Mise-en-Skin/Mise-en-Face
Title: Mise-en-Skin/Mise-en-Face
House: Hufflepuffagus
Challenge: Draw
Word Count: 100 each
Characters/Pairings: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Rating: PG-13?
Author's Notes: They're separate, but they go together. Each a different point of view.
They don't speak much of it; they don't have to. The questions and the answers both are etched into his very flesh: limbs drawn and gangling, ribs in high relief, skin a palette of pales, of premature grays. Her lips and fingers scan him, lay him open like a magazine. The legacy of Fenrir Greyback scrolls across belly, haunch, and throat, writ in crinkly egg-pale scars. Tattoo in negative. An autopictography. With each passing month comes new detail, fine lines in reds, browns. When Tonks bites his inner thigh, the deft-quick flick of his hips is worth a thousand words.
She is a blank canvas. No - a canvas is only blank once. She is a slate. She has the unthinkable luxury of redrawing her face in the mirror every morning. She has an aesthete's eye, and something of an artist's temperament: another day, another draft. Some days she is stylized, airbrushed like a pin-up girl, all smooth impossible lines; some days she is fucked-up, unplucked, Jackson Pollock chaos. On the best days, she is mousy photorealism: humble colors, comfortable disproportion, lips chapped in exquisite 3-D. In any case, Remus reserves comment; neither of them have much patience for dilettantes.
House: Hufflepuffagus
Challenge: Draw
Word Count: 100 each
Characters/Pairings: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Rating: PG-13?
Author's Notes: They're separate, but they go together. Each a different point of view.
They don't speak much of it; they don't have to. The questions and the answers both are etched into his very flesh: limbs drawn and gangling, ribs in high relief, skin a palette of pales, of premature grays. Her lips and fingers scan him, lay him open like a magazine. The legacy of Fenrir Greyback scrolls across belly, haunch, and throat, writ in crinkly egg-pale scars. Tattoo in negative. An autopictography. With each passing month comes new detail, fine lines in reds, browns. When Tonks bites his inner thigh, the deft-quick flick of his hips is worth a thousand words.
She is a blank canvas. No - a canvas is only blank once. She is a slate. She has the unthinkable luxury of redrawing her face in the mirror every morning. She has an aesthete's eye, and something of an artist's temperament: another day, another draft. Some days she is stylized, airbrushed like a pin-up girl, all smooth impossible lines; some days she is fucked-up, unplucked, Jackson Pollock chaos. On the best days, she is mousy photorealism: humble colors, comfortable disproportion, lips chapped in exquisite 3-D. In any case, Remus reserves comment; neither of them have much patience for dilettantes.