#van gogh museum date

[letsbeapoemtogether]

We walked around the art gallery admiring the work of art while being one of them for each other.

Abhilasha

[that-wannabe-vangoghgurl]

Take me to art museums and make out with me✨

[tasnemmv]

I still believe that there is a right time for everything.

[earthfleurs]

sunflower boy <3

i love seeing him with his family :(

[imnotsostronganymore]

la cosa più bella che ho.

[lamphous]

me thinking myself clever for catching onto accidental foreshadowing before realizing in fact it was a memory as the-body-remembers-by-babette-rothschild. eleventh doctor so so evil to me. the way that I was down BADDD for alex kingston at age 13.

sorry there are approx. 7 more posts in the tags here

[nehariwissem]

[mybrotherstolemyquesadilla]

jsnsjsjsjsns am I gonna stress abt what to wear on a date that’s literally 3 days away??????? absolutely!!!

[fantasma-tornasol]

[bunbury-shitposts]

Navigating the territory of the art world is a motivational experience. Art exhibitions throughout history have been the pictorial panacea for one’s emotive convalescence. However, the design of these exhibitions seems to contradict its aim, i.e., to welcome all into its space. It is commonly perceived as an intimidating and daunting hemisphere of intellectual entertainment. The elitist display structure that has become the norm of the high art space removes itself from financially unviable and thus the ignorable milieu.

Local Art is Far, and High Art is Near

Although famous paintings are digitally accessible to all, local art is not. Displaying the works of renowned local artists in the ivory tower of the fine arts scene curbs their outreach and mitigates their history, confining it to a small crowd of only art critics, writers, or artists. While everyday art talk must include a Dali or a Van Gogh, lesser-known artists or even local centennial arts find no place in those chats. In a metropolis teeming with people from all communities of society, the consumption of paintings is considered a luxury. On any day of the week, a group of resident art enthusiasts gathers around the University campus or at a vintage coffeehouse exchanging thoughts on art chaperoned by caffeine and smoke rather than visiting their local galleries. The news of the auction of a ‘Salvatore Mundi‘ reaches a small community of art aficionados, whereas the struggles of women artists expressed in their paintings in vegetable colors, displayed at a gallery a few minutes from their homes, remains obscure.

Read my take on high art culture, nfts, and gen z's reaction published here ✨ https://thedailylifemagazine.com/nfts-influencing-gen-zs-idea-of-art/

I need to mention that this observation piece was heavily inspired by Kim Namjoon's instagram page rkive. He inspired me to visit my local art galleries and write about it.

[popquizhot-shot]

Magic

Moon Boys x reader&lt;3

summary: you were married to Jake and after the events of moonknight, the boys get to know of jake and of you. Steven adores you but Marc just sees you as a friend. Right?

A/N: okay the timeline is a bit wonky but here's what i thought while writing the fic. Jake dated you for a year and a half before putting a ring on it. And you've been married for three years. You met Steven and Marc a year ago and have been dating Steven for eight months. Marc became friends with you a month after meeting you. please comment and reblog if you liked it!

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

@jake-g-lockley

Marc was a lot of things. Pig-headed, stubborn, horrible at communication, a fighter. But he wasn't arrogant He could admit it when he didn't know something.

But right now he knew one thing and one thing only, that Jake was a prime idiot.

Marc stayed in the background when Jake was fronting around you, most of the time. Not always, of course. He wasn't a perv and one to to intrude between a husband and a wife. But he knew you. So did Steven, and you knew them.

He'd considered you his friend. Maybe one of his best, just months after meeting you. You and him shared many a night after Jake's missions talking and watching movies, when your husband was knocked out. You made him fall in love with chai, something that knocked Steven's socks off and he'd taught you the basics of baseball so you weren't clueless when you watched baseball with him.

It wasn't always so nice.

"You're married?!"

"Yeah, what's your problem with that?" Jake had become defensive, he wouldn't let Marc or Steven breathe a single ill word towards you.

"No, it's no problem at all, pal." Marc seethed, outraged, "except for the fact that I was married to Layla! God what if she almost say you when we were married? No wonder it ended!"

"Fuck off, man. You know full well why your marriage didn't work out with Layla. And unlike her, I told my lady fucking everything. She knows everything, from the cave to the sarcophagus. So she knew what to do and what to be careful of, including you. So don't blame my marriage for the reason yours didn't work out."

This was when Steven had interjected, he was unsurprisingly on Jake's side.

"He's right, Marc. If his wife knows everything then you can't blame him, and it's honestly rather mean and unfair of you to be angry at someone you haven't even met."

It took a few hours for Marc to calm down, and actually, apologise to Jake.

Hesitantly, Jake offered, "Y'know, if you want you can meet her. She practically knows everything about you and uh, Steven's most probably seen her around. She goes to the museum every week."

"Wait a minute! That lady with the Van Gogh tote bag?"

"Yup."

"Oh wow! She's really sweet, and beautiful! Hell, mate. You scored."

Jake had to smile at that, he knew he scored with you. For the longest time he felt like you were too good for him and that someone as kind, clever, intelligent and beautiful as you shouldn't have had to settle for someone like him. But you'd kiss away every ill thought he had about himself and reassure him. Communication was a very, very vital and important part of the relationship and you had helped him learn that it wasn't selfish to voice his thoughts. Especially because he put everyone's needs before his for so long.

"I know, man."

Steven had readily agreed to front and meet you, and Marc was okay with being co-conscious during the interaction as well. So on one fine day, Jake had brought them to the house he considered his home. He worked to contribute to it's rent, and buy things for it and for you. It was home, after all. You were his home.

Marc didn't know what to expect but when Jake had stepped in and hung his jacket on the stand and taken his shoes off, footsteps could be heard running from the main bedroom and he saw you running straight into Jake's arms. Jake laughed wildly, picking you up and twirling you around, much to your delight as you kissed the life out of him.

When he put you down, he could get a clear glimpse of you. Your hair was messy and your t-shirt was rumpled. And when he saw you smile he knew why Jake had fallen in love with you. Why Steven thought you were beautiful and sweet. Verything about you screamed, home.

Your greeting to Jake threw both the boys off, "Who the fuck are you?"

Jake smirked, "The fuck you mean, ma?"

"I mean, who." you poked him once, "are." twice, "you?" thrice and Jake started giggling. Fucking giggling like some little schoolgirl. You laughed too, and hugged him tight.

"Hey, baby." he kissed your forehead and you smiled.

"Hi." you kissed his nose.

"I have two guys who'd like to meet you."he raised his eyebrows.

Your jaw dropped a little, "For real? Wait, you're being serious, you're not screwing with me?"

"Why would I screw with you, when I could just screw you?"

The men in his head and you all let out a simultaneous groan.

Steven met you first, and it went swell, you'd both bonded over history and literature. And a love for Taylor Swift. But that was a secret. You liked him a lot and he positively adored you.

Marc, on the other hand, was much more closed off, he'd be polite, but he'd be curt as well. A combination you didn't know was possible.

After a few weeks of trying to bond with him, resulting in almost a small meltdown. It had taken Jake being knocked out after a mission and being too tired to eat to actually get him to talk to you over a meal.

It was one of the best things he'd eaten in his goddamn life and the groan he'd let out after the first bite brought a laugh out of you.

So yes, Marc would consider you one of his best friends. Steven and you had started going out with each other a few months ago and it was going so well.

But not Marc.

Because he didn't like you like that.

Of course not, you were his friend.

You were his friend who made him laugh because you had the same dark sense of humour. You hugged him when he needed one but was too uptight to ask you. You, who googled the Cubs and learnt everything you could about them just so you could talk to him as well, the way you talked to Steven about Jane Austen and the Indus Valley.

He didn't know when it became something more to him.

And he didn't see how you'd look him at him when he laughed, or when he was focused on the TV, or when he made you tea the way you liked it, Jake had taught him how to do that.

No, to him, you were just his best friend.

And you were currently crying your eyes out because Jake and you had gotten into a huge fight. He'd missed your anniversary because of a mission and he was working with Hathor's avatar. He failed to mention the part where he was forced to pretend they were a thing to prevent being caught and you'd caught him smelling of her perfume and gotten rightfully furious.

Not because of her, but because he didn't tell you that it had been happening for a few days. That the week he'd spent away from you, he'd had to pretend he was someone else's and he was too scared to tell you. That's why you were mad, because you thought he didn't trust you.

You'd raised your voice as he turned his back on you and he turned around, face contorted in rage. Steven tried calming him down as he stalked over to you. You stood your ground, Jake would never lay a hand on you. You knew that. But it was what he said, that broke you.

"You're being a fucking nuisance. Instead of trying to understand, you're being more of a burden by finding shit to get mad at. Grow the fuck up."

That prime ass had the audacity to call you a burden. A nuisance.

And then he had the fucking nerve to leave and complete his mission and give control to Marc. Steven had chewed the fuck out of him and Marc would have loved to as well, but he needed to see you. See if you were okay.

As soon as he stepped in, he saw you on the sofa, rapidly wiping your tears away. You sagged again when you knew it was him. Somehow you always knew.

He furrowed his eyebrows at your disheveled state. Your eyes were swollen and wet with tears and you were breathing very heavily and in quick spurts.

"What do you need?" Marc asked you, sitting down beside you.

"C-can I have" you coughed, "a hug, Marc?" you said in a small voice, looking away.

Marc immediately moved to hug you close. Shushing you when you began to cry again.

What hurt was that he knew, and Jake knew, and Steven knew that you hated being a burden or an inconvenience to anyone. And today, the one man you trusted the most in this world had made you feel like that. And he couldn't even apologize.

'Jake you fucking idiot.' he rocked you a little, 'you better come out and fix this. she may be our friend but this is because of you, fix this.'

Jake remained silent in the reflection of the mirror next to the door. He looked wrecked at seeing you sob, and tears were falling down his own eyes.

'Mate.' Steven spoke up, he sounded mad, 'You made our girl cry. Stop being a fucking coward and fix this!'

When he was met with silence, Steven seethed, 'Marc, gimme the body.'

You knew exactly when it was Steven hugging you, and you kissed his cheek and breathed him in.

"Oh, love." he tried to comfort you, "I'm sorry. You're not a burden, I promise you." he kissed your forehead.

"I know that, Steven. I know I'm not a burden to you. I'm scared I'm becoming one to him. He doesn't even want to look at me!" you sniffed.

Steven glared at Jake in the mirror, who was wiping away his own tears.

Steven and Marc knew why Jake was so worked up. They knew that whoever Jake and Hathor's avatar was after called their bluff. They knew that those people had found the woman's partner and Jake was terrified for you and he couldn't even tell you because he never, ever wanted to be the reason for any feeling you had that wasn't bliss, happiness, content, or pleasure. And because he was sure he could find those assholes and beat the living shit out of them for even thinking of harming you.

But it wasn't their place to tell you, that much was apparent. Jake dug his grave, and then jumped into it. He had to crawl out of it on his own now.

"I just want to be someone he's happy to be with." you whisper and that's when Jake straightened up, heartbroken.

"Give me the body, hermano."

"All yours."

Only Jake scrunched the back of your shirts when he hugged you and you moved to hug him tightly as he whispered apologies in your ear.

"Baby, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry I made you feel like you were a burden and that I was anything but fucking delighted to be with you." he kissed your nose and then told you everything. Looking away because he was scared.

"I didn't tell you at first because I didn't want to just say that I had to pretend I was dating someone else and then fuck off for a week. I made a mistake in assuming that'd you get mad and it's because if I was in your place, I would be. But you're stronger than me, tesoro, and I failed to see that and I'm so sorry."

"Baby, I forgive you." you replied and he breathed out a sigh of relief, "But please, don't keep stuff like this in, okay? You can trust me, you know that."

He nodded fiercely and then he kissed you. Noses nudging and lips parting as he breathed you in like you were his lifeline, and he yours. He cupped your face and held you tight against him and when he pulled away you smiled at him, your eyes shining.

Steven fronted again with a little smile and you kissed him lovingly with a whispered 'i love you'. He just winked at you and kissed the back of your hand and then your forehead again before Jake took back control and carried you to the bed, kissing you deeply all the way.

----

Marc was fine, no he just needed a glass of water. He'd carefully rolled off the bed, thankful that he was at least wearing sweatpants and padded to the kitchen.

He should have known that you were a light sleeper.

"Marc." you began, your voice raspy.

He hummed in reply and held out his glass to you. You accepted it and drank your fill, giving it back to him.

After a few more moments of silence, you spoke up, "I thanked Steven for comforting me. But I didn't thank you." you cleared your throat, "Thank you, Marc." you said, sincerely, "You're one of my best friends."

Marc smiled at you. Actually smiled. And you smiled back and kept going, "And Jake and Steven know this and are okay with it so I-"

"You don't have to thank me, honey." he patted your shoulder, trying to conceal his tears as he looked away because god he was dumb. Dumb enough to realize now, that he loved you, "I'm glad I'm your friend."

To him, you were everything. You were sunrays and moonbeams and everything that he believed was magical as a boy. Everything he stopped believing in as he grew up. The first time you made him laugh and joined him he felt sure that magic existed after all, because what else could you be?

He tried walking past you but you held his hand and he froze, tears streaming down his cheeks.

You walked over to him and held his face in your hands. His eyes shut as you wipe away his tears. And he whimpered as you kissed his forehead.

"Marc. Open your eyes and look at me." you said softly.

He was terrified. That you'd seen past his mask and were going to let him down gently. Because to you, what could he be? Certainly nothing more than a friend.

"Sweetheart. Please."

When his eyes finally opened, they met yours.

"Marc. I fucking love you." you confessed and he let out a sob. Pulling you into a tight hug.

"I love you. God I love you so much, Sweetheart." he says into your hair, kissing all over your face, but not your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" you asked him, looking at him with those beautiful eyes of yours.

He nods and your hands travel to his locks and pull them lightly as you bring your lips to his own. Humming sweetly as he wraps his arm around you and licks into you.

Yes, he reasons yet again as you hold his face in your hands and smile at him, magic does exist. And it's in his arms. He loves it and so do the men in his head who cheer for him, albeit sleepily, looking at you lovingly.

And they'd never let you go.

[madebycloud]

A Masterpiece

wednesday addams x reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: you led wednesday through the cavernous halls of the art museum. but for wednesday, there was only one work of art that truly mattered: you. warnings/themes: fluff, art museum date words: 0.8k (it's too short, im sorry) note: this fic is based on a song i listen to while I'm in class, so i hope you enjoy it! (ignore the grammar errors.)

Wednesday should've said no.

Her writing time was too precious to be spent in an art museum. She had plans to brainstorm more ideas for the stories and poems she wanted to publish in the near future. Wednesday had always been a writer at heart, and she felt like her creativity flowed best when she was alone and surrounded by her own thoughts.

But with your bright smiles and enthusiastic jumps, it was hard to say no. She knew that your love for art was endless.

For you, art is more than just a hobby or a passion, it's a way of life. You adore the colors, the details, and the meaning behind every brushstroke.

The prospect of seeing your face light up with excitement was all the motivation she needed to accept the invitation.

You walked through the museum, admiring the art, discussing history and technique, and letting your enthusiasm shine through.

Wednesday followed you, with soft music playing in the background. She could hear the footsteps of other visitors, the rustle of clothes, and the quiet whisper of conversations.

You stop to admire a famous painting, the Mona Lisa, and your eyes light up as you take in the beauty of Leonardo da Vinci's work.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" You pointed out the intricate details, the colors, and the perfection of every stroke. "I'm not sure which word is best, but it's certainly a masterpiece."

She couldn't help but turn to look at you as you stood before a painting, smiling as you admired it.

A masterpiece? Wednesday couldn't understand how you could refer to a painting with nothing but paint on it, just splashes all over, as a masterpiece.

Your hair, your eyes, your nose, your lips— Wednesday was mesmerized by your beauty, feeling as though she were looking at a work of art come to life.

That was the moment she realized that you were the true masterpiece, and no painting, sculpture, or drawing could ever compare to the beauty of you.

You looked at the painting and felt like a true artist. You knew you couldn't recreate the beauty before you, but your hands yearned to try. Your mind was abuzz with ideas, and you wanted to share your thoughts with Wednesday.

She was the masterpiece, your muse, the inspiration for everything you desired to create in this moment.

The way her brown eyes shone like the stars in the sky, her freckles dotting her skin like a constellation— she was the definition of perfection. You wanted to capture her on canvas, to preserve her perfection forever. But for now, you would enjoy her presence and let your imagination run wild.

You looked back at the painting. Feeling the blood rush in your ears.

"But you know, some people don't really appreciate art," you continued, referring to the people in front of you who were taking pictures. "They take pictures just to add to their social media, done. They don't try to understand the essence of the artwork, all the emotions and hard work put into it."

Wednesday nodded in agreement, understanding that some people just don't try to understand the emotions and hard work that artists put into their art. It takes years of practice to perfect their craft, and some people just look at the surface level of it.

You checked your watch and noticed it was time to go back. You asked, "So, which styles of art did you enjoy the most? Did you prefer classical, medieval, romanticism, basque, or could you relate to Leonardo da Vinci's art, maybe even Vincent van Gogh or Claude Monet's works? Tell me, my love." You asked, tilting your head as you walked, trying to make conversation and get a feel for her perspective on the artwork.

Wednesday paused for a moment, considering your question, before her eyes met yours. She finally spoke, her voice low and serious. "Your question is so banal and pointless," she said, rolling her eyes.

She continued, her eyes still locked with yours "Art is a subjective experience, influenced by myriad factors such as one's personal taste, cultural background, and emotional state. But if I had to choose, I would say that, to me, the most beautiful art is the art of life itself. And looking at you, my dear, I can't help but see the most exquisite and breathtaking work of art that I have ever had the privilege of laying my eyes upon."

You can't help but smile as you look down at her. Her slender frame, her pale complexion, her dark hair… everything about her seems to radiate a sense of beauty and mystery.

And as she leans in to loop her arm around yours, you realize that this is not just a moment, but a memory that you will cherish forever.

How did you manage to find someone as wonderful as her? You ask yourself as you look up at the sky.

Knowing that you want to share all of life's beauty and wonder with her makes you want to spend the rest of your days with her.

[celestie0]

OMG world cup ask anon here

reader taking gojo to a museum and he tries to pay attention, he really does. but he just doesn’t understand why paintings are so interesting for reader!! so he waits on a bench watching soccer highlights while she explores the exhibit 😭😭

reader promises she’ll take him to the gift shop if he walks around with her

plss thats so cute n funny awwhh 🤧🤣 he sounds like a toddler LMFAOO not the soccer highlights 😭😭😭

i think it wld be super cute if he’s the one that organized the museum date bc he knows that’s what she likes but he has absolutely no idea why she’s looking at each of the paintings for so long n he’s just standing there like🧍

ok but her staring at the paintings but he’s just staring at her bc he thinks she’s prettier than all the art 🤭🙈💕 ehheherhrheh

ITS TOO FLUFFY IM NAUSEATED RN 🙄

lmaoo the gift shop that wld be the most excitinf thing for him 💀 he buys matching vincent van gogh magnets of starry night bc it’s her fave n he puts his on the fridge right when he gets home 😌⭐️

ok anon ur cookin i might have to give u writing credits

[prkwook]

LIGHT 🔭 park gunwook

☆ pairing: bf!gunwook x gn!reader

☆ genre: fluff

☆ wc: 0.4k

☆ summary: what’s better than a date to an art museum on a rainy day?

☆ warnings: none (pls lmk if you see some that i should add)

☆ note: this is my first (written) fic so it’s not that good but pls bear with me, i’ll get better eventually LOL

“we’re gonna fly up into the blue sky so slowly and we held the moon in our arms.”

YOU pause the music playing through your shared earbuds to whisper something to the boy that accompanied you to the national gallery of art on this rainy day.

“gunwookie, c’mon. let’s move on. i want to get to the monets before it closes.” you say, tugging on your boyfriend’s sleeve a little bit to try and signal that you want to keep moving but he is stuck in place, almost in a trance-like state, staring at the piece of art in front of you guys. he is always your choice companion to museums because of his curiosity. everything peaks his interest and just like you, he always wants to learn more. you two are similar in that way. both of you could sit for hours on end, staring at the same painting, always finding some small, little detail that you didn’t see before, but today, you want to see the new monet installation and gunwook is still playing a game of where’s waldo except instead of finding a red-and-white striped shirt wearing man, he’s trying to find the meaning behind the art in front of him.

“park gunwook~” you say a little bit louder, hoping to break into the tunnel vision he has at the moment. still nothing.

you engulf him in a back hug, one of your favorite things to do. he’s always so warm and no matter what, he’ll always provide some sort of comfort. this seems to always do the trick.

“oh gunwoooooook~”

“sorry y/n, what did you say?” gunwook says, with an apologetic look in his eyes.

“it’s okay.” you smile a smile that always eases his mind a little bit. “i was just saying we should move on because i wanted to see the monets they just got but since you love van gogh so much, we can stay a little longer.”

“are you sure? i don’t want you to miss seeing something you want to see because of me.”

“no, it’s okay! i promise! we can see them another time.” you say, still hugging him.

he looks at you in the eyes and smiles, an action that never fails to make your heart flutter. you two have been dating since primary school and even after all these years, a simple action like him smiling takes your breath away. you’re convinced that in this moment, you could never love someone more.

gunwook gives you a kiss on the head, takes your hand and guides you to the bench a few feet away so you can sit and admire the masterpieces arranged on the walls.

laying your head on his shoulder, you press play and music drowns out the world around you. in this sea of people, coming and going, it’s just you, your love, and the boy that holds it.

“you always had me and you’re always shining.”

[kiwisa]

floriography ✩ ln04

Lando Norris x Fem! Parisian! Reader

fluff • 2,800 words

IN WHICH... you met lando during his two-week stay in paris. through streets, places, and dates, you rediscovered your city and perhaps fell in love ⏤ all to the scent of flowers.

A delicious smell emanated from the Queen Elizabeth II flower market: a colourful spectrum in the monochrome place that Paris could sometimes be. Every week, you would go there to buy a different bouquet. Your flat wasn't really yours without a touch of life to brighten it up.

Some would see it as an unnecessary expense; you saw it as a necessity. Your flowers always sat in the middle of the living room, reminding you of the fragility of life and – above all – the need to enjoy the moment: a discreet but omnipresent Carpe Diem.

You could spend hours every Tuesday morning at the opening, wandering aimlessly between these stalls which always managed to make you feel light, carefree – a parenthesis of softness and calm, necessary in the intensity of your daily life.

With your wicker basket in your left hand and your steps punctuated by the chirping of the many birds for sale, you would stop at times in front of a particularly pretty bouquet and then go on your way, empty-handed. You only made your choice at the very end, even putting it off until the last minute to enjoy the bucolic setting a little more.

However, a hint of red suddenly caught your attention. You approached and hastened to read the little slate stuck between two plants: amaryllis, “the desire to woo”. Floriography – the language of flowers, for they could speak better than humans – had always intrigued you. In the corner of your head, you filed this information away.

As you read it, you found yourself thinking of Lando, with whom August had passed so quickly. A simple meeting in the heart of the French capital had led to afternoons filled with the smell of love and the melody of a British accent.

September was already upon you and, as you resumed your walk, the names of flowers seemed to be calling you. Some of them even took you back to those sunny summer days, spent in the company of the one who was becoming more and more present in your life.

WISTERIA ! “tenderness” ✩ Paris, rue Saint-Maur

The Atelier des Lumières was casting Monet's impressionist works on its walls, and, in the middle of these thousands of lights, your face had become that of his muse.

Lando had never been in this building and its peculiar industrial façade. The French capital itself was unknown to him, actually. You had been the one to first tell him about it during your first meeting at a café on the rue de la Convention ⏤ just after almost crashing in each other ⏤, telling him how the exhibition on Van Gogh and his Starry Night had transported you.

“There's something magical about wandering through mythical works of art,” you had told him that day, a dreamy smile on your lips. You were probably thinking of how amazing you had felt in the middle of that blue and yellow sky.

It was only later that you told Lando about the new exhibition, this time devoted to Monet, and expressed your desire to see it.

“I tried to go with my friends, but they don't care much about art.”

The night of your conversation, he had rushed to buy two tickets, even though he didn't particularly love the French painter, even though lighting effects sometimes made him nauseous, even though he didn't want to be in the middle of people who might recognize him. The mere prospect of making you smile motivated him.

When he kissed your cheek in front of the museum, smelling your flowery perfume, he found you shy but cheerful. No doubt you remembered this conversation and were touched to see how far his little attentions could go. His joy increased tenfold as you both moved through the exhibition.

More fascinated by the woman in front of him than by the indistinct lilies, Lando kept his gaze fixed on you, smiling when you finally decided to speak: “I've always wanted to visit the British Museum. If I come to London to see you, will you take me there?”

“Of course.”

The subtle promise of seeing each other again.

“Oh, look! Impression, Sunrise!”

He let himself be pulled towards the animation, a smile on his lips.

CAMELLIA ! “admiration” ✩ Paris, rue de la Légion d'Honneur

With his cap screwed on his head, Lando was desperately trying to follow you through the Musée d'Orsay while avoiding the passers-by, who were far too numerous for his taste.

The great upward path, overlooked by numerous sculptures, including the majestic Porte de l'Enfer, was invaded by art lovers. Among them, you and your look of wonder, who almost pulled him by the arm, eager to show him your favourite works.

He refrained from telling you that he knew the exhibition well, having visited it every time he would come to Paris. He didn't want to tarnish the glow in your eyes.

“The room with all the Bouguereau is my favourite. Come on.”

You led him into Room 2. Immediately, Cabanel's Birth of Venus greeted you. Exposed on the right wall of this recess, he let his eyes wander over her perfectly defined contours, her sensual curves accentuated, her languid position.

“She's beautiful,” you said beside him.

He refrained from nodding, walking towards Room 3, where he saw Bouguereau's version, proud as it was, standing in the middle of this watery painting, like an ancient statue.

“I don't know which one I prefer. They're both beautiful,” you said, your pout showing your indecision. “It's interesting to see the same subject can lead to completely different interpretations.”

“I think I prefer Bouguereau's. She appears less as an object of desire and more as a goddess. She has this aura to her.”

“I mean… They still look at her with desire,” you retorted in reference to the other characters on the painting. “I wish people would look at me like that sometimes,” she went on. “With as much admiration as they do,” you pointed to the two nymphs to the right of the Goddess.

You quickly turned your attention to Dante and Virgil, a darker but equally beautiful painting. Lando followed behind, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful, but not without taking one last look at the painting.

All were in darkness except Venus, illuminated by a light coming from her right and emanating from the shell, which reigned in the centre of the vision. He looked at you, in the centre of the room, illuminated by one of the projectors. He smiled.

Of all the paintings, between academism and impressionism, your portrait was by far the most magnificent.

DAHLIA ! “generosity” ✩ Paris, rue St-Honoré

Lando and you quickly passed the forest green door of the Delamain bookshop, in desperate need for a refuge to escape rain. This unexpected storm had caught both of you by surprise, spoiling their initial plan to stroll through the Parisian streets.

Laughter – because your mascara had run, because Lando's jacket was soaked – echoed for a moment in the room's foyer but faded when your eyes finally took in the scenery. The central stalls jumped out for the visitors’ eyes, welcoming them and already urging them to buy. So numerous were the titles. One wondered how they didn't fall off. The latest Goncourt prize was sitting in the middle of it all, its garish red label attracting all eyes. Buy me, it screamed.

On the wall, when you could see them, mostly hidden by big oak bookcases, a few frames here and there represented the bookshop at different periods of its existence: 1790, 1850, 1970, 2010…

“How about we each choose a book and give it to each other?” Lando's voice drew you out of your state of admiration.

“Oh yes! That's a brilliant idea!”

You didn't see him smile – amused to see your vocabulary change for British English – as you walked by, already turned towards the back of the shop. You immediately began scanning the shelves for the perfect title. The Pleiades shelf on the left almost called to you, but the obvious language barrier between Lando and you came to mind, and, thus, you resigned yourself to looking elsewhere.

Reluctantly, you headed for the “Literature in English” section, disappointed that you could not share with him the beauty of French literature.

Several times you passed each other, exchanging a brief smile before resuming your search. It seemed endless. You spent the afternoon like this: in front of the stacks, reading the summaries of books, putting them down again. Nothing seemed good enough to be given as a present for the Other.

“What do you give to someone who has already read everything?”

“He'll think your classics are rubbish,” you cringed.

Finally, as six o'clock rang, the two of you stood outside the shop, each with a bag in hand, the rain already forgotten. You immediately handed your brown bag to Lando, who hurriedly took out the wrapped work. You both walked to escape from the street’s noise, while he struggled to remove the wrapping paper. The cover of A Room with a View by E. M. Forster was soon in his hands.

“I hope you like it. I chose it because it has a happy ending since you don’t like to be sad when you read,” you referred to one of your many debates.

Lando laughed, as you looked on in panic and immediately regretted your choice. Maybe he didn't like it? Had he already read it?

“Open yours.”

You complied, eyebrows furrowed, and pulled out The Song of Achilles by Madeleine Miller, which you had never read, despite the waves of enthusiasm on social media surrounding it.

“I got it for you because you love novels with bad endings.”

At his explanation, a giggle fell from your mouth. Your thought processes were not so different from each other after all… Smiling, you thanked Lando with a kiss on the jaw, which he returned.

You both returned to the bookstore several times during Lando’s trip, sometimes alone, but each time with a book in hand for the other.

CROCUS ! “joy” ✩ Paris, Jardin des Plantes

With a smile on your faces and your fingers intertwined, Lando and you strolled between the rectangular flowerbeds of the Jardin des Plantes, stopping at times to smell the sweetness of a bud that had or would soon become a flower. Time seemed to stand still in the middle of these flowers and shrubs. One could almost have seen the coquettes, dandies, grand ladies, and boisterous children who had walked these paths centuries before.

In the distance, the streets of the capital had never been so beautiful, an urban reflection of these hundreds of colourful touches: the yellow of the streetlamps, the orange of the cars’ indicators, the red of the shop signs. The Sun, comfortably seated on its highest point, dazzled your cheerful faces as it watched over you, smiling at this budding love.

Joy was such a pure feeling. One could see its aura, powerful and brilliant: a protective halo from the worst vices of the World. It sparkled around the two of you. Those heartbeats in unison, those candid laughs, all these little touches reinforced the beauty of the idyllic picture that was painted before the Sun’s eyes.

“Look!” you exclaimed.

One hand was holding your straw hat so it wouldn't fly off while the other was pointing to a colourful bird perched on a tree branch, its leaves coloured a resplendent green. The smell of freshly cut grass intoxicated passers-by, plunging them into a euphoria that only the end of spring could bring.

The feeling of being invincible was indescribable, reinforced by the Sun's rays, whose reflections chased away the shadows and, with them, the bad memories. All these trees formed an enchanting globe above the garden, pierced by these beams of light. The soft, pale pink flowers lowered and rose with the rhythm of the quiet wind.

This smooth transition between Summer and Autumn, these few precious days, was without a doubt your favourite time of year, synonymous with holidays, sunshine, tranquillity. You saw the joy of existence as well as rebirth with each yellowing leaf.

Happy to be able to enjoy this beautiful weather, small laughs escaped from your lips without realising it, hypnotised by this pastoral picture.

The characteristic sound of a camera caught your attention. Turning your head, your eyes obstructed for a few seconds by strands of hair, your gaze finally landed on the man a few metres away from. You hadn't even noticed that he had moved away, letting go of your hand as he did so.

You suddenly found it cruelly empty.

Lando was smiling at his screen. Curious, you hopped over to him, your white and light pink dress billowing in the wind. When you reached him, you leaned over his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to see what seemed to hypnotize him. With a grimace on your face, you quickly put a hand on the screen to try and hide the picture.

“Delete that! I'm ugly!”

“Don't bullshit me, you're always beautiful.”

You kissed his cheek, leaving it red from your lips.

BEGONIA ! “faith in the future” ✩ Paris, rue de Palestro

“Can you pass me the jam, please?” you asked, your tongue between your lips, concentrating on digging hearts into the dough with the end of a tablespoon.

An arm passed in front of your eyes, nearly turning the heart into a triangle. Lando easily grabbed the jam jar and continued scraping the bottom of the bowl.

“Stop eating the dough, you'll get sick.”

“Are you my mother? I don't think so.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled at his smug look. He shoved a teaspoonful of the mixture into his mouth to taunt you.

You chose not to say anything.

In just two weeks, and dozens of dates in addition to the many texts you exchanged, your relationship had evolved for the better: more spontaneous, less restrained. You were no longer trying to impress each other, although a few ambiguous little remarks continued to be exchanged, and were now fully enjoying this new comfort.

Neither really friends, nor really lovers, Lando reminded himself.

You hadn't even kissed yet, satisfied – for the moment – with the softness of a kiss on the cheek. Things were moving at your own pace: slowly, but surely. Lando could see that this was all new to you, who had confided in him about your lack of experience in relationships.

He was more than happy with this new pace. His previous relationships had all been formed on the fly, sometimes within two weeks, others within a month. If some had lasted a long time, a few years, all had been ruined by the desire to go too fast without consideration for the other. He had sometimes shared his bed with women he had loved deeply, without ever really getting to know them.

He did not want to fall into that pattern again. You were a breath of fresh air, an escape from this involuntary toxicity.

“I hope you're aware that I'm going to be intransigent on taste.”

“What are you, Gordon fucking Ramsay? You're going to eat the biscuits and shut your mouth. This isn't Come Dine With Me.”

“Shit, there goes my plan.”

The two of you laughed as you carefully filled the holes you had formed with raspberry jam. Without a word, Lando began to help you. Concentrating on your task, you did not notice him. It was only when you lifted your head to brush aside a lock of hair, which was in the way, that you realized his actions.

“You suck at this, get out!”

“Ouch!” You hit him with a tea towel. “Fuck, stop acting like my mother. You're hurting me!”

He fled from the kitchen under your attacks and laughter, finding refuge in the living room where he dropped onto the sofa. With a smile on his face, he traced each of the mouldings on the ceiling before straightening up and quietly watching you, who was humming some song in the kitchen.

He thought he recognised the tune, but didn't pay it any more attention than that, busy gazing at Her.

You looked ethereal, like a touch of heaven in the mundane.

Lando pondered over your future afternoons ⏤ in London, perhaps ⏤ and if, yes or no, they would all be this wonderful.

[caramelcuppaccino]

day 14 of my autumn studying challenge!:

• share a picture of your favorite pen/pencil!

it’s in the second pic! :] i got it from van gogh museum<3.

-> today’s study date with my friend ended with us realizing this assignment is harder and will take longer than we thought. we discussed how we can do it better and more effective and at the same time presentable. it’s gonna be hard to finish and our ppt will have to be definitely around seventy pages. but we’re working on it! i have another study date with another friend tomorrow<3.