assembly Scout Regiment’s concourse. 

During the morning assembly, you lined up beside Erwin as you were also a Section Commander and had your comrades under your unit to stand in a line behind you. As you were standing, you could see there were 3 people standing beside Commander Keith Sadis, and were introduced to the whole Scout Regiment as the new Scouts. One of them was a girl with red-brown hair tied into two pigtails, named Isabel Magnolia, the other was a man with dark blond hair named Furlan Church and the last one named Levi, a shorter man with black hair styled in an uppercut. All three of them were assigned into Flagon's unit much to his dismay. You glanced at Erwin by your side and he gave you a knowing look. While others found those new Scouts’ names foreign, both of you were exceptional and for a good reason. 

They were surprisingly good during their training, for some people who never had a formal training using the ODM gear, they performed fantastically well but they still needed some polishing for their Titans killing skills, except for Levi. You were always up to offer help to them but they often misunderstood since you usually looked cold and always a bit brutal during your trainings which were a famous fact among the Scout Regiment. Farlan and Isabel often thought that you hated them since they received resentments from severel other Scout cadets and thinking that you were also in the same boat as the other Scouts. Levi was always with his bored expression, you could barely read his expressions let alone his thoughts, unlike the other two. There was a time where Isabel blurted about why you insisted to help training them when you seemed to dislike them.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you guys or not, people train to kill the Titans and to survive. You guys seemed to rush things and hiding something, as if you wanted you to get done with killing Titans then move on to do something else that isn’t Titans related and I’m here trying to help you not to get killed by Titans”, you answered. There was a short silence followed after your answer. You could tell their breaths hitched for a moment but you remained stolid nevertheless.

“Well, we have to move on to do something else as in to focus on the formation right?”, Furlan replied with a hint of nervous. 

“Yeah, let’s hope so.” You answered. 

~🎨

In life, there were a lot of moments where the air would be tense and the night before expedition was one of them. The night was calm and quiet but you couldn’t ignore the heavy feeling in your heart. Tonight was just another night inside the wall but to some in the Scout Regiment, it would be their last. Tomorrow’s expedition would surely cost some of your comrades’ lives and might even yours, for the sake of humanity. 

You took a deep breath. But it still didn’t help to calm your nerves. You had been pacing in your room since dinner. You couldn’t stay still, palms were sweaty and heart was beating unsually fast tonight. Something bad was going to happen tomorrow. You could feel it in your guts. You recognized these telltale because whenever you felt like this, you’ll end up receiving death news be it your favorite neighbour from your hometown, your beloved pets or even the Scouts that you had helped in training. Deciding that sitting in your room wouldn’t help lessen the nerves, you grabbed your pencils and sketch papers then headed outside to gaze at the starry night sky to do some sketches in hope of easing your mind. 

As you arrived at you usual spot at tower of the Scout Regiment barracks, you slumped down and took a glance at the sky. The moon hadn’t shown itself yet, and there were thick clouds hanging everywhere. Then, you stared at your paper and pencil. Blank. No idea. No inspiration. Stuck. You sighed, and continued to stare at the night sky hoping to relax your mind for awhile. Then, you heard the sound of clicking boots which meant that there were people not far from you. It was Furlan and Isabel whom just arrived, they walked to a figure that you assumed to be Levi. You remained quiet and peeped them from your location. You could heard Isabel and Furlan trying to convince Levi about them joining tomorrow’s expedition. As you were eavesdropping not that you planned to in the first place, suddenly your hand started to sketch the paper, starting with the clouds and adding the diamonds in the sky, slowly without you realizing it, you were sketching the trio starring at the starry night sky under the moonlight that shone magnificiently. 

When you were done with the sketching, you returned to your room as quietly as possible and continued to add colours to your drawing before you got sleepy and finally free from your anxious feeling earlier. Before you headed to your bed, you jotted down the date behind your work which now known as painting, no longer just a sketch.

_

During the expedition, you and your squad were put around the right flank of the long range formation. There were few Titans appeared throughout the journey, none that your squad could handle. You were beyond grateful that all of your squad were still well and alive at the moment. Then, you received a signal to tighten the formation since the sky started to show sign that it would rain soon and a heavy one at that. You commanded your squad to pull on the hood of their capes and stayed as close as possible with you and each other so that no one would go unnoticed and it would be easier to assist if anything happen.

Despite the heavy downpour, your squad kept moving forward and you efficiently assisted your squad in killing any Titan that came in the way, it was always your promise to make sure everyone under you would return to the wall safe and alive. Then, suddenly you heard a weird noise coming from in front of you, not the usual strange noise that a Titan would make.A load, short but multiple groan as if a Titan was in pain. So, you rushed to the direction of the sound assuming that there might a cadet or a squad that needed your assistance. 

You arrived at the same time as Erwin’s and some other squad leaders, surrounded by an Abnormal Titan’s and plenty of your other comrades’ corpses. Then, you noticed Levi standing next to the Titan’s dead body with blood all over him and Isabel’s head in front of him with half of Furlan’s body not far from him as well. Levi seemed to be the only one survived from his squad. His head hanging slightly low, with his hair covering his eyes but the tears streaming down his cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by you. So, this explained the sweaty palm and racing heart you had another night- to see two cadets that you helped with training days ago, only now left with just just head and half of a body. You felt your shoulder fell and knees slightly shaking. You felt like your breath had been taken away.

As the rain started to stop slowly as the sunshine gently peeking from the clouds, you watched how Levi was about to kill Erwin which was stopped by Mike then Erwin explained about the Nicholos Lovof's situation causing Levi to stop his actions and stood silently, digesting the fact that he was caught up in Erwin’s plans. 

You did feel bad for Levi, Erwin wasn’t the only who knew about him and his friends��� true intention of joining the Scout Regiment. You knew about it too. It was your assignment to obtain the information about Nicholos Lofov’s crimes and sent it to Erwin as well as finding out the person who was assigned to supposedly kill Erwin. It was just a simple guess as to why those three didn’t refuse so much on joining he Scout Regiment when Erwin offered them to.

You were assigned with that task since you were not only a Section Commander but also a spy under the Scout Regiment as well as the cadets under your wings and some were also assets scattered across the town in disguise as an art dealer in Wall Sina, a commoner who opened a bakery shop or could be anyone in the town that simply invisible to the world but not to you. You needed to sniff around to obtain crucial informations that could contribute to the Scout Regiment strategies, formation and as well as humanity. 

~🎨

The barracks became quieter after the expedition ended which was normal due to the lost of lives. You were at your room that night, just checking your report before you could submit them to Erwin the next morning and decided to write some notes in your book. You opened your drawer and saw the painting that you made before the expedition took place. Levi, Isabel and Furlan staring at the sky. Two of the were smiling in admiration to the sky while Levi just being Levi, stoic as ever except his eyes where they were packed with ......hope. 

You suddenly felt drenched and decided to go for a glass of water at the kitchen before you headed to sleep. You inserted the sketching into your notebook and brought them with you to the kitchen, it just came across your mind to let Levi had it since you remembered how shattered he looked when he was kneeling in front of Isabel's head. The kitchen was empty when you arrived so you went to grab a cup and filled it with water.

As you took a sip of water from your glass, you saw Levi entering the same room as yours. Both of you were startled for a second yet no words left your mouths before he proceeded to make himself a tea and you with your drink. The room was filled with silence but not an uncomfortable one, at least for you. That was when it slipped your mind that you wanted to give the drawing to Levi. Only if he would accept your drawing. You thought he might wanted it since that drawing was an evidence of a sweet memory that his two friends left him during their short time in the Scout Regiment. Probably something for him to look at when he felt lonely. He was stirring his teaspoon with his back facing you when you called his name. Probably the first time having you calling his name. Probably the first time you would ever interact with him ever since he joined the regiment.

“.....um..Levi,” you called. That’s when your heart skipped a beat. And you felt a bit....just a bit nervous to see him reacting to you. Then, he turned around and faced you, intense dull blue eyes focusing on your eyes, expecting you to continue. You gulped. Man, was his gaze always this tense? You never noticed that before for sure.

“I was at the tower the night before the exhibition, with my sketching utensils because I needed to calm my nerves. Then suddenly you guys came and I made something. I didn’t plan doing it, I just went with the ideas flowing in my head,” you stopped and brought out your painting to his attention. He stayed focus listening to you and eyes never left your face before he took the drawing and examined it. You couldn’t say he was amused but his gaze did soften a little. 

“I’m sorry I draw the three of you without your permission.I know I should have asked your consent. And um, you could keep that...... If you want though,” you continued. You felt quite nervous not because you were scared of him, shy probably but not scared. You were nervous because one, you wished your drawing didn’t remind him of his late friends in a bad way and caused him more sadness, two, you didn’t want him to get mad at you for drawing him without his permission and three, um...what if your drawing looked like a toddler’s work? That would suck.

“It’s nice,” Levi finally spoke. His deep monotone voice comforted your ears. You breathed out a relief. 

“I want to keep it,” Levi said, hand still holding your drawing, eyes travelling back to yours with a softer gaze and as if asking for your permission. 

You nodded, “sure, make it yours, I do hope it’ll help you feel better, if that's even possible”, you replied with a soft chuckle as you slowly stood and got ready to head back to your room.

You saw Levi took a glance at the drawing then looked at you again before he replied you with, “thanks, I’ll treasure it.”

You flashed a small smile before yawning and took off to your room to get your sleep. Feeling light and at ease, knowing your drawing could help lift up someone’s mood.

Little did you know that, back in his chamber, Levi stared at your painting. He indulged himself into the painting that you made, every drop of colour as well as every line and traces left on the paper by you, realized how he missed watching his lost friends’ smiles and thanks to you, he could see his friends’ smiles once again eventhough it was just on a piece of a paper. Not to mention, he finally got to interact with you. You striked a mysterious aura when you first appeared before his eyes which intrigued him to get to know you, yet he never had a chance or a reason to talk to you but you were always there somewhere in the back of his mind. He was utterly grateful with the drawing you made, at least he could carve the smiles of his friends into his mind, their smiles might no longer exist in this world but it would always be in his heart and mind. 

                                              Next chapter

[pluto-fics]

Inspiration is Motivation － Prologue

Fanfiction | Artist!Taehyung x SingleMom!Reader

Genres: Fluff, Romance, Humor, Smut

Rating: G (for this chapter)

Word Count: 2.385 words

Chapter Warnings: none

Your brows furrow at the earlier statement of your best friend, Hanna.

"Believe me, it'll help you to relax for a few hours and I'll take good care of Ty."

You have no doubt about the latter. Hanna might be that stereotype single woman who likes to go out for a couple drinks every so often, but she is a reliable caretaker and one ridiculously good cook. Based on this, she was an absolute blessing the last two times she watched over your son. However, you still feel a little uneasy about her suggestion.

"I don't know... Tyler is kind of stubborn and moody lately, how could I leave you both alone for nearly four full hours? Not to mention that I can paint at home if I want to, I don't need to go to some weird art course..." you try to defy yourself. The idea of entrusting Hanna with your five year old son for so long worries you. Just the thought of it causes a bad feeling to spread throughout your body. Hanna just rolls her eyes, however. "Listen. I already signed you up for that course this Saturday. It's supposed to start at eleven, won't go past three in the afternoon and you can calmly come back home to Tyler and me having a great time without setting your apartment on fire."

You can't fight down the amused giggle at her statement before you sigh. "Hanna, I really don't-..." you begin, only to be interrupted mid-sentence. "Yes, you do want to try it. I'll be here at 10 this Saturday and you can either go to that course or stay here with us and bathe in my judgment."

And here you are, two days later and sat on a chair in front of an empty canvas and an A3 sized sketchpad, surrounded by strangers who, just like you, are waiting for the course to begin.

You take this time to inspect the equipment provided to you. Brushes and pencils of rather good quality, however accompanied by a cheap, fizzy eraser. The watercolor paint seems decent enough. But the big bottles of acrylics and oils on the desk in the middle of the room, accessible for everyone in it, clearly are not top-notch quality. That of course does not mean it is bad per se, you just might have expected something fancier in the art department of the local Community College.

Your train of thoughts comes to an abrupt stop when you hear someone opening the big wooden door and entering the room, a deep but smooth voice wishing you and your fellow course participants a good morning. The slender figure who just stepped into the room makes your eyes grow wide the second you lay your eyes on him. He is tall, with model like features, facial as well as bodywise. His fashion sense clearly is a little extravagant, for he wears a way too oversized dress shirt with a pair of what almost seemed to be pajama pants of some sort, and a matching beige colored beret topping his head. The big round glasses topping his nose make you curious. Does he need them to see? Or were they simply added to this retro outfit because they fit the vibe?

"I'm glad you all made it here on time, unlike myself" he then speaks while rummaging in the bag he has just placed on top of the desk in the front of the room. You hear quiet giggles erupting from two slightly older women in the back. His lips curve into a handsome smile, not even needing to show the whites of his teeth to make you doubt the existence of a man with such impressive visuals. Yet, you feel kind of stupid for the way you swoon over his looks like a teenager, despite being a grown woman with a child waiting for her to return home.

The young man claps his hands together as if to catch everyone's attention, even though he already possesses the full concentration of everyone in this room. "Now, I'd like to start by introducing myself, if that's alright by you."

He swiftly turns to the chalkboard behind himself and writes down what you assume to be his name.

"My name is Kim Taehyung and I teach traditional art at the local University. But as you can tell, I'm also hosting art courses like this one once a week, while also working as a hobby freelance artist. So I guess you could say that art is my passion."

There it is again. That charming smile of his as he tends to the attentive group of people in front of him. "But enough of me, I think we're all here to improve our skills, so how about we start with some easy warm ups to get creative first?" You notice everyone responding by nodding or already flipping over the cover of the massive sketchpad in front of them to reveal a blank page. Imitating your 'classmates', you flip open your sketchpad and face Mr. Kim again.

He begins by instructing everyone to warm up their wrists by drawing circular shapes of several sizes and shading them to your heart's content to make yourself familiar with the medium you're using. Another hint of his is to try the different art materials provided to each one of the participants and see which one you'd preferably work with today.

A couple minutes later, you can tell Mr. Kim valued his participants' individuality. Only giving a rough theme for the artwork you are supposed to create, he left everything else to you. "Warm Autumn" was the theme he came up with and your mind immediately drifts off into what you would like to call your ‘creative mode’. Images of brown leaves, soft breezes of air and fluffy fabrics of knitwear come to your mind. Thus, you begin by settling on a color palette in warm brown, red and yellow tones and soon start by sketching an idea.

Mr. Kim does no longer talk to the whole course. Instead, he begins to slowly walk around the classroom and take a look at everyone's approaches on the topic. Usually, you'd get so engulfed in your works that you would blend out most of your surroundings. However, Mr. Kim's presence makes it hard for you to fully concentrate on the sketch before you like you usually would. You don't even need to look up to know where Mr. Kim currently stood at, while he gradually comes closer to where you are seated at.

The sound of his steps approaching you slowly sends shivers down your spine, just like the feeling of him standing right beside you, wordlessly examining your sketch. You can't keep from glancing up at his face as his gaze remains locked on the paper before you, an approving look surfacing on his face. He then glances at your face, his eyes meeting yours immediately as he leans down a bit to speak to you with a quieter, low voice. "Nice choice of motives. Do you have an idea for the final composition already?"

You feel your cheeks heating up as you mumble out a shy "Um, kind of", unsure of how to feel about the genuine interest Mr. Kim shows. It's been a while since someone other than your son Tyler had commented on one of your works. The young artist next to you smiles. "You're a fast one, huh? I like that. But let me know if you need anything, alright?" His voice is just as unique as his appearance. And the more you get to hear of it, the more you come to like the sound of it. Nodding your head with a smile, you thank him before he smiles back and moves on to the next participant of his course.

By the end of the course, you have created a piece you are rather proud of - the motives assembled in a harmonic way, adding to the calm and welcoming atmosphere of your painting. Throughout the creation process of it, Mr. Kim came around every once in a while to praise you for your ideas or help you improve parts of your piece in ways you wouldn't have been able to think of yourself. You have actually truly enjoyed today. At the end of the course, Mr. Kim gives his final speech in which he thanks everyone for participating and gives some last advice before sending everyone home with their final artworks. You had just put the materials you had used back to where you got them from, ready to pack your things to leave, when Mr. Kim approaches you with a gentle smile. "(Y/N), am I right?" He addresses you, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at the way your name sounds when spoken with his smooth voice. "Yes, that would be me" you say, turning to him with faked confidence. In reality, something about this Kim Taehyung makes you feel like a shy teenager again. He smiles apologetically as he asks "Do you perhaps have a minute or two to talk? If you're not in a hurry to be somewhere, that is."

To be honest, you want to apologize and leave right now. Tyler is waiting for you at home, after all. And so is Hanna. But your head nods on it’s own accord before your mind could stop it from doing so. What are a few minutes anyway, right?

"Great! Actually, I was curious to see how your piece turned out. To be honest, I didn't really get to look at it yet," he then says as he regards your artwork which is still on the easel at your seat. Examining it interestedly, he chuckles. "You're really talented, you know? This can't have been the first time you’ve painted something like this."

Your lips curve upwards in a bashful smile. "Ah, well actually... It's kind of my hobby. It's just that I haven't had much time to pursue it recently..." you answer. A soft humming noise resonates in his throat before he faces you again. "Are you interested in modern art too?" He suddenly asks, catching you a little off guard. "Modern art?" You repeat, to which he nods. "There's an art exhibition at the City Hall next friday. The main focus of it lays on contemporary artists and most works shown there are paintings and sculptures, rather than installations or anything like that. But I have a feeling that you might like it." You aren't sure where he was aiming at with this information, but you appreciate it. Mirroring his friendly smile, you say "It does sound interesting, yes. But I'm really busy lately, I'm not sure if I'll be able to go."

Mr. Kim seems understanding as he nods. "Well, if you do make it, maybe we'll meet there." He responds, making you nod slowly as you mumble a barely audible "That'd be nice." You want to ask him if there'd also be works of his exhibited there, remembering that he introduced himself as a freelance artist earlier, but the sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket interrupts you. "Ah, sorry" you then say, quickly looking at your phone to see messages of Hanna coming in. It’s nothing serious, just questions about whether Tyler still takes naps after lunch or not, since he apparently got a little energy boost after having eaten well. But it is urgent enough for you to decide that it is time to go home now. "I better get going now. Today was really nice, thank you. And thank you for telling me about the art exhibition, too. As you said, maybe we'll meet there." You speak as you collect your belongings and art piece, Mr. Kim nodding calmly and smiling as he wishes you a nice day before you leave.

On your way home, you keep thinking about today's events. About the fun you have had while painting for the first time in months and the useful help Mr. Kim had offered. The giddy feeling you got whenever he would lean in to talk to you quietly with that soothing deep voice of his. You have really had a great day, even if you still feel a little awkward for being so affected by the male's looks and kind words. But who could blame you, if said artist looks like a piece of art himself?

Arriving at home, the first thing you notice right after opening the front door is the welcoming scent of warm pancakes coming from your kitchen. Peeking past the doorframe, you smile at the sight of your best friend and son pouring dough into a frying pan together, your little son giggling in excitement.

"Hello you two" you greet the diligently working duo and laugh when your son immediately comes running to you to hug your legs and welcome you back excitedly. Crouching down to meet his eyes, you then give him a kiss on his cheek and smile at him. "Did you have a nice time with Hanna?" You ask, your smile widening when Tyler nods eagerly. "Yes! Hanna knows so many fun games for two! We played hide and seek too!” You give Hanna a glance, relieved to see her smiling just as happily as your little son. For some reason you’re always worried that he might be a little too challenging for her sometimes, but seeing her reaction to his happy storytelling, you have no doubt that she adores your son almost as much as you do.

Getting up to greet your friend properly with a short hug, you then look at the pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter. "Someone seems to be hungry, huh" you comment, Hanna rolling her eyes as she speaks, avoiding the topic. "How was the art course?"

You can feel Tyler leaning against your legs, silently requesting your attention. Picking him up to hold him close, you then begin to tell Hanna about the building, the people there, the fun you had when painting something from start to finish for the first time in ages, and in the end you thank her for having made this possible. Yet, a very specific detail you keep to yourself for now － Kim Taehyung.

Thank you for reading the Prologue to my new series “Inspiration is Motivation”!

If you can’t wait to read the next chapter, check out my Series Masterlist and follow @pluto-fics to be notified of new updates.

Stay safe and see you soon! 💜

- Pluto 🌑

[vangoghmusings]

starving artist | shota aizawa x reader

hello!! this is chapter three of “starving artist” and i really hope you guys are enjoying it :) ive really loved writing it! i update primarily to wattpad (@/vangoghpoets) but i update here as well! also, don’t be afriad to reach out with requests <3 

You basically passed out the moment you arrived home, exhausted from your week. The following morning you forced yourself to wake up early and begin the sketch and underpainting of the first canvas for the first-year dorm common area. You're usually a scrambled mess when it comes to your artwork, but you wanted to try being organized for once.

Looking down at the half-finished brown underpainting, you sighed in frustration. Your fingers ached, not having done such a large amount of sketching in a long time. You grabbed your sketchbook for reference, noticing the numbers scribbled down in the corner.

"Aizawa..." you mumbled to yourself. A blush crept up your cheek

you: hi aizawa, i hope you got some rest! this is y/n btw :)

You didn't expect a reply right away, yet your phone chimed in mere minutes.

aizawa: i didn't expect you to be an early bird y/n. and yes i got some rest, thank you.

You giggled at his punctuation, even over text he seemed so serious. You left your art easel and went to sit down on your couch.

you: ive just begun my underpainting so i have a lot of work today

aizawa: whats an underpainting? i thought it was called a canvas

You laughed to yourself, curling up on your couch.

you: no no, an underpainting is first layer of paint applied to canvas, its a base for future layers of paint

aizawa: I had no idea painting was so intricate. i just figured you were either talented or not.

you: it's just like being a hero, you'll never be good if you don't put your all in it. And you want to do great, no matter how difficult it is.

aizawa: i'm guessing you're pretty tired then.

you: incredibly tired.

It was true, you were utterly drained from jumping back and forth from teaching to painting. It felt like you hadn't had a single moment to yourself since you started at UA. Your phone chimed again.

aizawa: do you want me to bring you a coffee? it's the least i can do since you picked all those leaves out of my hair and because i fell asleep on you.

You blinked at the text, surprised at the offer. You had a tiny crush on Aizawa that you were constantly pushing down. Maybe this could be an opportunity to prove yourself that you could get over your mushy feelings for him. You typed back quickly.

you: coffee sounds amazing actually! are you sure you don't mind?

aizawa: not at all.

You gave him your address and tried to bury the giddy feelings swelling up inside you. In an attempt to distract yourself from his impending arrival, you went back to your easel and continued your underpainting. You put your entire focus on completing the underpainting, working with both speed and detail. You were adding shading to the canvas figures when the doorbell rang. You shot up from your concentrated position and wiped your face flustered, forgetting about the orange paint that covered your fingertips.

You walked over and opened the door, smiling to see Aizawa out of his work attire. He wore a simple black sweater that looked a little too big on him, accompanied by black jeans and what appeared to be Doc Marten boots.

"Hello!" You smiled at him, letting him enter your home.

He smiled softly, holding the coffee cups in his hands.

"Hello, y/n. You have paint on your face by the way."

Your eyes widened in horror at his words. You began to laugh nervously as you hurried to the bathroom, Aizawa left standing in your living room and looking around. You scrubbed your face quickly, mentally scolding yourself for the careless move. You swiftly fixed your hair and walked back out to meet Aizawa.

He turned to you and handed you your coffee. "I hope you like vanilla, it was just a guess."

You grinned, taking the warm cup in your hands and taking a whiff of the sweet steam peeking out.

"It's perfect, thank you."

Aizawa nodded, looking around your living room. He looked odd standing in all black in your colorful home. From the rug to the furniture to the dinnerware, your home was eccentric, to say the least. Whether it was a souvenir from your travels or trinkets of a local artist, everything had its place. Aizawa looked like a goth at a child's birthday party in your home.

He took a sip from his coffee and gestured to a painting on the wall. It was an old painting of a village, filled with rustic colors and gentle strokes. You smiled softly at the feelings of home that surged over you.

"No, my grandmother made it. I inherited her quirk actually. It's a painting of the village we grew up in."

Aizawa turned to you and tilted his head, "Village?"

You chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, my family is from a poor island in the Caribbean. My parents moved us to America so we could have a better life. We as in my sister and me." You smiled to yourself, picturing your family back home.

"So why are you in Japan now?"

"I'd always save up money from my art shows to come here. Everything is just so beautiful and I'm a sucker for a good still life. I just figured I could save myself the money and move here."

Aizawa nodded, slightly confused at your art terminology.

"Can I see one of your paintings? Or your underpainting thing?"

You giggled and nodded, leading him into your mini art studio. The room had an easel and stacks upon stacks of prepped paper and canvases. Jars filled with brushes, charcoal, Indian ink, and pencils lined the shelves. A bucket sat on a small table, filled to the brim with acrylic paints. Another box filled with oil, one filled with gauche, and the last one filled with watercolor palettes.

"It's kind of a mess, sorry," you mumbled under your breath as he walked inside. Aizawa looked around entranced. Several finished and partly finished paintings hung from clips on a string, drying or waiting to be sold. He faced your easel and scrunched his nose in confusion.

"Why is it all one color?" He pointed to the orange underpainting.

"Underpaintings are monochromatic," you answered matter-of-factly. "It gives the painting more depth."

Aizawa nodded, his mouth forming a small 'o' shape in understanding. There was a moment of silence as Aizawa continued to look around in awe.

"This is really incredible, y/n," He said softly. You felt the heat take over your face, making you panic rather than take the compliment. "Who's your inspiration?"

You blinked, still flustered from your tomato red blush, "Huh?"

Aizawa stepped towards you, tossing the empty coffee cup in the trash.

"Who inspired you? Like, every young hero is inspired by a pro. Who's your pro?"

You smiled softly, "My grandmother, I mean she gave me this great quirk. Its nothing a hero could really use, but its been good to me so far. But as for a professional artist, I'd have to say, Matisse."

He tilted his head, clearly not knowing who he was. You chuckled, "He's a French painter." Aizawa nodded once again.

"I've been to France before, Paris specifically. It was for a pro hero conference but still."

Your eyes widened, "Of all the places in Europe I've traveled to, I've never been to Paris. It's basically my dying wish to go to the Louvre."

"I didn't get to do much tourism when I was there, I'd like to go back someday."

You smiled at Aizawa, he didn't strike you as someone who'd enjoy traveling or tourism, but you could still imagine him in a cheesy Hawaiian shirt and a camera strapped around him. The image in your head made you giggle softly. He eyed you and looked down at your hands.

"I heard about your quirk but I've never seen you use it."

"I could say the same for you," I said lying. Of course, you'd seen clips of him and his quirk on the news, but never really in front of you.

He rolled his eyes, "Show me."

You tried to hide your flustered blush that emerged from his sudden seriousness. You grabbed a paper from the stack and gently placed your whole palm on it.

"What's your favorite color?"

He looked down at himself and his black attire and back up at you.

"Yellow actually."

You nodded, remembering his yellow goggles and sleeping bag. Once you pulled your hand away, the paper had a mustard yellow imprint of your palm. You showed him your hand, the paint disappearing back into your skin.

Aizawa raised his eyebrows impressed, "You managed to match the color to my sleeping bag."

You grinned; proud he had noticed, "I'm pretty good at shade matching." He gently took the paper with your handprint.

"You have small hands." He looked up at your hands and lifted his up for comparison. You lifted your hand up and placed it on his. He was right, your hand was small compared to his. You stared at his hand on yours, not wanting to pull away. His palms were calloused, most likely from hero work. You gave him a sly smile. Aizawa furrowed his brows in confusion, "What?" He pulled his hand away, only to see an imprint of paint of your palm on his in your favorite color. "Hey!" He grumbled and pulled his hand away from you grumpily.

"Now you know my favorite color," you giggled. He sent a glare in your direction, swiftly running his hand across your cheek, covering you in the paint. You gasped, "Aizawa!"

He burst out laughing at the smear of paint on your cheek. It was the first time you truly saw him laugh and it caught you off guard. You narrowed your eyes at him, your hands prepping the paint.

"Oh, you are so dead Aizawa."

He gave you a smirk, "Oh really?"

You shot bright neon shades of paint from your fingertips, splatter painting his black sweater. His eyes widened.

"Yes, really." You answered, returning the smirk.

He stared at you and before you could realize, he had used his quirk to erase yours. Swiftly he wrapped his arms around you, like a tight hug, and covered you in the fluorescent paint. You gasped trying to break free. "Aizawa I can't believe you!" You couldn't help but laugh at seeing his body wrapped around yours, the usual dark figure covered in bright hues. He chuckled and slowly let go of you. As much as you hated being covered in paint, you missed his arms around you.

"You know you can call me Shota, right?"

You blushed, thankful for the paint on your cheeks covering it up.

"Okay, Shota."  

[caduceusil]

❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope .

loud & deafening silence | N O T  A C C E P T I N G @gerichteter

tw: blood, implied self harm, drunk sex

the blood seeping from the tip of her fingertip, beading like a little rivulet - it reminded her of so many terrible days, too many to count. it healed almost as quickly as it came, preceded by her dropping the little pin she’d used to poke every fingertip. she laughed softly, a clipped wing of a noise. it aroused a resting giant above her, one that absently, gently pushed her shoulder with a half untied boot. that shallow bell ringing continued as she pulled herself up to sit, mussy white hair brushing her cheeks.

how common would these nights become, drenched in a creature comfort that couldn’t kill them, no matter how much the thought crossed drunken minds? the state of her small quarters would be a problem for tomorrow, for splitting headaches, dry mouths and shaking hands. in the present, she had found her final prey, a martini glass with some indistinct red liquid inside; more importantly, a cherry. innocently, she placed the soft flesh of the fruit on her tongue, expecting saccharine memories of childhood, but receiving only the bitterness, the burn of some spirit. she swallowed it regardless. she pressed the metal skewer down on her tongue, tasting iron and salt and heat.

oh, how’d she’d become an angry ghost, trying to finish some unfinished business in this world she’d been given 13 years to destroy. hadn’t she been chosen to heal, to save? hadn’t she once taken care of those 7 souls? tears welled in her eyes for the fourth, fifth time —

An ocean, Edeline, give me a fucking ocean.

she turned her head, still knelt upon the ground, uniform jacket untied, revealing gossamer fabric below, the result of poor planning and rushed dress. those round drops fell on sunken cheeks. oh, but she was no pouting child. the nurse stood to her feet, feeling the force of vertigo trying to press her into the floor. she fought like hell against gravity, feeling it twine with the curse to pull her bones apart piece by piece. any bruises on her legs faded, and she finally stood tall, manila coat hanging on a thin frame over a white silk dress, dripped in red.

“Haven’t I given enough, Bertholdt?” the acid made her want to retch, disgusted at her own syllables. blue gaze bore down through the man sitting in the rocking chair they used to fall asleep in. she had no more tears left to cry, not now. even as he stood, even as his voice raised, cracked, she stood in his shadow, cast by one oil lamp. she spat her own words, cursing the world they had been stuck in, all slurred in together with his - it was not the ocean that had been asked for, rather a puddle of broken hopes. “I - I’m sorry, Bertholdt, I didn’t — “

it happened all at once.

hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt,

                broad palms on her shoulders,

                               the heat of an alcoholic kiss.

though they were both soldiers, under so much pressure, she chose not to fight. she didn’t need to. she was not afraid, this was no act of war, it was an internal coup, fighting within themselves, the action just externalised. she has no ability to comprehend such minutia in this moment. catharsis could come from heat and fire, couldn’t it?

his hands were instruments of toiling pleasure. as they stumbled into the wall, they found their sudden way under her dress. no movements were planned, not even her own. slurred touches, those that ran over milky skin, handled soft mounds in calloused fingers. the shape of his jaw was traced, thumb pressed up against the beating artery just beneath it, a beautiful, useless threat.

he was a streak of onyx hair and forested eyes. back arched and palms pushed up against the wall as she felt fingertips on her stomach, curled down into soft cream fabric. the offending piece of clothing soon clung to her ankles, kicked away by unsteady feet. knees buckled slightly when those same long digits found their way inside. she moved her hands into his hair, pulling him down into another kiss to swallow up the moans echoing from her lips. there was already an implicit acceptance, a vow, that this would stay between their bodies only.

Paradis has warped them into cracked reflections of themselves, drew awful words from every pair of lips that could still open to speak. she’d had made it out easy, hadn’t she? said her apologies and gone back to pretending? their pain came in different shades, mixed together in the moment to create a horrific canvas, eldritch in its inability to be read clearly. in other ways, their love was a simple one, a knot in a string held at either end, meant to support them as they were forced to learn further, further, further back. how close was it to snapping? or — would someone let go?

it was a wonder how they were both standing, given their states. he tasted like cigarettes and brandy, fire and earth. soft locks of white hair fell into her ruby tinged face as she writhed, cursing that she was already so wet on his fingers. her own pulled out what was left of the knot in his tie, doing her best in between drunken waves through her vision and trembling digits to undo buttons. he burned, touches made to firm muscle fluttering as if to not singe off fingerprints — eventually, she began to crave the warmth, palms pressed and ridden up his back to pull him close. if he melted her down to a puddle of wax, she wouldn’t fight it.

whole moments disappeared, like a burnt roll of film. desperate fingers tugged at clothing that felt like shackled bonds, hushed swears and names slurring into one another. this was an act to be finished, a play only for the actors themselves. a strangled sigh echoed above her as a palm pressed against tented fabric. with some effort, she undid his belt, the force of pulling down on the zipper gave her legs all the reason to obey gravity. she sunk down to her knees, bitten lips and the blade of her tongue meeting velvet skin, enveloping for a few seconds filled with aching groans.

fingers in her hair tightened enough to tilt her head up, eye contact an inevitability she cursed. oh, how his gaze had changed, not just in this moment, but ever since he’d returned. she no longer tried to make it revert back to soft glances and excited shine, there would always be a backdrop of pain. let him have his pain, don’t paper over it. the grip made her obey a silent reminder of the purpose of their entangling. standing took work, but as soon as she felt that heat she’d felt on her tongue push inside, there was an instant urge to fall back down, keep falling.

his hands took hold over her hips, pulling them forward, leaving her shoulders and upstretched arms to support her rather than trembling thighs. his name poured out into palms hastily made into a muzzle — pace arrhythmic and rushed, she had already begun to unravel, eyes rolling back in her head. everything was too much.

eventually, they were forced to give in, falling into the bed and back into one another. nails turned talons dug into hot skin, steam rising from blood drawn. kisses were purely excuses to keep eyes shut, to place bruises that would disappear into the ether. neither would last long, not burning the wick this quickly. no, both were melting fast, pooling into the pits of their stomachs and threatening to spill over. he was consumed first, followed by her downfall not far behind, lost to the wave of heat that rolled over them, through them like molten earth. fingers paused before they reached flush cheeks or sweat drenched hair. loving caresses had no place here.

and as soon as it had come, it was gone.

the alcohol pulled itself back up, into the sink or into the garbage, burning like the acid that had been spoken into existence earlier in the night. aching, she rested her head on the cold floor, but only for a short time. she washed her mouth out with brandy ( to taste him again was not her aim, but it was a consequence ) and filled a cup with ice water. her lips didn’t touch the glass, feet carrying her to the bathroom. she placed it on the sink, blue gaze lingering on his form, folded just like she had been beside the bed. fingertips brushed his shoulder, enough to elicit a soft mutter — a reminder she would be nearby with no further invitation.

find us, he’d called. she had, too late.

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

Royal Growing Pains - Chapter Four

A/N: I can see that I’ve gained quite a few followers for this particular story over the past week since I posted chapter three! I just want to say welcome, and I hope you enjoy the ride!

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, misgendering, sympathetic Deceit

Royal Growing Pains Tag

Roman climbed in the car, where Damien was already waiting. He appeared to have finally gotten some of his voice back, because he said, “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Roman said. “I much prefer jeans and a t-shirt to any dress I’ve had to wear, ever.”

“Understandable, but I wasn’t referring to your clothes,” Damien said. “You’re holding your head high, your shoulders are back and squared, and your voice is more confident and more compassionate at once. You come across as...well...regal.”

“I’m acting like a prince, you mean?” Roman asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I...suppose so,” Damien said with a sheepish grin. “It does sound silly, doesn’t it?”

“Only a little,” Roman laughed. “It’s easy to forget that people see you as royalty sometimes, until it’s thrown in your face. Because I don’t feel any different than any of my other, non-royal friends.”

“True. We’re all human at the end of the day,” Damien agreed. “And human nature seems to be forgetting that fact.”

Roman laughed as they drove into town, and Damien asked, “So, a paint bar? Or grabbing art supplies?”

“I think I’d rather just get the art supplies,” Roman said. “That way, we can save whatever materials we don’t use for a later date.”

Damien nodded. “Sounds good,” he agreed. “Virgil, do you know where the art store is?”

Virgil sighed. “Yes, I’ll take you there, but I won’t be happy about it. And if you get paint splatter everywhere again, I will be telling your parents how your clothes got ruined.”

“It’s nothing a little rubbing alcohol and laundry detergent couldn’t fix,” Damien protested.

Roman snickered. “Not much of an artist, then?” he asked.

“I will admit I have had...multiple issues when it comes to art supplies. It wasn’t just the glitter when I was young,” Damien said.

“Yeah, he tried pottery, painting, dry media, wet media, any and everything, right down to graphite pencils and later, photography. He always ends up covered in something,” Virgil piped up.

Damien sighed. “Thank you, Virgil, for enlightening Roman to my shortcomings.”

“You’re welcome!” Virgil responded brightly.

“No, I—” Damien cut himself short. “You know what? Fine. Whatever.”

Roman laughed as they pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. “Oh, come on, Damien, it’s funny! And it’s nice to know that you’re not perfect.”

Damien rolled his eyes and they made their way inside the store, Virgil beside them all the while, glancing around. “I’ll let you take the lead on finding paints,” Damien said. “I assume you’d know far more about what is and isn’t a good paint brand from experience. Just bear in mind that I’m a beginner, so please be kind and explain art jargon if I ask?”

“Of course,” Roman said with a smile. “I’m always willing to explain to someone who wants to learn! Remus and I used to talk about the things we had learned from different experiments in our preferred arts. I enjoyed painting and drawing, mostly different scenes of places I’d been or would like to go. Remus preferred writing. Often violent, gruesome, and dark stories, but it made him happy whenever he thought of something new. We’d swap creations and tell each other what we liked about them. I miss those days...It’s not that we couldn’t do it anymore, but we have less time to pursue our passion projects.”

“I know the feeling,” Damien sighed. “I am pursuing a degree in History, but I would love to teach philosophy, given half the chance.”

“Really?” Roman asked in mild surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Most people don’t,” Damien replied easily. “But I loved reading about philosophy ever since I was a young child.”

“Huh,” Roman said. “The more you know.”

“Indeed,” Damien said. “Now. The paints?”

“Oh! Right,” Roman said, heading further inside the store in the general direction he thought the paints might be. Damien gave him an amused smile and Roman rolled his eyes. “Shut up. You’ve been distracted by conversation before, surely?”

“I will admit to nothing,” Damien said simply, but he was smirking.

“That’s basically saying yes,” Roman informed him.

“Ah, but it is not a definitive answer,” Damien pointed out.

Roman rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Damien. Damien laughed. “Not very princely behavior,” he teased.

“It’s just us here, no one has to say anything,” Roman shot back.

Damien’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah, but what if I want to? You may have to buy my silence.”

“Oh yeah? And how would I do that?” Roman asked.

Damien smiled enigmatically.

“Oh come on, that’s mean!” Roman laughed. “Tell me!”

Damien’s eyes looked around conspiratorially, before he whispered in Roman’s ear, “Get us to lose the chaperone.”

Roman looked at Damien in surprise, and Damien just smirked back. Roman looked around, noticing one of the smaller aisles that had children’s art supplies. He grabbed Damien’s hand and ran down the aisle while Virgil looked behind them, and then sprinted down the back of the store until they reached the paints. Roman looked around, smirking. “Not bad, eh? And we got where we were going!”

Damien grinned. “Oh, Virgil is going to kill us both.”

Roman laughed. “It was your idea! I’m innocent!”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Damien said, nodding.

Roman laughed, looking at the different paints the store had to offer. “What do you think, oil or acrylic?”

“Don’t oil paints require paint thinner to use?” Damien asked.

“In some cases,” Roman agreed. “So maybe not oil today. I should probably make sure that you can paint at all before I bring out the fancy supplies.”

“There’s also watercolors,” Damien pointed out.

Roman shrugged. “True, but those are very tricky to use as well. If you’re not careful, you could wind up with mud as a picture.”

“Acrylic it is, then,” Damien said, walking up next to Roman. “Which brand should we get, and how much paint would we need?”

“A starter’s kit for each of us should be enough for now,” Roman said. “They have a deceptive amount of paint in them. Or, if you want something bigger, we could invest in tubes of cyan, magenta, and yellow. That’s how you can mix more vibrant colors.”

Damien hummed. “I think that if we’re going to be spending some time away from your art supplies, we should get the larger tubes, if only so you have more to work with. Cyan, magenta, and yellow? Should we get black and white as well for shades and tints?”

“Probably a good idea. I’m impressed with your knowledge of terminology,” Roman said.

Damien waved him off. “Trust me, Your Highness, the terminology is about all I’m good at when it comes to art.”

Roman laughed, just as Virgil dashed into the aisle. “You!” he exclaimed, pointing at the two of them. “You two are in huge trouble!”

“Uh-oh, he found us,” Damien stage-whispered, and Roman snickered.

Virgil stalked over, breath heaving in his chest. “Do you two have any idea how terrified I was when I turned back around and you weren’t there?!”

“Virgil, we’re not toddlers, that tactic won’t work on us,” Damien said, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Virgil’s nostrils flared. “I thought the two of you were about to be seriously hurt. It’s my job to look out for the two of you and you treat it like it’s a game to get away from me when any number of people out here could be waiting for a chance to kill you.”

Roman felt just a tiny bit guilty. “We weren’t trying to make your job harder Virgil, we just...wanted some privacy.”

Virgil looked between them. Damien’s face revealed nothing, and Roman shrugged as if to say, What else do you want from me?

“Next time you want to make out, at least tell me where you’ll be making your attempt so I can make sure no one’s coming over,” Virgil growled.

“We will, Virgil, rest assured,” Damien said.

Roman sputtered. “We weren’t trying to make out!” he protested.

Virgil shrugged. “Why else would you want privacy?”

“We could be sharing secrets, or just want a moment to talk by ourselves without worrying about anyone else overhearing, for any reason! We don’t immediately go to the gutter when you’re not around!”

“Just immediately, hm?” Virgil asked.

“I...no! No, that is not what I meant and you know it!” Roman protested.

Damien and Virgil were both smirking to various degrees and Roman huffed. “You’re both being incredibly mean,” he growled. “And if that continues, you’ll both end up covered in paint by the end of the day.”

Virgil’s smirk dropped but Damien just shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he simply said.

“But it would be the last,” Virgil warned. “Because I’m not getting in trouble for you being covered in paint, and I would never allow you near art supplies again.”

Damien held his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right, I’m done.”

“You promise?” Roman pressed.

“Yes, yes, I promise. If it means I get the chance to paint with you, then I won’t push this subject any further.”

Roman smiled, and proceeded to pick out some beginner’s acrylic paint, grabbed two brush sets, and then asked, “Mixed media paper, or canvas, do you think?”

“Canvas,” Damien said. “Much easier for me to work with a bigger surface that is very clearly not a table.”

Roman laughed. “Okay, then. Canvas.”

“Maybe easels, too? We could do some on-site painting with those,” Damien pointed out. “And we have quite the scenery at the base of the mountain. It could be fun.”

“Sure,” Roman agreed. “Do you not have any easels remaining after your painting escapades?”

Damien coughed. “Well...my parents may or may not have tried to deter me from future endeavors by not keeping the materials around.”

Roman giggled. “Oh, it was really that bad?”

“Hush, you’re hardly one to talk,” Damien said. “You have plenty of embarrassing stories, too.”

“True, but they’re not relevant to this conversation,” Roman chirped.

Damien glared at Roman. “Traitor,” he muttered.

Roman just offered him a grin in response. Damien glanced away and gravitated towards a sign that said the easels were in that aisle. Roman followed, paint in hand, and Virgil trailed behind them again. Damien picked out two smaller easels, and then turned to Roman. “Canvases?” he asked.

“Right,” Roman said.

They grabbed a pack of canvases and went to the front of the shop and rang everything up. Once they had everything in the car, Virgil looked at them. “Where will you two be painting?” he asked.

“I was thinking halfway up the mountain, where we have quite the view of farmland, it’s beautiful scenery,” Damien offered.

“Sounds good to me,” Roman agreed.

“All right, I’ll drive the two of you up there,” Virgil said. “But if I see any shenanigans with paint I will kill both of you.”

Damien gave Virgil a playful salute. “Whatever you say, Your Highness,” he said, voice soaked in sarcasm.

Virgil took a deep breath. “You’re really dead set on testing my patience aren’t you?”

Damien shrugged. “Well, you seem to be dead set on telling me what I can and cannot do when I’m my own individual, so it only makes sense to balance the scales somewhat.”

“Oh, you are playing a very dangerous game, Your Highness,” Virgil warned. “Get in the car.”

Damien gave Roman a very satisfied smirk as he did as told and Roman followed him into the car. Virgil shut the door a little harder than necessary as he got in as well. He drove them to a point that Damien picked out and then Roman and Damien got their supplies out of the car, setting up the easels and canvases so they were facing the farmland. “This should be fun,” Roman said with a smile as Virgil continued up the mountain. “And it looks like we’ll be on our own for a bit.”

“We’re close enough to the castle that the guards can watch us from there and pick us up if need be,” Damien said simply. “So we’re not necessarily ‘alone’ but we do have some space.”

“Some much needed space,” Roman said, looking out at the farmland below and taking the paints, before gasping. “We forgot the palettes!”

“Oh, damn it,” Damien muttered.

Roman laughed. “That was not a very princely response,” he teased.

Damien rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Your Highness. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Roman said. “I suppose we could mix the paint on the canvas, go for a slightly more abstract way of painting.”

“Well, unless we want to call Virgil back down here, that’s what we’ll have to do,” Damien sighed.

“Yeah, I don’t want to call Virgil down over this,” Roman said, shaking his head. He grabbed the tube of cyan paint and popped the cap, pouring some onto his canvas...or attempting to. Nothing was coming out. “That’s weird,” Roman muttered. He turned the tube so he could see the opening, and gently squeezed. Paint splattered out of the tube, all over Roman’s face, and he sputtered as Damein burst into hysterics. “Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Roman asked, picking up a glob of paint and flinging it at Damien’s face.

Damien stood stock still for a second, before he slowly reached for the magenta paint and poured some onto his fingers, flicking it onto Roman’s arm.

“Oh, this means war,” Roman said, pointing the tube of cyan at Damien and squeezing again, getting paint all over Damien’s shirt.

“How dare you!” Damien exclaimed, laughing. He poured out more magenta and smeared it across Roman’s face, getting some in his hair.

Roman cackled as he grabbed the yellow and used both tubes to smear paint over Damien, while Damien took the magenta and black and returned the favor. They chased each other around the easels, and Roman squealed as he lost his footing running backwards and nearly fell straight to the dirt, only to have Damien wrap an arm around the small of Roman’s back, catching him in a dip. The two were laughing and breathless, and Roman muttered, “Hi,” to Damien.

“Hi,” Damien laughed back. “Truce?”

Roman considered it, looked at the yellow paint he hadn’t dropped, and grinned, saying, “Nah,” and squirting paint directly into Damien’s wavy hair.

“How dare you?!” Damien exclaimed. “And I kept you from falling, too! I had to sacrifice my black paint to do that!”

Roman laughed and got back on his feet, exclaiming, “Catch me if you can!” as he flung one last glob of yellow paint at Damien before running away.

Now, Roman was fast, but Damien was undoubtedly the taller of the two of them, and he managed to catch up to Roman quickly, snagging the back of Roman’s shirt. He pulled Roman into a bear hug, effectively getting paint all over both of them. “Virgil is gonna kill us!” he laughed.

Roman shrieked with laughter and wriggled out of Damien’s grasp, shoving him to the ground and pinning him there as Roman grabbed all the cyan off his face that he could and painting little clouds all over Damien’s face. He was shaking so hard from his laughter he could barely make the shapes.

“Hey!” a sharp voice hollered from the top of the mountain. “What did I just tell you two?!”

Roman and Damien shared a brief horrified glance before Damien was on his feet and grabbed Roman’s wrist, yelling, “Run!”

They both sprinted their way down the mountain, but soon found themselves outnumbered by guards driving their way down the road to barricade them in. Virgil barrelled down the mountain, breath heaving in his chest. “I said no shenanigans with the paint!” he exclaimed.

Damien pointed at Roman. “Roman started it!”

“What?!” Roman asked. “Did not! It wasn’t my fault that the paint tube squirted into my face!”

“But it is your fault that the paint was subsequently thrown onto my face,” Damien said.

“You didn’t have to laugh!”

“You didn’t have to retaliate!”

“Boys!” Virgil snapped. “I don’t care who started what, you both are complicit in the shenanigans and you’re both covered in paint! What am I supposed to tell your parents, huh?!”

“I imagine you’ll tell them you left us alone for five minutes under the impression that we could be mature and turned to look at how we were faring once you reached the top of the mountain only to find us having a paint fight below,” Damien said, completely deadpan and with a straight face that Roman couldn’t possibly hope to achieve.

“You both are walking up the hill and will be getting cleaned up before dinner this evening. I imagine that most of the dignitaries coming to congratulate you two on your engagement will not want to see the two of you covered head to toe in paint.”

“Why do we have to walk up the mountain, though?” Damien asked.

“Because we are not getting the back seats of any of the guards’ cars covered in acrylic paint!” Virgil hissed. “Do you have any idea how easily that stains?”

Roman raised his hand. “Actually, I do, and it’s not as bad as you might think,” he said.

Virgil glowered at him and Roman promptly shut up, following Damien and Virgil back up to the castle. Damien hissed as they approached the top. “Our mothers are waiting for us,” he whispered to Roman.

“Shit, what?!” Roman asked in clear panic. His mother was going to kill him!

Damien took one look at Roman and grabbed his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t chew into you too much.”

As they reached the top, the two queens looking at them with twin unamused expressions, Damien scratched the back of his neck. “It’s...uh, my fault,” he said quickly. “One of the paint tubes exploded in my face on accident, I started the paint fight.”

“Damien —!” Roman hissed.

Damien held a hand up at hip level to stop Roman. “It won’t happen again,” Damien assured.

“You’re right, Damien, it won’t,” the Queen said. “Because you are not going to be allowed near any of Veronica’s art supplies for the remainder of the week.” Ouch. And not just because of the use of his deadname, even if it was for his safety.

Roman’s mother looked at him and he inwardly braced himself for what he knew was coming. “Veronica, I’m disappointed in you!” she exclaimed. “I raised you better than for you to engage in a paint fight! That’s not very ladylike behavior for any woman, let alone a princess!”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snarling at his mother, but he just nodded stiffly. “Of course,” he practically growled. But I’m not a princess.

His mother kept staring at him, but Roman was not going to give her the satisfaction of apologizing. Not to her. “Damien, you didn’t get any paint in your eyes, right?”

“Yes, I can still see,” Damien confirmed.

“Good,” Roman said, nodding. “Then we should probably change and get cleaned up. Virgil’s right; I doubt any visitors would appreciate the fine art that is...well, fighting with art.”

Damien barked a laugh, before covering his mouth with a hand. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with mirth in his eyes. “Although I must admit I like you in pants, they seem to do wonders for your confidence. Maybe tonight a pantsuit for dinner would be appropriate?”

Roman felt his heart soar at the excuse right there for him to take. “Sounds perfect,” he agreed, and together the two of them walked into the castle, while their mothers sent them one last look and a warning to behave.

Tag List: @lunareclipse-13 @sanders-sides-crofters @blushy-gigglee-mess @wannacrymetoo @kaytikitty @magicalspacepanunicorn @bootsinthesun @pricklyfish777 @flowersanddinosaurs @leiasolo77 @birdybabybird @enby-phoenix @luna–28 @justagaygoose @the-prince-and-the-emo @fandomsandanythingelse @randommuffinyt @snekky-boi @thesoftestlittlepuffballwegot @twilight-trix @abby5577 @escalatingtoofast @friendlyfacestabbing @remus-is-stinky @foggybanditdreampeanut @ghostskull300 @sprinklestheditty @canvas-the-florist @askthesnake @samuel-the-gay @determination-saved @sparrowofsong @beyondthestacks @juicy-cashew @loganpatton @lilbeanblr @kittyboof8 @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @sanders-trash-4ever @hamilspntrash @swords-and-kittens @phantomfander @narniasfinestavengingsociopath  @rjmeta @ambersky0319 @anni-cat-flower @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @nafsbluebery @redisawerewolf23 @voidvirgil

[ego-driven-one-wing-angel]

1.6 DEMURE | Sephiroth

A/N: Here’s one of the chapters I promised! The next one will be out Sunday/Monday so keep an eye for it!

WARNING: THIS BOOK IS RATED 18+, READER DISCRETION ADVISED. THERE WILL BE SEXUALLY EXPLICIT SCENES, SWEARING, ADULT THEMES SUCH AS PAST ABUSE, ALCOHOL, AND AGAIN SEXUAL SCENES.

TAKE CAUTION.

Chapter one can be found here

1.6 - Chapter 6

Magic

“This is an occupation known as painting, which calls for imagination, and skill of hand, in order to discover things not seen, hiding themselves under the shadow of natural objects, and to fix them with the hand, presenting to plain sight what does not actually exist.” - Cennino Cennini

[TRACK: Non-Applicable]

Kalista’s paintbrush dropped onto the floor as Adras grabbed a few wine glasses 

It had only been a few hours since Kalista had taken her relaxing bath. Where the warm bubbles eased her sore muscles, the minty and herbal shampoos soaked into her hair, curls smelling much more like a garden and less like a sweaty brothel worker. Those very oils now moistened her skin, soft and delicate to the touch, and she felt brand new, almost. Her thighs still shivered at the thought of Sephiroth’s fingers running across them, and she wanted to wear her best lingerie the moment she got out in case he returned to finish the job.

But instead, Kalista picked up her brush off the wood floors, wiping it with her towel as she tried to keep her thoughts a smidge more pure since Adras watched with curious eyes. Knocking open a wine bottle Daring hid in the back of the cupboards for special occasions. A very old, and very dusty bottle that had writing no longer visible. No doubt expensive and delicious. 

That early afternoon, Kalista and Adras were prepared to spend it in Daring’s quiet lobby together. The honey smell had faded since Sephiroth had been wandering in its walls, but pretty soon, Daring would turn back the incense and diffusers on and let them feast on the paint. Filling it with its usual honey odor and vanilla perfume that left anyone a little dizzy from the fumes.

But for now, it was only the smoking guns of Poppy Circus who looted the bars. Adras, and Kalista, both uncertain on their contracts with men who left them rather unsatisfied, now drinking their problems away as the other girl’s occupied themselves in the markets in sector six. 

“One for me,” Adras poured the bottle until the final drop fell in the wine glass, setting it to her side as she slid the half-filled goblet towards Kalista, “and one for you. Sounds like you need something stronger, but I’m sure this will hold us out while you entertain yourself.”

Kalista cleaned her brush with a little paint thinner as she took a sip, tasting the bittersweet peach tart against her tongue. “Daring certainly hid this one for a reason.” Kalista coughed, shoving the glass far from her table easel and far from where her hands could reach for it again. It didn’t burn, but it felt like her tongue had dried up from the alcohol. 

“Tastes fine to me,” Adras said, taking a long sip from her cup before plucking one of Kalista’s tattered brushes from the table. 

Fine brown hairs, the brass covered in various colors of paint, the wood chipping off the handle clearly old from standard wear and tear. Kalista’s fingerprint was even caked in with red paint right at the base.

Adras was fond of watching Kalsta work her magic on the canvas. Not because of the obvious dedication to sit and draw for hours on end, or how one block of color could turn into a portrait of beauty and realism, she was far more impressed with Kalista’s dedication to looking in a mirror, changing her form to a completely different human being. 

They had all known Kalista as the one with eyes of amber and hair like a raven’s wing, curling near her ears and framing her delicate face. But when she painted, she became a new person. The selling point of Daring’s phrase we have a girl for all your fantasies. She could change, like magic, to whatever you wanted, to whoever you wanted.

Adras admired Kalista with hair reminiscent of sand, her lips now thin, eyes as slender as her button nose. No freckles, no moles, nothing but the natural rose of her cheeks and overly pale complexion. A different person indeed. Looking more like the standard girl-next-door.

Everyone wondered whether Kalista really showcased her true self in the Poppy Circus Outlet, but with the power to be as beautiful as you wanted, there was no mistake Kalista wasn’t actually Kalista. Those pillow lips and slender waist, her fingers delicate and smooth with small imperfect moles and freckles in just the right areas were too coincidental. Even her large eyes, like whiskey set in the sun, had been too perfect for a single woman to possess. Too dreamy. More like a drawing herself made from a male fantasy.

“You’re really making an image,” Adras said, taking another large sip of her drink. If Kalista didn’t finish her own glass, Adras would gladly finish the whole bottle herself. She once claimed she loved wine more than water, and it was still standing true three years later.

“I’m trying to make a blue light reflect on the face, but we don’t have any sort of blue light in these godforsaken walls. Do you think you could grab me some sort of blue paper the next time you leave for Wall Market? We can put it over one of the bulbs or something.” Kalista said, laughing to herself at the thought of causing some sort of fire simply for a painting, “I have to wait anyway, the first few layers need to dry before I can continue.

Adras nodded, but she was sure she was going to forget the request in a few hours. Just like the horrid customer she had to bear with the night before. His mannerisms alone caused her vagina to dry up like the wasteland, how his kisses were drunk and sloppy, stick fingers crawling on her breasts with long fingernails. She had small grazes where he dug a bit too deep. Nothing too dramatic, and something she hadn’t dealt with before, but if a customer ever comes to her and says I’m going to eat you out like you never have before followed by a distinct nom nom nom. She was done. She was packing her bags and heading west.

Kalista laughed for nearly twenty minutes when she heard the story, and Adras couldn’t help but chime in with her own heavy laughter as Kalista continued to tease her. Now Adras would never live it down, but hearing the other girls laugh at the craziest stories made the experience much more thrilling and fun.

“I’ll be sure to write it down for you.” Kalista reminded, “that and the millions of other things the girls will forget.”

“Like condoms?”

“Exactly. 

Kalista’s blond appearance washed away as she sat down at one of the bar stools, like water on a shore, fading into more natural hues of brown and gold before Daring’s voice echoed from the hallway, clearly speaking to someone before Adras stopped to take another drink, as did Kalista, still unnerved by the bitter taste rolling through her mouth.

“Never did like wine.” She said as she tried to ignore Daring’s voice. His usually boisterous and rambunctious tone was aggravating, especially after his new set rules about windows and doors needing to be locked. They’re going to break in, he’d say, despite those from Wutai unlikely to be found in a brothel in Midgar. He was just taking advantage of the fear brought on by war.

Typical.

“She’s in here,” Daring said, turning into the lobby as Adras finished off her glass, taking Kalista’s from her hand as Sephiroth walked in. 

Her stomach dropped, and she put a smile on her face despite still being a little pissed. She’s been thinking about his godly hands all day, and she was certain he wasn’t going to show unless she sent some sort of apologetic letter in the mail or an indecent photo of herself, both of which were even beneath her. 

Adras tried not to smile as she bit her lip, leaning in with a low whisper of “guess you really did hook him in, huh?”

[alysemeadfad]

Portraiture

Group practical

we sat parallel to another person, we had our pencils stabbed through paper so we could not see the paper below and we had to focus only on the face and not look down, basically a blind drawing as far as looking at the drawing but we could see what the object was as we drew it.

i did the same thing again in graphite and had got a better understanding of proportion considering we could not see the drawing.

we then chose a unique image of ourselves, well mine was rather unique and we did a rough sketch to help us decide what we wanted to draw for our social realism drawing, i was quite impressed by my sketch the proportions were not half bad.

photo REALISM

i chose to just do the center of my face as i felt it would look the best in the social realism style, i then grid my drawing in 4 by 5 squares and did the same to my paper before then beginning my drawing of the outline and basic shapes in order for me to add tone and texture later on 

what is photo realism?

photo realism is a form of art where a drawing or painting looks absolutely identical to the object or photo it has been drawn from, so much so you cant tell the difference between the two, it takes time, patients and a lot of skill.

but most of the art community don’t consider this to be an art form.

Many would argue that the technical skill required to make Photorealism art can be exceeded by a decent color photocopier or a computer, thus avoid to use the word art in such context, but this discussion brings us to an analogy of photography. If photography is merely capturing an image of what is already there, where is the art in that? It is right there in the photographer’s perspective, the exact choice made by the person wielding the camera in what to capture and from which angle, moment and perspective. If a person creating a photorealistic recreation of a photograph doesn’t have that “artistic” input of a photographer, then what is artistic about the process? Some would say even those renditions are not strict interpretations of photographs, instead, they incorporate additional, often subtle, pictorial elements to create the illusion of a reality which does not actually exist, or cannot be perceived by the human eye.

In the end, as in many things in art, and life in general, the final conclusion remains behind the individual perspective

Da Vinci

Long recognised as one of the great artists of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci was also a pioneer in the understanding of human anatomy. Had his ground-breaking work been published, it would have transformed European knowledge of the subject.

https://www.rct.uk/collection/themes/exhibitions/leonardo-da-vinci/the-queens-gallery-palace-of-holyroodhouse/explore-the-exhibition#/

At the outset of Leonardo’s career, anatomical illustration was in its infancy. To convey the three-dimensional form of the body and to show how it moves, Leonardo had to develop a whole range of new illustrative techniques. His challenges were in many ways the same as those faced by anatomists today, and some of Leonardo’s drawings are remarkably similar in approach to modern medical imagery, such as MRI and CT scans and 3D computer modelling.

Studies of Human Proportion

While studying Vitruvius for his work on the Milan and Pavia cathedrals, Leonardo became captivated by the ancient Roman architect’s detailed studies of human proportions and measurements. In addition, when he was measuring horses for the Sforza monument, he became interested in how they related to human proportions. Comparative anatomy appealed to his instinct for finding patterns across different subjects. So in 1490 he began measuring and drawing the proportions of the human body.

The construction lines and all of the annotation almost take away from the actual subject and become more of the focus, which was the main idea anyway It was not meant to be a work of art, but rather a manual for how to create it.

Da vinci was a polymath, a person of wide knowledge or learning. He was not only an artist but a scientist, sculpture and an architect.

Frida Kahlo

was a Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, postcolonialism, gender, class, and race in Mexican society. Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed realism with fantasy. In addition to belonging to the post-revolutionary Mexicayotl movement, which sought to define a Mexican identity, Kahlo has been described as a surrealist or magical realist.

Kahlo’s paintings often feature root imagery, with roots growing out of her body to tie her to the ground. This reflects in a positive sense the theme of personal growth; in a negative sense of being trapped in a particular place, time and situation; and in an ambiguous sense of how memories of the past influence the present for either good and/or ill.[110] In My Grandparents and I, Kahlo painted herself as a ten-year holding a ribbon that grows from an ancient tree that bears the portraits of her grandparents and other ancestors while her left foot is a tree trunk growing out of the ground, reflecting Kahlo’s view of humanity’s unity with the earth and her own sense of unity with Mexico.[111] In Kahlo’s paintings, trees serve as symbols of hope, of strength and of a continuity that transcends generations.[112] Additionally, hair features as a symbol of growth and of the feminine in Kahlo’s paintings and in Self Portrait with Cropped Hair, Kahlo painted herself wearing a man’s suit and shorn of her long hair, which she had just cut off.[113] Kahlo holds the scissors with one hand menacingly close to her genitals, which can be interpreted as a threat to Rivera – whose frequent unfaithfulness infuriated her – and/or a threat to harm her own body like she has attacked her own hair, a sign of the way that women often project their fury against others onto themselves.[114] Moreover, the picture reflects Kahlo’s frustration not only with Rivera, but also her unease with the patriarchal values of Mexico as the scissors symbolize a malevolent sense of masculinity that threatens to “cut up” women, both metaphorically and literally.[114] In Mexico, the traditional Spanish values of machismo were widely embraced, and as a woman, Kahlo was always uncomfortable with machismo.[114]

image taken at the MoMa in Nyc

Fulang-Chang and I depicts Kahlo with one of her pet monkeys, interpreted by many as surrogates for the children she and Diego Rivera were unable to conceive. The painting was included in the first major exhibition of her work, held at Julien Levy Gallery in New York in 1938. In the essay that accompanied the show, the Surrealist leader André Breton described Kahlo’s work as “a ribbon around a bomb” and hailed her as a self-created Surrealist painter. Although she appreciated his enthusiasm for her work, Kahlo did not agree with his assessment: “They thought I was a Surrealist but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” Kahlo later gave this painting to her close friend Mary Sklar, attaching a mirror to it so that, if Sklar chose, the two friends could be together.

Tai Shan Schierenberg

Tai Shan Schierenberg lives and works in London. He graduated from the Slade School of Art in 1987 and in 1989 won first prize in the National Portrait Gallery’s John Player Portrait Award. He was then commissioned to paint Sir John Mortimer for the Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery also holds his portraits of Lord Carrington from 1994, Lord Sainsbury, 2002 and most recently Seamus Heaney from 2004. Other noted commissions include Professor Stephen Hawking, Sir John Madejski and a double portrait of Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. For Schierenberg, there is an emotional charge that comes from the different textures and densities, and ultimately the light conditions, that occur in a place at a certain time. He describes his process in 2010: Painting and painting and painting, endlessly exploring ideas in paint on canvas, always painting my way. Finding that over time I can’t see the trees for the paint. Sometimes its good to try a new way, a different path, expose oneself to the vagaries of chance - and see the trees again.

Before he finishes a commission, Tai-Shan Schierenberg usually splatters a bit of paint in the corner of the portrait. It’s not a stylistic move – the brushstrokes in his paintings are fluid but the images themselves are representative – but rather one which gives the subject something to complain about.

in the image above you can clearly see the texture and markings on the canvas, the artist uses oil paint on canvas and applies it using a pallet knife and a large brush, making various large strokes in the work. this gives a rough texture and edge to the piece.

These instinctive visual images refuse to betray the plasticity of the medium. Unlike Freud, Schierenberg sees paint simultaneously as flesh. It is exactly this technique that establishes the major paradoxes characteristic of his work. It is both abstract and realist, edgy and sensitive, grand and inconclusive, violent and melancholic, physically intense and aesthetically detache

Lucian Freud

was influenced by surrealism, but by the early 1950s his often stark and alienated paintings tended towards realism. Freud was an intensely private and guarded man, and his paintings, completed over a 60-year career, are mostly of friends and family. They are generally somber and thickly impastoed, often set in unsettling interiors and city scapes. The works are noted for their psychological penetration and often discomforting examination of the relationship between artist and model. Freud worked from life studies, and was known for asking for extended and punishing sittings from his models.

one of my chosen artists, tai shan sheirenberg seems to be heavily influenced by the style of lucian freud yet he made his own style, they both use the same meduims, oil on canvas also.

here in the colder tones we have a painting by lucian freud, you can see the texture of the brush strikes that help carve out the facial features.

here is a painting by tai shan, the tones are a lot warmer, they are not of the same person tho they look similar, you can see the brush strokes again on this image that help carve out the facial features, tho they are a lot more prominent in this painting as thats tai shans style, you see paint before you see the face .

Interpreting line

The Visual Element of Line is the foundation of all drawing. It is the first and most versatile of the visual elements. Line in an artwork can be used in many different ways. It can be used to suggest shape, pattern, form, structure, growth, depth, distance, rhythm, movement and a range of emotions.

We have a psychological response to different types of lines:

Curved lines suggest comfort and ease

Horizontal lines suggest distance and calm

Vertical lines suggest height and strength

Jagged lines suggest turmoil and anxiety

The way we draw a line can convey different expressive qualities:

Freehand lines can express the personal energy and mood of the artist

Mechanical lines can express a rigid control

Continuous lines can lead the eye in certain directions

Broken lines can express the ephemeral or the insubstantial

Thick lines can express strength

Thin lines can express delicacy

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Like the Rat You Are

Rows upon rows of metal carcasses towered on both sides of the narrow valley of steel. Piles of trashed automobile wrecks, silent and dead, stacked to the high heavens. Metal and plastic scrap parts littered the dirty ground in between these monoliths of trash. Broken glass crunched underneath Kevin’s boot.

The sound of it echoed through these artificial canyons of industrial refuse, causing him to pause and look around with a sensation bordering on a panic. Under the cover of night, in the dead silence, that sound sliced through the sky like a knife. His heart raced, accelerating to ever greater heights as he held his breath and listened for any audible clue of reactions to the noise he had inadvertently caused.

After nearly a minute passed, he continued creeping through the junkyard. Closer and closer to the head office at its center, sneaking underneath the looming shadow of the claw that the crane and magnet-arms cast in the moonlight. He tried peering through windows to see inside the dark office, but grime and filth caked its panes, obscuring everything within.

The rusty metal of the door’s handle felt cold in his hand as he gripped it. And twisted. The door was open. Unlocked. Made sense, given that most of Dusty’s security focused on the entering the premises, rather than what was on the messy grounds.

For a moment, Kevin thought that he might succeed at this without anybody dying, after all.

He stepped inside and looked around. It smelled of metal dust and rust. And of the cold itself. It was deeply cold in here, almost more so than outside. So cold that his breath condensed into little clouds just in front of his mouth. That all disappeared when he closed the door behind himself.

The faint remnants of light that managed to seep in through the dirt on the office windows rendered everything in vague, dark silhouettes. There were probably shelves stacked with things, and chairs, and a desk. And yet other things, bunched up against the wall.

To shed some light, he removed a stainless steel lighter from his leather jacket’s pocket, flicked it open, and snapped the flint so it produced its tiny flame. With luck, tiny enough to not be too conspicuous, but enough to see anything in there.

Without any sign of life in the junkyard except for himself, and a more deafening silence inside the office, his heartbeat calmed from the pace it had picked up during his stealthy approach. He swallowed and took in his surroundings.

Most of what he expected to find in Dusty McVeigh’s office was there. The place was a terrible mess, but not any worse than some of the trailer trash homes, dingy motels, abandoned derelicts filled with squatters, and other run-down places Kevin had been in and out of over the course of the past year. Sometimes, that’s just where our mystical journeys take us. This was Kevin’s path.

A pile of random junk cluttered Dusty’s desk, but none of it caught Kevin’s eye. The things that stood out the most were the big solid black safe next to the water cooler—presumably what he had come here for—and an easel with a painting on it, standing all lonely in middle of the room.

The impressionist painting really drew and kept Kevin’s attention. It depicted this same room, with a view through the window onto the junkyard on a bright sunny day.

It was a damn good painting, too, he thought to himself. If Dusty had made this, then he had some serious talent. Maybe he should make a living in art instead of stealing from occult collectors?

The irony of his own thoughts was not lost on him, fully well aware that he was going to steal something from Dusty now.

The artifact had to be inside that safe. It would be the perfect place to keep it secure.

Kevin sidled up to the small vault and looked it over, inspecting its size and make. It looked extremely heavy, like a tow truck would have to drag it out of there, and it had been bolted down onto the floor. So taking the whole shebang was out of the question.

Combination lock. No way of guessing the numbers—Dusty was clever. The bastard would never use any easy combination that anybody could guess. The junkyard owner was missing half his teeth due to a crippling meth addiction and constantly smeared in dirt and motor oil all over, but Dusty McVeigh probably had the IQ of a super-genius. No other way he could work the juju he worked.

Kevin knew better than to just blindly try out different combinations on the lock. Instead, he pressed the tip of his index and middle fingers up against the number wheel of the lock and whispered while inhaling, “Diopes dism, emnothesis iento vingnorm. Mag crein.”

As he focused and the painful words escaped his lips, jumbles of mundane words and numbers coalesced in his mind. He started seeing, hearing, and tasting broken thoughts—thoughts stolen from the void to which Dusty’s thoughts had trailed off to in previous days.

Gazing into the sky while high as a kite, lying on the hood of an old muscle car. Furiously jacking off to photos of half-naked women in magazine advertisements. The cool calm nerves that came with smoking a cigarette after a long day of hard work. An argument with his friend and the pain his knuckles from throwing and landing a punch that connected to bone. Words that did not connect to sentences, numbers that did not belong together. Strings of arcane symbols that Dusty thought about a lot in his occult studies. Lots of books, most of them fiction.

Instead of drawing a sequence of numbers that opened the safe, something else took shape in Kevin’s mind. A pair of eyes. Glaring. Furious. Staring at him through the veil.

Not a memory. But the here and now. Elsewhere, but connected over a bridge of all things ethereal. Dusty had woken up—jolted awake because he had secured this safe with a spell of his own. Something that flared up the moment Kevin had tried to suss out the combination from the environs of the lock itself. Magick bound to the entire safe, clashing with Kevin’s spell, alerting Dusty to an intruder’s presence tampering with the safe in any way—including the intangible ways of magick.

There it was again: the racing heartbeat. Cold sweat erupting from Kevin’s pores. The feeling that bordered on panic, however, had returned with a vengeance. Full-blooded panic now, causing his glands to pump mind-numbing adrenaline throughout his body.

He had to act quickly now. Get creative.

A German shepherd’s barking in the distance underlined that growing sense of urgency balling up into a tight pit in Kevin’s stomach. Floodlights switched on outside, one by one. Bathing the towering piles of car husks in a glaring bright white shine. Turning the whole junkyard into a sea of light.

Before Kevin severed his spell—and thus the connection to that burning image of Dusty’s eyes, he last glimpsed bony hands with dirt under the fingernails gripping a shotgun. Loading slugs into its chamber. Pumping some mechanism, pumping little black-powder-powered agents of death.

Kevin stuffed the lighter back into his pocket, as the floodlights outside did their part in illuminating the office well enough for him to see everything clearly.

He scanned the desk with haste, looking for anything he could use.

Junk—just a lot of junk. He looked around the shelves, finding only tools, scrap parts, and more trash. Nothing useful. Not even a damned thing he could improvise as a useful weapon.

The barking neared. Someone shouted something. Dusty probably would be bringing company, both canine and human. Likely armed to the teeth. Everybody had guns in this neck of the woods, and the six-shooter weighing a ton in Kevin’s pocket would never have enough bullets for all of them. Not like he was much of a fighter anyway; the thing was usually more for show and coercion than anything else.

Then the painting caught his eye again. Dusty was clever, but so was Kevin. A desperate idea formed in his brain; something that might even work out.

The safe was depicted on the painting, too. Dusty’s meticulous attention to detail was going to be useful.

Kevin’s hands trembled as they dug through the assortment of junk on Dusty’s desk. Some of the useless objects clattered and clanked and fell off the surface of the desktop. Frustrated because he knew he had seen what he needed just seconds before but failed to find it now, he swept a whole load of items off the table, causing them to crash down onto the floor.

There it was: a thumbtack. It would serve well enough.

The noise outside got closer and closer. Probably less than a minute away. Creeping across that distance had taken Kevin minutes, but was a matter of seconds for the junkyard’s owner and his goon buddies.

Kevin licked his lips and stood in front of the painting.

“Wisthibrea, sestna wasterei velth, delwen sidrom,” he said, focusing on the painting with all his might. He repeated it again, blotting out the noise drawing ever closer outside.

Kevin then brought the thumbtack’s needle to the painting and began defacing it. Scratching over the safe’s depiction specifically. The scratching sounds swelled to deafening heights, swallowing all other sounds in the world to the point of turning the world around him silent.

He repeated the magick words a third time, this time just whispering them, but every syllable oozing out with clarity and purpose that resonated with the cosmos. He could practically feel the gravity of the stars all around, piercing the nightly sky and those stars seeing him simultaneously. Watching, silently judging. Pulling.

The needle tore into the canvas, chipping away dried paint and ripping up the fabric until it was just shredded threads. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing anymore.

Kevin’s head swiveled and he looked at the safe. Its front was missing, just a gaping hole with frayed edges, solid metal looking like it had been chewed away by a giant with steel teeth.

The contents of the safe were his to take.

A bunch of papers, stacks of cash, and other shit he had no use for.

All he wanted was that small alabaster statuette. Its maker in the 1800s had carved it to look like a praying Franciscan monk, maybe even the eponymous old sage himself. The history behind this thing had no bearing right now, though; Kevin dismissed any such thoughts.

All that mattered was this artifact’s secret power. Not only did he need it to find and get Kim out of that infernal town in Washington, it was now his only ticket of getting out of this jam he had gotten himself into. He grabbed the statuette, clutched it with all his might. Not going to let it go easily, now.

The barking was just outside. Intense. Angry. Hungry, maybe.

Kevin concentrated, wracking his brain to remember the precise words he needed to use to wield this artifact properly.

The shouting had become much clearer, as well.

The man yelling was none other than Dusty himself, swearing up a storm, “You dumb son of a bitch! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you skinny pale-faced cross-dressing motherfucker, you! I know it’s you! Come out and I’ll make it quick, shithead!”

The windows exploded into a flurry of glass shards, the deafening echo of the gunshot followed, ringing in Kevin’s ears. Something warm trickled down his forehead, which he found to be blood from a fresh cut, from the glass that had shattered in the shot.

He ducked behind the desk, making his way towards the door.

“You’re dead! You hear me? You’re fucking dead!”

Another shot tore a gaping hole through the office’s flimsy wall. A cloud of dust continued to roil in the air in its wake, dancing in the bright light flooding in through that hole.

The pain decided to set in with delay, maybe thanks to the adrenaline. Nothing about it was good though, as it clouded Kevin’s thoughts. He reeled, stumbling and then crawling towards the office’s only door.

The sticky hot mess seeping out between his fingers from his belly region splattered out onto the floor.

He had no time nor capacity to check how bad it really was. Kevin currently couldn’t even be sure if he had been hit by anything from Dusty’s shotgun directly, or if it was just debris that the shots that had blasted through the office wall. Blood was blood. An injury an injury.

It hurt like hell, stinging, and robbing him of the strength needed to spring back up into standing. Every movement burned with an unpleasant fire in his gut. Acting on instinct, he pressed his other hand against it while dragging himself closer to the door, the alabaster statuette clutched in his other hand. Dark crimson dots marred the otherwise pure white surface of the object—his own blood.

Another hit and Kevin would be a goner. It was time to go.

He stared at the statuette in his hand and began reciting the words.

“Etheris brahecket hisret dwerio—”

A coughing fit broke out and interrupted his own speech, and each revolving contraction allowed the pain to flare up even brighter, clouding his field of vision with a darkness encroaching from the edges and bright lights glaring against it, leaving a kaleidoscope of colorful blind spots behind. His eyesight blurred but he blinked several times to dispel that growing visual impairment.

Encouraged by hearing his suffering, Dusty shouted outside, “Yeah, you like that, you lil’ bitch? Gonna string you up and eviscerate your sorry ass. Like the rat you are!”

Kevin gritted his teeth and started from the top, training his stare on the statuette while he repeated the magick words.

It looked so serene. So pure. What it looked like on the surface meant nothing, however. What truly mattered was the life force bound to it. The karma, or dharma, or essence, or mojo, or whatever the hell anybody preferred to call it.

“Etheris brahecket hisret dweriomon,” Kevin recited the magick words. His voice trembled as he focused on the incantation, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his abdomen.

“Son of a—don’t stand around, you lazy fuckers! Get inside and end that walkin’ piece of shit!”

Shuffling of feet. Tiny pieces of garbage and gravel crunching underneath the heels of people nearing the office entrance. Kevin did not need to see them, he knew they were all pointing guns at the door, prepared to kill a man without a second thought.

“Shoshiame wielnod eneroh, plagat thereo eteneadeth,” Kevin finished. Then he started repeating it.

He grunted, struggled to get up on his feet. Another shot tore another hole into the office wall nearby, shattering more glass. Something cut him as a consequence of that, but it was minor and the other pain deep down overshadowed it all.

Kevin let go of his injury and grabbed the rusty metal handle of the office door, leaving a bloody hand print on it. Cold in between his fingers, countering the hot stickiness clinging to his skin. Coarse and rusty, he could practically taste it.

But he never tore his gaze off the statuette, and projected his mind elsewhere. Directed his thoughts to another place. A dank cellar underneath a strip club belonging to a friend of his.

It would do.

He squeezed, twisted the handle, and ripped the door open. Another shot echoed through the air. The dog barked louder and angrier, and the men neared.

But behind that door was that dank cellar, not the junkyard outside the office. Kevin lurched through and slammed the door shut behind him.

The door to the boiler room, adjacent of that dank cellar. Over a thousand miles away from Dusty’s junkyard. Bridging the gap of space between South Dakota and Cleveland.

The relic had worked quite well. Unlike Kevin’s legs, now.

He stumbled forth, coming to a halt against a pillar in the dusty, damp room. He slumped against it and slid down until he remained sitting on the ground, once more gripping the injury where his stomach should be. The blood continued pumping out from there, hot and crimson and sticky. And heralding doom.

He sighed and even that hurt, causing hellfire to ripple through his body from the injury.

Eat shit, Dusty, he thought to himself.

He had retrieved the artifact. But at what price? Everything had a price.

The statuette could do the trick in finding Kim, but that hinged on him surviving this now.

Too bad, though. The blood just continued to pump, like it had waited for this very day to escape his sorry skin. The pain overwhelmed him.

He slipped out of consciousness.

Without any hope of opening his eyes to see another day.

—Submitted by Wratts

[xiaq]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814/chapters/35854725 Lucifer was an angel once.

That’s what Nursey thinks, the first time he sees William Poindexter.

Because the boy is beautiful even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he’s doubtless the kind of person who would punch you in the face if you said the words “you” and “beautiful” to him in the same sentence.

His skin is choked with freckles. It’s potentially more freckle than skin, really. Not just his face, where his nose and cheekbones are so hyper-pigmented they look tanned, but his collarbones and forearms and the knuckles of his calloused hands. The close-shaved dark ginger stubble of his hair should make his ears look too big or his mouth too wide but instead it accentuates the long curve of his throat, the cup of velvet skin between the tendons in the back of his neck. It makes his cheekbones sharper, his eyes—so light brown they look almost gold—more stark under pale spiky lashes.

He’s wearing boots and jeans and a leather jacket that could either be beat to shit for aesthetic reasons or just beat to shit, and a permanent scowl that will likely give him wrinkles at an early age but right now is just terribly flattering.

It all adds up: the interesting face, the long, wiry frame and taut, fight-ready stance, to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it’s not because people are smiling.

The point is, he has a carefully curated look and that look is fuck off.

Nursey wants to touch him.

Nursey has never touched someone with that many freckles before and he doubts this particular someone would let him close enough to try which is, he thinks a little despairingly of himself, perhaps why he finds the boy so damn compelling.

The grass is always greener.

You always want what you can’t have.

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

Regardless. That’s Nursey’s first impression: An angry, pigment-spangled, potentially once-divine being. An angel trying very, very, hard not to be.

Nursey reminds himself, standing in line at the administration office, trying not to stare at the nape of the other boy’s neck—the freckled knob of his spine, pushed hard against the skin just above his collar, that Nursey is at Samwell to focus on hockey, not admire transfer students who are undoubtedly straight and probably won’t share a single class with him and who he’ll likely only see from a distance for the next year and then never see again and that’s a good thing because he’s here to focus on hockey.

Except then, the new kid steps up to the receptionist’s desk and says in a rough, surprising drawl. “I’m a transfer. Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

And Nursey knows that name.

Because it was in the email that Coach sent out over the summer. It was the name that was written in sharpie on the scratched DVD on Coach’s desk that he’d pushed toward Nursey the day before. Coach had tapped the DVD with a blunt finger and said, “I’ve found you a new D-partner, Nurse.” And Nursey had taken the DVD back to his yet-unpacked room and played it on his laptop, stretched out on the bare mattress of his shitty lofted bed. The footage was grainy, badly spliced together and clearly shot unprofessionally from the stands, but it was enough. Poindexter was good. Big, but fast. Aggressive, but smart. Together, Nursey thought, they might be great.

So when Nursey hears the name, he doesn’t even think. He just speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?” he asks. “William Poindexter?”

And the boy turns around and considers him with what might be contempt but what might just be the way his face looks and says, “Yeah?” like its a challenge.

And Nursey thinks:

Oh no.

***

William Poindexter has his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose and on his face they’re still a family.

He considers his reflection in the filmy bus-station bathroom mirror, rubs his thumb down the raised line of scar tissue bisecting his chin—pink and new and only partially hidden in the drip-paint collage of his freckles, and then rubs harder, more habit than intention.

After spending the summer as a stern man on his uncle’s lobster boat—sorting, banding, baiting, re-setting, trying his best to repair the limping hydraulic trap hauler that probably should have been scrapped a decade ago—layers of sunburn have turned into a tan, multiplying the pigment across his nose and cheeks and shoulders to a point where he looks constantly dirty. Like he’d been working in his other uncle’s garage and absently smeared an oiled forearm over his face.

His cousin, Saoirse, the one who’d left for New York at eighteen, got a job in marketing and now only returned home for shorter and shorter visits at Christmas time, had once said that Dex looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He thinks she was trying to be mean. Or elitist. Or both. But he’d sort of agreed with her. He didn’t know who Jackson Pollock was, at first, but when he’d gone with his aunt into town the following weekend he’d used the library computer to google him.

At thirteen, with new calluses on his palms from his first ever boat haul, constant peeling skin over his nose and shoulders, and the kind of secret that scrapes your insides hollow, he’d found the paintings, grainy and pixelated as they were on the old computer monitor, strangely familiar.

Maybe he was like a Jackson Pollock painting: a dark, incensed, anxious, spatter of reds and yellows and blacks and blues. Too much color for one canvas. Too much feeling for containment. Too much, maybe, in general.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door and he stops glaring at his reflection because there’s nothing much he can do about it.

He uses a paper towel to dry his hands, runs his fingers, still damp, over his buzzed hair, and shoulders his duffle bag.

Samwell is waiting.

He’d googled Samwell at the same time that he’d googled all the rest of the best hockey prep schools in the country.

Same library.

Same shitty library computer.

Initially he’d wanted to try and play for a junior team, he was good enough, he’d been scouted, but now, money issues aside, billeting would be all but impossible considering his legal situation. So he’d spent stolen hours at school and after work searching boarding schools with prep hockey teams, comparing stats and rosters and course offerings, before he sent in his game tapes and paperwork with scraped together application fees and letters of recommendation from his former and current coaches.

He’d applied to six schools and was accepted at two.

Samwell was the closest, not that he really cared about staying close, but his lawyer said it would make things easier for possible future hearings if he was within a few hours drive of home. If he could even call it that anymore.

Samwell was also the cheapest, which he did care about, and it routinely produced D1 and NHL prospects which was his primary concern. A full scholarship with housing, a meal plan, and a chance to elevate his game to the point that maybe, next year, he could get a scholarship to college? Or even get drafted?

An easy decision.

After getting a handful of salt-crusted 100’s from his uncle at the harbor early that morning—payment for his summer of work—he’d hitched a ride with another stern man from Port Marta to Brunswick and then took a Greyhound from there to Boston, and then another bus from Boston to Samwell.

And now he’s here, standing outside the station with a paper map from his library’s equally shitty printer, a duffle bag from the army surplus store full of abused hockey gear, and an address written in permanent marker on his wrist.

He does have a newly-purchased cellphone, an unfamiliar weight in his back pocket, but he doesn't want to call an Uber because according to the map, Samwell’s campus is only a mile away and he’s not ready to start spending his money yet. Definitely not when there are more important things he’ll need soon. Like new skates. Books. Clothes.

He shoulders his bag and starts walking.

When he gets there, the campus looks exactly like the online pictures: Sun-dappled and idyllic with people lounging under trees and throwing footballs and weaving colorful bikes in and out of foot traffic on immaculate sidewalks.

He’s too hot in his leather jacket and the strap of his bag is rubbing the side of his neck raw but he walks with a purpose and doesn’t make eye contact when people look at him.

And people do look at him.

He’s six-foot-two, will probably hit six-three soon, dressed all in black and carrying a bag over his shoulder that’s nearly as big as he is. Doubtless, he stands out like some sort of hulking freckled raven among songbirds.

By the time he finds the administration building his palms are so sweaty it’s hard to get the stupidly ornate door open, and, once inside, standing in line on the marble floors, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the whispered assertion that’s been following him since he stepped foot on campus gets louder:You do not belong here.

He’s felt that way for most his life, though, wherever he was, so it isn’t that disconcerting.

He clears his throat when it’s his turn, stepping up to the counter at the student center, trying to muster a smile.

“I’m a transfer,” he says, “Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

Before the receptionist has a chance to answer, though, the person behind him speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?”

Dex turns to look at the speaker and pauses.

Because he recognizes the boy’s face.

He’d seen it on rosters and game footage.

During his furtive research, he’d memorized the names of three players at Samwell. Three players he thought were exceptionally good. Maybe NHL good. These would be your peers, he’d told himself.

The first was Jack Laurent Zimmerman. Center. Senior. Number 1.

The second was Christopher Franklin Chow. Goalie. Junior. Number 55.

The third is now standing in front of him:

Derek Malik Nurse. Defenseman. Senior. Number 28.

What he hadn’t anticipated is that, off the ice, Derek Malik Nurse looks a lot less like the goon he does on the ice and a lot more like the kind of boy his father warned Dex against becoming, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists.

Because apparently off the ice Derek Malik Nurse wears cuffed skinny jeans stretched tight over the bulk of his thighs and half-unbuttoned floral shirts and pale, stretchy, yellow headbands to hold back his curls. His dark skin is clear and pore-less and the delicate gold chain around his neck should look out of place on someone so broad but it doesn’t.

He is irritatingly well-groomed.

He’s also waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” Dex manages, and it maybe comes out more aggressive than he intended.

“I’m Nursey,” Derek Malik Nurse says, extending a hand and smiling: straight white teeth and the easy confidence that comes with money. “I’m on the hockey team too.”

Nurse’s hand is warm and dry and the torn callouses on Dex’s own chapped hand scrape jarringly against Nurse’s soft palm.

“Dex,” Dex says, because if there’s one thing hockey has given him it’s a name that his father didn’t.

Nurse squeezes his fingers, holds on a moment past comfortable, grins wider so the skin around his grey-green eyes crinkles, and says: “Dex. Chill. Coach says you’re going to be my new D-partner.”

And all Dex can think is:

Oh no.

You can find the rest of the story (all 74k words!) on A03 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814?view_full_work=true

[hydecurator]

Here. The Black Presence in Western Art

This month, the Rembrandt Museum in Amsterdam opened a new exhibition entitled HERE. BLACK IN REMBRANDT’S TIME. The exhibition overlaps with The Hyde Collection’s presentation of the art of an accomplished, but little known, African American artist, Dox Thrash (1893-1965): DOX THRASH, BLACK LIFFE AND THE CARBORUNDUM MEZZOTINT. The Thrash exhibition is the first of three successive winter shows at The Hyde that will highlight African American art.

Dox Thrash (American, 1893–1965), The Champ, c. 1937–39, aquatint, private collection

I began this series with Dox Thrash, in part, because, as an artist, he fits neatly into the styles and history of western art that we know so well at The Hyde. He trained at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in the western tradition. Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937), whose portrait by Thomas Eakins graces the main stairs in Hyde House, was an inspiration to Thrash. Indeed, he may have met Tanner in France following the end of World War I, in which Thrash served and was wounded.

Thomas Eakins, (American, 1844-1916), Portrait of Henry O. Tanner, ca. 1897, oil on canvas, 29 5/8 x 26 x 2 1/4 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, NY. Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.16.

Inspired by the Harlem Renaissance, Thrash was driven to make black life - his childhood experiences in rural George, his time on the road “ho-boing” (to use his term) as a vaudeville performer, and his professional life as an leading citizen of the black community in Philadelphia - the subject of art. Almost alone among African American artists of his day, Thrash appropriated the European tradition of the reclining female nude for the black female body. We see this most assertively in Thrash’s print Siesta (ca 1944-48), which was inspired by John Vanderlyn’s infamous painting, Ariadne Asleep on the Island of Naxos (1809–14). Vanderlyn’s painting, although clearly within the European tradition established in the Renaissance by such a master as Titian - think of his Venus of Urbino (1538) at the Uffizi Gallery - scandalized Protestant ,and particularly Quaker, Philadelphia. Thrash’s reclining nude is proudly African American. Images of the black female nude had long be problematic in American art and society because of the country’s history of abusing enslaved women.

Detail: Dox Thrash, (American, 1893–1965), Siesta, ca. 1944–48, carborundum mezzotint, on loan from Dolan/Maxwell

John Vanderlyn (American, 1776-1852), Ariadne Asleep on the Island of Naxos, 1809–14, oil on canvas, 68½ x 87 in. Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 1809–14. © Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

A particularly powerful section of the exhibition contains Thrash’s portraits of African Americans. Most are not identified; rather, they have titles such as Woman in Blue (1940s) and Head of a Young Man (1940-50). Yet they are painted with such a powerful sense of character. These are clearly portraits of people Thrash knew personally. Their individualism shines through. Sporting a stylish hat, she is not a mammy; dressed in a tie, he is not a laborer – the two characteristic professions given to African Americans in the overwhelming White, racist media. These are successful, proud, self-confident members of the black urban middle class.

Dox Thrash (American, 1893–1965), Woman in Blue, 1940s, watercolor, private collection

In that they are without specific identities and represent a type, such images by Thrash relate to a well-established genre in European painting, the tronie. Particularly popular in the seventeenth century, the tronie was a type of genre painting in portrait format. It was an artistic exercise in the depiction and capture of human states and emotions, such as old age, anger, and laughter. The emphasis was upon the realistic portrayal of the particular emotion without necessarily conveying a sense of the individual or the model. Leonardo da Vinci (1454-1519) frequently juxtaposed tronies of old age and youth in his sketchbooks.

Leonardo da Vinci (Italian, 1452-1519), Heads of an old man and a youth, ca.1495, chalk, paper, Uffizi Gallery. © Gabinetto Fotografico delle Gallerie degli Uffizi

Both Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640) and Rembrandt Van Rijn (1606-1669) painted tronies. But both also captured something of the character and identity of their live models.

When Rembrandt first settled in Amsterdam in 1632, he lived on Judenbeestraat (Jewish Broad Street) in a house that is now the Rembrandt House Museum. He not only befriended Jewish intellectuals like Samuel Menasseh ben Israel, whose portrait he etched in 1636, but he drew tronies based upon his Jewish neighbors. These he employed in his paintings of Biblical scenes, as Pharisees, high priests, and the like to lend his images an air of historical accuracy.

Among the neighbors who sat for Rembrandt so that he could develop his stock of characters were members of Amsterdam’s small African community. They too lived in the Judenbreestraat district. Although the Netherlands was heavily involved in the slave trade, Dutch law did not recognize slavery on Dutch soil. Scholars associated with the Rembrandt House Museum’s new exhibition have documented the lives of approximately 100 Africans living in Amsterdam. Most of the women worked as servants, many in the households of Sephardic Jews exiled from Spain and Portugal, two European countries that recognized the state of slavery on their soil. Many of the men were Brazilian sailors, who presumably jumped ship when they arrived in port to claim their freedom.

The exhibition contains seven Rembrandt images and forty-nine works by his contemporaries. The works are noteworthy for their lack of racist caricature and stereotyping. Many of the characters are represented with sympathy and compassion. They are ennobled by everyday jobs rather than disempowered, as so often in eighteenth-century portraiture, by appearing as servants.

In our collection, we have a superb painting that epitomizes this moment in seventeenth-century Europe when Africans were seen and recorded with sympathy and compassion, as individual human beings before the onset of racial stereotyping. The painting is my personal favorite in the collection, Rubens’ stunning Head of a Moor (ca.1618).

Peter Paul Rubens, (Flemish, 1577-1640), Head of a Moor, ca. 1620, oil on panel, 29 3/4 × 26 1/2 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, NY, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.40.

Like any other tronie, this is an artistic exercise for Rubens. He is trying to solve the question, as a master colorist: How do I convincing render the face of an African man? It will not do for him to simply warm up a brown, add some white for highlights and black for shadows, as European artists had done in generations past.  Compare Ruben’s head with the African magus in The Hyde’s Adoration of the Magi by an Antwerp Mannerist, ca. 1520. Rubens uses a stroke of red to define the underside of his African sitter’s chin. Red warms his skin tones in lighted areas. The shadows on the side of his face are made up of strokes of blue-grey and deep blue and black.

Antwerp Mannerist, after Jan de Beer (Flemish, ca.1475 - ca.1528), Adoration of the Magi, ca. 1520, oil on oak panel, 29 x 25 1/4 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, NY, Bequest of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.2.

Rubens knew this man and this was not the first time that he had painted him. The Royal Museums of Fine Arts, Belgium has an oil study in which Rubens examines the same man from four different angles. 

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), Four Studies for the Head of a Moor, 1613-15, oil on canvas, 51 x 66 cm. The Royal Museum of Fine Arts Belgium, inv. 3716. Musées royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Bruxelles / photo : J. Geleyns.

That Rubens brought a black man in his studio to sit for him was such a significant event that others in the studio made their own studies. One, by an unknown hand, now hangs at the J. Paul Getty Museum. Anthony Van Dyck, who worked briefly in Rubens’ studio, included a profile drawing of this man smiling on the lower right of a sheet of eleven pen and ink head studies now in the Chatsworth Collection in Britain.

Anthony Van Dyck (Flemish, 1599-1641), Records of Eleven Head Studies, 1618-20, pen and ink, Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth.

Who the man was and how Rubens came to know him and to invite him to his studio at least twice over the course of a few years is not known. In the first half the seventeenth century, Antwerp was Europe’s leading port. Portuguese and Spanish merchants sent their ships directly there from their African and New World colonies. The man may have been a servant or have arrived as a sailor off one of those vessels.

This unknown African was not even the first Rubens painted. While in Rome in 1609, Rubens executed an oil study of an African man wearing a turban. The work is now at the Getty Museum. Shortly thereafter, he used the head to make a free copy of a famous portrait by Jan Cornelisz. Vermeyen (1500-1559) of a Tunisian king, Mulay Ahmad. Rubens’ version survives at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, though Vermeyen’s is lost.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), The Head of an African Man Wearing a Turban, 1609–11, oil on paper laid down on panel, 21 1/4 × 15 1/2 in. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2018.48. Digital image courtesy of the Getty's Open Content Program.

Rubens employed the image of this turbaned African as the model for the Black King in several altarpieces depicting the Adoration of the Magi. A popular subject for altarpieces at the time, the Adoration of the Magi afforded artists one of their few opportunities to paint non-Europeans. In the later Middle Ages, the three kings had come to represent the three known continents. In Counter-Reformation theology, black Africans represented the Gentiles; those around the world willing to receive the Word and become Christians.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), The Adoration of the Magi, 1609, 1628-29 oil on canvas, 355.5 x 493 cm. The Prado Museum. © The Prado Museum.

Africansalso appeared as attendants in mythological and historical paintings. Rubens used two of the heads from the Brussels oil study in classical paintings: The Drunken Silenus, (1618-25) at the Alte Pinakothek in Munich and Nature Adorned by the Three Graces (ca. 1615) at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow. No surviving work has been found that specifically uses the head from The Hyde’s study.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), The Drunken Silenus, 1618–1625, oil on canvas, 212 x 214 cm. The Alte Pinakothek, Munich, 319. © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640) and Jan Brueghel the Elder (Flemish 1568-1625), Nature Adorned by the Three Graces, ca. 1618, oil on panel, 42 x 28.5 in., Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow. Commons.wikimedia.com.

At The Hyde, we will explore the works by African American artists again in the winter of 2021 with the exhibition THE HARMON & HARRIET KELLEY COLLECTION OF AFRICAN AMERICAN ART: WORKS ON PAPER. Dox Thrash will make a return along with other artists who sought to insert the black experience into the European art traditions in which they had been schooled. There will be others, like Horace Pipin and Jacob Lawrence, who used African rather than European models to create a discernibly black art. In the following winter, we will present ROBERT BLACKBURN & AMERICAN PRINTMAKING. This exhibition will highlight the work of this under-represented abstract printmaker, while also placing him in the context of his contemporaries, many of whom were white and are, thus, better known.

The Hyde’s Rubens and Eakins paintings discussed here are on permanent display in Hyde House. In addition, we frequently put on view in the Education Wing Sam Gilliam’s Asking. I hope it will not be too much longer before we can welcome you back to The Hyde and you can explore our works discussed here, in person.

Sam Gilliam, (American, born 1933), Asking, 1972, Acrylic on canvas, 82 x 76 1/4 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, NY, Gift of Dr. Robert and Jane Lewit, 2010.17. ©1972 Sam Gilliam

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2010s: 20 - 16

20. maNga - “We could be the same” Turkey 2010

You could see it in my eyes, it should come as no surprise that the highest rock entry on this ranking is OF COURSE the avant garde rock entry. 😍

It certainly isn’t a stretch to call “We could be the same” avant garde because it’s an experimental extravaganza if ever there was, a rag-rag fusion of indie rock, industrial, hiphop and folk. 😍 More importantly one that WORKS. It’s really hard to put all of these genres together and not disturb the flow between each segment, yet that is exactly what maNga do. Their song runs like an oiled machine, supported by an excellent score of orchestral rock (the fiddle is an especially nice touch.) The snappy libretto keeps the ensemble well together, creating an atmosphere of pure coolness. 

This brave and creative entry is further supported by an act that has a well-defined aesthetic and artistic vision. (another sign of good avant garde. Pay attention because we are going to boot a LOT of them near the top of this ranking). MaNga don’t need much in terms of staging (since their song is already excellent), so a clever combo of strobe light seizure + dramatic helmet removal (FEATURING ACTUALLY CUTTING METAL AWAY WITH A BUZZSAW) is all it needs. 

FOR JUST ONE NIGHT WE COULD BE THE SAME

NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY. 

Eurovision is all about taking the hand that you’re dealt and running with it. maNga did exactly that. They weren’t vocally perfect but again, rock is a genre where it’s okay to sound unimpressive because the score will always out class you. They don’t have the best song, but again, it was something special, brave and inspired. Every small aspect of “We could be the same” comes together into a whole that is much bigger than the sum of its parts and for that, I shall always cherish them. 

________________________________________________________________

19. Joci Pápai - “Origo” Hungary 2017

[2017 review here]

I was worried that Joci’s NQ in the latest contest would tarnish his legacy, but if anything “Az én apám”’s failure at being entertaining only made me appreciate “Origo” even more.😍 Let us not beat around the bush. “Origo” is art. Like all art, it’s largely hit-or-miss. You either love this wonderful fusion of rap, self-references to Samuraihood and gypsy folk traditions, or you’re a unevolved troglodyte with subpar taste.😈 Lol I remember the music journalists and juries HATING “Origo” and... honestly, I get it. Yes. I can understand that deeply personal anectodes and proudly displaying your cultural heritage can fly over the heads of those narrow of mind. It’s fine. Not every song has complex meaning. You can vote for the “Replays” of this world at your heart’s content. ^__^

Music is at its core a form of expression, of conducting emotion with sound, of telling a story. We use words as a crutch for our empathy, but truly good music doesn’t need to rely lyrics in order to spread its message around. The true message always lies in the score. “Origo” shatters those language barriers by slowly,

 but steadily

unfolding a melancholic and touching narrative

that strikes everyone silent.

________________________________________________________________

18. Krista Siegfrids - “Marry me” Finland 2013

A WILD DINGDONG HAS APPEARED

Only logical we continue from artistic complexity to figurative cotton candy. 😍 but the same musical principles apply here as well, actually. “Marry me” has an upbeat tempo flanked by wedding bells that already carries its happy-go-lucky marriage vibe across even before the first words are spoken. 🤗 It is there to indulge and delight, which it does with all the zest and pluck you’d expect from Krista Siegfrids. 

Anyway, I’m sure this will shock you but I FLOOOOOOOOVE Krista Siegfrids soooooooo fucking muuuuuch as a human and I am NOT backing down on my fanboyism. She’s one of the few Eurovision Alumni that ALWAYS makes me happy whenever she appears, either as a force of HIGH FASHION/UMK hostess or as a resident melfest flop queen.😍  HON SNURRA MIN JORD!!!

DINGEDONG EVERY HOUR, WHEN YOU PICK A FLOWER~

As it happens, “Marry me” is the perfect canvas for her over-the-top, realhousewifesque personality. "Marry me” just delivers non-stop: it has a light-hearted, infectuously catchy beat, doubles down on lyrical and visual comedy, carries a happy vibed with a deliciously psychotic undercurrent, supplemented a superb act featuring a groom-into-bridesmaids twist and some hilariously opportunistic lgbtq pandering 😍 OH OH OH OH OH

DING DONG!!!1!1!1!11!1!!

ps: this being the entry that caused TRT to withdraw indefinitely because they can’t get on board with some hot girl-on-girl action. STAY PRESSED LOSERTWATS!!!

________________________________________________________________

17. Laura Tesoro - “What’s the pressure?” Belgium 2016

“YOU’VE GOT A STUPID SMILE 😄” -- Alexander Rybak, when praising Laura Tesoro during the NF. (😍)

Lol this is where my degrees of separation come in, because I’ve met several people that personally know Laura Tesoro and... with one exception they ALL fucking loathe her. 😍 (and aforementioned exception is her cousin 😍)  The general concencus re: Laura is that she’s an insufferable conceited bitch. Now, this could have easily ended up terrible if LauraLaura was That Unfounded Girl but... um,

can we say she has grounds to be a bit high on herself? She was fucking awesome in Stockholm. If anything Laura’s diva id helped “What’s the pressure”. First of all, there is the admirable confidence with which she takes the stage and completely NAILS every twist and turn with minimal effort. This is pure performance TALENT and if you can’t see that you’re Helen Keller. 

And second there’s the message behind “What’s the pressure”, which is uplifting and cheerful in the hands of a normal person, but when brought by a narcissist like Laura becomes a hysterical exhibit of concern-trollery: “HEY PERSON SUFFERING FROM ANXIETY ~I~ *NEVER* SUFFER FROM ANXIETY. LET ME TELL YOU WHY YOU SUFFER FROM ANXIETY AND I DON’T” (god what an obnoxious human 😍 LOVE HER. 😍) 

All in all, I think Laura has the justification she needs to have an ego, something her aforementioned haters (begrudgingly) admitted after seeing her own the live twice.🤭  She is a living conduit of confidence juju, a performance wonder, a Diva trapped in the body of an antropomorphic labrador. Dynamite comes in small packages and Laura Tesoro is more lit than Chinese Newyear fireworks.  🎇________________________________________________________________

16. Hovi Star - “Made of stars” Israel 2016

I’ll be honest, Hovi Star is one of my favourite human beings to ever participate in Eurovision.🤗  He has proven himself an UNSTOPPABLE force of sass, delivering interview gold on a terrifyingly consistent basis. There are enough examples, but the ones I’m going with are his impeccable Ira Losco Snatch Game  and his hilariously petty, one-sided feud with Douwe Bob (Dutch reporter: “what do you think about Douwe.” Hovi: “Oh I don’t think about him.😊 At all.🙂  Ever. 🙃 *hairflip*” god what a King of stonecold putdowns 😍)

Having said that, even though I loved Hovi as a ~human~ going in, I was still caught off-guard by how much I loved “Made of stars”. See, you know what I think about stripped down power-ballads: I don’t think about them. At all. Ever. *hairflip*. 

However, this fucking song

pulls all of my heartstrings

with mesmerizing efficacity.

“Made of stars” showcases the best of Israel: they excel at classical drama: well-choreographed and sentimental, “Made of stars” is a genuinely touching ballad which Hovi magically imbibes with the spirit of Conchita. He whips up emotional tension so thick only his wit can penetrate it.

As an entry “Made of stars” is very emotionally intelligent and so, so brave. It has clearly defined yet subtle undertones of homosexuality that make me feel represented and loved. It is staged in good taste, elegant, introverted and clever, yet accessible, direct and poignant. The middle-eight’s crescendo-into-starfall creates a bone-chilling moment of beauty, of pride, of empowerment. 

For such a simple entry, it delivers a lot of great things, proving once more: it’s not what you perform, but how you perform it.

And this update spelled the end for Turkey, Hungary, Finland and Israel.

TURKEY

Not much to say, honestly. Turkey have three entries in this decade and two of them were good. They are a hit-or-miss nation for me overall, mostly because i LOVE them in the 80s and 90s and somewhat dislike them in the 00s. What mostly bothers me is TRT’s attitude towards the rainbow community AND their self-entitlement towards the jury vote/big five. Both are highly toxic and I’d rather they keep on sitting out until they’re willing to become a healthy part of the Eurovision community again. 

HUNGARY

Hungary are a good Eurovision country and their statistics reflect that. Boggie of COURSE ruined it by being the worst, but she’s an exception, not the rule. They are a really good country for indie gems and hopefully they’ll get their shit together. Could make a nice outsider winner pick in the upcoming decade, who knows?

FINLAND

Finland is such an underrated eurovision nation. I mean, look at that chart, and then ponder on the fact, with 7 good entries out of 10,  they NQ’d six times and that NONE of their four qualifiers reached the top 10. Finland are bullied beyond belief and it fucking needs to end. 

ISRAEL

This looks more underwhelming on paper than it is in reality. Israel’s probelm is never the song. Their songs are nearly always good. The problem is the live performance, where they get their accents wrong (ie: Mei dying from wideshotitis, Kobi being reduced to a sobstory, Dana being a giant penis joke, Harel fucking up vocally and Netta being reduced to a parody of herself). They just need to lighten up more, which they did post-Nadav resulting in a few great entries, and Toy. Overall, Israel are one of my favourite Eurovision countries, and for good reason: when they are good, they are fucking excellent.