#bark landscape framed art

[yourcoffeeguru]

Australian Bark Landscape Art Painting Framed Under Glass signed by Artist 1987 || SWtradepost

#bark painting #australian bark painting #bark landscape wall hanging #bark landscape framed art #australian outback bark art #swtradepost

[beesmygod]

i think another issue with webcomics having any scene or being taken seriously at all is that its a lot of stale air, everybody got captured by ig/twitter/tumblr and subsequently become trapped in the trappings and style of those websites. all discussion is couched in the boring 'fandom' subculture on websites with pre-built in infinite scroll and shit search, so updates to their comics or body of work are just as ephemeral as posts that are basically 'lol i farted on my dog' and any criticism is 'just being mean' or 'dogpiling on a poor artist'. not to mention any discoverability of anything new is basically going down the twitter/instagram likes of 'known quantities' for your own comic taste because of how atrophied any discussion around the medium has become

I dont see any way to escape this beyond social media dying a brutal and unprofitable death

trying to argue against the webtoons/IG model was entirely pointless the few times i tried, but its a topic that's hard for me to not devolve into frustrated sputtering about. it's so obviously antithetical to the purpose of making art, enjoying things, creation, joy, goodness, etc. and i would, frankly completely irrationally, be framed as someone who had it out for vertical strips. a sentiment which makes no sense unless you assume im the biggest moron and dipshit in the world. im sure arguing against someone is easier when the position you saddle them with is a seriously stupid one.

the inevitable downward spiral of these platforms feels entirely predictable. any model that revolves around quantity over quality is an obviously flawed one in most circumstances but when applied to art its completely absurd. the ideal artist for these websites are people who have no interest in contributing to a vaster landscape of complex works and instead are hyper-focused on being part of a large scale skinner box experiment for adults with compulsive spending issues. the artists themselves have severe numbers poisoning.

these are purely ephemeral and unremarkable comics that are rarely ever seen outside of instagram for their lack of any exceptional or worthwhile unique elements worth passing around. they are created with a factory mindset; crank them out as quickly as possible and flood various websites with the comic equivalent of grey goo in order to amass the maximum number of clicks. their ideal audience is undiscerning and simply looking for stimuli that will not challenge them on any level. logically it follows that is work is explicitly for the largest possible audience one can acquire: the lowest common denominator. they are making work for a computer or an advertiser to enjoy. human enjoyment is secondary.

the unironic and sincere discussion of views and followers as if the numbers have ever been real was surreal. everyone was around for when facebook revealed that it had been grossly inflating its video metrics after strong-arming everyone into moving to video, causing the destruction of several indie companies and websites. you would have to be straight up delusional to think the webtoons numbers are real. like, it is genuinely hard for me to be nice about people who bark bark bark about "its where the audience is!!!!" when the worst comic you've ever read with 2 updates has 12876492375238576 views, 0 patreon followers and 8909 comments. the obviously AI generated comments by accounts with no profiles (as in, you can't click on profiles at all to confirm its even a real person commenting) are beyond the pale lol. its some emperors new clothes shit, if the emperor made his own invisible clothes and cried about how hard they toiled for nothing. and also they were emperor of synecdoche, new york

how does a reasonable adult look at this and conclude its real? isn't it an obvious fiction? its because it's mean to point out otherwise, and being mean is the worst thing you can be.

people used to bitch about how the "had to" made reels and i felt like i was going insane. superstitious nonsense about "the algorithm" spread and has incited people to tortuously warp their work to fit with advertising standards they don't see a penny of, in the hopes of finding an audience that doesn't exist. when the algorithm changes to better suit advertiser needs, they are somehow blindsided and betrayed by this, as if it has not been the M.O. of social media websites for the past 20 years. they will do it again. and again. and again. as advertising becomes less and less financially viable and more and more intrusive, public opinion is going to turn hard on the people who tied themselves to these ships.

call me a rat for fleeing, but i can't bear to entertain this stuff anymore. it's embarrassing, the idea of sacrifice in the name of a greater good (sacrifice being uhhhhh not using fail platforms lol) should not be such a shocking and radical act. it should be reflexive

[artsyjesseblue]

I Have Beezer Questions

I’m not the best at spatial thinking in art, but a particular scene in VLD intrigued me since the first time watching it.

During the Allurance kiss moment, Beezer zooms towards the center of the park and we clearly see the robot slowing down right next to them - in the center, facing the big old tree. Notice the surrounding landscape: a brown fence all around the small park. Purple tulips behind the fence. The very large tree in the middle, circled by a small blue flower garden, bordered by a curb. Smaller trees all around the park, in the background.

Also, notice: Allura is on the right side, Lance is on the left.

Immediately after that frame, comes this one (whooshing sound of moving robot still on):

Beezer enters the scene from the right side of the screen, and we can clearly see, behind the robot:

- the fence (lower-right corner)

- the big old tree (I adjusted the brightness and contrast so you can see the thick branches better). No other tree in the scene is this voluminous.

So Beezer is now facing the purple tulips, back against the big tree and against Allura & Lance, squealing a robotic “Wooow” in reaction to their kiss, but Beezer’s not really looking at them, it’s admiring the purple flowers (purple, huh?).

How… did that happen? A millisecond ago it was slowing down right in front of them.

Going past this awkward cinematic moment, here’s the scene right after:

Allura and Lance interrupt their kiss to look at the noisy intruder, Beezer. Notice the tree bark pattern behind them.

Allura is now on the left and Lance is on the right. How… did that happen?

On to the very next screenshot:

We see Beezer for a very split-second retracting its mechanical hands, after collecting a purple tulip. So now you can clearly notice the spatial relationship to Lance and Allura. Beezer obviously did not stop in front of them, it went to one of the yard sides to collect a flower (for Holt’s lab? LOL, working so late at night?).

From the angle of the shot, it looks like we (the audience) are watching from somewhere in the old tree’s vicinity.

After this, Beezer walks over to them and offers to take a picture. Here it goes:

So Allura and Lance’s positions correspond to the previous frames - but not to the initial scene (check out the very first screenshot - Allura was on the right, now she’s on the left).

Bizarre, isn’t it, Beezer?

- Is this just a random succession of animation errors or… did this scene look differently in the #realS8?

- Why purple tulips?

- Which side of the park did Beezer go to? Did it really go to the middle? To the left? To the right? 😅

- Who was Beezer “wow”-ing to?

- Why was Beezer collecting purple plants at night, when kids should be in bed at that time? 😋

#allura #lance #vld meta #voltron meta #freevlds8 #beezer #underlying lotura questions #plance #jesseblue writes

[oppositeproduct]

Autumn Tree Wall Art, Landscape Autumn Home Decor, Nature Photography Art, Tree Wall Art, Nature Lover Gift

Autumn Tree Wall Art is the perfect way to bring the warmth and beauty of fall into your home or office. This autumn tree wall art is inspired by nature photography art and captures the beauty of fall foliage.

This landscape autumn home décor piece celebrates the changing of the seasons and the beauty of nature in all its forms. From the subtle details of the leaves to the texture of the bark, the trees come alive and are a sight to behold.

This autumn tree piece is a simple yet beautiful way to express your love and appreciation for nature. Whether you’re decorating your home, bedroom or office, this piece will remind you to appreciate the season and the beauty of nature’s changing beauty.

Tree on Autumn Path photographic poster, Framework, Hanging decoration, Photographic print, Natural photography, Unique photo.

We are amateur photographers therefore our photographs are Unique (we shoot following what attracts us) and Authentic (they have very few if any changes in post-production). _____________________________________________________________________________

Our products are printed with the highest quality and eco-friendly inks on 250g professional photographic paper. The paintings are printed on professional 340g canvas. Your order will be carefully packaged in a rigid, sturdy and secure cardboard box. _____________________________________________________________________________

*NOTE*: Frames are only available on some sizes for posters, paintings do NOT have the frame included but only the frame on which it is assembled.

Single POSTER DIMENSIONS: 45x30 cm, 75x50 cm, 90x60 cm.

FRAMES: • Made in Italy pine wood frame (profile 2.5 cm) • Tempered glass • Available Colors: White, Black • Finished frame size: 35x25 cm, 50x35 cm, 65x45 cm.

PAINTINGS: • The painting will arrive already assembled on the 2cm thick solid wood frame and with its hooks for hanging. • Our inks are not harmful and certified “Standard 100 by oeko-tex®”.

• DIMENSIONS: 30x20 cm, 45x30 cm. _____________________________________________________________________________

The result of cutting the image may vary depending on the size chosen. Colors may vary slightly due to different color monitors.

#Autumn Tree Wall Art #Tree Wall Art #Nature Lover Gift

[pebl-design]

Working With Wood

In the spring of 1983 my family’s Nebraska farm was struck by a tornado, I was four years old and most of my childhood memories are filled with pastures and forests littered with felled trees. My sisters and I would explore the tipped over root systems and pull the frail bark off to find miniscule worlds: roads and valleys carved out by the tree’s insect inhabitants. We were drawn to the knowledge revealed in our investigations, counting rings to approximate a tree’s age and learning to understand which species were valuable for re-use and which were best left to decay. When I was six, while playing in our front yard, a towering cottonwood was struck by lightning, severing a massive branch that narrowly missed our house. Within a week the debris was cleared and a nest of honeybees had formed within the tree’s cracked trunk. For years I watched the colony - so full of life - they had found a home as a result of an otherwise wholly destructive moment. I have witnessed the planting of small trees to protect farm fields and the clearing of forests to accommodate farm fields. In so many ways trees have stood (and fell) in my life as a representation of the persistence, adaptability, and resilience of nature.

As a maker of landscapes, it’s easy to be inspired by nature’s palette of materials, be it the seasonality of native plantings or the complexity of establishing habitat. Time and time again I am drawn to the challenge of utilizing wood for its warmth and ability to bring life into projects. The nuances of different species’ form and function provide a seemingly endless array of possibilities; wood is honest, it degrades, it warps, it fades, it expresses cracks, and it forces designers to think differently when planning for a project. In this section we want to highlight a small sampling of projects wherein wood was a driving force for design decisions.

From 2014 to 2017 (while employed at Coen + Partners) I was lucky to design and oversee the construction of five ecological art installations on a private 22-acre property adjacent to Lake Minnetonka. The project included a restoration of degraded wetlands, shoreline, and forests, along with the addition of a half-mile trail system. The art pieces work hand-in-hand with the path network, pulling visitors past what seems like a dead-end, providing thresholds, or marking the topographic shifts. Each “line” was constructed from different types of salvaged wood, a buckthorn bundle runs along a hillside deer-path while cedar branches overlay one another in a serpentine river. Over time the pieces will fall to ruin, decompose, and provide the echo of new life.

Beyond the art pieces, the project utilized thermally modified ash in two boardwalks that navigate the restored wetlands. This material is particularly special because it employs ash trees which will inevitably disappear from the Minnesota landscape due to the blight of the Emerald Ash Borer. Instead of allowing the trees to rot away, the wood is harvested and modified by a controlled pyrolysis process wherein it is heated in the absence of oxygen, thus preventing the wood from burning at temperatures that exceed 300F degrees. This heating process renders changes to the wood’s chemical structure and the result is a significant increase in the wood’s durability, providing a local material as an alternative to rainforest hardwoods such as ipe.

The versatility of wood should never be under-appreciated and as carbon conscious clients are challenging designers to innovate, sometimes it is best to look back-in-time for solutions. Intriguingly PEBL has worked on two vastly different projects in the last year who’s architects employed the time-tested technique of timber framing for its engineering qualities, aesthetics, and sustainability. In downtown Minneapolis we have been engaged by Dwyer Oglesbay Architects to work on the TMBR condominiums, a project that features an exposed mass timber frame structure and is poised to be the tallest structure of its kind in the United States. Significantly decreasing the amount of concrete essential for the tower, the construction methods considerably reduce the building’s carbon footprint. The PEBL designed streetscape and roof deck both focus on high-quality materials that are sustainable and local, utilizing reclaimed wood benches, recycled pavers, and native plantings. As a new addition to the North Loop neighborhood, TMBR hopes to highlight a model for sustainable construction and reinforce the collective character of the historic district. On the other side of the planet, PEBL was excited to work with MASS Design Group on the development of the Rwandan Institute for Conservation Agriculture. Structures on the huge campus employ timber framed roofs, with a portion of the material being harvested from the site itself. The choice of timber is part of a greater carbon offset plan for the entire project that will nullify the school’s carbon footprint within 50 years. This effort includes a massive reforestation initiative and implementation of a net-zero energy infrastructure.

Whether it’s saving a tree, installing an art-piece, or building a high-rise, the utilization of wood has the ability to add depth and relevance to any project. Beyond its advantages as a renewable and scalable construction resource, its beauty attracts generations of engaged users. (text by Jonathan Blaseg)

#wood #landscape architecture

[taylastudio2022]

TUESDAY WK 4 - TE PAPA CURATOR TOUR, ROBIN WHITE: SOMETHING IS HAPPENING HERE:

Dame Robin White; artist; 2017; FijiRobin White: Te Whanaketanga : Something Is Happening Here.

At 10:30am we were lucky enough to have a tour of the exhibition from curator Nina Tonga, who took us through the layout of the show and some of White’s work, life, and legacy.

Notes taken during tour:

very labour intensive work - tapa, using natural materials 

lots of labour just for the cloth

wanted to start early - start with something “full on”

fluid approach to time - more indigenous approach - reflected in layout 

time - travelling through, 

saw image much earlier than when she painted i - next to opposite tapa work - reflecting styles.

Mangaweka, Dame Robin White; artist; 1973; Mangaweka, oil painting. (Above). 

Something is happening here, Dame Robin White; artist; 2017; Fiji, bark cloth.  (Above). 

Writing herself into the painting

sense of the current 

inspired by surroundings

referencing her own life, 

icons of place 

pacific life 

ahead of time

sense of place 

paints the places she’s in

“painting the everyday” - humble 

portrait, confident woman, echoing father, doing really well.

This is me at Kaitangata, Dame Robin White; 1979; New Zealand Material screenprint Dimensions Image: 363mm (width), 500mm (height). (Above). 

‘Olympia’ didn’t expect it to be Robyns fave

represents what she was wanting to happen 

depicts people and places 

studying at elam as a painter, then teachers college 

‘motherhood’ 

juggling everything 

personal intimate spaces 

lived with these images “the baby” immortalising characters and spaces in work.

nz’s women’s conference 

have lives beyond 

time in dunedin

harbour cove - understand the landscape. 

placing people in the landscape

her mum, little details, sam, 

frame - poop table , 

reflection. 

become “sites” fish and chip shop - etc

big shift..

‘wallpaper’

reflection of where she is living

learning the language 

story telling

political voice 

pacific medium - lost everything in house fire lead to collaboration 

women’s centre, weaving 

traditional fading as logo arrives 

domestic, personal

referencing current, collab work. 

Dame Robin White; 1978, Mere and Siulolovao, Otago Peninsula, screenprint. (Above). 

Reflection:

I thoroughly enjoyed this tour through Robin White’s work, and this extensive collection (which we learned didn’t include her own collection of work!)  The life and legacy of the work was truly inspiring to me, especially as a woman artist which dealt with quite intimate, domestic, humble themes. White’s work also addressed motherhood, feminist issues, and pushed the boundaries in her work. As the curator said she was “ahead of her time” in many ways. I also loved how vastly her practice and styled changed as she grew as a person, and experienced new cultures, new places, new people, new languages. I love how art can reflect someones life or a moment of someones life. 

Links: https://collections.tepapa.govt.nz/object/38667 

[battleparty9]

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[bodyalive]

"Silence" • Five decades ago,the philosopher Max Picard warned: "Nothing has changed human nature more than the loss of silence." • In the 21st century,Ed Schlossberg, creator of ESI Design,a company dedicated to making innovative design spaces,has stated that "attention will be the most scarce and precious asset in the future". • Paying attention to a single object, stopping receiving information for an instant,consuming content,images, sounds,alerts,calls is almost impossible today. We use the new technologies that connect us to the world of messages, tweets, Facebook posts, Google alerts, mobile phone alarms, news from our RSS feeds,Whatsapp invocations, 24 hours a day,wherever we are. • Only when we get on the plane and the stewardess forces us to turn off our electronic devices can we afford to feel us alone. But then we avidly look for what movie they are going to put on. • Schlossberg says he longs for the times when art offered a space for silence and attention. The static frame and the motionless spectator held together, exchanging radiation in the visible spectrum without emitting a single noise. Contemplation is a luxury from another era. One of the film titles that made the most noise comes to mind and dates back to 2011. It was applauded at Cannes and an Oscar candidate. At that time it was one of the most successful films Is it incredibly true, considering it is a silent movie? A film without dialogue in the middle of 2011 - I remember it perfectly. It's called The Artist by Michel Hazanavicius. Many experts gouged their teeth at the cinematic aspects of the tape, but I just want to leave you a reflection... The human being has owned silence for more than a million years. Stillness and the absence of noise are part of the natural landscape as are the wind or the sky. We have adapted to silence and without it we could not survive. So much so that, although it may seem like a lie,we can hear it. A research led by neurologist Antonio Damasio from the Institute of Creativity and Brain of the University of South Los Angeles showed how our neurons react to the absence of stimuli. The experiment placed several volunteers in front of a television screen where different images were broadcast without audio: dogs barking, children crying, blows, glass shattered, explosions ... Scanner images of the participants' brains yielded a surprising conclusion: the brain areas of the auditory cortex were also activated by images that supposedly carried a powerful sound, even though the individual was not hearing anything. The relationship between the visual and auditory apparatus such as that between the auditory apparatus and other areas of the brain that have to do with our behavior shows to what extent sound can influence our organism, our state of mind and our health. How important is the moment, even brief, of silence. If not, tell the suffering citizens who live near an airport. Another recent study on silence is even more striking. A team of researchers from the University of Oregon investigated the neuronal synapses of a group of volunteers while listening to a speech. In doing so they discovered that, contrary to what was believed until now, there are two different neural channels to process the beginning and end of sounds. In other words, our brain uses one set of neurons to hear and another to stop hearing. We do not have a neuron that is activated when we listen and deactivated when we do not listen: what we have is a neuron that is activated when listening and another that is activated when not listening. What is important about this finding is the demonstration that our brain is prepared to stop receiving noise. Furthermore, these two neural channels are closely related to the areas of the brain that process language, memory, and learning. In some way, these neurons of silence are in charge of detecting, in the middle of a sentence, the spaces between words to determine when one begins and when another ends. They are specialized neurons in the pause (blessed virtue also in danger of extinction),the blank space, the breath, the silence ... We need to close our ears as much as we need to close our eyes from time to time. But the world we live in makes it increasingly difficult for us. In a recent interview, Michel Hazanavicius used a metaphor worthy of the best scientific disseminator. This: -- Silence is like zero in math. Many believe that it is worth nothing, that it represents emptiness. But, if you are in the right place, It can be very powerful .-- (...) This child has been reproduced many times, but on reflection,I wanted to capture his silence once again. #StevenMelbourne #ArtWork

#about art #drawing #Steven Melbourne #artwork #Body Alive #silence

[bm-american-art]

Sketchbook, Landscape, Tree and Plant Studies, Some Figures, Germantown, Pennsylvania Area, William Trost Richards, ca. 1860, Brooklyn Museum: American Art

Sketchbook of 43 pages, containing landscape and nature studies in graphite and one in red crayon. Inside front cover, loose sketch of a tree trunk or branch, inscribed at upper right, "William T. RIchards / Germantown . Phila" p1 loose sketch of a forest interior p1verso studies of wood/fence p2 studies of wood and two insects p2verso loose sketch of wood/trees p3 study of a branch p3verso - p4 studies of branches, and a study of a tree p4verso study of branches p5 study of a tree p5verso study of branches p6 study of a tree trunk page excised p7 study of a tree trunk p8 study of tree and/or rocks p9 study of a tree trunk and some branches p9verso - p10 study of a tree trunk and rocks, grasses p11 study of tree trunk p11verso scribbles p12 study of forest interior p12verso upside down, loosely sketched study of forest interior p13 study of tree trunk amid rocks p13verso, forest interior; rocks? p14 study of tree trunk p14verso study of tree trunk p15 study of tree trunk p15verso flower study? other smudged nature studies p16 small study of branches/leaves p16verso close up flower study p17 study of tree p17verso loosely sketched forest interior p18 sketch of forest interior p18verso tree p19 tree/roots p19verso loosely sketched nature study, possibly forest interior p20 loosely sketched forest interior p20verso study of tree trunk p21 loosely sketched forest interior p22 study of tree trunk p22verso loose sketch of leaves? p23 loose sketch, possibly flowers or leaves p23verso loose sketch of tree trunks p24 loose sketch of forest interior p24verso upside down, loose sketch of edge of forest Page excised p25 blank p25verso study of tree/bark p26 partially excised, some sketching of branch and leaves that goes on to p27 p27 sketch of vine and tree trunk (continued from partially excised p26) p27verso smudged/scribbles p28 study of tree p28verso upside down, studies of two heads and a cow, inscribed at upper right, upside down, "WTR" p29 loose sketch, possibly cloud studies p29verso study of tree p30 blank p30verso studies of branches and leaves p31 study of branches p31verso study of trees p32 study of a tree p32verso study of branch and leaves p33 study of branch p33verso, upside down, loose study of many tree trunks/forest interior p34 very loose study of many tree trunks/forest interior p34verso, upside down, forest interior p35 very loose study of tree trunks p35verso upside down, forest interior p36 blank p36verso, red crayon, forest interior p37 loose study of base of tree trunk p37verso loose, almost illegible, nature studies p38 loose, smudged study of trees p39 house amid trees, with tombstones (?) in foreground p39verso, three studies of cows p40 study of cow standing in water with one tree/branch p40verso house amid trees, fence in foreground p41 blank p41verso loose study of trees and rocks/forest interior p42 loose study of tree p42verso seascape, with figure standing on beach Page excised p43 study of a man holding a rifle p43verso study of a man holding a rifle, other lines/markings throughout page Inside back cover, small landscape within artist rendered "frame", othermarkings of possible nature studies. Some sketches of a book? Size: 4 1/8 x 6 7/8 in. (10.5 x 17.5 cm) Medium: Graphite on paper

https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/1530

#williamtrostrichards #museumarchive #americanart #brooklynmuseum

[yourcoffeeguru]

Vintage Australian Bark Landscape Art Painting Framed Under Glass signed by Artist 1987 || SWtradepost - ebay

#australian bark painting #wall hanging home decor #bark landscape painting #bark landscape framed art #home decor #christmas gifts #xmas gifts #bark landscape art #australian aboriginal bark painting #australian aboriginal bark art #ebay #swtradepost

[chb-requests]

how about leo comforting his s/o after a nightmare?

The ground shook violently beneath me before splintering open with the crack of a whip, revealing the hellish landscape awaiting underneath. The fire, the screams, it all reaches me and I feel my heart racing a hundred miles a minute. I’m falling, I’m flying, I don’t know where this is going and all I can do is scream the loudest I can. My dream fills me with emotions I cannot hold within and I find myself waking in a wild sweat that leaves me shaking.

My teary eyes pan through the darkness of my cabin. With only the torch lights gently flickering outside to illuminate the room, I sit up, still shaking and breathing like I had just lived that dream. I looked around the room to see my brothers and sisters were still sleeping soundly. Unaware of the terror I just dreamt and it made me feel all the ever lonelier. I’m about to sob when I looked out the window to see cabin nine, Leo’s cabin.

How much I’d give to feel his warm arms around me right now, I was shaking badly and having a hard time to breathe. I needed it so much that I began to cry. As I choked back my empty sobs, I saw one of the patrolling dryads pass by my cabin. She circles around the structure as respectfully as she can, her bark-like skin is much more pliable than it looks when she uses it to lean over and check every crevice. With her inspection done, she moves on to the next while I watch her in deep thought.

“I can run for it.” I whispered while tracking her movements. “I can… go there really quick, I’m sure Leo wouldn’t mind. I-I’ll bring an offering to Hephaestus so he won’t be so angry… I…”

I sounded like I was crazy! Did I want to be turned into a shrub for a whole week? Dionysus would pick elderberries off my head for his own enjoyment and I don’t even want to know what kind of insects might crawl on my branches while I’m reconstructed. I held my arms tighter, I’ll go very quickly. No one would notice a thing. I’ll be back before dawn and none of the other Hephaestus campers would realize what happened.

Packing my bags as shakily as I can, I gripped the iron nugget I had taken from arts and crafts and climbed out of my window, falling ungracefully onto the floor below. I scurried to hide behind a tree before the dryad noticed me. I was done for. I am 100% a fried nugget and I’m going to be toast for a whole week! When I was sure the dryad didn’t notice my clumsy fall, I dipped behind some of the other buildings, being sure not to touch any of them in respect to the gods. 

I was now directly across from cabin nine and all that’s left is to run across the campfire to the open window leading into the cabin. Holding my breath, I spirited as fast as I could before tripping over a rock left behind during the sing along campfire and fell face flat next to Hestia’s hearth.

I scampered as fast as I could to regain my composure and when the dryad turned around to face me, the flames suddenly grew higher. Almost like the kind hearted Hestia was shielding my view from the century old dryad, rooting for me to finish my adventure. I thanked the Goddess and ran as fast as I could to the open window of Hephaestus’ cabin. I had to be quick, I placed the iron nugget at the base of the steps to speak a low prayer in reverence to the God Hephaestus, and without any time to hesitate I jumped into the window, pulling myself up and rolling into the cabin head first.

My head lands on the hard steel floor, rewarding a groan out of my throat as I wobble back to stand. I carefully took the time to adjust to the darkness in the cabin, before sneaking my way into the bunking area to look for Leo. All the Hephaestus kids were big and burly, it was only my love who sported a thin small frame. I used this knowledge to look everywhere I could for him. But... He wasn’t here? Not sure of what to think, I headed further into the cabin and found the furnace area. It still smelled of soot and sulphur, but I saw someone laying atop a sacked makeshift bed.

My eyes began to water and I knew immediately that it was my beloved.

I ran to his sleeping form, wrapping my arms around his shoulders before letting the first of my tears stain him. Crying into the hollow of his chest, all the fear I had bottled up earlier from my dream poured into his shirt. I was making a mess but I was too far broken to care about that. He didn’t need to wake up, this was all I needed to live. Regardless however, I felt him wake to me. He made a sound of confusion, but suddenly stroked my hair with his hand.

“Y/N? What… What are you doing here?” Leo asked, still confused and trying to sit up. I released him and he immediately looked outside to see what time it was. It was still night, a total violation of the rules and I knew if he wanted to send me away... I would go.

“I had a horrible dream. There was an earthquake and the floor opened up for Tartarus, and- and-”  I was crying but he came out to stroke my tears away. Pulling my shaking body into his. I hugged him again and cried like I had been struck with grief. He kissed my hair, rubbing the back of my shoulders to calm me down, laughing about how he smelled awful compared to me.

I returned the joke pathetically in an attempt to absorb the new aura I was feeling. I was in an awful state and as soon as I took as much strength I could from him, I felt embarrassed about my midnight rendezvous. I risked his safety for a dumb nightmare, I was acting selfish and this pulled me away from him.

“I’m sorry, Leo, I should get back to my cabin. I feel so much better now.” but he came back to pull me under him.

He kissed me over and over again. I felt overwhelmed but at the same time, I sensed him taking all my insecurities away with every press of his finely crafted lips. He wasn’t going to let me go feeling like I meant nothing to him, he wanted me to know he was worried and I drank it like nectar to my wounds.

“Pollita, you’re going to stay with me tonight. So let me make the sack a little more comfortable.” He laughed, moving away and pushing together a few more crates to make the “bed” bigger.

“Why are you sleeping on this? Don’t you have a bed?” I asked brushing my swollen freshly kissed-lips, watching him craft this strange cot. He looked up to smile at me, his grin making my ears red in wonder at his incredibly crafty ways.

“I do, but my siblings snore too loudly so I sleep over here instead.” He laughed, jumping onto the new bedding and giving me the most comfortable pillow.

I laid next to him and he kissed my forehead again. It caused me to giggle but when he kissed my eyes, I felt the sting of swelling my crying had done to them. I pressed against him and he wrapped his arms around me. Asking me to tell him the dream again so he can better understand it. I did… and I no longer felt scared this time.

“If you were to fall into Tartarus, I think I would jump in after you.” He spoke nonchalantly.

“No you wouldn’t!” It sounded almost like a threat when it came out of me, but I meant it to keep him from doing anything stupid. He paused for a second, thinking more about the scenario before he looked me directly in the eyes.

“I would jump into Tartarus after you.” He wasn’t joking and I wasn’t going to dispute it this time.

I kissed his lips again and listened to all the mechanics of the smelting room we were sleeping in. His voice vibrating the hollowness of his chest, it lulled me to sleep and I cradled against him in blissful happiness. I spent all night with him like this, lost in the regale of his upcoming projects and meticular designs. But when I woke the next morning… I wasn’t myself…. LITERALLY….

I was a chipmunk and Dionysus was leaning over me with a cage in his hands. I was going to stay this way for the rest of the week, but at least he let me stay in the Hephaestus cabin for the remainder of my curse-bound sentence. I got to watch Leo smelt and work on his many projects. He talked to me nearly every second of the day and would let me sit in his bag while participating in various events.

I consider this a blessing.

#leo valdez #pjo #percy jackson series #i'm sorry about all the errrors #english isn't my first language but I try to write it either way #Anonymous

[fremedon]

It’s almost Yuletide! This will be my 18th Yuletide! My first Yuletide story will be old enough to vote this year and I have some mixed feelings about that! But also I have never missed or defaulted on a Yuletide since, and I have to say I feel pretty proud of that. I am still pretty far down the Les Misérables rabbit hole (speaking of which, it is not too late to propose programming for Barricades!), and unsurprisingly all the fandoms I'm nominating/requesting this year are set in July Monarchy France--Les Mis canon era: Petit-Cénacle RPF, Champavert: Contes Cruelles | Champavert: Immoral Tales - Pétrus Borel, and Les Enfants du Paradis | Children of Paradise. Petit-Cénacle RPF The Petit-Cénacle was a French Romantic salon, slightly younger and considerably more politically radical than the Cénacle centered on Hugo and Dumas; it included painters and sculptors as well as writers and critics, and most of its members at least dabbled in both written and visual arts. Its best-known members today are Théophile Gautier, Gérard de Nerval, and Pétrus Borel (the Lycanthrope)--the last two are thinly fictionalized in Les Misérables as Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel. (It's debatable how much Grantaire owes to Gautier but it's probably a nonzero amount.) The group coalesced around Borel and Nerval as the organizers of the Battle of Hernani--a fight between Romantics and classicists at the premiere of Victor Hugo's play Hernani in 1830. Most theater productions at this time had claques--groups of paid supporters of a show or an actor, who were planted in the audience to drum up applause. For Hernani--the first Romantic work staged at the prestigious Comédie-Français, which broke classical norms so thoroughly that it no longer seems at all transgressive--Hugo and the theater management decided they were going to need more than just a claque. They recruited a few of Hugo's fans--Gautier was so star-struck he had to be physically hauled up the stairs to Hugo's apartment--to stage An Event. The fans recruited their friends. They showed up in cosplay, with the play already memorized and callback lines devised. It was basically the Rocky Horror Picture Show of its day. It almost immediately turned into an actual fight, with fists and projectiles flying. And it made Hernani the hottest ticket in Paris. This is the group's origin story, and they pretty much spent their lives living up to it. They were every bit as extra as you would expect--Nerval allegedly walked a lobster on a leash in the Champs-Elyseés, explaining that "it knows the secrets of the deep, and it does not bark"--but they also stayed friends all their lives, often living together, supporting each other through poverty and mental illness and absurd political upheaval. I'm nominating Pétrus Borel | Le Lycanthrope, Théophile Gautier, Gérard de Nerval, and Philothée O’Neddy; you could nominate other people like Jehan Duseigneur, Celestin Nanteuil, or the Deverias, or associates of the group like Dumas and Hugo. The Canon Gautier's History of Romanticism covers the early days of the group and the Battle of Hernani in some detail. (There is also a 2002 French TV movie, La bataille d'Hernani, which is charming and pretty accurate; hit me up if you want a copy.) Other than that--this crowd wrote a lot, and they're all very present in their work--even in their fiction, which is shockingly modern in a ton of ways. For Gautier, Mademoiselle de Maupin has a lot of genderfeels, surprisingly literal landscape porn, and a fursuit sex scene in chapter two. If you want Nerval's works in English, you might be limited to dead-tree versions, but I highly, highly recommend The Salt Smugglers, a work of metafiction that answers the question, "What if The Princess Bride had been written in 1850 specifically to troll the press censorship laws of Prince President Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte?" Borel's experimental short story collection Champavert has a new and very good English translation by Brian Stableford and is also my next fandom :D. Champavert: Contes Immoraux | Champavert: Immoral Tales - Pétrus Borel Last year I requested Borel RPF but I decided this book was unfanficcable. This year, I am going to have a little more faith in the Yuletide community. Champavert, available in ebook and dead tree form, is a weird as hell little book and probably the best thing I read last year. It's an experimental short story collection from 1830. Someone on one of my Les Mis Discords described it as "a collection of gothic creepypasta, but the author is constantly clanging pots and pans together and going 'JUST IN CASE you didn't notice, the real horror was colonialism and misogyny all along and i'm very angry about it!'" And, yeah, pretty much that, with added metafictional weirdness, intense nerding about architecture and regional languages, and the absolute delight that is Borel's righteously ebullient voice. Borel wrote for a couple of years under the name of The Lycanthrope, and though he kills the alter ego in this book, the name stuck, and would continue to be used by friends and enemies alike all his life. Pretty much everyone who met Pétrus agreed that 1) he was just ungodly hot; 2) he was probably a werewolf, sure, that makes sense; and 3) he was definitely older than he claimed to be, possibly by centuries, possibly just immortal, who knows. But, like I said, he kills the alter ego in this book: it begins with an introduction announcing that "Pétrus Borel" has been a pseudonym all along, that the Lycanthrope's real name is Champavert--and that the Lycanthrope is dead and these are his posthumous papers, compiled by an unnamed editor; the papers include some of Borel's actual poems and letters, published under his own name. The final story in the collection is called "Champavert, The Lycanthrope," and is situated as an autobiographical story, following a collection of fictional tales--which share thematic elements and, in the frame of the book, start to look like "Champavert"'s attempts to use fiction to come to terms with events of his own life. And that's probably an oversimplification; this is a dense little book and it's doing a lot. The subtitle is Contes Immoraux. It's part of a genre of "contes cruelles" (and, content note for. Um. A lot), but it's never gratuitously cruel--it's very consciously interrogating the idea of the moral story, and what sort of morality is encoded in fables, and what it means to set a story where people get what they deserve in an unjust world where that's rarely the case. I'm nominating the unnamed editor, Champavert, his friend Jean-Louis from the introduction and the final story, and Flava from the final story; you could also nominate characters from the explicitly fictional stories. Les Enfants du Paradis | Children of Paradise This is a film made between 1943 and 1945 in Vichy and Occupied France and set...somewhere?...around the July Revolution, probably, I'll get into that :D. There's a DVD in print from Criterion and quite possibly available through your local library system. (And it's streaming on Amazon Prime and the Criterion Channel.) It's beautifully filmed, with gorgeous sets and costumes and a truly unbelievable number of extras, and some fantastic pantomime scenes. (On stage and off; there's a scene where a henchman attempts to publicly humiliate a mime, and it goes about as well as you would expect.) "Paradise," in the title, is the equivalent of "the gods" in English--the cheap seats in the topmost tier of a theater. It's set in and around the theaters of the Boulevard du Temple--the area called the Boulevard du Crime, not for the pickpockets outside the theaters but for the content of the melodramas inside them. The story follows a woman called Garance, after the flower (red madder), a grisette turned artists' model turned sideshow girl turned actress turned courtesan, and four men who love her, some of whom she loves, all of whom ultimately fail to connect with her in the way she needs or wants or can live with. This sounds like a setup for some slut-shaming garbage. It's not--Garance is a person, with interiority, and the story never blames her for what other people project onto her. Of those four men, one is a fictional count and the other three are heavily fictionalized real people: the actor Frédérick Lemaître, the mime Baptiste Deburau, and the celebrity criminal Lacenaire. Everyone in this story is performing for an audience, pretty much constantly, onstage or off: reflexively, or deliberately, or compulsively. Garance's survival skill is to reflect back to people what they want to see of themselves. She never lies, but she shows very different parts of herself to different people. We get the impression that there are aspects of herself she doesn't have much access to without someone else to show them to. Frédérick is also a mirror, in a way that makes him and Garance good as friends and terrible as lovers--an empty hall of mirrors. He's always playing a part--the libertine, the artist, the lover--and mining his actual life and emotions for the sake of his art. Baptiste channels his life into his art as well, but without any deliberation or artifice--everything goes into the character, unfiltered. It makes him a better artist than any of the others will ever be, but his lack of self-awareness is terrifying, and his transparency fascinates Garance and Frédérick, who are more themselves with him than with anyone else. Lacenaire, the playwright turned thief and murderer, seems to no self at all, except when other people are watching. Against the performers are the spectators: the gaze of others--fashion, etiquette, and reputation--personified by Count Mornay; and the internal gaze personified in Nathalie, an actress and Baptiste's eventual wife, who hopes that if they observe the forms of devotion for long enough the feeling will follow. The time frame is deliberately vague--it's set an idealized July Monarchy where all these people were simultaneously at the most exciting part of their careers. In the real world, Frédérick turned his performance of Robert Macaire into burlesque in 1823, Baptiste's tragic pantomime Le Marrrchand d’Habits! ("The Old-Clothes Seller") played in 1842, and Lacenaire's final murder, for which he is guillotined, is 1832; these all take place in Act II of the movie within about a week of each other. (Théophile Gautier, mentioned but tragically offstage in the film, was a fan of Baptiste; Le Marrrchand d’Habits! started as Gautier's fanfic--he wrote a fake review of a nonexistent pantomime, and the review became popular enough the Theater des Funambules decided to actually stage it. It only ran for seven performances.) I am nominating Garance, Frédérick Lemaître, Baptiste Deburau, and Pierre François Lacenaire. You could nominate any of the other characters (Count Mornay, Nathalie, the old-clothes seller Jéricho, Baptiste's father, his landlady, Nathalie's father the Funambules manager). Gautier, regrettably, does not actually appear in the film but you can bet that's going to be one of my prompts. So, that's one good movie you definitely have time to watch before signups, several good books you probably have time for and that are probably not like whatever else you're reading right now, and one RPF rabbit hole to go down! Please consider taking up any or all of these so that you can write me fanfic about Romantic shenanigans.

#yuletide #crosspost from Dreamwidth #petit-cenacle #champavert #children of paradise #les enfants du paradis #petrus borel

[queenbirbs]

distracted art appreciation | Ethan Ramsey x MC

Summary: It takes him fifty-six days in the jungle to get over her. Or, well, so he thought.

WC: 3k+

Warnings: N*FW

She’s been staring at the same painting for the past fourteen minutes.

Though, she uses the term ‘painting’ loosely -- whatever she’s looking at is made of twisted straw wrappers and crumbled pages of an IKEA manual. The placard next to the work features phrases like ‘a work of action’ and ‘an introspection into rampant consumerism.’ To her (admittedly untrained) eye, it looks like someone dumped a trashcan over a canvas and spray-painted it with viscera and glitter. Taking another sip of her wine, she glances down at her phone to see that only another minute has passed.

“Two more hours,” Sloane mutters to herself, hopelessly wishing again for time to speed up.

It’s not that she isn’t happy for Kyra, who started out with painting tutorials on YouTube and worked up to a modest following in Boston’s art community, which led her here to her first gallery show. She was excited for the first hour, sticking close to her friend as Kyra chatted with fellow artists about mediums and superatism and juxtaposition and a hundred other terms Sloane didn’t understand. But as conversations flowed, Kyra’s nerves settled down, and she waved Sloane off to go get some air and peruse the other artwork.

Which is how she came to standing in front of The Shopper’s Sediment, waiting for the event to end so she can help Kyra haul her paintings back down the block to her car.

The pleas for company that Sloane sent to the group chat have gone unanswered; they’re probably all still out at the new fantasy-themed bar that she skipped on to be a good friend who keeps her promises.

She’s so concentrated on the ugly artwork that she doesn’t realize there’s a person standing beside her. In fact, she only realizes they’re even there when she lifts her wine glass and ends up whacking them in the side with her elbow.

“Oh, my god! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, I--” she swallows back the rest of her panicked apology.

Ethan smirks down at her. His hand is clasped around her offending elbow.

“It’s all right. I won’t be pressing charges.”

“Thanks,” she says around the dumb grin on her face.

She admires the cut of the jacket he’s wearing; it’s some sort of tweed fabric with patches on the elbows, as if he’s just stepped down from behind a podium at Boston U. For a long moment, they stare at each other, and then down at his hand, still wrapped around her arm. He yanks his hand back as if he’s been burned; the dumb grin falls from her face.

“Um,” she hides the wince that wants to form, “why are… sorry, what are you doing here?”

“I missed out on a few First Fridays while I was away,” he explains. “Besides, Les Mis is running through the fourteenth, and I’ve seen enough of it for a lifetime. I thought I’d peruse the galleries tonight instead.” Taking a drink from the glass in his other hand, he glances about the room. “And you?”

Sloane tips her head in Kyra’s direction, explaining her role as both a social crutch and moving help. An awkward silence follows her words; she switches her glass from one hand to the other, mentally cursing at herself for fidgeting.

She’s a grown-ass woman! There’s no need for her to fold like a goddamn lawn chair around the man next to her. They’re both adults. They can interact in a public place without acting like idiots.

“Well,” Ethan starts, and then pauses to clear his throat. “You heard all about what I was doing down in Colombia, but I’m… curious. What did you do for the two months I was gone? Besides breaking up bar fights for Reggie.”

“Worked,” she answers with a smile. “And worried, of course.”

He quirks an eyebrow up at her response. “About you,” she clarifies.

“You didn’t need to.”

“I know. But I did anyway.” A smile flickers across his face at her admission. “I kept a close eye on the weather conditions down there. You were there during one of the wettest seasons on record. And now I find out that you were wearing a leather jacket the entire time for protection? Something about that just doesn’t add up. And you know what I think? I think you bought it in Bogota before your return flight, so you could come back with some new… down-to-earth vibe.”

That small smile of his grows; the sight of it makes something flutter in her throat.

“You’re not considering the bigger picture,” he says.

“Which is?”

“How I look in it.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Only when they’re yours.”  

Sloane makes a show of taking a drink, if only to hide the blush that’s likely (most definitely) coloring her cheeks. She’s bedded the man twice, yet he can turn her into a mess with a minute of flirting. If hope is the thing with feathers, as Dickinson wrote, it’s flown well beyond her reach now.

“In the interest of continuing our, for a lack of a better term, in vino veritas,” he says, “I… worried about you, too.”

The admission causes her to perk up.

“What for?”

“I chose a poor time to leave. Everything was in an upheaval, with Naveen and Harper and I moving positions, and you having won your trial, and then you were awarded the position on the team, and…” he trails off, brow furrowing as he attempts to corral his rambling. “Naveen told me about Doctor Olsen, about how he tried to sabotage your standing.” At his side, his hand clenches into a fist. “And if you let that slide by, what else were you holding back from me?”

“I’ve dealt with bigger snakes than him. You don’t need to worry about--”

“But I did,” he cuts her off. “The entire time I was gone. All fifty-six days.” His eyes drop from hers, going instead to his glass and feigning interest in it. “Some reset, hmm?”

She should walk away; bid her goodbyes and return to Kyra’s side, let him walk out the door and move onto the next gallery. Let him have his reset. But, then again, she’s never been able to leave well enough alone.  

So, instead, she tucks her arm up into his. Her offending elbow nudges his side.

“Come on. I’m tired of staring at this.”

Ethan gives the piece a look over his shoulder as they continue into the space. “It is a rather… visually-challenging take on mixed media.”

“See? I’ve circled this place four times and don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking at. You’re just the man I need.”

“Then, by all means, lead on.”  

+

By the near-end of their excursion through the gallery, Sloane learns more art terms than she did in the one art history class she mistakenly took in undergrad. The one that she barely passed, though she doesn’t mention that particular detail when Ethan asks.

Art is something she appreciates as one would appreciate good food -- she doesn’t have to know every ingredient in it to enjoy the taste. Ethan, as he is inclined to do, argues against her logic, claiming that knowledge behind every brush stroke (and, thus, every pinch of minced garlic, if we’re using food as a comparison, he added with a sigh) makes the artwork that much more meaningful (and, thus, tastier).  

“It’s a moving piece that calls back to the Impressionist period,” he tells her, as if the third time’s the charm, and suddenly she’ll be awestruck by the boring landscape before them.

“It looks like something that would be bolted above the bed at a Best Western.”

He barks out a laugh at her comment, quickly smothering it when it draws attention from the other art patrons. They move away from the Monet copycat and down a long hallway, where a selection of lackluster acrylic paintings hang in a row. Sloane can feel her eyes glaze over as she examines them.

It’s no wonder that there’s no one near this end of the gallery. The conversations that reach them are muffled, just the droning buzz of voices. Not even the contemporary jazz music is piped down this far, leaving only the creaking floorboards and their own footsteps to accompany them. They reach the end of the hall, where a little table holds a handful of empty plates and glasses, abandoned by those that came before them.

Above the table is a painting of a woman. Draped around her shoulders is a red robe, patterned with messy strokes of amber-colored flowers. Her short, dark curls are pinned back, showing off the strong line of her jaw and the soft contour of her lips. Her right hand is raised, her fingers curled towards herself, as if beckoning to someone out of frame. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted up as she waits for her kiss.    

“She’s hot,” Sloane blurts out.

Ethan raises an eyebrow at her blunt summary of the artwork, though he concedes with a nod. “She is rather lovely.”

“It’s kind of weird, though,” she steps closer and scans the woman’s face. “She reminds me of a woman I went on a date with.”

“Oh. When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Oh,” he repeats, but his tone is different this time.

Sloane looks him over, unable to suppress her grin. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says, then grimaces. “Maybe. Yes. Of course I am.”

“You shouldn’t be. Her name is Reese -- she’s a pediatric surgeon over at Children’s. Very attractive, great work ethic, good kisser, cute dog.”

“I fail to see how you reciting all of her best qualities is preventing me from feeling jeal--”

“Simple,” she interrupts. “No spark.”

“Not one?”

Sloane tips her head from side to side, pursing her lips as she considers. “Okay, maybe a little one. Not enough for a fire, though.”

The quiet of the hallway hovers between them as they gaze up at the painting. The placard hanging next to it lists the artist and the artwork’s title: la voglia.

“Is that Italian?”  

“It means ‘the wanting.’” He tips back his glass and swallows the last of his wine. Liquid courage, and all that. “What about… us?”

“Hmm?” The question pulls her from her study of the painting.  

“What was our ‘spark’ level?”

“Oh, we were a bonfire.”

“I see,” he says, his eyes blazing as he watches her. Sloane bites down on her bottom lip. His gaze flickers down to watch the movement; the flame that’s been simmering in her stomach all evening ignites under the attention.    

“Did you want to kiss me?” she asks. “The other night at Donahue’s?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you would.”

The loud clink of his glass meeting the table is lost under the sound of his footsteps crossing the few feet between them. His hands come up to frame her face and his lips crash against hers. Her glass smacks against the table from where she hastily drops it; wine sloshes and drips down onto the floor. Sloane ignores the mess in favor of grabbing any part of him she can reach and pulling him close. Ethan breaks the kiss to surface for air, moving his hands to her waist; she adjusts her grip to his tie and yanks him down for another kiss, tilting her head to deepen it. Pleasure hums through her as she teases his lips to open for her, sweeping her tongue against his own.

Her back hits the wall; funny, because she doesn’t recall moving at all. The rough brick catches at her blouse and hair as she tilts her head up and arches her back, offering more of herself for him to explore.    

“Sloane,” he hisses, trailing Syrah-soaked kisses along her throat and up behind her ear. He nips at the soft skin there, the marks hidden behind the curtain of her hair that he wraps around his hand and tugs. The moan tumbles out of her before she can swallow it down. “I can’t decide what I missed more,” he says with a smirk. “Your touch, or those sweet noises you make for me.”

“Can I tell you what I missed most?”

He pulls back to look down at her, blue eyes alight with arousal. “I’m all ears.”

Flashing a smug grin, she shifts to put her leg between both of his and brings it up as high as her skirt will allow. She rubs her knee against his thigh, and then higher, smirking when he growls out her name.

“That,” she tells him.

Ethan shakes his head at her as he grabs the offending leg and wraps it around his hip. She retaliates by hauling him closer and rolling her hips up to tease him.

“Sloane--”

“Yes?”

“We can’t… not here. Someone could come down the hallway any moment.”

“I know,” she purrs, running her nails through his beard, pleased at his sharp inhale. “We should go somewhere more private.”

“We… my apartment, it’s not too--”

“I’m not sitting through that forty-minute taxi ride you call a commute. I can’t wait.” She brings her hand down and presses it against the swell of his visible arousal. He emits a helpless groan at her touch. “And neither can you.”

“What do you have in mind, then?”

Her only response is another grin that he meets with a look of worried confusion. She decides that she likes the look, especially when she gets to watch the understanding dawn on his face as she guides him to the open door of a nearby stockroom.

Sloane kicks the door closed and locks it behind them, smacking Ethan’s hand away from the lightswitch. Warm light from the street lamps outside pours down out of a high window, diffused with the multicolored strobes of the nightclub across the alley. Shelves of cleaning supplies crowd in next to a pile of stanchions and a stack of easels. The bass from next door thrums along the brick walls, rattling the glassware that’s tucked away in the cabinets. The countertop underneath them glows red from the club lights.      

Ethan picks her up easily and sets her on the counter. The laminate is cool under her heated skin, causing a shiver to course through her. His hand curves around her throat, his thumb brushing along her bottom lip. His breath turns ragged when Sloane turns her head in his hold and takes his thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the digit before releasing him with a wet pop.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Let me see more of you.”

She reaches down and untucks her blouse while he attacks the pearl buttons, popping them open and pushing the cloth from her shoulders, chuckling at her threat of injury should he ruin her shirt. The cool air of the stockroom is soon replaced by his warm breath as he drags kisses down her chest; unhurried and uncaring of her complaints as he takes his sweet time.

“Ethan--” the rest of her complaint is lost to time as his mouth closes over the lacey fabric of her bra. His tongue traces the peak of her nipple, over one breast and then the other. She drags her nails through his hair and grips the strands tight, begging him to never stop kissing her.

In true fashion, he does stop and flashes her a self-satisfied smirk before dropping to his knees. Hauling her closer, he shoves her skirt up, the fabric bunching around her waist. She waits with bated breath, trembling slightly with anticipation, so sure that he won’t bother to tease her now, not when she’s--

“You bastard,” she croaks out when he starts further south than she wants.

That smarmy chuckle of his is somehow deeper than the nightclub’s bass; he ignores her insult and continues tracing wet kisses along the curve of her leg. His beard scratches at her knee as he makes his way up, higher and higher, until he’s so close that the puff of his breath is nearly enough to set her off.  

“You’re one to talk,” he says, tilting his chin to let his beard scrape at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “If I’d known you weren’t wearing anything under this skirt, we would have been here hours ago.”

She opens her mouth to serve him something snarky right back, but he chooses then to press the flat of his tongue against her and lick a long stripe up her sex. The noise that escapes her isn’t anything close to the English language. With one hand holding her leg up to keep them spread, he uses his other to slide two fingers into her wet heat. The pace he sets is punishing; Sloane barely manages to reach up and grab at the cabinet handles behind her head, holding on for dear life. The warm heat in her belly flows outward into her limbs, burning through her veins; her hips make aborted little thrusts into his mouth as his tongue works her open.

“Oh, god, oh -- god, Ethan!” she cries out. Then his thumb finds her clit and she’s a goner. Her legs snap closed, holding him there as she rides out the wave of her orgasm. Escaping from her hold, he gets to his feet and steps between her splayed legs. He cups her chin and coaxes her up to meet him for a kiss.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Sloane works at his belt buckle, the leather creaking under her grip as she yanks it from the loops and throws it to the ground.

“I don’t think you needed to--”

“Shut up,” she orders, covering her mouth with his. For once, he listens, kissing the fuck out of her while she pops the button on his pants and dips her hand inside his underwear. His breath catches and his head drops to her bare shoulder, his hips thrusting up into her touch. Heady pants sound against her ear, spurring her on.

The hand not splayed against the cabinet above her head disappears between her legs and palms her sex, rubbing circles against her there. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, “god, touch me.”

“Do I…” he starts, then stops, choking back a groan as her wrist gives a little twist. “Do we need…?”

Through the thick fog of oxytocin clouding her brain, Sloane catches on to his fumbling attempts. To give him the chance to form a coherent thought, she lets go of his cock, busying her hands by skimming them up his body and underneath the button-down he still wears.  

“I presume you got every test in the book before being let back into the country,” she says. “And my IUD is still in working order. And, besides that, I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

He shifts to look down into her eyes. By the primal glaze covering his own, it’s obvious to her that the notion pleases him.

“Not even with the surgeon with the great work ethic and the cute dog?”

Stretching up, she captures his lips with her own -- mostly to shut him up again, having found the technique rather effective.

“Like I told you: no spark. Now, if you can get over your jealous streak and--”

“I’m not jealous,” he protests while still grabbing her knees and tugging her that much closer.

“You so totally are,” she laughs as she wraps her legs around his hips. Her knuckles scrape against the cabinet when he forces her hands up beside her head; she links her fingers through his, holding him there.

“Not anymore.” A wolfish grin spreads across his face before he drives into her.

Any chance of continuing their banter is lost to the heat between them. His hips crash down into hers; her legs quake around his. Their chests heave with every breath, their kisses little more than frenzied brushes as the flare of pleasure grows and grows, burning white-hot under their skin.

Ethan drops one hand to where they’re joined and passes once, then twice over her sensitive bundle of nerves. Her body arches as the delicious, surprising heat of her orgasm courses through her. Unable to withstand the rhythmic clenching of her, he follows, muffling his shout by burying his face against her throat.  

“How was that?” he asks once the ability of speech returns. Despite the sweaty mess of each other they’ve made, he nuzzles close, sighing when she wraps her arms around him.

“A house fire.”

Though it defies all laws of medicine and the universe, she can somehow hear the frown of consideration he wears.

“I was thinking forest.”

“Okay,” she concedes. “That works too.”

From somewhere in the dark room comes a buzzing sound. Before she can seriously consider whether or not her orgasm did knock her hearing out-of-whack, Ethan scoops her phone up from the floor.

A stack of missed texts from Kyra fills up her screen:

6:28 pm: come back there’s a hot girl I want you to see

6:28 pm: she’s a sculptor and welds and has tattoos please i’m weak

6:43 pm: where did you gooo

7:02 pm: if you left because of the creepo photographer let me know and I’ll kick his ass

7:04 pm: creepo says he never saw you which i DO NOT believe considering how hot you look tonight

7:39 pm: Lmao nvm

7:39 pm: you are the least subtle person i know but no worries i’ve got your back

7:40 pm: I trust that doctor ramsey can take care of your front ;)

8:24 pm: Devon the hot welder you missed out on meeting is going to help me w paintings and then take me out for a drink. make good choices!! text if you need anything love you  

“What are those little pictographs next to her name?”

Sloane glances down at the tiny flexing bicep and pink heart next to Kyra’s name and rolls her eyes.

“This grumpy, outdated persona of yours can only go on for so long, you know. You did grow up during the birth of AOL and AIM. You’re not a Luddite.” She hops down from the counter and taps out a reply to her friend before buttoning up her blouse. “Besides, you know it’s rude to look at people’s messages, right?”

A red flush returns to his cheeks, though he tries to hide it by crossing the room to switch on the light and searching for his belt.

“Well, I had to make sure it wasn’t the pediatric surgeon, offering to take you out again.”

Sloane lets out a snort, her attention on her reflection in the mirror propped up against the back wall. “We both know by now that there’s only one persistent, albeit indecisive and general pain-in-the-ass doctor that has my attention.”

Ethan, having finished putting himself together, approaches her from behind. His hands slip in underneath her hair to fix her collar. She catches his eye in their reflection; he drops a kiss against her temple.

“Come home with me.”

“That would go against all of those parameters you set up,” she reminds him.

“I know. So did this.” If his tone is a little lost, a little unsure, she doesn’t mention it. “Come home with me,” he repeats.

“Okay.”

+

Author’s notes and what-have-yous:  

Hello, and welcome back to the sin bin.

Please no art lectures. Everything in this was either prior knowledge, googled to the best of my ability, or from recalling friends who were art majors in college bitch about said major. The painting of the woman they discuss is based off of Albert von Keller’s Anticipation. (Sloane’s right; she’s hot.)

Also, if anyone can tell me if I used the correct ‘desire’ in Italian, please let me know. I couldn’t find anything that said I should use la brama instead of la voglia, so I used the latter. (special thank you to @uncagedwings for the vocab assist!)

#ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart #choices #f: distracted art appreciation #Kaila writes things #this story is like half trashing fictional art and half sex #hope that's somebody's cup of tea

[thxngam]

hey @the1918, you sent a prompt for stucky, meeting on a train au, and i--stupidly-deleted the post accidently. so, here it is!

Steve hates the train. It makes his back hurt, the people only get weirder and weirder, and, because of NYC, the station only gets crowder and crowder. Penn Station will forever give him nightmares, and it's almost not worth braving it to get onto the train to see his Mama. She'd moved, out of the smoggy, polluted air of Brooklyn for the sake of her aging lungs, and Steve's thrilled that she's happy and healthy...but he hates the annual train station trip. 

Quite possibly the only bright side of this trip is The Man--very hot, Steve would like to add--that Steve keeps making eye contact with for every weirdo who boarded the train. Since Steve had gotten on, there had been a group of men dressed as Mario characters (if Steve wasn't currently enamored by Hot Guy, he'd totally bang Princess Peach), a yeti, a man dressed up like a tomato, 1 guy holding onto the train with a plunger even though seats weren't that full, an entire pitbull inside a woman's tote, and, currently, the grumpiest old lady dressed like an angel. The man cocked an eyebrow at Steve. 'Guardian Angel?' he mouthed. 

Steve shrugged helplessly. 'If that's my guardian angel, I'm fucked,' he mouthed back. The man looked confused. Steve hesitated, and when the man cocked his head like a lost puppy, he scooched over on his seat and patted the space next to him. He had been saving the space for the last three stops, and everyone on the train was giving him dirty looks, but this time if Steve got sick from sitting next to a hot stranger and ended up in the hospital, it would've been worth it. 'Sit here?' he mouthed. The hot stranger's face lit up and--fuck that was a good sight. 

He quickly made his way over to the seat adjacent to Steve's. "Bucky," the man introduced. Before Steve could even respond he knew that he was going to hear that voice inside his dreams for at least months. His mama had always said he had too big a heart, and let too many people in too fast, but with a look like that, and a voice that put the nameless kaleidoscope face of the man in his wet dreams to shame, Steve couldn't even be blamed. 

(Except by Sam. Sam was gonna call him a stupid white boy no matter what he did. Steve has made his peace with that.) 

"Steve," Steve said, cursing the way his voice wobbled. "Steve Rogers." 

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "Rogers?" 

Steve tilted his head. "What's that to you?" 

"No-I mean-Steve Rogers? Like the artist?" 

Steve sighed. "Yep. That's me." 

Bucky's smile would put angels to shame. "My sister loves your work. And I don't know a thing about art, but looking at you makes me want to." He winked shamelessly. "I'd be into getting to know you." 

Steve blinked. "Are you--flirting with me?" 

Bucky looked unhindered. "Tryin' to, doll." 

And-

Steve quite liked being Bucky's doll. He felt his pale face flush. "Well. I gotta say this the first time I've been flirted on because of my art. Also-" he hesitated. "I draw landscapes and other naked people. Not me naked. Why are you flirting with me?" He hated to say it. “‘Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t look at all like the people I draw.”

“I dunno ‘bout that; you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever saw on this train.” 

“There’s been an entire, fully grown man dressed in a Teletubbies suit on this train. The standards aren’t high, Buck.” 

“And you’re a drink of water in a desert,” Bucky promised. 

Steve’s mouth parted, and he licked his lips self-conciously. “That’s-oh.” 

Bucky’s hand landed on his knee and squeezed. "My sister, Becca--she loves you by the way and will actually murder me if I don't get your autograph, she's an art student--dragged me to some conference thing in Jersey-"

Steve's nose crinkled in time with Bucky's. 

"-and I was bored, I didn't get anything or the "deeper meaning" of a whole bunch of squares or whatever," he rolled his eyes. Steve ducked his head and smiled, pushing up the bulky rims of his glasses. Steve saw Bucky smirk at him from the corner of his eye. "But then I saw your work.”

"The Lovers," Steve recalled. He was still proud of it. It was two men leaning on each other at a bay window at an unidentifiable time of day as rain pounded the window. "I was lonely, I think when I made that." He smiled ruefully. "It's a little hard to maintain a relationship when you never leave your house for work." 

Bucky's arm came around his shoulders, his bulk dwarfing Steve's slight frame. Steve looked up. Bucky smiled slowly. "I get it," he said gently. Steve leaned hesitantly on Bucky. He froze, and Steve cursed, bracing himself for a hasty retreat and an awkward goodbye--was he pushing it?

Bucky's hand tightened on Steve's shoulder. "I'm an app developer, and I work from home more often than not. I'm at home all the time too." 

Steve's lips quirked up. "That's cool," he said honestly. "I was never interested in the science-y stuff personally, but it looks so cool from a distance." 

Bucky barked a laugh. "yeah, that's about it. Mostly it's a lot of squinting and cursing and coffee chugging. Or whiskey. But then I saw you, at the conference, and I’ve let my sister drag me to every art show within the state in hopes of seeing you. And then I see you here.”

“You saw my ass in suit pants and then traipsed around the state for it?” 

“No, I saw you speak about never seeing gay lovers or anything other than heteronormative art in museums, and that you were painting for every child who thought they were abnormal. I traipsed after that.” 

Steve--well Steve didn’t know what to say to that. He burned pink and fiddled with the rims of his glasses hopelessly, racking his brain for anything to say other than ‘oh’. “I--I don’t know what to say to that.” 

Bucky smiled at him fondly. Steve found himself smiling back. 

"I don't get off for another two hours,” Bucky said instead. “Rockville.” 

“Rockville?” That was Steve’s stop. “My mother lives there; I’m actually going to visit her.” 

If Steve had ovaries, they’d be exploding at Bucky’s smile. “That’s lovely,” he said, laughing. “I guess we’ll see each other there?” He sounded hesitant for the first time of their exchange. “How’s dinner sound?” 

Steve smiled, and, reaching out on a limb, pecked Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s hand reached up to slowly cup his own cheek, right over where Steve had kissed him. “My mama would love to meet you, and she makes the best damn soda bread I’ve ever had.”

“Your Ma?” Bucky settled back in his seat. Steve couldn’t help but smile like a dork. "Is that an invitation to meet the parents, dollface?" 

Steve leaned wholeheartedly against his bulk. "Depends. Are you gonna say yes?” 

Bucky snorted and pressed a kiss to his hair in affection that mimicked an old married couple more than it did two people who just met. “You damn well know I am.”

#stucky #stucky fanfiction #au august 2020 #meeting on a train au #fluff #stucky fluff #getting together #i'm so stupid i deleted the post because i meant to queue it for actual august #and then i deleted the actual ask #god i hate myself #this is also much longer than i meant to be #i- #ask

[architectnews]

Architecture highlights in Western Africa along the Atlantic Ocean Coast

In the third part of our Sub-Saharan Africa Architectural Guide series, the editors of the guide pick their highlights from Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Ghana, Togo, Benin and Nigeria.

With contributions from nearly 350 authors, the Sub-Saharan Africa Architectural Guide aims to be a comprehensive guide to architecture in the southern part of the continent.

The third volume of the seven-volume publication is named Western Africa along the Atlantic Ocean Coast and focuses on the architecture of Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Ghana, Togo, Benin and Nigeria.

Read on for the book's editors, Philipp Meuser and Adil Dalbai's, picks from the region:

Photo is by Adil Dalbai

Guinea-Bissau TAP Airline Delegation, Bissau by José Pinto da Cunha

Located on National Heroes' Square, to the southwest of the Presidential Palace, this building can be related to other revisionists' experiences of the modern movement during the period of new brutalism.

It is defined by one single volume with the main facade covered in a vertical brise-soleil to enable control of the heat excess in the offices. The arched roof was also used to create ventilation, adjusting the building to its tropical climate.

A wide spiral staircase characterises the entrance level and establishes access to the other levels of the building.

Photo is by Philipp Meuser

Guinea Gamal Abdel Nasser University, Conakry, by E V Rybitsky and G N Tsytovich

As in many other African countries, a large-scale education offensive began in Guinea after independence in order to facilitate the training of a local elite. In 1962 the Institut Polytechnique de Conakry (IPC) was founded as the first institution for higher education in the country.

Under its first president Ahmed Sékou Touré, Guinea wanted to break away from the former colonial power and aligned itself with the Soviet Union, and the country's first university complex was designed by a collective of Soviet architects.

The university was initially designed for 1,500 students – one of the largest university projects in western Africa at the time. Its main building, completed in 1964, housed the administration, rectorate, library, and conference hall, as well as a few classrooms and offices.

Most of the offices and classrooms for the faculties were spread over several elongated blocks. With their concrete mesh ⁄ brise-soleil – an element often found in late colonial and early post-independence modernist architecture – these buildings made natural ventilation possible and so were a good response to the local tropical climate. The dominant characteristic of the main building is the large mosaic on the north side of the main lecture hall, which shows a black Prometheus breaking free from his chains.

Photo is by Peter Dibdin

Sierra Leone Swawou School for Girls, Kenema, Eastern Province, by Orkidstudio

Orkidstudio's new girls' school in Kenema was designed to provide extensive new learning facilities for up to 120 young girls from the local area and was the only local school that didn't allow corporal punishment.

However, just four weeks from completion progress was brought to a halt and the site closed as the first confirmed cases of the Ebola virus hit the region. After a two-year delay, the school opened in 2016.

Photo by Philipp Meuser

Liberia Masonic Temple, Monrovia, by unknown architect

The overall style of the imposing, neo-classical masonic temple on Mamba Point was influenced by the secret society's lodges in the US.

The edifice has various classical elements: high Doric marbled columns, cornices at the top of the parapets, and pediments. Originally it was covered in marble, but due to damage it suffered during the civil war, most of this skin is gone.

A historic monument that hovers above Monrovia, the masonic temple was likely the site where decisions affecting the entire country were debated and finalised, as members of the True Whig Party, which dominated Liberian politics from the 1870s to the 1980s, were often Freemasons.

Photo by Ama N'guetta

Ivory Coast Hôtel Président, Yamoussoukro, by Olivier-Clément Cacoub

Initially a small village that gained its name in 1901, Yamoussoukro became the political capital of Ivory Coast in 1983, while the port of Abidjan remained the country's economic capital.

The reason behind the relocation of the coastal capital to a more central, inland location was not only to emphasise the prosperity and national identity of the country away from the former colonies, but also that the location was the birthplace of the then head of state, President Félix Houphouët-Boigny.

The master plan for the new city was drawn up by the Tunisian-born architect Olivier-Clément Cacoub in the 1970s and early 1980s. It was an attempt to combine a great city and a village in the form of a new town made up of a collection of modern villas.

Olivier-Clément Cacoub designed the Hôtel Président in 1980, three years before the city was appointed the Ivory Coast capital.

Photo by Fernando Guerra

Ghana One Airport Square, Accra, by Mario Cucinella Architects, Deweger Gruter Brown & Partners

As the first building in Ghana to have been awarded a four-star rating by the Green Building Council of South Africa, One Airport Square draws equally on the themes of globalisation, sustainability, and tradition.

The Italian and Ghanaian architects constructed a diagrid exterior in homage to the patterns on the palm-tree bark, and of the style of rural homes in northwest Ghana. The frame is structured to support Accra's seismic sensitivity, and the projected terraces shield the large office windows from strong solar-rays.

As a multi-purpose edifice, the recently completed building boasts offices, cafes, and restaurants, as well as a sculpture by the local artist Kofi Setordji in its piazza. One Airport Square has become the landmark of Accra’s new architecture landscape.

Photo by Willem Stom

Togo Bank for Investment and Development, Lomé, by Pierre Goudiaby Atepa

The Bank for Investment and Development (EBID) is a landmark building in Togo's capital city Lomé. It consists of two elements, connected by a bridge symbolising the link between the fifteen member countries of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS).

Thes thirteen-storey building rests on a basic structure composed of fifteen elements, which also stand for the member countries. It is dedicated to African women, as represented by a three-metre-wide sculpture depicting three figures, a mother, a sister, and a daughter.

The patterned conference room rotunda suggests an inverted gourd and a fountain makes a feature of the essential element of water. The project is one of Atepa's personal favourites and he later applied the same architec­tural and symbolic gesture in his design for Yundum International Airport in Banjul, the Gambia.

Photo by Giampiero Peia

Benin Marina Residence, Cotonou, by 5+1AA with Peia Associati

According to the architects, the aim of this residential complex was to not only to create a luxury compound in the increasingly expanding city of Cotonou but also to reinterpret African identity through reinventing the local contemporary style.

The team of Italian architects, consisting of Alfonso Femia and Gianluca Peluffo from the practice 5+1AA, succeeded in their aim, although the inspiration behind the roadside walls appears to originate from northern Africa.

The closed and solid-looking exterior walls are painted an intense shade of red, therefore generating a stark contrast to the glistening white buildings within the complex. These internal structures are pierced by unevenly distributed square windows with cedar frames, giving the residential buildings a decidedly unique, varied, and picturesque appearance.

Photo by Andrew Moore

Nigeria Dominican Chapel, Ibadan, by Demas Nwoko

Demas Nwoko's approach to architecture is through art and combines modern elements with a Nigerian vernacular architectural language. Though he was not formally trained as an architect, his works embody his in-depth understanding of the nation's architecture and its heritage. This can be seen in the chapel he created for the Dominican Institute.

The Dominican Chapel also includes sculptural elements such as carved timber columns and elaborate metalwork on the balustrades and gates. Situated at the site's highest point and accessible by way of a steep road off the main Ibadan–Oyo Highway, the house of worship is a prominent landmark.

The chapel was consecrated in 1973 and four years later in the journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects, architecture critic Noel Moffat said: "Here, under a tropical sun, architecture and sculpture combine in a way which only Antoni Gaudí perhaps, among architects, has been able to do so convincingly."

The post Architecture highlights in Western Africa along the Atlantic Ocean Coast appeared first on Dezeen.

#Architecture – Dezeen

[jordswriteswords]

Clextober19: BYOB - Bring Your Own Boos

"How do I look?" Clarke asked, twirling about the living room. She was dressed in her Halloween costume, showing off her talent for makeup.

"Are you serious?" Lexa asked, mouth agape.

Clarke laughed, her hat falling down over her eyes. "Come on, don't be so offended."

"I mean, it's just…" Lexa trailed off, chewing on her lip. 

Madi bounded down the stairs, yelling a, "whoa, mom that's so witch-ist!"

"Witch-ist?" Clarke asked. 

Madi floated an apple from the fruit tray to meet her when she plopped down on the couch next to Lexa. 

"Feet," Lexa admonished her eight year old. 

Madi huffed and chomped down on the apple, a few pieces falling out of her mouth as she said, "yeah, it's prejudice against witches."

Lexa clicked her tongue at her daughter, scooping up the pieces of apple that had fallen from her mouth and wrapped them in a tissue. "No talking with food in your mouth, Mads."

"It's a joke!” Clarke said. "You guys don't even look like this. No wonder humans haven't ever been able to find you." Her face was painted green with warts on an exaggerated nose. Her head was covered by a pointy hat and she wore a long black gown. "Really, why would you ever want to look like this if you could change it with magic? Besides, it’s a rocking costume if I do say so myself.” She twirled again, and Lexa had to fight down her smile at her wife. She really, truly loved her, even if she was being highly insensitive right now.

“It’s kind of like saying that all humans are stupid and slow,” Lexa commented instead. “Like shoving our faces with the garbage some of you call food, and talking about how we’re the superior race and whatnot.”

Clarke twisted her mouth to the side in thought. “Okay, but I don't think like that,”

“Obviously, or we wouldn’t be together,” Lexa quipped.

“I just mean -- it’d be so much easier to be a witch. I mean, Madi can talk to animals, you are a superstar athlete. You’re like the spoiled brats of society.”

Lexa scoffed. Madi rolled her eyes. “I am so not a spoiled brat,” Madi chimed, more apple crumbs falling from her lips. Lexa glared at her child until Madi picked up her trash from the couch. She tried to wiggle her nose to send it to the trashcan, but Lexa snapped her fingers before she could, putting a safety lock on her nose.

"Come on!" she whined.

"You have legs," Lexa retorted. "Use them."

With a huff, Madi got up and dumped her trash into the trashcan in the kitchen. Lexa joined her, stirring the pot she had started for dinner.

Clarke continued her rant, “You kinda are. Whenever you want something you just have to poof it into existence. Lexa snaps her fingers or you wiggle your nose and there it is, whatever your heart desires.”

“What would you do if you had magical powers, babe?” Lexa asked over her shoulder. “Since you clearly have had such a horrible hand dealt to you.”

Clarke shrugged. “I’ve never really thought of it because it’s completely impossible. It’d be like a vacation, though. I'd probably make everything silent so I could just relax. Man, you guys have it so easy.”

Lexa smirked, and then winked at Madi. "Alright babe," she said, turning to her wife. "Deal." She snapped her fingers, and the costume on Clarke’s frame shrunk down to fit her snugly, and the green paint disappeared from her face.

“What the --”

“Let’s see what you got,” Lexa teased, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve just handed over my powers. You, Clarke Griffin, are now a witch for twenty-four hours.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve had the ability to turn me into a witch for our entire lives and never bothered to do so? Rude!”

Lexa laughed. “It’s not quite how it works. You have to have a deep emotional and physical bond with someone.”

“Like a soulmate?” Madi asked.

“Yeah, like a soulmate. Seeing that you’re my wife and also have bore my child, our connection is more than strong enough to allow me to pass my powers onto you for a short period of time.”

“So I’m legit a witch?”

“And I’m human,” Lexa replied.

“Cool! Can I be a werewolf?” Madi asked.

“No!” both parents barked at the same time.

“How does it feel to be powerless?” Clarke asked. “You do realize I’m not going to help you with any of the housework so you can get a sense of how tough it really is to grow up and have to fold your own laundry.”

“I look forward to it,” Lexa said with a small laugh.

“Wow,” Clarke said, marvelling at her hands. “How do I like, make it go?” She tried snapping her fingers and blinking excessively, but nothing happened.

Lexa chuckled. “Stop forcing it. Just let it come to you.”

“Got it, Chief,” she said, pointing her finger guns are Lexa that she typically did when she was trying to be sarcastic. With a flash of light and a poof of smoke, Lexa’s head donned a Native tribal headpiece.

Clarke’s eyes widened and she looked at her hands. “Oh, come on!” she bemoaned. “I can’t believe my trigger is finger-guns!”

***

Lexa bit into the dinner she had prepared, noting the meatballs ended up a little spicier than she had originally anticipated.  She stood to refill her glass of water, but Clarke held a hand up to stop her. 

“Don’t worry babe, I got this.” She finger gunned at Lexa and said, “water.”

Lexa sighed.

A sudden downpour of water fell atop Lexa's head, soaking her clothes right through.

A few seconds later, an empty glass appeared in the air, only to crash onto the kitchen floor.

***

“Jesus… Christ… How do I… Stop this… from… happeniiiiiiiing?” Clarke asked as she bounced up and down in the air, trying to get control of her levitation. She pointed her finger at Lexa, who sighed as she floated, and tried her best not to throw up at the sudden rollercoaster that her wife forced upon her in their living room.

***

Halfway through the pile of laundry, Lexa pouted at her smiling wife. “I got this, babe,” Clarke said. She finger-gunned at the last of the clothes and said, “fold,” but the already folded clothes exploded from their spot on the bed, littering the room in the family’s underwear.

***

“How’s it going?” Lexa asked, poking her head around the corner to Clarke’s art studio.

Clarke huffed and pouted at her wife. In front of her was a series of canvases covered in sad clowns and dreary landscapes.

“Moody,” Lexa said. 

“I don’t seem to know how to control any colour other than the black. This was easier when I was human."

***

Clarke was determined to master her magic, knowing that she would never hear the end of it if she came out of this day not being able to cast one proper spell. 

Lexa drove them to the store to get groceries for the week. She perused the aisles while Clarke thought and thought and thought about what she could do to get it under control. 

She thought over the words and the basic spells that Madi taught her when Lexa wasn't working, finger gunning without casting the spell aloud so she could practice her posture.

“Hey Clarke, isn’t that Harper?”

“Who?” Clarke asked, finger inadvertently pointing at her wife.

Suddenly, there was a poof of smoke and a bright flash of light, and hovering in front of her was an owl with the greenest eyes she had ever seen.

“Lexa?” Clarke gasped.

“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” the bird replied, fluttering its wings furiously. "Hoot, hoot, hoot!" The owl called. Clarke slowly backed away as the owl squawked and screeched and flew after her. 

***

The next morning, Clarke awoke to a platter of eggs, bacon and pancakes, and a single lily in a vase.

Lexa leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at her wife as she handed over a cup of coffee. “Come downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Bashful and cowed, Clarke took a sip of her coffee and nodded at her wife.

After she finished her breakfast, she brought the plates downstairs and marvelled at the sparkling clean home. “Looks like someone got their powers back,” Clarke teased her wife.

“Nah, you still have a few more hours,” Lexa replied, hands busy scrubbing the pans used for breakfast.

“Really?” Clarke asked. She finger gunned in the direction of the milk container, and made the entire jug explode, coating the ceiling in dairy. She sighed. “Wheres Madi?” 

Lexa laughed and pulled out a rag from the cupboard, already moving towards the mess when she said, “At Jordan’s. It really was Harper we saw yesterday.”

“So, you’re telling me you cleaned our entire place and made me breakfast without the use of your powers?” 

“Clarke,” Lexa sighed. “I always do. I don’t want Madi to grow up thinking that her powers are the answer to everything. Everything I do at home I do as an equal to you. I only use my powers to spoil you if I can… or to fix something I broke on occasion.”

Clarke’s cheeks dusted pink at her wife’s words. “You really are something, Mrs. Griffin-Woods.”

“I’m yours, Mrs. Griffin-Woods.”

“I’m sorry for saying you were spoiled. This magic stuff is harder than I thought. I love you.”

Clarke leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her wife’s lips, and with a gentle poof of smoke and a warm flash of pink light, Clarke's magic worked properly for the first time ever, levitating her and Lexa off the ground together, high off their love.

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