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walldecorexpert · 6 months

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Score Big with Green Graffiti Wallpaper: The Ultimate Kids Football Wall Mural

When it comes to transforming your child's room into a sports lover's paradise, nothing beats the excitement and vibrancy of a football-themed wall mural. And if you're looking for the perfect backdrop that combines the love for the game with a dash of creativity, our Green Graffiti Wallpaper for Kids Football Wall Mural is just what you need.

The Perfect Football Atmosphere:

Our Green Graffiti Wallpaper instantly creates a dynamic football atmosphere in any kids' room. The vibrant green background, adorned with graffiti-style football motifs, brings the thrill of the game right into your home. Whether your child dreams of being the next soccer superstar or simply enjoys watching the matches, this wall mural will inspire their passion for football.

Kid-Friendly Design:

Designed with kids in mind, this football wall mural strikes the perfect balance between creativity and playfulness. The graffiti-style artwork appeals to young imaginations, allowing your child to feel like they're part of an urban street art adventure while celebrating their love for football. It's a fantastic way to nurture their creativity and encourage their interests.

Easy Installation:

Installing our Green Graffiti Wallpaper is a breeze, thanks to its high-quality, pre-pasted material. You won't need to worry about messy glues or lengthy installation processes. Simply apply the mural using the included instructions, and your child's room will be transformed in no time.

Durability and Longevity:

We understand that kids can be rambunctious, and their rooms endure a fair share of activity. That's why our wallpaper is not only visually stunning but also built to last. It's resistant to wear and tear, so you can be confident that your football-themed mural will remain vibrant and captivating for years to come.

Personalize the Space:

Enhance your child's room with additional personal touches. Consider adding framed football jerseys, soccer balls, or other sports-related decor items to complete the look. Our Green Graffiti Wallpaper serves as the perfect canvas to let your creativity shine. We invite you to explore our unique "Graffiti" wallpaper collection in our store! This collection is inspired by street art and the vibrant graffiti culture. Here, you will find incredible designs that will add boldness and originality to your interior. These wallpapers embody self-expression and the freedom of creativity. Come and transform your home with "Graffiti" wallpapers – it's art you can experience every day!

Versatile Use:

This wallpaper isn't limited to just bedrooms. It can also be a fantastic addition to playrooms, study areas, or any space where your child spends time. Its versatility ensures that the football excitement can be felt throughout the home.

Conclusion:

Incorporating our Green Graffiti Wallpaper for Kids Football Wall Mural into your child's room is the ultimate way to combine their love for football with a dash of urban style and creativity. It's easy to install, durable, and designed with your child's interests in mind. Create an atmosphere that ignites their passion for the game and inspires their imagination. Score big with this incredible football-themed wall mural and give your child a room they'll love spending time in. Visit our PicOnWood Store today and embark on a journey to transform your child's bedroom into a dreamland they'll adore.

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lipglossanon · 7 months

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Haunted House

Corrupt Cop!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader - NSFW

Warnings: mean/condescending Leon, Leon being spooky lol, ghost story involving child murder, dirty talk, spitting, oral (m receiving)

not proofread ✌️

“I dare you to go in there.”

Leon raises an eyebrow, “Okay, and what do I get when I do?”

You bite your lip and he zeroes in on the action, “What do you want?”

“To eat your cunt in the back of my squad car.”

Nipples stiffening in your bra, you gasp scandalized, “Leon!”

He shrugs easily, “You asked.”

“I don’t want to get caught,” you murmur quietly.

“I’m a cop,” he laughs, “you won’t get in trouble.”

“You’re not scared?” You try changing subjects back to the dare.

He rolls his eyes, “Why? Just because some kids disappeared around this place back in the 20’s?”

You nod, “Yeah, I mean it’s still pretty spooky.”

A wide grins splits his face making you nervous.

“Let’s sneak in right now.”

Leon drags you into the local haunted house before you can even blink. There’s a makeshift doorway on the side that draws you up short making Leon’s grip around your bicep tighten.

“I bust kids partying here all the time, nothing to worry about,” he pulls you along, shoving you into the doorway first.

It doesn’t look as rundown as you thought it would, just beat up old furniture and dusty rugs lining the floor. The plaster walls are cracked and worn, covered in graffitied cuss words and dicks. Leon guides you past this room further into the house.

Teenagers or whoever must not venture past that opening room because these walls are bare save for the peeling wallpaper. Time worn photographs hang at odd angles but are too weather worn to see properly. Cobwebs coat every surface making your skin crawl.

“Leon, let’s just turn back,” your voice comes out quiet, spooked by your surroundings, “we’ve went far enough for the dare.”

He clicks his tongue tossing you a wicked grin over his shoulder, “Don’t you wanna have some fun, sweetheart?”

He pulls you into another room, this one suspiciously less dusty than the rest of the house with a clean looking fainting couch sitting atop a Persian rug.

“Leon this is…”

Weird? Off putting? Uncomfortable?

Something about the space is making your hair stand on end unlike the other more overt creepy part of the house.

He chuckles low in his throat and pushes you down onto the couch.

“Surprise,” he gestures around the room, but your eyes never leave his face.

“I don’t understand.”

“This is where they went missing,” his dark blue eyes sweep around the room one last time before meeting your gaze.

“I did some digging and come to find out, the nanny this family hired went a little nuts,” he laughs gleefully, “seems like she fucked the owner and when he wouldn’t leave his wife, she,” he makes a slicing motion across his neck, “decided to take care of the children permanently.”

You gasp softly, eyes wide as Leon only laughs harder.

“What’s fucked is she told him but he didn’t believe her, just fired her on the spot,” he sighs, smiling a little too wide for his face, “she stayed in town and married some other poor schmuck.“

You clear your throat nervously, “How do you know—“

“Oh, she’s like my great, great, great aunt,” he waves his hand like it’s inconsequential information, “that’s beside the point. The point being is she killed them in this. very. room.”

You lick your lips and take a quick glance around; aside from it being cleaner than the other parts you walked through, it’s pretty nondescript overall.

“And they say,” Leon’s deep voice murmurs in your ear making you jump, “you can still hear them crying if you show up at the right time.”

He grabs your forearms and pushes you down onto the rug.

“And since we have a couple of hours to go til then, why don’t I keep that pretty little mouth busy,” he tilts his head, sandy fringe covering one eye, “sound good?”

And now, you’re not even sure why you let it happen, but you’re on your knees with Leon’s thick uncut cock dripping over your face. Even though you’re angry at yourself, you can’t help but feel turned on in the situation. Clit throbbing with need, you loll your tongue out, holding your mouth open for Leon.

“Such a good girl,” he croons, “so eager to please.”

A bolt of heat pulses in your cunt. His hand cradles your jaw gently before he spits onto your tongue making you whine, nipples tightening to aching points in your bra. He slaps his cock down onto your tongue, smearing his spit and precum all around the wet muscle.

“You’re gonna give me some sloppy head, baby,” he grins meanly down at you, “and if you’re good, I’ll let you swallow.”

Eyes fluttering, slick fills the gusset of your panties, making the cute lace stick to your pussy lips; you press the dough of your thighs together hoping to alleviate the pressure in your core.

“Mmm so slutty just letting me fuck your mouth like this,” he goads with a smirk, dick sinking into your open mouth, “bet I could get you on your knees anywhere.”

Your eyes water as his thick cock obscenely stretches your mouth open.

His hips thrust forward, sinking another inch into your hot wet mouth.

“Such a pretty little throat,” he murmurs to himself, letting his hand squeeze around your neck.

You whine as your thighs clench together, more slick pooling in your already drenched panties.

His hand shifts to the back of your head, rocking your mouth further down on his dick, fat tip kissing the back of your throat and making you gag. He presses there until you cough and retch around the tip, making him slip his cock free. You cough slightly, breaking the stringy lines of spit connecting his thick length to your lips.

“Aww too much?” he coos mockingly, “don’t worry, we’ll train this slutty throat til it can take me nice and deep.”

Your cunt aches as he slaps his cock across your face, smearing spit and precum everywhere before slowly easing it back into your drooling mouth. He pulls out until you’re suckling on the fat head of his dick before sinking back into you, balls slapping your chin.

“M’gonna give you a nice throatpie, sweetheart,” he grunts, hand moving to the top of your head to guide himself deeper.

You swallow around his dick, saliva dripping from the corners of your lips while Leon’s fat, heavy cock ruts in and out of your mouth. Hands grasping at your leggings, you move them to brace on his legs and let your mouth sink down on his cock even more, tip knocking into your throat making you gag.

He pulls you off and takes a seat on the couch, patting his leg, “Crawl over here and suck me off, pretty girl.”

A full body shudder runs through you, pussy feeling like a wet mess between your legs as you crawl the few feet over to him.

“Good girl,” the praise drips like honey from his lips, “being so good for me, tonight.”

With a mewling sigh, you eagerly wrap your mouth around Leon’s dick and sink down.

“Gonna keep my dick warm for a while,” he pets your head, rocking his cock into your mouth, “if you try to suck, I’m gonna spank that soaked little cunt.”

Moaning, you go slack against him, letting Leon nestle his dick deep into your mouth, leaking tip bumping against the opening to your throat. You constantly swallow to prevent yourself from gagging but it only seems to make more precum dribble from his cockhead.

He murmurs condescending praise making your brain mushy and cunt leak until you’ve soaked through to create a wet spot in the front of your leggings. It doesn’t seem like long at all before he’s slowly pulling out of your mouth with a groan. You whimper and chase after his cock, mouth kissing and licking at his spit coated shaft making him laugh down at you.

“So needy,” he grasps your jaw and fucks his cock back into your swollen mouth, “think it’s time I give you your reward. Ready to drink all my cum? Cream that throat like you deserve.”

He thrusts half a dozen times before burying his cock into your mouth with a low groan, spilling down your throat. You feel dizzy as hot spurts of cum hit the back of your throat before you’re swallowing it down, greedily sucking his cock.

“Good fucking girl,” he humps against your drooling mouth, “drink every drop.”

You milk Leon’s cock until he’s spent, pulling his softening dick away from your mouth as you press a soft kiss to the head. He glances down at his watch before pulling you up onto the couch with him.

Your brain feels empty, cunt needy for stimulation as Leon kisses your cheek and teases across the inside seam of your leggings.

“When we get to the car, gonna make good on my promise, sweetheart,” he nips your earlobe, “gonna eat you out til you’re crying.”

You arch against him with a whine, “Please, can we go now?”

He hums shooting another glance to his watch, “I guess so, not like it’s real anyways.”

Brain too muddled to argue with him, you squirm as Leon pulls you up from the couch. Neither of you notice the two pairs of luminescent eyes watching you from the corner as you leave the room.

divider: @firefly-graphics

#lipglossanon #lipglossanonmasterlist #lipglossmasterlist #lipglossanon promptober 2023 #promptober 2023 #promptober 2023 day 13 #corrupt cop!leon s kennedy smut #corrupt cop!leon s kennedy #corrupt cop!leon s kennedy x fem!reader #corrupt cop!leon s kennedy x fem!reader smut #haunted house

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justforbooks · 2 years

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In 1973, Ken Howard was sent by the Imperial War Museum to cover the Troubles in Northern Ireland as a war artist in all but name. (In the political rhetoric of the day, the province’s violence did not constitute warfare.) To Howard’s surprise, he found that his habit of painting en plein air made him friends on both sides of the sectarian divide. “If you used a camera, you were in trouble,” he said. “If you sat on the street and drew, and they could see what you were doing, then you weren’t in trouble.”

An IRA man in the Falls Road biddably blew up a car to make it more picturesque for his brush, Howard claimed. It was a small boy he saw swinging from a lamp post who would become the focus of his best known work, however.

Ulster Crucifixion (1978), now in the Ulster Museum, of the National Museums Northern Ireland, is made in the style of a gothic altarpiece, with a central panel, folding wings and a predella. The raw paint of its background both depicts and echoes the graffitied walls of west Belfast. Its child subject hangs from the post as though from a cross.

If Ulster Crucifixion was to be Howard’s most noted work, it was far from his most typical. Its flavour was, distantly, of Francis Bacon; a far more usual tang was of Claude Monet. To the horror of highbrow critics and a younger generation of British artists, Howard, who has died aged 89, was happy to describe himself as “the last impressionist”. He was, he said, “a painter of light”, in the squares of west London – his habit of sketching in the street led locals to dub him “High Street Ken” – in Mousehole, Cornwall, and in Venice, each of which place he kept a studio in.

Typical of this practice would be works such as Honesty and Charlotte (1990), made in his Chelsea studio. Painted contre-jour, against daylight, the canvas’s dappled colours take their cue from the titular vase of white seed pods in the centre of the composition. The glance of light off wallpaper, cloth, glass and flesh becomes the picture’s subject; its Sickertian nude seems almost incidental. So, too, with the subjects of Howard’s many depictions of Venice and Mousehole. “Mousehole is the one place in the world that’s close to Venice in terms of light,” he said.

His uplands had not always been so sunlit. Born in the north-west London suburb of Neasden, the younger of two children of Frank, a mechanic from Lancashire, and Elizabeth (nee Meikle), a Scot who worked as a cleaner, Howard recalled “painting properly from the age of seven and drawing and painting before I could write”.

An art teacher at Kilburn grammar school encouraged the young Ken to apply to the nearby Hornsey College of Art, where he studied from 1949 to 1953. This was followed by national service in the Royal Marines, then two years at the Royal College of Art (1955-57).

By then, Howard had already been through the prevailing trends of social realism – “I painted Neasden and power stations,” he recalled – and kitchen-sink painting. Both had brought him a degree of success. The first work he sold was of the shipyards at Aberdeen, where he had been taken by a lorry-driving uncle just after the war: the painting was bought by David Brown, the future owner of Aston Martin.

For all his later taste for sunlight and sea, Howard insisted that it was this early grounding in industrial grime that had shaped his art. “I was brought up surrounded by the horizontal and vertical structures of railway yards and factories,” he said. “I am not a landscape painter, but rather a vertical and horizontal painter.”

While this was clear in the composition of Ulster Crucifixion, it was less so in Howard’s many images of beaches, churches and Venetian canals. When he went to the Royal College, his fellow students were in thrall to abstract expressionism. “America had arrived just before I did,” Howard recalled. “I began to feel a bit out of kilter.”

He would remain outside the fashionable mainstream for the rest of his life. Whatever its linear underpinnings, his art was both figurative and unapologetically pleasant; to critics such as the late Brian Sewell, saccharine. His work with the British Army apart, it also seemed never to change, as Howard happily agreed. “I’m one of those people who always bangs away at the same nail,” he said. Despite showing in the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition for many years, he was nearing 60 before he was made a full Academician.

Above all, he admired Turner, and not just for what he termed the master’s “visual genius”. “I like the idea that, like Turner, I come from a working-class background,” Howard said.

In the 2010s, he retraced his hero’s trips through Switzerland in five journeys of his own, producing 100 monumental canvases of Swiss mountains and lakes and a book called Ken Howard’s Switzerland: In the Footsteps of Turner. In 2004, he had also followed Turner in being appointed the Royal Academy’s professor of perspective, a position he held until 2010. In 2017, he was made a patron of the Turner’s House Trust.

All this made the dismissal of critics such as Sewell easier to bear, as did the awarding of an OBE in 2010. Financial success also softened the blow. If Howard’s work never achieved the kinds of prices enjoyed by his more avant-garde contemporaries, he made up for it by being both prolific and popular. “I’ve probably got more pictures on people’s walls than any other painter living today,” he liked to say. Short, merry and given to theatrical capes and hats, he was not prone to introspection.

He also had a good eye for property. In 1973, Howard rented his Chelsea studio – once the atelier of the Edwardian society portraitist William Orpen – for six pounds a week. Over the next 30 years, he bought not just it but the large house in which it stood, worth several million pounds by the time of his death. “My mother always used to say that if I fell down the loo, I’d come up with a bar of chocolate,” Howard laughed. “I think that just about sums it up.”

He married three times: first, in 1962, to Annie Popham, a dress designer (they were divorced in 1974); then, in 1990, to the Hamburg-born painter Christa Gaa Köhler, whom he had met in Florence in the 1950s (she died of cancer in 1992); and last, in 2000, to the Italian photographer Dora Bertolutti. She survives him, along with a stepson and two stepdaughters.

🔔 James Kenneth Howard, painter, born 26 December 1932; died 11 September 2022

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #James Kenneth Howard #in memoriam

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every-bad-thing · 2 years

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You Ruin Christmas

( "Graffiti of Evil Santa" by tijmz is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0. ) You discover Santa Claus has a terrible, terrible secret.

You didn't want to believe it, but after months of sleuthing and a mountain of evidence, there is no other possible conclusion: Santa Claus kidnaps children and turns them into the elves that he forces to work in his factories. He does it through a combination of ancient magic, plastic surgery, and lots of lithium. Once they're too withered to work, he grinds them up into reindeer feed.

It took a lot of work to get proof of all this, and a lot of sacrifice. You've lost friends, good ones who helped you the whole way through your quest, who were taken by the very man you aimed to expose. But now you're ready to finally tell the world what he really is.

The news makes quite a splash. Santa Claus, the beloved holiday figure, is actually some sort of inhuman horror who preys upon the world's children. The people are shocked and outraged at first, but then Santa Claus comes on TV and says that you can't believe whatever some random person says, and that come on, I'm Santa Claus, and he ho-ho-hos a few times and the newscaster gives a smile and then the next day there's debate over whether what you said is true.

( Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash ) You have so much proof, not least of which are dozens of actual kids who tell their stories of being abducted by Santa Claus and taken to the North Pole to be subjected to the horrors of elfhood. But the reaction on social media is that's just some actor, that's not really a missing kid, how can that possibly be, that's clearly a Christmas elf, not a child! So then you release documentation, stuff like sworn testimony and surveillance video and DNA tests, but people say the elf was lying, that video can be faked, and are we sure DNA is even real in the first place?

So you release more evidence, as well as detailed flow charts that help explain its context, and while there are still some skeptics, most agreed your position is unassailable: Santa Claus did indeed kidnap children and force them into slavery. The conversation immediately shifts to whether those kids were on the naught or nice list. Because, says thousands of people on the Internet, if they were naughty, then surely they must have done something to deserve it. Things like that don't happen to nice children.

You don't want to dignify this line of thinking at first, because why should it matter whether they were naughty or nice? What Santa did to them was terrible! But eventually you release a copy of both lists that you stole during the course of your investigation. It shows that while some of the children were naughty, most of them were nice. Faced with this evidence, social media chooses to focus instead on whether it was ethical to steal that list in the first place, and that should we really be encouraging people to just take whatever information they want from people (and/or beloved holiday icons)? And furthermore, should we really be judging Santa Claus by the same standards we judge everyone else anyway? He has a very important job, after all, so who are we to dictate what he should or shouldn't do anyway? People start saying you should be prosecuted for leaking such sensitive documents.

( "Desktop Wallpaper" by Patrick Q is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0. ) Things look pretty grim, until some elves you didn't even know about come forward to give a group interview on cable news. They tell the interviewer that Santa Claus turned them into elves too, but what makes them different is they are from rich families. Their parents had stepped in to rescue them (and only them) from the North Pole years before you even started your investigation. The interview asks what evidence they have that what they're saying is true. They say pretty much all the same things you've been saying this whole time, though in a slightly more posh accent.

The next day world opinion turns against Santa Claus. Congressional inquiries are called. Prosecutors are enlisted. Police arrive at the North Pole. Santa Claus is arrested.

The trial takes the better part of a year. There are many times when it seems that Santa—who had hired the most sadistic, vicious and outright poisonous lawyers money could buy—would get away. But eventually, after a brutal legal battle, he is finally found guilty. He goes to jail for the rest of his life, which is a very long time for an immortal spirit. As a result, Christmas everywhere stops happening, the holiday season forever tainted with these unfortunate events. And you are the one people blame. You saved thousands of children from a life of total misery under the rule of one of the cruelest beings in all creation, and the world hates you for it.

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#short fiction #short story #santa claus #christmas #social media

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dankusner · 3 months

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GOOCH + HARING

“Finding a chronicler with the proper combination of familiarity and detachment can be like going on a series of bad Hinge dates, but in Gooch, Haring has met his match.”

Book Review: ‘Radiant: The Life and Line of Keith Haring,’ by Brad Gooch

A New Keith Haring Biography Draws the Most Complete Picture Yet

In his thoroughly researched “Radiant,” Brad Gooch considers the short, blazing life of the ’80s artist, activist and man about downtown.

A photograph of Keith Haring shows a young shirtless man, with curly hair and large clear glasses, from the waist up. Behind him is a brightly colored red, yellow, green and black painting that suggests bodies in motion. Modern art can baffle and intimidate. Keith Haring strove to democratize it.

Haring, who died at 31 of complications from AIDS after a brief but dizzyingly productive international career, drew and painted for the masses and the kids, sometimes getting handcuffed and fined for his trouble. In the garbage-and-graffiti-weary New York of the 1980s, his creations — first chalked on blank advertising boards in subways, then bolder and more enduring, like the safety-orange “Crack Is Wack” mural that still stands in an East Harlem handball court — were like a fresh new roll of wallpaper.

As his canvases and sculptures began selling to private collectors for big bucks, he carried on doing public work, notably for a children’s hospital in Paris.

He loved children, and his more G-rated drawings — with faint inflection of Robert Hargreaves’s Mr. Men and Little Miss series — have been grafted onto many books for them, one by his sister Kay Haring. (All four siblings were given “K.A.H.” initials after their parents’ alma mater, Kutztown Area High in Pennsylvania, which the son — Mr. Famous — found screamingly funny.)

There have been oodles of ink spilled previously about the artist for adults too, including from his own pen. Haring’s journals, published in 1996, are still in print, and he’s been the topic of multiple monographs and a Lives of the Artists installment by the former Barneys fixture Simon Doonan.

The authorized biography (more of an oral history) that soon followed his death, by the critic, composer and photographer John Gruen, is harder to locate, and the disco-dotted musical it inspired was a bust. Gruen’s memoir, with the delightful title “Callas Kissed Me … Lenny Too!,” describes how his daughter, Julia, came to be employed as Haring’s assistant and studio manager, and then executor of his estate and director of his foundation — maybe a little cozy.

A New Keith Haring Biography Draws the Most Complete Picture Yet In his thoroughly researched “Radiant,” Brad Gooch considers the short, blazing life of the ’80s artist, activist and man about downtown.

March 3, 2024, 5:00 a.m. ET

Keith Haring at the Pittsburgh Center for the Arts in 1978, in front of his untitled painting.The Keith Haring Foundation

When you purchase an independently reviewed book through our site, we earn an affiliate commission.

RADIANT: The Life and Line of Keith Haring, by Brad Gooch

Modern art can baffle and intimidate. Keith Haring strove to democratize it.

In the garbage-and-graffiti-weary New York of the 1980s, his creations — first chalked on blank advertising boards in subways, then bolder and more enduring, like the safety-orange “Crack Is Wack” mural that still stands in an East Harlem handball court — were like a fresh new roll of wallpaper.

As his canvases and sculptures began selling to private collectors for big bucks, he carried on doing public work, notably for a children’s hospital in Paris.

Gruen’s memoir, with the delightful title “Callas Kissed Me … Lenny Too!,” describes how his daughter, Julia, came to be employed as Haring’s assistant and studio manager, and then executor of his estate and director of his foundation — maybe a little cozy.

Finding a chronicler with the proper combination of familiarity and detachment can be like going on a series of bad Hinge dates, but in Gooch, Haring has met his match. “Radiant,” referring to both Haring’s recurrent drawing of a crawling baby and his own fast-burning star, is a faithful retracing of his steps, with over 200 people interviewed or consulted: devoted and probably definitive. (The word “magisterial” is too stuffy to apply to its subject, who favored jeans, sneaks and bared biceps.)

Gooch, himself an energetic multihyphenate, has written biographies of Frank O’Hara, Flannery O’Connor and Rumi. He is a poet, which shows in phrasing at once shrewd and evocative. “His radiant baby was a trademark, a brand,” he writes of Haring’s signature image, “but also a warm compress of meaning.”

“Smash Cut,” Gooch’s memoir, detailed his own arrival from Pennsylvania to the late-70s Manhattan club scene, and his love affair with the filmmaker Howard Brookner, who also died in his 30s of AIDS.

He writes of originally intending to do Haring’s life as a novel; this endeavor, published less than a year after a big retrospective at the Broad museum in Los Angeles, is obviously more dutiful — it’s hard for prose to keep pace with Keith’s primary-colored kapow — but nonetheless a public service. Facts are not wack.

Born in 1958, the same year NASA launched its first spacecraft[16], Haring wanted to be an artist from pretty much the moment he could clutch a crayon. He was plainly influenced by Disneyland, television and other boomer eye candy. His father, Allen, an electronics technician, amateur cartoonist and basement ham radio tinkerer, was in the same Marine squadron as Lee Harvey Oswald (“That’s Ozzie!” he exclaimed, seeming him shot on TV); his mother, Joan, sewed little Keith a bat-eared hat to watch “Batman.” (Later, with terrible poignancy, she would help sew his memorial panel for the AIDS Memorial Quilt.)

In perfect sync with his much-hyped generation, Keith turned on, tuned in and would drop out of two art schools; he was a workaholic, but on his own terms. He adored the Monkees more than the Beatles and was briefly a Jesus freak. His homosexuality emerged gradually and was not much discussed with his parents, even after he became a prominent member of ACT UP.

He always liked being part of something bigger. “It was never just Keith; there was always a circle around him,” the curator and reliable bon mot generator Jeffrey Deitch tells Gooch. “He was like a Pied Piper.” Starting at around 15, and later at the Paradise Garage, Palladium et al., Haring did an unholy amount of drugs.

Once he gets to Ed Koch’s Gotham, it’s black and white and bled all over. The artist Kenny Scharf, a friend, rival and onetime roommate, describes the stabbing victim who wanders into one of their parties: “People thought it was an art performance and just watched him wander around.”

Gooch likens Haring’s homage to Michael Stewart, a Black graffiti artist who died after police brutality, to Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”

Such highbrow comparisons have been late arriving.

Haring may have out-Warholed Warhol, a mentor and collaborator, in enjoying celebrity friends — “there goes the neighborhood” The Village Voice captioned a photo of him with Brooke Shields — and the Concorde. But he was less cool than hot, eager and earnest: handing out free buttons and selling cheap merch at his prescient Pop Shop but fretting about his place in the canon and firing off indignant letters to editors.

Time magazine’s influential critic Robert Hughes emerges here as a particular Joker to his Batman, likening Haring and his friend Jean-Michel Basquiat to “those two what’s their names on ‘Miami Vice’” and calling them “Keith Boring” and “Jean-Michel Basketcase.” (Good lord!)

“They come out fast, but it’s a fast world,” Haring said of his squiggles to Charles Osgood in 1982, and that was before we all uneasily merged onto the information superhighway.

With licensing and replication now turbocharged — you can buy Haring wares on the sale rack at Uniqlo — Gooch’s book insists readers slow down and consider the artist’s legacy. And its cover feels like a secret handshake, done in the colors of an old-fashioned New York City taxicab.

RADIANT: The Life and Line of Keith Haring | By Brad Gooch | Harper | 512 pp. | $40

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jessartdecoration · 1 year

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Creative Ways to Use Graffiti Wall Stickers in Your Home Decor

Graffiti wall stickers are a fun and easy way to add a touch of urban style to any space. They are a popular option for those who want to incorporate street art into their home or business décor without the commitment of a permanent mural or wallpaper. This essay will discuss the benefits of graffiti wall stickers and why they have become a popular choice among interior designers and homeowners.

Firstly, graffiti wall stickers are a versatile and customizable option. They come in a variety of sizes and designs, making it easy to find the perfect sticker to fit any space. Graffiti wall stickers can be tailored to the specific needs of a space, whether it's a small sticker to add a pop of color or a large sticker to create a bold statement. This flexibility allows for endless possibilities in creating unique and personalized environments.

Secondly, graffiti wall stickers are a cost-effective alternative to traditional artwork or murals. Commissioning an artist to create a custom mural can be expensive, while graffiti wall stickers are an affordable way to achieve a similar effect. Graffiti wall stickers also offer the added benefit of being easily removable and replaceable, allowing for a quick and easy update to a space without the need for a complete overhaul.

Thirdly, graffiti wall stickers can add a sense of fun and playfulness to a room. The colorful and quirky designs of graffiti wall stickers can create a sense of whimsy and joy that is difficult to achieve with traditional artwork or décor. This can be particularly effective in children's rooms, playrooms, or spaces that require a bit of lightheartedness.

Additionally, graffiti wall stickers can be used to showcase a specific theme or express creativity. They can be used to showcase a love of music, art, or sports, or to display a social or political message. The versatility of graffiti wall stickers allows for endless possibilities in expressing creativity and making a bold statement.

To ensure the best results when using graffiti wall stickers, it is important to work with a reputable and experienced supplier. They should have the necessary expertise and knowledge to advise on the best materials and installation techniques for the specific requirements of a space. Proper installation is essential to achieve a seamless and durable finish that will last for years to come.

In conclusion, graffiti wall stickers are a fun and easy way to add a touch of urban style to any space. They offer a cost-effective alternative to traditional artwork or murals, add a sense of fun and playfulness to a room, and can be used to showcase a specific theme or express creativity. Working with an experienced and reputable supplier is essential to achieve the best results and ensure a seamless and durable finish.

#graffiti wall stickers #3d wallpaper

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speaking-at-the-theater · 1 year

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TOH REACTION

so first thing first: i misspell a lot. i also swear a lot, if that bothers you, sorry

i havent watched the last two eps of toh so heres me doing it. i’ll compile it all in one post so i wont have to tag 300+ posts, i also use caps a lot.

anyway, let’s go! QUICK DETAIL I ACCIDENTALLY REFER TO COLLECTOR AS HIM HERE I DIDNT NOTICE HE WAS THEY THEM I'LL CORRECT IT AS SOON AS POSIBLE

FOR THE FUTURE! here we go

collector’s happiness overlaid with everyone else’s suffering is so…funny??? idk also ‘it’s like the whole world is singing’ is a cool phrase if it weren’t for the context XD

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aunt lily to the rescue!!

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LILY NO

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‘now, what part do i get to play’ horrific scene i want more

also: this is why you don’t give children godly powers. it ends badly!

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oddly beautiful if not for the corpses

i want that as my wallpaper

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EDA’S REQUIEM!!!!!!

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you know things are bad when the logo/intro changes

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‘it’s not like he’ll inexplicably appear if you say his name!!’ hunter have you ever read a fairytale? a myth? the bible??? names have power.

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oh yeah never mess with a latina mama.

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it’s cute seeing the kids miss their home

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through the face??? count me in!!

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luz is smitten

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noooooo luz :((((( you’re happier sharing both realms everyone can see it

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anyone know what these are??

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ah. the bastard is here.

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CALEB???

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nooo gus youre making me cryy

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‘i’m fine, really’ said every character who is not fine in the story of ever

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the soundtrack in eda’s room scene!!!! i need it!!!!

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amity’s palisman being a cat fits so well bc cats choose where they go. you cant control them the way you might a dog or a bird, which fits well with the idea of choosing your own path.

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camila is taking everything so well!! my mom wouldnt last two seconds in the boiling isles. neither would i ofc.

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is this an animation error or….??

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some graffiti messages i managed to read:

-(do not) celebrate the day of unity! :(

- boo belos

-hide ur kids

-run

-they’ll find you!!

-hide

-nope, no, go away

-closed forever

-help

-run

and general sun and moon symbols

-beware the collector

-amelia, cat! (general stuff i cant make out) (infinity train???)

-where is the titan now?

-belos lied

these are cute

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wow that’s creepy

i know it’s supposed to be creepy about the collector playing pretend while everyone suffers but- i can’t. the secondhand embarrassment is too much for me.

light glyph go??????

collectors ‘cool aunt vibe who pretends to be coldhearted but actually cares a lot’ vs luz’s ‘bad but sad boy’

parallels? ey?

hmmm yeah that was creepy

‘little space cherub’ XDD

love how we go from funny new hexside to (ughhhh) belos.

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hmm i would love to analyze the composition of this glyph

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all the bastard adults trying to take advantage of the collector ughhhhhh

also love the space palace

plus: ‘what do mortals eat again? rocks? fire? gravity?’, unfortunately, collector, we are not stars

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of course the book is made of rocks. of course.

also king seems…practiced, on reading the book. you gotta wonder how much he knows now about collectors

cool how collector is both evil and, yk, a child. bc children are not always innocent. they can be some of the cruelest creatures on the universe (i would know)

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one has got to wonder about the history told in those walls, meaning i will wonder and theorize. bc that’s what i do.

ok it seems like collector was…surrounded by titans. baby titans, and then a group of older collectors took him in, seeing as theyre smiling and reaching out a hand, instead of banishing him away. they dont look friendly, but it might just be the portrait.

although those first two portraits reveal themselves, at the very end there’s something else

unfortunately i have no idea what it is. i dont think the repetition is an animation error or shortcut. if it were, why only repeat two times and change at the very end, where it is unlikely to be noticed??

again, portraits repeat, except for a star in the middle.

......i wanna theorize on this. maybe on another post.

collectors doing something to a planet and our collector watching, wanting to join in, but probably rejected (the whole portrait section had a lot of images but it surpassed tumblrs limit so i deleted them, more on another post, maybe

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poor raine tho. what’s up with them and people trying to mindcontrol them????

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poor hooty

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what’s this, rapunzel?? a tear saves the guy???

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poor willow tho

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‘’im gonna assume those are clean’ ma’am cleanness is the last thing you need to worry about now

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that’s two simultaneous mindcontrollings! raine is on a roll!!

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“trouble with your team, captain half-a-witch? leading isnt easy is it? all your time is spent helping the team, keeping people from fighting, planning your next move, and titan forbid you show any weakness! everyone else falls apart.

fucking kikimora

cuando no tienes la chancla, un bate sirve

boscha is….ugh. i’m conflicted. i get it but also.she annoys me.

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everything is under control when everything is not undercontrol my favorite trope

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poor (????) collector. i know he’s not good but….idk, i feel for him

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ITSHATCHINGITSHATCHINGHATCHIHATCHINGAAAAAAAAA

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poor willowwwwww poor kids everyone needs therapy here

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“luz has a staff, why does that make me nervous?” considering the first impression you got of it……

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SNAKESHIFTER YESSSSSS ALSO SNAKE PALISMAN FOR LUZ WE WINNIN

i could write poems about how it fits her but just- look. it fits.

END CREDITS WHERE AWESOME!!!! Love the snapshots of the things that werent fully explained!! kikimora manipulating boscha during the attack, king being sad at losing eda and lilith and the collector…..emphathizing?? of a sort??? anyway yeah

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justrightpaintinginc · 2 years

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Artistic painting of walls and ceilings

Every person with an artistic taste, in the process of decorating the interior of their own home or office, strives for exclusivity and individuality, since the decorative component of the design is the best reflection of the internal preferences of the customer. Based on the exceptional importance of interior decor, standard materials in the design of walls and ceilings, such as wallpaper, ceramic tiles, and decorative panels, are not able to make the space original and truly exclusive.

One of the most profitable solutions in this regard for the design of walls and ceilings will be art painting. This type of decoration is a real interior art that fully develops the aesthetic potential of the room and the creative beginning of the customer. A company with many years of experience in the field of interior decor, Interior Painting Beverly Hills offers its clients the services of creative designers and graphic artists who will bring to life even the most daring ideas and create a unique atmosphere in the interior space, skillfully working with colors, shades, and light. The artistic painting of the walls and ceiling is not only insanely beautiful and incredibly aesthetically pleasing but also practical because the drawing applied to the surface in compliance with all technological aspects will remain unchanged for decades without changing its decorative qualities. Based on this stability, artistic painting can harmoniously decorate the following functional areas of the living space: Living room: Since living rooms are often decorated in classical stylistic concepts, including Baroque, Empire, and antique styles, artistic painting of walls and ceiling will become an appropriate decorative element. In such spaces, frescoes are most often used, and realistic images of nature motifs, imitations of works by famous artists, and ancient characters are chosen. By supplementing these decorative lines with plaster stucco, it is possible to achieve a majestic and solemn atmosphere in the living room, as well as to emphasize the lightness and lightness of the space. Bedroom: Strict requirements are imposed on the decor of the recreation room since the bedroom should not only be beautiful but also have a person to a relaxing atmosphere and a comfortable pastime. In addition, the family bedroom should retain an intimate touch of sensual relationships and romance. Based on such a complex interweaving of decorative aspects, the artistic painting of the walls and ceiling of the bedroom assumes, as a rule, a harmonious combination of soft muted shades, which are embodied in natural motifs, or reflect realistic portrait paintings, most often romantic themes and even Exterior Painting Hollywood can help you in a far better way. Children's room: Perhaps one of the most relevant areas of work of designers and artists is children's and adolescent painting, which is characterized by a variety of colors and themes because the children's room is an island of spontaneity and originality of the house. Cartoon and fairy—tale motifs are often used for younger children, while the teenage room is a real canvas for a graphic artist and a master of graffiti.

#Artistic painting

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heavensmortuary · 2 years

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Old mansion gothic for @bananzer

-Night falls heavier here, with greenery obstructing starlight from the inner house. Heavy boughs of ivy creep through broken windows and doors left open. Any left closed will be pushed open with time, no matter the lock.

-The spray paint left by teenagers and squatters has now faded, graffiti now being eaten by the peeling wallpaper as it begins its decomposition.

-The electricity still works. No one knows who pays for it. Dull, eerie glowing of the kitchen stained-glass lamp over a summery plastic table cloth, the underside ripped cotton. A chill running down your spine, thinking someone might see the light from the kitchen, but too afraid to be in the dark. You turn on the sink, and a sudden jolt of sound erupts from the pipes down below, and a cold sweat shakes your body as you scramble to turn it off. Please God, whatever it is, don't let it find me. You pause. You haven't acknowledged the feeling of being watched until now. Rust dark water oozes from the sink.

-A breakfast room turned into a humid green house of mildew, the yellow carpet soggy and opal-shimmery with the paths of slugs. The chairs are rusted, the blue paint chipping away.

-You avoid the bedrooms, except for the children's room. Pink lions and elephants dance forever painted on the walls, and dust clings to the corners of the room. A huge walk in closet is open, wooden doors set aside to display almost empty shelves except for dusty shoeboxes. The wood floor is rotten here just under the open window, but you can't bear leave the window open for the night, and so you take the chance. After much creaking and speeding heartbeats, youve shut it. You almost slip on a silk party dress left on the floor on the way out

- A dumbwaiter with an old telephone inside. It hums slightly, a long black cord reaching down, down, down through a hole in the box. You pick up the receiver. Someone, the voice of an elderly woman, whispers "Hello?". You answer back, but shes gone. Only the drip of water somewhere far away.

-dead moths all over the stairs. They lessen towards the top.

-Overgrown pool. A crane flies away after being startled, and several frogs plunge into the water, thick with algae and reeds and wild water lily. Its pesceful here in the day. At night, theres a deafening drone of mosquito and frog, and eye reflections blink in and out of the water, lazily rolling under the ink black of the backyard. The gazebo is brittle wood and blanketed with a willow tree.

-Old statues. A two-headed woman with a vase. A boy with a snarling dog. A girl crying with hands to her face in the garden. One, a statue of an old woman with a bird in her mouth, sits in the dark of a doorway upstairs, hands folded patiently in her lap. Past her is a dark bedroom. Black curtains. Deep red walls.

-The master bathroom has stained glass, jade tile, white lace shower curtain embroidered with a scene of a couple having a picnic by a lake. Old cannisters, pill bottles, and toothbrushes are behind the mirror.

-The dressers and drawers are full of newspapers. Old quilts. Rat-chewed church pamphlets from the 60s. One dresser had a copper ring in it, the edges too ragged for anyone to wear safely

-Past a white door is a steep staircase, leading straight into the what can only be described as enveloping, a consuming of sorts. Your flashlight is no use here. Stepping down one step, the wood step bends slightly, moisture gathering into droplets from the board, and you, shuddering, back off. You hear the droplets hit water at the bottom of the dark. Its flooded. And yet, you can hear music, faint and drowned. "Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run. Bang bang bang, goes the farmers gun. Don't give the farmer," you can see ripples spread from somewhere beyond the staircase, just out to sight, "his fun, fun, fun."

#Long post #this was super fun #but now I'm spooked sitting here in the dark #banazer #my writing #krakens croaks

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ecliterature · 2 years

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Ménage à Gretchen

Gretchen trailed her laquered red nails down the wallpapered halls of Crestmire Manor, her assisted living facility. What a sad, 1980s, daytime television backdrop for my golden years, she thought. Couldn’t they at least consult the recent Laura Ashley neutrals? This pale pink bullshit makes my skin look ghastly in the daylight.

It was 10.45pm, and the halls were silent, empty. All of the Crestmire residents had long been tucked into their adjustable beds, Eszopiclone or Zaleplon administered. “No more benzos for us oldies. Oh no. Heaven forbid we have any fun any more. Not even when we’re trying to sleep,” Gretchen muttered. She walked languidly, acrylic tips brushing the walls as she passed, leaving the faintest imprint. Grandma graffiti. Still here.

Gretchen stopped when she got to room 207. Henry’s room. She took a deep breath, rearranged her wine-red chiffon robe to better frame her cleavage. Her trusty crimson wrap, it had covered and revealed her in turn for nearly 3 decades now, since her 60th birthday. She had scrupulously hand-washed the stains out of it for years and now that those stains came less often she almost wished she had left a few. Just a few. Reminders of specific men, specific moments. Steven in Paris in 1996, when she was 62 and freshly divorced (for the third time) and took her first alimony cheque to the travel agency. Picked up her plane ticket and the 40 year old travel agent, Steven, and went for her own little vacance. She lived in that red see-through number, barely saw Paris beyond the arrondissement out her window. She fucked and she fucked and she fucked.

Or her 70th birthday, when Gregory was drinking a scotch while fucking her – always the multitasker – and nearly lost consciousness when he came, spilling the drink all down her and the open robe. The salty, muddy fragrance of Gregory’s scotch mixed with his cum. She wouldn’t mind smelling that again. If only Gregory hadn’t passed away 5 years ago, age 86, surrounded by his dearly devoted wife and children. What they didn’t know. What Gretchen could tell them about their precious Gregory and his proclivities.

The ding of the elevator down the hall wakes Gretchen from her memories. Better get inside, can’t get caught by one of these narcing young orderlies who obviously aren’t getting enough themselves. She scratches her acrylics on Henry’s door – shukka shukka, shukka shukka, shukka shukka – just like Dolly in 9 To 5.

Henry opens the door and he, too, is in a robe, pleated blue velour. Henry’s a newer resident at Crestmire, having moved in a few months ago. He’s young – 76 – and still plays golf, and it’s a damn mystery why he’s at Crestmire at all, an independent man like that. The ladies say it’s because he lost his wife and he’s lonely; the men guess there’s conniving children involved, wanting his house for their own. Gretchen listens to the talk but doesn’t participate. What business is it of hers why he’s here? He’s one of the only men in this place who can still get hard without Viagra and that’s all she cares about. He’s a horny old goat and, Gretchen sighs, “I guess I’m a horny old goatess.”

“What’s that about my goatee?” Henry asks.

“Oh, nothing Henry. I was just thinking out loud again. Could you stir me a martini, please?”

“You know it Gretch.”

“Miss Gretchen, please.”

“Sorry. Yes, Miss Gretchen.”

Gretchen watches his ass under his too-small robe as he ambles to the kitchen. Still plump, somehow. Must be the golf. She slips out of her matching red kitten heel slippers – with the poofs on top – and flexes her painted toes. Also red. Another night, another geriatric fuck. Thank god for that hip replacement 7 years ago.

Henry pops his head out of the kitchenette, illuminated by overhead fluorescents: “Miss Gretchen, there’s something I should tell you. I — I went out on a whim tonight. I want you to know how much I’ve been enjoying our sex. I never imagined Crestmire would be so… exciting. So it’s not that I haven’t been having fun. Or that I don’t like, hem, doing, uh, having sexual intercourse with you.” He looks down at the martini shaker. Gretchen hasn’t seen a man blush this furiously since she asked an ex state senator to fuck her in the ass.

“Henry, jesus, spit it out! What is it?”

“I invited Monica over tonight too!” Henry blurted.

“As in, you forgot I was coming?” Eyebrow raise.

“No I just thought… you’re such a wild woman Miss Gretchen… I thought you might be up for a threesome with Monica and I!”

Monica was a long time resident of Crestmire, dating from her last bout of chemo a decade ago. She was around the same age as Gretchen but you wouldn’t know it. Gretchen kept her blonde hair curled, her nails done, her outfits coordinated. Her purse always matched her belt matched her shoes. She had even gotten the girls at the salon to do eyelash extensions a couple months ago. They were little geniuses, those salon girls. Nevermind her excellent facelift in 2003 that was still holding up. A present for her 69th birthday from Gregory. Thanks for everything, Gregory.

Monica had long, grey hair, often braided down her back. She was prone to wearing screenprinted sweaters that featured her (dead) pets or (living but now adult) grandchildren. She crocheted – crocheted! – and she always ate the cafeteria food dutifully and never joined in for poker. Something about gambling being a tool of the devil. Like crocheting wasn’t. And now Henry was telling Gretchen that Monica wanted a threesome?

“Does Monica… know I’m here?” Gretchen asked, cautiously.

“Of course, Gretch – sorry, Miss Gretchen. Of course she knows. She’s really excited about this. Actually, it was her idea.”

Well, what the hell, thought Gretchen. I haven’t had a threesome in decades.

#black girls must die exhausted #fanfic

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walldecorexpert · 6 months

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Graffiti Football Wallpaper mural for Boys Room Decor, Kids Sports Mural, Peel & Stick Soccer Wall Art, Children's Sports Bedroom Wallpaper

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revel-wallpapers · 5 years

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Artwork Bicycles Children Graffiti(2560x1600)

#kids #wallpaper #bicycles #graffiti #artwork #children

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enchantedxrose · 4 years

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The Monster of West End: Chapter Four (follow the link to read on AO3)

A retelling of the fairy tale set in the early Victorian Era.

Viola Weston is desperate to pay off her family's debts. Stubborn and self-reliant, she would rather look for work than seek an advantageous marriage. She is utterly unprepared for her eccentric new employer's beastly appearance--but quickly charmed by his warm heart and cheerful disposition.

Albert Carlyle is lonely: cursed from birth with a monstrous form, but coldly tolerated by society for his wealth. People are afraid of him, no matter how hard he tries to make himself agreeable. He has resigned himself to a quiet life collecting butterflies and ignoring judgmental whispers--until Viola upends his comfortable, complacent existence.

Can Viola set aside her pride long enough to accept his help? Can Albert find the courage to make his affections known? Or will the cruelties of the world tear their budding relationship apart?

Miranda insisted on accompanying Viola to the courtyard, on the pretense of helping her carry her meager luggage. From the firm grip her sister kept on her arm, Viola knew she was hoping to speak privately to her. The intense questions began as soon as they were out of their father’s earshot, though the elder sister maintained a veneer of polite curiosity.

“So. Covent Garden. Your employer must be quite well off. New money, I expect?”

“I believe so. I didn’t interrogate him on the subject.”

“Does he have any family in London? Where are his people from?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that he lives alone, so I assume he is unmarried.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “A bachelor? Is he very old?”

“No, I shouldn’t say a day over five-and-twenty.”

Viola didn’t know why that reply had slipped out (in truth, it was difficult to tell Mr. Carlyle’s age given his unusual appearance) but she wished her sister would come to the point, instead of pursing her lips in silent disapproval.

Conversation halted as they came to the front gate of the prison. The gatekeeper nodded civilly to them both as he let them out onto the cobblestone street, where Eustace Stubbs was keeping a carriage waiting for them. As usual, Miranda hardly spared her drab, colorless husband a glance as he helped the women into the cab.

Viola had yet to unravel Miranda’s reasoning for marrying Eustace—she seemed to regard him with more annoyance than affection, and that was when she noticed him at all. He was a clerk in a solicitor’s firm, and in his seven years there, had yet to advance or distinguish himself in any way. He tended to blend in with the very wallpaper of their home.

Perhaps Miranda had simply allowed Eustace to rescue her from the family troubles. After all, she now had a comfortable enough roof over her head, and was able to send a few shillings to the imprisoned Mr. Weston every month. But now with a child on the way, Viola doubted they could even set aside that much.

“You seem to know very little about your new employer,” Miranda observed as they settled into their seats. It was a tight fit: the carriage was only meant to accommodate two passengers. “Did you not ask any questions about his background?”

Viola colored slightly, but she tried to maintain a cool demeanor. “It seemed impertinent to pry, and I didn’t wish to be rude. Especially not when he had behaved so graciously toward me.”

Miranda frowned, perplexed. “These are perfectly ordinary inquiries—why on earth should that be impertinent?”

Viola shrugged, trying to end the conversation by staring out the window as though fascinated. What could she say? She could not even find the words to describe her employer’s curious visage—her sister would think she had gone mad.

“Vi, please be careful,” Miranda said in a low voice. “Promise me. You’ve never been away from home for such a stretch of time.”

“You don’t need to worry about me so much. Mr. Carlyle is a gentleman and he’s been very kind to me already.”

“People aren’t always what they seem.”

That bleak warning hung in the air between them for a moment. They both knew exactly who Miranda was thinking of, though neither wanted to speak his name.

“It’s stopped snowing,” Eustace observed softly, more to himself than to Miranda and Viola. “Hopefully they can begin clearing the roads.”

Neither sister took up this feeble attempt at a new conversation topic. A frigid silence pervaded the rest of the journey.

“Vi, I know you can look after yourself,” Miranda said at last, twisting her gloves in her hands. “I know this must all sound patronizing from your point of view. I am only asking you to be careful. It’s a dangerous world for a woman alone.”

“I’m quite aware,” Viola snapped. Miranda’s direful warnings were not exactly encouraging, and Viola resented the constant reminders of her vulnerability.

But their father’s gentle admonition rang in her ears: Be kind to your sister. Through the haze of her annoyance, she felt a stab of guilt in her stomach. She inhaled sharply through her nose, trying to regain her composure.

“I’m sure you mean well, Miranda,” she said at last. “But things are finally beginning to look up for our family. I suppose I had rather hoped you would be more excited about my prospects.”

Before Miranda could respond, the carriage lurched to a halt. She peered curiously around the curtains.

“This is the house here? Number twelve, with the green shutters?” She appraised it with wide eyes.

“Yes it is,” said Viola, unable to suppress a hint of smug satisfaction: her sister was impressed at her employer’s house. “Well. Goodbye, Miranda, I shall see you for dinner on Sunday.”

“Eustace, will you bring her luggage to the door?”

“That’s—that isn’t necessary,” Viola said quickly, heart racing. What if they caught a glimpse of Mr. Carlyle himself? What would her sister have to say about that? She scooped up her carpetbag and jumped from the carriage before they could say another word. Her palms were sweating so excessively that her bag nearly slipped from her grasp as she strode toward the front door.

What had come over her? She wasn’t embarrassed of Mr. Carlyle, was she? Why had she been so eager to hide him from her family?

She felt suddenly sick with herself.

Viola’s abstraction prevented her from noticing that there was already a figure on Mr. Carlyle’s threshold: a young woman dressed in plain muslin, hunched over as she scrubbed something off the door. She seemed quite engrossed in the task, so Viola cleared her throat loudly to make her presence known.

“Good morning,” Viola called cheerfully. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work—”

The maid startled, clutching her heart. “I didn’t see you there, Miss.”

Up close, Viola could see now that the maid was just a girl—scarcely fifteen or sixteen—and though her hands were chapped and her arms quite muscular from hard work, she had a plump, cheerful face with dimples. Strands of red hair escaped from under her plain linen cap. The maid stood, wiping her hands self-consciously on her coarse apron.

“I wonder if you could show me where the servants’ entrance is,” Viola said. “I should hate to make a poor impression on my first day.”

The girl’s face brightened with understanding. “Oh, you must be Miss Weston!”

“I take it I’m expected, then?”

“I’m Molly, the housemaid. I would shake your hand, but…” She held up her dirty hands sheepishly. “If you’ll just follow me, Miss Weston, I can take you to the servants’ hall.”

As Molly stepped away from the door, Viola realized she had been halfway through washing away what appeared to be graffiti, scribbled in childish writing with a piece of coal, a half-faded word in all capitals, stark against the bright green paint: MONSTER.

Molly followed her gaze. “It’s…neighborhood children, I think,” she said in an undertone, twisting the rag in her hands. “They don’t know any better. But I always try to wash it off before Mr. Carlyle sees.”

Viola frowned. “Does this happen often, then?”

“Often enough.”

Without another word, Viola took out her handkerchief and helped Molly erase the rude message from the door. She then followed the maid around the back of the building, to a set of stairs leading to the garden-level door.

“Please call me Viola,” she said as they entered the servants’ hall. “We are going to be working in close quarters, after all.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mrs. Hutchinson wouldn’t approve of that, Miss. I’m only the housemaid, you see—it would be impertinent if I spoke to the upper-servants on terms of equality.”

Viola sighed. It seemed there were rules of etiquette in this line of work of which she knew nothing.

Molly lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “First time in service?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t fret about it. Mr. Carlyle is a very patient employer and he doesn’t easily take offense. It’s Mrs. Hutchinson you must be careful of.”

Viola chuckled, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxing. This assurance fit into her early impressions of Mr. Carlyle’s character, but it was nevertheless a relief to have it confirmed by someone who knew him better.

“How long have you worked here?” she asked.

“Three years this February.” Molly drew herself up proudly.

“How many other servants are there, apart from ourselves?”

“There’s Mrs. Palmer, the cook, and Eliza the scullery maid, and Mr. Stockington, the groom—but you shan’t see much of him, as his rooms are above the carriage-house and he never takes his meals with us.”

“No butler? No footmen?” Viola’s knowledge of service was admittedly limited, but she knew it was a bit peculiar for a gentleman of means not to have a proper manservant. “Surely Mr. Carlyle has a valet, at least?”

Molly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, biting her lip. “Perhaps I ought not to mention it. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip…”

Viola suppressed a grin. It was evident that Molly in fact longed to divulge the story and would do so with very little encouragement. “I promise to be discretion itself,” she said solemnly.

Molly dropped her voice to a stage-whisper. “There was a valet, up until a year ago. But he was dismissed”—she paused dramatically—“for stealing.”

Viola raised her eyebrows.

“Poor Mr. Carlyle did not want to believe it at first,” Molly said, shaking her head. “He kept insisting the ivory cufflinks had only been misplaced. Then his gold watch-chain went missing—and a silver teaspoon—the evidence kept mounting until even he couldn’t deny it any longer.”

“Good heavens. What a dreadful situation.”

“And even after all that, Mr. Carlyle couldn’t bear to dismiss him without a reference. Said the man would never find honest work again without a reference, and he’d have no choice but to revert to his criminal ways. Mrs. Hutchinson was fairly apoplectic about having to give a sneak thief a glowing character, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine,” Viola muttered darkly. It was no wonder Mrs. Hutchinson was so protective of her employer—he was determined never to think the worst of people, even when they gave him ample cause to.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another servant—a broad-shouldered woman that Viola deduced from the flour dusting her apron must be the cook.

“Molly, have you been given a holiday that the rest of us don’t know about?” the cook barked. “I cannot think of another reason you would dawdle about in such a way.”

“No, Mrs. Palmer.” Molly quivered under her glare. She added in a whisper to Viola, “Come along. I’ll show you around, so that you can get settled.”

Molly led her on a quick tour so that Viola could begin to familiarize herself with the house. It was all just as comfortable and charming as the rooms she had already seen, but there were indications of Mr. Carlyle’s solitary bachelorhood: the stately drawing-room looked seldom used (indeed, the chairs looked so pristine that Viola doubted anyone had ever sat in them since the day they were purchased); and the guest bedrooms smelled stale, as if no one had ever set foot in them.

Mr. Carlyle also seemed to have occasionally eccentric tastes. The cavernous dining room, dark and shadowy with the curtains shut tight, was decorated with an odd centerpiece of interlocking antlers. It was hardly unusual for an ordinary man to display hunting trophies, but Viola found it curious for Mr. Carlyle. She couldn’t imagine him taking pleasure in killing creatures for sport.

Finally, Molly opened a door across the hall from Mr. Carlyle’s study. “This is to be your workroom, Miss Weston.”

Viola’s carpetbag fell from her fingers to the floor, disregarded. “This is for me?”

Molly smiled. “I’ll leave you to examine it, then. I must get back to my work, or Mrs. Hutchinson will have my guts for garters.”

“Of course,” said Viola, distracted. “Thank you, Molly.”

It must have once been a morning room intended for the lady of the house, for it had large east-facing windows that bathed the daisy-flecked wallpaper with golden sunlight. To her delight, she found it had already been repurposed as a workroom for her. There was a long table in the center, where she could cut and measure fabrics. A basket at the end overflowed with spools of thread dyed in every imaginable color, prickly pincushions, and tailor’s chalk.

She pulled open a drawer in the oak bureau and found it stuffed with bolts of fabric. She ran her fingers longingly over the black satins and jewel-toned velvets.

This will be perfect, she thought with a satisfied nod. It was a small room, but her supplies were higher-quality than she had ever worked with before. Her employer really seemed to have thought of everything. There was even a rocking chair in the sunniest corner, so that she could take advantage of the light when embroidering fine details.

She knocked on Mr. Carlyle’s study door with only a hint of trepidation. When there was no response, she called his name.

“Come in, Miss Weston,” he responded in a distracted tone, and upon entering she understood why. He was hunched over his desk, intently studying a tiny object with a magnifying glass: a squirming beetle with iridescent orange wings, which he had trapped in a jar. He was sketching its likeness onto the journal spread out before him.

He did not look up from his beetle at her entrance, but he must have known she was approaching, for his long ears swiveled ever so slightly in her direction.

She craned her neck to look at his sketch of the insect. “That’s quite an accurate likeness, sir.”

Mr. Carlyle glanced up at her with wide eyes. “Do you think so, truly?”

Viola shrugged. “I’m hardly an expert, so I suppose one ought to take my opinions with a grain of salt. What exactly is that you’re sketching?”

He took a deep breath, as if to launch into a detailed explanation—but his enthusiasm deflated an instant later. “I won’t bore you with all of that,” he said quickly, shutting his sketchbook and turning his chair around to fully face her. “I trust you had a more pleasant journey back to us this morning than you did last night?”

Viola suppressed the urge to reply, Not exactly, since I had to ride with Miranda. “I did. Thank you, sir.”

“And do you have everything that you require, Miss Weston? I confess I’m not terribly knowledgeable on the subject and there was a certain amount of guesswork involved.”

“I believe so, sir. But today I shall take a proper inventory of all my supplies, and then I can inform you if I’m lacking anything important.”

“If you draw up your list tonight, I can give you money in the morning for anything you still need.”

“Oh.” Viola froze, taken aback. That Mr. Carlyle would trust her with any amount of his money, after knowing her so short a time—after learning of her family’s sordid history—was surprising to say the least.

“Unless you’ve some objection,” he added quickly, brow furrowed in concern at her hesitation.

“No, no,” she assured him, moving toward the door; “I’ll begin right away.”

#beauty and the beast #my fiction #monster of west end #sorry this update took so long #i wasn't happy with the first draft and ended up rewriting a bunch of it #also real life was kicking my ass for a bit

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dullahandyke · 5 years

Text

One Good Deed Will Do

Summary: Cecil ‘Deceit’ Sanders isn’t often a good big brother, so when he is, it’s worth noting, or at least, Patton seems to think so.

Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit, there is a bit of swearing

Notes: Cecil is my personal choice for Deceit’s actual name - I have a whole post I can link people to if they ask. This is in an AU where all of the sides are siblings, and it doesn’t really matter much, but Deceit is 15, Logan is 13 (nearly 14, as he’d protest), Roman and Virgil are 12 and Patton is 8.

"Logan! Logan!"

Cecil watched through the sticker-covered doorframe as his younger brother knocked at the nerd's door. There had been some science fact in a show Pat had been watching, and he had long learned not to come to Cecil with questions unless he wanted to be fooled with lawyer talk that no 15-year-old had any right to be using.

"Logan!" Patton rapped on the door quickly, utilising both arms for Maximum Knocking Efficiency. Finally, after the knocking had gone from a novelty to a distraction from the liar's math homework, the nerd opened the door to his younger brother, eyebrows drawn and mouth burned into a scowl.

"What?"

It was at that moment that Cecil knew that Logan had fucked up. The syllable quickly fell from the stoic teen's mouth harshly, crashing to the ground and cracking like glass. Patton, bless his stupid fucking heart, didn't seem to notice his brother's agitation. "My show says-"

Logan bristled, and Cecil was almost regretting eating that popcorn earlier; he should have saved it for now. "Patton, I have an important test tomorrow, I can't waste time on things like this! Just… ask Cecil, ok?" Patton took a step back, but if Logan noticed that he was unnerved, he didn't show it. "But Cecil doesn't-" Logan looked backwards towards his desk, adjusting his glasses as a nervous habit. "Goodbye, Patton."

And with that, the door was closed and Pat was left there, before shuffling back into his and Cecil's shared room. He climbed onto his bed clumsily before flopping back onto the mattress, looking up at the ceiling dejectedly.

Cecil peeked at his disappointed brother, the Nice part of him suddenly whacking him in the head, which, like, now, bro? It's been months since I've seen you and this is the time you choose to drop in? Before he could regret it, he quickly looked back to his homework, scribbling down a new problem as covertly as he could, before surrounding it with an almost cartoonish amount of question marks.

"Hey, Patton?" He called for his brother in a manner that he hoped was nonchalant - the last thing he needed was someone thinking he cared. As his brother's head lifted from the bed, he plastered a confused look onto his face. "I need help with this maths question, do you think you could give it a shot?"

By now the kid was alert, looking at the super cool dude with a confused expression to match Cecil's. "Really? I thought you did Big Person Maths, I'm not good at that." Internally, the liar cursed his constant need to be better than everyone. Newsflash, ego, being smarter than an eight year old is not an achievement!

"No, this is Big Person Maths, but I'm stuck, and maybe you could figure it out." Patton tilted his head in curiosity, pausing for a moment before stumbling off of the very childish and not at all cool bed that Cecil didn't want for himself, padding his way over to the debonair man's desk.

"Here, can you figure it out?" Cecil pointed to the sum on the paper; 2+6. Patton looked between his brother and the book, almost in disbelief. "You don't know this one?" The liar shook his head almost earnestly, eyes on the boy before him. "Do you know it?" Slowly, Patton nodded, reaching for Cecil's cool as hell fountain pen before Cecil shoved a regular pen into his hands. It wasn't that Cecil didn't trust his brother with his favourite pen, but Cecil didn't fucking trust his brother with his favourite pen.

Sloppily, Patton wrote a 6 onto the page, setting down the pen carefully once he was done. He looked up to his brother as the man checked the page to see what wisdom Patton had bestowed onto him. Overdramatically, Cecil gasped, looking pointedly at the number written. “Is that really the answer?” Patton hesitated before nodding slowly, eyeing his brother with precaution. Quickly, Cecil reached for the graffiti-covered calculator sitting unused on his desk, thumbing in the numbers of the sum rapidly enough that it was a wonder he had even inputted the right numbers at all. As he pressed, the equal button with a very aggressive finger, he gasped again, going as far as to throw a gloved hand over his mouth.

“Oh my goodness! It is six!” He looked to Patton, flabbergasted, as close to having sparkly anime eyes as a human could be. “I didn’t know that! Patton, oh my gosh, you’re so good at maths!” Patton looked up to his brother, cautious of the praise; maybe constantly lying wasn’t the best thing to be known for when you were trying to compliment someone. “Really?” Cecil reached his arms out to the young boy’s shoulders, pushing enthusiasm into his voice. “Really! That was a total plot twist to me, and I do Big Person Maths!” Patton smiled up to him, clearly cheering up.

“Bro, you’re so good at that, thank you! I was really stuck on that one, for like hours, we had all week to do that one and I couldn’t get it done, you’re so-” As Cecil blathered on, turning his mouth to autopilot, he spent actual brain power on the decision as to whether or not he should hug his brother, and yikes, that was lowkey pathetic! Do it, you touch-starved snake bitch.

Whether he ended up doing it because of the Genuine Goodness In His Heart™ or because the voice inside his head was calling him a bitch, he ended up hugging the younger boy anyway, and like first off, whaaat????? Is this what hugs are like?? Oh boy, maybe Cecil should get some more body contact with people instead of hissing whenever people stepped near him. Secondly, Patton seemed to be enjoying it, if the tiny, tiny arms that were wrapping around him were any indication. Thirdly, Cecil should probably shut the fuck up now, please and thank you! The more he talked, the more Patton might doubt him…

As Cecil closed his mouth, there was precious silence for a moment- something hard to find in a house with five children in it at any given time.

The silence stretched onwards, Patton absorbed in the hug and Cecil just… sitting there. Is this what all hugs were like? They're boring once the initial shock wears off. Boooooooo! As he waited for Patton to break the embrace, the lawyerly bitch eyed Logan's door. If he hadn't already used up his One Nice Act For Family this year on Patton, he would probably go over and check on the dude. But he had, so fuck Logan.

Finally, Patton drew away from the hug, releasing Cecil from his grubby grasp. I mean, sure, Cecil was the one who started the hug, and for an eight-year-old Patton's hands were surprisingly clean, but the liar had a reputation to uphold, and if that meant never admitting to enjoying physical contact ever, then so be it.

Patton cleared his throat and Cecil threw his gaze back up to his brother's face instead of continuing to stare at the very interesting floor. "Thanks, Cecil. That was nice!" The liar quirked an eyebrow at the child; Cecil, nice? Preposterous. False. Incorrect. Fake news.

"No, I just let you do my maths homework for me." He drawled out slowly, avoiding Patton's eyes as he did and oh my god, was that wallpaper always there? Cecil eyed it warily, just in case, definitely not avoiding eye contact deliberately at all, no siree.

From the corner of his eye, Cecil noticed Patton's head bob as he nodded, and watched nonchalantly as the boy made his way back to his bed. Just as he was about to go back to his doodling in the margins of homework for the sake of Being Rebellious, he was drawn away by the voice of Patton, light and happy.

"Thanks for hugging me' It was nice." Cecil turned his attention back to the fountain pen in his hand, twirling it and watching the feather he'd taped to it spin. He made sure Patton was aware that he definitely wasn't paying any attention at all to him when he responded with a dull "Whatever."

Peace rang throughout the room, Patton making faint Patton noises while Cecil marked a 'deceit wuz here' note into the margins, because having an alter ego was very punk rock of him, if he did say so himself. If he strained his ears, Cecil would probably hear the sounds of Virgil and Roman bickering over something or other, but he couldn't be arsed to strain his precious ears, so he didn't, and the mystery as to what the two were probably arguing about would never be solved.

All of a sudden, out of the quiet came a voice that Cecil was sure didn't have anything else left to say. Transaction finished, no tip left, no small talk required.

"Does this mean I can hug you whenever I want?!"

"Fu-friiiiick no."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Fiiiiine."

Victory.

#deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #patton sanders #sanders sides #thomas sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides au #sanders sides sibling au #this was my attempt at fluff......couldn't stop myself from throwing in some stupid jokes tho #i will elaborate on this au at literally any prompting................

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aeterrnam-blog · 5 years

Note

retrouvailles +ikaros PLEASE!!

* drabbles

retrouvailles: the happiness of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation.

He doesn’t understand where he is. He knows, of course. He watched himself die in a hospital bed while whatever ethereal part of him left leaned against the wall. He went to his own funeral, said a rushed farewell to his corpse, watched his mother mourn for him, and watched his lover do the same. Henry knows.

He isn’t sure of the years that have passed since his death, nor if even a year has passed. His existence feels long in the way that a minute feels like eternity, if one counts out each second. Henry wanders, mostly, through long stretches of directionless purgatory. Some planes are of eerie Vermont woodland, with sheer ravine cliffs on either side of him. Others are long forgotten California deserts with nothing to permeate the distance save the same green sign heralding 29 Palms in 50 miles appearing over and over again on the side of that stretch of dry, cracked road, without a beach or palm tree in sight.

And occasionally, the world will bend, the mountains will tremble, and a shepherd’s crook seems to drag him elsewhere. Henry doesn’t understand why it happens; perhaps he nears the end of the world, perhaps the gods are bored, perhaps he is bored. Is he bored? Henry asks himself often, but he always decides that no, he is not.

Even rarer will his purgatory take a familiar skin, and he wanders through city avenues and Missouri backroads, surrounded by faces and invisible to all of them. These times he loves the most. These times are the most painful. He loiters outside museum doorways and police stations, waiting for an oblivious patron to open the door so that he might slip in behind them. There he stays for what seems like a very long time, pouring over each bit of information, sitting in front of televisions and leafing through archives and mulling through exhibits and watching interrogations.

This place is familiar in a distant way. The cover of a children’s book just barely remembered, the smell of home that he can’t quite place his finger on, a word used but never understood. He walks along the sidewalk until he reaches a bar.

He looks and he sees.

Waves of smooth hair that he can feel simply by looking, gentle lips fixed in an apathetic line, bending only to puff on a cigarette. Henry beams, Henry grins. He takes hold of the brass doorknob and pulls, tugs, throwing his inconsequential weight into heaving the door with the gold painted frosted window open. Henry curses as he drags it open. The love, the delight bubbling in his chest, so electric, so alive it might start his heart once more, is so roaring loud in his mind, he barely notices the breeze tickling through the hole in his head.

To living eyes, it seems a particularly rough gust of wind makes the door shudder in the threshold, but to Henry, it’s enough to granted him passage, and he slips in, running to Ikaros.

He falls to his knees, no caution to the suit he’s destined to wear for the rest of eternity. His hands are lifted suppliant to cup Ikaros’ cheeks. Ikaros looks past him. Henry’s blue eyes flick to and fro wildly, trying to hold that gaze, trying to pretend like he’s being seen. “Ikaros, Ikaros,” he implores, “it’s me, it’s Henry, I’m here! Can’t you see me? Can’t you hear me?” Henry raises on his knees to kiss his lips. There’s nothing there, nothing corporeal, just a grey coldness and the bitter taste of iron that fills his mouth. Ikaros takes a drag from his cigarette and blows it in Henry’s face, whose weak, monochrome constitution trembles. He recoils. He lifts his grey fingers to Ikaros’ brow and brushes the hair back there. It does nothing. He tries again and again, harder and harder, until his hands tremble with the strength of moving just those few strands. Gently, quietly, they shift.

It’s not enough, but Henry tries to tell himself it is.

He lingers there for an insurmountable amount of time; he can no longer gauge earthly time, but he stays as long as Ikaros does. Henry stares at him the entire time, drinking in each freckle, each twitch of his lips and the direction his hair sits in, as if he hadn’t already committed it to memory. Eventually, Ikaros rises and doesn’t pay for his drink. Henry wishes he had money to put down. He follows him closely, just about on his heels, walking with him out the door and through the streets.

Henry reaches for Ikaros’ hand. It slips through his as he continues oblivious. Henry forgives him anyway, and apologises for trying. They walk a few blocks and the graffiti tattoos the faces of derelict stores with a realtor’s phone number posted out front, and diseased trees line the boulevards. Ikaros unlocks a door and Henry is quick to follow him inside. They climb up a few flights of narrow stairs with the red paint chipping off of the grated metal.

Henry’s too slow to make it inside Ikaros’ apartment, so he loiters outside and entertains himself by staring out of the dirty window overlooking the alleyway. The sun is beginning to set. He wonders if Ikaros will go out drinking again, or if that was what he chose to do during the day. For the first time since his death, Henry considers the fact that Ikaros might have found another, might have found a replacement. His gut twinges even though his mind shrugs with rationality. It’s cruel to tether someone to their lover beyond the grave, but he cannot swallow his lingering love, especially when he holds to it so tenderly.

Outside, two dark figures meet, exchange something, and dart off. A feral cat perches on a chain link fence. Somewhere, a few blocks over, the red and blue of emergency lights are turned on.

Ikaros comes out to put his garbage in the chute and Henry leaps to his feet, making it in the apartment before Ikaros does. It’s a mess. Burned out lightbulbs give it a cavernous feel, and the troves of old takeout from the Greek restaurant on 5th and assortment of tchotchkes make it invicitive of a dragon’s lair. He looks at snow globes and books he had bought him, and at the pictures they had taken together.

One photograph is of himself. He’s looking up from a pile of books and papers, the end of his pen in his mouth, and the hints of a smile growing on his lips. Henry remembers Ikaros telling him some pun about the tragedians in order to get him to smile. Another is of Ikaros in the passenger’s side seat of Henry’s BMW, looking out the window contemplatively. Others are of Henry posing like an odalisque on the couch, and another of Ikaros running a hand through his hair.

Ikaros brushes his teeth in the bathroom. Henry wanders into the bedroom and lays down on the small twin bed, curling onto his side and staring at the dirty wallpaper. Ikaros eventually comes to bed silently and slides under the covers, laying on the same side as Henry, his back to him.

Henry settles behind him, like he had so many times before and thought nothing of it. He closes his eyes and imagines the warmth, imagines the soft drag of the bed sheets and the smooth, supple press of Ikaros’ body against his. He’s too ecstatic to cry, too enthralled by this moment to even think about leaving him.

That is, until he opens his eyes and sees a dark figure standing in the messy corner of the bedroom. The windows start to warp. “No, please,” Henry protests, “I’ve only just gotten here. Please, just a little more time.” The walls are melting and growing from their point of reference. Henry sits up. The shadow watches him. “Please! I don’t know how long it’s been, I know you know how I feel!” Henry can feel the sickly drag of what little physical sway he has beginning to dwindle. His fingers dig into the streets. They wrinkle slightly beneath his hands. “I’m begging you!” He’s yelling now, above the loud static of his world changing. “I love him!” Henry screams.

Ikaros darts up in bed, turning to stare directly at Henry, meeting his gaze, seeing him. Seeing him. If he had a heart, it would be thundering. He reaches out to touch Ikaros again, but he can’t. Frustration builds in him like a rogue wave but frantically, he calms it, and tries to tell himself that this is enough. That seeing and being seen is the water that pulls him from a drought. “Oh–”

“–darling!” Henry wakes up beside a dry, cracked road in the middle of a desert. Beside him, a green sign heralds 29 Palms in 50 miles. He was a fool for thinking that his thirst might be slaked until he sees Ikaros once more. He’s more parched than ever, and miserably on the brink of a second death. Henry takes a handful of red, hot dust and screams into the rough packed earth. To the earthly eye, a small breeze disturbs the sand. “Χαλεπά τά καλά,” it whispers, and the world shudders as spring starts again.

#fataobstant #' / . drabble #long post #i really hope u like this ?????#the pacing is Weird but i have a straight up fever so bear w me

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