#art teaching exercises

[bmpmp3]

drawring exercises

[modernmutiny]

I'm only on ep one of the live action atla and all I have to say so far is that all the fighters need more martial arts training. Or any, really.

[egoborderline]

Indefinite hiatus

[ky-lth]

tags by @nomohmoss

[ragnars-tooth]

I should not have been taught so badly for 3 years that i genuinely have to google how to find job postings in my field. "Get a degree!! Get a degree!!" for why. To be laughed at by out of touch tutors and not taught anything? It's certainly not going to help me get a job because i CANT FIND THEM. "People will see you went here and that will give you credibility." Will it roderick. Because I now know not to trust a motherfucker who went here 💀

[cosmic-kiwi]

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

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[phantom-dare]

couching stitches my beloved... french knot stitches my beloathed...

[tossawary]

I wish we saw more casual diversity among Vulcans in regards to... well, everything: fashion, art, history, geography, language, religion and philosophy, occupations, familial units, and logical styles and emotional management, and so on. The monoculture that "Star Trek" tends towards is both unrealistic and kind of boring.

(I think that my ideal "Star Trek" show would have a minimum of two matching non-humans in the main crew who are from opposite sides of their planet; these two alien coworkers have almost NOTHING in common. It immediately creates compelling character dynamics.)

Anyway, even within the specific Surakian Logic sect that Spock and his family seem to belong to, there's still opportunity for fun, divisive hobbies among this particular group of Vulcans. We can have judgey Vulcans looking at other Vulcans' weird, harmless antics and saying, "What illogical behavior," while the other Vulcans are judging them back for being illogical in their own opinion. Let Vulcans be REAL nerds: I think that pre-Surak historical reenactment is not an uncommon hobby, both casual LARPing and hardcore reenactment.

It's educational to spin and weave and sew your own pre-Surakian garments! It's educational to forge your own weaponry! It's grounding, like meditation! It is humbling to truly realize the complicated labor involved in fabrication. Even when they were surrendering to their emotional urges, you know, Vulcan ancestors were not completely illogical: they knew how to fashion a comfortable garment well-suited to the desert. Camping in the wilderness and foraging for food connects oneself to nature, teaches about history, and settles oneself in the present.

Also, it's good physical exercise and emotionally cathartic to beat the shit out of each other with foam-wrapped lirpa, screaming at the top of your lungs. It's very logical. There's a medical team on standby, reading on their pads and drinking tea.

You beam down in the wrong part of the desert at the right time and find a bunch of scantily-clad Vulcan warriors (outfits depend on the chosen time period and location) (of all genders) shrieking and rolling in the dirt, until a timer goes off, and then the scheduled mock-battle is over and everyone helps each other up. (Depends how hardcore the group is, of course.) (Also, yeah, obviously, some of these groups have a hook-up culture attached / embedded.) Two bleeding guys who were previously punching each other in the face salute each other and part ways, one to go write a new archeological paper based on his findings here ("Fascinating") and the other to his low-level government desk job ("Most invigorating exercise").

If this happens anywhere near where people live, then the neighbors are shaking their heads and saying to each other, "I don't know how anyone could come to their conclusions and call it logical. Their foundational premises must be flawed." 😐 Some of them while closely watching the entire scandalous affair through binoculars and telescopes, of course. 🤔

[beforetimes]

transmigrator luo binghe au where he's been an ardent reader of pidw for so long. like from first year in high school to third year in university it's been stretching. and he's fallen in and out of love throughout the years but the one thing that he's never shaken on is that shen qingqiu is probably the most one-sided evil character he's ever read in his life. like it's comical how much bad this guy will get up to but he's so easy to hate.

binghe tragically dies and wakes up as luo binghe, pure little disciple shortly after shen qingqiu's brought him up to the mountain and dumped tea on his head. and if this was the original luo binghe, he would have sat back and taken it and eventually gone batshit nuts as the original intended.

this binghe knows that trying to be nice and do his best doesn't do shit. so he starts engaging in what some would call mild psychological warfare and many verbal sparring matches with shen qingqiu.

this starts with pulling pranks that can't be traced back to him from experience doing such in the modern world with a little sister that ning yingying reminds him of before eventually escalating as he grows older to the kindest, most polite fluffed up words being used exclusively to talk to his shizun with. they both know that binghe absolutely does not mean them. but it's so fun to go back and forth with the scum villain

like, pidw has made a great point of stressing how much of a dick shen qingqiu was but the novel never mentioned how funny he was. a quarter of binghe's verbal repertoire is from catching snags of conversations shen qingqiu has with liu qingge and yue qingyuan and pretty much every other peak lord. there's an art to crafting benign sentences that have insults weaved into them.

now, shen qingqiu, in another version of this world? intensely abusive. not a good guy by a long shot. in this world? his smart mouthed disciple who went from meek and shy to immediately getting on the defensive and hitting back after shen qingqiu dumps tea on his head is more than enough to throw him off from his initial plans.

because, like, he's not sure why he hated luo binghe immediately upon seeing him. maybe because luo binghe reminds him of himself but acts so damn weak that it drives him to lash out. but this one bites back, has teeth and uses them, refuses to give an inch and can honestly stand up well enough. it's intriguing, sue him! almost every single other disciple on this mountain is too scared to speak to him with any degree of familiarity, while luo binghe acts as though there's no real social conventions between them while very carefully pretending to adhere to them.

like shen qingqiu has picked up on the fact that it's definitely on purpose that luo binghe is polite in class but only makes needling little remarks like "this one apologizes for the subpar performance, begging shizun's forgiveness. the composition of the piece is unique and this one only knows how to play more conventional pleasant melodies expertly." outside of class and away from anyone he could lose face around. longest way to call shen qingqiu's sheet music dogshit that he's ever heard. it's almost funny

but, at the same time—so disrespectful! he has to punish him somehow. laps hardly work because luo binghe is a physical cultivator and actually quite benefits from the exercise which is the last thing he wants to do. and writing essays also doesn't work because luo binghe just squeezes in more little asides like "this one has reflected on his actions and expresses guilt should it please shizun" and "this disciple was stupid for the assumption that the scholarly peak would appreciate my current language, in the future this one will persevere to wield shizun's teachings to the best of my ability."

so, next best thing; shen qingqiu makes luo binghe act as his personal hand. making dishes, cleaning the home, basically treating him like a de facto servant in all but name. luo binghe is more than used to the amount of chores he gets assigned during to living on his own during university and finds it almost? relaxing!

but the proximity to shen qingqiu leads to luo binghe getting a far different view of the man than he's ever read or seen yet: a human one.

which, like, luo binghe wasn't under the impression that every single person he met in this world would remain two dimensional book characters but he wasn't expecting to see it happen with shen qingqiu. there's a world of difference in seeing shen qingqiu during an argument with yue qingyuan and seeing the immediate aftermath, mask of a face stuttering to reveal a deeply troubled expression before he's wearing that infuriating—manufactured?—ice cold demeanour again. and making breakfast in the morning just to see how long it takes for shen qingqiu to come outside of his room, reminding him far too much of his old roommates depressive episodes where he's left laying in bed until duty drags him out. and he notices how no one visits and shen qingqiu is almost always alone and when peak lords do visit it's to needle at him or start fights or official business and nothing much inbetween. and luo binghe knows it's not an excuse to abuse him but he hasn't been whipped yet and everything bad that's happened so far hasn't been that bad at all. so now he's stuck with this realization that shen qingqiu is real and he's going to be here for a long few years. wouldn't it be in his best interest to try and make things more bearable for himself by making shen qingqiu a bit happier?

which. he doesn't know how to do that. so he tries a bit of everything. a lot of his ideas don't work and inspire more ire in shen qingqiu than he was expecting. so luo binghe decides to try being on his best behaviour. the picture of a perfect disciple when they go out on a trip down the mountain to deal with disappearances and a possible demon.

shen qingqiu is probably the most annoyed he's ever been then. snapping at him more, barking commands, insulting him to his face in front of the juniors he's brought along, because for some reason, luo binghe is the only disciple who isn't new and fresh who's been brought along for this trip.

everything to do with the skinner demon sucks. luo binghe always feels some sort of amusement or annoyance when it comes to shen qingqiu's jabs but he actually feels hurt this time. getting captured is the last straw—the trip up the mountain is dead silent and shen qingqiu lays into him unlike before behind closed doors, a few comments about false faces and idiotic attempts to manipulate thrown in there. and luo binghe is 100% expecting to get whipped for this before shen qingqiu just. tells him he'll be confined to the side room in the bamboo house until the morning. and nothing else.

luo binghe doesn't try to test his luck: he shuts his disciple ass up and listens. and wakes up the next morning to greet shen qingqiu with a tea and a mild comment about undue stress to the vocal cords leading to ailments and won't he try this honeyed tea he liked as a small child because (this he doesn't say out loud) it feels fitting for the situation? and shen qingqiu is stiff shouldered until this comment and they both continue onwards as though the mission never happened.

and etc etc etc. i will expand on this later trust. but if you want anything specific elaborated on just shoot me an ask :^)

[l-egionaire]

My Warrior!Penelope AU: Telemachus

Since Odysseus is home and I don't see the thing with the suitors happening in my version of the au, what ends up going on with Telemachus? Well, with his father being slowly poisoned by treacherous servants, I imagine him taking over as man of the house. His father is becoming so weak and sickly that he starts taking on more and more of his responsibilities, meeting with court, talking with the townspeople, performing diplomatic and so on. It's hard, and stressful. Not only do the more senior members of his father's court look at him like a child trying to play king, but he also has to constantly check in on and try to take care of his ailing father and secretly fearing that he'll lose another parent. It's hard on him and he feels like he doesn't have anyone to help....until one day, while trying to argue a trade negotiation, the members of court around him seem to freeze.

"Wha-whats going on?

"That'd be me."

He turns to see Athena standing next to his chair.

"What's happening? Is time....frozen?"

"Nope. I just sped up your thoughts. Gave you a little extra time to think."

"Whoa....cool!"

Athen chuckles.

"Lets have a little chat..."

Soon, Athena is there acting as both his friend and advisor, teaching him about diplomacy, treaties, negotiation, and politics, as well as training him in the art of battle, now that her warrior of the mind was....unwell. However, she offered him other aid as well. She explained her suspicions about his father being poisoned and suggested Telemachus cook his meals in secret to test it. Sure enough, once he stops eating the food given by the servants, he begins to slowly recover.

Under Telemachus's watch, Ithaca and Odysseus grow stronger. But still his council doubts his abilities, during one meeting even getting into a fiercesome shouting match with him over a deal he made to ask another kingdom for help protecting them with so many of their soldiers gone. It gets to the point that they're shouting him down, and he's about ready to rip his hair out...when once again, time slows down around him. But this felt different than Athena's quick thought. Hers seemed to fill the air with a calm, cooling aura that made his thoughts flow smoother. This was hot, humid and filled his mind with searing rage.

"Are you just going to let them talk to you like that all day?"

He looks to his side, in the opposite spot to where Athena would usually appear, and saw a tall, muscular figure in full armor and blood red cape.

Telemachus's eyes widened.

"Ares...."

The war god looked down at him with blazing red eyes.

"You are the leader. ACT like it. Don't allow them to simply push you around like this."

Telemachus then turned back to his council. He grit his teeth and, as time returned back to its usual pace, slammed both fists against the meeting table.

"ENOUGH! While I understand your concerns, this is MY decision! And I won't have you questioning it!"

That made them quiet down and Telemachus could swear he heard low, rumbling laughter.

After the meeting, Ares appears to him in his room, Athena also there glaring at him.

"Why are you here?"

"To assist the young prince, of course."

"I'm ALREADY helping him!"

"Can a king not have more than one counsel? Can a warrior not have more than one master? Besides, I certainly was more help today than you were."

Athena growls and raises her spear but Telemachus steps between them.

"No! He's right. I think....I think he can help me. In a different way then you, I mean."

Athen grimaces while Ares give her a smug smile.

"Ugh...Fine..."

And from that day, Telemachus splits his time between being trained by the two gods. Athena teaches him battle strategies and techniques, Ares gives him physical training and Exercise. Athena teaches him about reading treaties and Ares takes him to hunt and skin a boar. Athena trains him in the buisness of diplomacy and bridge building and Ares coaches him on the basics of war and battle. Strangely, while both gods talk poorly of the other, it's not uncommon for one of them to watch while he trains with the other.

One day, both watch from a balcony as he works with a spear against a training dummy.

"......He's a good lad.....he'll grow strong. Grow well."

"Yes, I'm sure he will......and I have to imagine he'd grow better with his MOTHER."

"........."

"Ares, it's been TWENTY YEARS. WHERE is Penlope?

".......She......she accured the wrath of two of the gods. And Father, saw fit to...to punish her...."

"What? Punish her how?"

"Well, first he.....he.....you know how father is with women...."

Athena's eyes widen.

". Oh, Odysseus is going to KILL him."

"Father is king of the gods."

"And Odysseus will still find a way to, for putting his hands on his wife."

Ares can't help letting out a chuckle.

"What did he do after that?"

"He....saw fit to banish her to the Land of the Giants."

"The Land of-She could be KILLED! Ares, why haven't you DONE something!? Why haven't you talked to him or tried to help her!?

"YOU THINK I WOULDN'T IF I COULD!? It is because of my blessing alone that Dionysus and Father did not SLAY her! It's the sole reason she still lives! I told her the same. And she.....she asked me to watch over the boy. Make sure HE stays safe."

".....There really isn't ANYTHING you can do?"

"You KNOW how our father is Athena. Besides, this punishment comes from Apollo. His favored son. And I'm.....I'm not......he won't listen to me."

"....But he might listen to US."

Ares looks at her.

"....You really think it would change anything?:

"I think it woud at least show we're serious. We NEVER agree on anything.

"...Why would you help me?"

"Because Telemachus needs his mother, and Odysseus needs his wife back. And i promised them both that if I could, I would do everything in my power to bring her back to them.

"....Very well sister."

[csuitebitches]

Whilst you nourish your body with exercise, slow yoga, nighttime body milk, adorn it with jewellery and sultry perfume, carefully drape it with clothes that fit… don’t forget to nourish your mind. Classical music, podcasts, brain games like crosswords, sudoku, mental math, art even if you’re terrible at it, gardening even if your plants never seem to grow, cooking even if you might burn the house down - embrace learning, embrace curiosity, and enjoy your own company. Be the best wife you could be to your own self first. Care for yourself, defend yourself, grow, teach, constructively criticise yourself; be the best parent you could be to yourself.

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

I'm such a sucker for cozy temple headcanons. Jedi coming home from months-long journeys to rest and heal and see their friends. Shared meals and trading stories and updating the archive records. That scene where Obi Wan goes to consult Yoda and the younglings and becomes part of a teaching moment. Cal playing a jedi-composed song on the guitar. Taking on the occasional guard or creche-shift. Sharing what they learned on their trips. People doing their daily exercises together. The halls of healing and the room of a thousand fountains. There always being things to do at the temple but it being gentle work. The art in the halls made in their downtime. The flow of it, a tide coming in, and then going out again.

[starsandsuch]

ATMAKARAKA THROUGH THE HOUSES: how does your soul’s purpose manifest in this lifetime? 💡🦋

Your Atmakaraka is the planet in your Vedic Astrology chart with the highest degree. This planet represents your soul’s purpose in the lifetime.

Your Atmakaraka is called your soul planet or your AK planet. It is the significator of your soul.

The house your Soul Planet is in will paint a picture to how exactly your souls purpose will manifest in this lifetime.

Read my original post on identifying your soul planet: here

Atmakaraka in the 1H:

Your souls purpose is about self development. You’re meant to cultivate your own identity in this lifetime. Your major life lessons relate to being authentic and following your own journey. To develop strong boundaries between who you are vs what your expected to be. You’re meant to do things uniquely in a way that suits you and you only. Disregard the path society sets out for you, and create your own. You’re destined for notoriety and recognition.

Atmakaraka in the 2H:

Your soul’s purpose is about creating stability and security for yourself. Your meant to establish yourself in the material world, and be self-sufficient financially. You’re life’s journey is about sustenance. Sustaining yourself, your name, your possessions, your resources and your money. It’s all about creating and maintaining a proper foundation for yourself. You’re meant to use your voice as a method for fulfilling your purpose. Developing your speech to convey a message is apart of what your soul wants to do.

Atmakaraka in the 3H:

Your soul’s purpose is about communication. How do you express yourself? What mediums help you get your message across most authentically? You are destined to bring a specific message to the world that can only be channeled through you. Your destiny has a lot to do with speech, messages, media and conversation. You are meant to exercise a sense of courage in this life and do things fearlessly. Fearlessly communicating your authentic thoughts to the world. Saying what’s on your heart. Through music, writing, poetry, public speaking and the like.

Atmakaraka in the 4H

Your soul’s journey is about developing your inner happiness. Your meant to do what brings you emotional fulfillment. What makes you feel safe, secure, emotionally aligned? That is what your soul seeks to experience in this lifetime. Alignment with family and ancestors is a key life theme for you. To experience the emotional bond with people you call your family. You’re meant to get in touch with your roots, and align with the foundation of who you are. You’re soul seeks a sense of rootedness to the past in order to cultivate your future. The connection you have with your mother is an important part of your journey.

Atmakaraka in the 5H:

Your destined to express yourself creatively in this lifetime. You’re meant to develop and display your creative talents to the world. Your creative contributions are important, unique, and only can be expressed by you. Your life purpose is connected to performance, arts and entertainment. Through these mediums you are able to express your true soul purpose. Parenthood is a sacred journey for you, where you’re meant to experience preganacy/ raising a child. Your destiny is connected to children in general. Teaching them, guiding them, being involved in their development.

Atmakaraka in the 6H:

Your soul seeks to be of service in this lifetime. You are meant to be a healer. Healing yourself, healing those who need your help. Your power lies in being of service to humanity through your healing abilities. You are destined to overcome adversities and cultivate a sense of resilience. You’ll experience challenges, yet this transforms you into the ultimate problem-solver. You develop impenetrable strength: mentally, spiritually and psychologically. You incarnated because society needs your help, God sending one of his strongest soldiers to help heal the world. You have a special connection with animals in this lifetime. They are your allies in this journey.

Atmakaraka in the 7H

Your soul seeks to connect with others through partnership. Your soul’s purpose involves being in relationships that are fulfilling on a emotional, psychological and physical level. It is in your destiny to cultivate your social presence in the world, being a person of charm, decorum and worldliness. Your major life themes involve how you appeal to people and how you use your social connections to elevate your life. Your soul seeks to be impactful in society, through the social influence you have.

Atmakaraka in the 8H:

Your soul’s purpose is destined towards transformation. You experience blockages, challenges and adversities but come out stronger every time. You’re meant to turn your pain into power, to be an alchemist. Your soul came here to experience transformation. Spiritually, mentally, physically and psychologically. You’ll be faced with many unexpected crises yet your powerful intuition will always guide you. The occult knowledge you have will be key in your journey. You’re destined to experience the power that comes from transforming yourself and your life. You’re destined to leave a powerful legacy.

Atmakaraka in the 9H:

You’re destined to be a guide to others. Your soul came here with the purpose of spiritual evolution. Over the course of your life you’ll have many awakenings, epiphanies and realizations. This leads you to amassing abundant wisdom. You’re destined to teach the wisdom you have to others, guiding them on their paths. Your destiny is a worldly one, where it impacts people on a global scale. Your soul seeks the truth, spiritual knowledge, and the ability to live a life free of falsities and illusions.

Atmakaraka in the 10H:

You are destined to achieve your long term goals and be established in the material world. Your soul seeks achievement in the material world. To be successful , have recognition and status is what you’re here to achieve. Your destined to leave your mark on the world in an authentic way, your here to build and leave your legacy through your career and reputation. You are destined for fame or high status.

Atmakaraka in the 11H:

You are destined to fulfill your wishes and desires. Your life has a lot to do with manifesting. Manifesting your long term goals and unique visions. You are a visionary. You’re meant to focus on your gains in life and how you can achieve success in the material realm. Along the way you are likely to be popular and influential. Your purpose leads you to elevating humanity through your influence, there’s a deeper theme here of you making a difference in the world. Your goals and desires help the collective at large. Through your influence you help shape the trajectory of society.

Atmakaraka in the 12H:

Your destiny is about spiritual liberation. Your soul seeks truth and enlightenment. More importantly it seeks freedom from the cycles of reincarnation. You’re likely here on earth now as one of your final lifetimes. You are an old soul. This means your life is about letting go and not having attachments in the material realm that keep you trapped here. That’s why you’re on a discovery of truth. Dispelling illusions and aligning with your true spiritual journey. Your road is lonely, isolating and harrowing at times, but it’s all for the purpose of aligning you with your spiritual destiny. You are a healer and wise person. Your purpose involves being of service to others. You find it hard to connect to the material world/ mainstream society bc your destined for something greater. You’re meant to fulfill your spiritual goals more than material. 12th house is the “exit”. The spiritual, mystical exit where your soul elevates to the next realm after this incarnation, and you break free from being recycled back to earth.

Related posts:

Your soul planet and your mission in this lifetime

Your 1st house ruler and your unique life path

[ranmagender]

Art Videos I've Learned From

Here's some art videos that i greatly learned from. i dont work well with things presented in a specific rigid fashion my brain just doesnt respond to it well so here's some that helped me.

Teaching Myself to Draw for 30 days by Leap Tries It

Even more so than the pewdiepie video this video was what made me feel like i could do it myself, he shows like every step of the way both mistakes and victories, its nice.

Pursuing Art at 30 (as a beginner) by Taylor Losch

This one resonated with me because I'm also 30 and while I did draw things as a younger person I gave it up around the time I turned 18 because my mindset was still that if im not instantly good at something i cry. Its a nice video and outlines his pursuit.

What to study to improve your art by bluebiscuits

lays out the fundamentals in an easy to digest manner. what i appreciate is that she lays it out without assumptions of you going for a realistic style which i feel too many art tutorials fall into on youtube

Draw boxes (correctly) to improve your art by pikat

Lays out how drawing boxes helps you be able to draw in perspective and build up your character to make them look less flat. Ive still yet to learn this but ive been doing exercises of drawing boxes so im sure its just a matter of drawing more and more boxes.

Can a beginner ACTUALLY learn how to draw in 30 days? by pikat

she goes over the pewdiepie video and does an experiment with her partner who doesnt really draw and is a math and spreadsheet nerd and idk i thought it was just fun and cute at times. It does also show some pitfalls.

Theres more but I think these are a good place to start, at least they were for me. Your experience may differ, people learn differently but hopefully this will help some

[girliism]

https://www.tumblr.com/girliism/779097332851539969/art-donaldson-is-a-pilates-princess

wait….. pilates instructor x art…… private lessons……

you’re so smarty 🙂‍↕️

art who just recently took up pilates, and was obsessed. it was probably the hardest shit he’s ever done, but the feeling of your soft hands coming up to correct his form or the view of your ass in your baby blue leggings kept him coming back. also why he booked a private lesson with you.

art showed up right on time, and the lesson started out how all your privates do. a quick warmup before moving into a series of controlled exercises. you don’t know who made the first move out the flirty looks and wandering touches you were giving each other, but soon a hole was ripped in the crotch of your leggings, and you were hovering over art’s cock. the heavy knowledge of much trouble you could into for this hung over your head, but it didn’t stop you from seeking down on arts full length.

you both let out moans that lightly echoed in the studio. the moans didn’t stop coming as you started bouncing, the reformer machine creaking slightly. “s-so deep.” you started to get that familiar ache in your thighs you usually got while teaching a class. “fuck, you look so good on top of me.” art yanked your top down freeing your tits from your sports bra taking one in his palm. planting his feet on the floor art sat up hooking his arm around your waist pulling you into him. he began thrusting up into your heat hitting right on your g post. your toes curled and your core engaged out of reflex. “shit shit, m’so c-close.” art nodded, pressing his lips against yours and his thumb on you clit. both your orgasms rushed over you. a creamy mix of your arousals leaked out onto the seat of the machine you were definitely gonna have to burn later.