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writtenbyvenus · 4 years

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What We Do In The Shadows

Chapter 3: I Love You, I Love You Not

Werewolves and vampires: two species that are mortal enemies. But in a small town in Upstate New York, they seemed to find a way to co-exist by staying out of each other's way and minding one's business. However, the dynamics of the local pack of werewolves and coven of vampires would change when a certain pair got too close for comfort. Alfred is an over seventy-year old werewolf posing as local law enforcement, while Ivan is a centuries old vampire working at a blood bank. Both try to get through the struggles of being immortal creatures, who find themselves in a cultural and family struggle when they fall for each other. Between an anti-vampire pack leader, suspicious in-laws, and a death that could nearly tear two families apart, the pair questions if a relationship is a reality, or if they carry too much baggage.

( Warning, this is in RP format, but has been edited and proof read for grammar/flow. A change between writers and/or perspective with both characters is symbolized by a bold first letter. )

‘The life of an immortal is lonely, you suffer as the entire world changes while you stay stagnate. Unable to do the most natural thing all humans do: change.’

But Alfred didn’t want to suffer anymore.

Perhaps he would branch out. He didn’t want to have one night stands forever, it hurt his soul to say goodbye to someone he could see spending an eternity with. And the man was too scared to turn someone into a wolf, he felt like it was a curse he couldn’t bear turning someone he loved into it. It weighed too heavy, that choice. Sighing, he kept his eyes closed, enjoying every touch offered by Ivan. The man was right, he was cocky and proud. Even if he partly hated being a werewolf, there was still a piece of pride in it. He thought it was semi-cute that Ivan offered to lick up his wounds, but he was unsure if he’d take Ivan up on that offer. While adorable, weirdly, seemed too risky. What if he couldn’t control himself? Then he’d have to fight Ivan and was the last thing on his mind. He chuckled hearing how Ivan got his meals, it was just funny. But he was happy the man found a non-lethal way to get his blood. He would rather have him steal people’s blood and keep them alive. Humming, he grinned when he got a kiss on his forehead. Was he winning him over? “Okay. I’ll come over. Next time you work, I’ll be there. Better have snacks for me.” He teased, nuzzling his cheek into his lap again. “If you are bloodthirsty, we could hunt right now....” Alfred offered, but understanding if he said no.

Ivan was a reclusive individual so there wasn't much he had to cope with when he was forced to keep out of the sunshine or risk burning his skin. There wasn't much sun to fight against where he first turned anyway. Even New York was a frosty, shady place that kept him frozen. He could feel the chill, the heat. It was almost painful. With Alfred curled up on his lap, he was warmed up thoroughly. He just wished to keep the puppy for a moment longer, scratch his head, and squeeze him tight. With the number of nights he's seen the man stay out, he didn't dare pursue him. He didn't enjoy awkward moments between his neighbors if there was a miscommunication on their relationship. Over the hundreds of years, he had plenty of money to help him sit pretty so he could jump up and leave at any time. Bad endings hardly were ever a reason to flee, but after all the information he just admitted to Alfred. There may be a problem. As he sits and plays with Alfred's hair, he'd take the moment for what it was and love on his neighbor. Friendly, but not too friendly. "You asked me- no, you begged me to come over and watch a show with you and your eyes have been more closed than open the entire time I'm here." Teasing the other and his persistence, he carefully wedged Alfred up from his lap for a moment to readjust his legs. The blood in his body wasn't his own. It was a liquid patchwork gushing through his body and cutting off at his legs. Even the wolf's cute puppy eyes couldn't take away the uncomfortable amount of weight on his thighs.

He mentally rejoiced when he heard Alfred finally accept his offer. His fangs prodded and extended out of his gums just thinking about the blood slithering through the tube and out of Alfred's arm. He pulled a hand quickly over his mouth as he tried to calm his appetite. He was giddy over a simple dribble, it was near lustful and he despised the feeling because it distracted him when he was out in public. A small whiff of blood would send him prowling around someone like they were just prey to him. It was instinctive and it infected his code, but he's trained himself to control it significantly better. Living, breathing people, that's what he's killed and it hung over his head. Most of the people he stalked down, he had no idea if they were innocent or immoral. He tried not to mull over it too heavily. Thankful he had a new outlet to take the burden off his shoulders. Given the opportunity to turn back to the meat of it all and nestle his teeth onto some rapist's neck, he might have to give in and spend time with Alfred. It certainly sounded fun to him at the very least. "That depends on what you mean by hunting... You don't-" Letting go of his now presentable mouth, Ivan gestured, with his hands, a set of teeth opening and closing. "eat humans, right?" He questioned because deer blood was downright nasty to him. If prepared right, it was tolerable. "I always thought werewolves ate small animals."

Alfred snickered when he was made fun of for closing his eyes. It was easy to do it around Ivan, his soothing voice made him relaxed. No need to stare at the T.V. when Ivan was the entertainment he needed. Getting pushed off Ivan’s legs, he sat up lazily, missing his body. Sitting up straight, he let the man adjust his legs as he wondered how Ivan would feel on his lap.... His thighs were squishy, did the back feel the same way? Dirty thoughts, but he was only an animal inside. Humming, he saw in the corner of his eyes how excited Ivan got. Wow- so the man did want his blood? He wasn’t sure if it was a turn on or off, either way, it interested him. Ivan could get a small taste if it meant if he’d get more hang out time with Ivan. He was a tad bit mean, so he might only give Ivan a small thing of blood. Use the rest as bribery. With a thirsty vampire-like Ivan, he could probably convince the man to do a few things. “Yeah, I’ll stop by. If I’ll donate blood, we’ll see. Depends on my mood.” He teased, not letting Ivan know if he’d really hand over his arm and let him be drained. Teasing was all in good fun, wasn’t it? Raising a brow, Alfred shook his head at the question of eating humans. “Nope, only animals. Do... vampires, do you guys like animal blood? Can y’all live off of it?” He asked, wondering if it was similar to Twilight. Vegetarian vampires were an interesting concept.

Missing the contact he had with Ivan, he decided to be bold. Being bold was the only thing he could do now. He liked Ivan, and they were getting closer. Wanting to let the man know he liked the vampire, he decided to tease back about his first comment. “You know, you are right. We should pay more attention to the T.V....” Grabbing Ivan’s waist, he brought the man down with him as he laid back. It caused Ivan to lay across his chest. Holding the man tight, he enjoyed locking Ivan in his arms, keeping his head on top of his chest. Kissing the top of his forehead, he faced the T.V. His fingers played with the vampire's hair, taking pleasure how soft it felt in his fingertips. Ivan felt softer than he thought... he always imagined vampires were rock hard, tense, and dead. But Ivan was still alive, in some weird way. Just like him...

Ivan's excitement faded at the change of heart. It would require more reeling in before he could get what he wanted from Alfred. Two cups are all he could wish for and just a little bit of the man's time. Letting the talk of donating go, he shrugged his shoulders. The blood type wasn't hard to acquire, one in three people had O-positive so he wasn't going to jump on Alfred about it. Even if it was Alfred's blood. Something about the fact made it ten times more unattainable and sought after to him. He drummed his fingers across the couch when the other voice piped up. There were dozens of animals he hasn't sampled yet, so he couldn't judge the palette completely, but by the number of deer and bears he has tried, he found that animal blood wasn't for him. His body rejected it and wouldn't cooperate with it as if he was only designed to cater to his own lost species. He envied Alfred and his ability to not cannibalize the people around him, werewolves didn't have the problem of accidentally eyeing down someone too long to the point where they're uncomfortable. "Technically... yes. I can survive off animal blood, but it's grainy and almost stale- it makes me sick." He explained, distracting himself with the television

There wasn't much between him and ending Alfred with his big sweet smiling eyes when he was cradled down into his arms. At first, he considered snapping at the abrupt and out of line action, but he wasn't hurt by it so he didn't see the use in upsetting Alfred. Allowing himself the luxury, he rested his head against the chest and ran his fingers through Alfred's hair once more. Doing his best to ignore the flashing intimacy on the screen, he closed his eyes. "You're coming on a little strong, Alfred." Tugging slightly at the strands between his fingers as a warning, he turned his nose away from the awaiting pulses he could hear in the werewolf's neck. He couldn't tell if Alfred was ignorant or if he was asking for trouble. Steadying his heart, his thumbs brushed along the American's eyebrows. With a near millennium of experience under his belt, he didn't hold back his tongue when he was uncomfortable. Passionate moments were even more difficult to have him swooning over, but he still had fun playing with someone. He's learned his lesson in giving cold rejections. However, he was pleased to feel warm hands wrapped around him and a burning chest against his cheek. Alfred was someone he wanted to trust, someone he didn't want to bite, but still someone he wanted to taste. "Do you get this close to every vampire you meet?... I might have to keep my family away from you if that's the case." Poking fun, he relaxed and smiled at the strokes to his head while giving his share back to Alfred's. "Do you have family or friends other than Allen?"

Alfred was blessed that Ivan didn’t react negatively. Instead of biting or pulling away, Ivan laid on his chest. The wolf was a cuddly man, he adored nothing more than to snuggle up close to someone. Wrap his arms and legs around them, nuzzle his face into their neck, and fall asleep. His hot body always kept someone warm. And with Ivan’s colder temperature, it was a great balance. Closing his eyes too, he smiled when his eyebrows and hair were played with. He knew he was coming off strong, but he was an alpha puppy at heart. He knew what he wanted, and would put effort into getting it. Ivan was the untouchable prize; he’d fight for it. “Mm.... No, I don’t. Don’t sweat it, I won’t try to talk to your sisters. I only got room for one vampire right now.” He teased, meaning it. One of his hands went to Ivan’s lower back, stroking it back and forth. He attempted to be relaxing and soothing, letting the man untangle in his arms. He didn’t want Ivan to tense up and panic, that was the last thing. The more at peace Ivan was, the better. He wanted to see if he could convince the vampire to a sleepover. He wasn’t asking for sex, just a night of cuddling and watching T.V., but he’d have to find a way to propose this to Ivan without coming off as a slime ball. He just wanted to cuddle.... sure, if more happened, he wouldn’t complain, but he wasn’t going to try anything. Simple cuddling under his handmade silver fox blanket. Resting his chin on Ivan’s head, he started to think about his pack members. “My parents are dead, my brother is alive though. And so are his wife and kids. I only talk to my brother, his wife and kids think I died a long time ago. He’s the only person who knows the truth. I follow his kids on Instagram and stuff to keep up with them since they are my nieces and nephews... But I stay at a distance. It sucks, but it has to be like that...”

Ivan wouldn’t be able to see the hurt in his eyes, but he’d be able to hear it in his voice. It hurt Alfred not to be involved with his own family. He wanted to be the uncle everyone loved, that came around and spent time with the kids. Took them out for trips, shopping, helped them with homework, and gave life advice. In all honesty, he wanted that life for himself with his own children, but that would never happen. It was all taken away. That was the curse of immortality in Alfred’s eyes, the purpose of life was to create more, and he couldn’t. Alfred would always be... idling in life, never getting old but never growing, always at a plato. “My pack members... There’s a lot of them. They are all guys, for some reason I swear other werewolves only want to scratch dudes. Or maybe girls are immune to it... I’ve heard some werewolves say that most females are- but anyway. There’s a lot of us, but I would rather not say the names. It’s their secret, not my right to share it. I shouldn’t have mentioned Allen’s name anyway.” He didn’t feel comfortable naming all his pack members. Privacy and their oath to it was an important virtue in their culture, and he wouldn’t risk it to swoon over an alluring vampire. Only if they got really closer. “I already know who’s a vampire in this town. I can smell them. So you don’t have to tell me about your vampire sisters. I know. It’s just something us dogs can sniff out.” He joked, kissing Ivan’s forehead softly again.

Letting out a sigh, Alfred reviewed the interactions between him and Ivan in the past hour. The fact that the pair went from making slight threats to each other to now getting cozy on his sofa was a mixture of odd and not. The past two months of bonding doing chores grew a feeling of attraction, plus a yearning for trust. The pair wanted to get close, but fears of each other's powers and species kept them from opening up. Then again, Alfred is the type to move relationships and intimacy fast, it was usual for him. However, his vampire crush appeared to be more cautious and closed off; so he questioned Ivan’s acceptance of the change in their dynamic. “So, how did we go from not mentioning that we are immortals, to cuddling on my couch? Not complaining, by the way…” he asked, his voice calm but friendly.

Ivan snorted, agreeing with the oddness of the situation. He stayed quiet for a moment as he contemplated his behavior. Living so many lifetimes, he became used to the usual formula of getting close to someone. However, those were nearly all humans. Finding a fellow immortal that he found attractive and worthwhile to keep around made him want to cling and never let go. Jumping with both feet, as one would say. The reality that he could be making a mistake did stay in the back of his mind, but he wanted to keep it there. “I believe… us both opening up helped… You answered many questions I have been thinking about since we first met, and I could probably say the same for you…” He took a deep breath, one that matched Alfred’s. The relaxation from Alfred’s touches was foreign, it has had been a while since someone’s fingers had such an effect on him. “I’ve been attracted to you since I met you…”

Ivan never considered being close with someone a part feral dog. With his hands still cradling Alfred's head, it was uncouth behavior for himself. There was no result he had to lead the werewolf into a state of vulnerability and break that trust. It was never as if he pulled that trick often, but he could already feel the relationship ending terribly. So far, Alfred had been good to him and he wanted to keep that light in the puppy's heart. He figured that Alfred had a few years to explore his identity and form bonds with others of his kind, but something about locking Alfred down didn't feel humane to him. With every inch of Alfred's personality, he could read it. While there would be some tug and pull over whether he was right, he knew that Alfred didn't know what he wanted. The man was alone and deeply aching and he smelt it.

Seeing as Alfred was desperate for comfort and affection, he'd be softer on him. There wouldn't be any nail digging when he deemed a reach to be lower than standard. Instead, he patted the dirty blond hair and stretched out one of his legs to situate the hand higher up on his back. Their hips weren't overlapping so could relax without any potentially fatal movements when he got comfortable. Alfred wasn't much of his to hold onto, but those sorts of displays of affection restricted to particular facets of platonic and romantic love weren't his to decide. He was having a pleasant time, so he'd worry about his real emotions later. As for the moment, he was more concerned with Alfred's own feelings in his unsteady words. Attempting some consolation, he straightened up the head of hair in slow-paced layers. "Not everyone can be as lucky as me, but I understand and I really do hate how pitiful you sound over it-... Watching someone you love to grow old without you is hurtful, isn't it?" He sympathized, plenty of the same scenarios rattled off from family friends and even lovers.

After mindlessly opening his eyes to watch the show and rub more gentle touches through the stiff strands, he decided to ask. "Have you turned anyone into a werewolf?... I bet you never even attacked anyone, have you? You don't have the heart for it." He wasn't mocking or teasing Alfred about his tenderness veiled by aggressive bluffs; it was something he admired. Something about werewolves always led them to be huffy or extremely playful and friendly. The fact that struck him interesting was the exclusion of females. Now that he considered it, he didn't encounter very many female werewolves. Vampires were more diverse, a blended mix of all demographics. They were a hidden subhuman society of subhuman that bred and carried on wreaking havoc across the globe. He, in particular, wasn't knit in with community life. His friends were few and far between. It had been a few years since he's spoken to his old close friend, the distance made it hard to keep in contact and it didn't help that he had a falling out with the now German vampire. Gilbert was one of the first vampires he met; he could never forget the distinctive odor the pale man carried, pungent. Alfred's fluffy puppy smell was much more pleasant, the blood perfumed, and blended with the werewolf olfactory calling card. He could nuzzle even closer to Alfred and take in more of it, but rushing that along wasn't a priority of his. "Do all werewolf names start with Al?... It might explain the lack of women if you ask me." Joking along, Ivan sat up and settled back into his seat. Taking Alfred's feet into his lap, he began running the tips of his fingers up the soles. "You seem tired. Maybe you should turn this off and lay down?"

Alfred didn’t want to spend to much time on the topic of romance and mortality. Staying young as the other grew old, it was a painful reminder that he was different. Unchanging, forever, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it. There was no cute to this curse, and Alfred was stuck being like this until the day someone buried his body. Keeping his eyes closed, he relished in each touch and careful act by the man. Ivan displayed a human side to him, one that was gentle and loving. Alfred took interest in that, locking it away in his brain and saving it for a time to give back to Ivan. Hearing the man bring up the painful topic of mortality, he nodded as he squeezed him tighter. “Yeah... It is.” He said, his voice low, lacking the usual gusto and life. Someone had sucked the joy out of it. Gulping, he squeezed Ivan again as his fingers rubbed circles on his back. Slow, gentle circles, his way of being non threatening and relaxing to his vampy crush. He mocked the loving behavior Ivan displayed when he got his hair pulled, showing that he did care about Ivan’s comfort. “No... I never have. Never will. I don’t want to give anyone the power of immortality, good person or not. I think someone might abuse it. And I don’t want to be that cause...” he confessed, sighing as he thought about the men who he'd killed. Many weren’t men who deserved to be alive, let alone given the chance of immortality. The chance of harming people, and getting away with it! They didn’t deserve that pleasure, and Alfred would never be responsible for it. He’d never bite or scratch a man who he did not want to kill. End of story. He didn’t play games, if he attacked a human, it was a good reason. He saved his human-hunting for the vilest of men, and those shouldn’t get the opportunity to have more victims.

He’d come to whine when Ivan pulled away and sat up. He found pleasure in having the vampire lay down on him. He was even getting used to the smell. He was quite smart with how they cuddled, letting his neck and shoulders rub all over it. That was the point, as his main scenting glands were there. The more he rubbed on Ivan from those spots; the harder and harder his scent was to remove. He did want Ivan reeking like a werewolf covered vampire all day? Yes. That’s how people would know to stay back, that’s Alfred’s. Due to being ticklish, he pulled his feet out of Ivan’s lap. He opened his arms, stretching them out as he cracked his back. “Yeah... I should lay down. You’ll stay over the night... right? My room is always really hot, and you cool me down. It’s super comfortable... Please?” Alfred asked, in the most begging, sugary sweet voice. His eyes even matched, begging with his voice. He sat up, his face going near Ivan’s own, working a pout. He wanted a cuddle buddy, the puppy was lonely and needy. And the vampire’s squishy, but cold body, was the perfect match for the needy, but a burning werewolf. Alfred was going to be good of course, keep his hands in the right place. No touching anything below the belt; only back rubs and cheek kisses.

The welcoming tightness was given a few tender scratches back to the blond locks. Ivan could sense the troubled and uneasy flex to Alfred's tongue. Something about the werewolf made him less pressured around him, he could rip himself away if he had to. The chipper American seemed to be a more even match, but he was sure if something terrible were to happen, he could slip off without a chunk of wood in his heart. He didn't want to square off with his close friend and end up hurt. If Alfred was specist and wanted to kill a vampire for sport, he knew that he would have been long snapped at and buried by now. There was no reason for him to feel unsound- he wasn't, but he didn't wish Alfred to see his serenity. Being hooked on a werewolf-like Alfred was a stab to his own ego. Ivan had time to sleep around, touch on a few mortals and immortals. Yet, he didn't seek out a good time like Alfred. It wasn't as if he was shallow or hardheaded, he just didn't find satisfaction in giving someone what they wanted so easily. He liked shows, he enjoyed watching Alfred bend over backward, but he knew it wasn't a one-sided attention endeavor. A whining pup wasn't a happy one; he liked earning a smile and getting to smile. He adored being touched, but he was sure that the pleasure was universal. With how open and clingy Alfred laid himself out to be, he assumed the feeling was nothing but mutual. He planned to pull and smooch on Alfred until his fur even had bruise marks where his lips have been.

His mouth sneered as he regretted pulling away so soon. He didn't even have Alfred's warm feet in his lap to keep him company. Hearing that he could stay for the night, he practically got scratched by a werewolf himself and grew a wagging tail. It didn't show significantly on his calm appearance that he was doing small cheers in his mind, but it was clear that he was content with the question. The begging and desperate pouts did have a way of convincing him and putting a faint smile on his face after all. Watching the American stretch, he rubbed a thumb to his chin and leaned back into the couch. "You want me to sleep in your bed?... Aren't you a little too old for sleepovers?" Fond of having someone to tease, he closed his eyes. Alfred was special to him, an experiment of sorts, a wandering curiosity that he could have fulfilled, but mostly a fuzzy sweet boy he found warm inside and out. If he was able to wrap himself around him without ending up a walking werewolf cologne bottle, he would. Cracking open his eyes, he gradually sat up from his spot. A few lingering puppy rubs to his skin would be alright with him. He closed the gap between him and Alfred, ghosting his lips over the other pair. "You're really lucky that you're so cute... I guess the puppy dog eyes are just a bonus feature that makes you harder to crush." Pulling away, he stood up from the couch and dragged Alfred up by his wrists along with him. Knowing the same layout of his apartment, he walked with Alfred over to his room. "Maybe you can go ahead and take off your clothes so I can see if you were bluffing?... I don't believe that you can change into a wolf at will." He just wanted an excuse to watch Alfred strip and blush before him. It was a pleasant atmosphere, but he wasn't surprised to note the pelts scattered across a werewolf's bed.

Alfred could feel his face getting red once Ivan closed in the space between their faces and agreed to spend the night. Pleased to see that his begging worked, he smirked, still rocking a cocky grin with red cheeks. Standing up with Ivan, he let the man lead him, even if it was his own house. “So you are finally admitting that I’m cute? Thank god, you have standards.” He teased, taking the chance to check out Ivan from behind. He seemed to check the boxes in Alfred’s departments of what he looked for in a man. Even if Ivan was a vampire, he could see himself spending a long period with the man. He just has to get over the smell... But he was already starting to forget about it. Once in the room, Alfred went with Ivan’s request to see him take off his clothes. He wasn’t shy, not at all. “I usually sleep naked, but since I have company, I’ll keep on my boxers.” He commented, throwing his shirt on the floor and kicking off his sweatpants. Mostly muscular, with a slight sun-kissed tan, his body had a few scar marks, the most noticeable over his heart. A deep slash was there, a symbol of what made him turn every full moon. To anyone who asked, Alfred made up some story about being attacked by a bear one-night hunting, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He was attacked by something, just a creature more dangerous and horrible than an average bear.

Hoping into the bed, he half covered himself with the silver fox blanket, letting his chest be exposed. Tapping the area next to him, he attempted to convince Ivan to get undressed. “Since I’m only in my underwear, don’t you think it’s only fair for you to be too? Don’t worry, I’m not a creep. I won’t grope you.” He teased, taking the remote and turning on the T.V., he let The Office playing in the background, thinking the comedy would be good background noise to let Ivan relax. Then he could put on something more romantic, put on a classic, something sexy but still, heartfelt. Alfred wasn’t fully a creep, he did and would respect Ivan’s boundaries. He was mainly looking for someone to cuddle and nuzzle against during the night. Only cuddles, rubs, and if he’s lucky, a few smooches.

"I should start calling you Narcissus because I've never seen such a short little man have so much ego." Ivan wasn't blind, he knew Alfred had some height, but he couldn't let people shorter than he forget about their sheer petiteness. A wicked grin jumped to his face when he caught Alfred with a red tint. There was no doubt in his mind that werewolves had the same blood that they were born with, but he wasn't positive if Alfred could show surprise. Catching someone blush was always gratifying; he found that it beat having to watch someone be sucked of any color.

In many ways, Alfred fits his outer crust. With the attention to the physique, he saw that the man truly cared about himself. His measly golf tee sized scars on his neck, they fell in comparison to the gash across Alfred's chest. Between puncture wounds with a burning aftertaste and a deep tissue scratch, he wasn't entirely sure which one he'd rather have to endure. That hadn't been his decision and it was a complaint, but he was used to his powers by now. Laughing at Alfred for neglecting the whole point of wanting him to strip, he pushed off his loafers. "Do you have short term memory loss or did you just stop listening to me when I told you to take off your clothes?" He ignored the request to follow in the other's footsteps and simply observed how Alfred prepared to lay down. It disappointed him when he didn't get to see Alfred pace around in circles and flop down. From the way it was described to him, he shouldn't worry too much if he spots a wolf walking around the apartment complex. It was simply Alfred, but a puppy edition. "Oh? Or is it that you were just talking earlier? You really can't change at will... too proud to take back what you said, I see." Slipping into bed away from Alfred, he shot a disturbing glare to the flashing television. There was a reason why bats were heavily associated with his kind. Dark, cold, and even damp environments were the most familiar ways for him to sleep. Sometimes he'd hang upside down if he felt so inclined. He wondered if Alfred curled up into a little compact ball and twitched when he had nightmares. Smiling upon the mangy yapper, he slipped his fingers behind Alfred's ear and gently scratched at the patch of skin and hair.

He eventually gave in to what was comfortable and unbuckled himself before shrugging off his pants beneath the covers. Sleeping with furs wasn't entirely foreign to him, but he forgot how outrageously warm they made him. He noticed that even Alfred wouldn't completely wrap himself up in the pelt. Tossing his turtleneck down along with his pants to the floor in a pile, he shuffled a short centimeter toward the blond. "Just so you know, I'm not asking for you to grope me." Warning the other, he stretched out his legs and adjusted his pillow. His fingers found the fur between them, pinching and petting the lifeless edges. He wasn't the biggest fan of hunting for sport, but he figured that it wasn't much sport to an animal and in a way, Alfred was an abounding pup. First keeping his distance for a moment, he ultimately moved closer to Alfred and squeezed his frame into his hold. "Ah... we forgot our clothes downstairs. Should we go get them before we become too comfortable?" He reminded and questioned himself even if he had no intent on leaving Alfred's side.

“Hey, I’m not short. You are just... freakishly tall!” He joked, not taking offense to his humor. Even though he was five-eleven himself, standing next to Ivan did make him seem smaller than he was. Seeing Ivan lose some clothes as well kept the grin on his face. He didn’t think vampires could be so... sexy, and his over sugar smell was starting to turn good. He couldn’t describe how, but Ivan went from smelling like burnt, over-processed sugar, to honey and flowers. Perhaps it was all in Alfred’s head, his crush on Ivan made his senses turn something gross into something good. Or maybe, due to him being a vampire, he subconsciously thought they all smelled bad, even if they didn’t. Whatever reason, he became more comfortable breathing through his nose around Ivan, as his scent didn’t bother him. He wished he could lean in to sniff him more, a wolf habit he had gained. He laughed again about the comment with his clothes, as he had no modesty, and he’d strip nude if asked. “I mean... I can take off the underwear if you want. I don’t mind being naked. But you gotta get naked too, only fair...” He teased, grabbing Ivan’s thigh and wrapping it around his waist. His hands stroked the man’s thigh, taking advantage of the free skin. It was cold, but soft at the same time. He imagined vampires being cold and hard, but Ivan wasn’t. He was squishy, had fat on his body. He did squeeze the thigh a few times, his hands enjoying the sensation of cold, yet soft. With Alfred’s body temperature being a few degrees hotter than the average human, cooler temperatures were soothing. Ivan’s body was like a nice fan on a hot summer day, cooling down the burning hot man.

“You being cold feels pretty nice…” He yawned, his face going into Ivan’s neck. While he wanted to kiss it, he kept to his promise and only nuzzled it. He purred when Ivan scratched his head, pleading with the sensations. “I can change on will, I just rather do it another time. Don’t want to scare you... and if the T.V. is bothering you, I can turn it off.” He mentioned, noticing how Ivan gave the light a dirty look. He pulled Ivan a tad bit closer, loving the cold Ivan provided. “Just forget about it, I’ll get them in the morning. This bed and you are comfortable... I’m not letting go anytime soon...” He said, giving in and placing one single peck on Ivan’s cheek. Only one, and then he returned to nuzzling his neck. The puppy was needy for the affection of any kind. Sweet words, rubs, kisses, his hands kept stroking back and forth on Ivan’s thigh. It wrapped around his waist made him more comfortable and feel safe. Having someone around you was the best way to sleep in Alfred’s eyes. Especially if the said person checked every box in appearances, and was starting to in personality. He was funny, flirtatious, but still held his ground. Alfred pulled towards strong personalities, it was who he was. So it was what he wanted.

The heat produced by Alfred drew Ivan in. He felt as if he was already holding onto some sort of animal, the fur blanket creating the illusion. It was like he was wrapped up in a fresh clean blanket from the dryer. Not as harsh as the sun that cooked into him, but the pleasant warmth of a cat curled up on his stomach. It made it difficult for him to keep his distance and his hands to himself. Assuming the rule would be the same for Alfred, he would respect the other body just as much as he wanted to be left without groping. Even if he wanted to run a finger over Alfred's scar and squeeze at his chest, he wouldn't go that far. He had to play it smart, he didn't want to give Alfred the wrong idea. The smell didn't have to emit off of the werewolf for him to understand that he wasn't his to keep. It wasn't clear to him whether his neighbor was taken or was someone who didn't like to be tied down to someone else. Either way, he knew better than to give in to his own desires and royally destroy the pleasant conversations he had with Alfred. To keep up the act and hold himself captive in the relationship he already had with the American, he didn't let his thumb linger too long over the smirking lips on Alfred's face. His eyes rolled at the comment, still not entirely sure if he was being teased. "I'd like it much more if you kept your boxers on... It will take a pint or more for you to convince me to lay naked with you." It was part joke and part genuine offer. A few times over, he has led bothersome individuals to an old cheap hotel room and bit into them. It wasn't his proudest way of maintaining himself, but it wasn't the bitterest thing he's gone through with. He was just happy to have some leverage on his kill count these days. In truth, he might have turned Alfred into a meal if he wasn't a hunting machine. If the man had been more of an intolerable creep, he would have considered it, but Alfred was sweet. It would be a tragedy for him to kill someone so beautiful.

"For someone who promises not to touch me too heavily... you're sure grabbing me a lot." He teased, not entirely upset. There were parts of him that still craved to be held, but he knew not to beg Alfred about it because the answer wouldn't be no. He adored Alfred, he wanted to play with his hair and kiss love into his ear, but he was patient. His rubs to Alfred's locks and down behind his neck were slow, dragging. "You don't have to sleep with it on, do you? I can just go back to my own bed and lay down instead. It's okay." He assured, avoiding the flash of the screen by taking his hand off of Alfred and shielding his eyes. "And- for your information, I've seen werewolves before. I'm not scared of them." Laughing, his fangs slipped down as he flashed his own grin at Alfred. "They should be scared of me." Referencing the conversation they had earlier, he nudged his forehead against Alfred's and gently grabbed at his side, bringing the body closer. Drawing his teeth up, he gave the small kiss back into his cheek. "Not you though, you shouldn't be scared of me... you're too much of a good puppy for me to hurt." He hummed, going back to pet at Alfred's hair. Everything about the werewolf was peculiar, he didn't understand his attraction to him, but it broke his heart to even consider hurting him. He wanted to keep Alfred safe.

Alfred took the remote and turned off the T.V., as he didn’t want any reason for the vampire to go up and leave. If that meant the room as to be dark and quiet, so be it. He opened his eyes and laughed when Ivan showed off his fangs, only going to squeeze his upper thigh. “You’re cute, even when you try to be scary...” More focusing on Ivan’s body and presence. Alfred took the chance and started to rub his neck on Ivan’s face, spreading his scent on the man. His hands and wrist were already doing work on Ivan’s legs currently. Scent marking was a big thing with werewolf’s, it was a great way to tell other wolves that someone was theirs and that they should stay away if they were smart. Werewolves in their human and wolf form had scent glands on their neck and wrist, as rubbing would brush their smell on the mate. It would only last a couple of days, but there was one way to make the scent-marking last weeks. Peeing or coming on a person, there was something about semen and urine that once on another person’s skin, would leave them smelling like the werewolf for weeks. Humans wouldn’t be able to detect it at all, their noses weren’t strong enough. But other werewolves would. All the werewolves would know not to touch Ivan, and to let him be. For now, he’d scent him more temporarily. He rubbed his neck on Ivan’s shoulder, his wrist going up to Ivan’s waist. Scenting his hips, he was happy with his work. He sniffed Ivan: Yup, he smelled like him! Grinning big and wide, he laid down with Ivan, placing the man’s head on his chest. Laying his head back in the pillow, he closed his eyes. “Wow. All I have to do is give blood for you to get naked for me? Noted... I’ll see you tomorrow then..” He teased, thinking that Ivan might be more willing to be playful back if he had an O-positive snack.

Feeling the cylinder of airways and muscle jump and bounce down his face, Ivan grunted. Heavy petting was generally fine with him, but having a neck smother his face was odd. He's seen and experienced some eccentric preferences, but being rubbed like that was new. It may have been that he read Alfred wrong and he wasn't some feverish little go-getter like he thought he was. Cuddling up with Alfred was a lot more unique and nearly awkward than he imagined. The idea of masking his own scent didn't even come to strike him, he just assumed that Alfred was unusual. He was at least grateful to be given peaceful darkness, bright lights irritated him to no end. His vision was catered to cutting through and seeing things when it was pitch black, but he could feel Alfred more than he could see him. He didn't fight back against the skin covering his body, instead, he leaned into the touches and soaked up the affection. His own fingers rubbed up and down Alfred's back and gingerly scratched at his chin. With his head pressed to the chest, he was tempted to lean in and kiss along the nasty gash across his heart. He knew it may be taken as a threat; if the was a faster way to suck someone dry than a neck, it would be the heart. It wouldn't take him but two seconds to kill Alfred off that way, but the werewolf would surely fight back. That's why necks were more optimal. They closed off the air supply. It took him a while to catch onto what Alfred was doing. The strange sniffing pointed in his direction being a key piece to bring the strange mannerisms together. "Who said I was yours to claim?" He would give the near slumbering pup a hard time about it because he had some fun hearing nervous excuses. There were enough werewolves in the area for him to awkwardly make eye contact with while the clingy mutt rubbed up on someone that was their lover. He even got growled at by some cretin for staring too long. It was hard not to stare at PDA when it was so obnoxious.

A glare burned into his closed eyes when he felt another teasing grab at his thigh laced with pleasing words. It was a guilty pleasure of his, to be fondled and groped, but he liked taking his time with Alfred for now. "You rub up on me as if you know me so well... and squeeze on me when I asked you not too." He hummed sarcastically, a faint smile leftover from Alfred's comment on donating. "That's fine." His lips guided themselves along the divide of the chest and up to Alfred's collarbone. Attempting to keep the werewolf calm and at peace, he continued to alternate between big and small circles being rubbed into his back. He was quite tired himself, his movements becoming slower as he put a kiss closer to Alfred's neck. The warmth was too soothing and beckoning. He wondered if Alfred was warmer as a sweet cuddly wolf. It was something he'd have to wait to pry out of his neighbor. A glimpse was all he asked for. Finally letting his arm lazily hook around Alfred's waist, he eventually joined him in slumber. He didn't move very much in his sleep, it was as if he was lifeless. It took a whole parade of a racket to stir him awake or else he would stay in a state of short hibernation and wake up a few days later. He was built to look and feel dead.

lfred knew that Ivan was going to give him a hard time about scent marking him, but Alfred just shrugged it off. “Mm... Me, that’s who...” He said in a tired voice. The man smelled like him, that was all that mattered. He smiled, snuggling up to him more when he was called a puppy. He was a puppy, indeed. He loved to cuddle, play fight, and scent whoever he adored. After scent-marking Ivan, perhaps in the morning he might pin Ivan down and play fight with him. It was fun to wrestle! To roll around in bedsheets, and see who was the strongest. He believed he could pin Ivan down easily and make him beg to be let go, and that it would be easily done. Then later they could cuddle, and Alfred could rub his scent glands on Ivan more. “My big alpha wolf inside of me sometimes is just a playful puppy. I think the same can be said about you... You seem like you can be somewhat innocent when you want to be...” He teased, giving a peck to Ivan’s forehead. “You smell good....” he said, yawning as he started to doze off.

His mind got hazy, especially with Ivan’s soothing rubbing. A lazy smile grew on Alfred’s face, wishing he could pinch Ivan to tease him for the backtalk. He knew not to take Ivan so seriously, as the man attempted to keep him calm and relaxed as well. He wasn’t pulling away or leaving the bed, so he mustn’t hate it that much. Whispering a few taunts back, he joined Ivan in falling fast asleep. Like Ivan, he was a deep sleeper too, who’s loud alarm was the only thing that would wake him up. With him always working the night shift, he usually slept all morning and into the afternoon. He did shift a couple of times but always seemed to pull Ivan close. He was a clingy sleeper, no matter what time it was, he’d find a way to touch whoever was cuddling him. There was one point at night where he had Ivan locked in his hold on top of him. But towards the morning, he was spooning Ivan, his arm and leg wrapped around him. His face in Ivan’s neck, he snoozed away, not wanting to wake up any time soon. He only got up sometime in the morning to pee, making an annoying sound as he pulled away from Ivan to use the toilet. Once he was finished, he flushed and returned to his warm bed and cold crush. He pulled Ivan close, laying on his back as he made Ivan lay on his chest. Enjoying the sensation of the Russian’s head on his chest, he let the man rest there, his hand stroking the leg wrapped around him. He felt safe like this, with someone wrapped around him. The cooling comfort of Ivan made it all worthwhile, and thoughts of donating some blood to see if his crush would loosen up a bit.

Ivan used to be a morning person, but his issues sleeping seemed to vanish once he was infected so he couldn't hate being a vampire if he could get his rest. Hardly did he toss and turn until his main source of warmth was stripped away from him. His fingers coiled and grabbed the sheets repetitively until he found Alfred again. He was in pure unbothered bliss. The only thing to take him away from his sinfully cozy spot around Alfred was the outrageously loud beeping of his phone. His eyes slowly drifted open as he assessed the situation. Jolting up from beneath the covers, he scrambled away from the heater of a body. If he lost his current job, he would lose his ability to provide for his sisters and himself. Unfortunately for him, blood banks opened early, but at least they were easy pickings. As cliche as it was, he used his time to gather a few degrees here and there. So, he was a certified nurse just so he could secure a position sticking a needle into some poor soul's arm. He adored his job and planned on keeping it. Getting to the floor, he searched his pants for his phone and quickly shut down his alarm. He religiously used multiple sounds to go off at once and he was, frankly, shocked to find his single alarm stirred him awake. Feeling bad for exposing Alfred to such a loud dominating ring, he dragged his pants over to the bed and tucked Alfred in. "I know it's loud, I'm sorry." His voice was low as he brushed a few complimentary strokes into the dirty blond hair. "I'm heading off to work, okay?... Will do me a big favor-" He sugarcoated his words, leaning closer to his face as he scratched behind Alfred's ear. "and bring my clothes up? You don't have to get up right now, but just make sure someone doesn't throw them away." It was something he was willing to do for a neighbor and he hoped Alfred wasn't too far gone to not be able to hear him. Shrugging on a pant leg, he put a kiss to each of Alfred's cheeks.

As he made his way towards the door, he pulled his pants over his hips and buttoned them up. He'd have to change into his scrubs once he made it back to his own apartment, but he wasn't going to risk walking out without any clothes on. At the doorway, he pulled his sweater over his head and turned to smile at Alfred. Out of habit, he chirped out what he usually left his sisters with. "I love you-" His mouth instantly snapped shut before quickly barking back open to try and correct himself. "No, I don't." Feeling as if he couldn't have said anything worse, he gave a simple wave to his crush. A mortified look staining his face as he stepped out of the room. A complete Freudian slip that had the potential to destroy his whole relationship with Alfred spat out of his mouth in one split second, of course, he was blushing with humiliation. He liked Alfred and he wanted to get closer to him, but he knew it was way too early to say anything close to I love you. It was too personal and he just said it out loud as if he was dating Alfred. He was burning again. Making it out of the apartment, he took a moment to hold his heart and get over himself. It wasn't long until he perked back up and hurried along to his own door to get ready with the awkward moment replaying in his head.

[ Link to Ao3, thank you if you read ! ]

#rusame #amerus #aph america #aph russia #fanfiction #werewolf america #vampire russia #hws america #hws russia #yeee have a good night

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GETTING IN AND OUT

Who owns black pain?

By Zadie Smith

July 2017 issue

Discussed in this essay:

Get Out, directed by Jordan Peele. Blumhouse Productions, QC Entertainment, and Monkeypaw Productions, 2017. 104 minutes.

Open Casket, by Dana Schutz. 2017 Whitney Biennial, Whitney Museum of American Art, New York. March 17–June 11, 2017.

You are white—

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That’s American.

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that’s true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me—

although you’re older—and white—

and somewhat more free.

—Langston Hughes

Early on, as the opening credits roll, a woodland scene. We’re upstate, viewing the forest from a passing car. Trees upon trees, lovely, dark and deep. There are no people to be seen in this wood—but you get the feeling that somebody’s in there somewhere. Now we switch to a different world. Still photographs, taken in the shadow of public housing: the basketball court, the abandoned lot, the street corner. Here black folk hang out on sun-warmed concrete, laughing, crying, living, surviving. The shots of the woods and those of the city both have their natural audience, people for whom such images are familiar and benign. There are those who think of Frostian woods as the pastoral, as America the Beautiful, and others who see summer in the city as, likewise, beautiful and American. One of the marvelous tricks of Jordan Peele’s debut feature, Get Out, is to reverse these constituencies, revealing two separate planets of American fear—separate but not equal. One side can claim a long, distinguished cinematic history: Why should I fear the black man in the city? The second, though not entirely unknown (Deliverance, The Wicker Man), is certainly more obscure: Why should I fear the white man in the woods?

<https://tinyurl.com/y8ryxglm>

A few years ago I interviewed Peele as he came to the end of a long run on the celebrated Comedy Central sketch show Key and Peele. On that occasion he spoke about comic reversals—“I think reversals end up being the real bread and butter of the show”—and about finding the emotional root of a joke in order to intensify it: “What’s the mythology that is funny just because people know it’s not true?” Get Out is structured around such inversions and reversals, although here “funny” has been replaced, more often than not, with “scary,” and a further question has been posed: Which mythology? Or, more precisely: Whose? Instead of the familiar, terrified white man, robbed at gunpoint by a black man on a city street, we meet a black man walking in the leafy white suburbs, stalked by a white man in a slow-moving vehicle from whose stereo issues perhaps the whitest song in the world: “Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run …”

Get Out flips the script, offering a compendium of black fears about white folk. White women who date black men. Waspy families. Waspy family garden parties. Ukuleles. Crazy younger brothers. Crazy younger brothers who play ukuleles. Sexual psychopaths, hunting, guns, cannibalism, mind control, well-meaning conversations about Obama. The police. Well-meaning conversations about basketball. Spontaneous roughhousing, spontaneous touching of one’s biceps or hair. Lifestyle cults, actual cults. Houses with no other houses anywhere near them. Fondness for woods. The game bingo. Servile household staff, sexual enslavement, nostalgia for slavery—slavery itself. Every one of these reversals “lands”—just like a good joke—simultaneously describing and interpreting the situation at hand, and this, I think, is what accounts for the homogeneity of reactions to Get Out: It is a film that contains its own commentary.

For black viewers there is the pleasure of vindication. It’s not often they have both their real and their irrational fears so thoroughly indulged. For white liberals—whom the movie purports to have in its satirical sights—there is the cringe of recognition, that queer but illuminating feeling of being suddenly “othered.” (Oh, that’s how we look to them?) And, I suppose, the satisfaction of being in on the joke. For example, there is the moment when the white girl, Rose (Allison Williams), and her new black boyfriend, Chris (Daniel Kaluuya), hit a deer on the way to her parents’ country house. She’s driving, yet when the police stop them he’s the one asked for his license. Rose is sufficiently “woke” to step in front of her man and give the cop a self-righteous earful—but oblivious to the fact that only a white girl would dare assume she could do so with impunity. The audience—on both sides of the divide—groans with recognition. Chris himself—surely mindful of what happened to Sandra Bland, and Walter Scott, and Terence Crutcher, and Samuel DuBose—smiles wryly but remains polite and deferential throughout. He is a photographer, those were his photographs of black city life we saw behind the credits, and that white and black Americans view the same situations through very different lenses is something he already understands.

<https://tinyurl.com/ybdjlwwv>

This point is made a second time, more fiercely, in one of the final scenes. Chris is standing in those dark woods again, covered in blood; on the ground before him lies Rose, far more badly wounded. A cop car is approaching. Chris eyes it with resigned dread. As it happens, he is the victim in this gruesome tableau, but neither he nor anyone else in the cinema expects that to count for a goddamned thing. (“You’re really in for it now, you poor motherfucker,” someone in the row behind me said. These days, a cop is apparently a more frightening prospect than a lobotomy-performing cult.) But then the car door opens and something unexpected happens: It is not the dreaded white cop after all but a concerned friend, Rod Williams (Lil Rel Howery), the charming and paranoid brother who warned Chris, at the very start, not to go stay with a load of white folks in the woods. Rod—who works for the TSA—surveys the bloody scene and does not immediately assume that Chris is the perp. A collective gasp of delight bursts over the audience, but in this final reversal the joke’s on us. How, in 2017, are we still in a world where presuming a black man innocent until proven guilty is the material of comic fantasy?

These are the type of self-contained, ironic, politically charged sketches at which Peele has long excelled. But there’s a deeper seam in Get Out, which is mined through visual symbol rather than situational comedy. I will not easily forget the lengthy close-ups of suffering black faces; suffering, but trapped behind masks, like so many cinematic analogues of the arguments of Frantz Fanon. Chris himself, and the white family’s maid, and the white family’s groundskeeper, and the young, lobotomized beau of an old white lady—all frozen in attitudes of trauma, shock, or bland servility, or wearing chillingly fixed grins. In each case, the eyes register an internal desperation. Get me out! The oppressed. The cannibalized. The living dead. When a single tear or a dribble of blood runs down these masks, we are to understand this as a sign that there is still somebody in there. Somebody human. Somebody who has the potential to be whole.

As the movie progresses we learn what’s going on: Black people aren’t being murdered or destroyed up here in the woods, they’re being used. A white grandmother’s brain is now in her black maid’s body. A blind old white gallerist hopes to place his brain in Chris’s cranium and thus see with the young black photographer’s eyes, be in his young black skin. Remnants of the black “host” remain after these operations—but not enough to make a person.

<https://tinyurl.com/ychdagwr>

Peele has found a concrete metaphor for the ultimate unspoken fear: that to be oppressed is not so much to be hated as obscenely loved. Disgust and passion are intertwined. Our antipathies are simultaneously a record of our desires, our sublimated wishes, our deepest envies. The capacity to give birth or to make food from one’s body; perceived intellectual, physical, or sexual superiority; perceived intimacy with the natural world, animals, and plants; perceived self-sufficiency in a faith or in a community. There are few qualities in others that we cannot transform into a form of fear and loathing in ourselves. In the documentary I Am Not Your Negro (2016), James Baldwin gets to the heart of it:

What white people have to do is try to find out in their hearts why it was necessary for them to have a nigger in the first place. Because I am not a nigger. I’m a man…. If I’m not the nigger here, and if you invented him, you the white people invented him, then you have to find out why. And the future of the country depends on that.

But there is an important difference between the invented “nigger” of 1963 and the invented African American of 2017: The disgust has mostly fallen away. We were declared beautiful back in the Sixties, but it has only recently been discovered that we are so. In the liberal circles depicted in Get Out, everything that was once reviled—our eyes, our skin, our backsides, our noses, our arms, our legs, our breasts, and of course our hair—is now openly envied and celebrated and aestheticized and deployed in secondary images to sell stuff. As one character tells Chris, “black is in fashion now.”

To be clear, the life of the black citizen in America is no more envied or desired today than it was back in 1963. Her schools are still avoided and her housing still substandard and her neighborhood still feared and her personal and professional outcomes disproportionately linked to her zip code. But her physical self is no longer reviled. If she is a child and comes up for adoption, many a white family will be delighted to have her, and if she is in your social class and social circle, she is very welcome to come to the party; indeed, it’s not really a party unless she does come. No one will call her the n-word on national television, least of all a black intellectual. (The Baldwin quote is from a television interview.) For liberals the word is interdicted and unsayable.

But in place of the old disgust comes a new kind of cannibalism. The white people in Get Out want to get inside the black experience: They want to wear it like a skin and walk around in it. The modern word for this is “appropriation.” There is an argument that there are many things that are “ours” and must not be touched or even looked at sideways, including (but not limited to) our voices, our personal style, our hair, our cultural products, our history, and, perhaps more than anything else, our pain. A people from whom so much has been stolen are understandably protective of their possessions, especially the ineffable kind. In these debates my mind always turns to a line of Nabokov, a writer for whom arrival in America meant the loss of pretty much everything, including a language: “Why not leave their private sorrows to people? Is sorrow not, one asks, the only thing in the world people really possess?”

Two weeks after watching Get Out, I stood with my children in front of Open Casket, Dana Schutz’s painting of Emmett Till, the black teenager who, in 1955, was beaten and lynched after being accused of flirting with a white woman. My children did not know what they were looking at and were too young for me to explain. Before I came, I had read the widely circulated letter to the curators of the Whitney Biennial objecting to their inclusion of this painting:

I am writing to ask you to remove Dana Schutz’s painting Open Casket and with the urgent recommendation that the painting be destroyed and not entered into any market or museum … because it is not acceptable for a white person to transmute Black suffering into profit and fun, though the practice has been normalized for a long time.

I knew, from reading about this debate, that in fact the painting had never been for sale, so I focused instead on the other prong of the argument—an artist’s right to a particular subject. “The subject matter is not Schutz’s; white free speech and white creative freedom have been founded on the constraint of others, and are not natural rights.”

I want to follow the letter very precisely, along its own logic, in which natural rights are replaced with racial ones. I will apply it personally. If I were an artist, and if I could paint—could the subject matter be mine? I am biracial. I have Afro-hair, my skin is brown, I am identified, by others and by myself, as a black woman. And so, by the logic of the letter—if I understand it correctly—this question of subject matter, in my case, would not come up, as it would not come up for the author of the letter, Hannah Black, who also happens to be biracial, and brown. Neither of us is American, but the author appears to speak confidently in defense of the African-American experience, so I, like her, will assume a transnational unity. I will assume that Emmett Till, if I could paint, could be my subject too.

<https://tinyurl.com/y9kxfy8a>

Now I want to inch a step further. I turn from the painting to my children. Their beloved father is white, I am biracial, so, by the old racial classifications of America, they are “quadroons.” Could they take black suffering as a subject of their art, should they ever make any? Their grandmother is as black as the ace of spades, as the British used to say; their mother is what the French still call café au lait. They themselves are sort of yellowy. When exactly does black suffering cease to be their concern? Their grandmother—raised on a postcolonial island, in extreme poverty, descended from slaves—knew black suffering intimately. But her grandchildren look white. Are they? If they are, shouldn’t white people like my children concern themselves with the suffering of Emmett Till? Is making art a form of concern? Does it matter which form the concern takes? Could they be painters of occasional black subjects? (Dana Schutz paints many subjects.) Or must their concern take a different form: civil rights law, public-school teaching? If they ignore the warnings of the letter and take black suffering as their subject in a work of art, what should be the consequence? If their painting turns out to be a not especially distinguished expression of or engagement with their supposed concern, must it be removed from wherever it hangs? Destroyed? To what purpose?

Often I look at my children and remember that quadroons—green-eyed, yellow-haired people like my children—must have been standing on those auction blocks with their café au lait mothers and dark-skinned grandmothers. And I think too of how they would have had many opportunities to “pass,” to sneak out and be lost in the white majority, not visibly connected to black suffering and so able to walk through town, marry white, lighten up the race again. To be biracial in America at that time was almost always to be the issue of rape. It was in a literal sense to live with the enemy within, to have your physical being exist as an embodiment of the oppression of your people. Perhaps this trace of shame and inner conflict has never entirely left the biracial experience.

To be biracial at any time is complex. Speaking for myself, I know that racially charged historical moments, like this one, can increase the ever-present torsion within my experience until it feels like something’s got to give. You start to yearn for absolute clarity: personal, genetic, political. I stood in front of the painting and thought how cathartic it would be if this picture filled me with rage. But it never got that deep into me, as either representation or appropriation. I think of it as a questionably successful example of both, but the letter condemning it will not contend with its relative success or failure, the letter lives in a binary world in which the painting is either facilely celebrated as proof of the autonomy of art or condemned to the philistine art bonfire. The first option, as the letter rightly argues, is often just hoary old white privilege dressed up as aesthetic theory, but the second is—let’s face it—the province of Nazis and censorious evangelicals. Art is a traffic in symbols and images, it has never been politically or historically neutral, and I do not find discussions on appropriation and representation to be in any way trivial. Each individual example has to be thought through, and we have every right to include such considerations in our evaluations of art (and also to point out the often dubious neutrality of supposedly pure aesthetic criteria). But when arguments of appropriation are linked to a racial essentialism no more sophisticated than antebellum miscegenation laws, well, then we head quickly into absurdity. Is Hannah Black black enough to write this letter? Are my children too white to engage with black suffering? How black is black enough? Does an “octoroon” still count?

When I looked at Open Casket, the truth is I didn’t feel very much. I tried to transfer to the painting—or even to Dana Schutz—some of the cold fury that is sparked by looking at the historical photograph of Emmett Till, whose mother insisted he have an open casket, or by considering the crimes of Carolyn Bryant, the white woman who falsely accused him of harassing her, but nothing I saw in that canvas could provoke such an emotion. The painting is an abstraction without much intensity, and there’s a clear caution in the brushstrokes around the eyes: Schutz has gone in only so far. Yet the anxious aporia in the upper face is countered by the area around the mouth, where the canvas roils, coming toward us three-dimensionally, like a swelling—the flesh garroted, twisted, striped—as if something is pushing from behind the death mask, trying to get out. That did move me.

What’s harder to see is why this picture was singled out. A few floors up hung a painting by a white artist, Eric Fischl, A Visit to?/?A Visit from?/?The Island, in which rich white holidaymakers on a beach are juxtaposed with black boat people washed up on the sand, some dead, some half-naked, desperate, writhing, suffering. Painted in 1983, by an artist now in his late sixties, it is presumably for sale, yet it goes unmentioned in a letter whose main effect has been to divert attention from everything else in the show. Henry Taylor, Deana Lawson, Lyle Ashton Harris, and Cauleen Smith were just a few of the artists of color lighting up the Whitney in a thrilling biennial that delved deep into black experience, illuminating its joys and suffering both. Looking at their work, I found I resented the implication that black pain is so raw and unprocessed—and black art practice so vulnerable and invisible—that a single painting by a white woman can radically influence it one way or another. Nor did I need to convince myself of my own authenticity by drawing a line between somebody else’s supposed fraudulence and the fears I have concerning my own (thus evincing an unfortunate tendency toward overcompensation that, it must be admitted, is not unknown among us biracial folks). No. The viewer is not a fraud. Neither is the painter. The truth is that this painting and I are simply not in profound communication.

This is always a risk in art. The solution remains as it has always been: Get out (of the gallery) or go deeper in (to the argument). Write a screed against it. Critique the hell out of it. Tear it to shreds in your review or paint another painting in response. But remove it? Destroy it? Instead I turned from the painting, not offended, not especially shocked or moved, not even terribly engaged by it, and walked with the children to the next room.

We have been warned not to get under one another’s skin, to keep our distance. But Jordan Peele’s horror-fantasy—in which we are inside one another’s skin and intimately involved in one another’s suffering—is neither a horror nor a fantasy. It is a fact of our experience. The real fantasy is that we can get out of one another’s way, make a clean cut between black and white, a final cathartic separation between us and them. For the many of us in loving, mixed families, this is the true impossibility. There are people online who seem astounded that Get Out was written and directed by a man with a white wife and a white mother, a man who may soon have—depending on how the unpredictable phenotype lottery goes—a white-appearing child. But this is the history of race in America. Families can become black, then white, then black again within a few generations. And even when Americans are not genetically mixed, they live in a mixed society at the national level if no other. There is no getting out of our intertwined history.

But in this moment of resurgent black consciousness, God knows it feels good—therapeutic!—to mark a clear separation from white America, the better to speak in a collective voice. We will not be moved. We can’t breathe. We will not be executed for traffic violations or for the wearing of hoodies. We will no longer tolerate substandard schools, housing, health care. Get Out—as evidenced by its huge box office—is the right movie for this moment. It is the opposite of post-black or postracial. It reveals race as the fundamental American lens through which everything is seen. That part, to my mind, is right on the money. But the “us” and “them”? That’s a cheaper gag. Whether they like it or not, Americans are one people. (And the binary of black and white is only one part of this nation’s infinitely variegated racial composition.) Lobotomies are the cleanest cut; real life is messier. I can’t wait for Peele—with his abundant gifts, black-nerd smarts, comprehensive cinematic fandom, and complex personal experience—to go deeper in, and out the other side.

“SIGNS,” by Deana Lawson, from a series of staged photographs that explore the perception of race in American culture. Lawson’s work was on view last month as part of the Whitney Biennial

A STILL FROM GET OUT

THE TIMES THAY AINT A CHANGING, FAST ENOUGH!, by Henry Taylor. The painting is based on the video made in the aftermath of the fatal shooting of Philando Castile by a Minnesota police officer in 2016. Taylor’s work was on view last month at the Whitney Biennial.

OPEN CASKET, by Dana Schutz.

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