#obsessed with the neoclassical look

[hgtvofficial]

55,165 sq ft residence in Mumbai, India

“With a lifelong dream of building a multi-generational house that would not only accommodate three families but also soirees or large social gatherings, the client’s brief called for a Neoclassical European house. In reference to the French Pavilion in Versailles, this project builds on the architectural language of late 18th French Neoclassicism with a contemporary twist by stacking generous traditional unit layouts into a folded “butterfly” floor plan.”

[i-swear-its-only-ironical]

Every time I have important exams coming up, a new hyperfixation arises. And sadly, it's never idk something academically useful but always some flavour of found family with one character or ship that owns my life for like 2 months and makes me want to write extensive analysis about. BUT NO, MY DEAR BRAIN, THIS HASN'T GOT ANYTHING TO DO WITH STATISTICS OR POLITICAL SCIENCE SO FUCK YOU.

I'm fine it's fine it's okay I'm fine.

[cosmicvaca]

I wanted to draw Ziyal in the dress that her father “””gave””” to her for her party in “Sons and Daughters”. But I’m crazy and thought I would mix it with my current obsession with the “Portrait of a Young Woman in White” not Jacques-Louis David (it looks like his work but it isn’t, probably made by someone in his neoclassical circle but we don’t know who). I’ve been doing “master copies” in my sketchbook and reading everything I could on it but I can’t get it out of my system.

Like in my head, it makes sense. The unknown subject is of a young aristocrat, a merveilleuse, who attends lavish parties during the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror (the Washington Post made a good little summary of the painting and this culture of youths) Dukat is having this lavish party for his daughter while millions die in a war he started.

Anyway, I made some sketches of Ziyal in what I guess is the dress Dukat gave to Kira. We don’t really see the dress in the episode, all we know is that it is purple and silky. So I kinda based it on the dress that Kira wore in the “”lol I fucked your mom”” episode that I detest. The dresses they wear kinda remind me of the fashion of les merveilleuses.

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Carpe Diem - Chapter 3

Pairing: Sketchbook (Kaisa/Johanna)

Summary: Carpe diem: one of the five latim mottos of the arcadist, or neoclassical movement. Literally translates to "seize the day"

Picking up where Locus Amoenus left off, this fic follows the lives of Kaisa and Johanna for a couple weeks as their feelings grow and develop.

Notes: Sorry but infodumping/letting someone infodump to you are the ultimate love languages

Read it on ao3 or read the first installment on this verse or read the second installment on this verse

A recurring theme that they noticed on the stalls was that they were mostly decorated and selling a couple of products related to Halloween already, never mind that they were still in September.

Another recurring thing that didn’t escape Johanna, was how excited Kaisa got whenever they passed by stalls that displayed such things. Whenever they walked by a particularly interesting Halloween decoration, or an artist who had selected some “creepy” or darker products to put in front of their stall, Kaisa gasped just loud enough for Johanna to hear, and very subtly bounced up and down on her heels. Very subtly, in a way that she was sure she only had noticed because she was walking oh-so-close to her. It didn’t really surprise her that Kaisa hadn’t been expecting her to pick up on it, because clearly the girl had been underestimating how closely Johanna paid attention to her.

Not that she hadn’t been doing that from day one, that is.

“You really like Halloween, don’t you?”

Kaisa turned to her with wide eyes when she asked it, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Yeah, kind of. It’s silly though.”

“New rule!” Johanna’s sudden chirp made Kitty look at her like she’d grown a second head. “You’re absolutely not allowed to hold back on what makes you happy, or to feel bad for it. Let’s try this again. You really like Halloween, don’t you?”

Kaisa could only look down at her feet, hoping the black and purple hair that fell over her face covered the way she was absolutely failing to hold back a smile, uselessly biting at the inside of her lips to try to stop them from stretching.

“I really do. I was really obsessed with witches when I was younger, and Tildy always fueled my passions. She gave me every book on every subject I asked for, and an obsession with witches melted into an obsession with Halloween, which became one with the historical roots of the holiday and the Celtic people. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons why I chose to major in History as well as English.”

Success, Johanna thought, looking down at Kaisa who was now displaying the most adorable smile on her lips. She’d always been somewhat aware of the height difference between them, but like this she could see very clearly that Kitty was at least a full ten centimetres shorter.

“That sounds so fun!” As she assured, Johanna wondered how many other interests Kaisa had that would make her sound so alive when she spoke about them. It was kind of sad to know that they were all most likely being neglected, though. With how furiously Kaisa focused on college, Johanna doubted that left her much time to learn about anything that wasn’t related to her lectures. If she had any say in it, though, she’d make sure Kaisa spent as much time engaging with the things that made her happy as possible. “Do you have plans for this Halloween? We could spend it together, if you’d like.”

The look Kaisa gave her was shimmering at first, before being clouded by disappointment. “I’m afraid I have. Tildy forces Frida to go trick-or-treating every year, and makes me go with her. It’s one of her many strategies to force us to have a night of rest from studying. I already promised I’d be doing it. Frida wants us to dress like characters from a cartoon she likes.”

Even though Johanna smiled as Kaisa answered it, bemused at the image of two workaholics being forcibly kicked out of their home to ask for candy (Kaisa’s mother sounded more charming by the minute), Kaisa didn’t feel content about completely turning down her invitation. It was something she’d very much like to do, and she’d hate it for Johanna to get the wrong idea.

“We could do something the day before, though!” She rushed to assure her, terrified that Golden might think she’d been giving an excuse. “Or the day after. Even if it’s not Halloween related, I’d just love to hang out-”

Johanna gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, sensing her distress. “I’d love it too! I’m sure we’ll think of something nice. What characters are you and your sister dressing as?”

It was hard for Kaisa to even contain her sigh of relief when she understood that Johanna really didn’t feel like she was being brushed off. “Amity and Lilith, from The Owl House. Do you know it?”

They kept on walking, Johanna’s brow furrowed in thought. “Isn’t that the gay rights cartoon? I think I saw it on twitter.”

“Yeah, you’re probably thinking of the right one. Frida hasn’t said anything about liking girls or boys yet. I think she’s still very young to have that figured out. But I’m willing to bet that Tildy has some sort of magical filter that she uses when making adoptions that miraculously points her to the lesbians, honestly.”

Johanna was glad she hadn’t been drinking anything. If she had, she certainly would have choked on it and it would have spilled through her nostrils, and it would not have been a pretty sight.

“Gosh, I need to meet your family.” Johanna said through her laughter, happy to see that Kaisa had joined her in on it. “Radical change in topic, but I am starving. Want to grab a bite?”

“Sure!”

Funny, Johanna thought. Even her single worded answers sounded more full of life now.

They skimmed through the next stalls, since most of the food ones were deeper into the market, and only stopped for one that caught Kaisa’s attention. It sold small, handmade perfumed candles, and anyone that passed by the two of them while they were there would have thought they were clinically insane with the way they frantically picked candles of each available scent to smell it, discussing which were the best ones. While they came to the consensus that the coffee bean and vanilla one was the champion, Johanna for the most part was drawn to the wildflowers and tea scented ones, while Kaisa didn’t relinquish her opinion that the apple and cinnamon candle was special. Johanna left empty handed out of pure self control (the tons of unburned candles in her bedside table’s drawer would certainly not appreciate it if she brought home another one just to abandon it), but Kaisa purchased both their favourite candle and the one that smelled like apple pie.

Once more food vendors began popping up, their nostrils were assaulted with the scent of every kind of food you could imagine, which honestly felt like karma for so desperately smelling everything on the candle stall. One of the first stalls had a large metal bowl at its centre, and bags of powder of many colours around it, and there was a child walking away from it with an enormous blue and purple cloud on a stick.

“Cotton candy!” Johanna exclaimed when she spotted it. “Would you like it?”

Kaisa scrunched her nose. “Not really. It’s so… sticky. The texture isn’t really my jam, I guess. But you go ahead and get it! I’d love to see you try and eat that, it’s bigger than your head.”

Showing her friend her tongue, she tugged her hand to invite her to continue walking. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m not too fond of the taste, I just think it’s fun to eat it.”

“Once again, I won’t be the one to stop you.”

“No, but you’ll be the one to take pictures of me with cotton candy stuck in my hair and blackmail me with them later.”

“Fair enough.”

They took a while to look at all of the available options, paying close attention to the other market attendees who walked past them holding any sort of food so as to make an informed decision. The ultimate winner was a stall frying beignets and sprinkling confectioner’s sugar on top. If the smell of deep-fried pastry alone wasn’t enough to draw them in, the look of utter pleasure in the faces of those who they saw eating them certainly was.

Their paying time took three times longer than it should, a result of both of them arguing about how they should be the one to pay for the other while the shopkeeper looked absolutely unamused. In the end, Kaisa won and paid for them both with the argument that Johanna had already driven them here, which meant that Johanna was already plotting every sort of plan to pay for their next meal.

At the centre of the square, a couple of benches were positioned around what would be a bonfire as soon as night fell, and they took a seat on an empty one. As they bit into their beignets, neither contained the hums of delight at the sweet, warm explosion in their mouths.

After a few bites in silence, because that was definitely the kind of food that was too good to talk while eating, Johanna gasped and reached into one of the bags she had acquired while in the market.

“You know what would taste great with this?” Before Kaisa could even think of an answer, she took her jar of honey from the bag and opened it. She offered it to Kaisa first, who dipped her pastry only just enough so that her next bite would taste of honey, and then promptly poured such an obscene amount of it on hers that it began to spill and drip down her fingers.

“Hm, this is so good.” Johanna moaned. While Kaisa was sure that she wasn’t tasting the honey as much as Golden, she would admit that it gave the beignet a delicious depth of flavour.

And then she looked at Johanna and completely lost all rational train of thought.

Her eyes were closed in appreciation and her head was leaning slightly back as she chewed. What captured her attention, however, was the drop of honey that had caught on the corner of her lip, and was painfully slowly making its way down to her chin.

If a human could blue-screen, Kaisa imagined that this was it.

What was the appropriate reaction to this? Probably telling her about it and giving her one of her own napkins, since Johanna would probably already be needing hers to clean her hands. Was this what her mind was telling her to do, though? Absolutely not, because the only thing her damn brain was working for at the moment was providing her with a very vivid imagery of how nice it would be to kiss that drop of honey away from her face and into her own mouth.

With her face most definitely red at the appalling thought and her hands suddenly clammy, Kaisa wished it wasn’t weird to shake your head violently in a public space (what? At least she’d get the feeling of shaking that thought far away from her) and acted on what was probably the middle ground between those two options.

Reaching up with one of her spare napkins, she allowed her hand to float just in front of Johanna’s face.

“May I?” She asked when Johanna opened back her eyelids and looked at the offer with open curiosity. At her nod, she wiped the honey away.

“Thanks.” If Johanna’s voice was several octaves higher, Kaisa didn’t comment on it. It wasn’t like she had the credit to do that, anyway. “This is… really good.”

“Yeah.” Kaisa bit into her food again with gusto, willing her mind to allow her to forget that moment of insanity. It wasn’t creepy if she hadn’t done anything inappropriate, right?

They finished eating and without even communicating seemed to agree on just sitting there with each other for a while. Johanna extended her legs in front of herself while Kaisa sat with one knee bent and foot close to her skirt, and the other leg extended towards Johanna.

“It just occurred to me that I do not, in fact, know much about the historical roots of Halloween.” The wind played with Johanna’s curls, making her bangs swing softly from side to side.

Kaisa snorted. “Are you sure you want to go there? Get me started and it’ll be hard to get me to stop, you know.”

“I’d love to go there, actually.” She smiled. “Anything you’d like to teach me, I’m all ears.”

Sighing contently was the only thing Kaisa could think to do, really. How long had it been since anyone other than Tildy and Frida had been ‘all ears’ to her? Not only to her interests, but to anything at all? Had that ever even happened?

“Well, you see, it is generally agreed that the Celts had three harvest festivals…”

Johanna wasn’t sure how long they spent there. She didn’t care, either. All that she knew is that she’d gotten this girl who she had spent months wondering if she even knew how to speak to give her a full lecture about a topic she was passionate about. She’d never even known she had the slightest interest in druids or roman cultural assimilation or the issue with the typical definition of a “celt”, but watching the muscles in Kaisa’s face move and hearing the pitches of her voice which were apparently unlocked when she was excited made Johanna decide that that was one of the coolest topics in the world, actually. She’d be sure to check out a book on it next time she was in the library, so she could actually hold a conversation with Kaisa next time she talked about it.

At one point, Kaisa stopped talking and looked around them, letting out a chuckle.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” She quipped, but Johanna didn’t understand it. The haze of tranquillity that had come over her when Kaisa had begun her monologue still lingered, and she struggled to pay attention to anything else.

“Hm?”

Kaisa pointed to the sky by means of explanation, and to Johanna’s surprise, it was no longer blue, but somehow orange, pink and purple at the same time. Hadn’t they arrived just past three o’clock, she wondered with startlement.

“It looks so pretty from here.” Johanna marvelled. Even those masterful watercolours they had seen paled in comparison to the real thing.

Kaisa’s gaze wandered back and forth from the sky to Johanna’s face, struggling to decide which was the better view. “It really does.”

They drank in the moment greedily, knowing it was impossible to drown on such a beautiful thing (and that if it were, they would go down gladly). The sounds were softer now that night was falling and most people had left, the colours were shifting as the sun bid goodnight and a market worker worked to light the bonfire in front of them. This time, unlike the garden, Johanna didn’t have to teach her how to appreciate the moment. She wouldn’t let this one go for anything.

The flames rose up in front of them, filling the autumn air with their warmth, and Johanna extended her hands towards them gladly.

“I disagree, you know.” She said, looking at Kaisa mischievously. “I don’t think we should stop meeting like this. I wouldn’t change this for anything at all.”

Neither would I, Kaisa thought, worried at this feeling that was settling in her chest even though it felt like it was too big to fit in it, worried about her carefully selected priorities that all seemed irrelevant in the face of all this peace. Neither would I.

[thevagueambition]

1, 10, 13, and 22 for the history ask? C:

1: Favourite historical person

I already answered this one here. Short answer: Magnus Hirschfeld.

10: Pieces of art ( paintings, sculpures, lithographies, ect.) related to history you like most ( post an image of them)

It's probably no secret that I have a fondness for homoerotic neoclassical art, lol

Aesthetically I have other art movements that speak to me more (post-impressionism, for instance) but what fascinates me about neoclassical art is also the whole... god, like European obsession with the classics and how that intersects with different aspects of society and how like, there's a huge difference between studying what the classical world was actually like versus what people through history have thought the classical world was like and how that has been used rhetorically at different points in time and....!

I'm going to go with That One Minotaur Sculpture Where It Looks Like Theseus Is Riding Him (ie Theseus and the Minotaur, Antonio Canova, 1781-82). Aside from the pose being both amusing and genuinely erotic, the fact that it is eroticised in this way also talks to contemporary art theory and like, the homoerotic as part of the artistic ideal in itself and how classical subject matter was used to filter that?? Idk, there's just a lot going on with that sculpture and the culture surrounding its creation lol.

13: Something random about some random historical person in a random era

Ah, erhm... Gah, I find this one difficult, I'm more about broad movements than specific people...

According to her autobiography (which I have only read random snippets of, it can be found here in Danish, German, British English and American English), when Lili Elbe and Gerda Wegener first arrived in Paris, they stayed in the hotel room Oscar Wilde had been staying in when he died and they were inspired to reread a few of his works.

22: Random historical fact about the place you are at the moment

The first written reference to the village that would become Copenhagen in historical sources is in Knýtlinga saga, where it's referred to as Höfn or Havn (literally "Harbour").

Old Norse Sveinn flýði fyrst til Sjólands með þat lið, er undan hafði komiz ok honum vildi fylgja, en Magnús konungr sigldi þegar eptir honum ok kom at Sveini, þar sem heitir í Höfn; lá hann þar fyrir fám skipum; (source) Danish Svend flygtede først til Sjælland med de folk, der var undkommet og ville følge ham, men kong Magnus sejlede straks efter ham og traf Svend på det sted, der hedder Havn; dér lå han med et fåtal af skibe. (source) Quick English translation of the Danish by me Svend first fled to Zealand with those of the survivors who wanted to follow him, but King Magnus sailed after him at once and met Svend at the place that is called Havn; there he lay with a small number of ships.

This reference seems to check out with archaeological data as a village located around where central Copenhagen is today, from what I've read.

Of course the more famous early reference to Copenhagen is the second one, where Bishop Absalon was granted dominion over a slew of areas by the pope with "Hafnia" among them.

__

Thanks for asking!

[carewyncromwell]

“If I lay here -- if I just lay here --  Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

~“Chasing Cars” by the Snow Patrol

x~x~x~x

featuring Ru Ollivander and Estrid Soelberg @thatravenpuffwitch​ and a reference to Galen Stagg @cursebreakerfarrier​ 💛 

x~x~x~x

Graduation. It was an event that marked the beginning of a new life, for the students of Hogwarts -- one that, at the turn of the 20th century, often included marrying and promptly starting a family, especially if one came from a well-respected magical family.

The Ollivanders were mortified, therefore, when their youngest child Rudolph (almost exclusively called “Ru”) instead promptly left their family home in favor of moving to Denmark to live with their close school friend Estrid Soelberg and her grandfather Maynard. It was particularly egregious considering that neither Ru nor Estrid had expressed any intention of or interest in marriage despite their cohabitation. 

This is what happens, though, when you pair up a rebellious kelpie impersonating the boy who tried and failed to bridle them when they were young with the solitary half-Veela who somehow managed to bring out and nurture their most human traits. One could hardly expect people like Ru and Estrid to follow popular convention. And so the two pointedly ignored the appalled reactions of the rest of Wizarding society and set about figuring out how to start the next chapter of their lives side by side.

The first hurtle for Ru was eating a proper dinner at the table with Estrid and Maynard, the way normal people do. They had become very used to eating alone, since before Hogwarts they frequently had to scavenge for food, and even at school, they had difficulty not hoarding food away from everyone else. But Maynard -- who’d heard so many stories about Ru from Estrid over the years that he’d already grown quite fond of them -- wished to be hospitable to Ru and make them feel welcome, and as much as the dinner made Ru uncomfortable, they weren’t blind to how much Estrid clearly esteemed her grandfather and really wanted him and Ru to get along. Plus it was because of Maynard that Ru now had a place to live in the first place, so it did behoove the kelpie to show some respect. And so, with some reluctance, Ru soldiered through and stayed at the table. Fortunately, even if their table manners were atrocious and they acted incredibly evasive the entire time, Maynard was a patient man and only approached Ru’s standoffishness with indulgence. He even managed to engage Ru a bit when he mentioned his love for painting.

“What style do you gravitate toward, in your work?” Ru asked, curious. “Neoclassism? Art Nouveau?”

“Oh, nothing quite that avant-garde,” said Maynard with a laugh. “Though I do like it, certainly. No, most of my stuff is more Romantic, in look...you’ll have to forgive an old man for being nostalgic for older styles.”

Ru gave a light snort. “There’s nothing wrong with older styles, if they’re any good. It’s just the Romantic stuff is fluffy and pointless.”

Rather than be offended by this rude assessment, Maynard merely raised his eyebrows, interested.

“Oh? I always thought the style helped capture the true beauty of the world we live in -- even the simplest, most seemingly insignificant kind.”

“That beauty can’t be true when the art polishes it beyond recognition,” Ru countered. “Romantic art turns generals into saviors, gardens into paradise -- normal men with scars and limps and bad posture into nothing but polished, perfect statues. It’s daft. The Romantics were so obsessed with capturing their precious feelings on canvas that all their work does is telegraph what they want their audience to think and feel, rather than trust them to use their own eyes and brains...or let the images just speak for themselves.”

Their electric blue eyes were as bright as the diamond earrings dangling beside their long hair -- shining with a bizarre kind of conviction.

“That’s the true magic of photography -- capturing a moment, just as it is, with all the little mistakes and flaws and blemishes therein. And yet also capturing a person and all of their beauty -- even the flawed, human things that painters stupidly try to gloss over.”

Maynard appeared pleasantly surprised by the response. His eyes seemed to brighten as he shot Estrid a rather wry smile. 

“Well now, Estrid, your friend truly has an artist’s soul!” he said, sounding rather proud. He beamed at Ru. “I have heard marvelous things about your photography, from Estrid. I don’t suppose there’s any photographs you’d be willing to show me, when time permits?”

Ru blinked. Then, upon receiving an encouraging look from Estrid, they gave a mild shrug.

“...S’pose there’s a few,” they granted with a small smirk of their own.

Maynard ended up looking over several albums of Ru’s work while Estrid helped Ru unpack the rest of their things. He was particularly charmed by how many pictures Ru had taken of Estrid dancing. 

When Ru went into the bathroom to wash up for the night, Maynard pulled Estrid aside.

“He’s not fully human either, is he?”

Estrid looked at her grandfather, startled. 

“I would think you sensed it too,” said Maynard. His gaze and voice were very calm. “I’d hazard a guess at mermaid ancestry, but I’m not quite sure...”

Estrid’s dark eyes flitted over to the closed door of the bathroom uncomfortably. 

The old half-Veela brought a hand down onto his granddaughter’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

“No matter,” said Maynard. “It was merely mild curiosity, on my part...your friend seems to have sparked some to life inside of me, whether he meant to or not.”

Estrid looked up at Maynard. His eyes were sparkling fondly. 

“He is a truly fascinating person, my dear,” he murmured. “I can see why you’ve become so fond of him.”

Estrid smiled slightly too, her eyes softening. 

Ru spent a lot of time in the bathtub “washing up” before finally coming out. By the time they’d emerged, their fingers and toes were all wrinkled up like prunes, which seemed to please them quite a bit.

“Now, you see this? This is something else fun about humans,” they said with a broad grin as they sidled in front of the mirror in Estrid’s room and wrung their long black hair dry with a towel. “This body’s three-quarters water -- yet leave it in water for that amount of time, and the skin just crumples under the weight of it! It’s bonkers.”

“If you want to experiment with that again, go take a dip in the pond,” said Estrid coolly. 

She was sitting up in bed and she kept her focus on the book she was reading as she spoke, trying to ignore the fact that Ru had strolled into her room for a chat while dressed in only a smoking jacket. 

“You’re just lucky Grandfather likes you enough to forgive you for using up all the hot water,” she added as she turned the page. 

Ru gave a light bluster through their nose and mouth. “Your grandfather’s a wizard, isn’t he? He can always just heat up some more with his wand, can’t he?”

“No, he can’t,” Estrid shot them down without looking up from her book. “Grandfather never attended Hogwarts. He’s never used a wand.”

Ru blinked slowly at Estrid’s reflection in her long mirror as they considered this. Then, finally, they gave a light “...Hm” and dropped the issue. Clearly they’d decided it really wasn’t their business and, out of respect for Maynard, chose not to press Estrid for an explanation.

“I suppose the pond out there would be a nice place for a swim anyhow,” said Ru offhandedly. “Reckon there’d be some interesting moss and aquatic plants around there too...might make for some good pictures...”

With their black hair now dry, they strode over to Estrid’s bed and flopped down next to her. Their head landed right on the pillows, right above Estrid’s. 

“Ru?” said Estrid, startled. “What are you -- ?”

“What?” said Ru. “It’s comfortable.”

Estrid flushed as Ru closed their eyes. 

“It’s my bed,” she said forcefully. 

But Ru had already started to settle themselves in, turning over in bed so that their face rested in the light blond hair at the top of her head. They exhaled through their nose in a soft sigh that tickled Estrid’s forehead.

Estrid’s blush darkened. “Ru...you’re only half-dressed, you dalcop -- get up -- ”

Ru mumbled something largely undiscernible. 

Estrid brought a hand up to Ru’s chest as if to push them right out of bed, but she found herself hesitating, seeing the look on Ru’s face. 

All tension or strain had left their dark brows or long-lashed eyes. It left a strange, almost innocent expression behind...one better suited to a child, drifting off to a soft lullaby. 

The Hufflepuff didn’t think she’d ever see Ru look quite so peaceful before. 

“Ru...” she said a bit more softly. 

Closing her book and putting it down on the side table, she turned her focus more properly to Ru. She brought her hands up to adjust their smoking jacket, so as to better cover their hairless chest. 

Ru shifted slightly in bed -- without opening their eyes, they blindly brought a hand up through her hair. Then they adjusted on the pillows so that Estrid’s face ended up in the crook of their neck, right beside the glinting silver “bridle” chain fastened there. 

“...’Strid...” their voice came out as a sleepy garble.

Their long fingers tangled in her hair as they cradled the back of her head. Estrid’s expression softened a bit -- she remembered Galen mentioning once that playing with each other’s manes was something kelpies did to express affection. Ru themselves had taken to braiding Estrid’s hair, when they were spending time together on their own, back at school. 

They’d had a long day, Estrid decided. Moving to a new country to start a life you never thought you ever would -- all in preparation for a new newspaper job the next morning -- wasn’t something you did every day. No sense in scolding them for being a bit tired. 

Leaning forward, the Hufflepuff tentatively placed a soft kiss to Ru’s jawline. The feel of their soft, porcelain skin under her lips made her heart race and made Ru give a soft, contented sigh.

“Good night, Ru,” Estrid whispered.

Reaching for her wand on her side table, she quietly put out the lights. Then she brought the covers up and over the two of them, settled back down on the pillows beside Ru, and closed her eyes herself.

By morning, the two slept fully in each other’s embrace, Estrid curled up in a ball at Ru’s side while their legs and arms wound around her, their hand cupped beside her cheek and hair and their face resting beside hers on the pillow. When Estrid woke, the sight of Ru sleeping so peacefully beside her prompted her to kiss them awake -- a tradition that the two would take turns indulging in several times over, on those many wonderful mornings they would wake up, side by side. 

[celestialrequiem]

Opera/Chapter 1: A Mistake Waltz

Serial Killer!Michael Langdon x Y/N (ballet reader)

Plot: A delusional fan obsessed with a ballerina...what will Langdon do?

Warnings: Obsessive fan, delusional Michael Langdon, talk about parents death, reader is a perfectionist, and passionate but has self doubts, not sure if this should be a warning but also toxic sibling?, mention of death, noncon voyeurism, depicted graphic murder, mentions of arsenic poisoning and dissection.

Let me know if i missed any warnings please! and this will get darker lol, please don’t read if you don’t feel comfortable! 

Disclaimer: This fic is inspired by one of my favourite films Opera by Dario Argento (one of my favourite filmmakers ever!) and Phantom of the Opera! This is dedicated to those who inspired me they know who they are by now, one them has their name is in the fic! Also of course based in the 70s, none of my fics are based in the present lmaoooo.

Word count: 2.5k

Also the pictures don’t depict the reader, I will be mentioning Edgar Degas paintings in the chapter hence why I used those pictures, but I tried my best to make it inclusive! I am new to writing!! 🥺

7th of April 1974, “Dana, The most viewed ballerina since Anna Pavlova, The Dying Swan” was on New York Times, It was also the talk of their small town Beacon, New York. Shared between people and all over the radio and television in New York City. Dana is loved internationally from Russia, New York to Paris. Nicknamed, “The Pride and Bride of New York City”. However, her sister Y/N isn’t.

The Opera House, despite it being in a small town, it attracts a lot of attention thanks to Dana. Nicknamed the “Broadway of Beacon”, now the best-known landmark, a performing arts facility with 3000 seats in the concert hall, it is host to symphony concerts, choir performances, and ballet shows. With the neoclassical architecture built in the mid 19th century; marble Corinthian columns and bronze busts, expensive velvet and gold marbles for the interior.

The only place Y/N wasn’t allowed access to are the mysterious cellars under the main stage, their manager telling them that the owner’s daughter died there, Unknown circumstances. Her unborn child was found bloodily deformed, hidden in the window seat of the owner’s office.

Rumours were going around of a killer on the loose, murdering women in their 20s. Another rumour states that the murderer likes to uses arsenic, to knock them unconscious and then dissect them, as if they were his own musical instrument. The owner was able to hide it from the tabloid, to avoid hurting the image of the Grand Opera House. The sisters never bothered checking it out, after hearing about the daughter that will remain forever nameless, what didn’t help is their manager brushing it off every time they tried to ask questions, concerning the mysterious disappearance of the body. 

—————-

Before their performance of Swan Lake Acte Un, Y/N and Dana are in their room, Dana’s station is full of roses, dandelions and daisies bouquets varying in colours like their costumes, accompanying the flowers are 100 fan letters delivered by hand, while Y/N’s station is empty like Dana’s love for her sister.  

As Dana finishes applying the tinted red blush on her cheeks, Dana looks up to Y/N in their shared mirror and sees Y/N looking at one of her fan letters, stating in big red lines with drawn hearts all round it that she is a way better performer and more flexible than her sister.

Y/N lost in thought, her only fan didn’t send her a scented letter today.

“You know nobody cares about you, except for me…. of course”, Dana utters with a sarcastic tone

“Thanks, I guess”, Y/N snaps out of her ritualistic obsessive routine of snooping through her sister’s letters and continues applying her mascara.

The manager, Jade yells at them to finish up as the show is about to start.

They start finalizing their visages and their looks with the help of their assistant, tying down the final net layers.

The costume was designed and hand sewn by a known French Designer, Étienne Lefleuve. A blue tutu with silver diamond glimmering against the big studio lights, and accompanying the tutu, a bodice that contains a black tulle, decorated with feathers and rhinestones, and a wing-shaped piece of lace around the waist, the design going all the way to their chest.

However, Dana being Odette, her costume stood out so much more with her top skirt garnished with sapphire lace embellished with feather patterns.  White feathers decorating her earlobe, and a cut crease look, a black eyeliner that help contrast her emerald eyes.

-

For Y/N, The Opera house is her haven but also her inferno. Despite her strong apparent appearance, before a performance, she recites “Memento Mori” three times before entering the stage. To ease her nerve and to remind herself that she is doing what she is passionate about, her first love and only love, ballet.

-

As the Y/N opens the big red wide curtains to the audience of the Opera’s house, she sees him.

He is here again.

A man in the audience always stood out to her, sitting in the front row seats. Long blond locks, plump lips and blue eyes as the colour of a clear blue sky in a summery day. Wearing the same Victorian-like attire when he sees her performance every weekend: a crimson necktie, and a black cloak staggering on the seat, showcasing his broad shoulders. He doesn’t seem like he belongs here... in this time period. He didn’t seem to fit it in. An eidolon. Like her.

He has been infatuated with her for months, obsessive and crazy about her. His mind has caged her dazzling movements.  She is not Odette, but he always imagined that she is his Odette, his swan princess.  Mailing her letters every morning to her workplace as soon as he opens his eyes and sending her letters to her private home every time the sun goes down without her sister noticing. Hoping one day instead of the hassle of mailing her letters, he would just voice his comments to her. Scared of rejection, for now he loves her from a distance.

He watches her movements attentively on stage. She dances flawlessly, like fragile wings trembling by the wind. Her eyes are closed to focus on the rhyme of the music, lost in its’ chorus. Effortlessly, she moves from one spot to another, her feet touching the ground with her pastel blue slippers, her tuff going up and down from the intensity of her movements. He thought she looked divine, her ballet costume, full of rhinestones making her look like an angel with a halo surrounding her, forgetting about the outstanding scenic design behind the players.

——-

While dancing figuratively on stage, forgetting her sister is around her, she decides to squint her eyes open. She sees a single tear dropping from his exquisitely structured face, trickling down his sharp cheekbones. Her heart skipped a beat, this time not from the rhythm of the music but rather from the emotion portrayed on this young man. She never saw him cry before. Was he crying because of her? She thought to herself. First time being swayed by something else besides the music. Halfway through Act 1, Scene, in the heat of the moment, she trips over her sister.

She was overwhelmed with the interest of the stranger in her art and in her. Overwhelmed with the sadness echoing from his deep sombre eyes matching the main’s theme,“the music of the grief soul” 

She did not realize the pain coming from her sister, tell she heard her scream echoing in her eardrums, and a clashing sound.

“Ouch!”

She looks at her sister’s pained ankle, did not realize she was in pain too, till she left the stranger’s gaze.

She was shocked.

She made a mistake.

She was hurt.

Not bothered by the physical pain but by her perfectionism routine being ruined.

She looks at the crowded audience again, but the seat that her eyes mostly lingered on the past shows was gone..his red velvet seat was now empty. She, however saw his back figure, walking out of the big theatre. She felt that he was the performer and not her, his hands opening the black curtains to exist the theatre.

Her performance moves him softly, makes his heart beat and makes him feel human again, but then when he saw her in pain, he discovered a new emotion he never saw linger on her face. he realized he is like the devil feeding on her pain, but he didn’t mind, His mind is consumed with the thought of her delicate small neck and the rhythm of her heartbeat, on his thick veiny hands. He thought even Mozart would be envious of him.

Despite the distance, she stood out to him. He liked how her eyes changed when they are in pain, her eyebrows furrowed forming a shape similar to a swan’s smallest feather.  He liked that now he has another different vision of you in his head now. 

It will be easier to kidnap her with a tortured ankle, less work and less the fuss, he thought to himself. 

She will be his eventually, in desire and in flesh. He however wasn’t sure if he wanted her for a quick fuck, wanted to kill her, or actually wanted her. He usually obsessive over specific women that he wants to murder, an instinct he calls it, but things were different with how he felt with her, his heart usually skips a beat from the thrill of murdering and seeing blood pouring out of bodies, he thinks it’s like looking at dripping chocolate sauce on a sundae... on a hot summer day.

He never forgot the day, he discovered he actually sexually desires her. After a performance, she was in the changing room. The assistant helping out with the complicated layers of the garment, untangling the ropes of the bodice. He can see her refection on the standing baroque mirror, and that was the first time he saw her completely unveiled. His lustful eyes raking down her body.  Instead of his heart throbbing, this time it was his cock. Unconsciously, His palm was over his bugle, rubbing himself through his trousers, while looking at her slowly getting revealed in front of him like a little present. From then on, he couldn’t fuck any of his victims, every time he tried to, her naked body would flash as a mental image, like an intrusive thought.

——-

The curtains close, ceasing her view of the audience in horror. Despite the warmth coming from her pained ankle, her whole body felt frozen.

“you fucking jealous bitch, you will pay!”, Y/N hears her sister’s voice drifting further away in the distance. The only thing that isn’t drifted is her heart thumbing loudly

She felt chatter behind her, but out of shock she stood still, feeling disconnected from reality. 

Wrapped inside her head with so many questions left to answer, the tabloid already didn’t like her, what will happen now after this? She never realized he was that captivating till she saw a single tear fall from his eye. She thought even Adonis didn’t stand a chance.

Did she move him that much? She felt that she was out of breath, adrenaline bursting into her views, which usually for her, comes from the effect of  Tchaikovsky compositions and not a man’s endearment.

Is it an endearment? 

his eyes portrayed so much agony, or did she misinterpreted that? What was weird is there were no emotional reaction to when he witnessed her mistake waltz.

The Buffy manager wearing a black suit and tie, taps her shoulder, making her snap back to reality

“what was that all about?, we had to end the show early because of your fuckin mistake!...act one!” Jade’s voice burning Y/N’s eardrums

Oh right…her sister.

She looks at the wooden floor on the right side, where her sister was performing she realized she wasn’t there anymore..

She blinks her eyes several time and pinch her wrist to make sure she is not dreaming, still giving her manager her back. Her pacing heart felt like a wrecking ship drowning and her head pounding with tension

“I am talking to you!”  The manager twirls her body around with her brawny hands to face her, while her bulky body overshadows Y/N’s figure and the lights of the Opera house

“where is my sister?” She quietly mutters the words, looking at Jade’s eyes that has a menacing glare.

“Well, where do you think?, she states sarcastically, “ they took her to the hospital after that stunt you pulled”

She felt her body tense up, when did that happen? And also why didn’t they think about her pained ankle too? She thought to herself.

“How’s she?” Her voice is soft, worried about her sister.

There was a small stiff pause

She hears her manager sigh, “Well, we will find out”

She lower her gaze, trying not to get emotional and hoping no tears come out of her eyes.

“I know what you’r thinking”, the manager who usually is expressionless, snarled with a smile

When Y/N’s manager uttered those words, she look at her, to give her a sign to continue what she is getting at. Jade’s sly smile turns into and a smirk, “ but you ain’t going with you’r sister” she leaves her hardened grip that was on Y/N’s shoulder to circle around her physique.

“Your sister has to be treated separately, especially being the “The Pride and Bride of New York City”…you know better than that Y/N”, Jade stated over her shoulder.

Of course, the favourite sibling. Y/N felt her heart ache, She has never been the first choice for anyone. Even their parents before their car accident which sorrowfully took their lives, 5 years ago. They were hardly any childhood photos of Y/N. They always left Y/N with her self-conscious thoughts when Dana criticized her and judged her.  She never got positive affirmations from their parents like when graduated at the top of her class in high school and when she won a swimming competition at a local sports club but they congratulated and threw a party for Dana when she won a small piano competition at school.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t feel bad over her sister’s stay at the hospital, caused by her mistake waltz.

Y/N thinks back to her manager, she knows she was not her favourite but she was never this blunt with her.

Y/N huffs and decides to start walking away from Jade to help stop her pestering inner dialogue, “No worries, I don’t need to be treated anyways, I got it myself”, She, however, suddenly felt a sharp pain, like knives piercing deep scars on her tender skin, but she didn’t want to show her manager that she was throbbing in pain. Trying to hide her whimpering by biting her mouth and slowly going to her room, taking hard steps despite the slippers. She can feel them echoing through the hall.

-

She gets back to her room, finding a letter waiting for her. Surprised she received one, especially after what happened today. 

By the colour, She can tell it was from that person; a ballet slipper pink envelope with a red wax steel stamp. With no name attached to it, but they call themselves “Your Beloved”, which kind of did put her on edge because isn’t that what people address their lover? 

But it did make her heart swell to know she is this person’s first choice. For once.

She smells the envelope like she always does and the scented letter habitually has a soft fragrance of vanilla mix with lavender remains of a flower that once bloomed. It is as if they know that her favourite flowers are lavender and her favourite ice cream flavour is vanilla. She never mentioned that to the press, not that they did care about that. They always interviewed her sister over her.

She opens the yellowed letter that always seemed somehow ancient, precisely with the scripture writing but this time the cursive writing is decorated in blood red, it did not feel like a fountain pen or a quill this time.

She realizes only two sentences are written.

“Don’t worry my beloved, I will protect you….I am coming for you….

“Despite seeing your dashing performances, I get so tired of watching. I want to start doing.”

But there are initials this time.

Signed M.L

Who the fuck is M.L?

taglist: @bloodcoatedeclipse​​ @king-with-no-crovvn​ @9layerdevilfoodcake​

@revengeoftheantichrist @plymptxn-reborn @waltzwiththedevil @wroteclassicaly @angelicmichael @ramona-thorns @anakinsslag​ @ritualmichael​ @sojournmichael  @kitty4860 @deliciousartpoliticsdean @darkladyslytherin​ @wasteland-babe​ @chicaluna2410 @we-did-it-joe  @beautyiswithinchaos  @devilish-hecate @rexellaaa @thatbit5  @d3monslust​  @luciahoneychurch @saamwilsonn​ @codyfernuk​ @melodylangdon @anojaisasleep​ @manmadewhorror​ @wroteclassicaly​ @naughtygranger​​​ @brooklinn13​ @wormycircumstance

(I tagged people who wanted to be tagged or who I thought might be interested to read the fic!) 

Sorry Dana , your character is kinda bitchy lmao😭, wanted to dedicate you somehow!!!🙈

[designingthebarricades]

From “Empire” to Gothic Revival: A (Very) Brief Intro to Women’s Fashion, 1810-1830

The period from the early 1810s to the early 1830s in women’s fashion is marked by drastic changes in silhouette. At the beginning of the 1810s, the slim high-waisted Neoclassical silhouette that developed between the 1790s and the 1800s still prevailed. By the 1830s, fashionable gowns featured huge sleeves that made the natural waistline look tiny in comparison. The changing silhouette of fashion reflects the rapidly changing cultural climate during this time. 

In the last years of Napoleon’s reign, the airy neoclassical-inspired gown still reigned supreme. Though there was increasing variety in the materials and embellishment used in women’s fashion, the silhouette remained high-waisted and slim. As in the 1800s, colorful accessories and outerwear were often used to offset white muslin gowns: cashmere shawls from India were the ultimate fashion “it” item, with the Empress Josephine rumored to own hundreds. Short spencer jackets and long dress-like pelisses offered more coverage for inclement weather. 

Dress, French, ca. 1814, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Notice how the “little white Empire dress” is getting more elaborate in terms of decoration.

Pelisse ca. 1815, France, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Notice the puffed sleeves, high collar, and structured silhouette. 

By the late 1810s, when the monarchy was restored in France, elements of historicism began to creep into fashion. “Historicism” refers to a strong historical influence on dress. Notable examples of historicism in the 1810s and ‘20s are mostly drawn from medieval or renaissance attire, which coincides with the Romantic obsession with the “gothic.” Elements like pointy collars or chemisettes, puffed sleeves, and decorative lacing. Skirt embellishments became more common as skirts started to expand outward.

Evening dress, French, early 1820s, Metropolitan Museum of Art. 17th century historicism is evident in the sleeve decoration, the sleeve decoration that resembles an exposed underskirt, and the faux lacing on the bodice. 

Eventually, waistlines began to creep lower as well. By the mid-1820s, waistlines trended steadily lower, reaching the natural waist around 1830. The waist became a focal point as sleeves and skirts expanded outward. Fashion took on a whimsical bent as the ideal of neoclassical austerity was replaced by idiosyncratic Romantic influences. 

Dress ca. 1830, French, V&A. This dress combines the lower waistline and full sleeves of the 1830s with historicized details on the bodice. The bodice resembles the full, exposed shirts or chemises often seen in Italian renaissance fashion. 

With the rise of the large-sleeved, full-skirted silhouette of the 1830s, the mid-17th century became a natural reference point for fashion. When Louis-Phillipe came to power in 1830, lace collars, pointed waists, and heavily trimmed skirts recalled the peak of French court culture under Louis XIV. Where fashion had sought to distance itself from royal courts by drawing on ancient references, it now looked to recent history for inspiration. 

[brettesims]

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

The way to be eternally happy... is to free your mind. The preferred means of liberation is passion in Eternal Sunshine. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a favorite philosophy of mine as well as my favorite film. It is directly linked to the 'Power of Now'.

If you haven't seen the film featuring (a serious) Jim Carey, I recommend it for pretty supreme mental expansion! Also if you didn't know Jim Carey is like a Guru now, so get into his instagram. The film is on Amazon Prime.

So what is this concept of Eternal Sunshine?

It was originally an extremely long poem by Alexander Pope. Alexander Pope was a conscious poet and a central figure in the Neoclassical movement of the early 18th century.

“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d”

So let's break it down:

Eternal as the infinite light of source’s love.

Sunshine as Source's/God’s light.

When you learn how to become the watcher and the witness of your thoughts then you are at peace. When you learn that thoughts are things and that what you think can manifest thoughts into physical form you begin to practice the observation of your thoughts daily. We learn how to sit with our passing thoughts in meditation as we evolve. Our thoughts then become to quiet.

Our minds become "conscious" or filled with the awareness, that we are each emanating ultra light beams, shining here and NOW. When you come into this awareness - society calls it a "spiritual awakening", however it's really just you remembering who are what you are. It is you remembering your true essence and your true light. When this happens, it feels like you are reborn. Old mental patterns tightly wrapped around the ego begin to drop and it feels refreshing. It cleans the mind and creates peace. Drop the relentless, obsessive circular thought processes - EXPAND!

When you can look at life from that perspective then you always have Eternal Sunshine, because your mind is always spotless. 

But - let's not front, its a never-ending journey - the practice of cleaning up your mind. The mind has to be cultivated daily. That is why I say, "CULTIVATE THE GARDEN WITHIN."

It is possible to change and transform the direction of your life any second through true joy. Patterns of behavior can feel like mental traps that need to be reprogrammed and rewired through meditation and affirmation. We each have the power to reprogram and thus FREE our minds. However, freeing your mind is an endless process, so it helps to fall in love with the journey.

Hope this helps,

- Brette

For more join my Patreon:

[benjaminmoorepaint]

red: the color of...grantaire?

Figured I might do another meta post like the one I did for Marius to address the myths and misconceptions surrounding certain characters, so it's Grantaire's turn!

I'm sure we all know Grantaire quite well...a sensitive starving artist, with his Apollo as his muse, and a cynic who pragmatically points out the flaws in Enjolras's idealism, which they quarrel over.

Let's unpack that!

Grantaire is most likely middle class if not wealthy, he is certainly not poor. We don't know what he's studying (if he's studying at all) but he is nevertheless a quintessentially Parisian bourgeoise "student", much like Bahorel. "A rover, a gambler, a libertine..." As the foil of "severe in his enjoyments" Enjolras, Grantaire is a pleasure-seeker, indulging in the excesses that Enjolras disdains.

Again, though we don't know what Grantaire is studying (and I suspect he's just Bahorel-ing it) he's clearly an educated man, judging by the references he throws into his speeches, and he mentions that he once was a student of Gros.

So is he really an artist? He might have been an apprentice at some point, but it's clear he was not particularly enthused by it. After all, discipline is something that Grantaire…lacks. And because it's Grantaire, you can't completely discount the idea that he made it up just for a pun (though I do find that unlikely.) But it's a triple (quadruple?) play--it's important not to take this quote too far out of context because he's actually saying several things here.

It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty; when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; rapin is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as for the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect [...] there are just as many vices in virtue as there are holes in Diogenes’ cloak.

Gros was a well-known neoclassical painter of the time, and I believe Hugo's inclusion of him here is a jab at the neoclassicists, as Grantaire doesn't seem to care for him.

There's a pun! "Rapin"--term for a painter's assistant--is the masculine of "rapine"--to steal.

So he likely means he stole the apples intended to be painted for a still life, which fits his careless attitude... but he's ironically putting himself down for it too, and at the same time

putting his companions down, saying they're no better than him even if they do have more "good" qualities because each good quality has a corresponding downside, so what's the point, really?

You can see that even in this small sample of his speech that Grantaire often has layers upon layers of meaning in what he says. He's a smart guy! But that means you can't always take what he says at face value, as Hugo says, he's constantly "reasoning and contradicting" himself. So let me invite you further down into what I think his real meaning is here (though now firmly into the depths of my own conjecture, so others may have different interpretations.)

I would speculate that "the rest of you" who he professes to mock refers mostly to a specific person, you can probably guess who. After all, Enjolras is surely the paragon of virtue among them, and you could certainly argue that his good qualities edge on being flaws. I think Grantaire is right about that, and it's a sort of theme we see pop up again and again--the Bishop's generosity does hurt the women he lives with, Valjean's self-sacrifice hurts Cosette, and Javert is someone who's tipped all the way over to his virtues being vices.

But like, man, come on. Seriously. "I scoff at your perfections, excellencies, and qualities." Dude. We all know that you're obsessed with this man.

And you might notice that this is just a whole lot of Grantaire talking and talking over people, never letting anyone else get a word in. It's not a debate, Grantaire never actually debates anyone, let alone Enjolras. The idea of Grantaire debating Enjolras and making him see the flaws in his idealistic revolution is wholly a fandom invention.

The closest we get, really, is Grantaire trying to convince Enjolras to send him to the Barriere du Maine...and Grantaire doesn't come out of that looking so good.

“Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at Richefeu’s?”

“Not much. We only address each other as tu.”

“What will you say to them?”

“I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi! Of Danton. Of principles.”

“You?”

“I. But I don’t receive justice. When I set about it, I am terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, I know my constitution of the year Two by heart. ‘The liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.’ Do you take me for a brute? I have an old bank-bill of the Republic in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, sapristi! I am even a bit of a Hébertist. I can talk the most superb twaddle for six hours by the clock, watch in hand.”

I won't bother going too in-depth here since you're probably familiar with all this--Grantaire talks a big game and then fails to follow through. And we see one of two red waistcoats mentioned, neither of which are worn by Enjolras.

Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Café Musain. He went out, and five minutes later he returned. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre waistcoat.

“Red,” said he as he entered, and he looked intently at Enjolras. Then, with the palm of his energetic hand, he laid the two scarlet points of the waistcoat across his breast.

So yeah, it's actually Grantaire who wears red, at least canonically! I know their popular red/green color scheme comes from the musical, but it might be fun to reverse it sometimes...I think Enjolras would look great in a nice emerald green, and he'd be more likely to wear that, actually.

Why? A red waistcoat like would be a very obvious, in-your-face political statement--perfect for Bahorel, the other red waistcoat wearer, but Enjolras is actually a lot more reserved and less reckless than fandom sometimes makes him out to be. Wearing something that blatant isn't really his style.

The real question is, why does Grantaire, of all people, own one? Why has he read Prudhomme and the Social Contract and the Rights of Man?

Grantaire is not a super sympathetic character. He's a man of means, talent, intelligence...and he wastes those gifts and privileges on doing nothing, he has no aims in life, he does not aspire to do better or make the world better. He may be Enjolras's foil but I would also contrast him with Feuilly, who has spent his life dedicated to improving himself and the world despite the challenges he's faced. He's obnoxious to women, denigrates his friends for their beliefs, and is generally useless. He's given the opportunity to change and he squanders it. He's not so much cynical (because that's a belief) as he is indifferent, which is arguably worse. His indifference can certainly be read as symbolic within the group, their belief versus the apathy of the world.

But, layers upon layers...Grantaire does have a good heart hiding underneath all that. What I've been getting at all along here is that he does care; he may say he doesn't, he may even believe he doesn't, but he does, clearly, care. He says he hates mankind; he loves people. He says he scoffs at his companions; he admires them. He declares himself indifferent, yet he can't help but talk about the sufferings of the world.

Which isn't to say that simply caring absolves him of anything. Up to this point, he's still just been a useless layabout. What does absolve him (narratively speaking) is the first time, possibly the first time in his life, that he chooses to act. He chooses to take a stand. And this transfigures him, as Hugo says.

Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat which he had missed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.

At the last moment, he chooses to believe, and Enjolras finally accepts him.

One last thing: Grantaire never calls Enjolras "Apollo". Furthermore, he's actually the only one who couldn't have called him "Apollo". The only line where this nickname is mentioned is as follows:

It was of him, possibly, that a witness spoke afterwards, before the council of war: “There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.”

Who could have called him that? Not Grantaire, he was fast asleep during the whole thing. So I choose to believe it was Prouvaire…he would.

[elfboyeros]

Too Many Feelings

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Ship: Spencer Reid and Self Interest

Words: 1,876

Content: language, nonbinary language, angst, fluff, depressed Reid {mc'sorry}, mention of Maeve, post-season 8, comfort, dancing, talking about feelings

Note: I'm the one who wrote Another Dr. Reid and I mentioned in that post I might make a part two to that story. Yeah, this ain't it, and that will probably not get a part two! ! Edit after the fact: This will not have multiple but will strickly be a one off because I have no motivation and apparently my brain can only write Spencer Reid Oneshots mc'sorry! Enjoy

Spencer did not think his night would be like this… crying on the shoulder of someone he could consider a partner, swaying to soft music. He also thought he would be dancing with anyone that weren’t his friends, well closest friends. Cordelia, the person he was dancing with, was a friend. Although Cordelia is different than his co-workers, then his family. Running into them only by chance and an act of clumsiness, Spencer was greeted with an English professor in his local library.

He wanted to get out of the house, and found refuge in old books he didn’t own, what was doing in the arts section, who knows. He was looking for anything although when he rounded the corner into the R section, he bumped into pale skin, fluffy white, gray eyes, and heart-shaped glasses. Which caused a small stack of books fall to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer remarked, dropping to his knees, “I wasn’t paying attention!”

The individual chuckled, “It’s not a problem,” they replied, “I should have been watching where I was going too.”

“Romanticism: 100 Poems and Romantic Realities: Speculative Realism and British Romanticism,” he muttered, reading the titles of the books.

“Yeah, I have become a romantic for romanticism,” they replied as Spencer handed the books back.

“One unique thing about romanticism is that it’s meaning it is difficult to fathom with words. Not because of the inefficiency of language but rather the complexity of the movement, and the fact that it did not have a definite technical art style,” Spencer rambled.

“It is,” they replied, with a smile, “romanticism also introduced the idea of drama.”

“Because it the neoclassical movement that promoted rational thoughts, science, practicality, and material aspects of the human form, preferring to showcase emotions, and drama!”

“I thought I was the only one who was obsessed with romanticism, I’m Cordelia Paris.”

“Spencer Reid,” he replied, “I’m actually not, I just read it once.”

“Oh, what are you obsessed with in the ways of studies.”

Spencer made a new friend that day. The mostly likely reason he enjoyed speaking to them was because they listened, actively. Every little fact, story, his education, and rambling he spouted they listened with an intrigued look. But he wasn’t the only one talking, he learned that Cordelia was a professor, they had a doctorate themselves, with a love for romanticism, media, and art movements where just a few on a long list.

The feeling of euphoria he felt meeting someone that appeared to enjoy is company made him feel so warm, the same warm feeling he felt with Maeve.

Yeah Maeve…

It was like his world fell apart when he finally figured out why he seemed attracted to Cordelia - on a level that his brain to so long to comprehend - was because they remained him of Maeve, and it scared the shit out of him.

Maeve cannot be replaced, there will not be another person like Maeve in the world and the idea of replacing her, terrified him, but he also wanted to start anew, that how he ended up dancing with Cordelia in their apartment.

He agreed to have dinner with them at their place, after many missed friendly events at coffee shops, library, and bookstores. Which Spencer really enjoyed, soft music in the background, good food, and even better conversation.

“Spencer are you alright,” Cordelia asked.

He had been staring on at an empty plate for a good 2 minutes, before looking back at Cordelia who sat across from him with a tilted head and furrowed brow, “yeah, everything is fine, I’m good.”

“Don’t lie,” they replied.

“I’m just thinking,” he sighed.

“About?”

Cordelia never pressed him too much on the topic of Maeve, even though they could tell when he was thinking about her, “Spencer it’s okay you can talk to me.”

He took a moment to read their expressions: calm, concerned, and willing to listen, “is it wrong for me to enjoy this so much?”

“Enjoy what exactly?”

“Being with you.”

The three words he said made them blush slightly, “I don’t believe so,” they answered, “by I could be bias.”

“There is part of me that doesn’t want to replace her,” Spencer replied, standing from his chair, beginning to paced slowly, “but another part of me wants to move on.”

“That is completely natural,” Cordelia replied.

“Cordelia, I-I-I felling myself falling in love with you, and I find myself comparing you to Maeve and I don’t want to do that-”

“Spencer,” they breathed, quietly.

“Because you’re not Maeve, she was one of a kind and now she gone,” he continued before turning around quickly to face Cordelia, “I know that, but when I start thinking about you, I think about Maeve. It makes me not want to change what we have right now, because I don’t want to ruin our friendship!”

“Spencer…”

He can’t hear them, well more like, he doesn’t want to hear them, “but I want to give to this feeling... this desire – hell I don’t know – and start something new with you, but…I feel like I can’t.”

“Spence,” they remarked loudly, approaching him, “breath, please.”

He inhaled and exhaled, “there are somethings that your big, beautiful brain can’t explain,” they joked, cupping his cheek, “your own feeling seems to be one of them.”

Spencer flashed then a sad smile, “I’m not Maeve and I will never be Maeve.”,” Cordelia stated, firmly, “You are allowed to feel the way your feelings! You are allowed to miss Maeve, mourn her! You are allowed to develop new feelings! And you are allowed to move on, I personally think Maeve would want you too.”

He didn’t say anything leaning into their hand on his cheek, “does it feel better to hear it, out loud?”

“A little,” he muttered, “none of this bothers you? It would be a lot easier to find someone better than me. I’m not most men and that turns off a lot for peo-”

“Spencer, Spencer, slow down,” they cooed, “you’re not the only one falling in love.”

He cupped their face in his hands, as their own hands rested on his chest. The urge to kiss Cordelia was unbelievably strong, although it felt wrong, to pull their face so close to his, “I…I’m sorry, I want to kiss you, but I can’t…”

“Spence, it’s alright, like a said: slow.”

He could hear the soft music in the background as he let go of their face slowly resting his hands on their shoulders, “I had this dream for a while, after Maeve died, where she would ask me to dance,” he explained, softly, “I know it’s probably not the best idea, but I…”

“We can dance, Spencer,” they said cutting him off, “if that’s what you want.”

Spencer nodded sheepishly, “I would like that a lot,” he muttered.

His hands went to Cordelia’s waist, and their around went around his neck, which lead to sway to the music. It wasn’t before long that he pulled them incredibly close hugging him to them to himself, as he did with Maeve in his dreams.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly as his head fell to their shoulder, “for not being normal.”

“Normal isn’t attractive,” Cordelia joked, softly.

“I just-”

“Shush, you’re trying too hard, Spence, you’re allowed to relax,” they interjected, “and when I say relax, I mean your brain.”

Spencer let out a sad chuckle, “thank you,” he mumbled.

“Of course, Spencer,” Cordelia muttered, rubbing his back, “I’m always going to be here for you.”

They could feel him shake, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, as tears rolled down his cheek, “everything is perfect.”

And we’re back to the beginning Spencer crying Cordelia’s shoulder, swaying to the soft music that played from their stereo, “raise up for a moment, Spence.”

Spencer did what he was asked. Cordelia cupped the left side of his face, wiping his tears before kissing his cheek, “you’re allowed to cry,” they murmured, “but you are gorgeous when you smile.”

He laughed, slightly, “you are the one who is gorgeous,” he retorted, quietly as they wiped his remaining tears, before their hand drop to his chest, “the term gorgeous, comes from Old French gorgias ‘fine elegant’, in the late 15-century.”

Cordelia smiled letting out a giggled, “slowly get average Spencer back.”

A smiled painted Spencer’s face as he took a hold of the hand on his chest, “very slowly,” he commented, “thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I feel like I should say more,” he exhaled.

“Spencer nothing else needs to be said,” they replied rest their head on his shoulder, “It’s not that I don’t love the sound of your voice, but you don’t need to justify your feelings or what exactly you are thinking.”

“All I’m thinking about now is you,” he mumbled, softly leaning his head to the side to rest against theirs.

“You’re not the only one.”

“So, you’re think about yourself,” Spencer joked.

“No,” Cordelia chuckled, “I’m think about you.”

“What about,” he questioned, tenderly.

“The future…” they answered, “more specially a future with you.”

Spencer hummed, closing his eyes, “a future with you would be amazing,” he yearned.

Cordelia hummed in response as they continued to sway to the music, making them both feel a sense of homeyness. Spencer could have like for hours. Although of course with a job like his nothing good ever lasts. He ignored his phone the first time, opting to stay in his heaven like utopia for as long as he possibly could, but of course it rang a second time.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed, before pulling away from them and taking his phone out of his pocket, “Cordelia, I have to go…”

“It’s alright,” they replied.

“It isn’t, I’d rather stay here,” he commented.

“You say that like you’re not coming back,” Cordelia pronounced.

“Oh no, I’m coming back,” Spencer retorted, before slipping his phone back in his pocket, “you were not the only thinking about a future together.”

They smiled at his comment, “I’m looking forward to that.”

He hugged them tightly, “I’m so sorry, for leaving like this,” he muttered, “this is not how I wanted to end tonight, not after everything.”

“We need to work on how much you apologize,” they replied, “because everything is more than alright.”

“I’m taking you at your word, gorgeous,” Spencer countered.

Cordelia smiled up at him as he kissed their forehead, “I’ll see you later,” they spoke gently.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Now, go or they will call you again.”

“I’m going,” he replied with a dorky smile.

“No, you are staring at me,” they reacted, “with your tall self.”

Spencer laughed, “okay, okay, I’m going,” he before turning to leave, “wait.”

He quickly turned around lunging himself back over to Cordelia and quickly kiss their cheek, “okay, I’m good.”

“See you when you get back,” Cordelia replied, now dealing with the empty plates on their dining table.

“I’ll send you updates if we have to leave the state!”

“Thank you, now go, please!”

“I’ve got all my shit and I’m heading out the door!”

“Actually, open my front door,” Cordelia countered laughing.

“Leaving,” Spencer chuckled before leaving the apartment, leaving Cordelia smiling widely.

[gemsofgreece]

I once saw a post about old neoclassical hreek buildings like the famous Atraion hotel and I am so sad that people back then thought we instead should built those boring modern houses. We could take example of other European countries who still kept them and attract more people.

Do you know any neighborhoods in Greece sta still has those classical houses?

It is one of the finest examples of poor judgement. Until the 40s Greece was full of these jewels but after WW2 the provincial population abandoned its towns and all headed to Athens and other big urban centres resulting to the severe urbanisation and architectural decline, as many of the old treasures were even demolished to make room for the atrocious bigger and taller πολυκατοικίες (blocks of buildings). Not only that but back in the day, around 60s to 80s, when Athens and other major cities doubled in size, these buildings were promoted as the epitome of modernity and novelty and as a message that Greece wasn’t obsessively adhering to its… uhhh… much better looking past?! We should get well into the 90s for the Greeks to realise they had effectively destroyed their cities. But even nowadays that Greeks have realised this, Greek architects are still taught modernism and they all compete to create the best impersonal grey cube. Like, if there was one country that had to retain or at least respect neoclassicism as a style inspired of its own culture, that’s Greece, but they get acne (πετάνε σπυριά) whenever they hear about that in the universities.

Anyway this was just for context.

The safest way to search for neoclassical buildings in Greece is to go to the cities with older history or the ones that were powerful in the past. If the city has an old town, this is where you will find most of its neoclassical buildings.

You will find most of them in old large cities like Athens, Thessaloniki, Patras.

Or in beautiful historical cities like Nafplio, Kerkyra (Corfu), Xanthi and Hermoupolis.

But there are many more places you will find them like Volos, Florina and Lamia etc

They are either in the old towns or scattered around the city randomly due to demolitions all around them or earthquakes.

P.S This is only about neoclassical architecture. Greece has many gorgeous towns with its trademark island or mountain architectures that are a completely different story.

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Carpe Diem - Chapter 7

Pairing: Sketchbook (Kaisa/Johanna)

Summary: Carpe diem: one of the five latim mottos of the arcadist, or neoclassical movement. Literally translates to "seize the day"

Picking up where Locus Amoenus left off, this fic follows the lives of Kaisa and Johanna for a couple weeks as their feelings grow and develop. Updated weekly.

Notes:  Sorry for posting so late into the week, got obsessed with another fandom and sucked into a fic reading void :/ The second paragraph is absolutely an allegory for writing sketchbook fanfiction btw. We are not okay

Read it on ao3 or read the first installment on this verse or read the second installment on this verse  

It was not supposed to be this hard. It was absolutely not supposed to be this hard. But every effort was taken to a new level when you wanted something to come out perfect.

It was Kaisa and Johanna’s typical Tuesday, except that they had one of professor Abigail’s torturous essays to submit until Thursday noon. They were in the library, their table filled with books open on pages that they could use for reference, and both of them were elbow deep into a google document with a ridiculously high word count for a topic that absolutely no one in their right mind should be able to write so much about.

Kaisa wanted it to be perfect, because it was still getting on every single one of her nerves that she had not been able to pinpoint what ‘perfect’ even meant for that professor. She just wanted to be rid of this curse as soon as possible so that this seminar could occupy a more reasonable amount of space in her mind. Even Johanna, for all her talk about enjoying the subject and letting this happiness translate into well done assignments, looked stressed out about it.

The problem was, she looked cute when stressed. Kaisa knew she needed every single one of her brain cells on the job, but the biggest part of her neurons seemed to have decided to quit college to just think about Johanna nonstop. And even if this had become a constant problem for her, it was even worse when they were together and Kaisa had to simply turn her eyes away from her screen for a second to see her biting down on a pencil, or scrunching her nose, or running a desperate hand through her beautiful curls.

These conditions were inhuman.

She needed her brain fully focused and fully functioning, but the traitor seemed to have decided to take a nap and leave her heart doing its job instead. She wondered if Sappho would approve of her “Mother, I cannot weave” having turned into a “mother, I cannot write this goddamned essay” in modern times. Every time she thought she’d gained traction with a line of thought, Johanna made a movement or an annoyed noise that reminded her of her presence, and sent her heart beating wildly again.

This couldn’t possibly be a crush. Kaisa hadn’t been able to notice it when she had had a crush. She’d missed the steady escalation of feelings and had been dropped right in the middle of full-blown love, and it felt like more than she could handle.

“Sorry to interrupt you.” Johanna whispered at one point. She wasn’t interrupting anything, of course. Kaisa had just been staring fixedly at the screen while daydreaming about holding her hand at the market. “I may be getting ahead of myself, but what do you say we do something together to celebrate once we submit this? You have lessons on Thursday afternoon, right? I’m free at that time, I was thinking we could grab a bite once you’re done.”

“Yeah, sure.” She tried to sound nonchalant even if she was anything but. It was a failure, of course, her voice came out sounding strained and high pitched. Johanna had probably picked it up, since she looked at her with compassion, making Kaisa wish she’d just spontaneously combust on the spot, even if she took the entire library with her. “There’s a cake place that just opened near where I live. If you’d be willing to make the drive there, we could try it out.”

“Lovely!” Johanna didn’t think she needed to say that she was willing to make the drive there. She was always down to spend fifteen-ish minutes with Kaisa’s full attention in the car. “Let’s hope we have something to celebrate by then.”

One of them turned back to their writing. The other turned back to wondering how the hell she’d gotten herself in this situation. 

A wiser person would, perhaps, try to distance herself from the person who was stealing the entirety of their ability to concentrate and could never return her feelings. But Kaisa was not a wiser person. She was finding herself to be closer to a junkie, in this matter. Even if she had to spend the rest of their college years longing, and likely get her heart broken, she couldn’t deny herself Johanna’s presence when it was so freely offered.

Oh, well, she thought as she opened another window in her browser, hoping that this would be the one to show her the information that would get her inspired to write, what is a water drop to a drowning man?                                                           

                                                        ……… 

The chance that Victoria Van Gale had been waiting for presented herself on a windy day, while she clutched her lab coat tightly around herself and took aimless steps around campus, trying and failing to clear her mind of the turmoil that had become her life lately. It was lucky that her wandering had taken her close to the humanities’ building, because just outside of it, sitting on a bench in the shadow of an oak, was just the person she’d been dying to talk to.

Professor Abigail Lyman was listening intently to something a short, dark skinned woman was saying to her right. On her left side, the tallest woman of the trio, whose features greatly resembled Abigail’s, seemed to be offering a counterpoint to what the first one was saying.

As soon as she’d gotten to her lab after meeting up with Kaisa, she’d done some snooping on who the professor she’d talked about was, and luckily she’d had an open profile with pictures of herself. It made her job just that much easier.

Shaking her head to clear it of any lingering unrelated thoughts, Victoria put on her best people-pleasing smile and walked purposefully towards the bench.

“Good evening, ladies! I am Professor Victoria Van Gale, Weather Sciences specialist. I was wondering if I could borrow Professor Abigail for a second?”

The three of them shared confused looks between themselves, but eventually the youngest among them shrugged and got up without a fight, telling her to follow her into her office.

“May I ask what this is about, professor Van Gale?” She asked professionally as they headed inside the building, the halls empty save for an odd student here and there.

As much as Victoria took pride in her own intellect, she had not prepared herself to having to explain why, exactly, she wanted to talk privately to a woman she didn’t work with, and hadn’t ever interacted with before in her life. Her mind scrambled trying to come up with something.

“I, ah, I was hoping we could discuss the possibility of a joint lecture! Something like a round table, you see. I think it would be very… enriching to our students.”

Abigail turned to her with her brow creased, her right hand frozen where it was holding her office’s key just in front of the lock.

“A joint lecture?” She repeated with more than a bit of disbelief in her voice.

“Yes!” Victoria tried to get her to buy her lie with enthusiasm, since reason would not be on her side in this. “You see, Climatology and Literature, they just go together, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” The disbelief remained in her voice, but at least she unlocked her office’s door and gestured for Victoria to follow her in. 

It was a small office, but considering that she hadn’t been teaching for long (wasn’t it amazing how much you could find out through stalking someone’s profile?) and that she didn’t lead any sort of programs in the university, it was a wonder Abigail even got one at all. Victoria wondered if it had anything to do with her sister’s position in the local hierarchy.

“Well, consider me intrigued.” Abigail said, sitting down on her chair behind her dark wooden desk. There was nowhere for Victoria to sit at, but that didn’t seem to bother Abigail at all. “What is it you are picturing for this… lecture?”

Victoria cleared her throat, mostly in an attempt to gain herself time, and looked around for anything that could steer this conversation in the direction she wanted.

“Ah, well, I just thought that there are so many… poems… about the weather! And how we could explain, you know, the context and the science behind them, and, uh, how climate conditions inspired and influenced literary production-”

Her eyes caught on a piece of paper on her desk. It was a calendar of the selection process of the university that year, which she could only imagine was there because of her sister.

“Ah, is it application time already? How quickly this year passed!” Before Abigail could say anything, Victoria continued. “Your sister is on board, isn’t she? I imagine the sort of wild submissions she must have to read.”

The literature professor’s face changed radically now that she had apparently been placed in a comfort zone: badmouthing people. Her stance in her chair relaxed, and the look she gave Victoria made her feel like Abigail thought they were old friends sharing stories over a glass of wine.

“Oh, you wouldn’t even imagine. Students think they can get here with just, nothing. The amount of people out there thinking they're special when really, they’re just another nobody, is amazing.”

Victoria’s instinct was to answer back a ‘oh, I know it is’, but maybe Abigail wasn’t as daft as to not pick up on the insult. She’d already caught the first red flag, anyway. Victoria knew nothing about how the bureaucratic part of the university worked, but she was quite sure that prospective students’ applications weren’t supposed to be shared with your family members.

“I heard there was quite a scandalous case of nepotism a few years ago.” She ran her fingertips over the wood of the edge of the table, pretending to be interested in its texture and not at all in the bait she was putting out. “Is that right?”

The sentence hadn’t even been finished before Abigail started looking delighted.

“Oh, that would be Miss Pilqvist.” She answered in a tone that was both derogatory and clearly happy about the opportunity to talk about that topic. “Shameful indeed. The girl only got the scholarship because her mother used to be in Juniper’s chair - head of History, that is - and still has contacts here. Sometimes I cannot believe that such a renowned former researcher would pull something like this, taking the opportunity away from someone who would not be able to pay for college just so she could put her own daughter in. Heavens knows if it was only the scholarship she got this way, and not her admission in the university! And the girl is so ungrateful, too. She’s at a seminar I’m lecturing, passable at best.”

Doing things like meditation, yoga classes, and practicing “mindfulness” (what the hell did that even mean?) had always seemed like wastes of time to Victoria, but in that moment, they would probably have helped her in the herculean effort to not commit a hate crime. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, balled her fists, and hoped her smile didn’t look too much like a madwoman’s.

“Really?!” She gasped. She better win the fucking oscar for this performance, it was the least she deserved. “That’s outrageous! How did you find out?”

Her chair accused her with a squeak when she squirmed in it. Suddenly, Abigail didn’t meet her eyes anymore, and drummed lightly on her desk with the tips of her fingers.

“Well, it was simply obvious. A two plus two equals four situation, really. There was no other way such a mediocre student would get a full scholarship here.”

Clenching her fists even harder, the scientist took a deep breath to clear her thoughts. If she hadn’t heard it from anyone’s mouth, like she had just admitted, it was easy for Victoria to deduce that she was the source. Or at least, one of them, anyway.

“So you ruined a young girl’s reputation to her peers based on… a hunch?”

She’d said it slowly, reigning herself in, and looking straight at the wall behind the chair. When she looked at the other professor again, she blinked like she couldn’t understand where Victoria’s question had come from.

Victoria had heard enough, she decided as she huffed and turned on her heels to strut out of the office. She was a scientist; hunches were not included in her belief system. She didn’t believe in such a thing, and she most certainly did not believe in talking shit about a literal teenager because of a workplace jealousy case.

Leaving a confused, stuttering Abigail behind her, she made sure the door banged on her way out. As soon as she was in the corridor, she brought a hand to the small device hidden in her labcoat’s breast pocket, ending the precious recording she’d started when Abigail had led her into the building.

Sometimes it paid off to be just a bit morally dubious.

[mimssides]

Words are hard and there are only so many Ways to misinterpret a Hug: Part 10

Read on AO3

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___

Logan was back in his room and walked up to his bedroom. Pleasantly surprised, he found Remus sitting on his bed, eyes droopy and smile wide as he saw him enter. For a second Logan was going to inform Remus that they were going to do the next day but decided against it. The side needed his sleep and he was not going to get it if he would bring this up right now.

“I brushed my teeth,” Remus said with a huge smile.

Logan clicked his tongue and nodded in with a sense of pride shining through his movements.

“That is very good, Remus,” Logan told him and walked up to the bed sitting down on one end as Remus observed closely despite his sleepiness. “I will get ready for bed myself and join you now. Is that alright with you?”

Remus nodded and kept eyeing Logen. He got up, loosened his tie and laid it orderly on his dresser. Then he got out of his shoes, placed them neatly next to the dresser, pulled his shirt over his head, folded it and put it next to the tie, loosened his belt and did the same with his pants. Remus could not keep himself from watching him undress and move so casually and yet professionally. It was like magic to Remus and he hoped that it would never stop. That he could just keep looking at Logan with this empty head and peaceful feeling in his chest.

But it didn’t last, as Logan put on his long-sleeved navy pyjamas and then walked back to his bed. Remus just smiled until Logan cleared his throat and Remus finally caught on to something in Logan’s demeanour that resembled discomfort. With a frown he tilted his head and motioned Logan to tell him what was up. There came another throat clear before Logan finally settled on an answer.

“Which side do you prefer to sleep on?”

Remus frowned more. This didn’t seem like the question he wanted to ask nor the question he was so nervous about. Which meant that Remus was now very curious what Logan was afraid off and let him wake up considerably.

Not quite as energetic as usually but much more forceful than previously today Remus said: “I don’t know yet! I first need to have you on the bed as well, so I can see how you fit best in my arms.”

Remus had assumed that his proposal would get a reaction out of Remus. He hadn’t assumed that his eyes would widen in surprise and his hands fidget at the suggestion. It was not that he was uncomfortable though. No, the idea didn’t repulse him but threw him completely into a loop. And Remus did not enjoy watching that. So, he skidded back on the bed and vividly patted to the spot next to him for Logan to sit down on.

Hesitantly, Logan followed and sat down on the bed after he had switched the big light off. Expectantly Remus watched him next take off his glasses and put them on the nightstand before he cleared his throat anew and tried to ask something.

He didn’t get the words out, as Remus put his arms over his chest and pulled him down on the pillows. Possessively, he draped his right leg over Logan’s and pressed himself against Logan’s side. That cuddly attack got a laugh out of Logan and Remus happily pulled him even closer.

Logan moved a little bit around and turned off the lamp on the nightstand before he let himself completely relax in Remus’s embrace and cover them with his comforter. Moments passed and Logan was very aware of the fact that Remus’s fingers were tracing lines between his soft chest and his round belly. He liked the feeling but it also made him aware how big he was and how much place he took of the bed. He didn’t want Remus to feel squished or uncomfortable next to him.

“Please inform me if you are uncomfortable lying beside me or if I accidentally squish you,” Logan eventually settled on whispering.

He didn’t expect the laugher tickling his neck and instinctively felt his hand tightening on the small of Remus’s back before he could stop himself from doing so.

“Oh, Logie,” Remus slurred and brought his mouth close to Logan’s ear, “you’re not too fat. You're soft and warm and very, very comfortable to cuddle with. You're not smashing me like a tomato, not that I could burst like one anyway. So, it wouldn’t be fun, ya know? Bursting I mean.”

Remus waited. Gradually, Logan relaxed. His shoulders stopped being tense and he began to let his hands wander over Remus’s back until one rested on his neck and the other in Remus’s hair. Softly he scratched the skin and Remus began to drift off with a loopy grin. Logan’s heartbeat was soothing. Everything about this was soothing. Being able to hold Logan was wonderful. Having him holding him back was breath-taking.

It was almost too good to be true, Remus thought letting out a little wince. Reflexively he buried his head on Logan’s soft chest and felt the logical trait shift beneath him. Despite his tired state sleep hadn’t taken Remus yet and he felt how Logan lifted his head in the darkness as if he wanted to look at him.

There was a pause, Remus felt how Logan’s chest was rising as if he was taking a deep breath before he would start to speak. His impression had been right.

“Is this an activity you and Janus have performed together in the past?”

Logan’s voice was even. Almost professional. But Remus felt something uneasy wafting off his Logan and adjusted his head a little on Logan’s chest. He furrowed his brows in the dark and started thinking about the question. Not if it was true or not, he knew that. But why Logan would ask such a thing.

“Nah, Jan is not the cuddly type,” Remus mumbled and let his left hand rest on Logan’s chest close to his own face. “What brings the question? You’re not one to pry.”

Logan swallowed and Remus lifted his head as if he was watching him.

“I did not mean to overstep any boundaries. I apolo-”

“What is it teach? You’re not asking what you want to ask and the thought’s making you restless.”

Another pause before Logan put one hand on Remus’s and took another deep breath.

“Virgil hinted at the fact that you and Janus were an “item” figuratively speaking. Romantically, I assumed. And you and I sleeping like this could possibly worsen your relationship with him, which would not be beneficial for any of us.”

“… Lo, I wish I had a thing with Janus but the guy is also Denial, so that’s not something you need to worry about.”

Remus’s voice grew mellower and Logan felt how he slowly put his head on his chest again. He was really falling asleep now but Logan’s questions weren’t answered quite yet and he really needed an answer right now.

“But Virgil…” he tried quietly and heard Remus softly giggle before he felt his breath against his skin.

“It’s sweet that he worries,” Remus slurred the words. “He always worried about us. I liked it, even though it was annoying sometimes. Don’t think though that he still worries about us like that. Not anymore… But I’m not against trying and getting on their good side again, Lo… You’ll be able to pull it off with me, I think… You’re just right for them and me… It’ll be fine, my bug…”

The stream of words stopped tripling from Remus’s mouth. Logan’s heart was pounding wildly as Remus had switched into a peaceful slumber. Now there was nothing for Logan to do but lay here and hope that somehow, he would be able to fall asleep. His thoughts were racing but not clear enough to notice how the weight of Remus on him slowly lulled him into sleep and let him forget about the feelings blooming within him for the next few hours.

___

@varthandi

@sammy-is-obsessed / @exhaustedfander

@alexisrealgay

@softie-sushi

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

@winter-jay-official

@a-ghostlight-for-roman

@mychemically-imbalanced-romance

@whattheremus

@sarenicide  

Tagged for this fic:

@frawkeye

@nightweirdo

[scotianostra]

On 3rd March 1792, Robert Adam, the Scottish architect, furniture and interior designer, died.

Adam was the son of a Stonemason, William a stonemason who took up architecture, the family moved to Edinburgh when Robert was eleven, where his father had become the most popular architect in Scotland.

He attended The Royal High School in Edinburgh and was noted as having a "feeble constitution" His education continued at The University of Edinburgh where his studies were interrupted in 1745 due to wee bit of upheaval when the Jacobite Army of BPC arrived  and occupied the City. Added to this he fell seriously ill at the end on the year and failed to graduate. On his recovery from illness in 1746, he joined his elder brother John as apprentice to his father. He assisted his father on projects such as the building of Inveraray Castle and the continuing extensions of Hopetoun House, his father died in 1748 and Robert and his brother ran the family firm now called Adam Brothers.

In 1750 Robert decided he needed to witness the architecture around Europe and departed on his "Grand Tour" in France and Italy. He studied widely the classical Roman ruins and increased his drawing skills.

  On his return he opened his own architectural practice in London and soon became established as one of the most fashionable designers amongst the High Society. His Practice was timely as there was a renewed interest in England for all things Classical and the “Palladian Movement” (Based on the proportional architecture of the Italian Andrea Palladio) had just firmly taken hold. Adam was no slavish Palladian however and his Style has become known as “neoclassical”. He adapted and developed ancient styles rather than simply copying them.

As Adam was more often than not asked to renovate existing buildings much of his work was concerned with interiors. He was obsessive over every detail and designed everything himself down to plasterwork and fireplaces. He moved beyond Roman Style and was influenced by Greek, Byzantine and Italian Baroque design.

Adams work in Scotland include the Royal Exchange, in Edinburgh's High Street on the Royal Mile, The Royal Infirmary, Glasgow, Register House, Edinburgh and The Old College quadrangle at the University of Edinburgh.

In England he designed my favourite, Pulteney Bridge in Bath, as well as Kedleston Hall and Marlborough House, Brighton.

I think I have featured most of these buildings previously in posts so would like to showcase some of the meticulous interior work that Robert Adam was known for. As I've said before I am not a fan of the country houses, the places that reek of wealth, give me a ruined castle any day, but you have to admire the work that went into these interiors.

As the years go by I am always looking for ways to refresh posts  such as these, so this time I am featuring some of his art work and plans he drew up, the first  pic is of Adam himself.

[paraphernaliawagon]

when lovecraft is going on about architecture i’m like imagining fantastic gothic spires and shit. today it occurred to me that i don’t actually know what a gambrel roof looks like so i googled it. turns out it’s the fugly roof that i think of as a classic american barn roof. it’s just basic new england colonial architecture. the ugly as shit architure my mom (an architect) grew up around. i gotta tell her about this. also i read that lovecraft actually hated victorian gothic revival architecture and preferred pre-19th century buildings. basically he liked the classic fugly pseudo-neoclassical garbage that american conservatives have always liked. so he actually has normie taste in architecture. actually that’s not entirely true because there is also this (above) INCREDIBLE real arts and crafts style house in providence where the sculptor henry anthony wilcox in “the call of cthulhu” was supposed to live. here’s the wikipedia page about this building: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fleur-de-lys_Studios  It was built in 1885.

what kind of buildings in Providence modern readers assume lovecraft was going on about:

what he was actually talking about most of the time:

the more i deep dive into lovecraft the more i think that he was literally just the early 20th century version of today’s typical pseudo-intellectual alt-right internet scum. that’s the best way i can think of too describe him and his Vibes.

(btw i got some of MY stupid opinions on architecture from a writer lovecraft admired who was also an actual architect: william morris. who was an english socialist who was obsessed with the middle ages. morris was an intensely fascinating person. though he also disliked the gothic revival style for being a poor imitation of actual medieval gothic architecture. but unlike him i am coming at this from the perspective of someone who has lived his whole life in a place where the oldest buildings around are victorian. so i am very easily impressed by any house that i think looks like a house instead of just a box and has any sort of decent ornamentation on it at all.)