usually on ao3. sometimes on wattpad (though I don't post there. should I?) rarely on tumblr & trying to fix that. I am perpetually confused as to how one uses tags properly here.
plan on writing & posting ficlets/drabbles, essays, and generally gay word vomit about my blorbos. will take requests if given!
mourning 2018 era manthony & stožice era jko.
jankris & manthony lover, rarepair fiend (I will go crazy over xavier/mitchel and bonace thank you.)
spiritually jan peteh, actually mitchel cave (anxiety and all).
aside from chase atlantic & joker out; arctic monkeys, slipknot, pierce the veil, future, lil uzi vert, TV girl, måneskin, fall out boy et others
please send me asks. ship prompts, ideas, fun stuff. might even write x reader at some point, you never know. in mitchel's words (Uncomfortable, circa 2017), all you gotta do is talk (to me through my ask box)
Bojan returned smelling of cigarettes. Kris wasn't sure exactly how much Bojan still smoked. It wasn't a secret that he did, but he must have known that Kris disapproved because he always seemed to make the effort to sneak away and not draw attention to it when Kris was around.
Most of the time, Kris never called him out on it when he could smell smoke on him, so they could both pretend it was a secret, they could both pretend everything was fine.
Because the truth was, Kris loved the smell.
He loved the weak, yearning side of Bojan that left it's scent on him long after he was finished indulging. Bojan was something Kris was weak for, something he couldn't get enough of. He'd tried to quit, over and over again, but his body continued to crave him. It was worse when he was drinking or when he was stressed, needing the relief of Bojan on his lips, needing to breathe him in. He wanted to stink of him, even when all his friends told him to give it up, that it would kill him one day.
But Bojan never called him out on it. They both pretended it was a secret, pretended everything was fine.
I couldn't help myself when I saw the prompts for today. I mean, come on. when do rain and smoking not go hand in hand?
word count: 115
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ . ° ˚ . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ . ˚ ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦
The air inside was heavy and hot, but it quickly got replaced by the fresh breeze outside when Jan opened the window. He leaned against the wooden frame, taking in the scent of summer rain, before he turned his focus to the cigarettes waiting for him.
Jan lit one and inhaled the thick smoke with a pleased hum. Without him even noticing, Kris had made his way from the bed to the window, right beside him, their bodies sticking together from the sweat the moment he leaned his body against Jan's.
He gingerly placed the cigarette between Kris' lips and sighed happily at the feeling of his lover exhaling against the side of his neck.
The Abduction of the Sabine Women by Luca Giordano, 1675
I am so fucking obsessed with how ugly this painting is – and particularly obsessed with how ugly the faces of the women are.
This is obviously not a pretty story, referred to as “the legendary rape of the Sabine women”; and although this title (traditionally known as The Rape of the Sabine Women; Poussin, Rubens, Degas, and Picasso title it so, and even Giordano titles it so for seven of his eight versions) of Giordano’s has made it more palatable at first glance, this is the one of the only depictions I have ever seen as an art enjoyer and art historian that doesn’t beautify a story of rape or portray it as anything more than a violent act and a vicious, coordinated attack of warfare.
The Abduction of the Sabine Women is an unbalanced composition, a confusing mass of bodies within a muddied color palette. There are no jewel-like or soft pastel colors to distract or entrance the viewer (the red, yellow, and blue of Baroque are still present, but undeniably muddled). Moving along the Gutenberg Diagonal, there is nothing but a smoke-choked sky at the top left and little more than muddy earth at the bottom right. No one is posed prettily, and there is no daintily draped clothing: amidst stretched limbs and writhing bodies, fabrics tear and twist uncomfortably. There are decorative elements, but the pearls threaded through hair and hanging from ears, necks, wrists, and ankle only serve to highlight the desperate wrestling of bodies. No women half-heartedly struggle with – before succumbing to – muscular soldiers whose bodies and faces make them look more heroic than horrific (looking at you, da Cortona). Incredibly, we see none of the men’s faces fully. We see the women’s faces, not beatific or plaintive but contorted in anger and grief and pain. The central Sabine woman – though she isn’t placed in the center, which intentionally unbalances the composition – is fighting with her entire body, and her face is ugly with fear. Each of the women is an active figure: every single one of the women in the forefront has a hand up, gripping or pushing or raised in protest.
I am especially fascinated by the old woman (the eldest in the picture by far, depicted as a sinister-looking crone) who is attempting to stop the man raping one of the women and to save the woman being raped. The old woman has, arguably, the most agency and motion in the painting: she grabs and pushes the man while she simultaneously grips and pulls the Sabine woman. She is a particularly muddled figure: her headscarf and hair are indistinguishable, her skin is much darker than the skin of all the other women, her clothing seems more black than the blue of Baroque, her station in life and status in society is lesser than that of all the other figures present; and yet, she has the most immediate effect on the scene, fighting and aiding – all the way from the leftmost side of the painting and half-hidden by the two figures, one she struggles to prevent and one she strives to protect – at the same time.
phases is a story presented over the entire album, beauty in death (including the deluxe) is a collage, lost in heaven is a puzzle whose missing pieces are the songs on the deluxe. walk with me...