[Fic + Art] Paper-Eyed // Doodles
Dec. 25th, 2008 01:41 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dreamlandarrest.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
cafe_coimbraMerry Christmas, guys. <3
Here, have some Val-being-a-softie. Valerius and Salmakia (Sandy's Broomy).
(my obvious favorite from all the DimiVal fics I've done.)
Paper-Eyed
Let me set one thing straight: I am not a professional photographer. I see myself as a person who likes to capture moments that should be preserved in a medium other than a fickle memory. When one sees a scene that strikes them in some way or another, isn’t it handy to have a camera ready to steal the moment away?
Maybe I can call myself something like an opportunist. It is hardly professional.
This is why, when the creative director of a popular fashion magazine asked me to do a number of photo shoots for them, I agreed right away. I was not well-known by any means, and my work certainly wasn’t as out there as of the likes of those who shot for Vogue and had their own exhibits... It was a chance for me to get noticed, to show them my own distinct point of view as a photographer, as a person, and as an artist.
And this is why I nearly had a heart attack when she told me who my subject was to be.
Dimidium Demalion. Oh dear Lord.
I had never met him personally before the first photo shoot, but I knew who he was. It would’ve been preposterous if I didn’t know him. Who didn’t? He was an extremely famous model from our generation, adored by all, and every aspiring photographer’s dream subject. You saw his face on magazine covers and in their pages, his body adorning billboards lining highways, his smile haunting your dreams late at night.
From his pictures alone, you could drown in that irresistible charm, that insanely ethereal beauty, and those eyes.
His eyes printed on glossy paper already bore through my soul. What more the real thing?
The set was simple enough. It was an immaculately white room furnished with simple white furniture, glass tables and dim lights. The magazine staff thankfully left me to my own decisions, and I was quietly standing in the middle of the room with my camera and tripod. I did not need anything else. They, on the other hand, were whispering, panicking, talking loudly amongst themselves and giving each other orders to make the location as fitting as it would be for him.
Dimidium. From what I could gather, they wanted it to be as perfect as it could get, because for Dimidium nothing was ever perfect enough to match him. What was he like? Was he as condescending as other people in the light of fame were? Was he arrogant and boastful? Or was he like that minority who did not seem to be affected by the glitz and glamour of life in the spotlight?
As I was pondering those questions, he walked through the door.
From what I could tell, he was arrogant. His gait was confident, head held up high, looking straight ahead. The way he moved was akin to a panther’s, or perhaps a sort of eagle or falcon. He moved with elegance and grace, but he moved with a purpose in mind.
What struck me the most was that he was a million times more gorgeous in person than he was in photos. He was already heartbreakingly beautiful in those, so with him here, in the flesh... it was just staggering. His jet black hair was parted to the side, long bangs swept away from his face, framing his features perfectly, giving an air of sleek sophistication, yet was still a bit unkempt enough to have an underlying sense of playfulness. His skin was a stark contrast to his dark hair, as it was so pale and unblemished, and his lips seemed quirked into an eternal secretive smile.
But his eyes... The only way I could describe his eyes... They were a combination of liquid sex and beauty, alluring and seductive, yet light and inviting.
And then he looked around the room to see everyone staring at him openly with admiration, and he broke out into an easy grin.
“So sorry, loves. Am I late?”
We talked a little in between his poses. It was casual conversation between a photographer and his subject, with little awareness given to the people around us. His voice was smooth, his speech charismatic, semi-polite, and coquettish. I could see how he charmed everyone he came across with his small chuckles, his compliments, and his inconspicuous teases and flirting somehow wedged between it all.
He was twenty-one years old, and he had the world at his feet.
“Have you been a photographer for very long?”
“For around two years, actually...”
“Ah, I see. You get to meet all sorts of people in this job, huh?”
Cue his velvety laugh.
His poses are seductive, entrancing. He lounged on the couch effortlessly with catlike grace, black long-sleeved shirt form-fitting on his slim body and hand resting at the waistband of his pants, showing a small part of the skin on his hips.
To say that his beauty was a distraction was an understatement.
“How long have you been a model?”
“Not extremely long... It hasn’t been four years yet.”
“Less than four years and you’re already a household name. That’s a huge accomplishment.”
“Ahahah, no, no, my dear, there are more successful people than I in the world.”
“You’re being too modest.”
“...I am, aren’t I?”
Cue his small chuckle. Yes, he is arrogant, but he has much reason to be, and it makes him all the more interesting.
The next time I see Dimidium is on the street. He is dressed simply in a dark blue long-sleeved turtleneck, black skinny jeans, and sneakers. He has a long white scarf wrapped around his neck, and his hand was settled comfortably in his pocket. He still retains that air of sophistication and strong sex appeal that he had exhibited in the photo shoot I met him in, and the same air that permeates his image on the billboards and in the magazines.
He smiles like a wolf about to move in for the kill.
“Mmm, hello again. I haven’t seen you around for a while...”
His voice is delicious to the ears. It reminded me of something. Dark chocolate? Dark coffee? Dark and addicting...
“We are going to be late, Dimidium.”
It is only then that I notice that Dimidium has someone with him. He has long blonde hair almost to his shoulders. It is the color of pale sunlight, straight and waving slightly at the tips. He is just as tall or maybe a little shorter than the model he is next to. He is wearing a dark violet coat over a white button-up shirt and blue skinny jeans. Are those black knee-high boots...!?
“Ah, yes, of course. If you would excuse me, my darling photographer..?”
“Sure. Nice seeing you again.”
Dimidium gives a playful nod of his head and turns away, slinging his free arm over his companion’s shoulder, which was met with a low sound of protest.
As he leads him away, the other man turns his head to glance at me. He has a very attractive face. Was he a model as well?
His eyes are sculpted from sharp blue ice.
--------------------
The next time I talk to the magazine editor, I ask her whether she knows who that other man with Dimidium was. I know I shouldn’t pry and that Dimidium probably has legions of friends (you just can’t hate him), but he didn’t seem like the type of person that Dimidium would normally associate with.
Here I am talking like I knew him. Gods.
“Ah, you mean the blonde boy, very strict and uptight-looking?”
“...Yes, that’s him.”
“Ahaha, the Beaunvoliant boy...”
“Beaunvoliant?”
“Do you know that bookstore? Torre Degli Angeli? The Beaunvoliant family owns it. It’s a rather nice place if I do say so myself.”
“Yes...”
“Oh, I also would like to request something from you.”
Her request entailed enlisting my services again for another photoshoot with Dimidium. I agreed immediately. He photographed like a dream and was simply intoxicating to be around, not to mention he had an infectious light personality.
So there I was kneeling in front of my camera with Dimidium leaning against the wall across from me, face tilted towards the window overlooking the city sunset. This time he was in a long-sleeved polo with a black pinstriped vest over it, and form-fitting black slacks. His hair fell around his face flawlessly.
He was flawless.
When all the shots were stored in the camera and all the poses worked out and finished, I approached him while he packed his things at a table near another large window. It was night time now.
“Excuse me, Dimidium sir?”
“No need for formalities here. Just call me Dimi, my dear photographer.”
A wink.
I tried to steady my breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Who was that I saw you with that last time?”
He raised his eyebrow and the side of his lip quirked upward.
“Why do you want to know that?”
I blushed.
“Eh, no particular reason, he just seemed a bit...”
Dimidium lets out a sensual chuckle to die for.
“Like he could point a gun at your head and threaten to shoot you with a straight, emotionless face?”
“...Er, I suppose so. What is he to you?”
Dimidium laughs.
“Well, it’s true. That actually happened to me a couple of times already. It wasn’t really my fault though...”
“Dimidium sir?”
“Mmm, Call me Dimi, love.”
“Er... Dimi. You didn’t answer the question.”
He gave his famous smile and took his cellular phone out of his pocket.
“He’s someone who likes to say things like this to me on a daily basis.”
He showed me the phone, which had a text message displayed on its screen.
Val
05/23/2008 4:23 pm
It’s your damn fault I was late again today. Don’t you ever
think about the consequences of your actions? This is the third
time this week and gods Dimidium this better not happen again
Idiot...
Two days later, I find out from the magazine editor that his name is Valerius.
------------
Torre Degli Angeli was indeed a beautiful bookstore. It had its own small building in the shopping district of the town but was situated in a decidedly more incognito corner. It was not too big, and not too small, and was furnished in the style an old library would have been. The ceiling was painted with images of angels made out of mist and the tables, chairs, and bookshelves were made to look like aged wood. Strategically places couches were of a deep red color, bringing to mind images of aristocracy.
I wondered if I was taking this too far, but I needed to know. It made me curious. I wanted to know who Dimidium’s friends were. I also wanted to know why this Valerius Beaunvoliant seemed so impassive in his presence, for in that one time I saw them together, he didn’t have the same admiration in his eyes that all us others did.
I approached the young girl at the cashier counter.
I asked to see Valerius. He was apparently the manager.
He was in.
He came trailing behind the girl who called him down the steps of the winding staircase that led to the cafe on the second floor. His hair was just like I had seen it before: Elegantly dishevelled. He was in a military-inspired jacket, another crisp white button-up shirt, and dark blue skinny jeans. The knee-high black one-inch-heeled boots were back.
His eyes were still sharp, harsh, and deep deep blue.
-----
“So I presume you’re here to ask about Dimidium.”
“How did you-“
“Tch. You’re not the only one who comes here to bother me after meeting him.”
“Well, not exactly. I was going to ask you-“
“What I am to him?”
“How-“
“Do I need to reiterate my previous statement? You’re not the only one who sees fit to come here while I’m working to ask me things like that.”
“Then answer my question.”
Valerius is silent for a while. He looks up at the ceiling mist-angels and closes his eyes for a second. He opens them, and focuses those knifelike eyes on me.
“I’ll tell you what I tell every other obsessed fan who comes in here. When people like you look at Dimidium, you see Dimidium. When I look at that infuriating bastard, I see him.”
He turns around and goes back upstairs, the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden steps and his voice silent.
In two days I see them both at a large nightclub, during a party held by a partner of Dimidium’s modelling agency. He was the one who invited me.
I glance at him a ways away, cocktail glass in my hand and seated at the bar. Dimidium is lounging on a dark red couch that reminded me of the ones on the first floor of Torre Degli Angeli. His hair is more tousled than usual, his eyes dark and his smile predatory. His overall aura exudes sex. His arm is resting on the back of the couch, but it goes around someone else.
Valerius.
I watch them openly from my spot. Dimidium laughs, and leans over to whisper something into his companion’s ear. Valerius just turns his way and shakes his head.
Dimidium’s ensuing chuckle is drowned out by the sound of the loud techno music. He stands abruptly and grabs Valerius by the hand, and leads him to the middle of the dance floor.
Valerius crosses his arms and gives the other a defiant look. Dimidium hooks an arm around his waist and slides the other into his golden, golden hair. My eyes widen.
The beat of the music is erratic.
Amidst the sea of fluidly moving bodies and under the multitude of flashing lights, in the center of all the noise and orderly chaos that is present, Dimidium pulls him into a long, searing kiss.
Sandy, still being as uke-dork as ever because I've been leveling them recently. Minus glasses because I FAIL at them and minus bunny ears for a bit more dignity.
Yra and Aeda doodle~
<3 to all of you.
Here, have some Val-being-a-softie. Valerius and Salmakia (Sandy's Broomy).
(my obvious favorite from all the DimiVal fics I've done.)
Paper-Eyed
Let me set one thing straight: I am not a professional photographer. I see myself as a person who likes to capture moments that should be preserved in a medium other than a fickle memory. When one sees a scene that strikes them in some way or another, isn’t it handy to have a camera ready to steal the moment away?
Maybe I can call myself something like an opportunist. It is hardly professional.
This is why, when the creative director of a popular fashion magazine asked me to do a number of photo shoots for them, I agreed right away. I was not well-known by any means, and my work certainly wasn’t as out there as of the likes of those who shot for Vogue and had their own exhibits... It was a chance for me to get noticed, to show them my own distinct point of view as a photographer, as a person, and as an artist.
And this is why I nearly had a heart attack when she told me who my subject was to be.
Dimidium Demalion. Oh dear Lord.
I had never met him personally before the first photo shoot, but I knew who he was. It would’ve been preposterous if I didn’t know him. Who didn’t? He was an extremely famous model from our generation, adored by all, and every aspiring photographer’s dream subject. You saw his face on magazine covers and in their pages, his body adorning billboards lining highways, his smile haunting your dreams late at night.
From his pictures alone, you could drown in that irresistible charm, that insanely ethereal beauty, and those eyes.
His eyes printed on glossy paper already bore through my soul. What more the real thing?
The set was simple enough. It was an immaculately white room furnished with simple white furniture, glass tables and dim lights. The magazine staff thankfully left me to my own decisions, and I was quietly standing in the middle of the room with my camera and tripod. I did not need anything else. They, on the other hand, were whispering, panicking, talking loudly amongst themselves and giving each other orders to make the location as fitting as it would be for him.
Dimidium. From what I could gather, they wanted it to be as perfect as it could get, because for Dimidium nothing was ever perfect enough to match him. What was he like? Was he as condescending as other people in the light of fame were? Was he arrogant and boastful? Or was he like that minority who did not seem to be affected by the glitz and glamour of life in the spotlight?
As I was pondering those questions, he walked through the door.
From what I could tell, he was arrogant. His gait was confident, head held up high, looking straight ahead. The way he moved was akin to a panther’s, or perhaps a sort of eagle or falcon. He moved with elegance and grace, but he moved with a purpose in mind.
What struck me the most was that he was a million times more gorgeous in person than he was in photos. He was already heartbreakingly beautiful in those, so with him here, in the flesh... it was just staggering. His jet black hair was parted to the side, long bangs swept away from his face, framing his features perfectly, giving an air of sleek sophistication, yet was still a bit unkempt enough to have an underlying sense of playfulness. His skin was a stark contrast to his dark hair, as it was so pale and unblemished, and his lips seemed quirked into an eternal secretive smile.
But his eyes... The only way I could describe his eyes... They were a combination of liquid sex and beauty, alluring and seductive, yet light and inviting.
And then he looked around the room to see everyone staring at him openly with admiration, and he broke out into an easy grin.
“So sorry, loves. Am I late?”
We talked a little in between his poses. It was casual conversation between a photographer and his subject, with little awareness given to the people around us. His voice was smooth, his speech charismatic, semi-polite, and coquettish. I could see how he charmed everyone he came across with his small chuckles, his compliments, and his inconspicuous teases and flirting somehow wedged between it all.
He was twenty-one years old, and he had the world at his feet.
“Have you been a photographer for very long?”
“For around two years, actually...”
“Ah, I see. You get to meet all sorts of people in this job, huh?”
Cue his velvety laugh.
His poses are seductive, entrancing. He lounged on the couch effortlessly with catlike grace, black long-sleeved shirt form-fitting on his slim body and hand resting at the waistband of his pants, showing a small part of the skin on his hips.
To say that his beauty was a distraction was an understatement.
“How long have you been a model?”
“Not extremely long... It hasn’t been four years yet.”
“Less than four years and you’re already a household name. That’s a huge accomplishment.”
“Ahahah, no, no, my dear, there are more successful people than I in the world.”
“You’re being too modest.”
“...I am, aren’t I?”
Cue his small chuckle. Yes, he is arrogant, but he has much reason to be, and it makes him all the more interesting.
The next time I see Dimidium is on the street. He is dressed simply in a dark blue long-sleeved turtleneck, black skinny jeans, and sneakers. He has a long white scarf wrapped around his neck, and his hand was settled comfortably in his pocket. He still retains that air of sophistication and strong sex appeal that he had exhibited in the photo shoot I met him in, and the same air that permeates his image on the billboards and in the magazines.
He smiles like a wolf about to move in for the kill.
“Mmm, hello again. I haven’t seen you around for a while...”
His voice is delicious to the ears. It reminded me of something. Dark chocolate? Dark coffee? Dark and addicting...
“We are going to be late, Dimidium.”
It is only then that I notice that Dimidium has someone with him. He has long blonde hair almost to his shoulders. It is the color of pale sunlight, straight and waving slightly at the tips. He is just as tall or maybe a little shorter than the model he is next to. He is wearing a dark violet coat over a white button-up shirt and blue skinny jeans. Are those black knee-high boots...!?
“Ah, yes, of course. If you would excuse me, my darling photographer..?”
“Sure. Nice seeing you again.”
Dimidium gives a playful nod of his head and turns away, slinging his free arm over his companion’s shoulder, which was met with a low sound of protest.
As he leads him away, the other man turns his head to glance at me. He has a very attractive face. Was he a model as well?
His eyes are sculpted from sharp blue ice.
--------------------
The next time I talk to the magazine editor, I ask her whether she knows who that other man with Dimidium was. I know I shouldn’t pry and that Dimidium probably has legions of friends (you just can’t hate him), but he didn’t seem like the type of person that Dimidium would normally associate with.
Here I am talking like I knew him. Gods.
“Ah, you mean the blonde boy, very strict and uptight-looking?”
“...Yes, that’s him.”
“Ahaha, the Beaunvoliant boy...”
“Beaunvoliant?”
“Do you know that bookstore? Torre Degli Angeli? The Beaunvoliant family owns it. It’s a rather nice place if I do say so myself.”
“Yes...”
“Oh, I also would like to request something from you.”
Her request entailed enlisting my services again for another photoshoot with Dimidium. I agreed immediately. He photographed like a dream and was simply intoxicating to be around, not to mention he had an infectious light personality.
So there I was kneeling in front of my camera with Dimidium leaning against the wall across from me, face tilted towards the window overlooking the city sunset. This time he was in a long-sleeved polo with a black pinstriped vest over it, and form-fitting black slacks. His hair fell around his face flawlessly.
He was flawless.
When all the shots were stored in the camera and all the poses worked out and finished, I approached him while he packed his things at a table near another large window. It was night time now.
“Excuse me, Dimidium sir?”
“No need for formalities here. Just call me Dimi, my dear photographer.”
A wink.
I tried to steady my breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Who was that I saw you with that last time?”
He raised his eyebrow and the side of his lip quirked upward.
“Why do you want to know that?”
I blushed.
“Eh, no particular reason, he just seemed a bit...”
Dimidium lets out a sensual chuckle to die for.
“Like he could point a gun at your head and threaten to shoot you with a straight, emotionless face?”
“...Er, I suppose so. What is he to you?”
Dimidium laughs.
“Well, it’s true. That actually happened to me a couple of times already. It wasn’t really my fault though...”
“Dimidium sir?”
“Mmm, Call me Dimi, love.”
“Er... Dimi. You didn’t answer the question.”
He gave his famous smile and took his cellular phone out of his pocket.
“He’s someone who likes to say things like this to me on a daily basis.”
He showed me the phone, which had a text message displayed on its screen.
Val
05/23/2008 4:23 pm
It’s your damn fault I was late again today. Don’t you ever
think about the consequences of your actions? This is the third
time this week and gods Dimidium this better not happen again
Idiot...
Two days later, I find out from the magazine editor that his name is Valerius.
------------
Torre Degli Angeli was indeed a beautiful bookstore. It had its own small building in the shopping district of the town but was situated in a decidedly more incognito corner. It was not too big, and not too small, and was furnished in the style an old library would have been. The ceiling was painted with images of angels made out of mist and the tables, chairs, and bookshelves were made to look like aged wood. Strategically places couches were of a deep red color, bringing to mind images of aristocracy.
I wondered if I was taking this too far, but I needed to know. It made me curious. I wanted to know who Dimidium’s friends were. I also wanted to know why this Valerius Beaunvoliant seemed so impassive in his presence, for in that one time I saw them together, he didn’t have the same admiration in his eyes that all us others did.
I approached the young girl at the cashier counter.
I asked to see Valerius. He was apparently the manager.
He was in.
He came trailing behind the girl who called him down the steps of the winding staircase that led to the cafe on the second floor. His hair was just like I had seen it before: Elegantly dishevelled. He was in a military-inspired jacket, another crisp white button-up shirt, and dark blue skinny jeans. The knee-high black one-inch-heeled boots were back.
His eyes were still sharp, harsh, and deep deep blue.
-----
“So I presume you’re here to ask about Dimidium.”
“How did you-“
“Tch. You’re not the only one who comes here to bother me after meeting him.”
“Well, not exactly. I was going to ask you-“
“What I am to him?”
“How-“
“Do I need to reiterate my previous statement? You’re not the only one who sees fit to come here while I’m working to ask me things like that.”
“Then answer my question.”
Valerius is silent for a while. He looks up at the ceiling mist-angels and closes his eyes for a second. He opens them, and focuses those knifelike eyes on me.
“I’ll tell you what I tell every other obsessed fan who comes in here. When people like you look at Dimidium, you see Dimidium. When I look at that infuriating bastard, I see him.”
He turns around and goes back upstairs, the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden steps and his voice silent.
In two days I see them both at a large nightclub, during a party held by a partner of Dimidium’s modelling agency. He was the one who invited me.
I glance at him a ways away, cocktail glass in my hand and seated at the bar. Dimidium is lounging on a dark red couch that reminded me of the ones on the first floor of Torre Degli Angeli. His hair is more tousled than usual, his eyes dark and his smile predatory. His overall aura exudes sex. His arm is resting on the back of the couch, but it goes around someone else.
Valerius.
I watch them openly from my spot. Dimidium laughs, and leans over to whisper something into his companion’s ear. Valerius just turns his way and shakes his head.
Dimidium’s ensuing chuckle is drowned out by the sound of the loud techno music. He stands abruptly and grabs Valerius by the hand, and leads him to the middle of the dance floor.
Valerius crosses his arms and gives the other a defiant look. Dimidium hooks an arm around his waist and slides the other into his golden, golden hair. My eyes widen.
The beat of the music is erratic.
Amidst the sea of fluidly moving bodies and under the multitude of flashing lights, in the center of all the noise and orderly chaos that is present, Dimidium pulls him into a long, searing kiss.
Sandy, still being as uke-dork as ever because I've been leveling them recently. Minus glasses because I FAIL at them and minus bunny ears for a bit more dignity.
Yra and Aeda doodle~
<3 to all of you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-26 03:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 11:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 11:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 11:43 am (UTC)Disney princesses get happy endings, and I don't think getting continually molested/raped/toyedwith/abused is quite happy.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 12:48 pm (UTC)Molested yeah, but raped/abused is a bit... much? (Not that they wouldn't WANT to do it but Rani maintains some order within the family or things would go mad.)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-30 11:51 am (UTC)