#than a centre of the conversation artist

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

I've also been thinking a lot about closeted pop stars (including Harry) in the time of Chappel Roan. Mostly unformed thoughts but very eager to see what's next for all of them

You sent this a while back anon - and I keep thinking of answering it and each time what 'in the time of Chappell Roan' has shifted slightly and so my answer has got more complicated and the fundamental differences between Chappell Roan and Harry have become more obvious.

I think there's an emotional landscape question about what it means to be a closeted pop star in this moment. I don't know if we can imagine the complexity of this answer - and when we try it's important to include the push back against the fan gaze that is coming from queer artists.

The other side of this question is what it means for his career. And here I think it's worth asking what does it mean that Harry is going to be making pop music in this moment. It's been a time of these massive, interesting, female pop acts. All of whom in their own particular ways say something about themselves and something about pop with their art. It's been a time that Taylor Swift, who has baked cookies for her fans in the past, has told fans to fuck off in songs.

None of this is very Harry Styles. One of the things that has been really interesting to me watching the pop landscape shift this year - is that has really made me define what Harry does. These are I think the key elements to his proposition:

With each album he has had a very big song that spoke to the moment we're in

His aesthetic is striking, interesting and playful (thanks Harry L - but also thanks to hiring strong artists with a point of view for key tasks such as album photography)

In his music there's a lot of space for people to project onto, with particular space for fantasies

The core of the fantasy is the live show and its place of joy

And certainly there's a huge gap between that - and what we've been seeing from other artists recently.

I was listening to a recent episode of Every Single Album and Nora and Nathan were talking about Harry Styles for a while (I can't remember which one and would welcome pointers, because it's not clear from the episode description). And Nathan in particular was suggesting that Harry would need to think carefully about how he presented himself in this space and it wouldn't be enough to be projected onto - he needed to share something of himself. Here Dua Lipa is used as sort of a cautionary tale of what happens if you don't have enough Lore.

It's not that I entirely disagree. I think there's a lot that Harry address in his music that would be thrilling, if he was interested in sharing. When you think of songs like 'But Daddy I love him' or the 'Girl, So Confusing' remix - and imagine what would happen if Harry was interested in playing even near that playground - that's something I'd look forward to. I also think the most effective way to address the way people do and don't talk about his sexuality - would be a song that had an element of fuck you in it.

But I think there are multiple dangers here - and not having enough lore is only one of them. I also think there's a worry of losing what people want from you, by trying to be what people love in other people. (I think this, far more than anything, has been Katy Perry's problem. She's trying and failing to be a more relevant version of herself - but she'd be far more relevant if she'd kept doing what people love from her.

I really think the 'if he's interested in sharing' is the key point. If he has any interest in writing any music that comments on his life in a way that is intelligible to listeners - then I think there's real potential. But I think nothing could be more fatal than doing it for the lore.

To come back to Chappell Roan - I just listened to the popcast episode about touring, and read Jon Caramanica's review of Chappell Roan's show in Tennessee. In that he compares the show with the on-line discourse - and basically argues that the way forward, the way to build a career that matters - is to ignore the people who want to talk about you and focus on those who want to be part of the collective experience when you make music.

I hope that this, more than anything else, is the message that Harry takes forward. If he has anything to say, then I'm all for him saying it (although I think the response to Chappell clearly shows that people don't really want popstars to say things). But I think the most important thing for his career will be him continuing to do what he does well.

[always-just-red]

@irandial and @micasosa34 requested a Rafayel version of this fic, so here it is!! This is a loose sequel, but mostly a spin-off? Also an emotional rollercoaster, sorry! (I fear I put too much of myself in this one, guys... there will be no beating the 'oh you are ACTUALLY in love with this man' allegations after this.....)

Fourth Wall (Rafayel Ver.)

Rafayel x Player!Reader 🔥

(Previous part/Sylus version here!)

Summary: You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?

Genre: Angst! This is my revenge for the claw machine debacle (Checkmate, Rafayel!!! But also I'm sorry and I love you)

Warnings/Additional tags: player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, one instance of swearing

| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

You made it through about two rooms of the gallery before thinking about Rafayel.

You stand in front of a dark seascape: a night sky and a symmetrically black ocean framing the plight of a small fishing boat, adrift in the centre. The moon casts a pale, faraway light, and an orange lantern glows, drawing colour from the oppressive darkness— deep blues, and rich, shimmering turquoise, crested with white.

It should evoke some feeling of smallness, some respect for the vast indifference of the natural world, but no— your mind is set on the fictional artist who lives in your phone.

What would he think about it? What would he have to say?

At the moment, you suspect it would be some remark about how you should get your own opinion, rather than piggybacking his.

Still, it gives you an idea. You glance around self-consciously as you draw out your phone and earphones— tucking the latter into your ears as you offer a curt smile to the nearby gallery attendant. You’re not breaking any rules by loading up Love and Deepspace, but it feels slightly ridiculous in a place like this: full of real and honest things where you’re somehow lonely.

You log-in with a tap. “Let’s go to the beach,” Rafayel greets, his voice as warm as sunshine that melts a cold morning haze. “I never get tired of seeing the sunset there.”

You smile more sincerely, tousling his hair, but then it’s straight to business. You drag him into the AR Photobooth, directing him through a few poses until you find one you like: a duo pose. His fingers are meant to be around your chin, but without you, he seems to be pointing. Perfect, you shift— tilting your phone until the painting sits behind him.

He’s winking at you as he gestures to it, his face and body as still as marble.

You’re about to take the picture when a not-so-distant conversation strikes up, making you glance backwards. Another visitor is asking the attendant about a painting, and you lower your phone’s volume a notch so you can eavesdrop on them.

“This is one of Turner’s earliest paintings, y’know? He was young when he painted it. Like, super young.”

You freeze. The attendant and the visitor aren’t standing by a Turner painting; you are. Your gaze snaps back to your phone, drawn by the familiarity of the voice.

Rafayel’s turned away from you. He’s staring at the painting, one hand on his hip and the other up by his face, stroking his chin. He’s swaying on his feet gently, his head tilting as he takes in different parts of the seascape.

“You gonna take the picture, cutie?” he asks, glancing back at you with a knowing grin.

Your lips have parted slightly in surprise, but your finger manages to find the photo button. Rafayel returns to his candid observations just in time for your screen to flicker, mimicking a camera flash. 

“Ok, one more.” He turns around and settles into a new pose. You take another photo. “Nice,” he beams, “you’ll send those to me later, yeah?”

But you can’t—

“Relax, ok? I’m kidding. Now come on,” he pokes at the edge of your screen like a mime trapped by an invisible box. “Move this thing! I wanna see what else they’ve got here.”

You do move, but not to show him around. He gets a blurry view of the floor as you hurry over to a nearby bench, sinking down with a sigh because you can’t believe this is happening— again. With a few taps of your finger, you draw the curtains on Rafayel’s view to your world and return him to his.

“No, no, no! What?” he groans in disbelief, suddenly back in the Destiny Café. He throws himself into the armchair with reckless abandon— limbs sprawled— one hand over his face as though it would pain him to look on anything at all. “You find out I’m self-aware and the first thing you do is drag me back here? Where’s your heart? Your empathy? Your soul?”

You poke at his hand and he swats at the air like you’re bothering him.

“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy, like, contemplating the futility of my existence?”

So dramatic! You consider closing the app out of spite, but this is Rafayel. You know Rafayel; look past the theatrics. It’s been, what— just over a month since Sylus first told you he’d seen through all of this? He said the others were lagging behind, but maybe…

Maybe they weren’t.

Shit. Maybe they weren’t.

You watch Rafayel, sunken down in one of two places you’ve seen him inhabit every day, every night, for almost a year. This café isn’t different from the old in any way that matters. Sylus is new but Rafayel has been here from the very beginning. So many more days. So many more nights.

How long has he known?

He lifts his hand, just enough to peer in your direction. You’ve not closed the app. You’re not poking at him anymore. He sits up straighter in the chair, both hands in his lap, and he looks at them pensively. Maybe even remorsefully.

“You’re thinking about what it all means, huh? Don’t.” It’s a command, but it’s soft. Then softer, a: “Please?”

Your breath catches— oh— he’s known for a long time, hasn’t he? You lean back against the gallery wall, grounding yourself as you text him an emoji: a chick bursting out of its shell with question marks over its head.

He pulls out his phone. Sees it. “Why?” he translates with a melancholic chuckle.

Yeah. You tickle his head. Why?

He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess… I didn’t want you to feel bad?”

You text another emoji and he glances down at it, then laughs more loudly: “I’m a dummy? Check a mirror, cutie— isn’t it you who’s been walking around thinking Mister Wannabe Vampire is the only one smart enough to figure this all out? Puh-lease.”

He laughs even more at his own joke— maybe to fill the quiet and the fact that he can’t hear you laughing with him. It peters out like it inevitably must, and like it always does. He goes still.

“Can’t you show me around, even a little?” he asks.

No.

You feel bad, you do, but you can’t start living for him. This is your world; if you invite him in now, when does it stop? You already spend too much time with your head down, lost in your phone. You were walking through a gallery and thinking about him, remember? Art is supposed to make you think about something real.

No, you text him: a crow holding a sign with a big, red cross. It’s too abrupt, but there’s not an emoji for “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Rafayel’s face falls further as he checks his phone, his eyes like the ocean in the painting across the room: lit by a weak, failing little light. He looks to you, even though he can’t see you. “Please?”

You don’t move.

“Please,” he tries again, “just this once— this once. Is that so much to ask?”

You’ve used up your three means of answering him.

He scoffs in dismay, alone in the silence of everything you can’t say— you couldn’t say— even if you were really with him and the distance between you was merely invented. How could you go to him, hold his face in your hands and tell him the truth: that you care, but not enough?

Here, now: the quiet confesses it for you.

Rafayel stands from his seat, taking a step closer, his gaze dark. You can see his eyes more clearly; that lantern is at the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the ship and everyone on board. “Do you know what my life is?” he asks, and the silence has become his ally, punctuating his every word so it can cut more deeply. “My life’s an empty café, a book with blank pages and a phone that won’t ring.”

The curtains behind him move softly with a superficial breeze, lit by a superficial sun.

“The only thing that’s real,” he says, “is you.”

You feel like the breath’s been knocked from your lungs.

You can’t resent him for it. He could have drowned you from the start, could have dragged you under a weight of responsibility, but he didn’t, and that’s Rafayel: always tempering himself into something less lethal. He’s been so still for you. So silent for you.

Your mind is wrapped in a vow you made him— one you’ve been unconsciously breaking— and you’re going to break it again, knowingly, wilfully this time, because you want him like this: angry.

You promised, didn’t you? I will never make Rafayel wait for me.

He’s always been waiting, and you want him to stop.

You close the app, muting your phone when notifications start coming through: a squall of frustration, pleading, and frantic apologies. You tuck all of it into your pocket and stand, wandering back to the painting that started it all so you can look at it differently.

Something real to think about. Something real.

You stare at a black ocean and think about him.

…

Rafayel isn’t talking to you.

It’s been a week since your ‘breakup’— dubbed gleefully as such by Sylus— and you load up the game to find your artist slumped back in his armchair, his book over his face. A week of him sitting down, cross-legged and armed, during the Deepspace Trials you’d set out to clear with him. A week of him hogging the Claw Machine, and missing every rare plushie with a sarcastic ‘oops’.

The worst part is that you’ve missed him. You’d tried replaying the kindled moments from his five-star memories, but he’d made you regret it. In Sparkling Traces, he’d summed up his feelings in a very… colourful drawing. Omnipotent Perception: he’d slipped deeper into the bathwater, a blush on his face as he avoided your gaze and murmured something about you ‘having some nerve.’

Now, you can’t even call him over to you. You poke at the book on his face, once, twice, then repeatedly until it slips, but his hands shoot up to catch it. He holds it in place.

Ugh. If he would just—

You drum away at the book more vivaciously, but his grip is solid. Plan B, then: you open your in-game messages and send an emoji instead. Rafayel stirs, one hand moving to his pocket and the other lifting the book so he can peek down at his phone. “What— you tryna bribe me now?”

He’s looking at grumpy crow holding out a present: a bundle of shiny, red gems. His translation is spot-on, as per usual, and you reward it by poking at his chest. He frowns down at the contact, then sits up, rolling his eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.

“This better be good,” he yawns, standing up and stretching with a listlessness that could only be described as cat-like, however much he’d whine about the comparison.

Having won his attention— and begrudging consent— you navigate your way to the AR Photobooth. Rafayel stares at you from within the frame: an unwitting subject of a portrait he doesn’t yet understand, but he soon will. You smile as he turns cautiously to regard his backdrop.

Behind him, the ocean laps at a shore of pale sand and stretches into the horizon, where the sun lazily dips. There’s about half of it left, turning the sky a blurred palette of orange and pink that’s spilled over the water. Clouds are few and dark purple, their linings aglow.

Rafayel’s folded arms have dropped to his sides. After a few, long seconds, he gazes back in your direction, eyes wide with surprise before they soften with a radiant smile.

“You—” he starts, and it could be something as light as a joke or as deep as a soliloquy. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t put it to words. He glances at the ocean again. Then at you. “Thanks,” he settles for.

You chuckle. There’s not many ways you can answer without tearing him away from the sunset and trapping him back in the café, so you stay sitting still. It’s a different silence than a week ago. There are things unsaid, but that’s ok— they’re the sort you don’t need to speak aloud, anyway.

Your shoes are set aside by your feet so you can feel the sand, still warm beneath your toes. You wiggle them into it, gazing out over the ocean as the evening breeze catches and plays with your hair, and the last of the sun trails over your skin. You stare out at where it’s sinking.

Rafayel moves, and your focus meanders back to your phone. He’s walking away from you, gradually— retreating further into the composition you’ve created, just for him. He looks as though he’s nearing the shore, but it’s cosmetic: there are no footprints in the sand. His hair isn’t moved by the same breeze, and his face isn’t gilded by the same light.

He stops by the ocean’s edge and crouches gently, mesmerised by the push and pull of the tide. Slowly, humbly, he reaches out a hand and lowers his fingers towards the water; they never slip beneath the surface, and they don’t stir a ripple.  

Rafayel laughs, masking an undertow of sadness, but not disappointment. “It’s funny,” he says, still sketching invisible, ineffectual shapes. “Loving the ocean as much as I do, and knowing… knowing I’ll never touch it.”

He’s all the way over there, but his voice is in your ears, so intimately close. You swallow an ache.

He looks up at you. Smiles: “Y’know what I mean?”

You’re using memories to complete the picture: His hair, mussed by the summer breeze that day you stood amongst the cherry blossoms. His face, painted by the sunset of a different life, where you’d roamed a desert together. In each and every moment, his eyes are the same, just as they are now: kindled by a tender, tentative fire.

“Yeah, Raf,” you say to yourself— just yourself. “I know what you mean.”

[fudgelling-away]

I've just had the weirdest freaking conversation in my life.

Sometimes I show my art to my parents.

For the record, they are 55. I am over 30.

They are both artists. Hobbyists, like me. Dad draws and paints in a traditional way, and is a milion times better than I will ever be. Mom crochets, sculpts and creates all sorts of home decor.

They relentlessly ask me every week to show them something new of my work.

And today they approached me to tell me for the fifth time that they want this picture printed and hung in the centre of the living room.

.

.

"…Are you really seeing what this picture is about?"

Mom replies that it's about tolerance and love, and that she wants to show everybody that you can and you SHOULD drink coffee with a skeleton. She wants to put it on her facebook, too.

"Mom, yes, I love you, you are… unbelievably tolerant and I love you for that, but I will not give you this picture. I can give you a different one."

No. She wants that one. She wants to drink coffee with him every morning.

"Mom, he is naked under that blanket. Naked. Are you seeing that? Are you aware of that?"

So what? He's covered in blanket.

"Mom… he's NAKED. Naked. Sans. In the living room. Mom. What the heck?"

Aw, Fudge, he is so silly.

"That is a very suggestive picture."

You see it that way because you like him, she says. I just see him as silly, she says.

...

She repeats that she wants the pic. She wants it in the living room.

"I cannot have him in the family living room. It's not even about you two, it's about the guests you have, the rest of the family, your coworkers..."

Mom raises her voice and says that she's going to teach them about tolerance, and that they can say and think whatever the heck they want.

Dad asks what is the resolution of this pic.

They start to discuss whether to print it on paper or on canvas.

They ignore me.

Mom says she doesn't want a new bag for her birthday anymore. She wants the picture.

Dad asks me to prepare the file, he wants to go to the printer this week.

I am not giving them the picture.

What is going on.

[hwaightme]

Lone soul

(masterlist)

🏢pairing: singer!seonghwa x gn!reader 🏢genre: comfort, healing, angst, fluff, sci-fi/spec.fiction, soulmate au 🏢summary: numb to the pleas of those who receive the 'lone soul' verdict, what can happen when a man who lives for love enters your office, and for the first time you are met with eyes that wonder, that care, that feel so familiar, so true? 🏢wordcount: 4.1k total 🏢warnings/tags: unedited, set in another reality (softcore 1984?), discussing romance/love, fictional gov structures, soulmate theory/lone soul theory, partnership, companionship, sweet conversation, romance/romanticism, learning about what makes you who you are, trust, bonding, mutual respect 🏢 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🏢 a/n: crafted after the beautiful ask from @sorryimananti-romantic <3 thank you my love <3 and to all, thank you for reading, any notes/reblogs appreciated!

Early morning - perfect time to check the mail, perfect time to watch the world fall apart. Each letter on the page left a searing sensation, hot iron piercing through the skin and twisting itself again and again, confirming the one thing that the reader feared, in cold formal terminology. There was little left to suggest any alterations, no additional words to imply an uncertainty or the need for a re-testing. Nothing. The letter, along with the rest of the contents of the hefty envelope were clear as the breaking of Park Seonghwa’s heart - he was a Lone Soul.

Rushing back inside, cowering away from the horrifically cheerful chirping of the birds outside, the young man stared at the piece of paper, flipping it again and again in his hands as if the words were going to magically change themselves and reveal a deeper meaning, or express their sincerest apologies for the mistake. He had been so certain in himself, in love, that Seonghwa had never even imagined the possibility of receiving anything from the National Soulmate Register Office aside from a prompt response to his request for a Soulmate Search.

What could this mean for his career? He, a song-writer with more lyrics written about love than he could remember - how would fellow musicians, artists, groups, companies, the public react upon hearing that the creator of their favourite tunes was confirmed to be lacking in a soulmate. How could he craft songs about love when he was not destined for it? When he would never find out the real feeling of meeting and having a soulmate, and watching the stars align? Seonghwa glanced at the awards that decorated the display case in his living room, settling on titles ‘Meant To Be’ and ‘Love, Love, Love’. This had to be a joke. A cruel joke. He knew love better than anyone could, he could feel it, express it and write it. Certainly better than anyone at that damn Office could. Seonghwa’s anguish rapidly transformed into a seething anger as he slammed the papers onto the coffee table and stormed away to change into the nearest outerwear he could find. With equally feverish determination and the envelope wedged under his arm, the man sped to the metro, only checking the location of the Office when he passed the turnstiles. 

If one were to ask any friend, neighbour or relative, they would all say that Seonghwa was a hopeless romantic. A believer in a happily ever after, a person who grew up overcoming so many challenges and turning to be surrounded by and receiving so much love that all he wanted to do was to share it. Truthfully, you were intrigued by his result as much as he was, this onyx-haired man with his head cradled in his hands, eyes studying the carpeted floor beneath him as he awaited for any elaboration from you. But there was no such thing as a mistake in your line of work. With a short sigh you finished your inspection of Seonghwa’s result letter, setting it down on the centre of the table, and began to type up his details for what you called a ‘routine check’ - truly, it was you making airs and pretending that you were trying your hardest to see if anything at all could be changed. A cruel, but necessary dance to ease the fall of those who ended up on the Lone Soul Registry, since, the sooner the individual accepted it, the sooner they could begin taking steps towards another future.

You suppressed a bitter smile; parents who were soulmates, brother who had found a soulmate early on in his life… no possibility of this outcome being hereditary. Checking key milestones of his life, you could only see things that point towards adoration itself and an appreciation of life’s beauty. There was even growth to self-acceptance and self-love - commendable. Scrolling, scrolling through, now accompanied by Seonghwa’s desperate gaze settled on your form that forced you to control your bored expression and settle on professional neutrality, there was nothing that gave you obvious hints on why exactly this young man was now in the Registry, but your judgement decided against pursuing this curious case further. It was far too early, on a Friday, and any more snooping would most certainly be above your pay grade and above average activity.

“Unfortunately, I cannot provide you with any more information other than what had already been given to you through the letter and booklet. If it is of interest to you I can provide you with some more resources on potential Lifestyle adjustments and point you to Lone Soul networks-”

“What I need is answers!” Seonghwa raised his voice, setting a hand down onto the edge of the desk a little too aggressively for you to feel totally comfortable. Your eyes narrowed as you regarded him with suspicion.

“Sir, all that could be provided to you-”

“This is a government office, for goodness’ sake. Don’t you have access to everything? This isn’t possible. This cannot be possible. How am I, of all people, a Lone Soul?”

“You are not the only Lone Soul, Mister Park. And yes, we are a government office, and as such, are able to offer you a number of resources that can help cope with the change and find a new rhythm-”

“New rhythm, you have got to be kidding.”

Biting the inner corner of your upper lip you admonished yourself for the joke that slipped through in response to the agitated visitor. Luckily for him, and perhaps unluckily for you, he had made it into the Office right at opening time, and coincidentally, you had no consultation bookings set for the hour. Of course, the receptionists had to be kind enough to change that in the blind of an eye, and now you had to power through yet another session of all stages of grief while not yet having drunk a single cup of coffee. The man was adamant on getting something, anything out of you - you were sure of it, even if it was a false promise. Inspecting his profile, which you pulled up and exploded onto the full screen of your monitor once again, you noted his request submission twenty seven days ago. And then another one, twelve days ago. All asking the same thing: who his soulmate was, what he could do, so on and so forth. The usual. So he was a desperate one. A shame.

“Unfortunately there is nothing I can do to change the status, seeing as it is permanent, but if you are interested in Lone Soul Matching then we can arrange a separate appointment to discuss this further.”

The mention of the Matching process seemed to be the final nail in the man’s hopeful coffin as he slouched forward, and whatever had been left of his anger quickly dissipated to reveal a shattered, melancholic artist who had just realised that whatever muse he had worshipped was nothing but a lie. You almost felt sorry as you slid the rest of the papers across, complete with a self-help guide and an information pamphlet summarising all services available in the NSRO. The minutes ticked away, but Seonghwa remained frozen in place. It was almost as if with your words, even though standard and practically scripted, you revealed to him a dark truth and the music that ruled the real world. You had uncovered his ears and sung the song of the harsh present, and he could not dare find himself relieved or content with the outcome. He knew that you were only a messenger, a passing face that represented thouSeonghwads of people working for an answer, but you could read a resentment in his expression as he finally raised his head after having hid his face from you. The usual agony, a standard response that you had been trained to not antagonise, and instead to de-escalate. You sat straighter, clasped your hands together and leaned forwards, an unreadable hint of a smile on your lips, somewhat comforting, but alluring to a chilling power that you still retained for as long as you were in this office.

“Shall we make another appointment? Or would you prefer to take some time to process the results and engage with us at a later date?” as you tilted your head a little, you took note of the clouded over, spaced out gaze of the man before you. Even when Seonghwa answered with a confirmation, you were not sure of what exactly he was agreeing to, nor if he was entirely there with you. “Mister Park, would you kindly state your availability?” he shook his head, evidently clearing the haze he was in, and you were met with the mist of two endlessly dark orbs.

His eyes were translating many stories to you, some of which you probably heard on the radio. Love songs, serenades, ballads, rap about love… songs turned into an amorous encyclopaedia a while ago. Even in this, Seonghwa was bound to be ‘just another’. At the same time, your heart hurt for him; perhaps the same as it did for others who came into your lonely office at the end of the corridor, perhaps in some other mysterious way. But anyhow, your expression softened, and you allowed yourself to sympathise with his misery. It was never pleasant to find out that you were not destined to have a life partner, to have that fairy tale happily ever after.

You have seen relationships fall apart before your very eyes after couples who naively thought that requesting the Soulmate Search would simply reveal one anothers’ names instead of a mismatch and a Lone Soul. You have seen familial disappointments, arguments… but at the same time, you witnessed unfiltered joy, liberation, excitement. There was never one answer to fated romantic solitude. You wished you could say that to the very distraught young man sitting in front of you. He was not much different in age to you. He was just like everyone - human. A human faced with intense change. Change that you yourself knew a little too well. In a moment of weakness, though you would like to think it was bravery, you made a tentative proposal, a tiny thin straw to grasp:

“I wholly understand how it must be for you, Mister Park. Which is why I would strongly recommend we meet again. Not for a request or escalation, but for a chat.”

“...a chat? You cannot be serious…” he uttered, head slipping into his hands once more, fingers running through long tresses, eyebrows furrowed.

“I am perfectly serious. Aside from human investigation and data management we do offer other types of services and support, considering our line of work,” while you were trying to be compassionate, the words would not twist themselves, choosing to remain in strict lines and scenarios, as though you were reading from a pre-prepared script. Thankfully, Seonghwa did not seem to mind, far too consumed by grief that you knew would pass eventually.

“And what would that be?”

“Like I said, a chat. Or many chats, depending on what feels most comfortable for you.”

“Are you saying you… are therapists?”

“Thoroughly trained and fully licensed.”

“I will be honest, that is quite impressive. I never knew that about the NSRO,” the hint of amusement was all you needed to know that he was climbing upwards, closer and closer to regaining at least some stability.

“The centre of our business and operations is people.”

“I figured.”

“Then, if this is of interest to you, would you be able to tell me the times you are available or prefer?”

“And about payment-”

“Government service.”

“Oh. Okay fair.”

“Then? Mister Park?” you tilted your head, eyeing the man. While his present demeanour was far from threatening - a quality which you had attributed to him following earlier outbursts, he was not quite a picture of comfort. A little dishevelled here and there, top a little crumpled. Many details reminiscent of a picture hanging on a wall being ever so slightly tilted.

“I have a concert in two days… then a festival next week… oh but that’s later so no trouble…” he was mumbling to himself as he recalled his schedule. It was awe inspiring to see his emotionality dissipate as soon as he talked about work. Your prior worries of how he would handle his career after being declared a Lone Soul disappeared rapidly, and you clicked on your calendar for Monday, feeling Seonghwa would be one unlikely to stall.

“Monday? Hm… four? PM? I have a couple of schedules in the morning but should be free then.”

“Four it is. Fantastic, well, Mister Park, I just booked the appointment for our chat, and the details should have automatically been sent to you via email. You will receive a text message reminder the day before, but should there be any other concerns do not hesitate to contact us.”

“Well I would assume I would be wanting to contact you, rather than the whole Office?” slowly, Seonghwa stood up, giving you one last tired smile.

“Of course. The email would be from me, and my official contact details would be in the signature. Anything else I can assist with?” While professionalism was preventing you from rushing the singer out of the office, your head was already drumming out an incessant, painful beat; it genuinely was far too early in the morning, and you were forced to feel far too many things. 

“Thank you,” the words were quiet, but genuine, and most certainly took you by surprise, “thank you for not leaving me alone.” The morning sunlight seeped into your office, casting a glow over his form. Tall, lean, disposition so familiar to you.

“Not at all. Good luck for the concert, and see you Monday.”

“See you Monday.”

He turned to leave your office, and as soon as the mutely coloured door clicked shut you closed his records, switching to massaging your temples. With one swift turn you were staring out of the windows behind you, wondering if the otherwise traditionally pleasant day appeared different to Seonghwa too. An artist, a dreamer, a lover. A couple of minutes passed, and you noticed him appearing out of the building and ambling across the concrete tiled yard. Another Lone Soul.

He would have been a great soulmate, you concluded, and with a sigh, rose to trudge to the shared kitchen for a cup of something mediocre, wondering if you had been like him when you discovered your own identical fate. No, no you hadn’t been. Passing a few posters that lined the corridors of the NSRO, you chuckled. No, you were not ambitious enough to dedicate yourself to what was essentially fuelled by love. Instead, you looked at the careers page of this exact place. In a few swift clicks, you had applied. In a few numb weeks, you had been interviewed and tested. In a few monotone months, you were no longer a Lone Soul, but a faceless, nameless entity that dissolved in the grey walls, unaffected, unobserved.

It was impossible to tell how many Mondays had passed. Even when Seonghwa decided to stop seeing you for ‘official’ chats, your meetings never exactly stopped, him having made it a habit to find you after your strenuous work hours and his own untameable scheduling. Quiet strolls, occasional bursts of conversation. A stop at a vending machine for beverages here and there. Nothing demanding on either of you. Except perhaps the fact that you decided to take the long way home on Mondays. But that was on you. And you did not mind. And neither did he mind nor care, apparently, considering how his frequent outings could always turn into a scandal, but somehow, it never turned out to be so. Maybe society had finally changed and people learned how to mind their own business, or maybe you really were faceless. At least one person could see you.

While Seonghwa had been surprised to find out that you, too, were a Lone Soul, you could see an immediate change in his approaches. A more relaxed, trusting manner and a sweeter resolve, he had transformed from a man mourning his future to a man who found a kindred spirit and in turn, rediscovered hope. You noted that a glimmer in his eyes did suit him best. He was inquisitive: almost in every session prior to their end he asked about what it was like to be a Lone Soul in the long term, and he quickly familiarised himself with all the relevant vocabulary that floated in the community’s shared lexicon. In part because it was your job and in part because you had been touched by his sense of self that was blooming anew, you told him all and then some. Of course, it was endearing how even though he was perfectly away that he would not experience that standard run of the mill romance nor that exhilarating, somewhat spiritual connection with another, he was still adamant on being a believer in romance.

Romance that went beyond love. Romance could be a good cup of tea drunk on a cool autumn day in one’s favourite cafe. It could be a particularly deep and vulnerable conversation with someone close that brought clarity. It could be a soothing melody trickling into the ears after drowning in cacophonous cityscapes. To Seonghwa, romance was everywhere regardless of whether one had a soulmate or not. To you it was bewildering, interesting, but a little outrageous. You would have agreed to disagree on this, not being one to enjoy dwelling in general, but there was one other thing that set Seonghwa apart from many you knew. He wholeheartedly saw a face in your fog, and the floating somnolence you had been for a number of years now was being kept on its toes, trying to collect all the pieces of yourself you intentionally scattered. You began to realise that sometimes, it might be important to know who you were. 

You had to start simple. You were you, an employee in the NSRO specialising in Lone Souls, from management of the Registry, to reporting and analysis, to direct support in re-identification as a Lone Soul. That much was clear, and that much you could recite to anyone and anytime. Now for other things… you were walking in a park, it was evening, the air was turning cooler and cooler. The city did not sleep, but the buildings appeared fatigued and worn down, much like yourself after a long day. No wonder this was your favourite part of this metropolis. Seonghwa would scold you for giving such vague descriptions and relying on your environment to define you. You looked off to the side to glance at the man himself who was huddling in a jacket - new, at least to you.

You did not like much, but tolerated most things. You tolerated how Seonghwa would debate with you, in fact you could dare say that you indulged in these interactions. You tolerated how he looked at you - kind dark brown eyes, stellar grin, all the attention in the world directed right at you. There was never a doubt that he was listening, caring, remembering. Now that you thought about it, again, you were not saying much about yourself, all of your mentioned tolerances leading back to your companion. Before you could drift any further into your musings, a sudden hum of a tune that you swore you knew from somewhere jolted you back into reality.

“Oh! Look over there?” Following Seonghwa’s hand, you spotted the source of the sound, “beautiful rendition of ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love’, don’t you think?” You shrugged, simply satisfied with the fact that you were right in your suspicions that the song was indeed one you had heard before.

You followed Seonghwa as he trailed to the small crowd that gathered around the musician. Gracefully the saxophone turned into a live creature, entrancing the audience and inspiring the capable hearts. Blankly, you watched the flying fingertips that faded into shining metal and falling leaves. 

“Isn’t it romantic?” Seonghwa joked, his tone turning playful. 

“I… suppose? It might be?”

“Then tell me what you think of it, I’d love to know,” you turned to find him studying you, softly gleaming. The fairy lights strung up on the surrounding trees made him appear even more graceful than usual, if that was even possible. You could not help but return his blissful amiability with a quick smile of your own, and your best efforts to answer.

“Well… I think his technique is good. And many people are stopping, which suggests that he is objectively good and knows how to engage the audience.”

“Ooh, that’s true. Very interesting. What else?”

“I think that he picked a good time to perform. The park was recently redecorated and the weather this evening is clear. Plenty of walkers. Probably good business.”

“True, true…” he trailed off, seemingly deep in thought. You wonder if your observations were sufficient, “I really do love how you think.”

“What do you mean? Was that sarcastic?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Not at all. Never will be. It is just so unlike how I approach things usually, so I truly marvel at how you do it. In your great way,” not a hint of malice. Only that same curiosity. Those same eyes that saw you. Better than you saw yourself. 

That was what it was - the idea finally came to you. You were blunt, preferred all things to be direct, and any empathy was given similar to how one would prescribe medication. Clinical. With an analytical mind you had no trouble scrutinising individuals through numbers, but then could not ‘count’ on someone, that same analytical and hyper-logical brain preventing you from doing so. You felt for people, you could relate to people, you could guess their emotions, but remained the observer. That was your definition. That was who you were. 

“And um… how do you see it?” Seonghwa nodded at your question, and began.

“I see a soundtrack to many beginnings, middles and endings. I see the musical notes twirling in a waltz with the autumn leaves, the dance floor illuminated by the many fairy lights. I see each mind with their own story to this song, some reliving memories and others crafting a magnificent illusion. Beyond the park, I see residents in those apartment buildings over there,” he pointed at a couple of windows that were illuminated still, and were facing the park, “them looking out at the saxophonist wistfully, mystified by how he knew that this was exactly what they needed to dispel concerns of the earlier hours in the day.”

You two continued to journey on until you made it to a nearby bench, and decided to rest. Sat side by side, arm to arm, you observed the ebbs and flows of other friends, families, lovers who flocked to the musician, only to be swept away by the night and to be replaced by another. 

“Isn’t what you just said all made up?” cautious, you queried.

“Might be, but to me, it is romance. Or rather, the idea of romanticising. I am quite fond of seeing what I cannot physically see, and then inventing more and more on top of it until we have a complete tale.”

“No wonder your songs are such major hits.”

“Oh you flatter me.”

“No, no, you…this, you capture all of this so prettily. Few can.”

“Much like yourself.”

“I do not-”

“Just differently.”

“To you, perhaps, but not to many.”

“What makes you so sure?” he was countering you rapidly.

“Enough Lone Soul meetups. Most of us are like how I am.” pointing at yourself, you emphasised the point. 

“Hm, I should start going to them if there are so many cool personalities there.”

A sharp exhale the upwards twitch was all you could muster before falling completely silent, wanting to pretend that you could see the surroundings like how Seonghwa could. They remained dull and uniform, but the notion that there was this certain someone who, thanks to their past and present, could perceive so beautifully and had the unfathomable kindness to share his interpretations with you was what you were grateful for. Through his eyes, you could see what was around you. Through his eyes, you could finally see yourself. Through his heart, you could be understood.

“Thank you,” your voice barely a murmur, “thank you for not leaving me alone.”

🏢 perma-taglist: @shakalakaboomboo @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @innsomniacshinestar @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @maddkitt @ren-junwrld @marsstarxhwa @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @northerngalxy @my-loves-my-life @http-gyu

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[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did - The Other Woman [SNEAK PEEK]

Oh, and there was a woman.

WORD COUNT | 3.5k (and it's only a sneak peek ffs)

Author's Note | Hello everyone! So I am working on a relatively short 10k word chapter that is centred around Alys and Aemond from this story. How they came to be, what it is that they talk about... just the general progression of their relationship.

What follows is the first scene of that interlude chapter. The full thing should be up soon, following which I'll begin the final chapter. You'll see mentions, the ghost of Wylde - but for obvious reasons, Alysmond is the star of the next update.

Be warned. I see that many don't take well to the Alys and Aemond pairing - I will not appreciate any hate being thrown towards me or the story. There's always a civil way to say things. The strong reactions to their pairing is what kept me away from continuing it immediately in the first place, but mama didn't raise a quitter so here we are lmao

MORE THAN A YEAR AGO - AEMOND POV

"Of course I'm here. It’s summer vacation, and it’s only one of the biggest art gallery openings in the country," Wylde said with a grin. He was still new to Oldtown, while she was heading into her final year of school at King’s Landing—but they both knew where they belonged in the world. He would eventually take his place at the top, running one of the oldest commercial institutions in the realm. She would become a prominent socialite, wielding her family’s art connections with pride and skill, possibly on the arm of one of the men in this room.

For a fleeting moment back home, he had wished that man would be him. But that had passed—or so he liked to believe.

"Hm."

"Anyway, I have to make my rounds, shake hands," she sighed, as if already exhausted by the thought. "Most of them will try to get to my father through me, hoping for a chance at our family’s paintings for their displays." She paused, her expression softening. "My plane to King’s Landing leaves soon after, so I might not catch you to say goodbye, okay?"

She leaned in on the tips of her toes, instinctively brushing her lips against his cheek, a gesture so familiar it felt natural. His skin warmed under her touch as he held onto her for a moment, before letting her go and watching her slip into the crowd.

"It was nice to see you, Aemond," she said, giving him one last smile before she disappeared among the other guests.

He watched as the crowd welcomed her with open arms. And why wouldn’t they?

Aemond stood quietly near the back of the gallery, his head turned as he swirled his wine and pretended to be interested in the pieces around him. But his focus had already drifted.

From across the room, she had become the only thing he could think about.

She was magnetic in a way that defied simple description. It wasn’t just her beauty, though he could hardly deny that. There was something in the way she moved - fluid, deliberate, as if every gesture, every glance, was part of a conversation only she knew how to conduct. Aemond watched as she floated through the crowd with an easy grace, her black dress brushing the tops of her heels - not revealing, but just enough. 

But it wasn’t her appearance that intrigued him the most. It was her detachment. The way she seemed to occupy the room and yet remain entirely separate from it. Like she knew she was better than the herd. How can she possibly not? He knew it, and he’d barely seen her for ten minutes.

He studied her carefully, trying to decode the way she interacted with her surroundings. The other guests barely held her interest, even her husband - Brynden Rivers, the artist on feature - who was basking in the attention of his admirers, seemed peripheral to her thoughts. She would smile and nod at the right moments, offering polite responses when addressed, but her eyes - sharp, dark, endlessly curious - always strayed back to the art. It was as though she were in search of something she hadn’t quite found, or perhaps she was testing the art itself, waiting to see if it would reveal anything worth caring about.

He found himself wondering what she saw. What was it that drew her attention so intensely? Was she, like him, disillusioned by the pageantry of it all? Or was she simply beyond it, a part of a world he hadn’t yet glimpsed?

Aemond’s eyes lingered on her, captivated by her subtle confidence. He could tell she knew he was watching - how could she not? And yet, she gave no indication that she minded. Instead, there was a knowingness in her movements, a quiet acknowledgment of his gaze that sent a strange thrill through him.

Almost as if she moved just for him.

As she turned from the group around her to admire one of the larger paintings, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his. It was fleeting, just a flicker of recognition, but the brief moment stretched out in Aemond’s mind. She didn’t look away immediately, nor did she smile - there was something almost challenging in her gaze, as though she were testing him, daring him to keep watching.

And he did.

Their eyes met again several times as the night wore on, each moment charged with tension that had heat penetrating him through his black turtleneck. He couldn’t place it - this feeling that they were circling each other from opposite ends of the room. They had not spoken a word, yet it felt as though they were in conversation, their glances exchanging ideas, questions, provocations. What was she thinking? Did she feel this pull too, or was she simply toying with him, amused by the attention of a younger man?

She leaned in to whisper something to her husband, her lips barely moving, and Aemond felt an unexpected surge of jealousy - irrational, yes, but undeniable. She was so at ease, so unattainable, yet there was something in the way she kept looking at him, as if she wanted him to see her just as much as he wanted to understand her.

He’d never, in his entire life, felt like this before.

Their eyes locked again, and this time her lips curved into the faintest smile, not of politeness or pretense, but of acknowledgment. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Aemond, for all his careful control, felt the thrill of the chase. It wasn’t just desire - though there was plenty of that - it was the curiosity that gripped him. Who was she? What did she want from this night, from this life? And why did it feel like, in this crowded room, they were the only two people who mattered?

There was a moment when their gaze lingered just a little longer than before, the silence between them almost deafening, despite the buzz of conversation around them. Aemond felt something stir deep within him, a strange excitement, as though this unspoken challenge had a life of its own. What was he to her? Just another man in the gallery, or had she singled him out the way he had her?

It wasn’t until she broke the connection - turning back to the painting in front of her - that he realized he had been holding his breath.

Aemond had been standing in the corner of the gallery, nursing a drink that had long gone flat. His eyes drifted back to her, stealing glances, trying to untangle the mystery she presented without making it too obvious. He couldn't quite understand why she fascinated him so much, but her presence demanded his attention.

Then, it happened.

She moved.

At first, he thought she was simply changing her position to get a better view of a painting, but when their eyes met across the room for the third time that evening, something shifted. She wasn't just glancing anymore - she was walking toward him.

Aemond’s heart rate spiked. He forced himself to remain calm, to not show his surprise, but he could hardly believe she was coming up to him. The crowd of art enthusiasts seemed to blur, and the distant hum of voices faded into nothingness as she neared. He couldn't help but track every step she took, as though each one was part of a dance he hadn’t learned yet.

And then she was there, standing in front of him. Up close, she was even more striking than he had imagined - her features sharp and graceful, with an aura of confidence that was almost magnetic. She had an air of quiet authority, but not in the way the old-money elite around them carried themselves. Hers was different, more subtle, more powerful.

“Aemond Targaryen,” she said, her voice smooth and knowing, as though they were already well acquainted.

He blinked, still processing the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “You know me,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly a question. It made sense - he was a Targaryen after all, but still, something about her saying his name with such ease unnerved him.

“To no one's surprise, yes.” She smiled, the corners of her lips curling up in a way that was almost teasing. “You didn’t think I’d notice the only one in this room who's barely looked at the art?”

The comment threw him for a moment, but then, intrigued, he leaned in slightly. “A room full of some of the finest art, and yet you’ve been watching me,” he pointed out. 

Did she notice him before, the same way he’s noticed her?

For a moment, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Alys Rivers,” she began, letting the name roll off her tongue slowly, as if inviting him to puzzle it out.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. "Rivers..." he muttered, almost to himself, trying to jog his memory. The name wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but he couldn’t quite place it. And then it came to him - he hadn’t heard that surname in relation to anyone important in his world. 

“Strong,” she corrected softly, the name falling like a small bomb between them. “My maiden name is Strong.”

Aemond’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. Strong. Of course. Lionel Strong, the headmaster of the school he attended for years. Harwin Strong, whose presence in Rhaenyra’s life had always been whispered about, and whose children were a constant point of rumor and speculation.

She is a sister to them both. How had he not known of her all this time?

His gaze snapped back to her face, searching for any sign that might have connected her to that family before, but there was nothing immediately obvious. “Lionel Strong...” he said aloud, piecing it together, more for himself than for her benefit.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Lionel is my half-brother. Harwin, too.”

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it sink in. It was like a secret door had been unlocked, revealing more about her than he ever could’ve guessed. She had roots in his world, in his life, that had been there all along, just hidden beneath the surface.

Alys smirked, clearly enjoying the way his mind raced to catch up. "Surprised?"

“More than I’d like to admit,” he replied, a slow smile pulling at his lips as he found himself even more intrigued than before.

Aemond leaned back slightly, still processing everything. His mind, usually so sharp and analytical, felt slower than usual in the presence of Alys Rivers - or Strong, as she had just revealed. But as much as her family ties surprised him, it didn’t change the allure she carried. She was still an enigma, now with even more layers to uncover.

Alys shifted her gaze to the painting nearest them - a sprawling canvas of abstract forms, colors bleeding into one another in what he deduces as an intentional mess. “So, what do you think of the work?” she asked casually, her eyes tracing the chaotic lines as if she already knew exactly what he was going to say.

He tilted his head, not willing to offer anything up too quickly. “It’s… bold.”

“Bold,” she repeated, her lips quivering. “That’s a safe assessment.”

“I suppose it is,” he conceded, allowing himself a small smile. “But it’s honest. What about you? You seem like someone with stronger opinions on art.”

“I do,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest as she took in the piece again. “This one... it’s my husband’s.”

Her words hung in the air, and Aemond couldn’t stop the faint sting of jealousy that crept into his chest at the way she said ‘husband’ - with a sense of familiarity that only came from many years of being tied together. He glanced back at the painting, trying to find some reflection of the man behind it.

“Your husband’s quite the artist,” he said, keeping his tone even, but his interest was undeniable.

Alys nodded, her gaze still on the painting. “Yes, he is. Brynden is one of the best, I suppose, but you don’t need me to tell you that. Everyone else here already has.” There was something dismissive in her voice, a casual indifference that caught Aemond off guard.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what do you think of his work?”

Alys tilted her head and gave a half-smile, as though considering the question for the first time. “It’s... fine. I appreciate what he’s trying to say, but it doesn’t speak to me in the way art should.” She paused, then turned to him, her dark eyes finding him with a sharpness that left him momentarily breathless. “But you already guessed that, didn’t you?”

Aemond smirked, amused by how easily she read him. “It’s a little obvious. The way you talk about him, about his work… It’s almost as if you’re disconnected from it.”

She met his gaze, unflinching, her smile growing. “You’re observant, aren’t you? That must be exhausting.”

He chuckled softly, unable to help himself. “I’ve been told as much.” There was something thrilling about it - this mutual understanding, this wordless challenge.

“So,” he said, redirecting the conversation with purpose, “if your husband’s work doesn’t speak to you, what does? What kind of art do you appreciate?”

Alys turned away from the painting, her attention fully on him now. “The kind that demands something of me. Something that won’t let me look away. I want to be moved, even unsettled. The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered, intrigued. “You mean the kind that unsettles you in the same way a person can?”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Exactly. Sometimes, the most impactful art is the kind that forces you to confront things you’ve been avoiding. It’s messy, uncomfortable, but unforgettable.”

He found himself nodding in agreement, feeling the conversation dip. “I suppose that’s why art and history are so closely linked. Both make you confront uncomfortable truths. The more you understand the world, the more you realize how fragile everything is.”

She sighed softly, as though she’d found someone who shared her exact thoughts. “Yes, and that fragility - that’s where the beauty lies. When you can’t control it. And when it’s gone, you’re left wondering why you didn’t appreciate it enough.”

They weren’t just talking about art anymore, and both of them knew it.

“And history,” she continued, her voice softer now, “is like the ultimate piece of art, isn’t it? Layered and complex, full of contradictions. No matter how much you study it, there’s always something more to uncover.”

Aemond nodded, his gaze intense. “It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent. Not power, not legacy, not even love.”

The way he said it, the quiet certainty in his voice, made Alys pause. She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something behind his words. “You’re quite young. Do you really believe that?” she asked, her tone challenging, though her smile remained.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “Everything has its limits.”

As their conversation deepened, they moved through the gallery, eventually stopping in front of a painting that caught Alys’s attention. The piece was striking - two figures, intertwined in an abstract embrace, their forms blurring at the edges, as if they were dissolving into one another. The colors were bold, almost chaotic, bleeding into one another in a way that suggested both unity and dissolution.

Alys tilted her head, her lips curving into a thoughtful smile. “What do you make of this one?”

Aemond studied the painting, the mingling figures, the way their outlines seemed to waver as if they could hardly contain themselves within the frame. It was both intimate and unsettling, a reflection of connection and the inevitable loss that comes with it.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, voice measured. “There’s something about the way they’re almost… becoming each other. But it’s not peaceful, is it? It’s like they’re losing themselves in the process.”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the canvas. “It’s about boundaries, I think. How much of yourself are you willing to give before you start losing pieces of who you are?”

Aemond glanced at her, sensing the weight behind her words. “Isn’t that what love does, in a way? It strips you down, forces you to let go of your boundaries until you’re not sure where you end and the other person begins.”

Alys met his gaze, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “But that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Giving up so much of yourself. Maybe that’s why so many people cling to the idea of monogamy - one person, one connection, to keep things simple. Less risk.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you think monogamy keeps things simple?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not at all. Monogamy is just another way of complicating things, if you ask me. The idea that one person can meet all your needs… it feels like an illusion.”

He considered her words, watching her closely as she turned back to the painting. “You don't have much of an opinion for loyalty in your connections?”

Alys shrugged, her smile a little mischievous. “I believe in connection. But I also believe in freedom. Sometimes, those things don’t go hand in hand.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, his mind swirling with the implications of her words. “Is that why you don’t believe in monogamy?”

She didn’t answer right away, instead turning to look at him with that same sly, knowing smile. “I didn’t say that - I can’t, given that I am married. But I don’t think it’s the only way to live.”

Aemond chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I think monogamy works for some people. But for others... perhaps it’s just another form of control.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her gaze locking with his, challenging him again. “Do you crave control, Aemond?”

He didn’t answer right away, but the intensity of her gaze made his heart race. “I think we all do, in some way. It’s human nature.”

Alys took a step closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But sometimes, the most exhilarating moments come when you let go of control. When you surrender to something - or someone - you can’t predict.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he felt the air between them grow charged. The flirtation between them had evolved into something far more potent, far more dangerous.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, his voice lower now, the distance between them shrinking.

She didn’t break eye contact, her lips curving slightly. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Aemond glanced around the bustling gallery, the laughter and chatter of art enthusiasts fading into a background hum as his focus narrowed back to Alys. The way her eyes sparkled, the slight tilt of her head, and the intoxicating warmth of her presence drew him in like a moth to flame.

In a bold, instinctive move, he reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Her skin felt warm against his, soft yet somehow grounding, and he marveled at how effortlessly their hands fit together.

Without a word, he began to lead her away from the crowd. They slipped through a doorway and into an empty stairwell. As they stepped into the dim light, Aemond turned to face her fully, their hands still clasped. He felt a rush of exhilaration, the act of holding her hand feeling significant, almost intimate. 

“What now?” she asked, her voice low and playful, her gaze unwavering.

He hesitated, caught in the intensity of the moment, the gravity of her presence. He reached into his trouser pockets for a cigarette and lighter, and soon there was the ashy smell of smoke around them. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to find out.”

The smoke from Aemond’s cigarette curling lazily into the quiet space. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as his mind raced, the sharp taste of nicotine mingling with the tension. He kept his gaze on the blank space ahead, the smoke filling the air around them. She, however, hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He could feel it—the way she watched him, measured him, waiting to see what he would do next. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt charged.

He took one last drag before carelessly flicking the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his boot without a second thought. The small, defiant gesture felt freeing, as though he was stamping out a part of himself—his restraint, his hesitation. He turned to face her again, her gaze steady, her lips slightly parted as if she was waiting for something.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the stairwell ceased to exist. Then, with a low exhale, he stepped closer, his eyes locking with hers. It was a split second of tension before he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, testing the boundaries between them. But the moment her lips parted, the intensity between them flared to life.

Aemond pressed her back against the cold, hard wall, the warmth of her body against his heightening his awareness of every touch, every breath. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding up to cup her face, the other finding her waist, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, his fingers traced the line of her neck, her collarbone, before they slipped lower, teasing the hem of her dress.

She let out a soft gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling—only the smooth, practiced confidence.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as he continued, the rhythm of his fingers drawing soft moans from her lips. He could feel her tightening, her body trembling as she reached the edge. His thumb brushed over her in just the right way, and that was all it took. Alys stifled a cry as she came, her body arching against the wall, and Aemond kissed her again, this time slower, more tender, as if savoring the moment. Her breathing slowly evened out, and Aemond felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. Neither of them spoke. There was no need for words. 

They simply stood there, foreheads pressed together, sharing the stillness as the world outside continued to move without them.

Look forward to your thoughts! (No seriously, say something. I really need to be motivated and that usually happens through fic related discourse haha)

[ninyard]

Oh my, would you mind writing about the date or truth Kevin interview if you want ? I feel like you would nail it

This is literally so silly and not as dramatic as it could be but I was picturing it a little like this; Kevin, the interviewer, the researcher and his publicist/manager/agent or whatever have already had a conversation about which questions are totally off limits - they can’t ask about the perfect court, or Riko. They can’t ask about the Ravens, and a couple other things. They clear a few that are going to be bait questions - ones he’s not going to answer, but will allow them to ask for viewership and engagement’s sake.

It’s an interviewer Kevin clicks quite well with, not a completely obligatory interview on a long and exhausting press run, but a half-relief of a pit stop in between the other obligations. It’s for a late night talk show, of some sort, one that’s known for showing the funnier side of celebrities because the host is so good at their job. So the rehearsals go fine, the audience fill into their seats, and Kevin is backstage with hair and makeup.

“Did they tell you what’s in the glasses?” He asks, the makeup artist touching him up with some powder on his forehead.

His publicist shakes her head. “Only that they’re gross. How’s your stomach?”

Kevin knows it’s likely he’ll get sick if there’s anything texturally disgusting put in front of him - he can handle most of the typically gross foods, but anything liquidy and unexpectedly chunky and he’s done for.

He gets his time warnings from the different runners and then he’s off to the left of the stage, and the host is introducing him with far too much flattery like he’s a real superstar - “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s give a warm welcome to the Son of Exy, Kevin Day!”

Kevin steps onto the stage with that shining bright smile and a hand in the air, eyes on the crowd as if he’s waving at anyone in particular. The crowd goes wild.

The initial nterview is mostly boring press stuff - how’s the season? Excited for the future? Heard you got signed back on to the National Team this year, how does that feel? How are the Foxes? Tell us what’s in store for you next.

Then the host introduces the game section, and he’s brought over to a round table with a lazy Susan in the centre and a number of covered dishes along the edge.

“Have you ever played our little game of Truth or Drink before? Because I don’t think you have.” The host smiles as they sit down across from him, cards of questions in their hands.

“If I say I have, does that mean I don’t have to do it?” He looks out towards the audience like they can save him, playing up to the cameras around him. The crowd laugh like he’s the funniest person they’ve ever witnessed. It helps that the floor manager encourages them from the stage floor.

“So here’s how it goes, we spin our little table here and you’ll end up with a drink or a snack in front of you,” The host explains. The audience know there’s more to it than that. “I’ll ask you a question, and you have a choice - you can answer that question, Kevin, or you can have whatever is on that plate in front of you. Got it?”

“Sounds easy to me,” Kevin nods and then purses his lips as if he doesn’t know what he’s signed up for. “Maybe too easy.”

“Definitely too easy,” The host agrees, and spins the table until a dish stops in front of Kevin. “So why don’t you lift up that cover there and tell us what’s in front of you?”

Kevin lifts the chrome covering - it’s a small shot glass of some thick white substance. It looks like mayonnaise, and then he lifts the identifying card to read it; It’s a shot glass full of pure mayo. Easy enough.

“Not a good start,” he holds up the card so the cameras can find it and frowns. “But something tells me it’s not the worst.”

“Who’s to say?” The crowd are prompted to laugh. “So, first question, we know that you were the person who made the decision to sign Neil Josten to the Foxes last year. Did you know who he was when you signed him?”

The crowd ooh at the question and Kevin feels his heart stutter for just a second. Were they supposed to mark Neil as a no-go topic? Did they forget? He laughs instead, and places the cover next to the shot glass.

“No, no, I didn’t.” He shakes his head, and shrugs his shoulders. “Unfortunately it didn’t come up on his background check.” He mocks pulling on his collar like the whole Neil situation is a yikes topic. The words leave his mouth through a false awkward smile and the audience eat it up with laughter and applause.

“Would you have signed him if you knew?” The host asks, and Kevin points a finger at them in mock warning.

“Isn’t that a second question?” The crowd love it. He knows how to work an interview, having fun with an audience that love even the simplest of jokes.

“Okay, okay, playing by the rules, I see,” The host turns the table until another covered dish lands in front of Kevin. “And our next dish is…”

Another shot glass. This time full of cold baked beans. Kevin grimaces as he inspects the glass. “I’m beginning to think this interview was a bad idea...” He laughs.

“Hey, no take backs!” The host flips their stack of cards to a question Kevin knows is one he’s not supposed to answer. Gross, he thinks, but it’s not the worst thing on the table - that, he’s sure of. “Our next question tonight, is one I’m personally interested in…” The host riles up the audiences curiosity. They point to his cheek. “Kevin, what’s the real meaning behind the Queen piece?”

It’s an obvious answer - everyone knows it’s because Riko was the so-called King of Exy, but saying that out loud would just confirm it, and it’d be the first time he’d have said it on record. People have been itching for him to confirm it since he’d had the number covered up, but he’d refused to, in order to avoid the stirring up of unnecessary drama. It was a 75% harmless question, but still good enough to get some speculation and buzz online about the show and Kevin’s interview.

“And if I say it’s my favourite chess piece, can we move on?” Kevin pokes fun at the question with half a grimace, half a smile. The host laughs and covers their face with the cards.

“No, no, we’re looking for the real reason Kevin,” They raise their eyebrows and use the cards to point at the glass in front of him. “Or you can always take a drink.”

Kevin pretends to hesitate before he holds his nose and knocks back half of the shot. The gag he can’t hold back isn’t quite pretend, but he covers his mouth to swallow, before shaking his head. “That’s… disgusting.”

“It’s protein?” The host offers.

“Not enough to be worth it.” He retorts, and the audience laughs again. He washes it down with the glass of water that had been left by his side. He shakes his head again before clearing his throat. “Next one, please.”

The same as before, a spin of the table, and suddenly Kevin is sat in front of some other gross concoction, and a supposedly online-drama inspired question is asked. It’s something he doesn’t mind answering, and so he does. The game moves forward; blended fish guts. The audience grimaces with him. There’s no way he’s drinking that. There’s absolutely no way.

“This is torture,” he holds back a retch and tries not to smell the wafting fishy odour from the awful looking drink. “I think you should be put in prison for this.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” the host laughs. They line up their cards by tapping them on the table. “Okay, are you ready for this one?”

“Go easy on me,” Kevin turns away from the glass to stop himself from looking at it. “I won’t ever come back.”

“I don’t know…” They tease. “So instead of drinking that delicious drink, Kevin, why don’t you tell us how you really broke your hand?”

The question is out before anyone can stop it. Not that they would’ve been able to, anyway, but he could’ve sworn he’d put that on a list of do-not-asks. But maybe he had been stupid enough to believe that he’d been back in the public eye long enough after all that controversy that they wouldn’t care anymore. He let the crowd drink in the question as his careful-not-to-falter eyes caught his publicist standing off the side of the stage. He watches her turn to a crew member with pure rage on her face.

Kevin hides his head between his legs in an over-dramatic reaction, as the audience continue to go wild for much longer than necessary. He pretends to laugh as he catches his breath and considers if there is any possibly way out of this one. He could lie, maybe, but he doesn’t have anything on the tip of his tongue that would be good enough. It’s only likely to get him in far more trouble than it’s worth, anyway, if such a lie were to start spiralling.

“Fish guts?!” He swallows down his beating heart and exclaims. “That’s the question you ask when I have fish guts in front of me?!”

He’s certain he can see fear flash over the hosts face as they laugh. They know this is an off-limits question, even if they hadn’t been told.

“I’ll go easy on you,” they hold out their hands, and the crowd boo as they’re dying for the answer. “You don’t have to drink the whole thing. Or you can answer the question…” they push.

Kevin looks at the grey pink liquid. This wasn’t in his PR training. But not once does his million dollar smile fall from his lips, not once does his face give anything away. Smile, laugh, give the audience what they want. They love you. Remind them why.

He lifts the glass to smell it. A bad idea, in retrospect, as he’s retching before it’s barely an inch or two off the table. For a moment he half considers telling the truth, but that is never a serious option. He hopes the Moriyama’s can see his dedication, that these are the lines he’s willing to cross to keep their little secret.

“I miss when these shows were boring,” Kevin beats a hand on the table, and the crowd slows down, save for a few still pushing for him to answer the question. “They didn’t have this kind of thing on Larry King.”

He gets a laugh for that one. He tries to lift the glass once more and retches again. The host covers their face again to laugh, but Kevin can see the fear beneath branded card stock.

“Remind me never to come back here again,” The audience erupts as the glass reaches his lips, and as quick as its there, its in the trash bin that the production team has left beside him. He can’t help but vomit up a mixture baked beans, water, and whatever else sat in his stomach. Dedication and loyalty, he reminds himself, as he thinks of the clips that are going to surface online after this one.

The interviewer is quick to wrap up the segment, thanking a now pale Kevin for his appearance, and the call is made that the show is at commercials. On-Air and Mic-Live lights switch off, but Kevin doesn’t let his smile fall until he’s out of view of the crowd who applaud him off the stage well into the ads. He barely comprehends the words his publicist is saying to him as he is handed some flavoured carbonated drink. It doesn’t matter that it’s against his rules of things to drink, he chugs half of the bottle down anyway. It doesn’t do much anyway; He’s sure he’s going to be tasting fish for weeks.

Note, he thinks, pushing open the door for his private dressing room. There’s nobody there, and he heads straight to the toilet to retch again.

Add how I broke my hand to the list of things that interviewers are NOT allowed to ask about.

[engeorged]

Awakenings I

A series of short stories describing someone’s gainer or feeder awakening. 7 days and 7 stories. Reblog and share and if you hear yourself in them let me know!!

The Sculptor

Oliver had always prided himself on his artistic vision. A misunderstood, bohemian soul, he spent his days in his cluttered studio, surrounded by half-finished sculptures, the smell of clay and paint always in the air. His life was a blend of carefree creativity and chaotic energy, reflected in his abstract sculptures—pieces that were bold, unconventional, and, unfortunately, not selling.

For a while, Oliver managed to scrape by, doing odd jobs and selling the occasional piece. But as months went on, it became clear that his dream of being entirely self-sufficient through his art alone was slipping away. The reality was harsh—his abstract works weren’t drawing in buyers, and bills were piling up. Reluctantly, he turned to something he’d never wanted to do: sculpting people for money.

Etsy became his lifeline. Oliver’s profile offered custom sculptures—tasteful, realistic, but still with that touch of his artistic flair. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but the commissions paid the rent. The clients came and went, each one wanting a perfect replica of themselves or a loved one. But nearly all of them had the same request: “Make me look a little better,” they’d say. A trimmer waist here, more defined muscles there. Everyone wanted an idealised version of themselves, a polished image they could display with pride.

Oliver found it frustrating, even soul-crushing at times. He longed to sculpt what was real, what was true, not some airbrushed fantasy.

Then Ethan walked in.

Ethan was different from Oliver’s usual clients. He was in his early thirties, broad-shouldered and fit, but with a small but rounded belly that was impossible to miss. As Ethan stepped into the studio, Oliver noticed how the fabric of his shirt stretched slightly over the curve of his stomach, how it moved subtly as he breathed.

Ethan had seen Oliver’s ad and wanted a sculpture of himself—“as I am now,” he said with a laugh, patting his belly. Oliver was taken aback; here was someone who didn’t want to be trimmed or perfected, but simply wanted to be captured as he was, without shame or pretence. The request was so unusual, so refreshing, that Oliver agreed almost immediately.

They began the process right away. Ethan stood shirtless in the centre of the studio, the afternoon light streaming in through the large windows, casting shadows over the soft curves of his body. Oliver approached the block of clay, hands ready, and began to mould. His fingers pressed into the cool, pliable material, shaping and sculpting, bringing Ethan’s body to life in the clay.

As Oliver’s hands moved over the clay, something strange began to happen. He found himself drawn to the curve of Ethan’s belly, the way it gently protruded, firm yet soft. His fingers lingered there longer than necessary, shaping and reshaping the roundness with a careful touch. The more he worked, the more he found himself fascinated by it.

Days passed, and Oliver found himself looking forward to Ethan’s sessions. The casual conversations they shared were pleasant, but Oliver’s mind was increasingly preoccupied with his body, with the way it filled out Ethan’s frame in such a natural, almost mesmerising way. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt something stirring inside him—a kind of attraction he hadn’t anticipated, an awakening of desires he’d never explored before.

It wasn’t just the way Ethan looked, though that was part of it. It was how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, how he embraced his body as it was. This confidence, this ease, captivated Oliver, and as he sculpted, he found himself slowing down the sculpting to spend more time with him.

One night, unable to sleep, Oliver found himself sneaking down to his studio. The unfinished sculpture stood in the centre, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. Oliver’s eyes were drawn immediately to the belly, the way it jutted out just slightly more than it had in real life.

His hands itched to touch it, to mould it further. He moved closer, his fingers tracing the contours of the clay, feeling the smoothness, the subtle curves. It felt almost forbidden, this desire to make Ethan’s belly bigger, more exaggerated, but Oliver couldn’t resist. There was something intensely satisfying about adding more clay, seeing the belly swell in size under his hands.

He worked in a trance-like state, his breath quickening as the belly grew larger and larger. Each addition of clay brought a new wave of excitement, a thrill that he hadn’t felt in years. This was more than just sculpting—this was discovery, an exploration of something deep within himself that he’d never acknowledged before.

When he finally stepped back to admire his work, the sculpture was different—Ethan’s belly was now much larger, rounder, almost impossibly so. The rest of the figure remained true to life, but the belly had taken on a life of its own, dominating the sculpture in a way that was both surreal and intensely alluring.

Oliver stood there, breathing heavily, his mind racing with thoughts and feelings he couldn’t quite understand. What had he done? And more importantly, why did it feel so right? Why did it feel like he’d finally tapped into something real, something that resonated with him on a level he’d never reached before?

As he stared at the sculpture, the answer began to form in his mind. This wasn’t just about Ethan or his belly. It was about Oliver, about the desires he’d suppressed, the parts of himself he’d never fully explored. Something had awakened in him, a new passion, a new direction for his art and his life.

And as he looked at the oversized, rounded belly on the sculpture, Oliver knew he couldn’t go back to the way things were. This was his truth now, and he was ready to embrace it fully.

For the rest of my stories click here

[ladyeyrewrites]

Feelings Hurled Like Hand Grenades

Read Chapter One

Chapter Two: To Reason With Outrage

Rated M

3,728 words

Tony was ten the last time he saw his brother Tommy, or at least the last time he caught more than a glimpse of his older brother sitting in a pew at the back of their Nonna’s church, or the broad expanse of Tommy’s black-clad back as he hurried from the church trailed by the human embodiment of a golden retriever.

That first sighting of Tommy sitting in the back pew with his mystery friend – boyfriend, according to Mikey – had sparked a series of emotions in Tony.

First, childish hope that his older brother had finally returned to rescue him. But Tony had shaken that hope away. He was almost thirty. He didn’t need rescuing. Didn’t need some prodigal brother sweeping in to save the day. He was doing just fine without Tommy, thank you very much.

Besides, Tommy hadn’t stayed long. He’d arrived right before the service started and left as soon as it ended and Tony hadn’t even gotten to speak to his brother, unlike Mikey. He wasn’t sure if he was jealous of Mikey or not. On the one hand yes, because Mikey got the chance to say whatever it was Mikey wanted to say, but on the other hand what would Tony have even said to Tommy? In the months since the funeral Tony had been running through all sorts of hypothetical conversations he might have had with his oldest brother, running the gamut from tearful reunion to fisticuffs. He wasn’t sure which scenario he would have preferred.

Read more below the cut or on Ao3

The second feeling (or maybe it was the third) had been outrage because how dare Tommy come back after twenty years of silence? How dare he show up for Nonna’s funeral when he hadn’t been there for her disease?

Of course, Tony hadn’t known then that Tommy <em>had</em> been there for Nonna. Had been back in her life for years. Had seen the withering away, the decline, the dreadful, steady, unstoppable encroachment of pain. It was only months later that Mikey called Tony to tell him that Aunt Gina had told Mikey that she’d seen Tommy visiting Nonna at the hospice centre. But Tony hadn’t known any of that at the funeral, so that righteous indignation had burned its way into him unchecked.

He'd tried to check it, of course, to reason with his outrage. To tell himself that Tommy had loved their grandmother and deserved the chance to say goodbye the same as the rest of them. But then a third (fourth?) feeling had sprung out of the depths of his mind: inadequacy.

Why was it now that Tommy came back?

And why come back for the dead?

Wasn’t Tony good enough?

Inadequacy added fuel to his rage.

So, Tony had been almost relieved when, after the service, Mikey had nodded Dad’s direction, a clear if silent instruction that Tony was to head off any attempt of Dad’s to follow after his erstwhile eldest son. If Tony was distracting Dad, it meant he didn’t have to talk to Tommy because if he talked to Tommy, Tony wasn’t sure which emotion he’d be speaking from: joy, rage, or inadequacy. Sure, there were things Tony wanted to say to Tommy. Apologies to be made on both sides. Feelings hurled like hand grenades across enemy lines.

Not that Tommy was an enemy.

Tony had stopped thinking that a long time ago after Dad remarried, and he stopped being Dad’s favourite: a position now reserved for his younger half-sister Simone: the baby of the family. Dad’s little princess.

That’s when everything had started going downhill for Tony. When he’d started getting into fights, shoplifting, getting sent to juvie. When his grades started slipping and neither Mikey nor Tommy were there to take the heat off because Tommy had fucked off to who knew where and Mikey was off at some fancy college going to frat parties and hooking up with any girl who’d have him and drinking his problems away and suddenly Tony was the big brother, and he didn’t know how to do to that and—

“You okay, dude?” asked Kittie, his best friend and one of the other tattoo artists at the studio he worked at. “You’ve been sighing non-stop.”

Tony glanced up from a sketch of a partial sleeve he was working on for a client: a scene from a fantasy tv show he’d never watched. Kittie was wiping down her bench, getting ready for her next customer. She wore her bleached blonde hair in a retro, forties hair style to match her vintage dress. If not for her gauges and the tattoos covering her from chin to ankle, she could’ve walked off the set of a World War II movie.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just not really looking forward to meeting up with my asshole brother this weekend.”

“Isn’t Mikey only an asshole when he’s drinking?” asked Kittie. “He fall off the wagon, again? That’s fast even for him.”

Tony shook his head. “Not that asshole brother.” Mikey seemed to actually be taking his sobriety seriously this time. Which, good for him. Tony hoped it stuck, hoped his brother got to keep visitation rights with his kids. Hoped Mikey got his life back together and found his happy ever after. Their family was broken enough as it was.

“You did not just call Noah an asshole,” said Kittie. “He’s seventeen and a sweetheart.”

“Aren’t all seventeen-year-olds assholes?” Tony asked. “And I don’t mean that brother either.”

Kittie frowned but then her eyes widened under her pierced brows, plucked pencil line thin against the current thick-browed trend. “You mean the army vet?”

Tony nodded.

“The one who abandoned you and Mikey with your dad?” Kittie paused in her wipe down.

“Yup,” said Tony, popping that p-sound as he erased an unwanted line.

“Wow,” said Kittie. “I thought you didn’t know where he was?”

Tony sighed. “He came to Nonna’s funeral,” he said. “Mikey says that Aunt Gina says Tommy’d been visiting Nonna before she died. And then he talked to Aunt Gina after the funeral and Mikey says we should give Tommy another chance. Make amends, that sort of thing. Mikey’s been talking with him on the phone. He wants to try to patch things up.” Though, in Tony’s opinion, it would take a whole lot more than a little duct tape to fix what was broken between the three of them, to fill the mother-shaped hole that gaped at the centre of everything that had gone wrong in their lives.

“If Mikey wants to make amends that’s on him,” said Kittie. “Why’s he got to drag you along on his sobriety journey?”

“I want to go,” Tony said. He was sixty-eight percent sure that was true. “I want to know why he left. Why he never came back.” Though Tony was eighty-five percent sure he knew why Tommy left and never looked back and it had to do with that day that Mikey had woken him up early and packed as much stuff as they could put into their school bags before dragging him onto a bus to the VA hospital. It had to do with the fight Tony had been too little to understand at the time. He still wasn’t fully sure he understood what the fight had been about and why Tommy had kicked them out of his room even though he’d spent nearly twenty years trying to figure it out combing over the memory of that day ad nauseum

2004

“Come on, T, wake up!”

Tony startled awake only to be smacked in the face by the fumes on Mikey’s breath. He flinched back from his sixteen-year-old brother who smelled like Dad did when he got angry.

“It’s okay, T, it’s just me.”

“Mikey?” Tony blinked. It was still dark outside and Mikey hadn’t turned on a light which meant that they were being sneaky. “Is it time for school?” Sometimes they snuck out of the house early so they wouldn’t have to see Dad before he woke up all snarly and mean.

“Nah.” Tony honed in on the sound of Mikey rummaging through Tony’s dresser drawers at the other side of the room they used to share before Tommy left and Mikey took his room. “We’re going to go see Tommy.”

Tony perked up and climbed out of bed. “Really!?” he knew better than to let his excitement raise the volume of his voice. The last time he’d spoken to Tommy, the phone connection had sounded like Tommy was underwater instead of in some desert halfway across the world. And Tony wasn’t good at writing emails, not like Mikey and Aunt Gina.

“Yeah,” said Mikey, slinging a backpack full of Tony’s clothes over his shoulder and grabbing a duffle bag he’d left by the bedroom door. “Get dressed. We have a bus to catch.”

#

Mikey slept most of the bus ride into San Francisco, but Tony couldn’t sleep. They were going to see Tommy! But why hadn’t Tommy come to see them? He’d promised he’d come home when he’d left, hair cut short and stiff green uniform scratching at Tony’s cheek when they’d hugged goodbye.

“Don’t bother coming back,” Dad had yelled as Tommy drove away and maybe that was why they were going to Tommy instead of the other way around. Maybe Tommy didn’t want to see Dad.

Once they got to the city, they switched busses, Mikey using a Map Quest print out he’d gotten at the library to navigate them through San Francisco until they arrived outside a building that was very clearly a hospital.

Tony shivered as he stared up at the characterless concrete building. “Mikey, where are we?” Tony asked. Maybe apple trees really did grow in your stomach if you ate apple seeds, roots twisting and piercing. Maybe that apple core Tony had eaten on a dare at school was the reason why his gut seized in a fist of fear.

“The hospital,” said Mikey.

“Where’s Tommy?” Tony gripped Mikey’s sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, pleading up into Mikey’s eyes that they wouldn’t have to go inside.

“Com on.” Mikey shook Tony’s grip off his sleeve, catching Tony’s hand in his cold sweaty palm, holding tight. Mikey dragged Tony inside the hospital to the information desk.

Tony tried not to think about Mom as he followed Mikey through the sterile halls, through the cloying scent of antiseptic. Tommy had tried to keep Tony away but he’d snuck into Mom’s shared hospital room anyway, lured by the beep of machines keeping her alive until Dad made that awful, unforgivable choice. Tony had stood on tip toes to whisper in Mom’s ear – the only part of her that wasn’t bruised and swollen – “Please wake up.” Only she never did.

Tommy was awake when Mikey opened the door.

The TV was on, volume turned down too low to really make out what the smiling people in paint-covered clothes were wearing. Tommy wasn’t really watching though. He stared blankly at the wall like Tony did whenever Dad used to yell at Mom or Tommy or Mikey now. Like his body was in the room but his brain was somewhere else.

Except Tony always tried to take himself away to nice places like the beach, or the moon, or the Indianapolis racetrack. Tommy didn’t look like he was in a very nice place inside his head. And he didn’t seem to have noticed they were there.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tony clung to Mikey’s jacket, stomach twisting again.

“Hey Tommy!” Mikey shouted.

And Tony knew that jumping out of your skin was an idiom but Tommy got about as close to it as humanly possible before his eyes found focus and he took in the sight of them.

Tony waited for Tommy to smile in that scrunchy-nosed way that always made him feel like everything was going to be okay.

Tommy frowned. “What are you doing here?” he asked, groaning as he sat up further in his hospital bed. The thin blanket on his lap shifted, pulling back to reveal the hint of a cast around his leg.

“We ran away,” said Mikey.

“We did?” said Tony.

“You what?” Tommy asked, frown deepening until he almost looked like Dad did right before the shouting started.

Tony tightened his grip on Mikey’s jacket, the rough felt of the letterman jacket grounding him.

“You’re back now,” said Mikey. “You promised we’d live together when you got back.” Mikey swayed a bit on his feet reminding Tony of the little flask he kept sipping from on the bus and tucking back into his pocket whenever he thought Tony wasn’t looking.

“Mikey—” Tommy looked sad, almost as sad as he had when he said goodbye.

“Don’t give me that, Tommy,” said Mikey. “You promised.” His voice started getting louder.

“I don’t even have a place yet, guys,” said Tommy. “I’m working on it through the VA, but it could take a while and I don’t know if they’d let you live with me.”

“You promised,” Mikey shouted.

Tony closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears. He thought about Mom. Not hospital bed Mom, but Mom as she’d been before whenever Dad was away when she smiled and sang and her shoulders crept down from their hunch around her ears.

The voices got louder.

Tony hummed to himself a song Mom used to sing, something about a lady named Jolene.

“Leave!”

It wasn’t exactly a shout but it was said with enough force and in a specific tone that it cut through the protection of Tony’s humming and cupped hands. Mom disappeared. Tony’s eyes flew open.

Tears were streaming down Tommy’s face and Mikey’s eyes were squinty and his face twisted in a snarl like a wolf.

“We’re going!” Mikey shouted and he grabbed Tony by the arm and dragged him away.

Tony thought Tommy would come home when his leg was better, but he never did. He called sometimes or wrote and then that stopped too. Tony never saw his brother again.

2025

Tony shrugged away the memory. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked Kittie of his plans to go with Mikey to see Tommy. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to talk him out of it or give him the go ahead.

“Uh, you open a can of trauma worms?” Kittie looked at him like he was an idiot, which he probably was.

Tony shrugged. “Mikey’s really excited,” he said. “He’s been going to PFLAG meetings and everything. Says he doesn’t want to say something bigoted by mistake.”

Kittie lowered her spray bottle and cloth. “Wait. PFLAG? Your brother’s gay?”

Tony nodded.

“You never told me that,” said Kittie. She looked a little put out, puffing her bottom lip in that way that Tony knew would get her girlfriend to do anything for her.

Tony shrugged. He’d been so conditioned all his life to never admit to having a gay older brother – not the phrasing his father used – that it was probably true that he hadn’t told Kittie back when they’d first become friends back in high school, and they’d bonded over their shitty parents and the shiny new half-siblings that had supplanted them in said shitty parents’ affections. It had never occurred to him to tell her, not even when she’d come out to him at senior prom when he’d misread the signs and tried to kiss her. “So?”

“So, no wonder Tommy left,” said Kittie. “You always made it sound like he just bailed and left you and Mikey to fend for yourselves.”

“He did,” said Tony. He knew it was more complicated than that even if he didn’t know the details, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Kittie.

“Come on, T. Your dad is like the biggest homophobe I know.” Kittie shook her head. “And my mom tried to send me to conversion therapy.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Kit,” Tony said.

“I am,” she replied. “And yeah, maybe your brother should’ve taken you with him when he left, but I can’t say I blame him for leaving. Your dad is like a gay-bashing level homophobe.”

And secretly, Tony couldn’t blame Tommy for leaving either. But he’d lived with that anger for almost half his life, and he couldn’t let it go just because he understood his brother a little bit better now that he’d grown up.

“Just drop it, okay,” said Tony. “I got enough to think about right now.” Like what he was going to tell Dad about Tommy. Or if he was going to tell Dad about Tommy. Because even though Mikey said it was better to have as little to do with Dad as possible, Tony just couldn’t do that, okay, especially not while Noah and Simone were still living at home. So, every couple of weeks, Tony made a point to drop by and help Dad out around the house, restock the fridge with Dad’s favourite beer (not that Tony drank; he’d seen what alcohol did to his father and brother), watch a game if one of their teams was playing. Tony tried his best to be a good son, because at this point, he was really the only one out of his siblings who could be that for Dad. Tommy had made it clear he was never coming back, Mikey said it was better for his sobriety not to be around Dad and Noah—

Tony didn’t know what was going on with Noah, but whatever it was, he was worried about his little brother. Noah had gotten withdrawn, which wasn’t like him. He’d always been such a happy, bubbly kid always singing and smiling, but something had changed, and Tony didn’t know what, but it was probably something to do with Dad, and Tony wouldn’t be surprised if one day his younger brother ran away just like his older brothers had, leaving Tony behind again.

“Fine,” said Kittie. “Just tell me how it goes.”

Tony didn’t say anything, only nodded. He didn’t have any more clients on his schedule that day, so he finished off his sketch and sent a scan of it to the client for feedback before packing up his stuff and heading out. “See you next week,” he called to Kittie who had one of her regulars sprawled on her bench getting colour on a back piece.

“Good luck,” Kittie called.

Tony needed all the luck he could get.

#

Mikey was a nervous wreck in the Uber to the airport, all jittery and jumpy, driving Tony crazy with the way he was bouncing his leg non-stop and chewing his fingernails.

“Calm down, man,” Tony finally snapped. “We’re just going to visit our brother.”

“Yeah,” said Mikey. “Exactly, the brother I committed a hate crime against.”

Tony rolled his eyes. Sometimes, Mikey’s flare for the dramatic was funny. Other times, it was annoying. This was one of the annoying times. “You called him a slur twenty years ago when you were sixteen,” said Tony, something he’d only learned a decade later the first time Mikey had tried to get sober. “That’s hardly a hate crime.”

“I was a bigot,” said Mikey.

“You were an angry desperate teenager lashing out because things weren’t going your way,” said Tony. “Now can you please calm down and shut up? It is way too early for this.” Because for some reason Mikey had booked them on a five-a.m. flight to LA. Next time, Tony would handle the travel arrangements. If there was a next time.

Tony had a sinking feeling that there wasn’t going to be a next time, and it was probably going to be his fault.

Not that he was going down to LA with the intention of starting a fight with Tommy. But he knew himself and he knew his temper and he felt it bubbling up like magma through vents at the bottom of the sea floor in one of his documentaries he liked to watch but had to pretend he didn’t because Dad didn’t approve of TV that wasn’t sports, news or CSPAN. He was going to try his hardest to keep his temper under wraps, but he wasn’t sure that would be possible.

But Mikey was looking forward to this, even if he was being nervous and dramatic about it and Tony wanted to support Mikey, even if it blew up in their faces.

#

The rest of the ride to the airport was uneventful, getting through check-in and security was uneventful, the flight was uneventful, and they didn’t even hit any of LA’s infamous traffic on their ride from LAX to their hotel (an easy walk from the café where Tommy wanted to meet with them). It was all so fucking uneventful that it only built up Tony’s certainty that Fate was saving all her events for this meeting between the three brothers, that after a rest and a change of clothes, they were about to head off to another knockdown, drag out, Kinard family brawl for the ages.

“How do I look?” Mikey asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

“You bought a new suit to meet Tommy?” Tony asked. He glanced down at his own outfit: a ratty t-shirt from a <em>The Wonder Years</em> concert he’d been to with Kittie and her girlfriend years ago and a pair of torn black jeans. A thrifted leather jacket and a pair of shit-kickers completed the ensemble.

“First impressions are important,” said Mikey trying to smooth his thinning curls into something resembling neatness.

Tony scoffed. “Pretty sure that boat sailed when you peed in Tommy’s face when he was changing your diapers.” That had been one of Mom’s favourite stories to bring out at holidays.

“I’m serious, T,” said Mikey. “And I want Tommy to know that I’m serious. And I’m pretty sure Tommy’s serious about trying to patch things up too.”

“Or he just wants to stop feeling guilty for leaving us behind,” said Tony.

“Hey, you know that’s not fair,” said Mikey, abandoning his efforts with his hair. “Besides, Tommy’s not the only one who feels guilty about how things went down back then.”

Tony shrugged and checked his phone. It was almost time to meet Tommy. “You ready or are you going to keep powdering your nose?”

Mikey sighed. “Welp. Here goes nothing.”

[hsslilly-blog]

CLAIRE LOML sorry i but i am going to ask 8 million questions <333 2, 8, 16, and 21 pls :)

yayyy!!!! thank you for asking!!! <33 and i’ll write a lot lol!!!

2) Will they have any children? What are their names?

yes! coincidentally i was just working on a drawing based on this!! growing up, claire’s dynamics with her parents were a bit dysfunctional, so deep down she always dreamt of having her own little family one day. she ends up having two lovely girls with hunt: grace (the older one, born in 12/01) and sofia (born in 24/11). i haven’t decided when they’re born in yet, but they’re born ~three years apart from each other!

8) Greatest strength and greatest flaw about your OC?

claire’s greatest strength and her greatest flaw are probably the same trait: her confidence. she has always prided herself in her abilities and, growing up, she didn’t have many issues with her self-esteem (well, consciously. there’s unaddressed stuff there). in most situations, claire can handle herself well and that makes her into an expressive, self-assured person. she knows what she wants and she’s not afraid to go after it. claire’s very focused and has her objectives very clear in her mind, which makes it much easier for her to conquer them. she’s a thrill-seeker, she’s always on the go. the world feels very small to her at times, but she knows exactly what is her place in it. she speaks her mind, and she speaks up for her friends when they’re not comfortable enough to do it. speaking of, claire’s confidence rubs on her friends and they feel more motivated just by having her around. i think claire is that one person you feel happy/special just to have had a conversation with them. the way she speaks about whatever topic with so much certainty but also in a very carefree, easy-going way just makes you trust her. it’s like she’s hyper aware of herself at all times, and at the same time she doesn’t realise she leaves a very strong impression on people. does it make sense?

but claire’s confidence is her greatest flaw, too. it often makes her unaware of her shortcomings and failures as an artist, a friend, a partner and a person. claire can come as (and is) very arrogant at times, especially when she’s decided someone’s opinions don’t matter and/or are “wrong”; when she interprets a situation as slightly critical of her in a way she doesn’t agree with (and god knows what that looks like), she can get really defensive. her confidence makes her very stubborn. she’s always sure she knows what’s best, she doesn’t take no for an answer. she feels very spoiled, too. claire’s confidence can make her selfish: it’s not for nothing she’s a serial dater, and it’s also not without reason she’s had very few close friends throughout her entire life, as charming as she might be. like i said, she takes what she wants, and what she deems herself worth of. and often she takes more than what she gives. claire likes being the centre of attention, and she often is, but she also wants the spotlight to only herself. primadonna behaviour. she’s overly confident of what she says, and sometimes she just speaks nonsense. she’s very blunt, which can be cute but it’s unbearable when it has an air of self-importance. and more often than not her nonchalance can sound a little demeaning.

16) Does your OC enjoy school or no? Did they get any education?

claire has always liked school. she’s always worked really hard for her grades, juggling between classes, extracurricular activities and her acting career even as a child. she has always had an interest for science (she actually really liked chemistry) and she was one of the five proud members of her middle school science club. in high school, claire was (mostly) a straight A student. she often did projects with her childhood best friend sebastian and, together, they were part of the av club. she was in theatre and cheerleading too, and she liked practicing with the school’s volleyball team, even if she didn’t compete with them. claire really liked the school atmosphere, of being in a place with other people and sharing an important moment of her life with them, growing up with them. her school was a very welcoming place too, so it was easy to like it.

claire’s first degree is in biology. she was forced by her father to pick a “real career” so she chose to do something she was at least interested in. plus, something in her really wanted to impress him, so she thought if she followed in his footsteps (by going to med school in the future) he’d finally acknowledge her and be proud of her. didn’t work. but claire did enjoy majoring in biology and she was really interested in pursuing a masters in entomology. and of course, she loved majoring in performing arts (her true dream major)!!

21) Any embarrassing secrets your OC demands you take to the grave but you will share anyway?

i don’t think claire has any embarrassing secrets (or at least ones she doesn’t tell people herself :crying:)(and besides the whole uh. psychosexual stuff she has going on) BUT claire was the one who caugh her father cheating. like, on the act. and he bribed her into silence. it’s embarrassing for her for obvious reasons but also because she feels a deep amount of shame for being manipulated by him and a lot of guilt for keeping it from her mother.

[my-coven-is-claudia]

Miguel isn’t the only villain in across the spider-verse - it’s the fans too

On the surface, Miguel is the obvious antagonist in atsv. From the get go he demonises Miles, treats him as if he understands what’s going on and puts all the blame on him for the multiverse being in danger. His justification for this is that Miles is an anomaly - a mistake. His role as Spider-Man was not meant to happen at all and he’s simply a poor replacement whose existence has catastrophically left a universe without a Spider-Man. The key part here is that Miles is an error, a blunder, just an inferior stand-in: he’s not the original.

The meta-narrative of the spider-verse movies is wholly centred around adaptation and the different adaptations of Spider-man, and Miles himself has a poignant role in this. Unlike the majority of the other Spider-men in the society he isn’t just some other rendition of Peter Parker or a ‘what if this person got bit instead’ character. He is unique. Something new. His lack of connection to previous Spider-men allows him this fluidity and ability to write his own story. For this meta-narrative to work he has to be the protagonist. We have to see the story through his perspective so we can see Miles as his own person and separate from the stereotypical idea of what Spider-man is. Miles’s iconic line from the film “Imma do my own thing” is a perfect summary of what he represents and stands for. He may not be the ‘original’ or anything like Peter Parker but he is something truly amazing. After all, that’s what the first movie was all about: anyone can be Spider-man. But with the wide variety of different Spider-men through atsv and the trans-coding of Gwen’s character, this movie seems to be hammering this point home and is actively fighting against fans who cling onto ‘canon’ and don’t accept any kind diversion or reinvention of a source material. In this movie Miguel represents these kind of fans who desperately cling onto canon and reject things like headcanons and interpretations that threaten to be different from their own.

In atsv Gwen gets a lot more focus and we get to see another side to her, seeing her personal life. We see that on a daily basis she has to hide a part of herself from everyone around her, especially her father. Her own flesh and blood is out to get her, hunting her down and talks about arresting her to her face, and all she can do is just smile and nod. Initially, this appears as simply what every Spider-person has to go through - hiding their identity, but with Gwen it cuts a lot deeper than that. Because she isn’t just hiding her identity as a superhero but she is having to hide her personal (gender) identity. From the phrase ‘Protect Trans Kids’ painted in her room, the trans flag on her father’s uniform to the repeated use of the trans flag’s colour palette during her conversations with her father, Gwen is undeniably coded as trans.

This new approach to her character has angered some people, and that’s what the whole movie is about.

Atsv tells a cautionary tale about how restricting artistic expression and religiously sticking to canon only harms stories and writers. It prevents the creation of amazing works like itsv/atsv! Fans’ obsession with staying inside the box could have resulted in this incredibly revolutionary film - itsv - from literally being created. Atsv is throwing everything at the viewer to tell us that this is still a looming threat and that it doesn’t just stop at producers and executives, fans also have an influence, for better or for worse.

Another example of how queerness is used in this film to fight against toxic fans is the queer undertones in Miles’s arguments with his parents. Every time he’s about to reveal his identity as Spider-man it is very reminiscent of a coming out scene. His parents speak of him lying to them and hiding something, and even more poignantly, that no matter what is going on with him they will love him no matter what. Whether Miles is under the queer umbrella is not what matters here, instead it’s the impact which speaks volumes on what atsv is trying to get across. Spider-man can be queer, can be gay, can be trans (this also applies to Spider-man being a person of colour). Even if the original iteration of the character wasn’t, it has long since evolved past the rigid boundaries of canon.

In the context of fandom, this message is very important right now as queer headcanons seem to be receiving more criticism as of late. This message is integral for many to hear and to remind us all that canon is just the building blocks - not the whole structure.

So the narrative is using Miles and Miguel as placeholders to portray these two clashing point of views. To break canon and continually reinvent stories or to swath canon in a blanket and never touch it. We as the viewers are left with a choice on who to side with, to decide who we believe is right and who is wrong. But to be honest, it’s pretty clear who’s right.

[justforbooks]

Ben Vautier

French conceptual artist known for his work featuring handwritten texts with quirky messages that had mass appeal

The French conceptual artist Ben Vautier – known simply as “Ben” – who has died aged 88, was best known for his Écritures – trademark painted epigrams in a simple cursive script on a monochrome background.

Instantly recognisable with their bold messages to the world, sometimes humorous, often political, always thought-provoking, his “writings” shout out from the canvas as if craving to be heard. “In my Écritures it is not the aestheticism that counts,” Ben said in 2010, in conversation with the curator Hans Ulrich Obrist. “I write to be read and understood. It’s the meaning that has to come across.”

The first Écriture, created in 1953, said, simply: “Il faut manger. Il faut dormir” (“You have to eat. You have to sleep”). It was an affirmation of life and the beginning of a series that would define his oeuvre for more than 70 years.

And, escaping from the walls, these mini-manifestos, which originated in the experimental culture of the Nice school of the 1950s, and Fluxus movement of the 60s, are now ubiquitous across France, to be found on postcards, stamps, wine labels, stationery and rucksacks.

Following Ben’s death, President Emmanuel Macron said: “On our children’s pencil cases, on so many everyday objects and even in our imaginations, Ben had left his mark, made up of freedom and poetry, apparent lightness and overwhelming depth.”

Born in Naples, Italy, Ben was the son of an Occitan French-Irish mother, Janet (nee Giraud), and a Swiss father, Max-Ferdinand Vautier. His grandfather was the Swiss painter and illustrator Marc Louis Benjamin Vautier. Following his parents’ divorce, Ben lived with his mother in Switzerland, Turkey, Egypt and Italy before they settled in Nice aged 14.He left the city’s Lycée du Parc Impérial at 16 and worked at a bookshop, Le Nain Bleu, where he first discovered volumes on the artists who would influence him. Interviewed last year for Forbes magazine and asked about his early artistic encounters, Ben said: “I picked only artists who shocked me because I was looking for something new, so I started with the abstract painters: Poliakoff, Soulages and Picasso. The shock of Marcel Duchamp came from a meeting with Arman, and after that, I opened up to the possibility that everything was art.”

“Everything is art” became his lifelong mantra, together with the other driving principle for Ben that “art must be new”. Elsewhere he said “My art will be an art of appropriation. I seek to sign everything that has not been signed. I believe that art is in the intention and that it is enough to sign.” When the Italian artist Piero Manzoni died in 1963, Ben signed his death certificate and declared it a work of art. And, following the birth of Ben’s daughter, Eva, in 1965, he signed her, as a new creation and a “living sculpture”.

Between 1958 and 1973 he ran a shop, Laboratoire 32, selling secondhand records, cameras, books and other publications. The space became a favourite meeting venue for artists of the Nice school, such as Yves Klein, César and Arman. N’importe quoi (Just anything), an installation composed of the shop’s interior, was acquired by the Centre Pompidou in 1975 and remains a testament to those early years in Nice.

In 1962 Ben had come to London as part of the festival of Misfits to perform a geste (happening) that involved spending two weeks living and sleeping in the window of Gallery One in Grosvenor Square, Mayfair. That year he met George Maciunas, founder of Fluxus, the Dada-influenced movement whose members, including Yoko Ono, Joseph Beuys and John Cage, engaged in experimental performances and events.

Fluxus encouraged a “do-it-yourself” approach in its artistic creations, valuing simplicity above complexity. Ben’s work embraced this approach and made the movement’s aesthetic clearly visible to the public, in art galleries and beyond.

Striking works include the self-referential Je suis transparent (I am transparent, 1970), a print edition in black writing on a see-through perspex background; and If art is everywhere it is also in this box (1972), with inscriptions in French, English, Italian and Nissart (a subdialect of Provençal), decorating four sides of a large plastic cube.

Initially selling as multiples in limited editions at his shop in the 60s, his productions soon moved into the mainstream, making his signed works available as mass-produced “Ben”-branded objects. He believed that there was “no art without ego”.

His works are now in private and public collections worldwide, including MoMA in New York and the Stedelijk museum in Amsterdam. Retrospectives have been held at the Musée d’Art Contemporain in Lyon (2010), Museum Tinguely, Basel (2015) and Museo Universitario de Arte Contemporaneo, Mexico (2022).

Arriving as a visitor in 2000 to Ben’s home in Saint-Pancrace, in the heights above Nice, which he shared with his second wife, Annie Baricalla, an artist whom he married in 1964, I was struck by the volume and variety of work that lay within and in the grounds of the house.

Commenting on this cuckoo-in-the-nest among a row of bourgeois residences that looked like a combination of fine art gallery, circus and junkyard, Ben confided with a chuckle: “Mes voisins me detestent.” (“My neighbours hate me.”)

He was a champion of minority languages, campaigning especially for Occitan – the tongue of southern France – and others, including Alsatian, Basque and Corsican, to be recognised in a country whose only official language is French. He reasoned that by preserving the vernacular, one can preserve the culture and dynamism of its people.

Ben’s first marriage, to Jacqueline Robert, in 1959, ended in divorce. Following Annie’s death on 5 June, “unwilling and unable to live without her”, according to a statement by his children, “Ben killed himself a few hours later”.

He is survived by his daughter, Eva, and his son, François, from his marriage to Annie.

🔔 Ben (Benjamin Vautier), artist, born 18 July 1935; died 5 June 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[isfjmel-phleg]

I was going through my notebook, trying to psych myself up for some writing (which I still haven't done), and found a fragment of a story that abruptly stopped because I had no idea where it was going (what else is new). The narrator is an unnamed Coregean writer describing his experiences at a Faysmondian spa town, particularly an encounter with an unnamed obnoxious boy in blue spectacles, who is traveling for his health with his heavily-veiled widowed mother.

This of course is Elystan and Bethira incognito during his attempted recovery period before going to school in Book 3. I have a Josiah incognito story already and wanted to play around with how Elystan would handle it, i.e. having way too much fun playing a part. How exactly this would go though...*shrug*

Still, I think the start has potential. Maybe I'll return to it if I can ever get motivated again. In the meantime, here's what exists of it, unedited and still with some placeholders.

When I find myself sitting up long into the night without purpose, or moved to tears at the most trivial of tragedies, or overcome with an urge to board a train, any train, and thereby escape the soul-crushing mundanity of an urban penman’s lot, I know that it is once again time to return to [NAME]-les-bains to restore my innervated body and spirit. [NAME], that earthly paradise of healing waters and crisp mountain air and throngs of tiresome hypochondriacs, never fails to work its enchantment. I amble the cobblestones beneath the haloed lamps, take long solitary strolls up Mont [NAME] among the pines and gentians, and forget that such things as editors and deadlines and creditors exist. When my strength isn’t yet equal to such exertion, I lie on the patio of my hotel and bask in both the sun and the satisfaction that but for the grace of God I would be truly among the pitiful creatures nearby, ill with nothing more than the ennui of wealth and indulgence.

It was a patio morning, and I had slept late enough to find that my favourite deck chair, the one set apart from any close interaction with its fellows by an overhanging potted shrub, had been commandeered by some exceptionally self-centred old woman. She sat enthroned there, a smug expression on her elephantine features and not a care in her heart for whom she might inconvenience. I was left to wander the patio in search of another chair, although I knew none of them could possibly suit my needs. At last, I secured a place with no neighbors closer than a couple of places away and settled myself down with my book and my bowlful of cherries to derive what enrichment I could from the morning.

I had barely glanced at the title page when my peace was once more destroyed. Two chairs on my left were taken by a veiled widow and a perambulating bundle of clothes that seemed to be her young son, judging from the fuss she made over him. She positioned him in his chair and draped a rug over him with the care of an artist arranging a still life. As I tried to resume my book, I heard the faint murmur of her low, solicitous voice, met with short, petulant replies, and I shook my head. Most professional invalids at the resort were middle-aged or elderly, but the Delicate Child with a Concerned Mamma had visited often enough for me to develop an understanding of the type.

I steeled myself for a lengthy conversation with the widow, who would tearfully relate the ailments of her darling boy and how they had tried everything—everything!—to help him, and if this place didn’t do the precious child any good, well, she didn’t know—didn’t know what she… Meanwhile, the child would lift a pair of huge, haunted eyes to my face and stare through me to whatever vision of doom lay beyond. It quite puts me off my appetite for the rest of the day.

In a rustle of crepe, the widow swept past me and disappeared into the hotel, leaving the boy beside me. He shakily propped himself up on his elbows and leaned in. I had never seen anyone so bundled up in the middle of summer. He was engulfed in a greatcoat three sizes too large. A silvery green scarf encircled his neck like a serpent, blunting his jaw, and his cap was pulled low over his eyes, as if they needed the additional shade behind their blue spectacles.

“I am giving her ten minutes,” he said in a stage whisper, “to prepare my tea, fifteen at least for her to realize that the book I want isn’t among our baggage, and perhaps half an hour on a frantic hunt through the bookshops so I’m not disappointed. However long it takes, it lets me give her the slip for a little while. Clever, isn’t it?”

I did not reply. He made an impatient noise.

“I said, clever, isn’t it?”

Concluding correctly that he would keep this up until he got an answer, I replied, “And what do you intend to do in her absence? You have no book.”

That silenced him perhaps a second or two. He brightened.

“Yes, I do. Give me that one.”

He indicated my book.

[such-a-random-rambler]

Happy MiniBang @jbarkerstargazer

I enjoyed scrolling though your blog for art, and a number caught my eye. I settled on this one because I don't think I've seen anything like it before, and loved the feeling of two people sitting side by side sharing a wonder. I couldn't find a reference to who this person was, so kept it vague and I hope it fits who you were drawing.

found in this post, for reference

The 2060’s are a decade of frontiers being brought to the forefront. Whether it’s in the depth of space, the deepness of the ocean, or the most remote mountain peaks, what was once a rare sight can be displayed on every holoprojector in every home in the world. Technological progress has pushed back the edge of exploration so it can be enjoyed by everyone, even if only the bravest – and luckiest – souls are actually leaving their footprints behind. 

There are, however, pockets of experiences left that are known by the very few. Some are not pleasant. Most are life-threatening. One of them John Tracy, and only John Tracy, sees on every trip to and from home: a unique commute even with the bustling traffic into orbit these days. 

Up is John’s favourite direction. Not just because he’s escaping the heavy shackles of unforgiving gravity or because he’s returning to the quiet he needs to focus and save lives. It’s this view.  

On most journey’s John spends the forty five or so minutes it takes for the space elevator to travel from island to station checking over system reports and pre-loading the holograms he needs into the control centre. Sometimes he puts that off, and lets himself enjoy the slow change from atmosphere to vacuum. The colours fade as pressure changes, and the curve of the planet emerges. There’s a precious few minutes when the Earth and the stars are in balance, before the glistening grains of sand painted on inky blackness creep across the whole sky.  

None of the other travelers into space have the time to see the gradual melting from Earth to Heavens, not at the breakneck pace they are catapulted though the atmosphere. This view is one reserved for John, and those special enough he invites to share it.  

“Do you want to see?” he asks her, one lazy afternoon, when the airwaves had been quiet and the pool had been inviting. Lunch in the sunshine had been followed by an afternoon of reading and napping. Now the breeze picks up as the sun begins to set, bringing with it the scent of cool sea and earth to accompany their conversation on the merits of unorthodox space travel. 

She’d been to Five before of course, but by the usual – quick, rocket-shaped – route. 

Her immediate smile is excited at the prospect and touched by the invitation to this most private view.  

He hustles her down to the elevator dock before anyone can interfere, leading her by the hand so fast she has to do a few little jogging steps to keep up. Intense focus on a goal tends to make him forget his long legs in a way she’s come to find endearing.  

The secondary seat is slightly more comfortable than most airplane seats -  even if it spends most of it’s life folded into the wall panels – though nothing in comparison to the bespoke fit of John’s chair, almost as form fitting as his suit. That primary seat shifts aside slightly to make room so they can sit together, the main viewing port on the opposite wall.  

Safety checks completed and harnesses secured, Five lifts them into the evening sky.  

Ever been so focused that no other part of the world can intrude into your bubble? That’s how it is for them this first time: the earth rising below, the atmosphere whispering goodbye and the sky wrapping them in stars. Just the two of them, hand in hand, and a glimpse of infinity. 

That’s how it is the first time, and many times after that.  

[enkvyu]

         00: telltale signs

% synopsis: famous idol scaramouche has been murdered, that is the only conclusion that can be drawn. why was he killed, and better yet, who killed him? those are the questions you must solve. in a group where everyone is hiding a secret behind every smile, it is up to you to avenge his death.

% w/c: 1.5k +

% genres: crime & mystery, thriller, idol!au (ft. 6reeze)

% warnings: profanity, mild violence, mentions of death

% a/n: please check out the series masterlist for warnings of the series as a whole + other information. hope you enjoyed this short prologue and i promise there is more murder and mystery to come!!

the cheers from ecstatic fans filter into the backstage, overlapping the heavy tension in the room. with the director listing out timings in the in-ears of the idols and the makeup artists working overtime to patch up flaws and insecurities, between the last-minute touch-ups and maintenance, you were surely overwhelmed with the atmosphere. 

when you were only a fan of 6reeze, you couldn’t wait for every moment to tick down and for the concert to begin. but now, enlightened with a new perspective, you could only wish for time to slow and stop.

you sat amidst the preparation. hands holding up your head, you surveyed the room with a keen stare. 

as the new manager, your job was to ensure the concert went smoothly, not a mishap in sight. if the costumes were suddenly damaged, or if the microphones stopped working, or even if a comet smashed through the roof of the stadium, you were sure you could handle all of it, somehow. 

what you couldn’t handle, however, was the brewing tension. 

it was dense, visible in the air. all six boys of 6reeze were separated in different corners of the room, a product of their argument earlier in the day. conversations were at a minimum. contact was even lower. and that, was an issue you couldn’t fix. 

“you’re meant to go down on the ground, xiao. how else will you lift me up on stage?” scaramouche’s voice cuts the tense air, his lazy words spoken from the couch as he watches the other boy practise. 

you bite your lip and hold your tongue. 

xiao stands. “if you could use your eyes, you’d notice that i’m practising by myself.” 

“as if that would help.” 

aether sighs from the centre of the room. “can we just get this concert over without any issues?” you find yourself agreeing. all they needed was to hold themselves together for just one more night. afterwards, they could go back to ignoring each other until the next concert or stage appeared. and that, would be an issue for your future self.

“i didn’t start anything.” xiao mumbles, turning back around to practise in front of the wall. but in the silence and the sudden attention, he fails to land a move. 

scaramouche instantly snorts. 

“guys.” aether warns. 

“that was great.” scaramouche laughs. “you’re really killing it. no, no really!” 

kazuha and heizou perk up as the conversation picks up in volume, just the fuel that sends xiao over the edge as the entire room focuses in on him. 

“scaramouche.” he hisses. “your commentary isn’t needed.”

“no, but my help might be. we’re both dancers, right?” 

“cut it out, guys.” heizou says, rolling his eyes. “you’re acting like children.”

“and dancing like one too, it seems.” 

xiao flushes red. 

“scaramouche, lay off. you’re the only one bickering like a kid. if xiao wants to practise then let him.” kazuha interrupts. “he’s certainly smarter than you if all you’re doing is playing games on your phone before a concert.” 

“that’s because i don’t need to practise, kazuha.” scaramouche’s voice is sickly sweet and hard to ingest without a frown. “why don’t you join the teacher’s pet over there and practise some singing, hm? didn’t your voice crack last time we were on stage?”

the boy laughs, the only one in the room to do so. he seems totally enthralled when he catches sight of kazuha’s fingers curling into a fist. 

“i am so sick and tired of your bullshit.”

scaramouche shrugs. “sue me.” 

kazuha stands up. the entire room hushes. scaramouche watches with muted interest. 

“you know you won’t do jack shit. don’t you remember all the dirt i have on you?” he says. 

“doesn’t mean anything if you don’t get the chance to use it.”

then, as if in slow-motion, your previous wish setting into motion, kazuha lunges at scaramouche. he grabs a fistful of scaramouche’s collar and yanks forward, ripping off a few buttons that click against the floor. 

one.

you can only watch as his fist comes in contact with the other boy’s face, unforgivingly sending him crumbling into the couch. 

two.

you stand up from your seat. 

three

aether reaches forward, a yell already on his tongue, pulling kazuha backwards because he’s not finished, doesn’t look it anyway, fury making his chest heave. 

four. 

kazuha collides into heizou who catches him. their eyes flicker back up as scaramouche fumbles to stand up again. there’s burning hatred bright red on his face, or that might just be the mark that kazuha left, bruising and angry. 

five. 

you rush to the sight, immediately helping scaramouche off the floor, his hand preoccupied with cupping his right eye. tracking his glare, you look at kazuha. 

aether shoves kazuha backwards, jabbing an accusing finger into his chest which the white-haired boy makes no gesture to swat away. “what kind of stunt do you think you’re pulling right now?”

“i’ll get you for that.” scaramouche spits, shoving your arm aside and stepping forward. “you think i won’t?”

kazuha doesn’t speak, his lips pursued tight. though he doesn’t make any movement or sound, his fists stay clenched at his side and he towers over the shorter boy. 

“give kazuha a break.” heizou cuts in from beside his friend. “you deserved that, you know you did. i don’t know where all your confidence comes from considering you were added into the group as an afterthought.”

“sucking up for your friend? how cute. bet you’re sucking off something else of his behind the camera too.” 

"all of you cut it out." aether pushes the boys apart, glaring them down. "i don't give a shit about whatever petty drama you've both cooked up about each other. unless you hadn't noticed, we have a concert to perform."

"you stay out of this." scaramouche only shakes off your hand again as you attempt to damage control. “don’t pretend to play leader now.” 

"don't fucking talk to me like that." aether growls. “and stop fucking instigating shit!” 

"you're all pissing me off." another voice joins, and to your dismay, it's xiao. he had stopped dancing to watch the scene play out, and despite kazuha’s words of defence, his eyes are cold when he looks at everyone. “keep the room quiet. stop fucking up my practise time.” 

“don’t worry, we won’t be the reason why you fuck up anyway.” scaramouche jeers. 

you wince at the look xiao gives him, eyes hardening into something impenetrable and his jaw sets to hold back a swarm of insults. 

you glance around for help; the atmosphere was only darkening. looking over, venti makes eye contact with you. you realise that he hadn’t uttered a word during the entire predicament, at least, not to his band members. instead, you remember he had been making light conversation to the staff. 

he smiles at you, in assurance? you weren't sure, before turning back to look at his reflection in the mirror. his make-up artist also unfreezes, resuming their work. over the loud noise, you swear you can make out him requesting his make-up artist to give him a smokier eye.

"aether is right!" you force your voice to be loud and demanding. "you guys have to go on stage soon. i don't know what happened, but let's sort everything out after you perform, alright?"

everyone quietens. 

you hold kazuha's gaze when he pays attention to you. "alright?" you ask again. finally, he nods and is the first to turn away from the conflict. sparing a glance over his shoulder, the threat in his eyes is unmistakable.

scaramouche snarls but backs away, cursing under his breath. he sits down at his chair and pulls out his phone, ignoring your attempts to get him to cooperate with the make-up artists as they soothe the bruising mark around his right eye.

beside him, xiao also sighs and returns to the corner, practising the ending moves of their most popular title track. with the lack of other members practising with him, he fills in the positions for them.

heizou drags kazuha away, whispering something quiet into his ear. you watch as kazuha's shoulders sag and you can only hope that heizou's words are those to comfort him.

aether sighs, taking a quick glance around the room, before returning to his seat as well. his eyes are dark, unseeing as he stares at the ground.

venti's laugh echoes in the silence and it is too pretty for the boys to call out his taunt. instead, they let his soft voice take over the room, sweeping up the remains of the argument, a child’s lullaby on his tongue. he sings until the last few seconds count down. 

you look around the room and feel worry like a weight on your shoulder. though all is quiet and calm, you know the waves are only festering underneath, waiting for the dam to break and all chaos to ensue. you can only hope that you won’t be around when it happens. 

when the sound director calls for the group to appear, their assembly is quiet. six boys, all deceptively hiding a secret, one that is revealed when the platforms rise upwards, the secret uncovered and plastered across big screens though not its mastermind. embracing the wild cheers of anticipating fans, the boys enjoy one last concert as a group of six.

when the platforms sink back below stage, only five people come back alive.

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first part done :0 this is just an introduction to everyone and their motives so keep a keen eye out for clues! the actual episodes are much longer in length so i hope you stick around !!

[thedreadvampy]

ARGH DADA ISN'T A SYNONYM FOR ABSURDISM STOP CALLING POSTMODERN ABSURDIST MEMES DADA

Dada is an absurdist movement. Not all absurdism is Dadaist. Camus, Kafka and Vonnegut are all absurdists but none of them are Dadaists.

Dadaism is pretty specifically:

explicitly political and leftwing. there is no right wing dadaism. futurism, the Italian fascist art movement, superficially looks a lot like dada but it's utterly diametrically opposed. if it ain't antifascist it ain't dada. and there's no apolitical dada. dada was above all else a radical leftist movement focused on criticism of capital and empire.

anti-art focused on breaking down meaning and rationality. the Dadaist philosophy is that capitalist adherence to the ideology of concrete meaning is responsible for the state of 1910s Europe and for WWI. Dadaism isn't post-modern ironic deconstruction. goncharov isn't dada bc the goncharov discussion is about how we construct meaning and celebrates the means of constructing meaning even though it's built around a hollow centre. it's absurdist. it's not dadaist.

anti-aesthetic and designed to be offensive to the viewer, not in terms of Edgy Punching Down but in terms of actively running counter to what's beautiful or moving. dadaism is committed to creating chaos and ugliness. again, this is why goncharov isn't dada and neither was fuckin. vaporwave 10 years ago when people wanted to call THAT neodadaism. these memes are interested in engaging with aesthetic language, satirising art by taking out its meaning and keeping the aesthetic, or the culture, or the feeling of meaning. artistically that's a very solid goal and one I'm probably more on board with than the dadaist idea that aesthetics are artificially pasted over our innate chaotic natures. but it's not dada.

a very specifically 20th century movement. dada is inextricably linked to the context it existed in (interwar Europe). it's a specific absurdism born out of what was at the time a post-apocalyptic atmosphere. centuries old empires were collapsing and fascism was rising, and both were taking down millions of lives with them. we can definitely talk parallels and the space for a neodadaist movement - we're still in an apocalyptic time, we're also experiencing plague, fascism and the ongoing eradication of millions through capitalism and colonialism - but it does need to be understood as neodada, and if you're going to call it that it needs to connect with the key points above.

Idk why we've been having this conversation on a loop for a decade. memes don't need to be dada to be an interesting or meaningful artistic movement. have the courage of your convictions and accept meme cultures as their own absurdist artistic statements. and please learn about actual dada bc it's interesting as hell.

(while you're at it look into other interwar leftist art movements bc there's a lot to dig into! please get interested in the New Objectivists with me!!!!)

[haggishlyhagging]

The portrayal of the Bluestockings as pretentious, elitist and ultimately vacuous is a useful image of ‘intellectual’ women in a male-dominated society. When I read Boswell's patronising statement that Bluestocking gatherings were places where ‘the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please’ (see Wheeler, 1910, p. 53), it is not their ‘desire to please’ which attracts my attention, for this is a condition of women's existence in a male-dominated world, it is that these women found a way into the society of 'literary and ingenious men' when society had been organised to exclude them. The ingenuity, to my mind, lies not with the men.

Formally debarred from politics, from the law, from education and from employment, completely excluded from the centres of power and the realm of (male) ideas, these women had few other resources than themselves, 'private study', and in a few cases, money. Yet through their own initiative and efforts they created a forum where there was some dialogue between those who had power and those who ostensibly did not, and, unsatisfactory as it may have been, it is the fact that the dialogue existed at all that is remarkable. For how can we explain the complete ‘powerlessness’ of women and at the same time accept that they were able to act, and to influence the social customs?

It has become quite acceptable to dismiss ladies who held 'salons' and to subscribe to the belief that their ostensible learning was nothing other than mere affectation. This does them a grave injustice; it also helps to suggest that there have not been any genuinely intellectual or learned women. The work of the Biuestockings indicates that with out benefit of systematic education, without entry to the public sphere for employment, experience, or stimulation, many of these women became serious scholars and artists. They took a radical stance and defied the deeply entrenched conviction that women were not intellectually competent and could not master the classics, and letters, and made a claim for women's intellectual capacity; they created a context in which their learning was not only demonstrated, but developed. Their achievement should not be underestimated.

-Dale Spender, Women of Ideas and What Men Have Done to Them