#she also represents love of the craft love of fine art and painting

[fuzzydeergirl]

Anyway Look Back... Good

[timelessamritsar]

Harsimrat Kaur, Amritsar

Catalogue for Art Expo-Amritsar Summer 2023

(15 june - 30 aug) | Curated by: Vulcan Art Gallery | 📍Timeless Amritsar,8, Queens'Road, Amritsar

Artist Statement

Amritsar based Harsimrat Kaur is a self taught artist. She is commonly known by her art name- Sim Arts. During +1 and +2, she opted fine arts. Her inspiration was her mother who helped her choosing fine arts as her carrer option. She decided to follow her passion and start watching a dream to become an artist. At this age, she also runs a small business. She mostly works in decor items like Dot Mandala, Lippan. She believes that art is an expression of feelings, thoughts and ideas. She expresses her emotions through her artwork.

-harsimrat kaur

Mystic Flute

Mixed Media

17.5 x 13.5 in

₹3699/-

The Radha Krishna paintings portray an eternal love that existed between Lord Krishna and Radha. In this painting, Radha and Krishna are playing flute. Radha and Lord Krishna unconditional love and devotion towards each other is depicted. The butterflies enhance the beautification of the painting.

Birth of Indian Constitution

Mix Media (Oil and Acrylic)

24 × 36 in

₹6299/-

This painting shows that Dr. B.R. Ambedkar made the constitution on 26th November, 1949. This painting is a tribute to Dr. B.R. Ambedkar who was the founder of Indian Constitution.

Reflection

Acrylic with mirror

24 x 17.5 in

₹5000/-

In this artwork, mandala technique is used which signifies the transformation of a universe of suffering into one of joy. This is a wall decor piece for houses. This is beautifully handmade designed piece with different colours of dots and designer mirrors.

Meditation Mandala

Mixed Media

18 × 24 in

₹5299/-

A mandala is a round symbol of universe, used to represent a deeper meaning. Mandala are used in many types of Buddhist Meditation and Practice. The Lotus is also depicted in the painting which represents spiritual enlightenment, beauty and purity.

Lippan Art

Acrylic, Mould it and Mirrors

7 × 9 in

₹999/-

This traditional mural craft is of Kutch, Gujarat. It's is also call Mud Mirror Work. This artwork is beautifully designed with different patterns and mirrors which enhance the uniqueness.

Support Partners for Art Expo - Amritsar Summer 2023

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[dracosaurusrex]

Kintsugi: Imperfectly Perfect (Draco x Reader)

“Kintsugi is the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold — built on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art.”

- Tiffany Ayuda

Summary:In which Y/N teaches a broken Draco Malfoy how to mend himself and embrace the scars that haunt him.

Wordcount: 10.3k

Genre: Angst/Fluff; Postwar AU

Warnings: Descriptions of depression; self-degredation; sexual themes but no smut

A/N: Hi! This is my first time writing a postwar AU. I was always afraid of doing so out of fear that I would mistakenly portray Draco, but I guess this can be a rite of passage in a way aha. With that being said, here’s my attempt! I hope you like it :D Feedback is very much appreciated!!

The sound of an alarm clock breaks the peace that had manifested within the darkness of the room. One eye creaks open, followed by the other, and a body raises itself to greet the day. 

The boy lifts his sheets gently, allowing the cold air to engulf his skin, to wake him, to pull him into the reality of yet another morning. 

The pads of his feet are the next to awaken as he hoists himself out of bed, meeting the frigid floor beneath him. He plods across the expanse of space, only to take notice of his reflection in the mirror.

Draco Malfoy, once boisterous, prideful, loud, and arrogant, had been reduced to a shell. One that lived by drifting through the motions of each passing day. It showed through the dark circles apparent under his eyes, the frown that resided on his lips, and his overall gaunt appearance. The thrill that was once characteristic of his youth had spilled through his cracks, leaving him empty and seemingly unrepairable; and no other perspective of his experience could convince him otherwise. 

The second wizarding war took too much from him so early on. It started with his father, the man he had ardently looked up to, who he desired so much to please. Lucius’s arrest put the young boy on the forefront of the Death Eaters’ activities, placing an unbearable weight on his shoulders. From that point on, it wasn’t long until the mischievous smile left him, only to be replaced with panicked eyes, increased stress levels, and absolutely no peace of mind. The boy had his entire life on a tightrope, constantly pulling strings to survive.

The result of such was the immense realization of guilt pooling from the sights of Hogwarts in shambles, the lifeless bodies of those he was once acquainted with, and the shame of literally walking away from it all. 

Nightmares were also frequent visitors. Besides those that embodied remnants of the war, Draco was almost always confronted by the tauntings of his wrongs: the way he poorly treated others, his stuck-up sense of superiority, the foul slur that he once used so freely--they all haunted him with no end, and all he wanted to do was take everything back. The boy has so often degraded his character since then, describing himself with words such as ‘worthless’, ‘loathsome’, ‘putrid’--the list goes on. He carried his beating heart as though it was dead weight, wanting so desperately to discard the regret that compounded on itself through the years. He was broken, and had no hope of being fixed. 

It was also needless to say that the family dynamic had changed for the Malfoy’s; especially since they often stayed within the confines of the property. Narcissa had been diligent in eradicating the place of all things that harbored any signs of Voldemort’s occupation--opening curtains, tending to her garden, changing up the plans for the interior design. Lucius, on the other hand, often occupied himself in his study, simply abiding by the plans for change that his wife had made. He still invested in his social connections, actively making donations to charities and hospitals that had been established as a result of the war. The act helped shed some light on their image, however any interaction that was to be made with the world outside was done through Draco as representative of the family name.

Fortunately, he managed to keep his mind silent in the mornings. As he walked through the vast hallways he would take note of the way light had poured into the manor, admiring the charm that it brought to its nooks and crannies. The quaint atmosphere that was characteristic of these corridors were peaceful, and managed to calm his thoughts albeit temporarily. 

As soon as he entered the dining room, Narcissa beckoned him to sit with her and his father. 

“Draco, darling, come have some breakfast.” Without much response, he obeys, taking the spot across from her. She placed his favorites on a platter, and observed him as he nibbled on the food in front of him. After several minutes of silence, she pulled an ivory-colored envelope from the pocket of her robe and slid it to him. With food still mounted on his utensils, the boy glanced at the gold details that embellished its corners.

“We’ve been invited to an art gala hosted by the Ministry. The details are inside.” She said.

“I’ll be sure to be in attendance, mother.” He confirmed before resuming his breakfast. The woman casted a worried look at him before turning to Lucius. Things could never go back to the way they once were.

--

The art gala was held on a Saturday evening, and Draco found himself standing in front of a finely decorated building. An air of aristocracy and luxury loomed within the environment--it was an energy that he had been surrounded by all his life. Large columns aligned its front. A red carpet stemming from the entrance had been rolled out, sweeping along a flight of stairs. Familiar faces of esteemed socialites were seen making their way up the steps. Banners had been hung, indicating the gala and a live auction as highlights of the day’s events. 

His only job was to engage in civilized conversation, connect with other high-standing figures, and expand the family network. Simply put, he was there to look pretty.

The feeling of dread overcame him at the thought of immersing himself in socialization. With a begrudging sigh, he straightened his back, briefly smoothened out his suit, and adjusted his cufflinks before trudging up the stairs. Eyes tracked his every step. Despite his emotional wellbeing, the boy still managed to clean up well, creating a facade to those around him. He didn’t bask in the glory, though. He knew he was handsome, he knew he was wealthy, but looks and money were no longer sufficient enough to help him tend to the emptiness he felt on the inside.

The gala itself didn’t begin until 6:00 PM, which was in an hour. Therefore, in hopes to kill time, Draco aimlessly walked through the art displayed for the auction to be held later that night. He carefully observed the numerous crafts with great scrutiny. Paintings were created with much detail--many of them embodying styles from the varying art periods. Sculptures paying great detail to the human body littered the main floor. Hand-crafted furniture were set on display as well, showcasing elaborate ornaments and designs. Mother would like these. He thought. He continued plodding across the exhibit, typically stopping for a mere minute for every submission before walking away. 

It was when he took sight of a humble set of ceramics that he actually stopped to stare. The collection consisted of bowls and pots ranging from small to medium sizes. However, what caught his attention were the traces of gold that coursed through their shapes. They took the form of cracks, which looked too beautiful, too flawless to be such--he couldn’t comprehend them ever being broken at all.

“Do you like them?” A light voice startles him from his thoughts. Standing next to him is a bright-eyed girl whose face he vaguely remembers.

“Y/N Y/L/N? What are you doing here?” He dismisses her question and looks at her with disbelief laced through his voice. The girl was in Ravenclaw when they were still in Hogwarts. Due to the difference in houses and friend groups, there was rarely any interaction between them. Nevertheless, he’s heard countless praises for her artistic talent even as a student, therefore reserved a tinge of respect for her reputation.

“Draco Malfoy! It’s been such a long time!” She beams at him. A breathy laugh escapes him as a polite smile settles on his lips.

“Definitely has been. Were you eyeing this set as well?” He glanced back at the ceramics, contemplating on bidding for them in the auction. The sight of them evoked a warm, admirable energy within him, as though they called for his presence.

“Heavens, no. I actually made them.” Y/N took notice of the way he glanced at them, and shyly rubbed the back of her neck. The boy turned to her with eyes widened in awe of her brilliance—the smile of politeness immediately transitioning to one of sincerity.

“You made these? They’re beautiful!” The comment brought heat to her cheeks. 

“Draco, please. You flatter me so.” 

“I’ll be taking these home without a doubt.” He reassures her. In the moment that he says so, he immediately takes notice of her appearance. Her hair was slicked into a low bun. Her makeup gave her a pleasant dewy look. Gold accessories accentuates her deep emerald evening gown, which only emphasizes her curves as it flows down her body. He couldn’t recall her ever being attractive when they were students—she had always been clad in blue. But, tonight proved that green was definitely her color.

“You look lovely, by the way.” He complimented as his eyes glossed over her. She bit her lip in response to the butterflies that formed in her stomach.

“You always had a way with words didn’t you, Malfoy?” The melodic laugh that she produced, in turn, caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I admit I was a prat, but I’m not joking around this time.” The girl let out another giggle before placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. 

“I think you look rather dashing yourself. Unfortunately, though, I have to get going. I’ll see you around?” 

“It would be my pleasure.” Draco watches Y/N’s figure as she walks away. Before she goes any further, she looks over her shoulder and says, “Good luck with the auction!” 

With a small wave and smile, the boy is left in a lighter state.

The gala came and went with Draco thoroughly exhausted from the copious amounts of socialization. Questions regarding connections to his father were asked, business cards were exchanged, and flattery and compliment was a common occurrence amongst these interactions. Nevertheless, the boy’s energy especially drained from the intensity of the auction that occurred towards the end of the night. All the art pieces were valuable and beautiful, however it was only then that he realized that he wasn’t the only one drawn to Y/N’s work. Competition for the highest bid was at an all-time high as number paddles were desperately raised for every price announced. His heart clambered in his chest as the thought of keeping the ceramics seemingly slipped from his grasp. 

“Highest bid for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any takers?” The auctioneer announces. Draco waits for a second to see that no one has raised their paddles. Within the next, he lifts his own confidently. 

“We have a bidder for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any more bidders? No?” At this point, adrenaline coursed through his veins, beads of sweat had formed and fell, and the grip on his paddle tightened, leaving marks on his hand.

The auctioneer proceeds to announce the final countdown, “Final bid for 80,000 galleons! 1, 2, 3, sold to Draco Malfoy!” Relief overcame him while congratulatory praises were given by those nearby. He catches Y/N’s gaze from afar, and throws her a wink, signifying the resolution for the chaotic night.

--

As attendees began to file out of the building, the boy waited in the hall to collect his reward, filling out the form that confirmed the amount he had to pay. With his attention drawn to the slip, he fails to notice Y/N’s presence beside him. She looks over his shoulder, eyes widening at the amount before looking away to suppress the smile that threatens to form on her lips. She never really gave much monetary value to her art before; each one was produced as a product of passion and love. However, the expression that it first brought to Draco’s face, in addition to the amount of effort he put in to attain them, reassures that her work will be well taken care of. She momentarily stares at his broad shoulders before gaining the courage to speak.

“Congratulations!” She says, startling him once again. He takes a second to collect his breath before looking up at her.

“Do you plan on giving me a heart attack, Y/L/N, or is it in your nature to be overly enthusiastic?” The shameless smirk she has on her face, prompts him to release a chuckle. He stands up straight as soon as he signs the piece of paper, engaging his line of vision with hers.

“The way you respond is not my fault, Malfoy.” She answers, playfully shoving her index finger towards his shoulder. He grabs her wrist, and the warmth from his hands, accompanied by the flirtatious gleam in his eyes, prompts her to cast the same expression. She shoots him a coy smile before he releases her from his grasp.

“Would you like to accompany me to the front?” He asks.

“That’d be lovely.” The pair approaches the stage where the volunteers greet them both. They present his items upon confirmation, and proceed to wrap each bowl individually. He lifts one of the unwrapped pieces to his eyes, examining the gold details.

“How’d you manage to pull this off?” He asks, impressed by her craftsmanship.

“It’s a technique called ‘kintsugi’. I learned it while living in Japan for a while after the war,” She says, reaching her hand out for it. He gives it to her.

“You know, these pieces were never supposed to be auctioned off in this gala,” She explains as she delicately traces the lines, “They were so damaged. You can even consider them to be broken beyond repair,” Draco observes as she lifts it to her eye level.

“But obviously, when pieced back together—with all their cracks emphasized by the gold—they have much more value and beauty,” Y/N gives it back to Draco, and he takes it gingerly.

“However, It took a long time for it to come out that way. When you examine the piece before its repair, the first thought in mind would be to discard it. After all, why would anyone bother mending a broken bowl?” She meets his eyes once again.

“These cracks would typically be considered flaws, but at the end of the process the piece is still whole—I’m still whole. They mean a lot to me, and helped me heal from the war and all.” Her line of sight drifts towards the end of her statement, yet the boy catches himself appalled by the passion in her voice. He didn’t expect her to speak so openly, yet the words that flowed from her mouth touch him in a way he can’t comprehend. For once he feels a glimmer of hope budding within. For once, inspiration meets him, and he doesn’t want to lose that feeling she effortlessly provided. 

“I’ll make sure to take great care of them.” He says with much sincerity.

He places the piece back onto the table, and turns back to Y/N to see a sweet smile on her lips.

“I have faith you will.” A knowing look is shared between them--one that makes both hearts flutter in longing to see each other again.

“Do you think we can keep in contact? If it’s alright with you that is. I’d like to become more familiar with this art technique.”

“The Slytherin prince wants to keep in contact with me? Consider me wooed.” Draco rolls his eyes and chuckles at the old title. Before he could respond, she speaks again with more seriousness, “I don’t usually accept visitors in my studio, but I’ll make an exception for you. You can come by sometime, if you’d like.” 

A genuine smile appears on his lips for the second time that night. Out of all the individuals he exchanged contacts with, she by far had been his favorite. He ensured to send her an owl to confirm their meeting, hoping to do so some time next week. 

As they part, she turns back one more time, and calls out to him, “Draco,” The sound of his name perks his head upward

“You should smile more. It’s a lovely sight.” Before he could see her face erupt in a blush, she apparates away. With his new belongings in hand and an obvious grin, he too returns to the manor, feeling elated for the first time in a long while.

--

It was nine o’clock by the time Draco apparated home. Narcissa immediately took notice of his change in aura much to her relief.

“How was the gala, dear?” She asks.

“Quite pleasant this time around, if I’m being honest. I won these at an auction.” Draco stated as he props the box on top of a table. His mother approaches him, attention drawn to the objects when he reveals the contents inside.

She gasps, “Oh my stars, they’re beautiful.”

She picks one up delicately. The expression she had on her face was very much identical to the one he sported when he came across them the first time.

“I knew you’d like them. The artist was a fellow classmate of mine at Hogwarts.”

“Oh? Who is it? I would like to see more from this artist.”

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N. Quite brilliant she is.” Mother’s instinct told Narcissa that this girl had her son taken aback. She saw it through the pleasant expression that graced his facial features, which contrasted greatly to the gloomy air that usually accompanied him. Furthermore, there was a decadent tone in his voice, a sparkle in his eyes, and a slight smile present when her name rolled off his tongue. She decided to probe a little bit more.

“House?”

“Ravenclaw.” He responds.

“Very fitting. The craftsmanship in her work is amazing,” The woman’s eyes marveled at the gold.

“How is she?” She asks. The question catches the boy off guard.

“Pardon?”

“How is she doing? Has she been okay since the war?”

“We didn’t touch upon it too much. Although, she mentioned that creating these has helped her heal.” 

“You mean to say that these were broken at one point?” 

“Precisely. She mended them.” At this point, Narcissa was quite taken by the girl as well. 

“You should invite her over one of these days. I’d love to have a cup of tea with her.” Draco quirked a brow at her.

“You’re not going to ask about her blood status?” 

“I would’ve known she was a pureblood from her last name, but times are changing aren’t they not?” Narcissa flashes a tightlipped smile towards her son, to which he responds with a nod of understanding.

“I’ll be going up then. You can keep that one mother. You seem to take a liking to it.” Draco turns on his heel at the end of his statement, carrying the box of ceramic goods under his arm. He wouldn’t acknowledge that times are changing. However, tonight has been the only instance he had felt his life shifting  —from the way he reunited with Y/N, to the way his mother spoke. It was a step forward to redemption, and he felt a little more willing to see where it would go.

The boy sat on his bed, deep in thought. With moonlight shining upon him, he delicately traced the golden lines that streaked the small bowl in his hands. Then with much hesitation, he rolled up his left sleeve and began tracing the blaring curves of the mark that stained his porcelain skin. Its presence resembled shackles that have been chained to his ankles, and the weight of the memories caused him to grimace. However the budding warmth that had seeped within him soothed the negative sensations. Heart palpitations of regret transformed into those of hope. Furthermore, recollection of the girl’s words rang through his mind. It led him to wonder if piecing himself into something better would ever be a viable reality—a dream so tempting to pursue that he brought himself to his desk to start a letter addressed to her.

--

Y/N awoke to a tapping noise on her window. With heavy-lidded eyes, she peeks through her curtains only to be met by an eagle owl. Its wide orbs stared directly at her, and attached to its beak was an envelope. She recalled the conversation she had with a certain platinum-haired boy from the night before, and immediately jolted upward, pushing the window open to let the animal in.

“Do you belong to Draco, love?” It perches itself on her shoulder, and drops the envelope into her hands. A wax seal presents itself with an ‘M’, confirming her inquiry. She opens it with much carefulness, and pulls out the letter inside.

Y/L/N,

How does this Thursday sound? 5:00?

DM

The girl chuckled at how straight-to-the-point he was, while her mind flitted back to their school days. She had always felt neutral about him. In contrast to popular belief, she didn’t think he was quite bad. Despite the harshness behind his actions, his eyes always maintained an undertone of fear. Upon the revelation that the boy was indeed a death eater, the title itself wasn’t what stirred her. Rather, it was the incomprehensible experience that she could merely picture him going through. She was there when he crossed sides. She was no stranger to the distraught look on his face--fear had overtaken him even in that moment. He might’ve been flawed, but it wasn’t without reason.

A cry from the owl broke her out of thought. “Impatient are we?” It blinked in response. Not wanting to keep the bird waiting any longer, she pulls out a piece of parchment and begins to write a response to the letter. 

Y/N inserted the parchment into an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the owl only after she gave it a treat. As she watched it take flight from her window sill, she contemplated more on the boy. ‘Kintsugi’ the art of broken pieces and precious scars. As thoughts of him lingered, she began to wonder if how he fared ever since the war had drawn to its close. Before she knew it, she carried along with her work, totally occupied with the image of him in mind.

--

Draco’s heart beat like a drum when he skimmed through the contents of Y/N’s response. The feeling of nervous excitement erupted within his stomach up until the moment he stood on her doorstep. Besides the instances in which he’d gone out for his parents, it had been a long while since he stepped foot outside for himself. He took sight of the sheet of clouds that blanketed the sky, the small plants that were scattered on her porch, and the movement of the curtain as wind blew through her open window. 

Mere seconds of waiting were filled with more self-doubt as he tugged on his left sleeve, clenching his forearm soon after. Not much could be guaranteed from this meeting. For all he knew, this might’ve been a one a time thing. However, such thoughts were casted aside once he was greeted with Y/N’s glowing smile.

“Draco! It’s so nice to see you!” She stepped aside to let him in, “Please come in.”

The boy greets her, and looks around her small space. He indulges in the glimpse of her expressive decor--somehow they represented the life that she had built and created for herself over time. 

“Darling, your jaw is going to fall off,” she chuckled, “Come, the studio is in the back.” The girl gestures at him to follow her, and is met with a small building stationed behind the main house. The image of shelves fills his view upon entering. On them were stacks of cracked ceramic—some in large pieces, others in small. Towards the far corner of the room was a pottery wheel, and opposite from it was a small gas kiln. In the middle was a table space with various tools, brushes, lacquer, and gold. The room was as neat as it could be, much to Draco’s surprise.

“This is me.” Y/N turns around with her arms spread out. She then proceeds to pull a stool out for the boy and urges him to sit. He does so, and she stands in close proximity to him, leaning on the table for support.

“I was actually working on a piece before you came.” The girl points to her current project—a vase whose cracks have already been bound.

“What’s the process like?” He asks

“It’s much longer than you think. I learned how to do it the traditional way in Japan, and I haven’t deviated from it ever since.” The boy quirks a brow.

“You mean to say that there are faster methods?”

“There are, however it’s the process I appreciate the most I suppose. Mending takes time after all.” Y/N, who had been looking down at her feet, glances up at him to see his brows furrowed inwardly. 

“Don’t you get impatient?” She nods in reminiscence.

“I used to in the past, but all things worth anything take time, right?” They stare at each other for a moment. Draco, who has longed for the feeling of redemption, looked into the pure intent within her eyes. The silence prompts her to slip a small smile at him. 

“How about you, Draco Malfoy? How have you been?” There it was: The question that he could never answer (not truthfully anyway). Despite being in the center of all his thoughts, he hadn’t developed the courage to face them properly. He was stuck in a routine of living that provided a false sense of security. However, the present brought him to the realization that he had never been secure--not with himself.

“Not as good as what people see at face value.” He said simply.

“I never would’ve thought. Although, I suppose it just shows that we can never truly judge others, huh?”

“Yes, definitely.” He allowed his view on her to linger before speaking again.

“I actually wanted to see the way you worked.” It was her turn to quirk a brow at him.

“And why’s that?”

“To see the mending process.” Y/N remained silent as she analyzed the longing look in his eyes. His silvery orbs conveyed volumes of a history that was left unspoken. 

He continued, “I want to believe that broken things can be mended.” The determination in his eyes reminded her of why she began learning kintsugi in the first place. Behind the determination was hope that longed to be born to fruition. 

“I have one condition,” she said. His eyebrows arched in response.

“You can watch me, but you have to do some mending yourself.” She stepped away at the end of her statement and reached for something on her shelves. When she came back, she grabbed the boy’s hand, and placed a small bowl in his palm. It was a simple piece--still intact--taking on a warm, grey sheen. He looked at her with confusion, only to be met with seriousness. 

“Kintsugi begins when something breaks, and it focuses more on the beauty of the process rather than the outcome. That being said, it requires a lot of patience and acceptance.”

“I’m not an artist, Y/N. It won’t be perfect.” The girl takes hold of his other hand, and cups it within hers firmly. 

“It doesn’t have to be, Draco. The process belongs to you. You just have to trust yourself.” She said earnestly with her grip on him tightening. The warmth from her hands emanated through his skin and into his chest. She stood so close now, her head tilted upward to meet the uncertainty on his face. It made him feel vulnerable, but he stared back into her eyes with much resolve. It was an answer as it is.

Y/N gave him a reassuring smile and stepped away from him.

“I want you to drop that bowl. You don’t have to smash it, just let it fall.” Draco shifted his glance and looked at the bowl hesitantly. After a couple of seconds, he releases his hold, and allows the piece to slip from his fingers. His eyes were trained on it as it fell through the air, meeting its fate with a shattering sound. The bowl that was once intact was now in pieces on the floor, eliciting a familiar ache within him. It had split into five--a large one, one medium, and three more that were much smaller that comprised the object's rim.

As he bent down to pick up the pieces, a new wave of ambition overcame him. Each chip was picked up with much mindfulness, with responsibility, with purpose. When he stood up again, he began to perceive them as a reflection of himself, and gently placed them on the workbench.

Y/N, who witnessed the entire scene, smiled when Draco turned to face her. Her lips were pulled up gently, sweetly, and it evoked rosy feelings inside him. The boy eyed her as she went back to the shelf.

“How do you feel?” She asked. Her back was turned to him as she reached for another bowl. 

“Light.” She smiled at the sound of his response. She returned with a teal-colored bowl in hand. Following his previous actions, she dropped it, allowing the sounds of shatters to fill their ears once more.

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

“You think I’m going to make you do this alone?” The girl bends down as she gingerly picks up the chips of ceramic from the floor. She proceeds to clear out the table, leaving only the utensils to be used to start the process. 

“The materials I use are already here, but we’ll be working only with the lacquer for today.” The two set off to organize their pieces, hearts becoming more aware of one another as time passes on. After everything got sorted out, she demonstrated layering a coat of lacquer to the edges. Draco examined the way the smile instantly left her face, only to be replaced with a focused expression. Her eyebrows lowered, lips in a firm line, sights fixed on the ceramic. He also noticed how languid her fingers were in handling each piece with care. 

The solemnity of the sight is broken as she parts her lips to speak again, “Did you know that the lacquer is toxic?” He shakes his head when she spares him a glance momentarily before setting her gaze back onto the chips. “It’s toxic when wet, therefore much care needs to be taken when you lay it on the edges.” She then takes the smaller pieces and proceeds to add lacquer on them as well.

“However,” She continues, “as it dries, it hardens and mends the bowl perfectly.” She attaches the pieces together, and lifts the bowl carefully to show him. The boy stares at her flawless handiwork--the cracks reveal themselves as mere lines, seemingly invisible to the naked eye. 

“Strange, right? A substance that was once toxic is used to mend. When it dries it restores the product to perfection, and loses its toxicity.” Draco simply nods. It was a hard concept for the boy to grasp, but her words tickled a corner of his heart. How could something so bad be used to restore something that was once whole into perfection? He gazes at his own project while Y/N sets hers down carefully.

She passes the materials to him, observing as he gingerly takes the brush in hand. He dips it into the pool of lacquer, raising a glob of it up from the bottle.

“You don’t need too much, just enough so that the brush is covered completely.” She reached out to grab his hand, to demonstrate what she had meant. After realizing their closeness, however, she turned a shade of pink and stepped back. Draco tried his best to hold back his smile, but failed miserably.

“I’m s-sorry.” She stammered. He chuckled at her. 

“Nonsense, I’m all for this form of instruction.” He said teasingly, eliciting a laugh from her.

“Don’t mind me, just concentrate.” She ordered. Silence loomed, but smiles remained on their faces. Draco continued his work, emulating the way she coated her edges. He gripped each chip firmly while his eyes trailed the movement of the brush. Each second spent felt like darkness was being extracted from within, leaving him light and solemn. With much caution, he then pressed them together, and watched as the product adopted its once flawless form. With an approving look, Y/N explained the proceeding steps, immediately noticing the relaxed expression that had settled on his features. Deciding to take a break, the two embark to the main house to relax.

“Since we have to wait a while, is there anything you want to do? To eat?” She asked as they entered the room. The question, however, was left unanswered due to the sighting of a familiar looking uniform. Hung on her wall was a Ravenclaw robe.  

“You still have it?” He asked, pointing to the article of clothing with his chin. She chuckled and pulled it off it’s hanger.

“Yeah. I found it a couple days ago, and thought I’d try it for old times sake.” She slipped it over her shoulders, pulling the boy through a series of flashbacks from his time in Hogwarts. He recalled passing her by the hallways, getting small glimpses of her sketches, even seeing her vibrant personality shine with her friends.

“You know, I always thought you looked better in green.” He said approaching her.

“You think so?” He nodded.

“It’s a shame that we never really talked much. I think we would’ve been good friends.” She said in response.

“You think so?” 

“Well besides the bullying, yes. I don’t think you’re as bad as people portray you to be.” 

“You give me too much credit, Y/L/N.”

“Maybe you deserve a little more credit than you were granted.” This sparked more warmth within the boy. As she ordered food for delivery, Draco took a seat at her table, his gaze locked on her with the robe still propped on her body. His thoughts drifted as he imagined what might’ve happened if he did befriend the girl. How different would he be if he had her for company? How close would he have allowed their friendship to become? His mind began to wander and he ruminated on the what-could-have-beens, most especially the effect that his receiving of the dark mark would have had on her. His fingers flitted to his arm and rubbed the portion of fabric that covered his mark.

Y/N sat across from the boy, immediately noticing his dazed look.

“What’s on your mind?” She inquires. The boy broke off from his thoughts and refocused his attention to her.

“Just thinking about the past.”

“What of it?” She asked. He looked at her with slight reservation in his eyes.

“How different things would be if we were friends.” Her thoughts lingered on the possibilities for a while before she abandoned them completely. Only one realization came into mind:

“Well, we’re friends now. Perhaps everything that happened in the past was needed for us to meet like this.” She slid off her robe and propped it back on the hanger. 

She continued, “Whatever it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now belongs to us.” 

In that moment, a switch flipped in Draco’s mind, and he knew those words would stick to him for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t a chance at redemption that he yearned for--the conversation he had with her made him realize that the chance had always been presented to him--rather it was company. Genuine company. The one that opened their arms for comfort, the one that offered understanding when he couldn’t offer some to himself, the one that provided reassurance that everything was going to be okay. 

She didn’t need to elaborate. Her words conveyed her intent clearly, her eyes blazed with firmness, confidence, and faith in him. The boy closed himself off for way too long out of the fear that he’d be rejected once again. The anxieties that had resulted from the foul glances, derogatory statements, and prematurely formed accusations towards his family locked him away to the only source of comfort that was available to him--himself. How was it possible that he made it through on his own all this time? He barely held on to a thread, and as he crumbled further, so did his grip. And when the grip was no more, he fell into the hollowed body that he was. He allowed his darkness to swallow him, to control him as he mindlessly drifted with each passing day. 

Until now.

Right now, in the stillness of the room, in the comfort of her dining table, in the presence of her worn out Ravenclaw robe, the thread had reconstructed itself. It presented itself as the small smile that softly graced her lips, the scent of clay that lingered on her hands, and his bowl that sat solemnly streaked with cracks in the workshop behind the main house. 

“I suppose you’re right.” The boy showed a smile of relief, which prompted the girl to reach out for his hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Here’s to our friendship!”

--

There were very few things that Draco cherished in his life: his family and his solitude. As weeks flew by with Y/N’s company, however, he found that his heart was beginning to create space for her as well. It began subtly with the way he silently observed her actions. She catered to each of her pieces with the same amount of dedication--every detail incorporated with mindfulness, with care, and intention. She exerted a similar effort when it came to guiding him. Every step in the process was taught with much patience. Her soft hands would graze his own in attempts to correct his form, to stabilize his shakiness, and to relieve him of the tension that came with his perfectionistic tendencies.

-flashback-

The sound of Draco’s uneven breaths made themselves aware in Y/N’s presence. She had left him alone to tend to his project and herself to her own. Muscle memory led her to scrape off the excess traces of lacquer from the cracks, while the boy fixed his concentration on sanding the surface of his bowl smooth. Scratching noises filled the air, and only became more amplified as minutes ticked onward. It was unfamiliar to the girl--the action itself shouldn’t have required much energy. With a brow arched upward, and her gaze directed towards him, the sight of furrowed brows and tense lines fill her view, eliciting a chuckle from her.

“You’re going to break the bowl at that rate, Draco.” The boy unclenched his jaw and gave Y/N an exasperated look, increasing the volume of her laughter.

“I told you I won’t be perfect.” 

“What is it that you’re having trouble with?” Y/N asked, as she made her way to his side of the table.

“Some of the excess just won’t budge from its place.” Draco huffed in frustration. She removed the bowl from his grasp, and examined the object. On the other hand, he takes the liberty to step closer to her, his face peering over her shoulder. The heat emanating from his body distracted her, which she responded to by immediately returning her attention to the remnants that resided on its cracks.

“It helps to focus on one spot at a time,” She grabs the crumpled piece of sandpaper laying on the side, and connects its surface to the porcelain. He watches as she uses minimal yet focused motions to scrub at the excess. Slowly but surely the residue clears out, revealing a clean, crisp line. “See?” She turns her head to the side only to be met with his in such close proximity. His breath softly brushes against her skin. His silvery orbs dive deep into her y/e/c ones. The pulses of their heartbeats ring through their ears, and the concentration shifts from the demonstration to one another. 

It’s the apparent flush staining his skin that has her pulling away. 

“Why don’t you try?” She nervously asks. Y/N hands the bowl to the boy, and observes as he attempts to emulate her actions. With motions still stiff and choppy, she finally takes his hand into hers.

“Relax, Draco. You need to be patient with it.” With slender fingers wrapped around the back of his palm, she guides his grip with focused and particular motions. The repetition engrains itself into his muscle memory, and he quickly gets the hang of it. He exhibits relief with every remnant removed. In return, she releases her grip and looks at him with a satisfied expression.

“Thank you.” He says, and he means it. With perfection constantly being expected of him, the feeling of humility that comes with being a beginner is foreign. He had always been pushed into the limelight--the weight of his family name designates the image of flawlessness, elegance, and poise in all that he did. No room for mistakes. He was required of only the best. So, when he looks at her and gazes at his hands, a genuine smile spreads on his lips. 

The expectation for perfection may have taunted his past, but the realization of his commitment in giving his best brought out a clear sense of victory despite the imperfect process that had been associated with it.

--

Some days are tougher than others. The nightmares make it difficult to get through the night regardless of how infrequent they became. It always resulted in him waking up, broken into a cold sweat. Goosebumps peppered his skin, the hair behind his neck stood straight, and he would gasp for air. With regret once again overcoming him, a weight forms in his throat--it’s impossible to go to sleep now. Moreover, the fear for the lack of a peaceful slumber keeps him wide awake until sunrise, and there is only one word that shouts at him in the back of his mind.

“Mudblood.”

“Mudblood.”

“You filthy mudblood!”

The sayings are coupled with the memory of his back pressed onto the cold, wet, bathroom floor. He could recall the stinging sensations that pricked his body, the sight of blood seeping through the white fabric of his uniform, and the energy that was draining from his spirit. It was the lowest he has ever been--mere moments away from what could’ve been his end. Maybe that’s what should’ve happened. There was no one for him to turn to--the warmth of his mother’s arms was so far away, the act of shedding tears was sacrificed to protect his family, and the fact that he was already repulsive in the eyes of others caused his hope to plummet. There wasn’t anyone who he could call his true friend--one he could confide in to relieve the burdens he had faced.

But there was Y/N. The erratic heartbeats that rang against his chest subside when he remembered the firmness within her voice as she cheered for their friendship. The sparkle and reassurance that was displayed within her eyes tickled his heart in a way that he hadn’t experienced before. The soft touch of her hands reminded him that he wasn’t alone. The patience in her voice reminded him that despite all of his shortcomings, there was always hope for change. 

It was then that he’d pluck himself out of bed, and take hold of the ceramic piece that laid prettily on his desk. With deep breaths, he ran his fingers through its golden streaks, allowing the chilled sensation to calm him down. His eyelids would flutter close, and he’d envision her soft smiles, her chipper personality, and the passion that was expressed through her eyes whenever she worked. He’d recall the worn-out Ravenclaw robe hanging on the wall of her dining room, and remember that she was there. She believed in him. She had given him a chance. With his mind set to ease and the morning sun illuminating through the fabric of his curtains, Draco picked up his own broken pieces, and binded himself with the faith she had as the lacquer to keep him together. 

Narcissa and Lucius had noticed subtle changes in the boy. A peaceful light had returned to his silvery eyes, the frown that graced his lips began to fade with time, and the tension that he held in his joints loosened. He treaded the halls with his back upright, his vision trained straight ahead--each step filled with more purpose than the last. They didn’t make it known to him, but the sight brought them much joy.

--

It was a cloudy day when Draco returned to Y/N’s workshop. This time around, however, there’s much more uncertainty and nervousness within him as he stands in the midst of her working. 

Earlier that morning, Narcissa mentioned hosting a ball within the manor (something that hasn’t been done in forever). Invitations were sent out already, the RSVP list continues to grow, and the property itself has been decorated to exhibit its new grandeur. Of course, he agreed to it--slightly concerned about how they’d be perceived--but he was more thrown off by his mother’s only request:

“Please bring Y/N with you, Draco. I’d like to commission her for a piece.” In his mind that translated into, “I want to meet the girl you’ve been constantly visiting.” He knew his mother wasn’t against her. He was more worried about how Y/N, herself, would respond.

The familiarity of her focused expression surfaces, and it attracts him much more than it has before. Her hands are nimble, and she moves fluently. Her hair was tied into a low and messy bun with loose strands framing her face. Her appearance now was much different than their first meeting at the gala, yet his mind went back to that night--picturing her beauty in her deep emerald green dress. With his feelings for her more clarified, he feels his heart beat at the thought of her touch, moreover the thought of his touch on her. Would she even return his feelings? 

“Draco, are you alright? You’ve been staring this way for a while now.” He takes the opportunity to test the waters.

“I needed to ask you something actually.” He goes around and pulls a stool to sit on, meeting the level of her gaze.

“And that is?”

“My mother asked for you,” He said, fumbling with his fingers, “My family is hosting a ball, and she wants you to come--she wants to meet you.” He notices the way her eyes widen at the sound of his announcement. 

“I’m sorry. Come again?” Draco released a soft chuckle before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a decorated envelope with her name printed on the front.

“This is yours.” She takes it from his grasp gingerly and brushes her fingers on the fine embellishments. Realization hits her when she skims across the familiar letters of her name.

“I’ve imagined many things in my life, but they certainly don’t come close to this. Wow, imagine being invited to a Malfoy ball.” Her words flowed out with awe, softening his heart. He reaches out, and tucks one of the loose strands behind her ear. The action forces her to look into his eyes.

“She’s taken quite a liking to your work.” His smile brings out one of her own.

“I’m honored.” She starts to beam, “I should go dress shopping soon.” Her eyes remain transfixed on the information given on the actual invite itself.

“I think you’d look beautiful in anything you decide to wear.” It was meant to be a thought--meant to stay in his head--but it came out, and now the girl felt her face get hot. She covered it with her hands, while the boy just looked up at the ceiling to avoid her gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” He says.

“It’s fine.” 

“If it’s fine then why are your hands still covering your face?”

“Why are you still looking up?” Draco, lowers his chin and pulls her wrists away.

“I’m not anymore.” When the words leave his lips, and his eyes meet hers, he becomes aware of the amount of peace that he attained since meeting her again. In some way, the silence that fills them is overtaken by the messages that their gazes send to one another, both containing gratitude and affection. 

“So will you come with me?” He asks.

“Definitely.”

--

 Y/N paced back and forth while many aristocrats stepped into the manor with much poise in their step. She didn’t mind formal events when it came to art, however, this case felt entirely foreign to her realm of comfort. She wasn’t from a wealthy family nor was she pureblooded either. Surely the end of the war had initiated a shift in change, but the significance of blood status still persisted in some even after. Nevertheless, she made herself present. With much resolve and a false sense of confidence, she stepped into the entrance of the building.

The foyer was bustling with chatter--many attendees stood with glasses of champagne in hand. Still in an awkward stature, the girl takes a look around. The ceilings were decorated with crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains were pulled to the side, exposing massive windows. Arches, columns, even the walls were covered with ornamental carvings. Every single aspect portrayed luxury. Whenever Draco visited the girl, she discarded his association to wealth and solely focused on him as a person. Because of this, the realization that the boy actually had some coin in his pockets hit her like bricks. 

Draco, who had kept his eyes locked on the girl, chuckled to himself. She stuck out from the crowd with her eyes widened in awe. Not to mention her attire. Her hair was kept straight down with golden clips holding it tucked behind her ear. Furthermore, she was dressed in a champagne mermaid gown speckled with beads and embroidery, which flourished outwards and into a sheer fabric decorated with similar details. Her neckline plunged into the middle of her abdomen, yet her shoulders remained covered with long sleeves that wrapped themselves fittingly around her wrists. She truly had the tastes of an artist.

He quietly made his way to her as she continued to gawk at the room. “Your jaw is going to drop, darling.” He whispered in her ear. The feeling of large hands planting themselves on her waist caused her to let out a small yelp, pulling her out of her daze. She let out a breath of relief when she turned to see Draco’s face. 

“You scared me.”

“You were gawking at the walls.” Y/N rolled her eyes, and briefly skimmed him from head to toe. Heart skipping at the way his suit had admiringly framed his shape well. She giggled at the sight of the snake brooch that embellished the collar of his jacket.

“Always a Slytherin, aren’t you Malfoy?” As she brushed her fingers along the details of its design, Draco reached for her hand, and held it by her fingers. She could only stare as he lifted it higher to press his lips on it. Butterflies were felt everywhere.

“And a charmer.” She added. They shared a quick laugh before being interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Standing before them was Narcissa, who beamed at the sight of her son with the girl beside him.

“You must be Y/N Y/L/N. I admire your work, dear.” The older woman stuck her hand out, which the girl shook firmly.

“Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Narcissa.” The delight in her voice emitted a welcoming energy, loosening the nerves that Y/N felt early on.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Narcissa.” 

“It was no problem at all, dear. I’d actually like to speak to you regarding a commission later on tonight. Would that be alright with you?”

“Of course! I’m honored you’d even considered me.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you two alone now. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” Sweet smiles and gazes were exchanged between the two women. After casting a knowing look to her son, she departs from the pair, disappearing into the crowd. 

“Draco, I’ll have you know that I can’t dance to save my life.” He snickered at her confession, already letting the comfort between them settle in.

“It’s alright. Let’s walk instead.” With arms hooked, Draco begins leading her away from the bustling room and into a secluded hall. Mounted on the walls were paintings of his predecessors. He introduced each patriarchal figure to her, starting with Septimus. Her vision plastered itself to their features, mentally discerning the traits that Draco inherited. After a while of walking and conversation, they finally got to a family portrait. Depicted on it was a younger-looking Lucius and Narcissa, and seated on his mother’s lap was a young Draco himself. Y/N unhooked her arm from his, and approached the painting. She concentrated on the little boy. He had bright eyes, a toothy grin, and flowing platinum locks. His hand gripped firmly on Narcissa’s, and his small legs dangled over her dress. He was the only one smiling in the painting, and it warmed your heart knowing that the artist decided to keep that detail in.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours?” He asks, stepping close. He hesitantly snaked his arm around her waist, hoping that she didn’t mind. She looked up to him and smiled, stepping even closer to him. 

“You were so small.” Draco scowled slightly. However, his heart skipped a beat when he saw the way she looked at the portrait with adoration, allowing his foul expression to fade.

“Well that was painted when I was seven, so it’s no wonder I was small.” His sarcastic remark caused her to roll her eyes again, softly slapping the hand that was planted on her. He glanced at her and squeezed her side tighter, pulling Y/N even closer to his body--his warmth increasing the amount of butterflies that rose in her stomach.

“When I walked in earlier, it completely slipped my mind that this was your house. That you grew up here.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, genuinely interested in her response.

“Everytime you came over, I only saw you as Draco. Not as Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and heir to the Malfoy family name.” 

“Please elaborate.” He commands, his heart now racing.

“You’re more than the expectations held for you. You came with commitment to learn about a process that you were genuinely interested in. You grew with your mistakes and your frustrations. That experience was you, and you alone.” She couldn’t help but reveal that admiration she had for him through her voice. 

“I thought it was amazing.” She whispered, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her. He did, however. In turn, he grabbed her hand and led her further down the hallway and into his room. Y/N stood there confused at his sudden action. Her eyes then begin to widen at the sight of him removing his suit jacket with her mind drifting to rather dirty thoughts. 

“Draco, what are you-” 

“I didn’t think it was possible.” Y/N furrowed her brows.

“What do you mean?” Draco looked into her eyes, before shifting his gaze to his left sleeve. Her line of sight follows him as he unbuttons his cuff, and rolls the fabric up, revealing his dark mark. She gasps.

“I didn’t think it was possible to mend myself.” It didn’t take him to say much for her to finally understand that he didn’t intend to do anything dirty. It was the opposite of that. He was making himself vulnerable to her.

“But you showed me how.” He said, completing his statement. Tears brimmed her eyes upon the realization of the reality he had to live. The blaring mark that took away his innocence screamed against his pale skin. It screamed of the pain, of loneliness, and the many many long sleeved shirts he must’ve worn to keep it hidden away. 

“If there’s anyone amazing, it’s you, Y/N.” The tears that had built up fell as she furiously shook her head.

“No, Draco. It’s you. It’s all you.” She took his arm delicately into her hands and pressed her lips on his dark mark. Draco felt his eyes well up in tears, while her own spilled onto his skin. Every kiss that she peppered seemed to paint over his scars, his cracks with gold. The feeling of emptiness dissipated in her presence, only surrounding him with warmth that he had yearned to keep.

“I’m thankful for you.” He whispers. Y/N couldn’t hold herself back at that point anymore. She released his arm from her grip, and held his cheeks within her fingertips, wiping the moisture that managed to fall from his silvery orbs. She, then, slowly lifts herself using her tiptoes, and scans his face for a moment before pressing a sweet, short kiss on his lips. It was gentle, much like her. It was patient, much like her. It was filled with faith, hope, and concern--things that she hadn’t been able to express to him in words, yet was felt through her kiss. Draco closed his eyes at the sensation. When she parted from him, he cupped her face with his hands, and drew her close once more. A sigh escaped her as she felt all the emotions he managed to keep in. Each press conveyed a level of appreciation that the boy had never thought he was capable of showing. 

In that moment a memory of a shrill shout fills her mind, and she stops so suddenly.

“Weren’t you struck with sectumsempra?” She asks with her brows furrowed towards him. His lack of response confirms her curiosity. 

“May I?” Her fingers trail to the top of his shirt as she makes her request. Knowing what it is she wants to see, he nods, prompting her to carefully undo the buttons. Her hands tremble as she makes her way down, revealing the scars that resided on his body. She pushes the fabric over his shoulders, and begins tracing each one--much similar to the way he has done with the golden cracks on her bowl. She slowly lowers herself and starts placing kisses where he has been struck. With her hands gently fastened to his sides, her lips linger in one area before transferring to another. He finds comfort in them--it was as if each sensation reassured that he was loved. As she travels upward, she plants a kiss on his jaw, and a final one on his own. With it she expresses a message dedicated only to him: I believe in you.

They separate and bask in the moment by holding each other’s gaze. After a while, Draco wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into a tight embrace. He nuzzles his nose on the crook of her neck and kisses it, while she runs her hands up and down his bare sides. His left hand then finds its way to her jaw, tilting her face upwards. He proceeds to nip the expanse of her neck, making her head fall back to grant him more access. The hand that was wrapped around her waist travels downwards to her hip, grips it, and presses her body against his. 

“Draco,” she moans.

“Hm?” She doesn’t respond. She finds herself completely intoxicated by his lips as he moves from her neck, her sternum, and to her exposed abdomen. Instead, she laced her fingers into his hair and pushed him closer to her skin. 

The pair was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door. 

“Young master! Are you in there?” It was a houself. Draco presses a finger to his lips, signalling to remain quiet.

“I don’t think he’s there, we should check elsewhere.” Light footsteps were heard fading into the distance, eliciting a light laugh between the two. Y/N looks into his eyes once more, and kisses him one last time.

“Should we go?” He responds with a small ‘yes’ and kisses her forehead. As he buttons his shirt, the girl plods across his room, fascinated with its luxuriousness as she takes in the details. One of them causes her to gasp, however. She walks with her throat choking up at sight of the familiar bowl that was placed on his desk. It was hers. She lifts it gently, recalling their first conversation at the gala. The golden scars remind her heavily of the boy behind her. As she traces them, warm hands rub against her sides before snaking around her waist once more. 

“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend now?” Y/N laughs at his question.

“I suppose it does.” She says as she weaves her fingers into his. The boy takes a moment to stare at the bowl ahead.

“When you said that Kintsugi helped you heal, I wasn’t quite sure to believe you or not. But, going through the process was more than enough to make me understand why.”

“You truly are amazing Draco Malfoy. I won’t let anyone tell me you aren’t.”

“Even if my past is completely flawed?”

“Your past made you into who you are right now. What we have is ‘now’, and ‘now’,” she sets the bowl down and faces him, while her hand caresses his cheek. “...‘now’ belongs to us. Now you are amazingly, wonderfully, imperfectly perfect.”

Epilogue:

The sound of Y/N’s words rung in his mind as Draco found himself standing in the middle of her workspace. With a firm grasp on the brush handle, he dips the bristles into the gold liquid, allowing the excess to drip back.

He takes a deep breath, and allows the solemnity of the room to fill him. Many thoughts overtake him in the moment, but only one makes itself prominent to him, resilience. After going through the binding process himself, he pridefully lays down the gold over the cracks on his bowl--each one portraying the imperfections of his past.

A/N: Hi! If you made it this far, I want to thank you so much for reading! There’s a bit of inaccuracy in the last bit, but besides that I hope I brought much light to the technique in general. I hope you enjoyed!! Feedback is very much appreciated :D

Tagging:

@beiahadid @hahee154hq @mushi98 @stretchyice @dracosathenaeum @dreaming-about-fanfictions @saby06143 @rottenhexrt @littlethie @amithatemo

Link to the taglist is on my masterlist :D

[forestwater87]

Chapter 15: Grand Gesture

Summary: GRAND GESTURE: He or she must be willing to put it all on the line now or risk losing the one thing they need to become whole-hearted. It’s life or death now.

CW: Smut in the last third of the chapter. Questionable quality.

Summer 2017

“Fuck!” Gwen felt her center of gravity shift as she leaned forward, overbalancing on the rickety chair she’d been using to reach the ceiling. It tipped perilously on two legs, then lost the fight with physics and sent her sprawling with a crash that shook the dozens of tiny papers taped around the room. She hit the ground with her hip and the side of her face, one of them making a disturbing crunch sound and both shooting bright white pain down her entire right side. “Shit!”

She was halfway to her feet, wondering if the crossed-eyes dizzy feeling was from lack of sleep, hitting her head, or marker fumes, when fingers closed around her upper arm and she was hauled upright. “Gwen! Goodness, are you okay?” David let go of her, his gaze roving around the room as he took a step back. “What happened in here?”

She looked around, taking a deep breath and noticing for the first time in hours the thick perfume of tacky glue and paint, as though David walking in had turned her senses back on. It was done, mostly. Well, no — it’d never really be done, but it was enough to prove her point.

She hoped.

While she was panicking, David had wandered over to the center of the room, ducking to avoid a string of origami animals dangling from the ceiling. “Is this for camp?”

“Yes — I mean, no, it’s from camp, and maybe we can reuse some of it but no, it’s . . . not really . . .” She’d planned this, during her mad crafting frenzy: how David would come home, wonder what she was doing, and she’d carefully tour him through everything — or maybe she’d let him get on with his morning routine while she added a few more things, made it just a bit closer to perfect.

But his presence had pulled her to a halt. She’d been like a shark all night, afraid to stop moving or she’d die, but now that he was here she felt drained, the giddy, terrified adrenaline that’d been keeping her going evaporating in an instant.

Though hey. At least she had a good reason to be tired, for once.

He frowned at her discarded supplies strewn carelessly around the room. “Are these from Art Camp?”

The question jolted her into action, and she stumbled forward jerkily, like the Tin Man without oil. “Yeah, but I already took it out of my paycheck, it’s fine. I’ll go shopping tomorrow for new stuff.” She wanted him to hear what she really meant, what she was trying to put together through exhausted babbling: that this was important, that it was worth sacrificing sleep and money for, that she loved him and she respected him and she wanted him to know that.

Finally, finally, he turned his attention to the walls. “Gwen, what is all this?”

“It’s you,” she blurted out, then winced and rested her forehead in her palm. “No, that’s not — it’s — some of the stuff you’ve taught me, look . . .” She took his hand, her nerves trembling at the brush of his fingers against her own, and pulled him toward the doorway. She’d made a messy semicircle around the room, right to left like a supermarket. Dropping his hand, she took a step back, steepling her fingers like she was praying and pressing them to her lips with another steadying breath.

She had one chance.

“Okay,” she began. “So . . .”

---

Gwen looked like she was on the verge of falling over, listing dangerously to the side as she led him across the room. There were feathers in her hair, and scraps of paper; she was speckled with color, marker and paint and even a smear of glitter glue on the tip of her nose, the pads of her fingers nearly black with a rainbow of ink that stained his hand as she held it. It was obvious she hadn’t slept, even more obvious that she desperately needed to.

But her eyes were bright even if the circles under them were dark, and she thrummed with an energy and animation David hadn’t seen all summer.

And he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt her, not when it finally felt like she’d returned to him.

“— song you taught me last year,” she said, and he felt a flash of guilt that he hadn’t been listening. She tapped the paper she’d stuck to the wall, the lyrics of his Camp Campbell song scrawled across it in uneven lines. “All the camp activities, remember? At least the most important ones.”

(It was really just the ones that fit best into the rhyme scheme, but he didn’t correct her as she moved on to a second piece of paper.)

“This is a list of all the facts about nature I’ve learned since I started here,” she continued, gesturing. This one was crammed so tightly with writing that he could barely read it, bullet points snaking in all directions and increasingly smaller handwriting as it moved down the page, until finally Gwen had started attaching sticky notes to the wall below and around the list. “I had to keep going back and adding things as I thought of them. I know I’m forgetting something, but I can’t —” She gestured around her head in a classic “scatterbrained” motion, chuckling weakly. “I’m kind of all over the place right now.”

Next: a bullseye, a pencil stuck point-first into the wall. “I couldn’t really shoot an arrow,” Gwen explained, “but remember that summer you taught me archery? I’m still pretty good at it — we went to a shooting range for Claire’s birthday last year and I was the only one who hit the target every time.”

Next: a messy drawing of a forest, a little stick figure kneeling next to a moss-covered rock. “That one time we got lost in the woods trying to find a good place for bug-catching, you got us out because you knew how to find north. You’d be pretty great in a zombie apocalypse.”

Next: a sheet of black construction paper poked through with holes, hastily taped to the back window so light from the lamp outside shone through in little pinpricks. He leaned closer and realized that they were in the rough shape of the constellations visible above Lake Lilac. “I didn't know much about stars and shit outside of, like, horoscope stuff — I mean, in the city you can’t even see them — but you always pointed out which constellations and planets were out during the summer and now I know them all too.”

And on, and on. Scale models of the crafts and activities they’d done at Camp Campbell, nature facts, and on one wall she’d tacked up a typewritten letter to the Director of Admissions at Queen’s University Belfast. Skimming it quickly, it looked to David like an application.

“I was trying to get into their Environmental Science program. I wrote about Sleepy Peak Peak and Lake Lilac,” she admitted, looking almost embarrassed. “I got in. And I mean, they’re not the best program out there, but they’re still in the top 300 worldwide so that’s pretty cool, I guess —”

“Belfast?” He leaned in closer, confirming that he’d read correctly. “Isn’t that in England?”

“Yeah.” She looked impressed, and he suppressed a weary smirk; yes, he did know a bit about the world outside of Camp Campbell. But she surprised him by adding, “I had to look that up, actually.” She shrugged. “Guess I should’ve just asked you, huh?

“Anyway, that was a couple years ago. I didn’t go, obviously,” she added, responding to his unspoken question. “International travel’s a bitch. I needed a scholarship, and my grades weren’t good enough. I think I only got in at all because of my letter.” She gestured at it, not quite meeting his eyes. “Which I never thanked you for. Or most of the stuff I’ve learned from you. I’ve been . . . kinda taking all that for granted. So, uh . . . thanks, David.”

He wanted to tell her she was welcome, that she didn’t need to thank him at all. That sharing these things with her had been the highlight of his life since they’d met, even if it hadn’t seemed like she cared about any of it. But there was a lump quivering dangerously in his throat and he didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

After a second she cleared her throat awkwardly and led him over to a row of stick figures hanging from the ceiling. “Some of these are from Yoga Camp,” she said, pointing at a few of the ones contorted into uncomfortable shapes, “but also all that other stuff you do. Like smile exercises —” and yes, one of the stick figures had a big pink smiley face, “— and breathing techniques and stuff. I use those sometimes when I’m having a panic attack. They really help, even if smile exercises still make me feel like a dumbass most of the time.”

The decorations started to get more abstract as they made their way around the room, simple crafts and trivia giving way to colorful scribbles and symbols, representing things he’d said to her about her relationship with her parents, her love life. “You have really good advice, you know that? You could be the next Dear Abby or something, seriously. I think that’s still running.”

(It was; he read it every morning with his pre-breakfast tea.)

“These get worse, sorry . . . I was getting tired.” Gwen jerked her chin up at a wobbly butterfly — or was it a bird? — dangling over their heads. “I use your advice about hummingbird-ing all the time. With writing, mostly, but sometimes at work or something, too.”

He gently reached up and touched the bird’s feet, watching it spin in a lazy circle. Technically the idea had been his mother’s, a way to avoid burnout by flitting from one project to another and adding just a little bit to each, instead of devoting all energy and resources to one thing and slogging through until it was done. The whole idea was part of his ethos of being a counselor — wasn’t Camp Campbell a place to get a little taste of everything, after all? He remembered explaining it to Gwen during her first week at camp, just over five years ago.

He wouldn’t have ever imagined that she’d actually remembered.

He didn’t think she remembered any of this.

But the evidence was all around him — on the walls, hanging from the ceiling, dozens of examples, mementos of the tiny moments that meant everything to him. Immortalized, remembered, in increasingly sloppy handwriting and doodles.

In the corner was a bright red card that looked familiar. David moved over to it and laughed in recognition: it was one he’d sent her after her first or second summer at Camp Campbell, when he’d seen on Facebook that she was looking for work. He tugged it off the wall, careful not to damage the cheap cardstock, and smiled down at the deer wearing a plaid hunting cap, which he’d made out of tissue paper and markers (he’d gotten much better since then, thanks to a few years of Decoupage Camps).

‘Good luck on your job HUNT! I know you’ll slay the interview!’

“I’ve kept that for years to show my friends,” Gwen said, making him jump; he hadn’t realized she’d come up behind him, but she was close enough to nearly rest her head against his. “I felt like it really captured the kind of guy you were.”

Her breath prickled the side of his neck, and he distracted himself by opening the card — ‘oh deer, is this joke going on too long? I feel like it’s overkill!’ — noticing how worn the crease was, like she’d opened and closed it hundreds of times. “Does it?”

He felt her shake her head without having to face her, stray wisps of hair that’d escaped her ponytail tickling his cheek. “Not even close.”

Unable to resist, he looked back at her over his shoulder, and she took his arm, turning him around the rest of the way. He thought she was going to kiss him — she was close enough that he could see a smeary glue thumbprint on her cheek and what looked like half a smiley-face sticker in her hair — but she just took the card from him, setting it carefully on the couch before taking hold of both his hands. Her expression was grave, shining faint with hope, and between the craft debris and her naked earnestness, she looked incredibly young and vulnerable.

“There’s more,” she said, gesturing with her chin toward the far wall, “and I’ll let — I want you to look at it, but . . . I just had to tell you, I’ve been taking you for granted and it’s not right. I’ve been pretending I still think of you as this —” Pulling one of her hands away, she picked up the card again, her fingers shaking so the deer’s toothpick antlers clacked together, “— sweet, silly, kinda childish David, who belongs with someone sweet, and silly, and kinda childish. And I tried to be that and . . . I mean I sucked at it,” she said, breaking off with a weak laugh, dropping her eyes to their joined hands. “And it . . . kind of broke me. But I didn’t even think to ask if that was what you wanted, because I thought I knew what you needed, and that was — so, really fucked.” She looked back up at him, her eyes dancing with purple fire, her grip on his hand tightening. “And I — I don’t, you know so much that I don’t — I could fill the entire cabin with stuff I’ve learned from you, this doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

She paused, like she was waiting for him to interject, but David felt like he’d been turned to stone, paralyzed and unblinking while his brain whirled.

“But none of it matters if it doesn’t show . . . if you don’t know —” Her voice cracked, and she dropped his other hand, pressing a fist to her mouth. “— h-how amazing you are, how much you matter to this camp and to me and . . . and I didn’t know people could actually be happy 'til I met you. I mean, I guess I knew technically, but not that it was a real thing people actually were. But you figured it out. You’ve known what you wanted since you were a kid and then you got it and I’ve never done anything without second-guessing myself a million times but you just did it, and it meant making so many decisions about your life that could’ve turned out wrong but they didn’t because they were the right ones for you. And you knew it. You always have.” She swiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands, crying in earnest now. “You’re a marvel, David. I should’ve said that every fucking day. And I know it’s probably too little, too late, but I’m sorry. For not telling you and — and for everything.

“And I . . .” She swallowed hard, taking a few heaving breaths before continuing, and he knew she was trying to hold onto her composure even as tears poured down her cheeks, “I don’t know what you wanna do. With — with us, I mean. But you’re right, I haven’t been a good girlfriend to you, and if you don’t want to . . . if you want me to leave right now or after the summer ends or if you just wanna be friends or whatever , that’s fine. A-and — if you do . . . y’know . . .” Her face crumpled, her shoulders curling in on themselves. “I love you so much,” she managed, her words harder to make out through damp, hiccuping breaths. “Whatever — whatever you want — I — I — I trust you.”

Understanding pierced his chest, a small pinhole that allowed light to pour, warm and white, into his heart.

“I trust you.”

David hadn’t realized how desperately he’d needed to hear those words until that moment.

He stepped forward, plucking the card from her hand and tossing it onto the floor (he could make her another one, dozens if she wanted, hundreds) and tilting her chin up so he could kiss her. Her cheeks were wet under his palms, her mouth salty and acidic with the taste of not-quite-morning breath, and each brush of his lips against hers was broken by her pulling back to drag in a sobbing gasp, her mouth moving clumsily like she was as close to fainting from exhaustion and emotion as she looked.

It was, without question, the best kiss of his life.

He broke away to press his forehead against hers, sliding his hands from her face to cup the back of her neck and closing his eyes. “I love you too, Gwen,” he murmured, his heart fluttering at the giddily-incredulous, teary laugh she gave in response. “And I think you need to go to bed.”

She leaned back, and the bleary confusion on her face was so precious he rose up on his toes to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Huh? But what about . . .”

“I’ve got some stuff to think about,” he said, then gestured at the crafts she hadn’t shown him yet, “and look at. And after that . . . we should talk. But it won’t be a very good talk if you fall asleep,” he added with a laugh as her eyes drifted closed.

She opened them halfway, just enough to glare at him, but the effect would’ve been more intimidating if she hadn’t been swaying slightly. “’m fine.” The adrenaline that’d been keeping her going was clearly wearing off fast, and David was a little worried she wouldn’t make it to bed, that he’d just find her unconscious on the floor of the hallway. “You didn’t sleep either,” she accused, pointing at him with a finger stained silvery with graphite.

Goodness, he loved her so much he couldn’t stand it. “I had a nap.” Not a long one, but he was used to not sleeping much. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“It’s already the morning,” she complained, but like a sleepy robot she turned and shuffled back toward the front of the cabin. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and shower and stuff. So I look less like a sludge goblin.”

“You do that, Gwen.” He waited until the bathroom door had clicked shut before turning back to the mess she’d made of their living room. It was almost hard to tell the difference between what was art and what was trash left over, there was so much of both; it looked like an explosion had hit a crafts store.

Gwen wasn’t someone who put a lot of effort into things she didn’t care about. It was one of the most frustrating things about having her as a coworker, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love how unabashedly honest she was, how he could read her feelings just by looking at her work.

There was the soft sound of tape unsticking and one of the decorations sagged, a corner curling away from the wall and drooping down. He pushed it carefully back into place and fumbled for his phone, setting it to camera mode.

This was worth remembering.

---

Gwen was positive she’d never be able to fall asleep; how could she, when things were still so up in the air? But she wasn’t twenty anymore, and after the exhaustion and emotional turmoil of the last few hours — days, weeks; hell, if she was being honest it’d been years since she’d truly felt well-rested — and despite the anxiety buzzing inside her skull she was out in moments.

Soft fingers in her hair drew her back to earth, and when she opened her eyes David came into focus, crouching next to her bed so they were at eye level. He smiled as she blinked at him, warmth and sunshine he probably didn’t even know he was emitting. “Goooood morning, Gwen!” he chirped, his voice way too loud for how close they were, and she winced. “Sorry,” he added, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Habit.”

“It’s fine,” she said, because she’d missed his morning bellow so much more than she could ever miss having non-punctured eardrums. She sat up, clumsily swiping at her face to double-check for drool or errant eye gunk. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He hopped onto the bed, making her and everything else on the mattress bounce. He was being so . . . normal, like all the drama last night had been a dream.

Fuck it. They had some hard, painful conversations coming; she could enjoy a little bit of normalcy while her brain booted back up. “Good,” she replied, yawning. “I mean, tired, but I’m always tired so —” Her blood chilled, and suddenly she was wide awake.

There went normal. All because she had to remind him of what an unloveable disaster she was.

But when she looked back up he didn’t seem annoyed. He leaned against the wall, stretching his legs out so they dangled off the edge of the bed. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” She scoffed before she could stop herself, and his gaze flicked up to hers, taking her breath away. (God, how she’d functioned for almost four years without feeling more than a flicker of attraction to this man was unfathomable.) “Really. I want to know what’s going on with you.” His hand landed on her knee, light as a bird but blazingly warm even through her blankets. “All I want is for you to let me in.”

A swell of emotion swept up from somewhere in her chest, causing her eyes to prick with tears for the thousandth time. She looked away and sniffed as discreetly as possible — which wasn’t very, she assumed, since he immediately reached over and handed her a tissue from the pack he kept stashed in his pockets. “I mean, if you want me to complain, I can do that,” she muttered, tamping down another flow of tears through willpower. “I can complain about fucking anything.”

David’s laugh made her turn back toward him, because it didn’t have a trace of sadness or pity or anything she’d expected. It was so purely, entirely delighted , more than even he could fake, and he was looking at her like she’d said something surprising and wonderful.

“You really like it,” she blurted out, unable to hide the awe in her voice. “That I’m like this. Whiny and —” she waved vaguely “— bitchy, and whatever.”

“I don’t.” He shook his head and her stomach plummeted. But as she took a breath to respond he shifted closer, gently cupping the back of her neck so he could tap his forehead against hers. “I love it, Gwen. I love everything about you.”

A laugh burbled out of her before she could stop it, and she pulled away to hide her face. “Oh my god. You bastard. You’re so cheesy.”

His fingers closed around her wrists, tugging her palms away from her face. “I love you,” he said, kissing the skin she’d covered with her hands — the tip of her nose, each cheek, her top and bottom lip, her eyebrows.

“I love you, too.” She could already tell that if he was going to keep saying that to her she’d spontaneously combust, because this was all too cute and romantic and lovely and she still didn’t fully understand how this was happening, why he didn’t hate her.

But she’d promised she wouldn’t question his decision, whatever it was. She owed him that much.

His smile faded slightly, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows. “What’re you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she lied automatically, and when that only made him sigh she added, “I said I was going to trust you,” hating the note of defensiveness in her voice, because of the two of them she didn’t have much grounds for righteous indignation.

“Then trust me with how you feel.” It should’ve sounded too much like a cliche, something she’d tease him for, but he was right and they both knew it.

She’d put him through hell by not telling him the truth, and they both knew that, too.

Gwen closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to relax. Things were — they seemed okay, didn’t they? Almost normal, but better, because all her ugliness was out there for him to see and he knew about it and he didn’t seem to mind. And wasn’t that something she’d never thought she’d ever actually find? “I don’t get it,” she admitted, her voice sounding small and stupid. “I keep feeling like . . . like I tricked you somehow. Like I didn’t explain well enough why you shouldn’t want me, because if you really got it you wouldn’t be here. Not because I think you’re stupid,” she added quickly, desperately, “because I don’t, really! But — but even smart people can be . . . I don’t know, manipulated?”

The confusion in her voice made her pause, sit back. Manipulated? That couldn’t be right, could it? She wasn’t trying to manipulate anyone, and she was pretty sure you couldn’t manipulate someone by accident.

Or maybe you could; she hadn’t always paid a ton of attention to her psych classes in college.

“I’m sorry,” she managed after a few deeply uncomfortable moments of silence. “I’m trying, I promise, but I understand if . . . you know. Whatever.” (She still hated saying it, especially now that it seemed like it might not happen. Breaking up with David was hard enough without having to say it.)

He put his arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his side and kissing her temple. “Thank you for telling me, Gwen.”

“You’re not mad?”

She felt him shake his head as she rested hers on his shoulder, scooting down to make up for their (lack of) height difference. “I wasn’t really mad when I came back this morning,” he said, “even before I saw everything you’d made. I had some time to cool down, and I . . . started thinking, I guess.”

Gwen wanted to look up at him, but she wanted to soak in his warmth more so she nuzzled into the curve of his neck, inhaling the smells of floral detergent and piney-woodsy cologne left over from the day before. “About what?” she asked, like there could possibly be more than one answer. Like maybe he’d been pondering the sociopolitics of Malaysia or something.

He let out a little huff of laughter, and she knew without looking that he’d glanced up at the ceiling in a slow blink (that he insisted was less rude than rolling his eyes outright, even though it was just as obvious). “You. Everything that’s happened this summer — and before it.” His shoulder shifted slightly under her cheek, a shrug aborted halfway through so she’d be comfortable. “Things started making more sense after everything we talked about tonight. Like the day we . . . well, when you told me about that gentleman you . . . almost took home.”

“He wasn’t a gentleman, he was a douchebag,” she interrupted, immediately feeling like an asshole. But David chuckled and squeezed her closer, like he enjoyed her company even when she was being annoying (which he did; somehow he actually did) and she let herself relax against his side, believe that maybe things were going to be okay after all.

“I’ve thought about the stuff you said a lot since that day. Mostly the parts that made me feel the worst.”

She flinched. “I’m so sorry —” she began, but he cut her off with a kiss to her forehead.

“I have trouble with . . . rejection,” he continued, sounding embarrassed. Like that minor character flaw even came close to the millions of ways she was fucked up. “I — I guess you could call it ‘abandonment issues’? But at first, and for a while, all I could hear were the ways you didn’t . . . seem to want me around anymore.”

“But I did —”

“I know.” Another soft kiss, and she wasn’t sure if it was to reassure her or himself. “I know that now. And I think, knowing that . . . it made what you said sound different.

“You were drunk — I know, you downplayed it, and it wouldn’t have excused . . . but your judgment was still impaired. And you didn’t kiss him. Thinking back, it didn’t even sound like you really wanted to. Did you?” She shook her head, not willing to look up at him because no matter how gently he tried to frame this she still felt like it was her fault. “And I just couldn’t stop thinking, how if this had happened a few years ago you would’ve told that story so much differently. If we were still just friends, maybe. You would’ve stormed into the cabin raging about how some jerk had ‘put his mitts all over you’ —”

Gwen couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing, pushing away from him and resting her head in her hands. “That can’t be how you think I talk!”

“It was an edited version,” he admitted, flushing. His smile was wide enough to illuminate the room, catching and refracting the dreary dawn light. “Please come back?”

She snuggled into his outstretched arms, her heart panging at the plaintive note in his voice. She wrapped herself around him, legs entangled with his and arms squeezing his waist; she’d missed him just as much. “Your impression of me is really bad,” she said with an uncontrollable giggle that made her feel like she was fourteen.

“I’ll work on it.” For a moment he just held her, soaking in the relief of being together and being okay. (At least, that's what she was doing.) “Why did it bother you so much?” he asked after a minute or so. “It doesn’t . . . well, it just doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong.”

“I guess — yeah, maybe not, technically anyway. But you’d just visited and saw how terrible my life is, and I was having an even harder time being a less-shitty version of myself . . .” He made a soft noise, almost pained, and pulled her closer. “So when this asshole showed up and was, like, exactly the type of guy I usually go for, it felt like . . . I don’t know. Like the universe was telling me we didn’t belong together. That sounds stupid. Never mind.” She pressed her face against his chest with an embarrassed groan. “Pretend I said something that doesn’t make me sound like I write horoscopes for a living.”

“I like horoscopes!” he replied, because of course he did. After a moment he added, “Thank you for telling me. It . . . helps confirm some things I was thinking earlier, when I left. Because what you said, and what you’ve been saying for a long time . . . I’ve been hearing it the way that’d hurt me the most, but I think you meant it to make me hate you.” He paused for a second, then added, “Do you think I’m right?”

Gwen shrugged, feeling more than a little like one of his campers receiving an aggressively pacifist talking-to. “Yeah. I don’t . . . like myself all that much.”

“I’ve noticed.” And David pressed another kiss to the top of her head, like he was rewarding her for being honest. Or like he just couldn’t help himself. “You haven’t treated me very well lately, Gwen. And I was — am very unhappy about that. But I don’t think it holds a candle to how you treat yourself.”

She wriggled away enough to sit up and look at him, frowning. “So you’re, what? Willing to come back to a shitty relationship because you feel sorrier for me than for you?” she demanded, even though it would’ve been smarter to just not say anything and enjoy his pity while she still had it.

But again, she said she’d be honest. And the true Gwen was kind of a bitch.

His smile turned sad, and he carefully tucked a flyaway hair behind her ear. “See, that’s what I mean. You never give yourself the benefit of the doubt.” When she frowned, not understanding, he took her hand and began playing with it, wiggling her fingers and twining them with his. “I understand better, now. How you’re feeling and what you’re thinking. And I’m not going to let you treat me like I’m a kid, or — or stupid, or whatever. I know you don’t really think that,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue. “There’s a whole cabin’s worth of proof in the living room that you don’t really think that. That’s why I wanna try again. Miscommunications, misunderstandings . . . those are fixable. And now that I know what’s been going through your head, I don’t think you’ve done anything I can’t forgive.”

Her eyes filled with tears — again, and she was going to die of dehydration if she didn’t get ahold of herself — but this time she couldn’t resent them too much, not when it felt like she was brimming over with hope that was eager to burst free. “What’re you saying, David?”

He shifted back, turning so he was sitting cross-legged facing her, and took both her hands in his. “I keep . . . trying to find a way to say it,” he admitted, looking down at their twined fingers and flushing pink, “because ‘do you want to be my girlfriend again?’ is maybe too middle-school, but ‘dating’ sounds too casual, and —”

Gwen pulled out of his grasp and closed the distance between them, straddling his lap and taking his chin in one hand. His face lifted toward her before his eyes did, darting from her chest to over her shoulder before finally meeting her gaze. She wound her free arm around his shoulders, sliding her fingers into the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. With the hand cupping his jaw she gently swiped her thumb across his lower lip, slightly chapped but still warm and softer than it looked, each breath skating across her skin feather-light and making her skin prickle. “Yeah,” she said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to his, holding back a laugh — or maybe a sob, she wasn’t quite sure; the emotions roiling inside her were too much to separate between happy and sad. “Whatever you’re asking, yes, I want it.”

She felt his smile spread under her thumb before he brushed her hand away, tilting his head so he could kiss her. “Good,” he murmured with a breathless chuckle, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. “I mean, I was pretty sure you’d say that, but still — that’s a relief.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You idiot.” Her blood turned to ice, and she pulled away from him, stricken. For fuck’s sake, couldn’t she be anything but herself for five minutes? “I didn’t mean — !”

David smiled, far more fondly than she deserved. “I know, Gwen.”

Groaning, she buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m trying, really I am.”

“Don’t.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back until she was upright, looking down at him again. “Please don’t try so hard to be what you think I want. Just be you.”

“Right.” She forced her shoulders to relax, tilting her head back and rolling her neck until it cracked. “I’m . . . gonna have a hard time with that. ‘Just me’ is kind of the worst.”

“I know you think that,” he said, pressing his half-open mouth to the hollow of her collarbone and making her shiver. “And I’ll keep reminding you until you don’t think it anymore.”

She managed a weak chuckle, leaning into his lips as he moved up her neck. “Good luck with that.”

His answering laugh rolled over her skin, warm and teasing. “Haven’t you heard, Gwen? I like projects.”

Jesus. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she tugged him upright, taking a moment to appreciate his gasp that wasn’t just surprise. “I love you,” she said, loosening her grip and kissing his forehead, petting away the furrows her fingers left in his fluffy red hair.

His expression softened. “I love —” he began, and Gwen tightened her hold on his hair and pulled back, just so she could watch his eyes flutter shut and his breath catch, “— y-you too.”

Dragging her palm down the side of his neck, she settled her thumb on his throat, feeling his pulse flutter rapidly, and bent to kiss him again. She hadn’t necessarily meant to turn it into anything, just wanted to feel his lips against hers, but her fingers tightened involuntarily in his hair and he moaned, and it was a lit match dropped down her throat to a stomach full of gasoline, a whoosh of heat blazing to life in the pit of her belly. “David,” she breathed, not so much because she had anything to say but because she needed to say it, to roll the sound of his name around in her mouth, let it melt like chocolate on her tongue and infuse her whole body with sweetness.

“Gwen,” he said, and she thought he was doing the same thing, saying her name just because he could, but then his hands were on her shoulders and he was pushing her away, gentle but firm. “Gwen, wait, we should — talk about this —”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Okay. Sorry.” She sat back, her face warming. But as she settled her weight more firmly in his lap he jolted; and if she’d thought she was embarrassed it was nothing to the way his already-flushed cheeks flamed pink, spreading in blotches up to his hairline and the tips of his ears, down to disappear underneath his bandana. He stammered out an apology, avoiding her eyes even as his cock twitched, like bashfulness could disguise how hard he was against her. She quickly rose back up — the last thing she wanted was to make him feel ashamed, or pressured; everything between them was as tremulous and new as the first time — but realized almost instantly when David squeaked that this just shoved her chest in his face.

She hovered there for an awkward second, the two of them staring at each other in mortified horror. Then his whole expression wavered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before quickly flattening into a thin line, and the break in his composure took hers out too. She snorted, and they both burst out laughing. “I’ll just sit over here,” she said through giggles, rolling off his lap and settling on the other side of the bed with her feet curled under her so they were no longer touching. He made a small sad sound like a squeeze toy deflating, and Gwen rolled her eyes and stretched out one leg until her foot brushed his knee. “Here, hold my foot if you’re that lonely. It’s practically holding hands.”

His eyes widened, hands closing around her ankle and setting it on his thigh with something like reverence. “Thank you,” he murmured, gently tracing the outline of her foot with his fingertips. “That was very sweet, you know.”

God, she was blushing, wasn’t she? She had to be. “Yeah,” she agreed, trying to ignore the ticklish feeling as he kept playing with her foot like it was a toy doll. “Felt weird, too. I kinda wanted to insult you or something, just to balance it out.”

He smiled, wiggling her big toe like he was playing that little piggies game she used to do with her nieces when they were babies. “That’s my Gwen.” And he sounded pleased, almost proud, like she’d done something wonderful.

But that was David; even though sometimes he was completely oblivious, sometimes he noticed and appreciated the tiniest, most inconsequential things. That’s my David, she thought, her heart swelling like it was going to burst. “You wanted to talk about something?” she reminded him, waggling her toes to get his attention.

“Oh! Right.” He gently took her foot and set it on the bed next to him, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to his chest. “Sorry, I was getting distracted, and that was the whole point of you moving over there.” (He said it with a pout, like she’d gone to Spain instead of just out of arms’ reach.)

“I thought the whole point of me moving over here was so you could cool down, tiger,” she teased. But when he didn’t respond except to flush darker, his gaze firmly on a fraying edge of the pillowcase in his arms, something weird and hilarious clicked in her head. “Oh my god, are you into feet?”

“No!” He lifted his head to give her a tragically betrayed expression. “Not a weird amount!”

She grinned, poking his thigh with her outstretched foot. “What’s a weird amount?” she asked.

He shrugged, not quite able to maintain the kicked-puppy look when a smile kept trying to break through. “I don’t know. Watching people in heels step on fruit. I don’t like that sort of thing, I’ll have you know,” he added defensively, and for a second Gwen was sure he’d stick his tongue out at her.

“Sure, but you’re into them enough to know those videos exist.”

“I think I’d like to go back to you being nice to me,” he muttered, and she felt a stab of panic before he gently patted her ankle and met her gaze with a slight smile. Like he knew what she was thinking.

So she shoved past her nervousness and said, “But I thought you wanted me to be myself. And as myself, I can’t believe you never told me you were a foot guy!”

“I’m a you guy. And . . . you know. All of you. You’re perfect.”

“Yeah, but the feet are a thing, huh? At least a little bit.” When he didn’t answer she laughed, shaking her head. “So do you, like, want a footjob or something?”

“I really don’t.”

“How have we been dating this long and I didn’t know about this? What other freaky sex things are you hiding?”

“Nothing!” he said, hugging the pillow tighter. After a moment he looked away and added, “I didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“David.” She leaned forward, waiting for him to look at her and see in her expression just how ridiculous that was. “You can’t get weirder than I am. You know that.” When the color in his face receded just a little bit, and his eyes flicked back toward her hopefully, she sighed and attempted to dredge up one of the strangest kinks in her vast library. “I’d totally fuck Drogon.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “From Game of Thrones? So would I- Iiiiiii mean, s-so would most people.”

“No, not Khal Drogo, Drogon. The dragon. Not like a humanized version, either — just full lizard.”

“Oh.” He smiled a little, almost a smirk, and Gwen felt distinctly, lovingly judged. “That does make me feel better. Thank you.”

“No problem. And tomorrow I’m gonna go into town and get a pedicure, just for you.” She wiggled her toes at him, grinning. “I’m thinking something slutty, like hot pink.”

“Gwen!” He shoved her foot away, laughing. “I was trying to have a serious conversation before you started talking about — about slutty toes and dragons!”

She cracked up too, falling over onto her side and nearly toppling off the bed. “Slutty toes,” she repeated breathlessly, and it took a few minutes to recover; every time they tried to make eye contact they burst out laughing again.

“Okay, okay.” Gwen finally sat back up, trying in vain to smooth her hair out of its mass of tangled bedhead. “I’m sorry, you were trying to say something serious. What’s up?”

“Right.” He took a deep breath, fingers knotting in her blankets until his knuckles were white. “It’s just . . . it was starting to seem like we were going to — um, you know. Be intimate.”

She resisted the urge to tease him for his word choice. “I was open to it, yeah.”

“M-me too! That’s why . . . well. Okay.” He took a deep breath, dragging his hands down his face, and Gwen noticed for the first time how tired he looked.

“Hey, we don’t have to do anything,” she said, shifting closer so she could put her hand on his shoulder. “You know that, right?”

He nodded, patting her hand before brushing it away so she didn’t feel rejected, and once again she felt a rush of love so intense it almost brought tears to her eyes. He could be so simply, effortlessly kind, without even thinking about it. “I do. At least, I think I do. I- I mean, I know I do, but it’s hard to . . .” He waved his hand around his head like his thoughts were scattering birds.

“The night before we . . . well. Ended things.” He flinched at his own words, and she felt the same pain flicker over the surface of her heart.

It’s okay, she reminded herself, wishing she could sweep him up in her arms and block out all the bad memories she’d put there. It still hurts, but we’re going to be okay.

Like he’d been thinking the same thing, David stretched out his hand to find hers, squeezing her fingers. “I said I didn’t want to,” he continued in a rush, “you know. Be together like that. And you . . . seemed to get mad — at me. And then the next day you broke up with me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath that had tears behind it, and she tightened her grip on his hand. “It’s okay,” he said, opening his eyes and giving her a slightly-watery smile. “I’m okay. But I just need to know . . .”

“God, no,” she jumped in, taking up the thread of his question as it trailed off into nothingness. “David, no, it had nothing to do with — I freaked out, but I was already — I mean, I was gonna fall apart over anything, it didn’t have to be that. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.” She couldn’t stand it anymore, so she pulled his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles because she wanted to respect his need for space but she had to touch him or she was going to die.

He swallowed, watching their joined hands for a moment before looking away. “You — that really hurt me, Gwen. I just needed to tell you that.”

All the anger he’d thrown at her in the past several hours, all the pain and frustration, and it was those small, matter-of-fact words that slashed her heart in two. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

She hated apologizing — it always felt weak, or dangerous, or something. Like it was an opening for someone to hate her even more, like she was handing them a weapon to hold over her head for the rest of her life. (It was why she hated receiving them, too; she could be spiteful and vindictive as anyone, but it was uncomfortable watching someone flay themselves in front of her.)

But with David . . . it didn’t feel like she was giving him leverage when she told him she was sorry. She wasn’t scared he’d hold onto it and throw it back in her face someday. She wasn’t resentful of him, and she wasn’t worried about how he’d react.

She wasn’t anything but truly, genuinely sorry.

And he didn’t brush it aside, act like she had no reason to apologize the way she’d half-expected. Either she hadn’t been giving him enough credit, or he’d grown up while she wasn’t paying attention. Maybe a little of both. But whatever the cause, he just stroked her cheek with the backs of his knuckles and nodded, a ghost of his smile returning for a second. “It’s okay,” he said, looking at her like she was — god, like he loved her. “Hearing it helps.”

She wasn’t sure if he needed more than that, but she wasn’t going to let a single doubt linger in his mind. “Seriously, David, you can — I won’t ever be mad at you for saying no, ever. For any reason, or no reason or . . . whatever. It’s okay. It’ll always be okay.”

“I — um, I had a reason.” He spoke fast, his eyes wide like he’d surprised himself. Still, he pressed his lips together into a flat line and met her gaze, clearly nervous but just as clearly not intending to end the conversation until they’d said everything they needed to. He was so brave. “I should’ve mentioned it at the time, but I guess I was scared.”

Gwen snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I can relate to that.”

He rewarded her with a small, soft smile before continuing, “The thing is, everything had just been so gosh-darned strange between us, and it felt like you were avoiding me all the time — except when we were together like that.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “It sounds silly, but I couldn’t help but worry that maybe that was . . . all you were interested in me for.”

Her stomach sank. “And then when you said no, and I freaked . . .”

David nodded, his throat moving as he swallowed again. “Yeah,” he murmured, looking away. “It — it sure felt like you only wanted me for that one thing, all of a sudden, and when you couldn’t get it . . .”

“I dumped you,” she finished, covering her mouth in horror. “Oh, David.”  

“I was a little nervous to tell you to stop.” He pulled his hands from hers so he could fidget, twisting his long fingers together. “Earlier — just now. A minute ago. So we could talk. I — I know it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t stop thinking you might get mad at me again.”

“I wasn’t mad,” she replied, her hands shaking with how badly she wanted to hug him. (And god, what a change from their normal paradigm, that she was the one who had to hold herself back from a hug.) “I mean, I was, but never at you. I was mad at me, for screwing things up. I — you’re right, I was avoiding you, or avoiding talking to you, I guess. Because I didn’t know how to talk to you, how to act so you wouldn’t find out that I’m . . .” Her throat closed, thick and gummy with tears, and she took a deep breath and swallowed them back. “Rotten,” she finished, which was a stupid, melodramatic word but it felt right; it described the way she still felt despite everything, squishy and overripe and putrid. “It was getting harder to hide, once we were together all the time. And when we were fucking —” She couldn’t tiptoe around the words like David, not when she could just say it and watch him flush red. Even her rotted heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled. “It felt like I didn’t have to try so hard. I couldn’t be amazing, but I could make you feel amazing. And if I could do that . . .” She sniffed, looking away and wiping her face clean. “I thought I was letting you know how much you mean to me,” she admitted, the realization coming right on the heels of the words. “I mean, obviously I wasn’t — add that to the list of things I suck at — but when you didn’t want to have sex, it . . . I took it really hard.”

Her face was turned away, so his hand on her shoulder made her jump. “It felt like I was rejecting the only thing you had to offer,” he guessed, his voice soft and sad but no longer on the verge of tears. “Gwen . . .”

“It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head like she could rattle her self-pity out of her head. “That was just me being stupid, I know that. More importantly — seriously.” She looked back at him, at his beautiful open face, at the way he was watching her like she could possibly have something to say that mattered. “It’s never been about sex with you, David,” she said. Felt the encroaching tears yet again and decided to ignore them. If they came, they came; they weren’t going to stop her, because it was the most essential thing in the world that he knew, that he believed her. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the sex is really good —” He chuckled, blushing exactly the way she’d hoped he would, and it gave her a little glowing spark of strength, “— but it doesn’t even come close to being what I love most about you. None of that stuff —” She gestured toward her bedroom door, and the mess of crafts cluttering their common room. “— comes close. It’s — everything, a billion other things I don’t know how to explain or describe or show you but I love you, so much, more than I’ve ever loved anyone and it scares me, and — I’m rambling. Sorry.” She shrank back, feeling like an idiot again. “I just wanted you to know that. It . . . we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, ever, and I’ll never be mad at you, or disappointed, or anything like that.”

“Thank you, Gwen.” He was quiet for a minute, and she felt the tension ratcheting up in her shoulders with each long, spiraling second. Part of her wanted to snap at him to just say something, finish the damn thought before he gave her a heart attack, but that was her anxiety and regret talking, and she never wanted to take her own issues out on him ever again.

(She probably would, considering what a mess she was. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it on purpose.)

“You’re right, though.” David’s voice was a surprise, as was the soft laugh accompanying his words. He was sitting with his head tilted back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling like he could see through it to the fading stars and brightening sky. His gaze dropped to meet hers, and he immediately looked down and away, biting his lip to try and hide a smile. “We are pretty darn great together.”

A massive weight dropped from Gwen’s chest, rolling away like a stone. “Yeah,” she agreed. Then, to test the waters: “I taught you well.”

It worked; he turned back toward her, his shyness replaced with half-serious indignation. “I like to think some of it was natural talent!”

“Ehh,” she teased, holding her hand out flat and seesawing it back and forth in a “so-so” motion. “Pretty sure enthusiasm was doing most of the heavy lifting in the beginning there.”

He crossed his arms over his chest with a disbelieving scoff. “Well, I never!”

She pressed her lips together to keep from giggling. What a dork. “Y’know, I should say we were insanely good. But I dunno, for all I know you’ve totally lost it.” Shaking her head mournfully, she quickly glanced over to make sure he wasn’t actually offended.

His mouth dropped open, his eyes growing wide before narrowing. “I haven’t lost anything!” he snapped, and — oh, the playful irritation in his voice made her stomach twist. Not in the awful sick way she’d been tied up in knots earlier, but with a flush of heat that took her breath away.

Managing a smirk, she laid back on her elbows, a warm glow of satisfaction blooming in her chest as his gaze dropped to her stomach, to the narrow strip of skin where her camisole had ridden up. She waited until he dragged his eyes back up to her, dark and intense like the ocean in a storm, then grinned at him.

“Wanna bet?”

His face lit up — or, not quite. Because his smile was bright and warm as sunshine, but underneath the tenderness was a sharp competitive edge that he almost never turned on her. It was almost intimidating, but the shiver it sent down her spine had nothing to do with fear. “Always,” he replied.

Before she could respond he’d pushed himself to his knees and grabbed her just above her calves; a quick tug forward and Gwen was pulled flat on her back, dragged down the bed until her body was sprawled out beneath him. He let go of her, bracing his hands on either side of her head and bending down to capture her mouth in a kiss.

She curled one hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, bending her knees so he was caged between her legs and arching her back to bring as much of her skin against his as possible. He was warm, almost uncomfortably so — her furnace, her own personal sun, and she wanted nothing more than to melt into him. When he abandoned her mouth in favor of trailing long, suckling kisses down her neck she pressed her lips together, biting hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound.

“You could’ve —” A gasp, too sudden for her to swallow it back, and she felt David’s satisfied smirk against the base of her throat as he bit down again. “— given me a concussion, you asshole.”

He hummed in assent, his lips skating up to her ear and his tongue lapping at the sensitive spot just behind it. “I know,” he said mildly, “but I didn’t.”

He gently took her earlobe between his teeth, and she couldn’t help the strangled noise that was somewhere between a moan and a sigh. Grabbing his hair again, she dragged his mouth back for another kiss, enjoying the shudder that rolled down his spine and made him tremble everywhere his body was touching hers. For a few dizzying minutes she held him there, barely allowing either of them to draw breath. His mouth was blood-hot, warmer than even her fevered skin, and she didn’t know exactly where she wanted it because she wanted it everywhere — against hers, his tongue lapping at the roof of her mouth and making her shiver; around one of her nipples, his teeth catching on the pebbled skin; sucking bruises into her inner thighs, closing around her clit, dipping inside her cunt, her asshole, along the sensitive strip of skin between the two. She wanted him to kiss her places that weren’t even close to erotic but she knew would burst into flame if he so much as brushed his lips over them: the bone jutting out from her ankle, the ticklish spot inside her elbow, wherever the fuck he wanted to press the gorgeous wet heat of his mouth she wanted to let him, because from the very first kiss he’d been good, better than he’d had any right to be but time and experience had worked their magic and now his mouth could ruin her; without even trying he could reduce her to twitching, shuddering goo.

“Take this off,” she gasped, not sure if she meant her clothes or his because she was wriggling out from under him and trying to remove both at the same time, her fingers clumsy and shaking with how badly she needed to touch him without any fabric in the way. She struggled to her knees, practically yanking her camisole off and throwing it across the room before hooking her fingers in his belt loops and dragging him close enough for her to undo the buckle. “Come on —”

“So I won?” He laughed breathlessly, untucking his shirt and pulling it over his head in one fluid motion, smugness making him unfairly graceful like he was trying to show off.

“Sure, whatever,” she muttered, because who cared about some bet when he was kneeling half-naked in front of her? They’d had silly, jokey sex but that was not this, not when he was so beautiful she was having trouble looking directly at him, hair mussed and lips damp and swollen and pink blooming in blotches under the light constellations of freckles across his skin. He looked debauched, flushed and obscene even with half his clothes still on, and there wasn’t room in her brain for humor when all she could feel was clawing shaking need. She dropped onto all fours, leaning down to trace the hard outline of his cock with her tongue, and even through his shorts he was burning warm. He sucked in a sharp breath, his pulse spiking under her mouth, and Gwen couldn’t resist closing her lips around the shape of his erection, breathing in the salty-ammonia smell of precome and feeling her mouth water. “David,” she began, but there was no end to that sentence so she lifted her head slightly, bit the delicate ridge of his hipbone where it peeked out from the waist of his shorts, caught him as his hips stuttered forward. She kept him steady, one hand splayed across his lower back, as she rose to her knees without lifting her mouth from his skin: over the barely-there softness of his stomach (no werewolf six-pack here, despite his lean strength), tongue swirling among the faint red hair below his belly button, following the curve of his ribs, just barely brushing one nipple — he made a small, strung-out noise in the back of his throat, almost despairing as she moved on up to his neck — until she found his lips again, dragging him into a bruising, breathless kiss.

When she pulled away David’s smile was gone, drawn out of his mouth and leaving him panting. “Okay,” he murmured, soft and almost reverent, but before she could figure out what specifically was okay he hauled her forward like she weighed nothing, capturing her lips for a second before trailing down her throat, pausing at a sensitive place above her pulse point and biting down hard, sucking the skin between his teeth.

Pain bloomed under his mouth, rippling out into shockwaves of cold-hot pleasure, and when he bit her again she couldn’t hold back a moan. “You’re gonna — leave a mark,” she gasped, gently shoving his head away and running her fingers over the damp skin. It was already tender, and judging by David’s expression, contrite and amused and darkly heated, it was going to be a hell of a hickey. “I can’t hide this!”

“I’m sorry!” he tried, but it wasn’t close to convincing when he couldn’t hide his grin. His eyes drifted down to the mark again and he licked his lips, expression growing dazed for a moment before he snapped back up to look at her face. “I can make you a bandana, if you want. Just until it fades.”

“Fucker.” Gwen laughed, not so much because it was funny but because it was him, and she loved him more than she could possibly stand. Tired of the overheated, confining clothes she was still wearing, she shimmied out of them, tossing her pajama shorts and half-soaked underwear without bothering to see where they landed. “Come here,” she said, pressing her legs together and shivering at the wet slide of her inner thighs and labia, a thousand nerve endings sparking to glistening life. “You can make it up to me.”

She swore she could almost see his mouth water, his gaze dropping between her legs as he took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am,” he said — and they’d never tried that before, but judging by the way his cock twitched and his eyes jumped sheepishly to hers, it was something he’d thought about a lot. Filing the information away for later, she held out her hand and pulled him closer when he took it, resting her forehead against his. It took just the slightest shift in the angle of her head to kiss him again so she did it without thinking, her hand sliding between their bodies to curl loosely around the outline of his erection.

He gasped shakily against her mouth, his hands fluttering up and down her waist like he couldn’t decide where to touch her. One of them dropped to her ass, a light, almost hesitant touch, and she rewarded it with a soft groan; he made a weak noise in the back of his throat and pulled her closer, kneading her ass before slipping lower, between her legs. The heel of his hand brushed teasingly against her clit as he pressed two fingers into her, and she mimicked his pace, gliding her palm down the length of his clothed cock and relishing the way his fingers twitched against her inner walls.

He fingered her like that, slow and steady, for — she didn’t know how long. Lost track of the strokes that sent warmly buzzing tendrils up her spine, lost count of the breaths gasped raggedly between their lips, of the kisses that melted into one another until she wasn’t entirely sure where she was, she was hyper aware of the heartbeat pounding in her clit and every too-gentle drag of his hand but numb to literally everything else that wasn’t right here, wasn’t David —

“Fuck,” she breathed, pressing her forehead against his shoulder with a shuddering sigh. She turned her head and lapped at his throat, sucking his skin into her mouth and biting down hard enough to make his fingers jolt inside her, pressing against her g-spot for one delicious moment. “God, I -- please, David, just make me come, please --”

Another shiver, another twitch of his fingers that took her breath away. “Okay,” he said, his voice strangled and hoarse. He pulled out of her and sat back on his heels. “Lay down, all right?”

Yes, yes, whatever he was thinking was 100% all right with her. She almost kneed him as she scrambled into position, but her embarrassed giggle evaporated as he lowered himself onto his elbows, scooching her up the bed like she weighed nothing and settling between her legs. Alarm cut through her arousal, her mind immediately trying to calculate the last time she’d showered, let alone shaved --

His eyes flicked up to hers, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I know,” he replied before she’d even opened her mouth. “I promise, I really want to.”

Oh, god. She covered her face to muffle a squeak, flopping onto her back and looking up at the ceiling. “I’m that predictable, huh?”

David hummed thoughtfully, the sound vibrating up the inside of her thigh. “Only with some things. Other times you surprise me quite a bit.”

“Yeah?” He kissed the top of her mound, his tongue dipping into the V formed by her lips and just brushing her clit — a teasing touch, his mouth moving away even as she lifted her hips instinctively. “I’m surprising?”

“You are,” he said, the camp-counselor cheer in his voice making what he was doing feel even more obscene. He traced the line of her cunt with his mouth before gently fingering her open. “The first time you did this, for example. That surprised me quite a bit!”

“This?” She knew exactly what he meant — her stomach still dipped and swooped at the memory of kneeling on the floor of his shower, the heady rush of confidence and vulnerability she’d felt looking up at him with his cock at her lips — but she tilted her head back with a sigh and breathed, “Pretty sure I’ve never eaten you out before. Not that I wouldn’t be into that, just saying.”

He gasped and spluttered, pulling back to wipe his mouth and staring at her with wide, shocked eyes, then coughed, tapping his chest with his other hand. “Excuse —?!”

When he lowered his head to cough again and take an unsteady breath, Gwen sat up on her elbows, not sure if she should be amused, worried, or mortified. “Oh my god, please tell me you did not just choke on cunt juice!”

David gave her a disgusted look, shaking his head and clearing his throat. “There had to be another way to word that,” he said, as primly as he could while still struggling to catch his breath. “But — um, you didn’t…w-was a joke, or…?”

“I meant it,” she admitted, “but I get it if you don’t want to, don’t feel pressured either way —”

“No — I want to.” He looked startled by his own words, and immediately dropped his gaze, smoothing his palms down her thighs like he could disguise how his fingers trembled. “Sometime. If — if you do.”

Gwen let the awkward silence linger for another moment, not quite sure how to move forward. “Good. That’s…something to put on the to-do list.”

“Y-yes. Okay.” He did meet her eyes then, brightening. “See, you did it again!”

She frowned. “Did what?”

“Surprised me.” He leaned over her body to tug her into a slow, sweet kiss. When she pulled back to breathe he cupped the back of her neck, holding her close and brushing his nose against hers. “You’re an adventure every day, Gwen,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I’m a real goddamn roller coaster,” she grumbled, shifting her hips upward in a blind search for his touch. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d fucking ride me already.”

David laughed softly against her mouth before turning his attention to her jaw, throat, collarbone — a damp, shivery brush of his tongue against her skin moving down her body. “Well goodness, Gwen, now I’m confused.” She both hated and loved the smug, teasing tone he got whenever her composure cracked. “I could make love to you,” he continued, nipping the skin just below her bellybutton and making her jump, “but I thought you wanted me to do this first.”

He closed his lips around her clit and sucked gently, catching her with an arm behind her back as she arched toward the maddening wet heat of his mouth. Lowering her hips back to the bed with infuriating tenderness, he paused, resting his cheek on her inner thigh and looking up the length of her body. When she met his eyes he smiled, pausing to press a chaste kiss to her leg before returning her gaze.

“What do you want, Gwen?” And he asked it untauntingly. Seriously. Like he wanted nothing more than for her to tell him what to do, and like he’d do it without question.

His sincerity was going to be the death of her, she decided with a groan, burying her hands in her hair and shielding her face from his view with her arms. “Fuck. I don’t know. Everything.”

When it came to David, she always wanted everything.

“That’s a real swell coincidence, then!” He traced the seam where her hip and leg met, then dipped down, dragging his fingertips through the wetness smearing her thighs before swiping them up to circle her clitoris. “Because ‘everything’ is exactly what I’d like to give you.”

She barely had time to absorb the statement before his mouth was on her again, sliding the hood back with his lips before swirling his tongue beneath it and around the exposed clit. It was almost too much, too sensitive, bordering on painful and if he stopped she might actually die; she knotted her fingers in the flimsy sheets to keep from pushing his face harder against her, vaguely aware that she was mumbling nonsensical pleas, an incoherent litany of “oh god yes please fuck don’t stop” —

He didn’t. Without lifting his mouth he braced one hand under her knee and pushed it toward her chest, bending her leg and using two fingers of his other hand to enter her. It took him a second but when he found her g-spot he pressed up hard, stroking with the same rapid pace of his flicking tongue. It was more pressure than she was used to, strangely achy but pleasurably so, and it was impossible not to writhe under his touch as the need to come coiled tighter, dragged her higher, kept her suspended on the brink for a frustrating, dizzying, electrifying moment that stretched like a rubber band…

Then it snapped — a dam breaking, a wave cresting and finally letting gravity take over — and she curled forward with a sob of relief, pleasure rippling through her limbs and turning her bones to liquid, trembling through the aftershocks.

The shift from overwhelmingly perfect to just plain overwhelming was a split second. “Nngh, stop, stop —” She pawed weakly at his head, just barely smacking the edge of his fringe with her fingertips, but he lifted his mouth from her with a look of concern. “You’re fine,” she added quickly, struggling to catch her breath and shivering from the buzz of overstimulation, “s’just too much.”

David nodded, relieved, and sat back, wiping his face with the back of his arm. “Wow,” he murmured, eyes wide and awed. “Wowzers. Gwen, have you ever done that before?”

She sat up, frowning. “Come like a train? Like every time we — whoa.”

The sheets between her legs were wet. Not damp, wet like she’d spilled a glass of water (and cooling rapidly, she realized with a grimace, shifting to avoid the blotchy patch). Presumably the same wetness dripping down David’s chin.

“Oh my god.” She groaned, hiding her face in her hands like if she couldn’t see it, it would disappear. Or feel it slicking her inner thighs. “And uh, not really,” she finally muttered, a belated answer to his question. “Once or twice, but you’ve really gotta work over the g-spot to make it happ --” She glanced up just in time to catch his expression, a flash of recognition mixed with pleased sheepishness. “Which you were.” David quickly looked away, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and flushing pink. “On purpose?”

“I -- I’d read about it, that’s all!” he said, meeting her gaze defensively. “I knew it was, well . . . a thing. That some wom- people can do. And I was -- I’ve seen -- I was curious!” Gwen tried to stifle a laugh and failed, turning it into a choking snort, and he blushed even darker. “I know I should’ve just asked, but I couldn’t figure out how to say . . .”

She waited for him to finish the sentence, but when it became clear he had no intention of doing so, she injected as much demented cheer into her voice as possible and chirped, “‘Golly gee, Gwen, could I try making you squirt sometime?’”

Her imitation of his voice was passable -- she’d spent enough years making fun of him to get good at it -- and though he turned his head away she was positive he rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t know if that counts as bad language or not.”

“Oh no. It’d be so shocking if I said one of the no-no words.”

He chuckled, trying and failing to disguise it as a sigh, and climbed out of bed, tugging the rest of his clothes off. (As he picked up his shirt and wiped his face clean, Gwen quickly bent forward and sniffed the damp spot on the mattress. A little like saline, mostly like nothing. Good to know.)

“So how often do you trawl the internet for sex tips?” she asked, grinning. “Or -- god, tell me you’re not checking out books from the library.”

“Of course not!” He looked horrified at the thought. “And . . . sometimes. More often, after we started dating. I . . .” He paused, looking like he was reconsidering the rest of that sentence, and joined her on the bed to lean back against the headboard. “The time you visited, when I -- used my mouth on you for the first time.” (And what was it about his delicate tiptoeing that made it sound so much more filthy than if he’d said it outright?) “I thought -- or, well, I hoped . . . anyway, I did a little reading. Online, obviously. Just in case.”

So that was how he’d been so goddamn good right off the fucking bat. Always prepared, her boy scout. “Well, I appreciate it,” she said, and sat up, throwing one leg over his lap and draping her arms around his shoulders. “Can I please fuck you now, Mr. Greenwood?”

He sucked in an unsteady breath, his cock twitching up against her; the tip of his head slipped between her outer folds, making them both gasp. “C-condom,” he breathed, his voice raspy and uneven, and she scrambled off his lap before she could give in to the voice in the back of her head insisting they didn’t need to stop and get anything, he was right there , if she’d angled her hips right he could’ve been inside her already --

Her fingers were shaking as she retrieved the foil packet and brought it over, letting him take it with relief. (There was no way she wouldn’t have ripped it, with the way her whole body was trembling like the room had dropped ten degrees.) She watched him roll the latex down his cock, unable to tear her eyes away from how beautifully flushed it was, precome beading at the tip and slicking the inside of the condom.

God, she needed him inside her. Immediately.

David caught her with a breathless laugh as she vaulted back up onto the bed, curling his fingers around her hips and holding her steady. “Careful,” he murmured, and she rolled her eyes, fumbling blindly between her legs to line him up. “Have I- hhha --” He cut off, squeezing his eyes shut with a sigh as the head of his cock pressed into her, “t- told you how beautiful you are?”

Gwen frowned. It was kind of hard to focus on the question when her body was fluttering and pulsing as it adjusted to the welcome intrusion. “A lot?” she guessed, sinking down the last few inches too fast and bottoming out with an electric shock of pain and pleasure. “Fuck.”

“No. Not like that.” He slid one arm between their bodies, parting her folds to see the way she stretched around him. “I -- think you’re so pretty,” he managed, gently tracing her inner labia with his fingertips. “I like your colors. And how we -- um, contrast.”

No one had ever told her that her cunt was pretty before. It was just the kind of stupid, romantic thing David would do. And he was right; his cock looked so pale against her, where she faded from shocking pink into a dark purplish-brown that lightened as it blended into her normal skin tone. There was something about it that reminded her of a sunset -- which was just the kind of stupid, romantic thing David made her think.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, pressing her forehead against his and raising up a few inches, “and I love you so much.”

“I — love you too.” Suddenly he froze, his eyes widening and his grip tightening around her waist, keeping her from moving.

“David? Everything okay?” God, he wasn’t having some kind of terrible flashback, was he? Maybe they shouldn’t be doing this.

His eyes flicked up to hers, and a wide, sunny smile spread across his face like spilled honey. “This is just like the first time.”

It took her a moment to understand what he was talking about, but then it hit her: this was like the night they’d first had sex, from the position to the location to the dizzying, giddy strangeness of it.

God, he was perfect.

“Sort of.” She pressed a hard, quick kiss to his lips before grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging his head to the side so she could reach his neck; he whimpered and twitched twice, each pulse against her inner walls taking her breath away. “Except I know you way better now.” She punctuated the statement by licking a wide stripe up the side of his throat, then sucked a mark right beside his Adam’s apple, where it’d be safely hidden by his bandana. “All your weak points.”

“I—” He swallowed, tilting his head obediently as she trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses up to his ear, “d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She just hummed; that wasn’t worth dignifying with a real response, and the vibrations against his damp skin made him shiver. Instead she toyed with him: tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue, nipping at his earlobe with just a hint of teeth, exploring the delicate area around his ear and neck she knew so well, had staked her claim to a hundred times before.

David’s breathing quickened, roughened, and she had to tighten her grip on his hair to keep him from squirming. Her hips weren’t moving but his were, minute jolts she was positive he couldn’t control. “Gwen,” he gasped, “please, I -- hhit's too much, I can’t --”

“Could you come like this?” she asked, fighting to keep her own voice level. She could feel his pulse pounding in his cock and in his throat, under her lips; her clit throbbed in response, a metronome perfectly attuned to him. “Without me even moving? Or just . . .” She squeezed her internal muscles, clenching around him in a quick staccato pattern, and lapped her tongue against his neck in time.

“Nnno. Or -- yes?” His fingers tightened around her hips, a helpless spasm. “I don’t know. It’d . . . be torture.”

His voice was so low, wrecked, and Gwen’s stomach went into a dizzying, delicious free-fall. “Good,” she said before she could stop herself, think it through and reject it as sounding weird and freaky. David successfully pulled back from her, his eyes wide and blown out with arousal, and he looked so beautiful she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “I want to torture you sometime. Nothing you’re not okay with -- and not now, but . . .”

“Yes,” he breathed, and the word was barely out of his mouth before his hand curled around the back of her neck and he was dragging her mouth to his, a kiss made of teeth and desperation with words gasped out against her lips: “yes, god, whatever you want Gwen please I love you --” His other hand slid to cup the curve of her thigh, urge her up onto her knees so he could fuck her properly, pull her back down to set a rhythm that bordered on frantic.

She couldn’t help but laugh, even as she braced her palms against the headboard for better leverage to ride him faster, harder. “Told you,” she teased, biting his lower lip hard enough to drag a breathy whine from him. “Weak.”

That made him moan, drawn-out and broken, and he slipped one hand between their bodies; curling it into a loose fist, he splayed his index and middle fingers just enough for her clit to glide between them, adding an extra jolt of friction every time she moved her hips. Gwen gasped, clutching at his back with one hand as her second orgasm coiled tighter at the base of her spine.

She bit his shoulder because she could, because she had to, because he’d like it and because it was that or scream loud enough to wake the entire camp. “Fuck, god, David --”

He shuddered and buried his face in her hair, his breath hot with a stream of pleasured mumbles beginning and ending in her name --

Gwen didn’t know which of them came first. It didn’t matter, really, because they dragged each other over the edge. His cock was almost painfully hard, unyielding as iron as her muscles tightened and fluttered around it, and the sudden snap upward of his hips as he came nearly knocked her breathless.

She was going to be sore tomorrow. Or . . . later today. She turned her head and mouthed at David’s neck, relishing the sweet-salt taste of his sweat, and let him hold her up as they caught their breath.

“I love you too,” she whispered belatedly. David huffed a weak laugh into her hair, stroking her back with a touch that was light and ticklish. “But we’re sleeping in your room tonight. I don’t wanna deal with the wet spot.”

Yeah, she was going to be sore, and exhausted, and facing a hell of a cleanup both in her bedroom and outside of it.

David groaned and gently pushed her upright, sliding out from under her and taking her hand, like she was a camper who needed to be ushered back to bed. “Phone,” she bleated, weakly reaching for it as they walked past, and he paused to pick it up for her, and in that second she loved him even more, more than she’d ever thought possible.

Worth it.

[scarletarosa]

Athena

Greek goddess of logic, truth, intelligence, knowledge, wit, wisdom, war, battle strategy, heroism, protection, law, justice, order, good counsel, skill, victory, and handicrafts

Athena (Roman: Minerva) is the magnificent goddess of Truth, she is a tremendous being of light who ensouls the cosmic consciousness of Truth and grants it to the world. She is the guardian over all knowledge and despises ignorance, facing it and destroying it like light ripping through darkness. She was one of the most important goddesses of Ancient Greece and is said to have led the Greeks to their homeland and supported their development by teaching them many things. She was also their greatest protectress and would valiantly defend them while defending their cities, even mentoring them in particular battle techniques. As a very complex goddess, Athena would watch over many areas of life, including all forms of education, crafts/inventions, and philosophical thinking. She also is one of the three Virgin goddesses (along with Artemis and Hestia) who are never swayed by romance or lust, since Athena values being solely devoted to the realm of the mind. 

Mythology: Many ages ago when Zeus was less moral than he is nowadays, he was very jealous of anyone who threatened his position of power. When he learnt that his wife, Metis, the goddess of wisdom, may birth his successor, he became desperate to end their lives. Zeus devoured Metis while she was pregnant, thinking this would secure him. But when the time came, Zeus began feeling tremendous headaches. As even he couldn’t bear them, Hephaestus struck Zeus with his axe and Athena leapt out of Zeus’ head, fully armed and with a furious cry. This frightened some of the deities, but Zeus, however, was delighted and full of pride. In this story of Athena’s birth, we see her as enraged wisdom that fights as a defender and upholder of justice.

A popular myth of Athena is the story of Arachne, a mortal craftswoman who boasted that she was more skillful than Athena herself. Athena offered her a chance to repent, but after Arachne refused, she challenged her to a weaving duel. The goddess fashioned a beautiful tapestry which illustrated the gruesome fate of the mortals who had the hubris of challenging the gods. Arachne, on the other hand, chose to depict stories of the mortals unjustly victimized by the gods. But she didn’t even have a chance to finish it for the enraged Athena tore Arachne’s fabric to pieces and turned her into a spider. As such, Arachne is doomed to weave ever since. This was a myth written by the Greeks as a warning against hubris, and does not portray an actual event, especially since Arachne is actually a goddess of spiders and wasn’t a cursed human.

Roles: Despite Athena’s connection to war, she moreso represents the strategy behind it and the ability to protect and bring about order (whereas Ares represents battle-lust, Athena fights out of necessity). She was also known to bestow victory in war, as she is at times seen accompanied by Nike, the goddess of victory. Through these connections, Athena is the patroness of heroes and is known to wisely advise them in their quests and grant divine weapons in times of need.

Other than the art of battle, Athena is known as a skillful inventor and even holds the title of ‘protectress of agriculture’. She is represented as the inventor of the plough and rake: she created the olive tree (the greatest blessing of Attica), taught the people to yoke oxen to the plough, took care of the breeding of horses, invented the bridle, instructed people how to tame horses, and much more. At the beginning of spring, offerings were given to Athena in advance for the protection she was to afford to crops and fields. Besides the tools of agriculture, Athena was said to be the inventor of numbers, science, hand-made crafts, chariots, and other such helpful things. 

Athena is a magnificently powerful goddess who can easily strike fear into her enemies. In times of battle, she is known to have lightning flashing from her eyes, and can even overpower Ares himself with her strategic mind during combat. She is peace gained through battle, courage gained through struggle, and clarity gained through wisdom. She has explained to me that the Aegis (the head of Medusa) on her breastplate represents her victory over her own shadow, the part of one’s psyche that creates negative emotions such as fear or cruelty. This is a true mark of wisdom and shows even further just how glorious Athena is. She can always be relied upon for sage advice in any matter, and knows how to directly tell someone what needs to be done or how they should change to become better. Athena says that she is also the goddess who inspires women to be more than their domestic roles that are pressured on them. She inspires rebellion in their hearts and teaches them how to fight and overcome oppression. Thus, Athena is the glorious warrior goddess of illuminating truth and courage; there is nothing that can break her down. 

Appearance: a tall woman in her 30′s with long brown hair, gray eyes, and wears either a white dress or silver armour

Personality: Overall, Athena is wise, intelligent, serious, diligent, straightforward, courageous, determined, perfectionistic, and a steadfast protector of peace. She has a very strong sense of morality and is able to keep calm and collected under a great deal of pressure. She loves to spread knowledge to others, but does not guide us through everything since she seeks to make her devotees independent. She greatly values strength of character, open-mindedness, and the desire to make oneself better no matter what. Athena can be a bit motherly at times with those she likes, but not too much in a “soft” way but more like a quiet and dedicated mother who wants the best for you. Although she does not have much patience for most people, especially if they are unwilling to take responsibility or overcome their ignorance. She also has no patience for people who disrespect her or disregard her nature as a virgin goddess. When Athena is angered, she becomes terrifying and cold. Lightening begins flashing out from her eyes and is relentless in bringing her fury upon whoever offended her. 

Athena is very empowering and knows exactly what to say when her devotees feel down or lost, for she can see past clouded emotions and into the clarity of truth. She also hates injustices of any kind and seeks to destroy all ignorance. She is a very protective warrior and an Illuminator, following the path that Lucifer teaches about wisdom through adversity. She is also a very close friend of the goddess Lilith, so they work well together for gaining Illumination. One of the most sacred animals of Athena is the serpent, which sheds its skin to be reborn, making it a symbol of wisdom and knowledge. This is one of the lesson that she often teaches to her followers, that their current self must die to be reborn in wisdom. In some of her statues, a giant snake can be seen beside her.

| Symbolism of Athena |

Owls

Eagles

Doves

Snakes

Helmets

Shields

Weapons

Olive Tree

Books

| Some of her epithets |

Alkis (The Strong)

Areia (The Warlike)

Ærgáni (Instructor of the Arts)

Axiopoinos (The Avenger)

Día (Heavenly)

Drákaina (She-Dragon)

Chalinitis (Tamer of Horses)

Erganê (The Worker)

Mêchaneus (Skillful Inventor)

Mítir Tǽkhni (Mother of the Arts)

Paiônia (The Healer)

Kóri (The Maiden)

Parthenos (The Virgin)

Pallas (The One who Brandishes Her Weapon)

Lýteira kakóhn (Deliverer from Evil)

Omvrimóthymos (Strong of Spirit)

Oplophóros (The Warrior)

Ormásteira (She Who Urges You Forward)

Polias (Protector of the City)

Polæmitókos (Bringer of Necessary War)

Polývoulos (Exceedingly Wise)

Nikephoros (Bringer of Victory)

Sóhteira (Saviour) 

Devotional Actions: Above all, Athena values offerings of action. She expects those devoted to her to constantly seek to improve themselves by gaining spiritual advancement, overcoming their Egos, and gaining as much knowledge as they can. Wisdom is embraced through battling hardships, analyzing yourself, and learning from trial and error. Dedication to what she teaches pleases her far more than physical offerings.

Offerings: Fine quality white wine (esp. if flower-scented), olives, olive oil, milk, bread, goat cheese, pomegranates, citrus, apples, cherries, figs, white lilies, myrrh incense, sandalwood, almonds, honey, cakes, cooked lamb or goat, beeswax candles, non-fiction books, fancy pens, quills, pottery, paintings, swords, daggers, silver armour, snakeskin, owl feathers, votive owls, clear crystals, silver jewelry, chess games, wool, knitting tools, pretty antiques, white marble, artworks, poetry, snake statuettes, and imagery of her sacred animals.

[moonflowerlesbians]

6. with dani and jamie would be so cute 🥺 like a lil vermont winter fic

for you, anon! I altered the wording ever so slightly, but the concept is identical. I hope you enjoy :)

you can also read on AO3

~~~

Their flat is located a few streets off from the center of town, close enough to walk but far enough to provide a sense of distance from the bustle of the main drag. Tonight, they set out just after sundown to ensure good seats to what Dani has affectionately dubbed, “the greatest holiday spectacular to ever grace the streets of Bennington,” and what Jamie has deemed, “an entirely American embarrassment.”

It’s their third winter in Vermont, and this year, The Leafling has generously sponsored half of Bennington High School’s Marching Seahorses’ winter uniforms in exchange for a full page ad in their concert programmes for a year and a sign carried at the front of the annual holiday parade. Or, rather, the kids had come to the shop with instruments, a flyer, and an unrehearsed elevator pitch, and Dani had been utterly charmed.

“It’s good to see them so passionate about something,” Dani had said.

Jamie had hummed and had continued tending to her sprouts.

“It would be good publicity,” Dani’d argued.

“Most expensive advertisement of my life.”

“Come on, they’re cute.”

“‘Cute’ doesn’t keep the lights on, Poppins.”

Unfortunately for Jamie, Dani has an irritating way of getting what she wants. And that’s how their small business ended up shelling out an ungodly amount of cash for an extracurricular named after the least fearsome sea creature Jamie can think of.

They don’t even have legs for Christsake.

But, the sheer delight on Dani’s face upon Jamie’s concession softened her heart. In any case, Dani made certain to thank her thoroughly and, ah, enthusiastically, that evening.

Jamie begins to regret her decision, now, as she’s dragged from her cozy flat into the absolutely frigid night air. She’s bundled in her warmest coat, a toque tucked over her ears to stave off the cold, but she swears she’s still going to catch frostbite.

Dani, meanwhile, wears a fleece-lined denim jacket over top one of her many cable-knit jumpers and insists she’s overheating. She carries a blanket under her arm, the other linked with Jamie’s, as she all but skips down the street.

“The English couldn’t handle a Midwestern winter. This is nothing,” she had said.

She’s always loved Christmastime, Jamie has come to learn. Dani has regaled her with seemingly endless stories about stringing popcorn and cranberry garlands, baking biscuits with Judy O’Mara, and breaking the occasional ornament decorating the tree. She’d felt awful about that last one, terrified to tell Mrs. O’Mara. She went on to explain in touching detail how Mrs. O’Mara had taken her hand and reminded her that it was just a bauble.

It made Jamie wonder how often Dani got into trouble for accidents in her home. A question for a later date.

As they near Main Street, the sound of jovial chatter and the unmistakable carolers grows louder. The shops they pass have festive window displays, elves in stockings of red and green reading storybooks or sledding down white fabric hills. Dani blows right past, determined to reach her carefully preselected place on the sidewalk. In what Jamie is convinced must be sub-zero temperatures, she can’t imagine the winter festival will be a popular destination.

She soon finds she is mistaken, however, when they round the corner and encounter a throng of people. The road has been blocked off at either end, and families drift in and out of the shops. Some skate on the temporary ice rink set up to the side. The lights lining the trees reflect prettily off the storefronts, the branches arching up and over the street. It would be like something out of a fairytale had the weather not been turning Jamie’s hands to icicles.

Dani is very proudly pointing to a square on the sidewalk out in front of the coffeehouse, and before Jamie is entirely sure what’s happened, she’s sitting on their too-small tartan picnic blanket over pavement that is far too cold on her arse. Dani is warm at her side, and they’re pressed close, using the size of their blanket as an excuse to disregard social acceptability.

“How long until this thing starts?”

Dani checks her wristwatch. “Thirty minutes, I think?”

“Fuckin’ freezing.”

The apparent mother of three standing nearby shoots them a glare.

“Jamie…” Dani gives an apologetic look, but the woman is already herding her children off in the direction of an arts and crafts booth.

“You know, if we were home, I’d wager we’d find a proper way to warm up.” She gets a sharp elbow to the ribs for that one and lets out a muffled oomph, though she wryly notes the new flush to Dani’s cheeks.

“Hot chocolate? I’ll go find us hot chocolate. I’m pretty sure there was a table supporting the junior high theatre department.”

“S’long as you’re not making it.” But Dani is already halfway down the block.

Then, Jamie is alone, freezing her arse off while waiting to see a mediocre high school marching band play in ungodly weather to make her partner happy. It’s the kind of domesticity she could never quite envision for herself. She’s come to find she’s, somewhat begrudgingly, fond of it.  

Bells jingle, the sound echoing off of low brick buildings. Red ribbon bows hang from lamp posts and doorknobs and rubbish bins, with tails that swing in the breeze. The air is crisp; it blows down from the mountains and feels like a fresh start.

Dani returns with two styrofoam cups, passing one off to Jamie, and sits with her knees to her chest.

Jamie eyes the pale brown liquid skeptically before taking a cautious sip.

“Dani,” she says, “why have you handed me cocoa-flavoured water?”

Dani grins sheepishly. “The kids may have made it.”

“I should applaud you, really. You’ve managed to find the one demographic worse at brewing than you.”

“Rude.”

Jamie receives another jab to the side, nearly sending her drink sloshing onto her lap.

“Hey, now, keep that up, and we’ll end the night in the emergency ward.”

“Oh, please, you’ve got enough layers on to stop a bullet.”

“You laugh now, but just wait ‘till we’ve been sitting here for hours.”

“Shh,” Dani interrupts, “it’s starting!”

A dozen or so children in leotards and tight buns dance down the street, followed by a horse-drawn vehicle painted cherry red, in which a larger man dressed as Saint Nicholas stands, waving at the assembled crowds.

Dani’s excited grip on Jamie’s bicep silences any snide remarks she might have made about the quality of performance. Dani’s eyes shine with glee, and it’s so lovely, the few silver strands of her hair capturing the twinkling holiday lights, that the words die in Jamie’s throat. She allows herself to fall into the spirit of the thing, content to sit beside Dani in the corner of life they’ve carved out for themselves. Even if that means listening to a rather shoddy trombone rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

Sure enough, though, heading off the band, a handful of students bear a banner proclaiming the high school’s name and the season’s sponsors. There, listed below the bakery, is The Leafling. Jamie feels a flash of pride. Somehow, seeing their little shop represented for the town to see feels real, grounding, in a way she can’t explain. They’ve found a place, a rhythm, to settle. They’ve left their mark on this town tradition and become a part of something. It feels like home.

So, perhaps she cheers a bit louder when the musicians pass them. This earns her an amused smile from Dani, at which she rolls her eyes.

It’s a relatively short parade. There are only so many volunteer organizations, churches, and youth groups in the town, after all. Jamie’s legs are stiff when she finally stands and offers a hand to help Dani up. Her arms are wrapped around herself.

“Cold?”

“No,” Dani says, “Come on, we should look at booths before we head home. Support the other local businesses.”

They wander the various tables, some offering wares, some business cards, some consultations, dipping in and out of shops until a sniffling noise catches Jamie’s attention. Dani not-so-subtly swipes at her nose.

“You alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just-- fine.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow, trying to catch Dani’s eye, but she seems determined to look everywhere except Jamie. “You want my jacket?”

“I told you I’m not cold.”

“Right, ‘course not. Just positively shivering from excitement, then, are you?”

“Mhm.”

“No need to be brave on my account, Poppins, I won’t tell the world your secret.”

“And what secret is that?” Dani’s hands are tucked into her sides.

“That Dani Clayton, certified Midwesterner, can’t hash a brisk Vermont evening.” Her voice drops to a whisper, “Isn’t even snowing.”

“Hey,” Dani protests.

“Just take my jacket.”

“I’m fine.”

“Poppins.” Her tone is playful, a warning disguised as a tease.

Dani’s sighs. “Fine.”

“Ah, that’s a girl.” Jamie shrugs out of her top layer, draping it delicately over Dani’s shoulders. “Come on, then, can’t have you turning to ice on my watch.”

“You said something earlier about the proper way to warm up at home…”

“Was talking ‘bout a good cuppa,” Jamie smirks, “Why? D’you think of something else?”

Dani grumbles. “Tease.”

“Mhm,” Jamie murmurs, pressing her cold nose to Dani’s neck the instant they were out of sight, causing a squeal. “You like it.”

“Shut up.”

[writersblockandapotoftea]

Worldbuilding Post

DWARVES

Dwarves are an agender and asexual humanoid species that frequent the caves and mountains on both continents of Unitien. They are divided into two species, modern and elder. While elder dwarves are largely thought to be extinct, modern dwarves ascribe many of their culture and lifestyles to them, including their love of trap making, forging and their luscious beards.

Now, before delving into Dwarves and their culture, one must learn about Dostine, the goddess of dwarves, tricksters and blacksmiths. She is known by dwarves as All-Creator and creates the dwarves in a secret ceremony that follows the specifications of this poem.

One dwarf is forged of gold, Two are of molten steel and bronze Three from the bones of old The last four are the best, Made from silver and all the rest.

Dostine loves all of her children dearly and the ceremony is preformed every fifty years or so, meaning that there are twenty new dwarves every century. No human, elf or dragon has ever seen it. She also gifted the dwarves with the four massive interconnecting tunnels that allow them to go to whichever part of the world they so please, meaning there are modern dwarves on both continents and in the southern straights, all with their own unique quirks.

Straitien Dwarves ride jewelled spiders, which are blue and white spiders that allow them to climb all over the cliffs and avoid predators. There's even a contest where they joust across the canyon on a massive spiderweb. They also are less likely to wear heavy clothing as they live in a jungle, so it's not unexpected to see a dwarf wearing nothing but a loin cloth around humans, then nothing in the jungle. 

Eastern Dwarves are the dwarves who occupy the Barliosian Empire. They are more adapted to cold weather and take great pride in their workmanship as where they live is full of iron and other ores. 

Western Dwarves don't live underground, rather in massive pyramids built overtop of over-mined quarries. They have darker skin and coarser hair to deal with the sand in their local environment. They like roasting camels over massive fires for food.

Modern dwarves are a welcome and frequent sight in the human cities and towns wherever they are found, acting as blacksmiths, miners, and small business owners. Dwarves are easily differentiated from normal humans by their thick beards, small stature, unique forging abilities and ability to consume anything poisonous with no repercussions.

No one quite knows why modern dwarves and humans get along so well, as elder dwarves and humans often fought bitterly, but where there are dwarves in a community, they are well beloved. Even in the dwarven settlements deep in the mountains, there is usually at least one human. This is because of the dwarven tendency to adopt children from other races, as they cannot have their own. These adopted children are well cared for and are given the nickname of switchers, as the dwarves often rescue them from unhappy homes, leaving cursed jewels in the crib of the adopted child. Other switchers are left at the doors of Mountain keeps to be found by dwarves in times of famine. While many humans view them all as male due to their beards,  all dwarves have no notion of gender in the sense that humans and elves do. They view everyone as equals and organize their society in terms of what needs to happen for everyone to thrive.

Domas: This rank means parent and can be held by anyone with a youngling. They raise and protect their youngling or switcher and teach them the tools of their trade and when the youngling is old enough; they send them to find their own cave, usually nearby so they can maintain their lifelong bond.

Trapmasters: These are the masters of the forge. They craft armour so light that it feels like a woollen coat and shields so strong they protect you from a dragon's breath. Every dwarf practices for years hoping to become a trapmaster. However, as they can only be appointed by Dostine, the goddess of dwarves, there are only two remaining in the world.

Carvers: These fine folk spend their days in pursuit of the true beauty of stone and crystals. They polish, whittle and crack these into beautiful works of art and sculptures. The most talented of them can turn jewels into windows that never crack and reflect light in a thousand different patterns. They tend to never become domas, instead recruiting younglings from larger families. Forgers: These are the dwarves that go out into the larger world. They are talented, hardworking and make things of a much higher quality than human smiths could ever dream. These dwarves are accompanied by switchers because it is an innate dwarven instinct to see a child in need and adopte them.

Miners: These are the ones who are pulled down, down, down into the darkness by some unknown voice. They dig and dig and they have no idea of what they're about to find. They come up with gold and jewels and iron and go back down again. They are probably the strongest of dwarves and are also the warrior class of modern dwarves.

Prayerhands; These are the holy and scholars people of modern dwarves! They are also in charge of dwarven funds, acting as treasurers and conducting official business with human officials. They dress in all grey and shave their beards in reverence to Dostine, who has no beard and are frequently referred to as women by humans. Do not do this. Please ask what their preferred pronouns are. Your head will remain in place for much longer if you do.

Humans and modern dwarves have fairly stable relations, with the humans exchanging gold and silver for various services. However, some concepts that humans have are completely alien to dwarves. These include the concept of drunkenness, as dwarves cannot get drunk as their livers process alcohol inhumanly fast. Other concepts include the idea of marriage, sexual attraction and gender; however, they do understand aesthetic attractions.

If you have stuck with me for this long, congratulations, you have more patience than my younger brother.

We're finally entering the mysterious world of the Elder Dwarves; strange creatures with six arms, thick beards and more talent for forging than all the trapmasters combined. Elder dwarves are currently thought to be extinct, although some trolls claim to have seen them in the deepest caverns.

Thought to be greedy, always hungry and quite mean, Elder Dwarves were considered monsters by trolls, humans and elves, and frequently clashed with them in territorial disputes before sealing off their caves and tunnels for nine centuries, before modern dwarves appeared and began to make ammends. (Modern dwarves argue this point quite fiercely, pointing to the evidence that Elder dwarves had closely knit communities and largely fungus-based diets, like their own) They had their own language, the ability to stick to walls and were terrifyingly quick on their feet. The things they created that were found by humans gave rise to energy-storing crystals, zeppelins, clocks, ballistas, and even the system Epidamnos uses to keep the ocean from destroying it every stormy season.

The few Elder Dwarven caverns that are accessible by modern dwarves are called Pitches and are filled with bones, artifacts that glow with malicious energies and lava pools. Many Prayerhands believe that Elder dwarves bathed in the lava and it was actually an important part of their forging process, as the writings that are translated describe them being friends with a mostly extinct species of dragon, the Earthshaker dragons, who spewed lava so hot that even the gods were fearful of angering one. How the Elder Dwarves managed this, no one is sure. One theory thinks that they watched over the hatchlings, keeping them safe from hungry demons and greedy monster hunters that came from the surface looking for an easy kill. Earthshaker dragons are blind until they reach adolescence so having the dwarves to protect them while providing them with the lava they needed would form an inevitable  symbiotic relationship that benefited both parties.

It is unknown why elder dwarves had six arms and modern dwarves only have two. Humans assume it's because dwarves needed to assimilate better to human culture or risk extinction, but dwarves aren't sure, as some dwarves are born with four arms to this day. They tend to become miners, as the extra limbs make it much easier to fight and mine at the same time. Some believe that Dostine merely decided that she didn't like making the extra bones and gradually shifted. Others think that as the dwarves moved back to the surface, the terrain became easier and there were less demons to fight,  they simply didn't need them anymore, and so Dostine removed them.

Another key difference between Elder and Modern Dwarves is that while Modern Dwarves are agender and asexual, Elder Dwarves enjoyed representing themselves in various genders unrecognizable to humans and made a wild array of jewelry and combs. The jewelry currently found is mostly bracelets that jangle in a pleasing way. With all their arms decorated, they would have been able to compose entire rhythms with their bracelets. Certain bracelets seemed to be reserved for certain people, with one half of all bones found wearing bracelets of pure ruby, with the other half wearing bracelets of amethyst.

However, bones from Elders are incredibly rare because, as stated in the poem above, Dostine enjoys recycling and most of what is known about Elder Dwarves is patched together from paintings, frescos and a few pieces of jewelry found in Pitches. Perhaps if modern dwarves dig deep enough, they will find their answers, and maybe even some old friends.

[frencesder]

Artist Conversation- Yichih Wang

Artist: Yichih Wang

Exhibition: in between

Meda: Metal

Gallery: LBSU School of Art, Marilyn Werby Gallery

Instagram: yichih_w

Yichih Wang is a Undergraduate student at California State University of Long Beach. She is a BFA student and is currently a senior. Her speciality is working with metal but she does dabble on paintings, print making, and other crafts as well. Wang went to Pasadena Community College before transferring to Long Beach State and at PCC was where she took a jewelry class and soon found her passion of working with metals. Majority of Wang’s work is inspired by her culture, especially her East Asian culture of Taiwan.

This gallery featured a lot of different intricate pieces that all resonate with Wang’s culture and of nature. To start off, placed in the center of the gallery were four unique bowls of food and utensils. These were hand crafted by Wang in which she curated to perfectness. She used fine metal to create the chopsticks, fork, and spoons. She also made the bowls and coloring of the bowls out of metals and some of wood. Adding more creative touches to these pieces of silverware, she added spices and herbs to her pieces to help her express culture and identity. These pieces were out of the ordinary because the shape of the bowls were unique in which the metal one was not a perfect circle of a bowl but was jagged which made it very unique and different. Another bowl seemed to be chipped off like someone dropped it, and I believe that it adds addition effects to how Wang wanted these pieces to represent. This was a mix media project and the silver is made of silver and the bowls were made of enamel or copper. Adding on, as metal is one of Wang’s specialities, she made a lot of jewelry pieces such as this beautiful necklaces that are filled with fine details and shapes. She also made this butterfly hair pin that was very intricate and full of detail especially within the butterfly’s wings. There was also a flower crown with very sought out details of the roses. When looked at carefully and closely one can examine that Wang’s work is very intricate and many details and thought have been put in making her art. Each piece was different in their own way. If the bowls were jagged or chipped it was because Wang purposely wanted to create that effect and when the jewelry pieces were created, Wang wanted each piece to look beautiful as a whole but when looked at it carefully fine lines of details were put into it.

All of Wang’s work were phenomenal and it is amazing how she was able to get inspired to make all these piece by her East Asian culture as well as thoughts of nature. Wang mentioned how she decided to make the tableware pottery because to her it represented food and food reminds her of home. She made the group settings of the tableware to expressed how utensils represent culture and identity and family. According to Wang, adding in the spices and herbs makes a certain dish special because every dish is different and even though some may have similar ingredients it is the spices and herbs that really make the different. There was a clasp that was also featured and Wang made this piece to represent nature and how it portrays a window looking out into landscape. To her it represented harmony and piece, resonating to her roots of East Asian culture. Each one of her artwork took roughly around one month to curate.

Overall I really enjoyed viewing and understanding all of Wang’s work. Although I am not from specially East Asia, I am Asian and having heard her back story and knowing that majority of these pieces were inspired by her culture was amazing to me. I felt as if I could relate to her in a way because culture is also very important to me. Looking at the different types of tableware that were place reminded me of my family and having family dinners very often. She talked about the different spices and herb and how they made dishes become individual and it reminded me of my grandmother and how she loves to cook and curate her own flavors. All of Wang’s work made me feel nostalgic and how her artwork really sheds light on how different cultures could come together though different aspects. I also really liked how Wang specializes in metals but she not afraid to work with different medias as well and I love how she was able to create a story with her artwork.

[femmesfollesnebraska]

Artist feature: Barbara Johansen Newman

Artist Barbara Johansen Newman shares with LFF about how being a woman impacts her work and more...

"She who Wears the Color. He who sees the color."   --Frida and Diego, she in color, he in gray scale.

I have been a practicing artist for more than 45 years. In my first 10 years as a fiber artist, I actually felt that gender was less of an issue, than in my next 35 years as an illustrator.  The world of fine crafts was far less discriminatory and open. Maybe part of that was the 70s. But maybe part of that was also that the field just attracted those who did not operate by the typical chauvinistic standards that prevailed in the rest of the art world. It was in the field of illustration that I first began to sense that as a woman I had to fight harder. Even worse, my time spent in the field of writing and illustrating books for children, the past 15-20 years of my illustration career, was beyond frustrating. Let me tell you—THAT was the worst of it all. It still is. But that is a complicated discussion in and of itself.

"Llevo Mis Muchos Amores" (I carry my many loves) --Frida tattooed with her many lovers

How does being a woman affect my art? To be honest, in the first years of my career, it did not come into play at all. I just created objects and imagery that came from within. When I became an illustrator my work was somewhat edgy and dark, and I went my by two last surnames, so art editors who called to give me assignments were often surprised when they discovered that I was a woman. I would say that a shift in my aesthetic developed once I was a mother. My imagery softened and I grew less edgy. Hence, it was purely organic that I ended up illustrating and writing books for children once I was raising my family.

In 2016 I began to lose my desire to work in the book market. That might have been borne out of the issues with lack of diversity in publishing, but it may also have been another organic shift with having grown kids-- kids’ books no longer held the big attraction they once had.  I made a choice to create art for art’s sake. And that is what I have been doing since.

"Louise, In Her Element" -- Louise Nevelson, sculptor

I seem to have been drawn back to my edgier self again. It’s funny, but my current paintings are very much like my early editorial work. I would say that the need to nurture and comfort has lessened considerably, but it’s still a part of who I am.  How does being a woman (and wife and mother) come into play in my work? I think it subconsciously steers me to paint imagery that is “knowing” in a way that taking care of a family seems to instill in you. Of course, that may be even heightened by the number of years I have been making art.

I find myself painting women more often than men. I have also recently embarked on a series of paintings celebrating women artists. I’ve done 3 of Frida Kahlo and one of Louise Nevelson.  I have sketches for more in the works:  Beatrice Wood, Maude Lewis, Georgia O’Keeffe to name a few. I must feel a need to elevate well known but also unknown females. I guess because we women are so under-represented in the world of art at large, I am choosing to populate my art with as many of them as possible.  I put a call out on Instagram for more nominations of women artists to paint. I now have a few dozen added to my list! I was happy to discover artists that inspired others that I was not familiar with. And I would love for anyone to contact me with other suggestions. 

Am I emerging as an artist? Well, I am emerging as a painter, I suppose, though I have been very fortunate to have been juried in a number of gallery shows the past couple of years. Still, I expect my journey to be very challenging, because not only am I a woman, but I am an older woman at that. And if women have trouble getting the recognition they deserve for their art, older women face further uphill battles.

-

https://www.johansennewman.com/

https://www.instagram.com/johansennewman/

~

Les Femmes Folles is a volunteer organization founded in 2011 with the mission to support and promote women in all forms, styles and levels of art from around the world with the online journal, print annuals, exhibitions and events; originally inspired by artist Wanda Ewing and her curated exhibit by the name Les Femmes Folles (Wild Women). LFF was created and is curated by Sally Deskins.  LFF Booksis a micro-feminist press that publishes 1-2 books per year by the creators of Les Femmes Folles including the award-winning Intimates & Fools (Laura Madeline Wiseman, 2014) , The Hunger of the Cheeky Sisters: Ten Tales (Laura Madeline Wiseman/Lauren Rinaldi, 2015 and Mes Predices (catalog of art/writing by Marie Peter Toltz, 2017).Other titles include Les Femmes Folles: The Women 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016 available on blurb.com, including art, poetry and interview excerpts from women artists. A portion of the proceeds from LFF books and products benefit the University of Nebraska-Omaha’s Wanda Ewing Scholarship Fund.

Current call for collaborative art-writing: http://femmesfollesnebraska.tumblr.com/post/181376606692/lff-2019-artistpoet-collaborations

Current call: What does being a womxn mean to you? http://femmesfollesnebraska.tumblr.com/post/183697785757/what-does-being-a-womxn-today-mean-to-youyour

[thefranklinoutdoor]

LOVE ALL POTATOES

Jim Duignan Claire Pentecost Melissa Potter

Opening: Friday, June 14 from 6 to 9pm

From June 14 to September 7, 2019

Love All Potatoes is a garden laboratory project by Jim Duignan, Claire Pentecost, and Melissa Potter. The artists will plant heirloom variety potatoes (e.g. Jersey Yellow and Okinawa Purple) in improvised planters, start a compost bin, and install a handmade garden cart to seed their intersecting dialogues on plant personal histories, microecologies, and intangible heritage craft histories. Over the summer, the potatoes will blossom on vines running from the sacks along strings to parts unknown. The artists will activate the Franklin as an eco-pedagogical space to engender conversations on the Garfield Park community and land in general, and to develop other collective works-in-progress, such as a publication printed on paper made from potato vines.

Jim Duignan is an artist, forming the Stockyard Institute in 1995 as a civic, artist project in the Back of the Yards community of south Chicago. Stockyard Institute was influenced early by community artists, revolutionaries, local activists, and radical teachers who explored the community as sites of contest and considered the social and civic forms of public engagement as much a part of practice as they did their life. Duignan is a professor of Visual Art in the College of Education at DePaul University in Chicago where he is the Chair of Visual Art Education. Recent print publications include; Back to the Sandbox: Art and Radical Pedagogy, (Ed.) Jaroslav Andel, published Western Washington (2019), Poor and Needy; Baggesen and Brackman, Published by Poor Farm Krabbesholm (2018), Building a Gang-Proof Suit: An Artistic and Pedagogical Framework, for the Chicago Social Practice History Series, (Eds.) Mary Jane Jacob and Kate Zeller, published University of Chicago Press (2015) and No Longer Interested for the Blade of Grass Foundation (2014). Select exhibitions include Stockyard Institute Retrospective, DePaul Art Museum (2021), Envisioning Justice, Sullivan Galleries (2019), PUBLIC SCHOOL, Hyde Park Art Center (2017), Smart Museum (2017), the Chicago Cultural Center (2016), Reykjavik Art Museum, Iceland (2016), Interference Archive, Brooklyn, NYC (2015), Sullivan Galleries, Chicago (2014), Kochi-Muziris Biennial, India (2014) and the Hull House Museum (2013). In addition, Duignan’s work has been published in The Atlantic Monthly, The Art Newspaper, Prestel Publications (Nick Cave’s Epitome), New York Times, Chicago Reader, New Art Examiner, Chronicle of Higher Education, New City, Chicago Tribune, and many others. His work has been recognized by the Weitz Family Foundation, Illinois Humanities, Artadia (NYC), and the Art Institute of Chicago. He received a B.F.A. and M.F.A. from the University of Illinois at Chicago in Studio Arts.

Claire Pentecost is an artist and writer whose poetic and inductive drawings, sculpture and installations test and celebrate the conditions that bound and define life itself. Her projects often address the contested line between the natural and the artificial, focusing for many years on food, agriculture, bio-engineering, and anthropogenic changes in the indivisible living entity that animates our planet. Since 2006 she has worked with Brian Holmes, 16Beaver and many others organizing Continental Drift, a series of seminars to articulate the interlocking scales of our existence in the logic of globalization. She is also a founding member of Deeptime Chicago, dedicated to cultural change in the Anthropocene. A sample of Pentecost’s exhibition venues include dOCUMENTA(13), Whitechapel Gallery, the 13th Istanbul Biennial, Nottingham Contemporary, the DePaul Art Museum (Chicago), the Museum of Contemporary Photography (Chicago), the Third Mongolian Land Art Biennial, The Times Museum (Guangzhou), Spencer Museum (Lawrence, KS). Institutions inviting her to lecture include MIT; CalArts; RISD; Northwestern University; Rice University; The University of Virginia; Creative Time Summit and many others. She is represented by Higher Pictures, New York, and is a Professor in the Department of Photography at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Melissa Hilliard Potter is a feminist interdisciplinary artist, writer, and curator whose work has been exhibited in venues including White Columns, Bronx Museum of the Arts, and Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, to name a few. Her films have been screened at international film festivals, such as the Cinneffable and the Reeling International LGBT Film Festival. Potter’s awards include three Fulbright Scholar grants, which enabled her to build two papermaking studios at university art departments in Serbia and Bosnia & Hercegovina. As a curator, Potter’s exhibitions include “Social Paper: Hand Papermaking in the Context of Socially Engaged Art” with Jessica Cochran and “Revolution at Point Zero: Feminist Social Practice” with Neysa Page Lieberman. Her critical essays have been printed in BOMB, Art Papers, Flash Art, Metropolis M, Hand Papermaking, and AfterImage among others.

At The FLAT SCREEN

Solo Land Dive: Dukan Desert

Hope Ginsburg

Solo Land Dive: Dukan Desert is part of a body of the Land Dive Team body of work that proposes meditation, practicing present-moment awareness with equanimity, for coping with climate change. Breathing on land with scuba makes for a kind of assisted meditation. The mild, if not moderate discomfort of the equipment (its weight, warmth, constraints) keeps the wearer in mind of his or her physical presence. The intensification of each breath becomes a kind of involuntary meditation; one must “show up” for each exhalation when an entire apparatus is calling attention to it. In this video, one of thirteen Land Dives since 2014, I undertook a solo meditation, breathing with scuba gear in a remote desert landscape crisscrossed by all-terrain vehicles.  As disjunctive as the image appears, it contains the ominous implication of a “future ocean” as rising sea levels are a threat in the Persian Gulf region.

Each of Hope Ginsburg’s long-term projects builds community around learning. Her work is by turns collaborative, cooperative, and participatory. These artworks are made with peers, students, scientists, members of the public, and experts with knowledge from outside of the field. Rooted in first-hand experience, Ginsburg’s projects are invested in the socially transformative potential of knowledge exchange. Hope Ginsburg has exhibited nationally and internationally at venues such as MoMA PS1, MASS MoCA, Institute for Contemporary Art at VCU, Wexner Center for the Arts, Kunst-Werke Berlin, Contemporary Art Center Vilnius, Baltimore Museum of Art, SculptureCenter, and the Mercosul Biennial in Brazil. Upcoming projects include a solo exhibition at the University of South Florida Contemporary Art Museum funded by the National Endowment for the Arts. Ginsburg is the recipient of an Art Matters Foundation Grant and a Virginia Museum of Fine Arts Fellowship and has attended residencies such as the Robert Rauschenberg Residency, the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture, the Wexner Film/Video Studio, and The Harbor at Beta Local. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Hyperallergic, and Artforum.

Solo Land Dive: Dukan Desert 2015 Single channel video with sound 4 min 59 sec

Camera: Dylan Halpern Editor: Tyler Kirby Sound: Joshua Quarles

Edition of three Courtesy of the artist

At The LIVING ROOM

A Metaphor Against Oblivion

Norma Vila Rivero

A Metaphor Against Oblivion is Norma Vila’s latest conceptual body of work, inspired by two themes: landscape and absence. This collection of images references and criticizes the notions of development by metaphorically representing the absent landscape that remains in the collective consciousness. Vila is tempted to convey the impossibility of the landscape that surrounds her by presenting a critical look at the transformation of the landscape -in the broadest sense of the word- while at the same time a contemplative view of the paradox of development in today's world.  

Vila Rivero works with analogies and the double meanings of objects, words, and concepts. Media, disciplines, and materials are intertwined, thereby creating an intricate web of multi layered ideas. Vila’s starting points originate with personal experiences within her collective environment. She then directs her interests into an in-depth critical analysis of selected topics. With a deep dive into the origins and meaning of her subjects, she prepares the groundwork for making critical, contemporary and pertinent visual commentary.

Vila Rivero comments: "For this project I am working with the representation of the metaphor 'the skin of memory'... Everything we have seen marks us, and many times when passing by some place, it is inevitable to remember that place as it was before ... And that absent landscape is impregnated in us, it is a mark and a metaphor against oblivion. In order to represent that mark or trace in the memory, in this series of photos I place a stencil on the back of a model and the sun imprints the image to their backs... Then I place the model - marked by the memory of what is no longer there - in the place that corresponds to the vanished landscape. All the images used as stencils are based on stories that I have compiled from friends, family members, or myself. The result is a photo that serves as testimony or record of the specific event ... The aim is to present a clear and manifest absence. Photography as a medium is vital as it makes an absence visible and serves as a certificate of presence. In A Metaphor Against Oblivion themes such as the impossibility of the natural landscape on an island, the excessive urban development, the abandonment of cultural heritage, and the negligence in the communities and public spaces are over layered to contrast the effects caused by failed leadership and bad management today."

Calls for attention on the ways we relate to the environment are a peremptory key in Norma Vila's most recent proposal. Issues that previously emerged in her work are openly formulated today in what will be a long-term research project about environmental sustainability in the face of economic growth. Reflection through the chosen images allows us to think about ideas: memory-event-revelation, games of presence and absence, traces of hidden realities, as activation of the memory, and of updating past marks, cognitively and emotionally.

Norma Vila Rivero (b. 1982, Puerto Rico) is an artist that approaches art making from a diverse number of perspectives while subtly seeking to address emotional issues or intense social themes from a humanist point of view. She is also an active art projects coordinator of numerous innovative projects in Puerto Rico and in Boston and New York. Vila Rivero has a B.A. in Visual Arts from the Universidad del Sagrado Corazón and an M.A. in Arts Administration from the Universidad del Turabo, Ana G. Méndez. Her work has been presented in Mexico, Norway, Switzerland, Argentina, the Dominican Republic, St. Croix and U.S.A. In 2017 was selected to participate with Occupy Museums Debt Fair installation at the Whitney Museum Biennial. Since 2010 she is the Administrator of the Galería de Arte de la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón. In 2011 she co-founded Metroplataforma Organizada an artist run space and since 2015 has been the Director of ÁREA: lugar de proyectos (Founded in Caguas, P.R in 2005). Vila Rivero's work is part of the collection of the Museum and Center for Humanistic Studies Dra. Josefina Camacho de la Nuez (University of Turabo, Caguas, P.R), Luciano Benetton Collection, el Museo de Arte de Puerto RIco (MAPR) and the Foundation FIART (International Foundation Fund of the Arts) in Madrid, Spain, as well as in private collections.

At The FRONT YARD

Are You Ready Kahlil Irving

Previously exhibited at Wesleyan University Center for the Arts, "Are You Ready" is a flag sculpture that connotes the relationship of a surrender flag and a racing flag. There is always a struggle and reality to face. So to use the flag with its complex usage past and present is a symbol I find relevant. "Are You Ready" is a response to the call that Tracy Chapman narrates within her song "I'm Ready".  She is singing for passage, for love, for health, for life. So I am responding to her call. This flag flying is a message for Black life and the perseverance of Black people through the constant pressures faced while living today.

Kahlil Robert Irving (b. 1992, San Diego, Ca) is a multimedia artist, currently living and working part time between Saint Louis, Missouri and Brooklyn, New York. Irving completed his BFA in art history and ceramics at the Kansas City Art Institute. In May of 2017, Irving earned his Master of Fine Arts at Washington University in St. Louis. At Washington University in St. Louis Irving was a Chancellor’s Graduate Fellow. Irving was awarded the 2017 Alice C. Cole Fellowship from the studio art department at Wellesley College in Wellesley, Massachusetts. Recently, Irving completed the Turner Teaching Fellow at the New York State College of Ceramics at Alfred University.  His work is in the collections of the Riga Porcelain Museum, in Riga, Latvia; Foundation for Contemporary Ceramic Art in Kecskemet, Hungary; The RISD Museum in Providence, Rhode Island; The Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; The Nerman Museum of Contemporary Art at Johnson Community College in Overland Park, Kansas; The Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, New York. Most recently, his practice has involved making objects that are to challenge constructs around identity and culture in western civilization. He wants to challenge realities of Racism and objects that exist within the history of decorative arts and contemporary life.

Are You Ready by Kahlil Irving 2018 3 x 5 feet polyester digital print Courtesy of the Artist and Callicoon Fine Arts, NY

THE FRANKLIN 3522 W. Franklin Blvd, Chicago IL 60624 (312)823-3632 Hours: Saturdays 2-5PM and by appointment http://thefranklinoutdoor.tumblr.com/ Instagram #thefranklinoutdoor

[parkwolff5-blog]

France.

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[moma-jo]

Vintage from the 1980s Ships from a small business inCanada Read the full description Materials: gold plated, ladt in yellow, painted and glazed, china plate, concerned young man

Description

This plate represents a scene from the Rediscovered Women Series. "Confiding in the Den" is the discontinued eleventh plate in a limited edition, 12 plate series that was produced between 1982-1984. This Collection commemorates the changing roles and looks of the American woman throughout history, with some of Norman Rockwell's most iconic works. Issued in 1983; Approved by the Rockwell Society of America and crafted by Knowles China in an edition strictly limited to a maximum of 100 firing days. It is Numbered and signed. This is a beautiful collectible plate depicting a very intense young man gazing intently on a beautiful young woman, who is obviously making some kind of decision… marriage?, job offer?, Lost her dog?. She has come in from the rain to someone she trusts to find comfort in helping her make the choice she has to make or information she has just received. My reason for having this plate was that I was about this girls age, I had to make a big decision and it was my pastor that helped me decide what to do; he calmly sat in his chair in the church office and said, “What would Jesus do?” Before Bradford Exchange passes a plate to the buyer, it checks for chips, cracks, bubbles, and flaws. If there are any, they discard the plate because they want to make them as perfect as possible, they become collectors’ currency. When one slips through, it makes it unique, one of a kind. A collectors dream. When you look at the pictures, you will see a 2mm black line flaw kilned right into the plate between the ceramic and Glaze. There also is a dent in the gold trim. A double flawed plate. They should have thrown it away, but it got through all the inspections. The back of the plate has the following wording: “Plate Number 6631 E. In the only limited edition of "Confiding in the Den" by Norman Rockwell, Eleventh Issue in the Rockwell's Rediscovered Women Collection Made in an edition strictly limited to one hundred firing days and certified as a "True Rockwell Classic" by the Rockwell Society of America. All rights reserved Bradex no. 84.R70.4.11” Because of the low number and low lettering on the plates kilning, it is saying that is was most likely created on the 5th day in the early morning of that day. There are two emblems: In black-Edwin M. Knowles, America's Oldest Name in Fine China, 1854 and in red-The Official Rockwell Society of America. Non-profit. Bradford Exchange Classification Artist: Norman Rockwell Title: "Confiding in the Den" Collection/Series: Rediscovered Women Plate Type: Painted Brand/Maker: Edwin M. Knowles Material: Fine China Size: 8.5"in. Diameter; dimensions: 8 1/2" x 8 1/2" x 1" Circa/Year: 1983 Condition (Used): Plate Vintage Good Condition Wipe Plate with water if needed (Dust) Not intended to be used to eat from. It has a 22 Karat gold trim around the rim. I do not have a certificate of authenticity. Sold AS IS used "Like New" Vintage Condition. This treasure is in excellent condition free of any chips or cracks. The original certification papers were never in my possession. Does not come with the original box but comes with a BONUS: FREE Handmade Soft-Cover Booklet: “Smithsonian America Art Museum-Teacher’s Guide-Telling Stories Norman Rockwell from the Collections of George Luca and Steven Spielberg”-Publishing for this booklet was Donated by Jo Love’s Creations Publishing and Printing Department, in 2021. printed on cotton linen; plus, it has some added perceptions of my own. The original hardcover book sells for upwards of $100 including shipping and handling on Amazon and eBay if you want them. Check “the master violinist” collectors’ plate in my store for more pictures of the book. I was very impressed how he had mastered the facial expression of real people. Norman Rockwell wasn’t just painting friends; he was painting American dreams.

https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/1136822026/rare-vintage-double-flawed-ltd-edit?ref=listing_published_alert

[savageunderground-blog]

Charmaine Olivia's Winter Spring Color Tutorial

Meet Charmaine Olivia, a 'self-taught fine art painter' from Southern California known for her highly detailed paintings. Her clients have included: Urban Outfitters, Lady Gaga, Hallmark, Volcom Stone, Vans Shoes, Element, Nylon Magazine, Burton, and many more. Check out her portfolio on here website! And if you haven't yet, we highly recommend subscribing to her newsletter. Which, is where we found most of the information on Charmaine's Winter Spring Color tutorial.

As part of her upcoming launch for her limited edition print entitled "Winter Spring," Charmaine takes us behind the process of creating the piece.  And to start off the how-to here is Charmaine:

COLOR

Charmaine: " I wanted to share with you a part of the process behind creating this painting. Today I will be talking about one of my favorite things.. COLOR! While creating my goddesses of Winter and Spring, I wanted COLOR to be the defining factor symbolizing the seasons. Blue being Winter, Green being Spring. I began with painting the Winter goddess and her frosty world of snowflakes and clouds. Then I imagined the transition from Winter to Spring, with Spring being marked by rain and sunlight. In basic color theory, when you combine blue and yellow, you create green.  If I imagine sunlight as being yellow,, combined with the blue of Winter, you would would create the green growth of new life. So the goddess of Spring is represented by luminous tones of greens. She is the embodiment of LIGHT of GROWTH. She is the pure light that melts the ice of winter and encourages the plants to grow. "

Charmaine: "Before I begin painting, I arrange the colors on my palette. Since this painting has many nuanced shades of blues and greens, I thin out the paint with Turpenoid and blend the colors together to create smooth in-between colors. Paint can be divided into two basic groups, transparent and opaque. To put it simply, transparent colors are see-through, and opaque colors are not."

Charmaine: "I don't use any one particular brand of oil paint, but instead I like to try out various kinds and observe their subtle differences. I always encourage experimentation to find colors and textures that speak to you. Some of my favorite brands are Winsor & Newton, Gamblin, and Old Holland. But even the basic, lowest grade oil paint can be great! It's all about how you use it. :) These are some colors I used for this painting:

Holbein - Luminous Lemon (Transparent) Old Holland - Scheveningens Green (Transparent) Old Holland - Scheveningens Blue (Transparent) Gamblin - Cobalt Teal (Opaque) Holbein - Ice Green (Opaque) Winsor & Newton - Titaniuim White (Opaque) There are an innumerable number of effects and textures you can create using all the different colors and mediums, which can feel overwhelming! But for new artists, I always recommend not getting too caught up with brands or rules, but to choose colors that you like, choose brushes that feel good in your hand, and just GO FOR IT. No matter what happens, you will learn. Even if your painting looks absolutely horrible to you, that doesn't matter! Art is an expression, and even if it looks weird to you, creating is a brave act. Inevitably you will learn something about yourself, and next time you paint, you'll apply when you have learned."

THE PALETTE

Charmaine: "The artist's best friend! I like to use a glass palette, but I also use palette pads, and have made use of all sorts of things for the sake of a "palette".  When in a pinch, I have used my thumbnail, the back of my hand, a desk, or the nearest surface available. A lot of the painting happens on the palette. It's where you can mix the colors together, test out brush strokes, and find interesting color combinations.  I have always thought, "messy palette, messy mind". When my palette is clean and my colors are organized, I find that painting just FLOWS so beautifully and much more effortlessly. If I have every color that I need ready to go, it requires less thought and less interruption to the creative process. Sometimes when you're in a good flow, a simple lack of a particular shade of blue can pull you out of your world and completely derail and idea. And thus, the creative process is endlessly unpredictable. I try to influence these factors as much as I can. If I am able to keep my palette clean, organized, and available, there's less things for me to think about other than the painting in front of me. But that doesn't mean my palette doesn't end up looking like a total disaster by the end of the day! But that's why I love glass palettes, to keep them clean all you have to do is scrape off the dried paint with a razor blade."

THE BRUSHES

Charmaine: "Your paint brush is an extension of your mind. As you hold the brush, your hand moves with subtle inflections, sensing the pressure, the angle, and degree to which you apply the brush to the canvas. It does what you tell it to, though sometimes it has a mind of it's own. It's your magic wand!

Because there are so many brands, sizes, shapes, and prices, I like trying new kinds and finding new favorites. I usually have various shapes of tiny, small, medium, and large sizes each used for varying levels of detail.   

Here are some I used for Winter Spring, from Left to Right: 1. Princeton round 0 - Good for small details like eyelashes, snowflakes and the shine in the eyes.  2. Princeton Oval Mop 1/4" - I use this for petals and cloud details. 3. Princeton Oval Mop 1/2" - Used for slightly larger petals and details. 4. Makeup Brush - I absolutely love using makeup brushes! They come in all sorts of fluffy shapes and sizes, and usually with beautiful handles! They’re great for blending colors into soft and fluffy gradients. Ideal for clouds! There is a large selection of amazing oil painting brushes out there that can cost a ridiculous amount of money, and they are really extraordinary to paint with, but I have found that some of the cheapest brushes can work great as well! What matters is how it feels in your hand. If you like the feeling, then use it. But sometimes, I don't even use a brush!"

THE TOOLS

Charmaine: Hours can go by in a painting before I realize I haven't picked up a paint brush in a while! I often find that unconventional tools can give you really interesting and organic effects.  1. The Q-Tip - My personal favorite! It works great for smudging and blending paint together. I also like to use it by dipping it in thinned out paint for the sketch layer of a painting instead of using pencil (which can muddy up my colors).  2. The Palette Knife - Excellent for mixing colors on your palette. Also great for globbing paint on to your canvas! Painting with a palette knife feels a bit like spreading frosting on to a cupcake. 3. The Color Shaper - I love using these to doodle in the paint. The soft rubber tip on the end works by scraping away the paint layer, or "erasing" the paint. In fine art terms, the technique is called "Sgraffito", essentially scratching away the wet paint to reveal the color underneath. I use it for "erasing" color to make highlights even brighter. 4. The Paper Towel - My other personal favorite. I use a paper towel for just about anything. It's also good for "erasing" and removing the paint for hilights. I also like to dip it in paint and use it as a “brush”.  It's not good to get oil paint on your skin, so I try my best to wear gloves. But sometimes, nothing beats the look and feel of using your finger! It is especially handy for blending and smudging. I hope these little tidbits helped!"

Thank you Charmaine for walking us through your painting process. We are looking forward to seeing more of your work. And if you haven't checked out her website yet or subscribed to her newsletter, we highly suggest doing so! And if you do not know how-to paint, but would really like to. We highly suggest giving it a try and looking for more tutorials from Charmaine. Charmaine and the Savage Underground Hustlers all believe, we're all artists. Charmaine herself 'believes that every being is an artist in their own way, and allowing that creative spark to express itself is vital for the future world we want to create.' And the Hustlers support everyone giving whatever medium of art self expression a shot. And slowly and truly, day-by-day, get better at your craft. As we like to say at Savage Underground,

"TO CREATE YOU MUST TRUST THE PROCESS"

Till the next post, keep grinding!

Sincerely,

The Hustlers  

Let Us Know What You Think

@SAVGUNDRGRND

[mel-im-ii]

Interview

For this project, I’ve decided to work with my friend Romina. She studied arts and I know it will be a lot more interesting to get her feedback as she’s an artist and I like her work.  To get a better idea of how to represent her, I asked her a few questions to get to know her more in terms of creative work and influences.

Tell me a bit about yourself  R: My name is Romina Ortega. I was born in south of Chile, Southamerica.My ancestor lived up in the mountains but I was born close to the ocean a bit far from there. I always have been passionate about self-expression, so the only thing that I could do at young age was to apply to music or visual arts school to get some skills. I ended up doing Fine Arts with a specialization in engraving. Since then, I started a magical journey that took me to both the beautifulness and ugliness of the creative world. I have worked doing graphics arts not only for myself as freelance artist but also collaborating with fantastic projects fromeditorial fields to scenic arts fields.I had the chance to teach graphics arts and screen print in different places,which, again, was a wonderful experience considering when we teach, we also learn about ourselves and about how to relate and connect with others. I left Chile a few years ago looking to get different perspective and new learning experiences. I have been working in a screen printing shop doing a bit of everything, but mainly technical graphic design, set ups and pre-press work, as well as coordinating teams.As a side project from my full time job, I have been working as a freelance artist and tattooist sporadically. Last year I got a band with two more friends, where I Play the guitar and lately synths and drum machines.  How would you describe your style in a few words? R: I’m pretty simple. I don’t like waste of any kind. I always prefer second hand items and work with the stuff that I already have. The less the better. I also like to train my mind and body and to be as healthy as I can be with what I have. I’m always trying to be kind with myself and others, It’s not an easy task but I put my efforts on it.   Who are your biggest references (design, art, anything creative)? R: Learn about ancients’ cultures from south America was a great way to see how art it’s transcendent in our life. The whole culture that it’s pretty much alive in the country side of my homeland has been a great inspiration too, very poetic, storyteller and with concept and graphic motives very particular. I actually have done some exhibition taking this elements as a reference.I really like the graphics developed in Europe when the people was discovering the world and projecting that through engravings and paintings about sciences and astronomical phenoms, including old maps, botanicals and animal illustrations. Goya’s and Duero’s engraving as well as the naturalists Maria Sibylla Merian and Claudio Gay has been great references too. Graphic novels and books also really inspired me at some point of my life. The narrative and drawings, what a great combination. Favourite colors and tones? R: The colours that I usually work with are coloured grays, like pinks, brown, different kinds of green but always with a touch of white or black or both. However I have being inspired with stronger palette lately so I’m open to proposals in this matter.  Favourite music bands? R: I couldn’t say favorite bands. There’s so much out there. Although I can mention different genres that have influenced me. Rock has been definitely one of them, more specifically grunge, punk, shoegaze, dream rock, post punk. Also, I have a strong influence of folk from Chile and south America which I love to sing. Very poetic and with a lot of political content from my homeland. And finally, I quite enjoy rhythms from Caribbean Sea, specially the roots of cumbia, salsa and reggae, some old songs that came with the slaves brought from Africa that later travel to UK with the immigration creating new authentic styles. Lately I have been fascinated by fusions styles with electronic and hip hop bases. How would you describe your political views in general? Your biggest concerns/interests R: Definitely feminism is my big interest since I was very young. I started to work with more in depth when I was doing my final proposal in the art school. Checking the work of many women that were left a side from the art industry and the society in general. Plus a innumerable injustices we see and live in our daily life.It’s actually quite concerning to see how after all these years we are still pretty much in the same undignified place. So, there’s no other option, we must keep pushing and fighting against the patriarchy, here and everywhere in the globe. What inspires and motivates you in life? R: Women have always inspired me. All my personal work has their roots in women and their stories and the struggle we have been suffering from ancients times. There are things that we shouldn’t stop to pointing out and if the graphic work that I do helps other to express what they want to say or encourage them in any possible way, I will keep doing it.  Is there any particular aesthetic/visual style you feel most identified with? Why? R: I suppose that has been changing through the years. I really feel identify with the aesthetic that women and trans community are developing now in south America. Very powerful, colorful and diverse, specially the garments they are crafting to participates in demonstrations in the streets. That’s a form of identity that really touches me because I get it, make sense to me, it’s related to my past and my present and belongs to the root, from where I have come from. How would you like the world to see you? R: As a person who’s trying to be as honest as possible with oneself.

[jeremystrele]

Painting Gentle, Hopeful Utopias With Louise Tate

Painting Gentle, Hopeful Utopias With Louise Tate

Studio Visit

by Sasha Gattermayr

Louise Tate was born and raised in Mullumbimby but now lives and works in Melbourne. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

She is inspired by the great French Impressionists, who were the first to blur the static boundaries between human subjects and their surrounds. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Louise paints imagined utopias where care, hope and harmony replace contemporary climate anxiety. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Her balanced, gentle canvases represent an equality between the human and natural spheres. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Her paintings are quiet and peaceful – radical acts in a time when political statements are so often demanded of art. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Her sunny Collingwood studio is a sanctuary where she can paint more places of refuge. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

‘The threads of nature, bodies, climate change, and acts of care are always running through my work,’ says Louise. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

“Too many choices”. Photo – Matt Stanton.

‘As an only child growing up on a rural property, I spent a lot of time daydreaming and creating magical lands with my pencil and paper. I think that the work I make now is really an extension of that. I use my art practice as a form of escapism from a world that can often feel confronting and confusing.’ Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

‘If we can learn to really value what we’re looking at, we’re less likely to want to destroy it.’ Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

The dreamlike figurative landscapes are a combination of reality and fantasy. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Photo – Matt Stanton.

Louise in her studio. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Louise’s own body appears in a lot of the works. Human presence is inextricable from the natural ecosystems. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Photo – Matt Stanton.

“Looking forwards means looking backwards”. Photo – Matt Stanton.

Just before the whole world went into lockdown last year, artist Louise Tate squeezed in a residency in New York. It was universes away from her upbringing as a ‘little flower child with messy hair and grubby hands’ in the Northern Rivers region of NSW, but the iconic painters of the last two centuries had a commanding hold over her own creativity. While living in Paris years before, she visited the Musée d’Orsay at least once a week, where the blurry Impressionist canvases washed over her in waves of awe.

Now returned to Australia, Louise has set up shop at a warehouse studio in Collingwood, where she paints under the enduring influences of these artistic legacies. Amongst the hustle and bustle of inner city Melbourne, she crafts her gentle, sunny, worlds from a place of calm. From this space, she can imagine utopias powered by kindness and love.

Could you briefly outline your artistic background, and how this brought you to painting – what has been your creative journey so far?

I grew up in Mullumbimby in the Northern Rivers area of NSW, on a big beautiful property full of trees and banana palms and birds and insects. My grandmother was an artist, my aunt is an artist, my Mum was an architect, and my Dad spent some time as a potter – so I grew up with a strong connection to art and design. I often felt quite shy as a child, so drawing was a refuge, and a way to dream away the seemingly endless hours of childhood.

Once I finished high school, I spent a year travelling through Europe and lived in Paris for several months. The museums, rich with artistic and cultural history, felt stupendous to a small-town girl. When winter hit and the money ran out, I moved to Melbourne to pursue a degree in Fine Art, which I completed in 2016 at RMIT University. I’ve been exhibiting since then and am lucky to have had the opportunity to show with some great galleries and participated in some amazing residencies.

When we spoke to you earlier in the year for our annual emerging-artists-to-watch story, you described your style as ‘dreamy and imaginative’ but also ‘self-referential’ and ‘utopian’. Where did this world come from?

As an only child growing up on a rural property, I spent a lot of time daydreaming and creating magical lands with my pencil and paper. I think that the work I make now is really an extension of that. I use my art practice as a form of escapism from a world that can often feel confronting and confusing.

The imagined spaces within my work are my idea of mini utopias, full of thriving flora and bodies that happily co-exist. They are worlds where climate change is no longer a threat, where skin colour doesn’t divide us, and where softness and slowness are valued. These painted lands nourish me when I can’t leave the house during lockdown, providing a refuge of light and colour and warmth.

Are there particular themes, places or characters that you revisit?

The threads of nature, bodies, climate change, and acts of care are always running through my work. The scenery of my childhood home in the Northern Rivers repeatedly appears in paintings of lush greenery; what was once farmland out there is now bushy and dense, reclaiming once-clear land. My body appears in a lot of the work, framing the view that the viewer looks out at.

From start to finish, what is the process of actually creating one of your paintings?

Every work begins with a photograph or a montage of photographs I’ve taken, which I’ll digitally collage together to form an image that I’ve been holding in my mind for some time. Once the image has percolated, I’ll stretch up a canvas with glue-sized or oil-primed linen, or I’ll get the trusty team at Melbourne Artists’ Supplies to stretch some up for me if they’re really big.

I layer the linen surface with soft washes of colour, building up a certain ‘tone’ for the work. Once that’s dry, I’ll sketch the image I’m working with onto the canvas with very thin oil paint. That dries for a day or two and I rotate onto the next canvas while I wait, repeating the process. There’s normally 4-5 paintings on the go at any one time. I begin building some sections within the work with washes of colour; I like to fragment the whole image and work piece-by-piece like a puzzle. The next part is the fun bit – playing with mark-making and colour combinations in an intuitive and responsive way. Often I’ll have to do a few layers to figure out the right colour combo. Then the finer detail gets laid on top – strands of hair, shards of sunlight, etc.

And voilà – hopefully it all comes together and can be left to dry to be varnished later on. Sometimes paintings don’t work and they will sit in my studio brooding until I unleash my fury on them. This either ends in something magical or something horrendous.

What does art-making mean to you, and what do you hope to communicate?

Art-making is a form of escapism for me. I so often feel powerless to make meaningful change in the world, and so I retreat to the studio to process this feeling. In creating these hopeful, sun-drenched worlds, I’m imagining the kind of place I want to live in. I also think there’s great value in using our eyes to really see something. A lot of my work portrays people looking at things. This slow looking helps to train our eyes to see the finer details of a tree, or a bird, or the way the sun coats a valley like honey.

And if we can learn to really value what we’re looking at, we’re less likely to want to destroy it.

Louise Tate is represented by Sophie Gannon Gallery.

[upinternet]

The Artists for Digital Rights Network (A4DRN) announces participants for Artists for inaugural Artists for Digital Rights Program

The Artists for Digital Rights Network (A4DRN) is hosting the Artists for Digital Rights Program 2021, a program that invites artists from the Philippines and Indonesia to undergo workshops on disinformation and produce an output that surfaces the complexities of disinformation in their local contexts.

Selected by a jury composed of advocacy workers from the Philippines and Indonesia, the following artists working across different disciplines such as video, photography, performance, creative writing, computer science, and architecture, will be presenting their work in an artistic publication and roundtable discussion to launch at the end of July. The program was made possible after receiving seed-funding from Doublethink Lab (DTL) and Innovation for Change-East Asia (IC4-EA).

Sofia Tantono (Indonesia)

Sofia Tantono is a writer whose works have been published in Anak Sastra, Yuwana Zine (Issues 2 and 3) and Klandestin. Besides literature, her interests span politics and various humanities disciplines from sociology to theology. When not writing, she can be found reading, browsing the internet and keeping herself updated on the news. She can be found on Instagram @sofias.writing and her blog https://sofiatantono.wordpress.com/. For her project, Sofia Tantono will be presenting a short story titled "Our Favourite Liar", which will explore disinformation as a socio-cultural phenomenon in Indonesia through three epochs in the country's landscape: Suharto's New Order, the year before the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election and the COVID-19 pandemic. She aims to illustrate how disinformation that benefits powerful groups often festers in an Indonesian civil society distrustful of the government when said disinformation comes from sources purportedly not of large institutions.

Gabriel Brioso (Philippines)

Gabriel Brioso is an interaction designer, visual artist and architect based in Metro Manila, Philippines. He graduated Cum Laude in De La Salle - College of St. Benilde's (DLS-CSB) BS-Architecture program in 2017. His work operates on the central theme of exploring the intersections of art, architecture, craft, and design. He has been involved in several noteworthy exhibitions during the past years including The Oxymoron of Patterns in the Cultural Center of the Philippines (2015), The 16th Venice Architecture Biennale (2018), and the Authenticity Zero Collective in the Gateway Gallery in Cubao (2019). He has collaborated with DLS-CSB's Center for Campus Art (CCA) on several exhibitions including The Oxymoron of Patterns (2016), Architecture=Durable (2016), and Naichayu (2017). Gabriel Brioso’s project is a digital AR object: “The Disinformation Interface” which aims to probe the allure of the social media experience in parallel with the underlying withdrawn disinformation structures that operate within it.

Marian Hukom (Philippines)

Marian Hukom is a Manila-based visual artist. A graphic designer by profession and illustrator by craft, she loves making and publishing her own comics. Her books usually range from neon autobiographies, fantasy, slice of life, and also advocacy driven content. Once an avid gig and convention goer, Marian is now a homebody doodling the night away. As a virgo workaholic, she keeps busy with her organizations, multiple hobbies, and ongoing books. Marian Hukom will be working on an autobiographical comic "Screen time", depicting her own experience with disinformation. With screens flowing as vertical narrative panels, it aims to show a POV of this experience and it's journey.

Kiki Febriyanti (Indonesia)

Kiki Febriyanti is an artist and filmmaker based in Jakarta, Indonesia. Kiki holds a Bachelor’s degree majoring in Indonesian Literature, she also completed John Darling Fellowship 2015 “Visual anthropology” at the Australian National University, Canberra, Australia and had held artist residency at the International Center of Graphic Arts MGLC in Ljubljana, Slovenia in 2019. Recently her video work took part in the Every Woman Biennial London 2021 exhibition. Her works are focusing on the topics of gender, human rights, and culture. Kiki will be working on her project "Click Bite" which explores the instant consumption habits of people on the internet that cause cyber-bullying.

Waki Salvador (Philippines)

Waki creates experimental work through the different mediums he chances upon - digital, traditional, film, music, and code. He blends these together to create noisy and brash art. Currently, he is focusing on creating net-based installations that explore disruptive aesthetics and themes. Visit him on social media @urlcompost. Waki is working on his project "Constructed Misdirection", a website that visualizes the descent into the rabbit hole of links being clicked due to disinformation.

Adrian Mulya (Indonesia)

Adrian Mulya is an independent photographer based in Jakarta. A self-taught photographer who explores humanity through pictures. He published Winners of Life (2016), a photobook of Indonesia women who survived the 1965 genocide. He also worked on a collective memory project about his Chinese Indonesian identity So Far, So Close. Adrian Mulya will work on a project called “Serabutan”, exploring the work conditions of people in the gig economy era. The project starts with exploring how the media is glorifying the merger of 2 tech companies Gojek and Tokopedia, contrasting it with the lived experiences of the drivers

Mariah Reodica (Philippines)

Mariah Reodica is a filmmaker, writer, media archivist, and musician based in Manila, Philippines. Her background as a musician–not formally trained, but ouido,–reflects in her practices of filmmaking and writing. She was awarded the Purita Kalaw-Ledesma Prize for Art Criticism at the 2019 Ateneo Art Awards, and currently maintains the column Platforms in The Philippine Star’s Arts and Culture section. She has been an artist-in-residence at Asia Culture Center, Gwangju (2018); Load na Dito Projects (2020); WSK (2019); and Larga Artist Residency, Silay City (2019). Reodica is affiliated with the COCONET Digital Rights Network and Imagine a Feminist Internet-SEA. Her band The Buildings recently released their second album on Japan-based label Call and Response Records. Mariah Reodica will be working on a written artistic response to the transmission of ideas and conversations via online spaces, taking the internet as more than an abstract appendage to reality, but a public space in itself.

Alfred Marasigan (Philippines)

Heavily inspired by emotional geography, slow television, and magic realism, Alfred Marasigan conducts serendipitous research and transmedial practices in real time. Guided by time as storage, the moment as artwork, and self-evidence as knowledge, he orchestrates live collaborative ensembles of audiences, histories, actions, materialities, agents, and phenomena ultimately as ongoing efforts to create spaces for various makeshift, convoluted, and anachronistic Filipino queer narratives, among them his own. Marasigan graduated in 2019 with an MA in Contemporary Art from UiT Arctic University of Norway's Kunstakademiet i Tromsø and is a Norwegian Council of the Arts Grantee for Newly Graduated Artists. Currently based in Manila, he is now a faculty member of Ateneo de Manila University’s Fine Arts Department for 6 years. Alfred will work on his project, The B.A.O.A.N.G Directory. The B.A.O.A.N.G (Bertud, Agimat, Orasyon, Albularyo, Nyoroscope, at Gayuma) Directory is a live, developing database of pages dedicated to alternative medicine, folk belief, and contemporary spirituality in the Philippines. Drawing from the garlic (bawang in Tagalog and bawang putih in Indonesian) as method, it ultimately seeks to remap the potential roots of cultural resistance to standard counter-disinformation strategies and present time-tested yet left-field approaches to online truth-seeking epistemologies.

Christina Lopez (Philippines)

Christina Lopez is a 25 year old visual artist based in Manila. Her contemporary art practice ranges from the traditional sense of image production to methods more involvedwith new media. She is interested in the capacity of art to present alternative possibilities; to theorise, to test certain boundaries that are currently in place. There is specific intent to explore power, including its relations, structure, and implications. Recently, she has been producing work that utilizes paranoia as a tool for divination, one that navigates through the obfuscation omnipresent in the production and dissemination of new technologies. The forms she chooses to represent these concepts often involve digital-physical fusion, reflecting that the virtual is inseparable from material realities. By grasping at what is seen and unseen progress is viewed as something that is neither good nor evil, and arguments are presented with commitment to what the future could be. Her work can be found inside and outside of privatised spaces and institutions. She has exhibited in Hong Kong,UK, and the Philippines. She shares her ongoing project: “I will be working on a new iteration of my previous work titled “Portraits (Proxies)”, with a renewed focus on the delineation between humans, trolls, and automata. I am particularly interested in how one can decide and establish what is real from that which is not real in terms of identity and being, and whether or not this delineation should exist in the first place. The work will still make use of StyleGAN generated portraiture, and alongside I will work with a text generation GAN to create ‘profiles’.”

Mirjam Dalire (Philippines)

Mirjam Dalire is a multidisciplinary artist based in Negros Oriental, Philippines. She works with photography, internet-based installation, video, sound, and painting. Mirjam often uses virtual spaces as a staging point for confrontations with her immediate environment, employing satire and humor in her process. Mirjam Dalire will be working on her work, “Death of NoSTrAdAmUs_420” which she will be revisiting “The End by NoSTrAdAmUs_420” a video work on conspiracy theories that she made in 2019. In this new project she will be exploring developing local online hoaxes, two years after The End was released.

*UP Internet Freedom Network President Mac Andre Arboleda is the Project Lead of the Artists for Digital Rights Network