Beauty and Pain

Sander Cohen | Indie RP | 18+ | Rules

[yousickfxck]

manxrslave

 --{ like if you'd like to do a thread all in rhyme...

//I’m sorry about that. I got like really depressed and stuff bc of work

--{ hushhhh it was still fun to write I don’t mind it’s nbd }--

[yousickfxck]

--{ like if you'd like to do a thread all in rhyme and I'll write you a starter }--

[elinananana]

I am art, destroy me.

[yousickfxck]

|| derelɪct ||

[yousickfxck]

The Biscuit:

Not the scars.

 “The scars? Y’know how               old those are?”

He had no pride  in many of them, no admiration nor feats of wonderment and strength. These were marks of SURVIVAL, but certainly not his own. Those who struggled under his grip so many years ago in fields if bloodied grass had left their presence along his skin so he would not forget.

And the Artist instead touched them, feeling their curves as if he could see the history along each discolouration. When one is harmed in a fray, two people will scar.

    “Don’t see what’s so           perfect ‘bout these.”

He humbled himself, briefly indulging in Cohen’s mysterious air. It was easier than protesting a fuss, though the grizzled detective couldn’t fight off his own curiosity. What was he up to? Blue eyes followed along with the man as DeWitt couldn’t decide whether to be interested or unnerved. For now, he’d have to sit and await whatever scheme his host had concocted, a game that certainly toyed with his mind for a moment or two. Free drinks, however, could get anyone farther than a polite handshake could.

  The Artist watched            d i s c e r n i n g l y trying to gauge how honest the man was being                                                          with him.  “Your body is a canvas,                               my dear,               and you have made it into a masterpiece.” Though his plans for the DeWitt man had been  based around the story of his clothes            he felt a deep desire to      capture     his skin                                ---{  and to find what lay beneath it.                    He didn’t remove his cold hands  instead       he followed each line carefully                        examining them as if they might                                            tell their own story. “How..?”            The Artist lost the sentence in the holiness of            the moment, hushing himself as he read the sacred text                                      of the man’s own destruction. 

“they are beautiful.”

[yousickfxck]

from the wiki

[gingerlunas-deactivated20181121]

http://www.bromart.com/plucker.html

[rottedhope-archive-blog]

break a leg.

[yousickfxck]

The Songbird

Seemed as though a person really had to be too drunk to see straight in order to work with a man like Sander Cohen. Honestly the young woman didn’t know what else to do at this point, stuck in a position where a ‘good’ impression was being forced – and it wasn’t even turning out to be very good at all.

Chuckling once, perhaps to hold back tears of complete rage, the woman was almost certain she’d had enough. She would just have to find some other way to gather the information she needed … it was really no wonder there were so very few who had an opportunity to work with him. Maybe they were more willing to tolerate it all, but Elizabeth was not.

“I don’t believe whatever it is you’re looking for even exists, Mr. Cohen. You’re certainly not going to be able to tear it from my vocal chords. Do us both a favor and give it up.”

The Artist leaned forward, watching her closely. Now she was being honest, now she was being                                                g r i t t y. This was what he wanted, this was interesting. 

He purred at her,      --{          a delicate white hand stroking his chin as he considered again this unusual woman.    }-- He wasn’t looking for   f a v o u r s, he never was from this type,                            but the fact that she hadn’t even offered them.                                        That she dared to sass him--- well... “Yes,”                he sang.                                “This is your resume                                 this is who you are.  This, my dear, 

                              is art.”

[mahkittens]

The disciple scoffs openly. Bitterly. It’s a familiar lie by now; it doesn’t cut  the way it used to. The agony of hope arcs quickly and weakly–a mere ghost of the  pain that once racked his heart & wet his lonely pillow.

“Me?” 

Silas borrows the artist’s own smirk –{Oh god, that wretched smile}– as he knots his fingers t i g h t e r.

“Ain’t it a lil’ l a t e fer that?”

[yousickfxck]

The Artist                     c l i n g s  to his disciple’s     master’s hips                      pleading with eyes                            cast up to                                                   gaze upon him.  He is haloed by fluorescence      a cruel shadow over his eyes               and    Cohen    thrills in the agony    of      those fingers          in his hair           tearing him apart. 

m'chol li                 ---------please--                            he might have said a n g u i s h    was speaking for him             he couldn’t bear to be         forgotten                              to be       hated                                                        by Silas.

[mahkittens]

There are those who are born cruel, and those who learn c r u e l t y—bred by it, only to wallow in it like a filthy, hungry pig. Silas fits the latter so elegantly, and by the very hands that now cling to him, delicate and nurturing in their guise.  The disciple sneers, yet he does not dismiss the artist, nor the longing he ought to be accustomed to. It pangs away in his chest, warming him down to the fingertips that hesitantly brush  through pomaded, ebony hair. It’s thinning, and brittle to the touch. Silas suspects a gentle tug will tear it from Cohen’s scalp like g r a s s.  "Jus’ returnin’ the favor, sugar.” A firm hand wordlessly ensures        that Cohen will remain on his knees.

"What the hell d’ya want.”

[yousickfxck]

                                             The Artist’s heart                could break into a   m i l l i o n   p i e c e s                                                                 and Silas wouldn’t care            -----{ it is a bitter thought          and Cohen shoos it from his mind                      the agony of hopelessness too                                  a w f u l     to be true. }----               He clings to the disciple                                            --------a raft                                carrying  him along           wherever    s a l t   w a t e r   might lead

                                     “You---”                              he says simply                                        not struggling                                    --- never struggling          against the hand that held him there.

[yousickfxck]

|| derelɪct ||

[baneofcolumbia-archive]

What.

Looking as confused as he was somewhat astounded, a huff of disbelief shot forth from his dry mouth.

"Look, if you think I’m gonna be some model, it’s gonna take more than a few glasses a’ poison to pay for standin’ around all day…."

Before he could even finish his own thoughts, DeWitt’s palm collided against the surface of the bar in protest, yet still shoved him off the stool to allow his hands access to the jacket and vest. Fingers pulled at the fabric in a frustrated manner as he knew that he’d never get anywhere without making a few sacrifices of his own, and the Fort’s grand King of sorts had too much behind him to let something like pride get in the way.

Tossing the jacket on top of the chair beside him, his digits worked at the buttons of his vest and shirt underneath, peeling them off and bunching them up into a matted mess of cloth on top of the detective’s seat. Not the best way to show scars of the past.

His skin, pale and somewhat weathered, bore many scars at that. Each had a story he’d long forgotten, little wounds along his ribs, a long and jagged line up by his shoulder. It had been so long since he even allowed himself to look upon his marks, yet to bare them in front of another, and Cohen no less!

Arms crossed sternly against his chest, more in frustration than shame as he gave a look over to the Artist that spoke, 'There, happy now?'

"Alright, there. This better be worth whatever you’re doin’, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t plan on sittin’ around here like this for too long.”

[yousickfxck]

The Artist’s lips    twitched. He had been after                              the clothes.        but the man..... He hummed slightly, admiring the detective’s body as he gathered                   the rags up,                   holding them carefully to                   get a good look at them. “Mmmm,” he sang,  satisfaction ringing in his voice.                                              “P e r f e c t.”                      He pivoted, laying the cloth down on the bar to return his attention to the succulent tidbit in front of him. He ran a long finger over the scars c u r i o u s l y humming lowers, sadder                                              “...perfect.”

[rottedhope-archive-blog]

break a leg.

[rottedhope-archive-blog]

   There would be no introductions, no direction. As though she were expected to take hold of the stage, claim it as her  own. The woman supposed such a concept was one among many, which the artist could easily communicate to a disciple should they be capable of deriving more from an experience than just people and events. Elizabeth, of course, was quite good at seeing the world in a very different manner; far different than anybody, really. It gave her particular perspective some insight, depth — perhaps even an advantage over those who only ever longed for the fame and fortune associated with being slapped with Cohen’s label.

     She was far more interesting than anybody else; a first glance should have picked up on that very quickly. She’d put no more effort in the way she presented herself than she did any other day of the week; nothing to mask who - or what - she really was. Uninteresting for the most part, until she’d been granted her voice.

"After you've gone and left me crying, After you've gone there's no denying, You'll feel blue you'll feel sad, You'll miss the dearest pal you've ever had--"

[yousickfxck]

the Artist sighed she was so      b o r i n g.    Yes, she could sing.        Maybe she could even dance But he was just so absolutely                    b o r e d.  “Is that the best you can do?” Cohen drawled his white arm draping lazily over a chair as he waited for her to open to him. He wasn’t seeking daffodils, he had plenty of                                                  meaningless pretty things.  What he wanted was something spectacular

                                       a rare zebra orchid

And he wanted to see if she would 

                                       bloom

              under the proper direction. 

[the-last-angel111]

Lone Grotesque

By JosephMayo on DeviantART.

[babygrandd-archive]

make me choose 1/??: newsies or cabaret?

[yousickfxck]

---{ I’m having feelings and I’m going to try to channel them into cohenmuse so get ready to see some responses I have owed for actual months if you want to drop things that’s fine I’m just going to write responses because I need to do something.

[leayola]

[yousickfxck]

tearborn: T hough difficult to take directions from a perfectionist, what little patience he had for her was greatly appreciated. A sigh passed her lips as she hoped she might be ready enough this time around, lest he honestly follow through with such a threat.      “See the pyramids along the Nile,      Watch the sunrise from a tropic isle — “

The Artist watched-- ----through  a   c r i t i c a l eye. She was too fast, she sounded uncaring                     { The song was atrocious                        one of those trendy pieces             that roared through fort frolic like so much fire consuming art in its wake as it gave the people                                        what they wanted.

This was not about that.  }               "No, no," he murmured, distractedly. He had other, better things to worry about.               "This is no good. We'll pick up again tomorrow,                          please try to practise this time. " 

[yousickfxck]

manxrslave liked for a rhyming starter:

    the { look } with which  Cohen   regarded him          said very much                          and yet said   n o t   a   w o r d he was a man  prone to his every whim                          and he would have this, Fontaine's little bird

"Welcome to fort frolic, Jackie-boy"                                      he knew the young man's name, he knew it well.                                      He knew the child was nothing but a toy                                                       to keep Fontaine amused in this their hell.  He looked him over, seeing Andy's face       --{     a moment where his heart gave a small thrill   }--                                     and then recalled his fucking fall from grace                 and lost his longing   to     an      awful      c h i l l. "Be careful little bird just where you fly, there's plenty here who'd love to see you die."