#ones who have almost no experience with art but if given a canvas they can create a picasso painting

[hqsenvs3000w24]

If you look at the word NATURE, you'll find A R T in it :)

Hi folks,

 This weeks lecture notes and readings was definitely my favourite so far. For as long as I can remember I have been drawn to the arts, participating in painting, drawing and music (on and off) my whole life. When I got older, I started to appreciate the beauty of nature and connected it to my painting. My grandmother was a great inspiration throughout this journey, she had a great eye for art and would always take me up on my offer to paint. This was also the first time I noticed how two people can look at the same landscape and see completely different things. I remember sitting beside a river with my grandmother, we were painting with watercolour. At one point I looked away from my canvas to see hers and was, honestly, a little confused. When I looked at the river, I had focused my painting on the waterfall, and the waters descent over the rocks. But hers was different, hers was of the entire landscape, the river was only a small part of it. We were looking at the same scene but were interpreting it in different ways. Neither was wrong, neither was right either, it was simply how we saw it.

When looking at the question posed to us this week, I honestly had no idea was the first part meant, and there's a good chance I might still be confused. "Who are you to interpret nature through art?". It seems to me like an intimidating question, and trying to come up with a definitive answer, that I could simply state, escaped me. I interpret nature through art because I am human and because I can. I interpret nature through art because I resonate with the idea that "people perceive natural resources and artistic values emotionally as well as intellectually" (Hooykaas, 2023). When looking at a natural setting, I feel the urge to sit for a moment and appreciate the beauty. I also, usually, want to take out my phone and capture the scene, so I can continue to appreciate it.

When it comes to interpreting "the gift of beauty" I have always gravitated to painting. I enjoy painting scenes that I have taken pictures of, moving them from screen to canvas, and reminiscing in the memory. Using art as a tool to help convey a message allows us to create richer experiences for those we are sharing it with (Wheeler, 2016). For example, when I go to visit my grandmother I tell her about my life and what I've been up to, and on many occasions I will have painted a recent memory from where I've been, and I can tell her "I was up at the cottage and there was the most beautiful sunset", but the addition of me showing her the scene as I remember it makes the connection so much more meaningful.

In chapter 10 of our textbook we were given a debrief of the main types of art; interpretive theater, storytelling and poetry, music, dance and the visual arts (Beck et al., 2018). Not everyone will react the same way to each of these mediums, but they are all effective tools in interpreting nature to the general public. I find music, visual arts and poetry the most effective, but someone else might disagree. It's all in the eye of the beholder, which is why it’s so important for us as interpreters to ensure we offer as many as possible. I've done activities with students where we go out on a walk and at some point stop and everyone has to draw something they see around them. This makes them stop and think about where they are and what they’re seeing. Most of the time, they will pick something that stands out to them or something they think is cool or beautiful. Just by doing a simple activity like that, a connection is bridged between the student and their environment.

My family has several The Group of Seven paintings in our home, my parents always loved the appreciation of art. I love the paintings because they are all done very simply, the style is almost gentle and it is calming to look at. The painting are also very important, not everyone has the ability to venture out into the natural world to appreciate those scenes first hand. However, galleries are accessible to almost everyone and they are everywhere. Someone can look at a mountain first hand, capture the moment on paper, interpreting it how they see it, and then share it with those who can't go themselves. In this way, we are in our simplest human form, seeing something beautiful, appreciating it, and acting on the urge to share it with others.

-All for now!

Beck, L., Cable, T. T., & Knudson, D. M. (2018). Interpreting cultural and natural heritage: For A Better World. SAGAMORE Publishing.

Hooykaas, A. (2024). Unit 04: Nature Interpretation through Art and Planning for "All" Scenarios [Lecture notes]. ENVS3000 Nature Interpretation. University of Guelph.

Wheeler, E. (2016). The craft of engagement. Legacy, 27(6), 29–31.

[radexpertturtle]

Full offerings of meaning: Denny Ja's painting depicts a bigger ear example

Painting is a form of art that allows artists to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences through visual medium. In painting, every brush stroke, color, and composition have a deep meaning. One of the Indonesian artists who mastered the painting perfectly was Denny JA. Through his painting entitled "Larger Ear Example," Denny JA managed to present a full offering that inspired many people. The "bigger ear exemplary ear" painting by Denny JA is an extraordinary work of art. This painting depicts a large ear that meets almost all parts of the canvas. This ears are made in very beautiful details, showing the expertise and accuracy of the artist. With soft and harmonious colors, this painting succeeded in creating a calm and miracle atmosphere. The big ears in this painting symbolize more sensitive hearing and deeper understanding of the world around us. Denny Ja wants to convey the message that we should pay more attention to what is happening around us and listen carefully. Too often, we are trapped in everyday busyness and forget to really listen to other people. This painting reminds us how important it is to pay attention to others and the world around us. In addition, through his paintings, Denny Ja also wants to describe how beautiful nature and life that are around us. The soft and harmonious color tone in this painting creates feelings of peace and beauty. By seeing this painting, we are reminded to appreciate the beauty of nature and respect the lives that have been given to us. The "bigger ear exemplary ear" painting also reflects the uniqueness of Denny Ja as an artist. The typical brush strokes and techniques he uses give a clear identity to this painting. Denny Ja is an artist who combines traditional techniques with modern styles, creating unique and original works of art. Through this painting, Denny Ja invited the audience to see the world with a new perspective and respect the uniqueness of every work of art. Denny Ja's inspiration in creating this painting came from his own life experience. As an artist, Denny Ja often pondered and listened to the voices around him. He is an example for all of us in terms of listening carefully and appreciating the beauty of life. Through this painting, Denny Ja shares the message that art is a beautiful way to express himself and communicate with the world around us. The "bigger ear exemplary ear" painting by Denny Ja is a work of art that is stunning and inspiring. With a beautiful brush stroke and a deep message, this painting succeeded in delivering a full meaning of meaning to the audience. Denny Ja invites us to stop for a moment and listen carefully. Through this painting, we are invited to reflect on the beauty of nature and life that is around us. This painting is a reminder that art is a beautiful way to express ourselves and deal with the world around us. With his unique style and in -depth message, Denny Ja has created a work of art that captivates the hearts of many people. This work teaches us to pay more attention and listen carefully. Through art, we can men

Check more: Full offerings of meaning: Denny JA painting depicts a bigger ear example

[capbargain]

Adding A Personality To Your Trucker Hats

Something that was once given away as a utility has now become a fashion staple and a way to showcase one’s charm and individuality. 

Blank Trucker Hats

It isn’t just an accessory that offers breathability and comfort but is also a canvas that allows one to creatively express personal values or impactful statements. It’s this  customizability that encourages more people every year to buy blank OTTO trucker hats wholesale. You can easily transform a plain trucker hat into an accessory that reflects one’s unique views, personality and style. 

This article explains a few cool DIY hat hacks that bring something more out of your plain trucker hats. 

Patch It Up

This is arguably the easiest way to customize your trucker hat. Simply add a patch on it. It’s up to you to figure out what patch you can incorporate. It can be a witty quote, a title that defines your personality or a pop culture reference. You have options for patches too - from embroidered patches to iron-on ones. Thanks to the internet, you also have access to hundreds of thousands of designs that you’ll find appealing. You can apply the patch on the front, the sides or even the mesh back end of your hat. 

Use Beads

Many boho chic enthusiasts use beads to decorate their trucker hats, adding a touch of playfulness or giving it a unique charm. Beads that can be used on trucker hats come in a variety of colors, sizes and shapes. You can be creative with the bead design or just simply thread them on to the bill of the hat. Some people get trucker hats with adjustable straps at the back just to embellish them with beads. 

Plain Old Embroidery 

Embroidery is just timeless. It’s how you bring an artful sophistication to your trucker hat. Impactful embroidery requires you to have a lot of experience. But you can still experiment with stitches, patterns and threads. If you want to craft intricate designs, you can seek assistance from a custom hat embroidery expert. Embroidery is commonly how people add a personal touch to their hats. 

Use Fabric Scraps Or Old Clothes

Using scraps of old fabric or clothes is how you can turn your hat into a work of art. Use fabric glue or stitching to secure cut-out shapes or symbols from scraps of fabric. It’s as simple as that. 

Use Stencils

By using stencils, you can add unique designs to your trucker hat. For this, you will need to use fabric paint or markers to apply the stencil. Stencils come in many shapes including geometric patterns, abstract art, silhouettes etc. 

Conclusion

Almost everyone who realizes that trucker hats are more than just an accessory will customize it to make it unique. Hope these hacks help you infuse something special into your trucker hat. And if it’s supplies you need, go for wholesale OTTO hats. OTTO Cap is the go-to brand for getting highly customizable, high quality blank hats including trucker caps, baseball caps and more.

#wholesale hats #wholesale trucker hats #otto hats wholesale

[alyssafusco03]

Post #1: On Experiencing Art Museums

In Paris there are many historical and beautiful museums all around the city that represent the important history and changes France went through to get to where it is today. As I have been able to visit many of these beautiful museums such as the Louvre, Carnavalet, d’Orsay, and l'Orangerie, my overall experience has been even more amazing than what I had hoped for. I especially have enjoyed being able to have learned some of the history so when I go to these beautiful museums I actually understand what the paintings are depicting, such as Napoleon crowning his wife or Marat dead in his bathtub, which allows me to have a better appreciation and understanding of them. I especially loved and have enjoyed learning about the realism period in art so when we went to Musee d’Orsay I was blown away by all the beautiful paintings all around me.  One of my favorites there was The Burial at Ornans by Gustave Courbet. Courbet was a very prominent realism painter and really helped shape this period. Courbet, like all other realism artists, really wants to focus on truth and sincerity in art, which I think Courbet does beautifully in The Burial at Ornans. I really love how in Courbet and other realism pieces you can see the hand of the painter in the canvas as it adds so much texture and dimensionalism. I am also a big nature and mountain and realistic person so I enjoy this time period for its call back to nature, truth, and just plain old everyday life. Courbet I believe does a beautiful job with this by emphasizing ordinary in an extraordinary way especially in his huge piece, The Burial at Ornans. With his use of color he was really able to express this sad feeling in the painting, even if you did not know what the painting was trying to tell you, his use of dark colors such as, gray for the sky or black for the peoples clothing, really do a good job at telling us how we should feel when looking at this piece. The movement of the piece is also interesting as there really is no central figure but rather two sides that your eyes move to, as the people are more prominently seen on both sides of this huge piece. There is also a lot of variety in this piece, almost to the point that you miss some of the key pieces such as, the coffin on the left of the painting and the hole on the bottom middle part of the piece. However, after noticing these two pieces the image becomes very clear at what Courbet is depicting, which is a funeral. I think what interested me the most about this painting is all of the questions that came to my mind when I was looking at this piece. As I took a moment to truly understand what was going on in the painting I wondered who the person being buried was? Were they of importance? Was it a man or woman? Where were they from? How old were they when they died? And lastly the one that still tugs at my brain now is what if the burial is representing the person looking at the piece? What if Courbet wants to show from a heavenly perspective what your own funeral could look like? All these questions truly connected me to the piece in a way that is almost hard to describe but at the same time so easy to understand. Which I believe is the reason I love the piece so much!

Being able to better understand how to really look at art and understand what I am looking at has given me a way better understanding and more importantly a bigger appreciation for the pieces so many people have created. The history behind the pieces and the painters helps add a deeper understanding as well to the pieces which is really amazing and makes me feel like a true art connoisseur.

Word count: 673

First image below is image I took of The Burial at Ornans, Second is found from the web so you can see it better!

[frozenartscapes]

New Edelgard Headcanon:

So there's debate in the fandom if she's actually a good artisit, right? Like some people like to think she's actually pretty good, and just hard on herself (which is totally believable given who she is). Others like to think she's moderately good, but she shouldn't get her hopes up about commissions. And then there's the classic "bad anime artist" headcanons.

But I propose this: she's actually a pretty good painter. By our modern-day standards. But in her time, where art has a Very Specific Method, she is not a master by any sense of the word.

Fodlan is based on medieval Europe, right? So let's imagine that, in Crimson Flower, post-war sees a bit of a renaissance, if you will. Gone are artists having to follow the Church's approved style. Art no longer has to be about the Goddess or the Church's teachings. Things take on a more humanistic approach, and as a result, art becomes much more grounded in reality. And so the style of art changes to reflect that, resembling high Renaissance art of our world. The focus was on realism, on perfect form and composition.

Edelgard, however, doesn't care about that. At first, she was. Especially for her portraits. Her memories of her family aren't very good and after almost losing Byleth twice she greatly fears forgetting details over time. But once she retires to the countryside with Byleth, once she is no longer Emperor and is able to actually relax and enjoy life, struggling to capture every tiny detail becomes less and less of a concern. Slowly, as she allows herself to feel and experience the world around her, her style of painting shifts to reflect emotions, rather than reality. And as she does this, it becomes easier and easier to complete a painting in a day. Sometimes even an afternoon. It's about capturing the moment, even if some details are missing. How she feels about the moment are reflected in colours and exaggerated brushstrokes. The whole scene seems to move - she can capture the gentle sway of reeds in the breeze or the ripples of a pond far better than any realism painter of her time.

Basically, she paints like Van Gogh.

But, also like Van Gogh, no one appreciates her art while she's alive. It's so garish and unrefined. The brushstrokes are too aggressive and rough. Those who knew of her from the war would often joke that she'd paint a better image if she simply took an axe to the canvas. But she doesn’t care. She’s not painting to impress anyone - she’s painting for herself. She’s doing this for herself, finally, after a lifetime of sacrifice and strife. She is doing what makes her happy, and to hell with all the snobby art critics.

Centuries later, someone finds an old cottage, one almost lost to time and the forest. And inside, are well over a hundred paintings. The paintings are restored and displayed, finally being appreciated. No one had ever seen art quite like it, and almost immediately a new wave of Impressionism began in Fodlan. The mother of this movement remains mostly a mystery, and art historians pour over every brush stroke to try and learn all they can.

They gain much from the subject matter. The artist was a cat lover. She was fond of gardens, particularly carnations. (She had a whole series dedicated to those.) She had a love of provincial life, and often featured labourers as subjects rather than nobility. One particular subject was deemed “The Fisherwoman”. She was easily the most popular of models for the artist, as she appears in more paintings than any other. There is an ongoing debate on if the Fisherwoman was merely a friend to the artist, or if she was something more.

Every single painting has a solitary, yet elegant signature on the bottom corner: “Edelgard”

Some wonder if this is the same Edelgard who threw Fodlan into war, who was once a fearsome and powerful Emperor who changed the face of the continent. But most scoff. There is no way someone with such passion and love of life would be the same as such a destructive force. Only ghosts and history know the truth.

#I just like the idea of el being a plein air painter #especially one who doesn’t care about commissions #she just does it for fun #and Byleth is a good model #I’m picturing her style mostly resembling Van Gogh #but maybe also something like the group of seven? #(Thomson or Jackson specifically) #Edelgard isn’t the type of person who just follows the rules #so why would her art be that way? #fe three houses #Edelgard #edelgard von hresvelg #headcanons

[banqdanfnfic]

which, as they kiss, consume | jjk

you just wanted to get a tattoo from your boyfriend

pairing: tattoo artist!jk x reader

genre: established relationships au, tattoo artist au, smut

word count: 4k

warnings: unprotected sex, biting, making out, grinding, licking, nipple play, jk has a lip ring, oral (f receiving), fingering, shy jk and oc, sexual tension, slight choking, slight aftercare

♫ : Streets by Doja Cat, Candy by Doja Cat

♡ Aesthetics: Playlist | Moodboard

He visibly chokes on his glass of beer as he almost snaps his neck to meet your gaze. He could say that you were awfully drunk and hence the sudden confession out of the blue, but behind your heavy lidded eyes, Jungkook could sense that you were serious.

“You what?”, he gulps abruptly, moving closer to your face, doe eyes pleading to repeat yourself.

“Yes Kook. I want that tattoo on my breasts. I’ve decided”.

It’s not that Jungkook didn’t have experience in his career with inking on different parts of a human body. He just had never given a tattoo to someone who is romantically associated with him and the thought of seeing you half naked made him chuck down the rest of his drink in one go.

The most physical he had ever gotten with you was a kiss shared occasionally since it’s only been over two weeks you had started dating. Okay maybe you made out once in his car but that’s it. It never got to the point of shedding clothes or anything intense.

“Are you sure?”

You giggle at the sudden hoarseness in his voice and nod positive. Ironic how his aura never matched his personality. His inked skin, athletic body proportions covered in black monochrome bad boy outfits gave out default energy that he is a local heartthrob with multiple chicks wrapped around his finger each night and a heavy demeanor to carry in his smirk.

You were one of those believers until Jungkook asked you out in the most hopeless romantic way possible after constantly visiting the café you work in, a few shops besides his parlor. He was a gentleman with respectful boundaries, warm hands to hold yours and sweet sensual kisses though you are pretty sure he probably has a good game.

For any outsider it looked like those cliché bad boy and shy girl love stories, but for real both of you were a good percentage of introverts.

Jungkook runs his tongue around his lip ring while he is stressfully ruffling his dark locks into a mess. He is trying to explain his reasons to postpone your decision considering how shy he got at this point. But then that’s exactly why you were requesting him with soft eyes, it would be so uncomfortable to be shirtless in front of anybody else. Or maybe it’s your way of saying the relationship is open for higher levels of physical affection.

After debating around in vain, he finally hums and clears one of his slots for his beloved client.

Friday approaches way quicker than you assumed and now your heart is beating in your throat. Right after you are done cleaning the tables, you have to make it to Jungkook’s parlor for your appointment.

Running on three hours of sleep, black under eyes even after a decent amount of makeup, you groan as you check yourself out in the mirror. You opted for a simple shirt and skirt (also known as the outfit you bought for occasions with Jungkook), light beach waves resting on your shoulders. Hoping that a few cups of coffee will save you, you stride across the street to stop before the infamous parlor he worked in. Hopefully the full body shave and chocolate body butter has kept its excellence on your skin below the clothing.

The door chimes as it opens with a dragged creak on the musky wooden flooring. It felt like an otherworld where air smelled like men’s perfume and faint tint of cigarettes. In other words, intoxicating.

You ask the first person you meet at the reception, one of Jungkook’s companions at the shop and he assists you to his cabin located at a comfortably remote location.

His space is hidden with a simple black curtain. You are met with Jungkook’s back facing you, working determinately on a client’s arm and cares to spare a glance only when the guy with you is informing him about your presence.

“This will be over in a few”, he grins to your face and goes back to focusing his coil on the skin of a woman in her late twenties laying down his chair. The vibration from his inking machine fills in the silence and you excuse yourself to sit on a small black couch beside them.

This was the first time watching him at work and now you can understand why people rumored so much about his attitude because damn it is intimidating.

Brows knit together and inked muscles flex as he drags the needles around for finishing touches. Meanwhile you can pretty much smell the drool from the woman who is shamelessly checking out your boyfriend. Though you are pretty sure Jungkook gets such glances more than he can count every day, you can’t help but feel jealous. Partly because of the childish possessiveness and partly because you want to be the reason behind his dark eyes and intricate concentration, in profession or not.

To stop from mentally throwing daggers on the client’s way, you grab a random fashion magazine from the side table and flip through pages, though other four senses are inclined on your man. With a close attention to his low sigh you conclude that he is done.

The customer with now a fresh tattoo on her arm is discussing random useless topics to get him to talk, a very vain job realizing how Jungkook doesn’t bat a friendly lash at anybody, especially to those who hit on him. To be honest a large part of the ink business was linked with the obsession to attractive people who worked here, even if it meant trading an area of your skin. You grip the edges of the magazine a bit hard, not able to contain the sanity particularly at the high pitch voice she mumbles in before finally leaving his cabin.

A little excited and a lot nervous, you stand up as Jungkook bids goodbye to the third person.

He is quick to notice your discomfort, though not sure if it was the woman or the thought of finally getting the tattoo, he knew you were nervous and surviving in several cups of espresso by the dark circles slowly showing through the faded layers of your concealer. But nothing pulls down the opinion he has about you, beautiful and simple, no dramatics attached.

“Hey are you okay?”

You nod as soon as you sit down on the black tattoo chair, shifting a little to find a comfortable position. He is taking out a box full of equipment and fine needles, already making you break a sweat at the side of your forehead.

But more than that, it’s the way he is sharp and professional that catches your attention more.

You have never seen Jungkook this serious before. The choice of his vetiver perfume digging through your nostrils was driving you insane. If he doesn’t smile soon, you are going to melt into a puddle at his gaze.

“Are you nervous?”, he smirks this time, a newfound reason for your worsening gut health.

It’s mostly going in cycles at this point. Every bit of his skilled motion causes a vigorous hormonal reaction which initiates his next set of effortless teasing.

“I’m a little nervous”, you say, fiddling with your freshly painted nude nails.

“Me too”

It’s something you least expect to come out of his mouth observing how confident he looks right now. He basically has you cornered with his gaze. But whenever he had been truthful about his emotions it felt like a hug.

“I can take off my shirt too, so that we are even. Is that okay?”

He said it so softly like he is handling a child and the duality of the situation had your mind fogged and limbs frozen for a few minutes.

“Yeah it’s okay” It’s far beyond than okay. It’s great actually.

Jeon Jungkook is ripped, a Greek God sculptured masterpiece covered in self designed artwork you are more than happy to wake up to every morning. He hears you gulp at the feast before your eyes while he discards his black t-shirt to a nearby chair.

Now you don’t know if this whole thing is supposed to warm your heart or make you play several erotic fantasies like a movie before your eyes.

Both of you share a small smile while his long fingers are tugging at the hem of your shirt and pulling it up over your head.

He almost wishes you don’t opt to wear a bra but he is met with lacy black, a-bit-over your-usual-budget fabric hugging the roundness of your breasts.

It seemed like you were way too competitive about today. Anything less than complete awe from Jungkook for you was straight disappointment, you don't want anything less.

Well it seems like it did from how blown his pupils were at this point. He peels his gaze off your chest with a sharp gulp to look at your eyes suddenly devoid of any fear and staring back at him with all ease. He is filled with an exapnse of warmth and he isn't sure why does spending just a little amount of time with you had such a grip on him. He can’t wait to propose the idea of getting a couple tattoo together soon and as far as you know how Jungkook is, he is very serious with his body art so apparently he does trust you a lot already.

“Where exactly are you trying to get it?”, his voice is a lot deeper suddenly as he waits for your fingers to guide to his canvas.

You softly trace the spot at the upper circumference of your right boob, “Here”.

You suck a breath through your nose as his own fingers are mimicking your gesture, lightly pulling down the lace to inspect the fitting of the design at hand.

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Jungkook traces each word on your burning skin, now leaning dangerously close which was questioning your control to put your palms flat on his pecs. He doesn’t notice that though, his mind is busy creating his own fantasies about the women under him.

After two minutes and twenty four second long of inspection and mutual thirst, Jungkook is selecting a bunch of needles to set into the rotary machine. Five fine sharp like a painter's brush moves in and out at a set regularity as Jungkook tests it out.

The next of his actions had you flushed into a pool of crimson. He gently lifts up your resting torso with one hand while the other is unclasping the hook of your bra, making you half naked for the sake of the tattoo.

"I'm going to start", he says shyly.

You still have time to save yourself from the growing phobia for the object, but another unlogical part of your brain says it's a piece of cake considering you have a whole distracting full course meal in front of you.

It stings at first. Well, okay it hurts like hell but your face is devoid of any indication, except your right hand is gripping on the rim of the chair for dear life.

Jungkook on the other hand had never felt this much diversion of mind during his work. He knows that you are probably hurting very badly, especially for a first timer. He is biting into his lip ring, trying to get this over with for the well-being of your pain and his hormones.

After he had scribed one word into your dermis, you are no longer able to contain the ache so you give out a small squeak out of your glossed lips and the vibration of the machine at his hands stops as he looks at you.

"You want me to stop? ", he is relaxing his face as he cups yours with one hand. You don't want to answer that question, but the drumroll of the current situation is making your heart flutter and everything about the little burn on your chest is forgotten.

"No. It does hurt but I'll be fine I guess", you whisper. His breath is mixing with yours slowly as he is leaning more towards your face. If it isn't for a kiss then you are likely to be disappointed.

"It'll be over before you know it. I'll make it quick", and then he kisses you, a small act to get off the pressure of sexual tension between your bare upper bodies.

Before you think of any tongue in the act, he is breaking off the contact and returns to his position on your chest. He misses the pout that forms on your mouth but right now both of your heads are in cloud nine.

The pain starts again, only this time you are busy reliving how his lips felt in yours; soft, firm and controlled.

You gasp when you feel one of his hands cupping your right breast to further his design but it's lowkey an act empowered by lust which is straining behind the so called professional eyes.

You just sit there flustered out of your mind and then Jungkook is suddenly squeezing, full palm hiding your breasts like it's a protected treasure, but he isn't showing the slightest facial expression other than determined eyes and his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Fuck you can't take it anymore. Jungkook can feel your nipples harden against his hand and his brain isn't helping much to concentrate on the design. But by the grace of some positive karma left on his side, he makes it through the long text and when he is letting go of your chest and standing tall, your skin is popping out with redness on the places the text lays embedded.

He fishes out a mirror for you to look.

"It looks beautiful thank you Jungkook", you smile.

"Can I give you one more tattoo on your left one?", he asks while you are contemplating whether going through the pain is worth it, not to mention you really want to get back at a private space with Jungkook as soon as possible.

"It won't hurt I promise", and then he is kissing you a lot filthier than before; all tongue and teeth, while his hands are grazing on the skin of your waist, pressing a little firmer than before.

The coldness of his lip ring rivaled around your mouth, and you try sucking on it to which Jungkook responds with a growl and pushes his body adamantly against yours.

Skin to skin, you are lost in euphoria of everything happening and finally, you roam your eager hands around his body, to his pecs and the definition of abs.

As your fingers scraped against his scalp, Jungkook is biting eagerly down your jawline to your collarbone and continues his ministrations at a particular spot which is bringing out melodic moan variation from you.

He is going down your skin, licking on your left boob before he starts planting violet tattoos as he had promised. As if it couldn't get better, he is massaging the right breast, in a way to soothe pain.

He loses it when you stutter his name, but he is just a fucking tease when it comes to making love and doing anything in a public space is the last thing he wants to do. There isn't much room for all that he wants right now.

"Why did you choose this particular tattoo Y/n?", he rasps while he is planting small pecks on his artwork, and you reply when he is finally eye level with you

"I just felt like it's a good one", your breaths are uneven and mostly caught in your neck. He pecks your lips before speaking, "Those are lines from Romeo and Juliet".

He takes your hands to trace over a line of text among the many designs on his chest.

which, as they kiss, consume

"We pretty much have a couple tattoo now Y/n", his breath is matched with your pace and you are not very sure how to respond to this new knowledge.

"That's… hot"

You break into giggles along with him, he just can't stop dragging his lips around your skin, but he isn't able to word his feelings right now either.

"I have some aftercare healing ointment for the tattoo at my place, wanna come over?" Now that may be a little lame of an excuse to get his little friend out of his pants but you are too unfazed to analyse any of that.

His hands find place on your ass under the skirt as soon as the door to his apartment closes, and before you know it, you are in his bedroom, sitting on the soft mattress and tongue lost devouring each other.

While eagerly getting rid of every article of clothing, Jungkook notices that you don't have your bra on beneath the shirt, so it's probably back at the parlour, but none of you have the slightest care for it, might as well make an excuse with it later to fuck you in his cabin.

He is pushing you farther towards the headboard, him on top, grinding sensenslesy while your lips mould with his. Though he has his whole body pressed against you, you can't seem to feel his weight at the slightest, every one of his actions were just balanced and perfect.

As Jungkook goes down on you, his smile is evident against your skin, finally able to find out how every one of those scenarios in his head will come to look like. He lets out a satisfied hum being finally able to suck on your tits, your fingers finding place on his hair, twisting it out of stimulation.

His pelvis is flushed harshly against yours, grinding and rubbing against your pussy for as long as he is rejoicing the feeling of moving his tongue around both the nipples.

He stops rubbing after some point and you whimper at the loss but his fingers are soon to meet your core as a quick apology. All your later moans are muffled on his mouth once again.

Feeling the controlled movements of his fingers on your clit, you dig your nails down on his toned shoulders. It's becoming impossible to reciprocate his lewd movements of tongue on your lips at this point as the excitement between your thighs is growing every passing second.

Your mouth remains slightly parted as he removes his face to watch you squirm underneath, lips swollen, deep red and glossy from all the saliva.

He pecks at the shell of your ear before going down past your navel.

You haven't had much heads in the twenty years of your life, most of the guys being completely against the idea which made you feel insecure to bring up the topic in bed, but Jungkook does it like his life depends on it.

He growls at the sight of you dripping into his sheets and he seems to enjoy the idea of being the influence behind it. But none is going through your head at the moment, not the metal on his lips grazing against your folds, or the fact that Jungkook is grinning each time you cry his name, it feels unreal to feel something like this.

His mouth is wrapping against your entrance and he is balancing your lower body on his palms to help him reach the right depths inside you. While all you can muster up is the strength to grope the bedsheets in your fist and close your eyes at the pleasure.

Jungkook brings his head higher to give some attention to the throbbing clit, catching it between his teeth and triggering the bundle of nerves just the perfect dose to have your hips jolting up to his face.

He can't take it himself when you are now whining and chasing for your release, so he is slightly humping against the bed to get some friction.

He licks a slow stripe up till your abdomen and slowly raises to your face, already fucked out and dishevelled to keep up with his dominant orbs.

He swears he had never felt so much warmth and care for sex with any of his previous partners, in relationship or not, all he could think is how good can he treat the pleading eyes underneath him.

"Is there something you like that you want me to do?", he says, fingers grazing once again to your crotch to not deny you from his contact. Only this time he is exploring the tightness of your pretty cunt with two skillful fingers.

Is there? You are not sure. Or in other words you are too caught up at the sense of him fingering you. It's not like you had enough experience or people who cared enough to ask that question. It astounds you that never in this entire foreplay he asked for any favor for himself.

"I'm not sure…", you whisper and then maybe you have something on your mind " um I guess I would like to be choked" Okay this felt embarrassing.

He smiles before sliding his free hand from your lips to your neck, and applies slight force, careful to not hurt you in the slightest bit.

"Is that fine?"

"Yeah", you muffle through the decreasing course of air.

He pulls up your face by the throat to attach lips once more. He just can't seem to get enough of kissing you senseless. Then, the tip of his long ignored cock is teasing the length of your pussy twice before it's stretching you out to the brim.

Bodies flushed and hot, his pace is deep and slow, making sure to kiss the cervix every time he is inside.

He watches as your eyes close shut and flutters around whenever he is grazing against your sweet spot. Both of your ears lost and eager for the moans looming out of each other, his more like what he sounds at the gym. Nice observation Y/n.

In this span of sexual energy you shared, you can make some obvious conclusions. Sex with him was surreal, both in terms of domination and the care he had. Rocking against him and keeping up with his hips was attainable— Compared to the intense eye contact he tries to hold, or the way he cups the side of your face and rubs the pad of his thumb on your cheeks while he kisses you during sinking back in, or the way his eyes glow at the beauty of your body open for him. It makes you feel special and it's difficult to respond to these gestures when you never felt this way before.

Jungkook could tell that from your face, but he hopes he lasts with you enough to help you know the worth you hold. You couldn't think too much about anything when you are busy squeezing around his length and coming twice in the first ten minutes.

By the third orgasm Jungkook is nearing his own and he pulls out to pump a few times before coming on your stomach.

"Was it okay?", his voice is all over the place, still balancing his body on his arms while you are amazed by his strength.

"It was amazing Jungkook", you smile. You have known a lot about Jungkook over the few dates you spent with him. That he likes literature, classics and philosophy, designs tattoos as a subconscious thing, that his game is A-1, and he likes working out almost three hours a day. Good for you. But it wasn't until now you know him to be gentle, like he is afraid to crush you under a feather touch. You don't know him as someone who is staring deep into your face after a good fuck, speaks nothing, smiles widely, and plants a peck on your forehead before getting off the bed.

He does the honors of cleaning both of your bodies with a towel, it's not like you have any strength left in you anyway. And then pulls out an ointment from the bedside table and plops next to your body.

"There. You need this to protect the tattoo", he takes off the nozzle and applies a required amount against the words on your chest and massages against them.

"Now go to sleep Juliet", he mocks, pulling up the sheets over you both "good night".

You snuggle against his hard chest, kissing his pecs before resting on it, "Good night Romeo".

thank you so much for reading!! please leave a feedback!!

★ taglist: @pjmochii (dm, ask or comment to enter the tl!)

★ credits: @/rainbeary on spotify : songs that'll make you feel everything's in slow motion playlist

★ banner & boards: by me :)

a/n: this is my first time writing smut and i basically died of second hand embarrassment during the process. pardon for my untalented ass, i tried this wip continuously for a week and i seriously don't think it could get anything better though it's probably not much.

© banqdanfnfic 2021, all rights reserved. do not modify, translate, or repost my works. modification, translations, and/or redistribution of my works on any platform is strictly prohibited.

#bts ff #bts fanfic #bts army #bts smut #bts jhope #bts fanfction #bts x reader #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook #bts jungguk #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #bts jungkook #bts jimin #bts namjoon #bts fic #btsedit #fan fiction #fanfic #bts authors #bts aus #bts au fic

[dancingamongstdust]

MHA Scenarios - First Meeting (Part 4)

Requests are still open as of this post.

Shigaraki

You hadn’t meant to cause that level of destruction. It was an accident.

But they hadn’t seen it that way.

Their words followed you even when they could not. You could hear the accusations ringing in your head whenever you used your quirk – for better, or for worse. It became easier to ignore as you slowly learned to stop caring.

Until your quirk went out of control again.

You woke up in a dark room with a pounding headache and exhausted limbs. The doctor who was looking after you (a man you were relatively certain had no actual medical knowledge) had gotten very close and asked how much you remembered. When you informed him that it wasn’t much, he had smiled.

“Well, you certainly drew attention to yourself,” he had laughed. “Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky that the heroes didn’t get to you first.”

“I guess so…”

Something warned you that this situation was more dangerous than it seemed. Your eyes drifted over the covered windows of the room and you stared at the door. “Why did you help me?”

“Well that’s hardly for me –“

He didn’t get a chance to answer before you dashed for the exit. The doctor’s quirk didn’t allow him to grab you and his alarmed shout was all you heard before you were darting down the hallway. You weren’t going to stick around and get experimented on.

You turned the corner, heart pounding in your chest. They must have given you something because you felt drowsy. The entire world was spinning.

But you had to nearly trip yourself up to avoid running directly into somebody as you sprinted down a different hallway.

This was hardly your first time dealing with villains and many of them had odd quirks, to say the least. It shouldn’t have shocked you to see somebody with a human hand on their face but maybe the medication was lowering your tolerance because it was terrifying.

“Who are you?” you snapped out, immediately on the defense. You took a step away, ready to run or fight, whichever seemed easiest.

The man didn’t seem too bothered by your snap at least; the one eye that you could see watched you steadily from behind his hand mask. “I’m sure you’re not meant to be running around here,” he said. “But you’re no hero so you must be here for your quirk. Do you still have it?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t unknown in the underground that there was a man who stole quirks he liked. Nobody knew what he did with them but it wasn’t unheard of for villains to wake up with nothing. And you would never get them back.

You could feel your quirk was still there. It pulsed under your skin like a warning.

“My quirk?” you repeated. “I have my quirk.”

You did a random gesture, summoning all of your past acting experience to appear horrified when nothing happened. Again and again you tried before looking around in shock and horror.

The guy bought it and he shrugged. “Then there’s no reason to stop you.” He brushed past you and continued walking. “Not like you could find the exit anyway.”

The moment he turned the corner, you dropped the act and bolted again. This place was a maze but you found the exit and avoided any encounters with a practiced ease. Before leaving, you looked back up at the building and grimaced, hoping to never see it again.

Toga

It was late at night when you had the strangest encounter of your life. Not that that was a bad thing necessarily but it was something that occurred, nevertheless.

You had been feeling quite exhausted from a long day of fun with your friends. They had headed off to get a cab when you had realised that you needed the bathroom and disappeared to go find one.

There was a public toilet not too far from the street though it certainly wasn’t as clean as you would have hoped. Not to be deterred, you slipped in and found a sight that, even to your exhausted mind was uncomfortable.

A girl stood in front of one of the mirrors, blood staining much of her face. It covered the counter beneath her fingers and seemed to be coming from her lip.

“Are you okay?!” you asked, panicked.

She looked up at you, startled. Her dark hair covered much of her expression but she seemed a little out of it. Maybe she got hit on the head or something.

“I –“ she paused, her voice croaky and sore. She brought her hand up to rub her throat. “I think so.”

“Just wait, let me help you,” you said. You rushed into one of the stalls and gathered up some toilet paper. “Do you need me to call somebody or?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Thank you.”

You offered some of the damp tissue to her and she started wiping it away from her mouth. While she dealt with that, you cleaned the blood that she had left on the counter, making sure to get it out of all the cracks in and around the sink. “What happened to you?” you asked. “Did somebody attack you?”

“I slipped,” she said. “The tiles are really slippery and I think that I hit my mouth on the sink. It’s all kind of blurry.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, digging through your bag and grabbing some headache tablets. You offered the bottle to her. “Take two of those just in case. Even if it doesn’t hurt now, you don’t want to wake up with a headache tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Do I still have any blood on me?”

“Just on your jaw,” you pointed out. “Come on, my friends and I are getting a cab. We can call one for you also if you need.”

She took one last glance in the mirror before leaving. You had forgotten your own need for the bathroom and it was for good reason also. If you had hung around for a little longer, you may have seen blood trickling out from one of the stalls. Perhaps then you wouldn’t have been so worried about this stranger hitting her head.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you looked around for your friends.

“Toga,” the girl said, though she didn’t seem too happy with having told you. The words must have slipped out without her meaning to.

You gave her your own name and went up onto your toes to look around the crowd for your friends. Eventually you spotted them and waved but when you spoke to Toga, she didn’t respond.

She had disappeared into the crowd.

You went back into the bathroom and checked but she was long gone. Just like how the blood has escaped your notice earlier, you didn’t see the blonde watching you from the other side of the street, her head tilted a little.

Dabi

It was a rare day when you found yourself alone without at least one person to watch your back. You didn’t always need the protection but sometimes, it was nice to have.

But you had given your word and it wouldn’t do to back out of this now.

The building where everything had been organised was old and crumbling – its ancient nature hidden on the outskirts of the city and slowly becoming overtaken by countless plants. It wasn’t somewhere anybody with good intentions would find themselves.

You liked to think that your work was good. It benefitted many and took only from those who could afford to lose it. Unfortunately though, rules had to be broken for the best results, and sometimes what was classified as ‘wrong’ turned out to be needed in order to achieve a goal. It wasn’t quite in line with what you believed but it had to be done.

Did working with villains make you uncomfortable? Of course. But it was hardly going to be something that stopped you from moving forward.

The two members from the League of Villains that had been sent to meet you were both men. You didn’t bother with greetings, just holding up the briefcase that you held.

“I’m looking for a specific artwork,” you said. “I’ve been told that you might be able to help?”

“An artwork?” the one asked. He wore a white and black mask that concealed most of his face and an extremely gaudy costume.

“Not just an artwork,” you explained. “It has something of mine hidden in the canvas. Normally, I would just get the police involved but if they found it, it would be quite problematic for me. The group that stole it won’t listen to many but the League of Villains, I’m afraid. They have a few good quirks and they’re extremely cocky for it.”

“We’re not lapdogs,” the other man said. “Especially not for whatever agenda you’re pushing.”

“I don’t pay lapdogs,” you acknowledged. “Consider me a sponsor.”

Flames cackled into existence in his hand, surprising his colleague enough to jump a little. “Chances are, they’ve already found your thing. Even if they haven’t, the league can hardly go around picking fights with random gangs.”

“Shigaraki did ask –“

The masked man was cut off by a glare. Blue flames sent flickering light through the air as they waited patiently for your answer.

“If it’s already been discovered or if it happens to get damaged during the process, then I don’t plan on getting anything out of our deal. It’ll simply be a loss on my side.”

The flames slowly flickered out and you allowed yourself to breathe again. Confidence was a requirement for these deals but you didn’t quite have the nerves of steel that you portrayed. It was always a fight to keep your reactions in check.

“I guess if we happen to bump into the group, we can check around for your shit.”

You knew his bluff as well as your own. The League of Villains had always worked well with those who had money. They required funding and wouldn’t say no to being able to flex their reputation around the underground. It was almost needed with the way rumours were circulating.

It was less than a week after that encounter when you found your artwork sitting outside your home. Charred on the edges, it was damaged enough to make the art itself worthless. But your items inside were perfectly unharmed.

Not bad for your first time working alongside the League of Villains. It was worth the cost… you should do it more in the future.

Twice

When you had been called in for this job, you had no idea that it was going to turn into a fight of the magnitude you experienced.

Flames tore along the streets. They melted lamps and trapped hundreds inside buildings – the screams for help becoming almost deafening as you broke down yet another wall to get civilians out. It was the third building you had had to smash into and there were more yet.

Nobody could get out and, if they remained trapped, they wouldn’t survive much longer.

When your partner and you had realised you were dealing with the League of Villains, you had immediately called in the big guns. What you hadn’t realised was that doing so would result in a brawl of sorts in the streets. The League of Villains didn’t care about collateral and honestly, sometimes you wondered if the heroes did.

You were starting to overheat. The amount of fire swirling around was getting to you, drawing the breath from your lungs and slowing your movements. Its angry blue nature hinted at its abysmal nature.

The next building’s walls took even longer to get through but you managed it and a few people scrambled out. You ushed as best as you could although it was starting to get hard to speak.

But then you noticed a dark figure lying in one of the rooms

Outside, the fire roared and smacked against the walls but you couldn’t just leave somebody there. You stepped over the rubble and made your way to the figure.

It was hard to make out details with the flames. The heat seemed to be getting worse as you approached – soon identified as being caused by the gaping hole in the wall. It radiated around the room in waves. You covered your mouth and nose the best you could, creeping forward to reach where the person was.

When you arrived, it took you no time to recognise that you weren’t saving an unfortunate civilian but rather a member of the League itself.

You hesitated for a second before hooking your arms under his and beginning to drag him away from the danger. This was the type of thing that lost reputation for heroes. Civilians didn’t like seeing villains being rescued but you honestly didn’t care.

If he was left there, he was probably going to end up dying.

Though he had seemed unconscious, when you got him out of the building, he muttered something and moved. It was enough to make you jump back but he didn’t attack or anything. He just touched his face and then let his arm go limp again.

You moved back cautiously. His suit had been ripped on the one side, missing its arm and half of the torso. You checked his pulse, relieved to feel that it was still going, even if it was unsteady.

“Can you hear me?” you asked.

He didn’t respond and you reached up to remove his mask. His hand immediately snapped up to grab your wrist and you prepared to activate your quirk but all he did was push your arm away from his face.

Alright then. No touching the mask.

You bandaged the open wound on his side as best as you could. It looked like he had gotten launched through the building. Once he was as stable as he could be, you moved him to a safer area and jumped back into the fray. A ton of rescues later and the heroes had won, at the destruction of much property.

And, rather unsurprisingly, the villain you had saved was long gone.

Overhaul

There was a new drug running around the market. You had heard of a number of small-time villains taking it – most of them dying shortly after consumption. It wasn’t unheard of. If something had even the promise of a good time then it would attract thousands.

But what was a problem was that you had lost several of your newest underlings as a direct result of this drug.

Given how picky you were about hiring, this was going to be a problem.

You tracked the source to none other than the Shie Hassaikai. They were an old branch of the yakuza, sitting on the edge of a downward spiral into irrelevance. Rumors followed that their boss had fallen quite ill and now, it was only a matter of time until they fell completely on their faces.

So you didn’t feel too nervous when you approached the house that fronted their main base. Even with the members watching you from the bushes, you kept a straight line.

You weren’t unknown. It would do them a great disservice to attack you.

And they knew it.

You walked in the front door with absolutely no resistance and remained unsurprised when two masked men came out to greet you. They didn’t ask about your business or enquire as to who you were. Instead, they led you into a sitting room and gestured for you take a seat.

Instead of that, you walked around the room and picked up everything that looked interesting. Nothing was hidden around but you hadn’t expected there to be.

“Please don’t touch things without gloves on,” a smooth voice interrupted your curiosity. “Cleaning this entire house is rarely needed and I’d rather you didn’t change that.”

You turned around to find somebody considerably younger than you had expected for the head of the Shie Hassaikai. He wore their signature mask and a feathered coat, almost his entire body hidden in some way.

“Not a fan of germs?” you enquired.

“Not at all.”

You shrugged and made your way to the couch, sinking down into it. “Guess that means no drinks or anything? Oh well, that’s too bad.” You gestured for him to sit.  “So, you’re not who I was expecting.”

“You’ve never worked with our organisation before,” he said, sitting on the edge of the chair opposite you.

“No. You’re not in the same line of work as me and I don’t care too much about the Yakuza.”

“Then why are you here?”

You straightened, aware that you were about to get into the most dangerous part of the meeting. “Your drugs have been getting into my areas. Now, I don’t care all too much about how you distribute stock but it’s not just coming into possession of low-life criminals. My men are getting practically gifted it.”

His eyes narrowed. “We need to test it somehow. Besides, that sounds like a problem for you, no? Have better control of your men.”

“Keep your test tube shit out of my territories.”

A small staring contest took place – a test to see who would break first. You had been in almost a hundred of these over the course of your career. They didn’t bother you much at all in anymore.

Eventually he waved his hand through the air. “I guess we could stop supply to traders in your areas but this isn’t a charity.”

“I could kill your men.”

“But you would lose your own in the process. Wouldn’t it be easier to do this the peaceful way and maybe even establish a relationship between our two groups?”

“You have my attention. Don’t waste it.”

Kurogiri

There are those days when everything begins so well only to rapidly spiral into a situation out of your worst dreams. This was something like that.

You had gotten horribly caught in the crossfire of a battle between heroes and villains. It all occurred faster than you could have ever imagined – flashes of light and explosions of sound. People were screaming, the sound coming through a haze as you tried to get a grasp on what had happened.

Blood was trickling down your arm but you felt no pain. You slowly lifted your head. Something had hit you, you remembered that now as your brain caught up to the dull ache coming from your ribcage.

You tried to move, finding that you couldn’t. The ache became worse and a heavy, scraping sound interrupted your attempts to crawl away.

It was a piece of concrete, heavy and painful, pinning you effectively to the ground. A smaller chunk was holding it up and stopping you from being crushed. But if you moved too much…

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, nearly choking on the dust that filled the air. Maybe if you shifted slowly.

A crunching noise made you hiccup.

Alright, so that wasn’t going to work either. You strained your eyes to see through the carnage but you couldn’t make out any heroes. They would come eventually; you just had to wait patiently and try not to move too much.

The concrete seemed to get heavier still and you fought the desire to cry.

There was a crunching sound. You couldn’t just wait around.

Slow as you dared, you began to inch forward. The rough surface snagged at your clothing and made every centimeter feel like it was going to end with you crushed. Worse still, the more you moved, the more apparent the injury on your back became.

The blood that had been trickling down your arm was now creeping along your torso. It pooled in your clothes and made everything sticky.

You tried not to think about it but it made you light-headed regardless.

About half-way out, you spotted somebody nearby. It was just their silhouette but still, relief flooded your veins and you cried out desperately for help.

The figure made its way over to you, soon revealing that the man was almost entirely made of smoke. He wore a suit and tie but his body swirled as though only somewhat solid. Bright yellow eyes stared at you – any emotion behind them was completely unreadable.

His eyes traced your shape. “You’re not who I’m looking for.”

“Please help me. This thing’s going to crush me.”

He paused, the swirling darkness that made up his face shuddered as though it was unsure how to respond. “I should leave you here,” he mentioned. “You’re of no consequence to me or to my cause. If anything, I should add pressure to the piece of rubble and make sure the fatality numbers are higher.”

You caught of whimper before it could escape. “Please.”

His smoke shook again, almost as though he was struggling to keep hold of it. Then he raised a foot and placed it on the concrete.

You screwed your eyes shut and tried to imagine the best parts of life.

A loud horn blaring made you open them again and a surprised yelp escaped as you saw tires race past in front of you. People were shouting, their voices loud and nearby. Bright lights surrounded you and the air was clear once more.

The last thing you remembered seeing was a panicked nurse rushing over to you.

#my hero academia #mha #bnha scenarios #bnha x reader #shigaraki x reader #dabi x reader #toga x reader #twice x reader #kurogiri x reader #overhaul x reader

[faevorite-main-blog]

TOP 5 OF 2020

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 (ish) favourite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

Thank you so much to @dragontamerdame for the tag! This is seriously such a fun challenge and I’m grateful for the opportunity to reflect on 2020. This year has definitely been a year to remember. I was able to finally return to tumblr and create new artworks that let me express myself in a way I haven’t in years. I met so many new friends and got to enjoy so many new conversations. Thank you so much everyone for the love you have given me and the endless support. I don’t know where I’d be without you.

Number One: Sun and Moon

This artwork was drawn to participate in @yemiello​ ‘s DTIYS challenge. I’m so incredibly proud of how it turned out. It was the start of a new era of art for me where I stopped focusing on the characters only and started implementing both color schemes and complimentary colors. This expanded into a new series (classical painting inspired drarry) that has meant so much to me already as an artist. It has been such a long time since I felt like what I was creating could actually be considered ‘art’ to myself. This artwork was the start of pushing myself to new limits and letting myself grow and it means so much to me. It was also the first work that I made that I looked back on and thought “Wow, I feel like I created something to be proud of today.”

Number Two: Freefall This was the artwork I made directly after “Sun and Moon” I was experimenting with a new perspective for this one, something I’d never done before and it was both terrifying and exhilarating. I’ve never tried to draw a birds eye view angle before and I wasn’t sure that I could pull it off. I also implemented movement for the first time in my art. The motion blur on the sides of their bodies! At first I was worried that it had been too much and over took the whole painting. After encouragement from @l0vegl0wsinthedark​ and @lazywonderlvnd​ I got the courage to post. I’ve never gone back!! I’m so immensely proud of the growth that this art piece brought me. 

Number Three: Something Borrowed

This was the artwork that started my new series!!! (Something Borrowed) When I was drawing it I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to happen. Notice the hair on Harry’s arm?! Like! My first time truly experimenting with body hair. I was nervous that it wouldn’t turn out the way I wanted it to but looking back on it I’m so glad I took the risk. This was another experiment in new art techniques. At first the canvas started up close with them falling in the lower third. I eventually decided I didn’t like that and added extra ground to the bottom and some grass as foreground. LIFE CHANGING. Now I’m obsessed with adding foreground to everything. Who would’ve thought?! Hahaha. I’m really proud of the detail on this drawing and the angle of Draco’s chest. I stared at him for way too long as I tried to decide if he looked anatomically correct.

Number Four: Something Taken

This was the second art installment in my “Something Borrowed” series. THE BACK MUSCLES ON THIS!!! I am so excited about. It took me way too long to get it right but when I did I could literally sob. I’ve always struggled with the anatomy of backs and the backs of arms. They never look like they do in my head and it takes so much time correcting what my brain does incorrectly. I was (and still am) still learning what ratio of linework to painting I like in my artwork. This drawing ended up with a good percentage of both and I honestly wish I could replicate it but I don’t think I ever could. Also werewolf Harry is my weakness.

Number Five: Herbology

This artwork is seriously one of my favorites. I’m especially proud of Draco’s feet and the angle of Harry’s abs. I have a hard time getting Harry’s nose to match how it appears in my brain and this is the closest his face has gotten to my head canon in a really long time. I struggle with Harry’s face so much. I’m really proud of how the foreground turned out in this, and the way the sunlight dapples across the top of the characters. IT TOOK ME SO FREAKING LONG TO FIGURE THAT STUFF OUT. SEriously. I see artists all the time do it almost effortlessly and holy crap it was freaking hard. I’m still not convinced it looks like light shining through trees but despite this I am still freaking proud. I’ve been waiting for years for an artwork where I could dabble in that lighting technique.

ANYWAYS. THANK YOU! So much for the tag! And thank you for reading through this whole monstrocity of a post. It’s so fun getting to look back on our lives and especially things we’re proud of. I TAG ANYONE WHO WANTS TO BE TAGGED. And I also tag @laurisophi​ @aminathescorpio​ @dewitty1​ @lazywonderlvnd​ @l0vegl0wsinthedark​ @polly-weasley​

#top 5 of 2020 #top 5 #2020 #top 5 2020 #art #my art #art pile #art dump #artist note #drarry #draco #harry #harry x draco #drarry art #drarry fan art #harry potter fan art #hp art #harry potter #harry potter art #draco malfoy #werewolf harry #something borrowed

[brooklynmuseum]

Closing out National Poetry Month, our Spring Interns paired some of their favorite poems with works from our collection. We hope you enjoy!

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas

Image: Suzuki Harunobu (Japanese, 1724-1770). Page From Haru no Nishiki, 1771. Color woodblock print on paper. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Peter P. Pessutti, 83.190.1

from Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...” [Excerpt] By Claudia Rankine 

/

I they he she we you turn only to discover the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied, zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day, a presence already—

Hey you—

/

— Halle Smith, Digital Collections Intern Catherine Green (American, born 1952). [Untitled] (West Indian Day Parade), 1991. Chromogenic photograph, sheet. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 1991.58.2. © artist or artist's estate 

Ode to Enchanted Light by Pablo Neruda

Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand.

A cicada sends its sawing song high into the empty air.

The world is a glass overflowing with water.

Consuelo Kanaga’s black and white photograph captures a dazzling, yet fleeting moment from everyday life. Three textured glasses cast shadows whose patterns are almost kaleidoscopic in effect. We can imagine Kanaga passing by her kitchen table, as she is brought to a halt to take a closer look at, and ultimately to photograph, the simple beauty generated by the play of light and everyday objects. The close-up scale of this image emulates the singularizing framing techniques deployed by Surrealist photographers, who also took parts of everyday life and blew them up in the photographic frame, thereby encouraging their viewers to look at life around us from a different angle. It is a way of saying: Here, take a closer look. Viewing the world with wonder, along with the joy that this act brings, are encapsulated in Pablo Neruda’s poem Ode to Enchanted Light. The speaker observes the way light passes through trees and creates enchanting patterns. He not only observes, but feels the beauty in the simple details of life, from the way light falls from the sky, to the sheen of leaves, to the buzzing of cicadas. Approaching life through such a hopeful lens evokes a glass-half-full perspective. In fact, the speaker is so hopeful that he believes “The world is/a glass overflowing/with water.” I think Kanaga would have felt the same way. 

— Kirk Testa, Curatorial Intern, Photography Consuelo Kanaga (American, 1894-1978). [Untitled] (Glasses and Reflections). Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Wallace B. Putnam from the Estate of Consuelo Kanaga, 82.65.25

Easter Wings By George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

      Though foolishly he lost the same,

            Decaying more and more,

                  Till he became

                        Most poore:

                        With thee

                  O let me rise

            As larks, harmoniously,

      And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

      And still with sicknesses and shame.

            Thou didst so punish sinne,

                  That I became

                        Most thinne.

                        With thee

                  Let me combine,

            And feel thy victorie:

         For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Easter Wings by George Herbet and Martin Bach’s flower vase from the Brooklyn Museum’s Decorative Arts collection reveal the interrelationship between form and function. In Easter Wings, Herbert strategically varies the line length to create an image that enhances the meaning of the poem; when you turn the poem on its side, it resembles the wings of a bird, of which are symbolic of the atonement of Jesus Christ. In doing so, the author is not only telling us his message, but he is showing it visually as well. Similarly, the vase takes the visual form of its function. Its floral design amplifies the meaning of the object, as the vase is meant to hold flowers. In both instances, we see how aesthetic properties of a work echo the meaning and function of the work itself.

— Amy Zavecz Martin Bach (American, 1862-1921). Vase, ca. 1905. Opalescent glass. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. Alfred Zoebisch, 59.143.16. Creative Commons-BY 

I am the Earth (Watashi wa chikyu) [Excerpt] by Kiyoko Nagase, Translated by Takako Lento

I am warm, moist soil  I am a single supple stalk  I draw my life  all the way up into corollas of wild berries on the roadside 

I am amazed at  a breast of water welling  to flow into the inlet of a muddy rice paddy  I am amazed at  myself being  hot steam blowing fire and sulfur up  from the bottom of the great ocean, deep indigo.  I am amazed at  the crimson blood flow  covering the earth’s surface in human shape;  I am amazed that it swells as the tides ebb and flow, and gushes out monthly under distant invisible gravity … I am the earth.  I live there, and I am the very same earth. 

In the four billionth year  I have come to know  the eternal cold moon, my other self, my hetero being,  then, for the first time, I am amazed that I am warm mud.

The vivid imagery conjured up by Kiyoko Nagase’s poem is beautifully visualized by Emmi Whitehorse’s painting. The emphasis on deep Earth tones and abstract corporeality in both the poem and the painting really creates an intense metaphysical link between the environment and the self.

— Amanda Raquel Dorval, Archives Intern Emmi Whitehorse (Navajo, born 1957). Fire Weed, 1998. Chalk, graphite, pastel and oil on paper mounted on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Hinrich Peiper and Dorothee Peiper-Riegraf in honor of Emmi Whitehorse, 2006.49. © artist or artist's estate

Seventh Circle of Earth by Ocean Vuong

On April 27, 2011, a gay couple, Michael Humphrey and Clayton Capshaw, was murdered by immolation in their home in Dallas, Texas.

Dallas Voice

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As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last. How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / Another torch

streams through / the kitchen window, / another errant dove. / It’s funny. I always knew / I’d be warmest beside / my man. / But don’t laugh. Understand me / when I say I burn best / when crowned / with your scent: that earth-sweat / & Old Spice I seek out each night / the days

refuse me. / Our faces blackening / in the photographs along the wall. / Don’t laugh. Just tell me the story / again, / of the sparrows who flew from falling Rome, / their blazed wings. / How ruin nested inside each thimbled throat / & made it sing

until the notes threaded to this / smoke rising / from your nostrils. Speak— / until your voice is nothing / but the crackle / of charred

bones. But don’t laugh / when these walls collapse / & only sparks / not sparrows / fly out. / When they come / to sift through these cinders—& pluck my tongue, / this fisted rose, / charcoaled & choked / from your gone

mouth. / Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one / & still

American.

Ocean Vuong’s “Seventh Circle of Earth” has persisted as one of the great, affective moments of poetry in my life since I first heard Pádraig Ó Toama’s gorgeous reading and discussion of it on his podcast, Poetry Unbound. I decided to pair Vuong’s poem with Mary Coble’s Untitled 2 (from Note To Self) because both works are urgently immersive into the violence and experience of LGBTQ people in the U.S., and for how each work uses text and physicality to address presence, pain, and erasure. Vuong’s poem is actually footnoted to a quote from a news article about a gay couple murdered in Texas. The page is thus blank, absent of text. The reader has to sink below the main stage, the accepted space of word and story, to find the voices of this couple and the depth of their story’s tenderness, eroticism, and utter devastation. Coble’s piece foils the structure and effect of Seventh Circle of Earth by taking what was subverted by Vuong—text and the narrative of violence—wholly to the surface. Her photograph captures her own legs tattooed without ink with the names of LGBTQ individuals victimized by hate crimes. I cannot help but think of Franz Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony,” in which prisoners’ “sentences'' are inscribed by the needle of a “punishment apparatus” directly onto their bodies. I was struck by how the curator’s note for this photograph describes Coble’s artistic endeavor here as “harrowing.” The needle in Kafka’s short story is indeed called “The Harrow”. The noun harrow is an agricultural tool that combs plowed soil to break up clumps of earth and uproot weeds and clear imperfections. The verb to harrow means to plague, and in the story’s original German the verb for “harrow”, eggen,  is also translated as “to torment”. Kafka and Coble conflate these definitions of “the harrow” in their respective works: they use a needled device, like the true noun definition, as an instrument of torment because of someone else’s idea of punishment and justice. Here, violence is brought to the surface, intimate in as much as we are brought right up to the artist’s skin and into the presence of her and her community’s pain. Together, one can see how each creator physicalizes their respective artistic space to tell the stories of LGBTQ people, of what is tender and harrowing, below the surface and written into the skin. 

— Talia Abrahams, Provenance Intern, IHCPP Mary Coble (American, born 1978). Untitled 2 (from Note to Self), 2005. Inkjet print. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 2008.10. © artist or artist's estate 

To my daughter Kakuya   by Assata Shakur  

I have shabby dreams for you   of some vague freedom   I have never known.   Baby   I don't want you hungry or thirsty   or out in the cold.   and I don't want the frost   to kill your fruit   before it ripens.   I can see a sunny place  Life exploding green.   I can see your bright, bronze skin at ease with all the flowers   and the centipedes.   I can hear laughter,   not grown from ridicule   And words not prompted   by ego or greed or jealousy.   I see a world where hatred   has been replaced by love.   and ME replaced by WE   And I can see a world replaced                                       where you,   building and exploring,   strong and fulfilled,   will understand.   And go beyond my little shabby dreams. 

This poem is featured in Assata Shakur’s memoir, Assata: An Autobiography. It details her hope for a better world that  her daughter can grow up in. This poem is positioned in the book when Shakur is facing increasing prosecution as a result of her  activism and affiliations with the Black Panther Party and Black Liberation army. Being written more than 30 years after this picture  was taken, the poem summons me to think about the trauma that many Black women face and how much of that trauma gets passed  down to their children. The black and white photo of a mother and daughter provides a nice visual to the poem. “The image of a Black  mother and child sitting on their luggage reflects the little-discussed history of segregated transportation in the northern United States. Through the 1940s, Penn Station officials assigned Black travelers seats in Jim Crow cars on southbound trains” (Brooklyn Museum). The photograph of train passengers waiting outside of Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Station especially echoes the verse “I don’t want you  hungry or thirsty or out in the cold.” The overall optimistic tone of Shakur’s poem alters our relationship to the image as we imagine  the mother pictured above hoping for the exact same things

— Zaria W, Teen Programs intern Ruth Orkin (American, 1921-1985). Mother and Daughter at Penn Station, NYC, 1948. Gelatin silver photograph, sheet: 13 15/16 × 11 in. (35.4 × 27.9 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mary Engel, 2011.22.3. © artist or artist's estate

Crunch.  By Kailyn Gibson 

I retch as a mass of sinew lies between my lips.  The sensation is unbearable.  Fortunately, the jar of flies has gone missing again. 

Slowly, surely, and yet never sure at all,  the quiet of buzzing rings through the in-between. 

It is a symphony wrought from blood and bone. 

Saliva drips from bleeding, hungry gums,  And the crunch of glass echoes the grinding of molars.

If I proffered a sanguine smile, would masticated shards look like teeth?  Would they gleam just as prettily?  

The flies ring,  and the rot calls. 

— Kailyn Gibson Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). Portrait of a Man (Portrait d'homme), ca. 1866. Oil on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 21.112 

Excerpt from Autobiography of Red A novel in verse by Anne Carson

7. If Helen’s reasons arose out of some remark Stesichoros made either it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) or it was not.

8. If it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) either this remark was a lie or it was not.

9. If it was not a lie either we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way we are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros or we are not.

10. If we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros either we will go along without incident or we will meet Stesichoros on our way back.

11. If we meet Stesichoros on our way back either we will keep quiet or we will look him in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen.

12. If we look Stesichoros in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen either he will tell the truth or he will lie.

13. If Stesichoros lies either we will know at once that he is lying or we will be fooled because now that we are in reverse the whole landscape looks inside out.

This excerpt comes from Appendix C of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red, a novel in verse. A translator and classicist herself, Carson mixes fact with fiction in her unconventional retelling of the myth of Geryon and Hercules, beginning with a roundabout introduction to the poet Stesichoros. Autobiography presents a captivating example of recent Queer projects that take up Classical material as their basis. A fascination with the Classical past has pervaded our modern conception of sexual identity politics, down to the very etymology of the word “lesbian.” In this fascination, I see the same desire to capture Classical imagery as cultural heritage which has also pervaded American museums, albeit with significantly different aims. The fresco pictured above comes to mind, which passed through many collectors and was even purchased by the museum before anyone pegged it as a modern piece—not an original Roman fresco. John D. Cooney, a 20th century curator of our Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art collection, wrote that “the unclad and somewhat winsome charms of the lady [probably] diverted objective glances.” Both in the case of the fresco and Carson’s novel, the “unclad and somewhat winsome charms” of the Classical past shape and reshape our understanding of history.

— Kira Houston, Curatorial Intern, Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art Modern, in the style of the Roman Period. Part of a Fresco, early 19th century C.E. Clay, paint. Brooklyn Museum, Ella C. Woodward Memorial Fund, 11.30.

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

— Shori Diedrick Brackens (American, born 1989). when no softness came, 2019. Cotton and acrylic yarn. Brooklyn Museum, Purchased with funds given by The LIFEWTR Fund at Frieze New York 2019, 2019.12. © artist or artist's estate

Jaguar By Francisco X. Alarcón

some say                                    dicen que ahora                  I'm now almost                           estoy casi extinto       extinct in this park                      por este parque    but the people                            pero la gente who say this                               que dice esto don't know                                 no sabe that by smelling                          que al oler   the orchids                                 las orquídeas in the trees                                 en los árboles they're sensing                          están percibiendo  the fragrance                             la fragancia of my chops                              de mis fauces  that by hearing                          que al oír the rumblingc                            el retumbo of the waterfalls                        de los saltos  

they're listening                         están escuchando          to my ancestors'                       el gran rugido   great roar                                  de mis ancestros

that by observing                      que al observar     the constellations                      las constelanciones     of the night sky                         del firmamento 

they're gazing                           están mirando at the star spots                       las motas de estrellas    on my fur                                  marcadas en mi piel that I am and                            que yo soy always will be                           y siempre seré the wild                                     el indomable

untamed                                  espíritu silvestre living spirit                               vivo de esta of this jungle                            jungla

While the author of the poem speaks about animals, their words can also speak on behalf of the erasure of indigenous peoples in South America. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions and culture are very important to life in South America. Despite their marginalization, Indigenous peoples throughout the Andes used coca leaves to help with the altitude. The use and cultivation of coca are criminalized throughout most of South America despite it being essential to indigenous cultures. This vessel was used to contain lime which would activate the coca leaves.  Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions are also faced with endangerment despite being woven into the fabric that is Latin America. Through the opposite man and woman figures, the vessel shows the duality that is important to the Quimbaya people which is still relevant to Colombians today.

Aunque el autor del poema habla sobre los animales, sus palabras también comunican el sentimiento común de la supresión de los indígenas en Suramérica. Con la mención del jaguar, se puede entender en el poema que la cultura y las tradiciones de las personas que son indígenas son sumamente importantes para la vida en Sudamérica. A pesar de su marginación, los indígenas en Los Andes utilizan la hoja de coca para ayudar en la altura de las montañas. El uso y el cultivo de la hoja de coca fue criminalizado (penalizado) a través de Sudamérica, aunque su uso para los indígenas era vital y esencial para su cultura. Este recipiente que se utiliza contiene limón lo que activa la hoja de la coca. Similarmente al jaguar, las tradiciones de los indígenas siempre estaban en peligro aunque estuvieran entrelazadas en las telas de lo que sería Latinoamérica. A través del hombre opuesto y las figuras de mujeres, el recipiente muestra la dualidad de lo que es importante para las personas que son Quimbaya, algo que todavía hoy es relevante para los Colombianos.

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas Quimbaya. Poporo (Lime Container), 1-600 C.E. Tumbaga. Brooklyn Museum, Alfred W. Jenkins Fund, 35.507. Creative Commons-BY 

#national poetry month #poetry #art #poems #art history #brooklyn museum #bkminterns

[alreadyblondenow]

COLLAB CALL!

On the 6th of April, year 2018, I decided to stan NCT and support Lee Taeyong with everything. And I can’t remember my life before that. So to celebrate my love for Lee Bubu and for NCT in general, I just had to do something.

So because of my love for ‘FLY ART’ and Lee Taeyong, this writing collaboration or exhibit for NCT’s leader Lee Taeyong will focus on famous romantic paintings.

RULES

This may be a Taeyong exhibit, but if you wish to write for another member and join this collab you’re 100% welcome. But let’s prioritize Taeyong please.

DEADLINE will be during the month of JULY. 

If you’re a kind of person who’s prone to backing out last minute instead of finishing what you’ve signed up for, do it now.

There are no slots for members, but I will accept 10 writers only. And also no repeating of paintings. 

All fics should include SMUT but if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. But as the host of this exhibit, that is my main request.

If you’re underage and you wish to write smut, the answer is no sweetie.

Minimum of 1k words and no word limit.

No topics about BULLYING, HARASSMENT, INC3ST, HOMOPHOBIA, SUICIDE, etc. Please be mindful of your ideas.

No sci-fi, let’s stick to the real world.

HOW TO JOIN

Choose a painting in GALLERY A below. Read the descriptions carefully.

Go to my blog and submit a post to me with this format:

*Attach a photo of your chosen painting, just to make sure that we are on the same page* Keyword: Chosen painting: Chosen member: Genres & AUs: A short description of what you’re planning to write:

After submitting, please wait for me to confirm your slot and wait for me to tag you officially under the post before reblogging it.

Questions will be entertained through private message. 

GALLERY A

Please choose the painting that you wish to write for. All are personally handpicked by me, has different stories and theories and are different visually (obviously).  

The lover by Rene Magritte - The masterpiece that was painted on the canvas in 1928, beautifully captures the essence of any typical relationship. We come across a couple, with hidden faces. Even with their hidden faces, Magritte claims that ‘nothing is concealed in the painting’. Both of the individuals are embracing each other’s presence in their life. Taken by @moonctzeny

Dance on the country by Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Celebrating the love between a man and a woman, this painting appears to be a joyous reflection of them. Both figures appear too different from each other, yet choose to be together. Impression style is used to draw the intimacy between two people. Taken by @yutasgalaxy

The Honeysuckle Bower by Peter Paul Rubens - A gentle touch of their hands portrays intimacy and warmth. The painter deserves appreciation for his ability to use brilliant skills to paint dramatic and high-class clothing. The dressing plays a crucial role in letting us know that the couple is a high society couple. It also has the theme of gender and love. While the man hardly smiles, his wife seems cheerful and happy, implying the different approaches towards the love between the two genders.

The Jewish Bride by Rembrandt - Both of the subjects are dressed richly. A beautiful portrayal of emotions can be noticed in the painting. While both of them are physically close, they do not look into each other’s eyes. We see them lost alone at the moment. They are so mesmerized by their intimacy that they even forget to look at each other. Almost nothing can move them. Taken by @prettyjaems

La Surprise by Antoine Watteau - The lady is carefree and submits herself completely to the arms of her lover. Both of them embrace each other while kissing. However, the third figure is not so much in love. He is holding his guitar. Even though he is trying to play the guitar, his focus is on the passionate couple. On the other hand, a couple is unaware and carefree of his presence. They just can’t notice him playing guitar. The guy sitting alone realizes that even his music can’t reach the lovers’ ears. He is there with his tunes alone.

The Kiss Gustave by Klimt - Intimacy is shown by the way the individuals are locked with each other. The resemblance seems spiritual. A man kisses the woman’s cheek, she shies away.  The romantic painting is still present in Vienna’s Museum. With thousands of admirers flocking every year, its fame only increases. The painting doesn’t let us see the face of the dominant man but gives the spotlight completely to that of the lady. They embrace each other as if they have seized. Their embrace seems to have become eternal. Taken by @bl--ankhaeji

The Birthday by Mark Chagall - This was the painting that he painted just before their marriage and thus holds a significant value in his life. This sets out to be a wonderful self-portrait of the artist and his lover, Bella. While Bella is given full spotlight, an artist himself doesn’t really show much of himself. We can reflect on his love for his muse and how much she mattered in his life through the stage sharing in the painting.

Self-portrait as a Tehuana by Frida Kahlo - The positioning of Diego at the forehead of Frida is vital. Frida does this to depict how she can only think of her lover and ex-husband. He was a womanizer and didn’t ever commit to their marriage. Even after getting cheated on, her love for Diego didn’t reduce at all. She has painted a spider web around her head probably to signify that only Diego resides inside her body and mind. The use of Tehuana, a traditional dress worn by her in the portrait, contrasts with her emotional state. Despite her sadness, she produces various romantic paintings that earned her reputation among admirers and also critics. Taken by @jeontaeil

Le Printemps (Springtime) by Pierre Auguste Cot - It captures young love and its beauty. Young lady’s hands are wrapped around her lover’s neck, while he admires her pretty face. Her white dress signifies the purity of love. It is also the depiction of love itself is the most spiritual experience. The most unique feature of the painting can be the sunlight falling behind the couple. It is painted beautifully and is almost unreal. Taken by @alreadyblondenow

A Romance by Santiago Rusignal - This portrait shows a woman playing the piano while a man stands by her. The painting can be seen as a simple one with its domesticated setting. The woman is lost in the moment as she plays the piano while the man is lost as he listens to her tunes. Both have a calm and also composed face which shows a very relaxed environment. The love between them is music. His paintings are so moving that we can even imagine the music in a painting. 

The Farewell of Telemachus and Eucharis by Jacques Louis David - Telemachus keeps his hand on the thigh of Eucharis, while she hugs him with sadness on her face. Telemachus is the son of Odysseus, who loves Eucharis. Both are passionate lovers. However, Telemachus has to leave the comfort of his town and lover to fulfill the responsibility of being a son. He has to go on a search for his missing father. Colors are used to draw the contrast element. The red and blue dresses strike majorly with the flesh colors of the subjects. The sad but passionate romance makes us love the artistic skills of Jacques. Taken by @yutahoes

keyword: sweet potatoes

Link to my submission post: HERE

#nct #nct taeyong #nct collab call #taeyong #nct smut #nct fluff #nct angst #nct dream #nct 127 #nct 2020 #nct imagines #nct scenario #nct collab #collab call #nct writers

[whitherliliesbloom]

lights, camera, duty commenced!

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #14 - commend ]

[ illya, g’raha & emet ] ★ [ 2,263 words ]  ★ [ actors au ]  passing mention of some friend’s ocs and illyanaud

commend: praise formally or officially

behind the scenes of the critically acclaimed long running tv show, final fantasy fourteen, g’raha tia is (almost) inconsolable after he reads the final act’s script

The not-so everlasting light shining down feels radiant and warm, but not scorching. In the distance, one can hear the push and pull of the tides from the nearby lake, as well as the rustling of the purple hued leaves that hung and swayed ever so gently upon the trees. A light baby blue canvas with dusty cotton candy clouds crowns lakeland, painting the perfect, serene vista for an uneventful day of shooting.

Though, Illya has to remind herself, as she looks up at the peaceful sky, and sighs in contentment that she was in the completely wrong headspace. Even though the sky above was bright and undoubtedly beautiful on this fine afternoon, she knows that all it takes is for a little bit of compuer-generated television effects magic to turn the tranquil landscape into a scene of naught but utter devastation and war.

Think termination. Think termination. You’re in the middle of a large-scale battle between Elidibus and the people of Norvrandt. The tone’s supposed to be somber and tense. You’re the warrior of darkness. You got this!

“Oh.... How could this be...?”

Her train of thought is rudely interrupted by the sorrowful moping of her co-actor, and she has to resist the urge to chide him for dragging his early morning sulking all the way into the afternoon. 

“G’raha, please...” the lalafellin sighs, though cannot help but to let a sliver of sympathy slip into her tone. “The next scene’s starting soon.”

“I know, I know... But...” the man heaves a heavy sigh, hanging his head low and letting his arms drop onto his lap so dramatically she’d almost thought that his flesh really was made of crystal and wasn’t just a product of the hard work of extremely talented make-up artists. “I can’t help it. I can’t believe that my poor crystal exarch is-”

Illya can say she at least empathizes - though perhaps not to the same extent. She’s been casted into roles of characters who would meet an unfortunate demise later, but to be fair, they weren’t often major characters within the narrative of the show or film she was playing a role in. 

The crystal exarch on the other hand, has played a key role as one of the many recurring supporting casts in the show. He’d lingered in the background as early as the first season, and was, to G’raha’s jubilation, finally given a main role in the fourth season they were filming. 

Only to be killed off in the final act - succumbing to the crystallization of his entire body, from head to toe, in the throne room of the crystal tower after the warrior of darkness’ battle with the ascian Elidibus. His death scene was to be an emotionally poignant one... and Illya herself has spent the last few days getting into the headspace of the protagonist - who would understandably be utterly devastated by the loss of a dear friend. 

It didn’t help that the crystal exarch was a considerably popular character within the international community of fans - and his significant increase in screen time was due in part to fan demands... though that perhaps made his long foreshadowed death even more of a cruel irony. 

And there was nobody in the world who was a bigger fan of the crystal exarch than the actor who played him himself. It wasn’t narcissistic either, in their line of work, it’s easy to get attached to the roles they play... even more so when they’ve hovered within the headspace of their character for as long as 6 years - she would know, Liliya Liya is as big a part of her as the crystal exarch is for G’raha now.

Thus, though she felt the urgent need to get G’raha back up on his feet in preparation for the remaining scenes on their schedule to film... she could not bring herself to so callously talk down his very real and personal attachment of a character he was meant to portray well anyways. 

“Oh come now... you should’ve seen this coming.” with a swagger in his step and lazy grin plastered over his expression, Emet Selch strolls over to the pair.... far too comfortable within his own role that he was speaking with Hades’ signature slur in his speech even while out of character. The man has always noted just how similar he was to the god of the underworld, and Illya wouldn’t be surprised if he’d claimed to not even be acting in his scenes at all.

“I...” G’raha pouts, looking up at Emet as his ears flatten atop his head. “I guess I was in denial of it. I thought they would maybe subvert expectations... but-”

“But that wouldn’t be a very compelling story to tell, now would it?” The older man shrugs, and Illya regrets to think that she’s inclined to agree. 

“I guess not..” 

The robed miqo’te man sighs, and she notes with an amused raise of an eyebrow as his tail that had once been tucked tightly to his side was now swiveling from side to side and puffed up in annoyance.

“Still! They could at least let him go out with more of a bang! Maybe... after he has a solo action scene... or give him a kiss scene to make things more dramatic!”

“Is defeating the big bad and saving the heroine not dramatic enough for you, already?” Emet’s voice is in part mocking as it is exasperated, his arms thrown up to his shoulders in a shrug. “Also I hope you didn’t mean a kiss scene with Liliya.”

“W-what-?? I-” Illya’s mouth hangs agape. 

“No! I wasn’t thinking anyone in particular, honest. Besides, she’s already caught in that love triangle subplot with the twins, isn’t she?” 

At the mention of the topic, the lalafellin woman’s smile fades.

“D-don’t remind me of that. I’m really not looking forward to acting those scenes out.” 

She’s already read the script for the fourth season in it’s entirety... and though she has incredible respect for the masterful writing and the wonderful character dynamics that has only gotten better with each passing season... she has never been... entirely comfortable with the romantic aspects of the scenes involving the elven twins. Scenes of the pair vying for her attention, scenes where she held hands and even got unsettingly close to kissing them... 

Though, she will admit... her own uncertainty over her competence in filming those scenes are a result of her own, very personal emotions... something of which Emet Selch seemed to be more than aware of.

“Is it not because you harbor actual feelings for one of them? Would having scenes of you being close to him not be a blessing for you, then?”

The miffed glare Illya’s shoots up at Emet rivals moments of shadow possession Liliya experiences throughout the show, and he can only shrug with a cocky grin as her star-spangled swirl with indignation. Anger aside, heat is spreading across her cheeks in the form of a burning red hue that reaches the tips of her short, pointed ears.

Please stop. 

Her expression spells out. She’s as annoyed as she her frightened about something.

Oh dear. 

“Relax. Workplace romance here is nothing new.” His words only serve to worsen the already infuriated gleam in her blazing, shimmering eyes. “Mint certainly isn’t shy when it comes to showing she’s in a relationship with Estinien. Nor your friend Laurelis for that matter. She’s still keeping in touch with Haurchefant, no?”

Illya doesn’t say anything, but her silence and the paling of her complexion speaks louder than any words she can spill from her lips. 

It’s precisely because he doesn’t know. So please, please shut your mouth.

He still cannot understand why on earth she would stay so adamant about keeping her feelings a secret anyway. For all he knows, the entire cast of actors... and the whole final fantasy crew for that matter, was fully aware of their pining - and Illya’s feelings towards her close co-worker and friend wasn’t unrequited either. 

Just like in the show, the pair are completely oblivious to their attraction to one another... something he’ll just have to fix with his bare hands then... 

But the matter is neither here nor there, and there was something of greater urgency to rectify now. 

Emet Selch turns his gaze back down to G’raha, who has gone uncharacteristically quiet... and sensing his seriousness, Illya too diverts her attention back to the sulking redhead. 

“You know... you’re a very talented actor. It’s so very rare to find someone who can capture the emotions and nuances of a character as well as you do.” Emet is the faster of them to speak, and Illya can barely believe the words she’s hearing leave his lips. 

Compliments and praise, genuine ones at that, coming from one of the cast’s eldest, most experienced actor who is not only known to be critical when it comes to the art of acting - but is a certified acting coach himself? The monumental honor is not lost to G’raha, as his ears perk up and he whips his head up with widened ruby eyes to look at Emet.

“Death is difficult to portray - dare I say, almost impossible. After all, how can we, who have never experienced death... truly capture the sorrow and despair in it?”

Emet Selch pauses, drawing in a breath before he lifts his hand up to gesture at the pair before him.

“Which is why this is your biggest opportunity to showcase your talents, to move the audience with not just the story, but your very acting! The only thing we can do, as men and women of this field, is to act as vehicles and carry the emotions of the story into the hearts of the fans.”

The man finally sighs, shoulders falling and arms flopping lazily to his side, the sentimentality of the words he just spoke tasting bitter on his tongue.

“Besides, even in death there is a beauty. The crystal exarch lived his life fulfilled and having realized his wish at the end. I expect you to remember that when you eventually see him off.”

There’s a silence that hangs and festers in the air for a moment, before the fur on G’raha’s tail stands and his chest puffs up in a show of renewed determination.

“Y-you’re right, Emet! The crystal exarch dedicated his life to finding a way to save others... There is no better way to end his legacy than to see the world he’s protected for so long finally saved!” 

Standing onto his feet, the miqo’te clenches his hands into fists and nods before casting a glance down at Illya.

“Illya! I will act my heart out to the best I can! I’ll act so hard that I’ll make you cry on set for sure!”

The corners of her lip tugs upwards into a wide smile, glowing as the afternoon sun basks down and reflects upon her snowy white hair and the blossoms of her amethyst eyes. Even with the black of the garments she wore and the eastern patterned ribbon that held the braid around her head in place, she was luminous and blinding in her radiant presence... not unlike the heroine of their story.

“Of course! And I’m sure the rest of the crystal exarch fan club will too when they watch that episode.” 

“Illya, G’raha!” A pink haired lalafellin calls out to them from a distance away, her olive green eyes wide and excited as she waves her hands high above her head. A raven haired man stands just behind her, his dark blue eyes narrowed as he reviews the script in his hands intently. “We’re starting soon! Get over here!”

“Coming! Just give us a second!” G’raha waves back with a grin before turning back to look at Emet Selch with an apologetic, yet grateful bow, his relaxed tail swaying gently from side to side behind his back. 

“Thank you, Emet. I won’t soon forget your encouragements. I’ll do my best and make sure to not let everyone down.”

“Yes, yes. Spare me the nauseating mush. I was just making sure you didn’t drag your co-actor down with your sulking.” 

The elder man now glances at the starry eyed girl with amusement flashing through his expression, and Illya can already feel her earlier lighthearted elation fade as quickly as it came. 

“By the way... I’m sure if you asked Yoshida properly.. he’d be willing to consider writing in a kiss scene with Liliya and-”

“If I were the warrior of darkness, I’d take my crescent moon cane and stab you with the end of it......”

------

Meanwhile, a little distance away from the trio, Kaye lets out a low hum as he reads and re-reads the words upon the small stacks of paper he held, expression doubtful and confused.

“You sure this is the script to Endwalker?”

“Yeah, I am! Alphinaud gave this copy and said that he got from miss Ishikawa directly! Apparently he’s playing another major role in the next season, which is why he got the script early as a heads up.”

“But... it says here that the crystal exarch gets reincarnated? Assuming that’s not gonna be changed... that means G’raha’s gonna be...”

Kaye’s head lifts and turns, eyes wide and brows furrowing in bemusement only to see an impish smile glimmer upon Lily’s face.

“Should we tell him?”

“Hm...? Nah... He’s gonna film the exarch’s death scene soon, right? I’m sure he’ll appreciate the little surprise later, anyways.”

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #g'raha tia #emet selch #illya skawi #g'raha #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #fanfic #mine #I've only had this au for a day and I've already written a fill for it lmao #*pumps fist*

[grimrester]

The Heat

The fall semester of my last year of art school had barely started when the air conditioning in the senior art studios broke. If I lived further north that might not have been a problem, but I lived in Georgia, where the summer heat didn't quite break until September or October. And it was still August.

To make matters worse, the studios were in an old building with high ceilings and big glass panels built into the steep, sloped roof. All the natural lighting normally would've been a blessing. But with the air conditioning broken, it instead turned the studios into an oven. Heat seeped in all day long and remained trapped there indefinitely.

The studios themselves were two rows of cubicles with high, 8ft walls, built right in the center of the building after the college had purchased it. The open ceilings of each cell and the large gap between the cubicle wall and the sloped windows above allowed the light - and the heat - to reach anyone who might be working inside them. Each graduating senior was assigned a specific cubicle as their personal, 24/7 studio space.

There was a big hallway around the perimeter of the building. One section of the hallway widened to make space for a sink to wash brushes in and a table and chairs for critique sessions. The bathroom was there, too - a unisex one with a derelict little door, nearly hanging off its hinges.

Initially I'd worried that having just one toilet in the building wouldn't be enough, but it ended up not being an issue. Most of the students didn't last long. The heat during the day was too oppressive. At times, the air in the building was so suffocating that the heat almost felt like a physical presence, like a large creature weighing down on our shoulders, crushing us under its weight.

---

I caught the student assigned to the cell next to mine moving out all his paintings just a couple weeks into the semester.

"Hey," I said, pausing outside the door to my own cubicle to gawk. The student - I never bothered to learn his name - looked entirely morose as he stacked a few canvases by the door. "Moving out already?"

"Yeah," he said, solemnly, heavily dropping another canvas on the pile. "I have no idea how you can work in here. My oils keep melting."

"What?" I said, confused. I shuffled over to get a look at the top painting on the stack, and sure enough, the half-finished landscape he'd made with oil paint was completely distorted. Strangely, the melted paint seemed to be in round sections, about as large as my head, scattered all over the canvas.

"It's fucking weird, right?" he said, following my gaze.

"Wouldn't it melt all over?" I asked. "Why is it just in some parts?"

"Beats the hell out of me," he replied. "My best guess is it was cloudy or something so it melted unevenly where the sun got to it."

"Guess it's lucky I work with ink," I said. "It dries fast so it'd sooner burst into flames than melt, and it's too humid in here for a fire."

The student clucked his tongue. "I shoulda used acrylic. Might've held up better." He sighed and picked up the stack. "Too late now, I guess. I'm going to see if I can salvage them at home."

"Good luck," I said, watching him go. At least he had the option of working at home. My apartment was too small for the large paintings I wanted to make, so I was forced to bear the heat.

---

I and the few other students who had to work in the little plaster cells complained to the administration about the heat many times, but I guess our small group just wasn't a priority because the air conditioner remained broken. The heat remained an issue into September, even when the outside air had cooled off a little. I began to think there was something wrong with the building, that perhaps the AC was spitting out hot air or the large windows had been specifically designed to turn the place into an oven.

I eventually started coming into the studios later and later, hoping that the space would at least cool down at nighttime. I preferred working in crappy, dim synthetic lighting over standing there with the sun bearing down on me through the open top of my cubicle. But even at night, the heat was terrible. It felt muggy, smothering. I felt the weight of it on me from the moment I entered the studios.

To add to the uncomfortable conditions, the building was pretty old and made creaking and moaning noises as it marginally cooled down overnight. The exposed pipes near the ceiling were especially noisy, making all sorts of awful, creepy groans. I'd mostly gotten used to them after a while.

Then one night it got worse.

I was in my cubicle, in the final stages of one of my larger ink drawings. I was painstakingly cleaning up some lines with a fine brush when suddenly there was a huge slamming noise, loud enough that I could hear it through my music and earbuds. I jolted, screwing up my line in the process, and hissed through my teeth.

"What was that?" I called out, taking out one earbud. I thought maybe one of the artists who worked in the far end cubicles had dropped something or fallen over, but there was no reply.

I cracked the door of my cubicle and peeked out, looking around either end of the hallway. Nothing seemed amiss, so I just closed my door again and went back to work. I assumed it was just a new pipe noise or something.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, I was trying to decide on a new playlist when it happened again. My music wasn't playing, so I heard it clearer this time - a loud BAM noise from the back building wall, several cubicles away from me. It almost sounded like some huge beast was outside, hurling its body against the side of the building, trying to get inside.

But that would be silly. This was the first time I'd stayed past midnight and these noises were probably normal at this time of night. I just hadn't heard them before.

I tried to focus on picking a playlist. The noise happened again. But this time, the brushes on my work table rattled in their mason jar from the force.

I stared at them. I'd never heard a building settle so hard that it made things move.

I suddenly had the feeling that something was very wrong. I felt queasy - my stomach tightened and churned. Maybe I was just not feeling well and the heat was exasperating it? I'd been working long hours and late nights in the studio, so it was possible I'd made myself sick. I felt the need to vomit, and I hoped it would make my nausea subside.

I pulled my earbuds out and left my studio, walking quickly to the bathroom. The slamming noise echoed out again, on the other side of the building. I locked the rickety bathroom door behind me, my moist palms sliding against the metal handle as I did so. The back of my neck felt wet, too, that sort of gross, warm moistness that comes with the Georgia heat.

I knelt by the toilet, face hovering over the bowl. I still felt sick but nothing was coming up. I pressed my fist into my stomach hard and tried to retch, but still nothing happened. The nausea was starting to make me dizzy. Did I get heat stroke or something?

The door rattled behind me.

"Someone's in here!" I called out, my voice warbling a little. Weird, I thought, since the studios had been quiet all night. I thought I was the only one there.

The door rattled harder, the whole thing shaking with the effort.

"Jesus," I muttered. Then, louder, "I said, it's occupied!"

The rattling increased and there was a loud BANG as something hit the door hard. I twisted around and stared, gripping the toilet seat, shocked. Who the fuck needed the bathroom that badly? Whoever was outside smacked the door hard again and I worried that the shitty, old wood would simply splinter under the force.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. The rattling and banging just ceased. I stared at the door a little longer, wondering if the person outside had left yet. I didn't particularly want to run into them if a locked bathroom door was enough to make them throw a fit outside. I waited and waited, to be sure they left, so long that my nausea had subsided.

Put off by the whole experience, I quickly gathered my things from my studio and left for the night.

---

When I returned the next night, the heat was inexplicably worse than before. I couldn't even listen to music to distract myself this time. I was a little worried that whoever had given me a hard time in the bathroom would come back, and I didn't want to miss hearing them coming if for some reason they were on a warpath.

The relative silence of the studio was decidedly eerie. There was a faint buzz from the lights and the occasional groaning and moaning of old pipes, but otherwise you could hear a pin drop. I began to rethink my decision on the music because the silence was spooky and setting me on edge. I thought maybe I could play it on my phone's speaker so I could still hear someone coming. But then, if they were there and so quiet I couldn't hear them, playing music out loud might've pissed them off…

My train of thought was interrupted by that awful, thundering slamming noise from the far wall of the building. The great, hulking beast I had imagined was back.

Sweat began to gather on my palms and neck again and I put my brush down to wipe my hands on my pants. The air in the studio became so muggy that breathing suddenly felt like inhaling swamp water.

Hardly a moment later, there it was again - BAM. My paintbrushes rattled in the little jar. My first thought that maybe whoever had needed the bathroom yesterday was throwing another fit, but it really sounded like something massive hitting the wall. Something too massive for one person to hurl.

I once again had the distinct feeling that something was wrong. What would have the kind of force to make everything move like that? Was the old building going to collapse?

BAM - louder this time.

Maybe this was some bizzare, localized earthquake, I told myself. It didn't matter that I'd never heard of an earthquake that behaved this way. It seemed more likely than the alternative I imagined, that some huge beast was hurling its hairy, grotesque body against the walls.

I sat motionless, listening closely.

BAM. My door rattled.

There was no mistaking it that time. The sound wasn't getting louder - the source of it was just getting closer.

The monster I had imagined wasn't outside and trying to get in. It was already inside the building.

I stared, frozen in place, at my studio door. I felt ridiculous. How would some kind of monster large enough to shake the walls even get through the building's doors?

BAM. Even closer now.

BAM. It sounded like it was right outside my door. I could see the handle shake with the force. Something was definitely wrong. This wasn't an earthquake and it wasn't some deranged art student. There was something out there and it wanted to be in here, with me. I tried to take deep breaths to remain calm, but sucking in big gulps of warm, humid air just made me feel queasy again. I looked around, trying to find somewhere to hide, but my cubicle was bare - just a folding table and a stool. There was nowhere to go. I pressed myself against the corner of my cell, as far away from my door as possible.

There was a long moment where there was no sound - not the slamming, not the usual groaning of the pipes. I slid down to the hard concrete floor and waited. Perhaps it was over?

The door handle rattled, this time unaccompanied by any slamming noise.

My breath caught. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I stared, watching as the handle jiggled. Whatever was making it move seemed unable to turn it properly, just fumbling it around without getting it to unlatch.

I waited. The handle stopped moving.

There was another moment of dead silence. Then another new sound - fast, heavy, stomping footsteps, heading towards the section of hallway with the bathroom, table, and sink.

I got up and grabbed my phone and bag. I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I couldn't stay there any longer.

There was a creaking noise, and then a terrible thumping sound, like something had just hit the ground hard. Then crashing, over in one of the cubicles on the far end, as though whatever had been in the hall had used the table in the critique area to hop the cubicle wall and was now making a mess inside. Another creak, another thump, more crashing, closer, just a few cubicles away.

I threw my cubicle door open. I just had to make it to the main door, but it was all the way on the other side of the building. I'd have to run around half the perimeter hallway to get there.

So I ran.

The beast, whatever it was, continued into another cubicle - creak, thump, crash. Then it paused as I rounded the first corner, my sneakers squeaking on the concrete. A terrible dread settled in my stomach. It was listening and it knew I was trying to leave. It didn't make any noise - no breathing, no wailing, no roaring - but I somehow still got the sense that it was pissed off by my attempted escape.

I rounded the second corner. I could see the door just ahead.

A creak. I looked at the tops of the cubicles as I ran for the door, but there was nothing there. No hairy beast hovering over the wall and dropping into the next studio. I slowed my running.

A thump. A crash. A creak.

I paused, my hand on the front door, my mouth gaping as I looked at the tops of the cubicles. I felt I had to see it, had to know I wasn't just crazy, but it seemed there was no beast to see.

Then I finally saw it, lurching over the wall, headed right for me. Warped air, shimmering, the way streets do on a hot day. A mass of heat made alive, barely visible unless you're looking closely. It was hard to tell the boundaries of it, but I could tell it was huge, fat enough that it nearly didn't fit in the cubicle it was lumbering out of.

It dropped down over the wall, landing in the hallway, with a thunderous thud.

I pushed the door open and ran into the night. I ran and ran and didn't look behind me. I didn't hear its thumping footsteps, but it was so difficult to see that looking might not have helped anyway.

I ran all the way back to my apartment, about a mile from campus. I slammed and locked the door behind me, blasted my air conditioner, and hid in my bed until morning.

---

I was eating a late breakfast, wondering if I'd somehow imagined the whole thing, when a friend called me.

"Were you in the studios last night?" she asked, a touch of panic in her voice, forgoing any pleasantries.

"No." The lie slipped out easily. I had that feeling of inexplicable dread again. "Why?"

"Apparently there was some huge break in," she said. "All the studios were trashed! It sounds like the people who did it didn't even take anything, they just… melted a bunch of stuff. Paintings, metals, anything meltable."

I struggled to think of an adequate response, just stared down at my soggy cereal. "Huh. Weird," I managed.

"Do you think they'll put some extra security on the building?" she asked. "It's weird they leave it unlocked all the time."

"No," I said, thinking of the broken air conditioning. "Knowing them, they'll probably just leave it, since no one got hurt."

---

I never told anyone what I saw that night. What would I even say? Who would believe me? Anyone would just assume I was crazy or suffering from heat exhaustion.

But I wish I'd at least tried.

I waited a week before going back to the studios to clean out my cubicle. I went during the day this time. I wouldn't be there long and I had encountered the creature at night so it seemed safer.

The building seemed empty when I arrived, but as soon as I opened the doors there was a terrible smell. It was sickly-sweet and sour, like trash left out in the sun. I pinched my nose as I rounded the corners to my cubicle, but the smell only got worse. It was so overpowering as I rounded the second corner that I considered cutting my losses and just leaving.

The cubicle door on the end was left wide open. Was someone in here working? I looked inside as I passed, then froze.

There, huddled under the table as though hiding from something, was a body. It was withered as though there for some time, almost mummy-like, the skin leathery and dry like beef jerky. The eyes were wide open, dry little balls pointed right in my direction.

I didn't scream. I just turned around, walked out of the building, and called the police.

---

The autopsy said the student died of dehydration and heat stroke. The news reported it as some sort of freak accident, a student that got so lost in their art that they stopped taking care of themselves and passed out in that hot studio, baking alive until they finally died.

The air conditioning finally got fixed after that.

#this is a short horror story :) #it was made for r/nosleep but i thought id also post it here #short story #creative writing #horror #horror stories #tw death

[sunfishfiesta]

Ultimate Guide to Patch Pants (identifying and creating)

A Comprehensive and In Depth Guide for those with a More than Passing Interest in Patch Pants So, I’m sure most of those reading have heard of crust pants, or patch pants, or whatever you want to call them. But I have never seen a total, complete and comprehensive guide for identification and creation of truly beautiful patch pants. The terms crust pants and patch pants will be used interchangeably during this guide. Note this guide will only cover more developed crust pants and will not deal with kinderpunk pants.  I have created a number of crust/patch pants and this information comes directly from experience I have in creation of patch pants, information I have been given by other people who have created what I consider quite beautiful patch pants, as well as observations of other people’s craftsmanship both in real life and the internet. I will be using pictures from a variety of sources, but all should be collected on fuckyeahcrustpants (my patch pants archive blog), and that is where I will be linking the pictures from. Creation:  This section is going to be almost entirely writing, if you want examples of what is discussed here the identification section will help. There are a few different methods of going about making crust pants, some which yield significantly more aesthetically pleasing and genuine looking results than others. Of course a given is the longer you own them, the better they get, if you put genuine time and effort into your creation they will reflect that, careful sewing and a fine understanding of a number of different stitches and their appropriate applications will assist in your ability to mend properly, darning is a useful option but it does not have a very wide spread use among punks. It is also extremely time consuming, but I personally find it produces pleasing results. The first step when one begins a pair of crust pants is either tearing/cutting holes in them (this can result in a less genuine appearance as the holes may look artificial) or one can choose to wait for holes to develop, this results in a fine patina as well as holes which look like they have genuinely developed from wear (because they have). Having a patina underneath the layers of patches also adds to the effect as patches wear away they expose the already dirt-shined interior layer.  The next thing to consider is materials, this can include almost any kind of fabric and almost any kind of thread, although careful thought for both utilitarian and aesthetic purposes should be used for the placement of each patch and what material and thread is being used to repair the hole. It is often best to use patches which are either darker than or the same color as the base pants being created (this generally results in a more cohesive appearance), or one may choose to use white or an off tan if one prefers patina/dirt shine to be more visible. It’s important to note the lighter the fabric you use the darker dirt will appear on it.

Some of the more popular options for thread on patch pants include; artificial or real sinew, waxed dental floss, yarn, very fine strips of leather, or standard thread. Waxed floss and sinew either artificial or real hold some benefits over standard thread, it is much more durable and one may use a lighter to melt the the floss to creating a seal at the end of a line of stitches.   Popular choices for fabrics include; dark denim or standard black broadcloth, oilskin, bike or motorcycle inner tube, leather (scavenged from old couches, old leather jackets, boots, etc.) and work-wear canvas. Denim and canvas are generally softer and are best for lower wear areas or areas you don’t want to be stiff, including the mid thigh, mid shin, back of the knee and crotch. On the other hand, leather, oilskin, and inner tube are much more durable and much stronger but are also stiffer and will be uncomfortable if used in multiple layers, or used in places that are normally flexible in pants, they are best for the knees, or ass and can also be used on the front of the thigh and front of the shine, but too many layers will feel weird. If one chooses to wait for holes to form there will be an inevitable order in which the pants will get patches, it will start on both the ass and the knees. The edges of the pockets, the crotch, and the bottom cuff of the pants will fail next, and after that the front thighs and shins, back of knees and the back of the thighs and shins. Patches will slowly radiate from high wear areas similar to growth rings: Estimates of age can be made simply from view by recognizing the location of and density of patches. There are a number of different techniques to repairing each of these sections of a pair of pants, generally strips of whatever material is being used sewn with a standard straight whip stitch will suffice, but one may wish to switch up their method for aesthetic variation or utilitarian purposes.  A diagonal whip stitch or a blanket stitch around pockets or cuffs is a useful way of stopping small tears or spots of wear from spreading. One may also sew a patch overlapping the pockets or cuff on both sides sewing the perimeter of the patch and doing a running stitch or line whip stitch along the seam underneath the patch.  Repairing soft pockets is something I have not seen only limited information  about but I will cover it here, one can use pieces of white t-shirt for the inside of pockets when they fail. One can attach them through the use of dental floss or regular thread, but sinew is too thick and will be uncomfortable. It is best to put knots and melted thread nodules on the side of the pocket facing away from the leg as unless long johns are worn they will rub uncomfortably against the leg. This applies to knots and melted thread nodules in general, which should always be placed on the outside of the pants for the same reason. Belt loops can be replaced or repaired with the use of a thin strip of leather simply by sewing each side of it to the spots where the previous belt loop was.   Darning can also be used on almost any part of a pair of pants, and will provide rigidity and durability to weak areas, it can be done with or without a patch, and the patch can be placed over or under the fabric of the pants. This allows reinforcement of areas you may not want to cover because of appealing patchwork at the location in question. Traditional methods of affixing patches can be used as well. A method where ones cuts around the hole, or cuts slits to fold fabric around the edge of the hole to create an additional seam underneath which the patch is sewn using a running stitch around the perimeter followed by a whip stitch around the edge of the patch. Varying  these several repair techniques will allow you to create a more interesting and textured layer of patches.  Band patches as well as zippers and additional pockets are another consideration. First I will cover band patches, generally using moderation in the number of band patches will create the most interesting effect, having too many band patches will make you look really weird and will make the pants less interesting. Selecting bands around a specific sub-genre, or sub-culture helps create a more cohesive look and allows people to gauge how much you have in common in regards to musical interest. This is definitely not a hard rule though, as varying the types of music you have can either be funny (between extremely different genres) or simply look good.  Zippers can be used for aesthetic or utilitarian purposes, but it’s more fun to have them do something useful. If one puts a zipper along the thigh it’s nice to add a pocket underneath, you can also put them over the entrance to pockets, or entirely around a leg to allow it to be detachable. Pockets can also be added where there is a slit in the original fabric of the pants shows through between two patches simply by cutting that slit and then affixing a piece of fabric or another pocket underneath.  Some people choose to put a number of coatings on their pants to assist in the development of a patina, this may range anywhere from graphite, to coal tar, to motor oil, olive oil, or coconut, to simply rubbing dirt on them. The most attractive and genuine looking patina comes from simply allowing your pants to develop dirt shine on their own, if you live kinda gross your pants will reflect this, using them as napkins during your meals and wiping stuff from other art projects, work, or travel is a good way to build up a patina as well. Patina and dirt shine will vary in appearance depending up whether a coating was applied and depending upon your environment, if you go to a lot of shows, if you’re a house punk or a train hopper, if you work in a certain environment the patina will change in thickness, shininess, and color.  Identification: There are a number of different styles of patch pants, all from different sub genres or communities within punk. Here I will display and then explain the significance of stylistic decisions made within a selection. Generally there are variations in patch pants based on geography or sub-culture. Keep in mind these are by no means hard and fast rules but rather overarching themes I've noticed. 

This is a pair of japanese crasher crust pants, they’re characterized generally by giant knee holes mainly black or dark fabric patches, they’re often sewn without the use of dental floss, although it may still be used. Sometimes pins are attached, zippers are used heavily. They may or may not have heavy dirt shine or patina. Band patches are generally used with moderation and are usually inter-community bands. 

This is a pair of a slightly more modern style american traveling punk patch pant, they often focus more on browns and off-greys for patch color as well as utilizing white which eventually turns an off brown or black due to patina. Band patches may be used moderately to heavily depending on the person. Zippers are used more sparsely. Larger patches are generally used and the use of leather, bike inner-tube, and oilskin is much more common. North American traveling punks as depicted here will also often use overalls rather than regular pants, these are referred to by people in the traveling community as “bibs”. 

This is a pair of classic crust/stench core pants from the UK. They are characterized by heavy dirty shine, almost all large black or very dark brown patches, few band patches, light use of zippers. They also often seem to have cargo pockets, which isn’t as common on other styles.  Well that pretty much covers the 3 main styles,  there are many other variations from all over the world but these are the 3 that stuck out to me as being highly influential.  Conclusion: I hope this guide has been useful to anyone wishing to start a pair of patch pants of their own, or that it has simply been an enjoyable read for anyone who is  interested in the topic! I had a lot of fun writing this. : )

#crust #punk #diy #crust punk #patch pants #patches #diy punk #crust pants #patched pants #workwear #fashion #guides #stenchcore #oogles #clothing repair #punk fashion #dbeat #patchwork #embroidery #crasher crust #patch #streetwear #tutorial #crashercrust #crustpunk

[natexarnoult]

hey all!! my name is mads and i’m 23, use she/her pronouns, and live in mst! i’m so excited for y’all to meet nathan - he’s a char i’ve had in mind for a while and i’m stoked to finally bring him to life! i’ve included some main points about him under the cut, along with his bio and a couple extras for him - please message me if you’d like to plot :D 

Nathan comes from a single-mother household... at least, until he was in high school.

Nate knows who his father is and is trying to build a relationship w/ the man but is still hurt from his mother hiding his father’s identity & not hiding the truth.

He is very much a ‘trust-fund’ kid but is working hard to distant himself from his parents’ wealth and build a name that isn’t connected to his parents.

Nathan truly is a sweetheart but has a hard time expressing this to those he cares about - he grew up in a home that wasn’t welcoming to affection and is still trying to break this habit.

He’s been in Heartsdale for several years and I’m so open to creating some pre-existing connections with him! Friends, ex friends, exes, enemies - anything! Please just message me so we can chat :)

He graduated from UCLA with an art history degree but is more interested in actually making art than learning about it - he travels a lot as he likes to make his show room diverse and brings in pieces from all around the country.

Nathan lives above his gallery but spends most of his time outside of both his gallery and his apartment - it’s either a midlife crisis and he regrets his choices or he’s just trying to meet new friends, who knows?

His pinterest is here and is constantly being update; please follow me if you feel so inclined!

Annnnnd: bio here as well:

Nate’s parents met while his father was on a school trip. A senior studying art history at Harvard, he’d taken the trip as an excuse to ‘see the world’ - if that world meant England, sure. His mother was the manager at a museum they visited on the trip & his father found himself returning to her canvas filled institute daily. They spent hours talking, sharing their love of paintings and critiquing some of the pieces her museum had chosen to display. Neither of them wanted to admit that their time together would be coming to a close - his trip was only for 3 weeks over the winter holidays - but on his last day in the country, Nathan’s father left a note within her bedside drawer, his address and phone number scrawled sloppily across a spare receipt & he snuck out before the sun was up. Saying goodbye would be too hard.

He returned to the States. He graduated. He got a job. He went years without hearing from the woman he’d met. One day, when his father was leaving The Met - he’d become a director of programs - his eye landed on a woman who looked so familiar, her hand clutched by a child, no older than 10. That moment was Nate’s first memory of his dad.

He remembers sitting in his dad’s house, a wide and bright space that was 20 minutes from where they’d met on those huge steps. This man had given them a ride and was now setting tea in front of his mother, but Nate was playing with his dog. He remembers snippets of the conversation - his mom was apologizing a lot. Apparently she hadn’t wanted to see him. They were in the States to visit her sister, Nate’s aunt. He remembers that this man kept looking between his mom and him & he looked so confused. Finally, he remembers a silence falling over the room and the man asked a question. Nate couldn’t make it out but his mother’s response was clear, definite; “Yes. He’s yours.”

At the time, Nate had no idea what that meant. He hadn’t yet been given the talk and his mother didn’t explain her relationship to this man. She introduced him - Nathan couldn’t remember his name - and said that he was an old friend from college. But soon, he found himself with this man more often. His mother invited him to join them at his aunt’s birthday party. When they flew back home to England, his mother would often be stuck on the phone with her old friend from college. One day, a year or so after their New York trip, his mother was picking him up from school, nervously pressing her thumb nail into the steering wheel. She asked if he remembered her friend from college, the one they’d seen while in New York. Nate did. She asked if he’d like to take another trip to New York to see his aunt, to see her old friend from college & maybe stay longer this time - like maybe the whole summer holidays?

They stayed the whole summer and when fall came around and it was time for Nathan and his mother to return home, he was sad - he was going to miss his aunt, he was going to miss the excitement of living Stateside. The rest of his year was almost a blur - his school year went by relatively painlessly, though he had begun to feel the hurt of being one of the only brown kids in school - and eventually spring had returned. His mom, again, sat him down and began asking questions. Eventually, and now Nate was smart enough to see where this was going from the start, she asked Nate how he would feel about moving to the States, about living with his aunt for a while. The move itself was quick and before he knew it, Nate and his mother settled in the States. He spent his days at school and his afternoons in extracurriculars - his new school had an art program that Nate was excelling in. They spent nights hanging out with his aunt or his mom’s college friend and for the first time in his young life, Nate felt comfortable. His mom’s friend had begun taking him to the museums, explaining the complexities of the canvas hanging on the walls and asking for his opinion on the work.

When Nate was about halfway through his junior year of high school, his mother and her college friend were both in the car when he was picked up from school. It wasn’t entirely all that weird - he wasn’t dumb enough to think that they weren’t dating, but Nate did always wonder why his mother never broached the subject with him. It’s not like he was a little kid anymore, for fuck’s sake - if your kid is old enough to date, they’re old enough to know who you’re dating. Nate probably couldn’t tell you the rest of what happened that day. He remembered getting home and grabbing a snack, as he always does, and he remembered getting told to sit down by his mother, that she had something important to tell him.

Nate’s life split into the before and the now - before Stephen was his father & now. While typically a rather well-mannered teenager, Nate was furious. Sure, his mom didn’t have to disclose her love life if she didn’t want to, but to know that Stephen was his That they’d known since the start and never told him? He thought back to their first visit to New York, when they ran into Stephen on the steps of the Met - he remembered his mom was surprised, thrown off her guard, but never uncomfortable, never not wanting to be around this man.

He slammed the door on his way out of the house, hopping on his bike and riding off. That night was the first night he ever acted out - Nate made it to his friend’s place out in the suburbs and snuck in their basement window. The rest of his friends, along with a couple girls he knew from his English Lit class, were circled around a small table, upon which sat a small tray & a bong. Nate welcomed the small act of rebellion, in the face of such shocking news, & spent his night testing his limits.

His parents, as he now so affectionately referred to them as, soon regretted telling Nate at such a volatile age. He soon spent all his evenings with his friends, sneaking into the house after midnight (if he’s early) and going straight up to his room. They tried not to push it and Nate was torn between appreciating being left alone and pissed that no one cared how he felt. His mom had tried to address it a couple times but Nate always shut down, refusing to give her more than a two word response.

It went on like that for 2 years, silence, short answers, tension. At 18, Nathan found himself going off to college, moving across the country to attend UCLA. He lived off his parents money, figuring the least they could do after years of absconding from the truth. And he lived lavishly - drinks on him every time his friends went to the bars, new clothes, new shoes, everything he could want.

He graduated with minimal rule infractions, an MIP here, possession of controlled substance there. But his parents always paid for a lawyer, flew out for the week and handled everything for him. After college, Nathan bounced around for a year, spent a couple months in LA, three in New York, and another 6 or so in a van his parents had financed, driving around the US.

Six months on the road proved to be exhausting, however, and Nathan found himself back in one of his first stops at the start of his trip, Heartsdale. It wasn’t long before he signed a lease on an apartment downtown and spent his days as a barista at Legal Grounds. He didn’t necessarily need the job - his parents still financed his whole life - but it was nice to have something to meet people in town. After a while, however, being a barista became boring. Nate spent his time admiring the local work they had pinned for sale on their walls, admiring the fine line work and critiquing in the way he’d spent four year training to do. On a walk, he found himself fantasizing about owning his own gallery, having his space to curate an experience. Nate’s eyes caught on every single ‘For Lease’ sign downtown, pausing and forcing himself not to take a peek inside. It wasn’t reasonable, he told himself. Irrational, at best. He had no experience managing anything, no experience building something from nothing.

And yet… he couldn’t help. One brisk morning, the sun was bright against a For Lease sign, practically screaming the numbers at him. His fingers were typing the numbers into his phone before he even realized what he was doing. It was 4:23am, the downside of an opening shift at a coffee shop, and he wasn’t expecting anyone to pick up anyway. “Morning, uh,” he paused - was he really doing this? “My name is Nate Arnoult and I’m interested in the space you’ve got on 1st and..”

Moving in was quick, it only took 6 months before Nathan settled in the space above the retail spot. He spent his first night with his friends, drinking and dancing. His friends, just as ecstatic as he,  commended him - Nate had been hemming & hawing about opening a gallery space for months and to finally have a space, a place to start… Nathan was on cloud nine. And it went better than he thought it did. The art scene extended out of his small town and he was able to show pieces from all over Georgia. He even flew out to other states, offered small artists a space in his show room.  The rest, he supposed, is history. He’s been living a comfortable life and still maintains contact with his parents, despite their rocky past - not friendly, but not fatal either.

[sylvanfreckles]

Eye of the Beholder

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Sam encourages Cas to try to express himself by taking up drawing. It seems to be a lost cause...until Castiel tries to draw Sam’s soul.

(Something warm and soft and hopeful after FebuWhump)

* * *

Sam leaned  against the low wall surrounding the picnic area park and let his head tip back to catch the warmth from the sun. They'd hit this town to check on rumors of a demonic possession at the local college, only to find Claire and Kaia had beat them here and pretty much had the whole thing taken care of. Now, he was enjoying just keeping an ear on the banter as Dean checked over the girls' gear and Jack chattered enthusiastically about the old fantasy novels he'd found on one of the rooms at the bunker (apparently Kaia had heard of the author and they were bonding, much to Claire's amusement).

A hint of movement at his side had him cracking one eye open to see Cas settle into a similar posture. Watching Dean and the kids with a fond look on his face, Cas caught Sam's eye with a smile. “He's good at that.”

“Dean's always been good with kids,” Sam agreed. “Probably because he still acts like he's twelve.”

Cas gave a very un-angelic snort, and Sam shifted around enough to watch the angel now. He couldn't remember when life had been this peaceful before. There were hunts still, sure, but it finally seemed like there wasn't some big bad pulling the strings behind it all. He couldn't remember a time in his life that had been like this—just the routine of the hunt and home, with their own network of friends and family.

It took him a moment to realize Cas's attention wasn't on the others anymore. The angel was looking out across the park at a mural painted on higher wall that ran around the park's perimeter. He was pretty it was a memorial to the town's history as part of the underground railroad, based on what he'd learned before they got here.

“I think the high school kids work on that every year,” Sam commented, nudging Cas with his shoulder. “When I was researching the town I found an article that said it was one of their graduating projects, and every year a group of students repairs and restores the mural.”

Cas shook his head and looked back at Sam. “Humanity's capacity for creation will always amaze me.”

Sam blinked. He hadn't...thought about it like that. Dean had always said Cas was just a weird little nerd, but was that why he always seemed to stop when he saw a statue, or a carving, or a painting? That it wasn't a type of art he preferred, but he was appreciating the human act of creating art?

“Have you ever tried?” Sam asked, trying to be casual about it. “Making something, I mean.”

The look Cas shot him was quick, but Sam thought his friend looked grieved. “Angels weren't made to create. We can only replicate.”

Sam started to protest, but hesitated. Zachariah's Beautiful Room...he'd offered Dean things from Dean's past, not some idealized thing he'd want. Gabriel had pulled from human television to make his TV world. Even Lucifer, in creating Jack, had used a human body to impregnate a human, not some celestial act of creation.

“Have you ever tried?” he repeated.

Cas pushed away from the wall. “There's enough in this world to admire,” he replied, though he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes and his shoulders remained tense. “You don't need my...'pitiful scratchings'.”

* * *

Cas's words twisted through Sam's head as he followed the others through the small downtown area back toward the hotel. Had Cas ever tried to make something around them? Had one of them said something like that? Or was this some distant event from heaven, some other angel stomping out any fraction of individuality?

He pulled up as they passed a small, disorganized craft store. “Hey, go ahead without me,” Sam called when Dean turned around. “We need a couple things.”

Sam waited until the others turned away, giving Jack a reassuring nod and smile, before pushing the door open and slipping inside the store. It was cramped inside, with shelves and bins overflowing, and the smell of cinnamon and beeswax filling the air. It wasn't completely a lie...they always needed things like natural pigments and scraps of leather for hex bags, and some places sold essential oils or crystals he liked to keep on hand for emergencies.

It just wasn't why he was here now. He squeezed past a rack of wooden beads and nearly knocked a dressmaker's mannequin over, but finally found the drawing section. The sketchbooks were easy enough to sort through—he grabbed a large one with a dark cover that had an elastic band to keep it closed when not in use. The pages were about the size of a standard sheet of printer paper, so it was big enough for Cas to have lots of room to experiment on each page but small enough to travel with him. The drawing supplies, though, were a little harder.

Sam stared at the selection of pencils, paints, and markers. If Cas had truly never tried something like this before, where could he even begin? Would he want something like colored pencils, that would have a smooth texture on the page but need to be kept sharpened? Or paints, which might be easier to blend and shade but wouldn't be portable? Or start with the very basics and get a box of crayons and hope Cas didn't think it was too childish?

A long, flat box at the end of the shelf caught his eye. Pastels. He had a flash of memory of one of Jess's friends in college who worked with pastels, the way their hands swept over the canvas to leave bright ribbons of color and then darted back to smooth and shade. Sam could suddenly imagine Cas, pastel stick in hand, a smear of pigment on his chin, brow furrowed in concentration as he filled a canvas with bright color.

He bought the sketchbook and pastels plus some silver charms to make a stronger protection hex bag for Claire's car, to make it seem like the drawing supplies had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. By the time he got back to the hotel Dean had already ordered pizza, while Kaia and Jack had Claire sandwiched between them on the couch as they tried to convince her to watch an old fantasy movie with them (Sam was on their side, Willow was awesome). Cas looked up from picking at the label on his beer bottle when Sam walked up to the table, eyes widening further in surprise when Sam set the bag from the craft store down in front of him and presented the drawing supplies with a flourish.

“I thought you might like to try,” Sam explained as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cas at the room's little table. “I mean, I'd kind of be interested in seeing an angel's...uh...'pitiful scratchings', you know?”

Cas hesitantly ran the tips of his fingers over the dark cover of the sketchbook. “Sam...”

“Just try?” he suggested. He scooted closer so that his shoulder brushed Cas's, knowing the physical contact helped when the angel was dealing with something new or difficult. “No one's gonna laugh if you can't do it. Well, maybe Dean, but he's an ass.”

“I heard that!” Dean shouted. As far as Sam could tell, his brother was completely focused on something on his phone. That was obviously just an automatic response.

The angel was quiet. Then, slowly, he tugged the pastels out of the bag and lifted the lid of the box. The colors almost seemed to glow under the room's overhead light, and Cas gently brushed the bright gold stick with the tip of one finger. “I'll try.”

“Good,” Sam bumped Cas's shoulder with his own, then leaned a little more closely against him, grounding him. “I can't wait.”

* * *

Sam bit his lip as he flipped through the first few pages of Cas's sketchbook. The angel leaned against the table almost despondently, arms folded across his chest and head tipped forward so that Sam couldn't see his eyes.

“These are good,” Sam said, trying to sound encouraging. “I mean, they look just like the, uh, things you were sketching. That's...that's good.”

Technically speaking, the sketches were good. There was a vase of wild flowers Kaia had put on the kitchen table the second day of her and Claire's visit. The bust of one of the old Men of Letters. Jack's profile as he read from a large leather-bound book. They were perfect and lifelike and exact, yet somehow...empty.

Cas took the sketchbook out of his hands and gently folded it closed. “Angels weren't given the breath of life,” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the library. “We can't...we can't create, Sam. All I can do is copy. These are copies of life.”

Sam winced. “Maybe you just need some practice. I mean, this is your first time, right? Nobody's perfect their first time.”

His friend's smile was sad when Cas finally looked up at him. “I feel no inspiration, Sam. I look at the world and nothing calls to me. The flowers and Jack...I chose those because I knew that was what a human might choose. I could have just as easily chosen the scalpels in the infirmary, or the backseat of the Impala, or every doorknob in the bunker. There's no...it's not creation, Sam. They're just copies of life.”

With a sigh, Sam ran one hand through his hair. “Cas, a lot of artists struggle with that. Maybe you just haven't found the right thing yet. With some more time I bet you could find the, the soul of a vase of flowers, or whatever.”

Cas grunted. “Flowers don't have a soul.”

“You know what I mean. Artists, they...they capture a part of themselves in the world around them. Their art reflects their own soul, you know?”

“I don't have a soul either, Sam.”

“You know what I mean.” Exasperated, Sam took a few steps away, then paced back again. “When you look at something that kind of pulls at your heart, you can make something that has a bit of your soul in it, you know? It's what humans have done for thousands of years, even longer.”

Cas let out a mournful sigh and rubbed one hand over his eyes. “If you could see your own soul you might understand,” he said wearily. “Compared to that even an angel's true form is inadequate.”

Sam huffed out a breath. He'd just wanted Cas to have a new experience, maybe find a hobby that could bring him joy. He hadn't meant to start some kind of identity crisis. Then his friend's words caught up to him. “Wait...Cas, are you saying you can see my soul?”

His friend gave him a flat look. “I am still an angel.”

“No, no, I mean...you can see my soul?”

“Of course, Sam.”

Heart pounding, Sam spread his arms out. “Then draw that!”

Cas stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Why would you want to see something like that?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I want to see it!” Sam turned in a full circle before grabbing one of the library chairs and dragging it in front of Cas. “Is this good? Or, wait, do you need better light?” His soul through the eyes of an angel...who wouldn't want to see that?

There was still hesitation in Cas's movements as he slowly picked up his sketchbook and lifted the cover off the box of pastels. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Cas flipped to a clean page and stared over the top of the sketchbook at Sam. Sam waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Do you need me to do something?” he asked, when Cas made no move to start drawing.

Cas frowned, then reached in the box for a pastel. “Just talk. About one of your passions.”

A passion...okay, Sam could do that. Like Dean had always said, he was a huge nerd. “Oh, I found that book about cuneiform we were talking about,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “You were right, the author was completely ignorant of the language schism toward the end of the Bronze Age....”

He talked on and on while Cas drew. The angel glanced up at him from time to time, a little smile brightening his face. It was almost exactly the image Sam had conjured in the craft store...Cas with a smear of pigment on his chin, bright colors filling the page in front of him. As he drew the angel seemed to relax, the perpetual slump of his shoulders easing back, the worry lines in his forehead smoothing out.

Sam could have pumped his fist in victory. He knew this had been a good idea.

Then Cas set the pastels down and hesitantly pulled the lid over the box. He seemed unsure of himself again, tipping the picture up to makes sure Sam couldn't see it.

“Is it done?” Sam asked. “Can I see?”

For a moment he was afraid Cas would refuse, then the angel slowly turned the sketchbook around.

Sam had seen human souls before...or at least he thought he had. They'd been wispy balls of bluish light, nothing too amazing. This was...this was something else.

The page was a riot of colors. Sweeping and dazzling, greens and blues with threads of red twisting through them, all turning back in on themselves over and over. There were jagged cracks in the swirling shapes, but they'd been filled in with a golden color so vivid he almost brushed his finger over the page to see if it felt warm.

“In some cultures,” Cas's voice was quiet as he explained, “when an item is broken they mend it with gold, so it is more beautiful and valuable because of the cracks.”

Sam drew in a breath. “This is how you see my soul?” The cracks...memories of Lucifer and the Cage, everything they'd lost, the darkness he'd hidden for so long...Cas saw them mended in gold?

“Oh, Sam,” Cas's hand was warm on his shoulder and he looked up, surprised to see tears in his friend's eyes. “This is you.”

He swallowed and looked back down. There was so much...so much hope. Despite it being almost incomprehensible swirls of color on paper, he could feel the hope and faith and trust nearly radiating off the page. Was this...was this really what Cas saw in him?

“Whoa, am I interrupting something?”

Sam pulled back, scrubbing a sleeve over his face. He hadn't even heard Dean coming. “We were just,” he tried to explain, gesturing at the page.

Dean was staring, tilting his head to one side. “Okay, man, call me crazy, but why does this look like Sammy?”

He let out a shaky laugh and ran his hands through his hair. “That's my soul, man.”

“You drew this, Cas?” Dean was leaning in even closer. “Ha, yeah, there's the little part that died when I told you Santa wasn't real. It really is your soul.”

Sam couldn't help but smile at his brother's antics and looked up to meet Cas's eyes. “Can I have this?”

“No way,” Dean interrupted, putting his hand on Cas's wrist.

“Dean, it's my soul.”

“Yeah. We're framing it,” Dean took a step back and held his hands up, like he was envisioning the drawing in a frame. “This is going next to the family pictures, Sammy.”

“We don't have family pictures, Dean.”

“We do now,” Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder. “You should do Jack next. I'll get 'im.”

“Wait,” Sam lunged after his brother. “What about you?”

“Not happening,” Dean replied, easily twisting away from Sam's hand. “Let me go get the kid.”

* * *

Jack, predictably, was thrilled. He sat in front of his adopted father, eyes bright, as he talked about his first memories of Castiel. Sam stood behind Cas's shoulder and watched the picture take shape—all interlocking golden halos bursting out of a dark shadow, radiating a light that was somehow yellow and blue at the same time that banished that darkness away. It was peace. It was strength. It was family.

It was Jack.

Claire and Kaia were next, crowding together into one of the big armchairs with their fingers intertwined. Sam had been expecting some kind of double drawing, maybe two pages side-by-side, but the drawing Cas produced was somehow Claire, somehow Kaia, and somehow a blend of the two of them that went beyond anything the human eye could see.

“That's what it looks like to be soulmates,” Cas explained when Sam asked.

When they went back to Jody's house with the girls, Jody sat for a drawing. Her soul was all graceful arcs swooping around a central, solid core. Sam could almost feel it extending beyond the page, pulling them all together around the woman who had chosen to care for the motherless.

There were others, as hunters checked in at the bunker or they met them in the field. Eileen's soul was a fury of purple and silver, sharp with the kind of love that dove into battle with sword held high. Bobby's was a blend of muted shades that spoke to the loss the older hunter had experienced, and his determination to carry on.

Sam was dropping a new sketchbook in Cas's room one day, a few weeks later, when he spotted a few loose papers that had fallen out of the old one. Meaning just to pick them up and shuffle them back in, he was startled to find he had a picture of Dean's soul in his hands.

It couldn't be anything else. While Sam's had had cracks mended with brilliant gold, Dean's looked like it had been broken and pushed in on itself over and over, more like overlapping plates of ice from a lake that had been melted and refrozen. There were layers and sharp edges, and a few twisting shadows of darkness that lingered in odd corners.

But it was warm. Despite the cracks and the broken parts...despite the trauma and ache and pain it was good. It was the soul of a man who loved so completely he would—and had—lay down his life for his family.

He heard a shuffle from the doorway, and turned to see Cas was standing there, staring at the paper in his hands with something like guilt on his face. “Sam, I...”

“When did you draw this?” Sam asked in a whisper. “He kept saying he didn't want you to do it.”

Cas hesitated, then approached close enough to gently take the drawing from Sam's hands. “It was from memory. Dean and I have always had a connection, since I pulled him from Hell.”

Sam almost laughed. “A more profound bond?” he teased. Cas's lips twitched in a smile and he nodded. “We should hang it up with the others.”

Shaking his head, Cas frowned down at the drawing. “He keeps saying no one would want to see it.”

“Well, he's wrong,” Sam looped an arm around Cas's shoulders. “Come on, I know where he stashed the extra frames.”

#supernatural #fic #sam winchester #castiel #dean winchester #jack kline #claire novak #kaia nieves #fluff #angst #souls #headcanon #artist castiel #sam is a good friend

[nezumiismissing]

Control Through Culture and the Lack of It

Ok so before we get started here I would like to just give a big thank you to everyone who came to my panel during the convention all the way back in September and listened to me ramble out the first draft of this! We had some great discussion and everyone brought up great points that all came together to make this post happen, and it wouldn’t have been nearly as good without all of your input! I also profusely apologize for taking this long to get this done, but sometimes you have 18 college credits and 30 hours a week of work that have to come first! Now, on with the topic:

When we look at the city of No.6, we see a world that appears, for the most part, free of any defining cultural characteristics. It would appear, in fact, that as part of the city’s construction, what we would normally associate with such a society’s culture has been purposely removed as a factor in the citizens’ lives. The “removal” of culture as a contributing factor in the city of No.6 is highly effective in what it was meant to do; separating citizens from the “other” while reinforcing the identity of citizenship and treating it as not only a good thing, but the only acceptable way of being. In the minds of the citizens, this is a functional system, as they are the ones who have benefited from it, and they are able to live comfortable lives free of the suffering that is inflicted upon “others”, creating the sense that despite their internal differences, they still constitute a distinct group. But while at the citizens’ level they have been chosen as existing on the top, the picture is much different for those ruling the city. While the nonexistence of culture functions as a way to dehumanize outsiders and reinforce No.6′s position as superior (ie. it does not need culture to be a complete society), it also serves as a highly efficient way of making sure that the citizens are also unable to truly empathize with and care about the other citizens, or any other humans for that matter. Because the city is all they know, and they have been conditioned to not be able to understand anything outside of that context, the “othering” of those outside the walls by the citizens and No.6’s government becomes that much easier, as the understanding of “citizen” to those in the city is equivalent on some level to their understanding of being human, making anyone outside of the citizen category not only lesser, but also not fully human, and justifying the violence used against them for the purposes of supporting and expanding the city. In a less explicit way this is also functioning within No.6, as citizenship is viewed as a single, mostly homogenous group, and so it becomes impossible to view the lower classes as being treated unfairly. In their eyes, citizenship is equivalent to safety from injustice, and so any violence or mistreatment experienced by a citizen is justified based on their perceived noncompliance with the city’s norms.

By removing culture entirely from the picture, No.6 not only limits what its citizens are able to express in terms of art and politics, but also in their own self-expression and understanding of the human experience. This is probably most clear with Safu, who at the beginning of the story shows an almost complete inability to recognize and express basic human emotions in a way that would be seen as appropriate and useful to the average person reading/watching the story. This type of behavior, shown more subtly by several other characters throughout the story, distances us from them. While the lack of any existing social norms would usually allow space for us to impose our own norms onto the city, which in many cases is what happens, these micro level interactions, instead of coming off as a blank canvas for us to fill in, instead are just off-putting and strange, completely distanced from what we would recognize as a normal interaction, and that distance is perhaps the clearest example of culture we get to see in the story, as it reflects a set of norms that is completely separated and distinct from what we are used to seeing.

No.6 as an entity exists to alienate its citizens from the rest of the world, positioning them as existing “elsewhere”, and as being “other”, with No.6 existing as the “real” world. However once we, and Shion, are removed from this context, first through his meeting with Nezumi and again when he moves to West Block, we see that while No.6 exists as a template upon which to place our own social structures and systems, it is the “elsewhere” and “other” that I think ends up being more relatable to most of us. Even if we haven’t lived in extreme poverty or experienced much in the way of suffering, the West Block is a world that, more than anything, feels human. There is culture in the West Block; we see the food people eat and what an average day looks like for those who live there. We understand the issues that they face on a daily basis because they are concrete; hunger, violence, homelessness, much different from the highly technical and abstract problems facing those within the walls. There is diversity among this group, but there are still norms in place (no matter how questionable) that hold it all together in a way that feels organic and far removed from the isolated, expressionless world of No.6.

So, it should also be stated at this point that when I reference No.6’s “removal” of culture, this is not an entirely accurate description of what is happening. At its core, culture is simply social aspects of a group that differentiate it from another group, and that is something that can never be fully and purposefully removed. But what the city does do in order to replicate this effect is remove other groups as a point of comparison, leaving only one culture to be learned, accepted, and practiced. We can say that No.6 has no culture only because the citizens do not perceive that other people live any differently than they do. And as we see with Safu’s travels to No.5, as well as our own experiences learning about the city, the realization that other ways of living do exist completely shatters the illusion of No.6 as a perfect society, making its issues immediately clear. No.6 does have a culture. It is a culture of authoritarianism, nationalism, and isolationism. The city is to be worshipped and given absolute loyalty, to the point that social activities not in the city’s interest come with harsh punishments, and knowledge of anything outside of the city is limited only to those who have demonstrated an extraordinary level of commitment to the project, intentionally or not. While social norms and laws are generally viewed as overlapping but distinct, with many norms not legally enforced and many laws viewed as universal rather than cultural, in No.6 there is no such distinction.

So where do we, the reader/watcher, fit into this equation? I mentioned at the beginning that the lack of easily identifiable culture in No.6 is what makes the city and the story easily relatable to us, as we are able to layer our own culture and ideas on top of what is otherwise a blank city. But if No.6 does have a culture as described in the last paragraph, then where does that leave us? Now the easy answer here is that in recent times (including when the novels were originally written) many places around the world have faced an increase in the types of ideologies that make up No.6, and our viewing No.6 as a reflection of our own society shows an understanding (either implicit or explicit) that this shift in dominant ideology is occurring in the real world, that authoritarianism is still a prevalent part of our lives. But that answer is no fun, and is actually extremely depressing, so I’m going to point out some other aspects of the relationship between No.6 and our own world as well. 

Although the culture of No.6 does exist, it isn’t blatantly discussed or shown in a way that most people would traditionally associate with “culture”. We don’t generally treat government and political ideology as part of a society’s culture, as so much of our everyday lives is determined by norms and practices that aren’t necessarily directly dictated by political systems. This is why No.6, despite having such a strong presence, also feels so blank. It looms so large over the events of the story and yet, once we are outside of it, we see that it has basically no impact on everyday occurrences outside of its walls. Unlike the West Block, where we see so many of the things we associate with culture; food and music and marketplaces and so on; No. 6 just doesn’t really have any of these, and what does exist doesn't really have a distinct form separated from any other modern industrialized nation. It is easy for us to imagine then, that perhaps the people in No.6 live similarly to us, that they share many of our values and understandings of the world, and have the same everyday concerns that we have. So much of what we use to understand a society is just not mentioned that the story basically forces you to impose yourself and your worldview onto it. It forces you to take part in the story and forces the story to take a shape that makes societal critique impossible to ignore.

On the other hand, besides just having a feeling of being more “alive”, the West Block also has its reasons for being the more relatable of the two places, at least for a solid chunk of the people who are going to be experiencing the story. Despite the fact that the structure of No.6 is meant as a representation of the issues found within the modern industrialized world, the position from which we are seeing those issues is skewed. I have touched on this in my post about Getsuyaku, and will definitely go into more depth on it in the future, but outside of Lost Town, No.6 exists as an upper middle class utopia only. There is no room in their world for regular working people, or those framed as being “unproductive” in society, such as the elderly. While wealth is a complicated topic when talking about No.6, class is not, and it is clear that the ways in which class manifests are strikingly similar to the real world. So where does West Block fit into this? Well, the reality is that a significant percentage of the people reading or watching No.6 do not belong to the upper middle class, or even the middle class. A lot of us are working class or poor (or both depending on how you categorize classes), and even if the West Block is a somewhat extreme example, those people, along with those in Lost Town, have far much more in common with us than those living in the regular districts of No.6 or in the gated area of Chronos. So while the city may reflect our own society in significant ways, and accurately describes the “culture” of that society, it only does so through the lens of someone who is successful within that structure, leaving it “blank” and without culture for those of us who have not had such an experience and view that position as something completely distanced from ourselves, or that we only encounter from a subordinate position.

In the world of fiction, there basically are no rights or wrongs when it comes to writing culture. That’s kind of the point of fiction. And to a certain extent every story is going to have some aspect of the society it was written in in it, because culture is just an unavoidable part of every person’s life that dictates everything about how they see the world. But through the story of No.6 we get to see that influence from several perspectives, both within and outside of the story, showing not only a reflection and critique of our own society, but the ways in which the positions of the characters and ourselves changes how we perceive that reflection. Ultimately every society is controlled through culture, and systems are in place to in turn control how culture functions, creating an endless loop of changes and reinforcements. To, in any concrete way, remove culture from a society is a fundamentally impossible task, and yet the illusion of removal is very much real, created not through an active effort of removal, but through the elimination both of comparable groups and the perception that any culturally significant differences may exist within the original group.

I could probably go on, but I’m getting away from the main topic, so I’ll stop here for now. The topic of culture in No.6 is really fascinating and something I definitely want to write more on in the future, but it will have to wait until I finish a couple of my other drafts first! So like always thanks for reading  if you made it all the way to the end, and I will hopefully have at least a short thing done in the next couple of weeks or so!

#no.6 #no. 6 #no.6 analysis #long post #hello! #i finally return! #yes this was supposed to be done in September please do not remind me! #my brain would not shut up until this was finished though so here we are #not sure how im feeling about this one? #it took so long to finish that I think I lost most of the original concepts I had #so its a bit all over the place #but got to touch on some cool topics so thats all that really matters! #thanks again to the folks at the con last year! #could not have done this one without your input! #original