I figured it was time for me to get my ass in gear and produce a mostly-rendered drawing for once. I’ve been rediscovering my love for How to Train Your Dragon so here’s a sort-of-old Hiccup??? Not exceedingly satisfied with the end result, but pleasantly surprised.
please disregard any proportional issues bc I was mostly just trying to find a decent painting brush (which ended up being a tweaked version of Kyle Webster’s Oil Pastel blender I think).
Would R still be an artist in the reverse cinderella AU? like imagine him getting hired to do a series of portraits of the royal family and he still doesn't like them but they do pay good money so he agrees. Enjolras worrying and wondering if R would recognize him and R just being "mmmm up close the prince sure looks like someone I know...."
Grantaire is the apprentice of the royal painter who fell ill, so it’s his task to carry the torch and paint for them until he recovers.
The Prince seems awfully familiar, but Grantaire only sees him in full regalia and looking like a marble statue when he paints. They don’t talk, they don’t look at each other. Enjolras’ posture is completely different and that changes him drastically.
Plus Enjolras always poses with his hair tied.
Grantaire doesn’t see the trick until one day, commoner Enjolras ties his hair to see better and Grantaire falls off his chair because:
The bruising on his face and neck hasn’t gone down fully since his…altercation with Roland, though the once deep purple marks have faded to a dull yellow. He’s sitting across from the girl in the dining area, flicking through the pages of a book he liberated from the library. He knows she’s watching him, even if she’s trying to be subtle. When he looks up from the big book of mechanics, he sees she’s flat out staring at him now. What the hell did she want? Had she heard the rumours?Was she just after a staring competition?He always won those.
Poseidon is an old man who lives
on a boat in the middle of regret and the sea.
Living amongst all this water
feels like dying everyday
when he says good morning and
the sea doesn’t kiss him back.
in his spare time he paints horses
from memory and they all look like
they’re drowning. soft muscles and flared
nostrils, cleansed in the water he scoops
from over the side.
the watercolours all fade into dark
as he drops them, one by one, like
pills above the underwater cliffs.
When he feels himself dying, really dying,
the water in him drying up dying,
he sits on the railing of the boat.
in the end, he is returned to his beloved ocean.
only in death is he united
with the only one he truly loved.
all he had to do is drown.
the nights when the sky looks as though God took a paintbrush and coated the clouds with His favorite colors are my favorite;
the nights when
it looks like He made a painting that He would then go to call His favorite even though he knows He’ll try again tomorrow night are my favorite;
the nights when it looks like He couldn’t decide which color to paint with, so He chose two or three - maybe even four - different ones that He wanted to work with and then closed His eyes and began to swirl His paintbrush among the clouds and all over the blue backdrop are my favorite; the nights when it looks like He kept changing his mind as to what He wants tonight’s painting to look like, so ten minutes later the sky looks vastly different than it did a moment ago, are my favorite.