I may be alone in this… but I enjoy picking apart his face. He aged prematurely and I adore the way his skin began to wear like paper, furrowed and creased. It became thin and taut around the edges yet remained somehow smooth, as a textured river stone would appear versus feel.
His intense gaze and those deadly eyes endured the years. I can’t help but wonder how he would have looked middle aged. He didn’t like the fact that his hairline was receding, yet would joke about it when prompted. “All Russians end up bald,” he would say. Maybe humor hides our deepest dread? I rather enjoyed how it didn’t let him hide those elfin ears so easily. All his little imperfections make him impossible to forget, they make him inimitable
…..but then again, maybe I’m just biased
note: Happy Birthday Bianca! your edit work is marvellous, especially the lyric themed gifsets, so writing about creating art is a success too. You blend effortlessly two contrasing techniques, both of which are difficult to master, Photoshop more so, with banter, flirting and you show your own talent in the process. We’re happy to have you in the fandom
A/N: So, this started out as a poem. But then it turned into a fic? And I don’t know what happened?
Painting on skin was never like painting on canvas. The polyester never moves. It stares blankly down the barrel of each tube of paint and waits to be used. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t sway in the wind when the window is thrown open to get some air in. The painting needs to move. It needs to breathe, live. Needs to inhale dust and exhale smoke.
Rae always hated canvases. The stillness of the fabric. The way her acrylics dragged against the dull, stretched cotton locked away under thin layers of primer. It urked her. The fire that sat wet and delicate when it should have crackled and flickered against the swirl of color behind it. How, when she looked at the oceans she’d painted all she would see was a blur of white and grey and every shade of blue imaginable, because the waves never broke. Never crashed into the sand or crawled up the shore like they’re meant to.
She hated how dead it felt under her roaming, disappointed fingers. No amount of sunshine could brighten the colours; the moon beams were never able to illuminate her palette like she wanted them to.