#@yourcoolauntie

[clairesgaragezine]

CGZ Featured Artist: MJ (Molly Jean)

May 25, 2023

Everyone, I am SO excited!! Please welcome our very first featured artist: MJ, stands for Molly Jean, female, 38 years old in Kansas City, Missouri. No formal art education outside of the 7 art classes she took in highschool. She took two semesters of theater in community college, "that counts for something" she says. She used to have a website but hasn't updated in years, you can go ahead and find her on Instagram @mollyjean.art  or over on her Tumblr which is a mish mash of fan girl stuff and whatever else she feels like @yourcoolauntie (for her avatar of Aunt Gayle from Bob's Burgers)

Leviathan, 2012 (Acrylic on canvas, 16x20in)

CGZ: When did you start painting? What’s your earliest memory of painting or of creating art? 

MJ: I remember making a little pinch pot in Kindergarten. In first grade we made robots out of different materials, they were flat on paper, it was mixed medium. I used tinfoil and some other stuff. It got hung up at the school district's main office, they tracked me down and gave it back to me in highschool! 

CGZ: And where is the robot now?

MJ: I don't know where the robot is, my mom may have it in a box but it may have gotten lost.

Object II, 2020 (Acrylic on canvas, 30x40 in)

CGZ: Has your birthplace or your family background influenced your approach to creating art? 

MJ: I wish I had an answer about my culture or my family heritage, but I don't. My dad's side is Irish & English, his family came over well over a hundred years ago. My mom is half Croatian but her grandparents were old by the time she was born, and they all assimilated very thoroughly, so I know little of Slavic culture. So birthplace and heritage…the isolating suburbs of the southern midwest. 

Ultimately art has been my constant therapy, so my approach is, I have to do it. Let me try not to trauma dump too much. I grew up in a very dysfunctional home. My mom was the gentler one, my dad was scary. But my folks would take my siblings and I out to museums and around the city to expose us to a bigger world outside our suburb. We grew up poorer than we should have been because my dad was a high functioning addict, with an okay job with the city, but money went to drugs and lawyers. So I'm certain being aware early on of how class works in America shaped me as well. My mom and dad were too different from one another but they both appreciated the world, usually in a very critical and very negative way. My father, troubled, but very smart, always played music, records, he loved movies and anything avant garde and fringe. He had no boundaries and it was a volatile home. So, in a house where one parent was always afraid to speak up because her spouse would explode in a rage and the other never not talking about his every thought and feeling…I never learned to properly communicate mine. So…art. My folks are still alive…I realize I wrote this like they're dead.

CGZ: Who are your biggest artistic influences? 

MJ: The dadaists, the surrealists, abstract expressionists, the early abstract guys like Wassily Kandinsky. We watched a documentary in Jr. high about Keith Haring that stuck with me. That's a big leap from Picasso to Haring but this is kinda off the top of my head, I never took any art history courses.

CGZ: How has your art practice changed over time? 

MJ: I used to be uncomfortable calling myself an artist, in my early 20s I didn't think I'd earned it because I hadn't sold anything yet. That was real dumb. If you make something that serves absolutely no function other than you created it and now it exists and now it's in the world to be debated, analyzed or just looked at and displayed, congratulations you made an art. That aligns with the old adage of Art for art's sake.

CGZ: What do you like best about your work? What makes you happy when you’re creating?

MJ: I don't think I have a best liked…but I'm generally pleased if I can come close to what I had in my mind before I started.

Labyrinth, 2022 (Acrylic on canvas, 16x20 in)

CGZ: I adored your 2023 International Women’s Day post (self-portraits in a candlelit bath with body-affirming/life-affirming messages). Is there a shared meaning or messaging across your whole art practice? What differs for you between your abstract paintings and your photography projects?

MJ: Thank you so much for saying that. Also, great question. This is actually something I've thought about because I'm scared. It's been years since I've displayed anything and I'm worried if I approach a gallery they will ask me this and I will squeak out a bullshit answer like, let the art speak for itself. I think if there is a thread between all my work, paint, mixed media, photography it's about discovery and exploration, acceptance. I'm a traumatized, depressed, queer so that's easy, right? Looking at the parts of ourselves we'd rather keep hidden because of shame or pain, that we all have a part of ourselves we must excavate. Even folks with happy childhoods. Just don't lose yourself in the ditch in the process.  …I'm not sure any of that made sense.

CGZ: What are some of the most memorable responses you’ve received about your work? 

MJ: About a decade or so ago a friend made a little film about this shadowbox project I was doing. It was an artist showcase. I was in the film community as a script supervisor…so that's how most knew me. I didn't talk about my art. I can't watch it now because I cringe…but after the viewing, a DP came up to me and he said, "I didn't know you were interesting." Weird backhanded compliment.

Another standout is walking into a pop up gallery I was showing at and meeting a jewelry designer there and she said, "You must be MJ, you look like your art." That was very affirming.

CGZ: What are the “little things” that you notice but no one else does that inspire your work? 

MJ: A sunrise, the way light simmers and breaks apart when it shines through a tree canopy. I think people see that stuff, I don't want to pretend I have some profound insight on life that others don't. I suppose it's about priorities and what we choose to register and spend our time on. I have no children or a partner, I'm my own distraction and obstacle. I do prioritize stillness.

CGZ: What are your favorite mediums to create in? Are there any “experimental” or new-to-you mediums that you’re interested in exploring?

MJ:  Acrylic is my main bag. I'd love to work with oils. Not very exciting I know. Honestly, I have ideas for sculptures but have no idea where to begin.

CGZ: What is your favorite time of day to create? What’s your “just right” setting? Do you have a favorite drink or mood-setting music? A lucky trinket you keep nearby?

MJ: Some might not say I'm not a true artist because I have a day job and am not starving for my art…but that's the dream right, to be able to eat and shelter yourself and do only art. So, usually midday on a day off. I might smoke some weed, I will definitely be listening to music, through my stereo setup or my headphones. 

CGZ: Describe what it feels like when you know a piece is finished. What makes you sit back and go “That’s done.”

MJ: I never have that feeling of "done", it's usually, I have exhausted all effort and I am either satisfied or I'm not. I'm guilty of painting over works. But I have a few pieces I think I'm completely satisfied with. The ones pictured are a few of those.

CGZ: Where do you go for inspiration? What helps refill the well?

MJ: Listening to other artists, and other people speak on their work. Moonage Daydream, the David Bowie documentary I watched the other night for example. I recently watched a piece on Roberta Flack. Music is a big motivator. I live about 10 miles from The Nelson Atkins Museum of art, so going and looking at the Marcel Duchamp or the Van Gogh's helps too.

CGZ: Do you have a favorite art museum? When you go there, where do you beeline to first?

MJ: See previous. Ha.

CGZ: What’s the weirdest or best book you’ve read recently?

MJ: I'm shit at getting around to finishing a book. I have Blood, Sweat and Chrome: The Wild and True Story of Mad Max Fury Road next to my bed. Spine not cracked. 

CGZ: As the kids say: “I’m in my ___ era.” What era are you in? 

MJ: Hermit. My fingernails haven't started to curl yet so there is still hope.

As Above So Below, 2020 (Acrylic on canvas, 16x20 in)

CGZ: What song has been stuck in your head lately? 

MJ: Recently, On My Own from Les Mis. The hermit bit aside, I did just go catch the tour that came through town. So…

CGZ: What keeps you going? How do you overcome creative blocks?

MJ: I don't have creative blocks per se. They can happen but mostly I have hurdles. I let my brother move into the room I was using as my studio…so, I haven't been painting as much. But I have to always be creating something. As a kid before I painted I played piano, then got into theater, acting, modeling for a couple years. I once had a webshow with a best friend where we reviewed TV shows and recreated the episode using Barbie dolls. I was 27. Nowadays I write or play with photography, if I can't paint. Recently, some poetry, and about 100,000 words worth of fan fiction. A girl has gotta let it out somehow, no shame.

CGZ: What’s the best piece of artist/creator advice you’ve heard?

MJ: I'm sure I've heard plenty but my memory is crap, so I have no quotes to give you right now. I think in highschool, when my teacher came up over my shoulder and pointed at the heavy outline in my still life (that she'd tried to get me to stop doing) and said, "You just can't help yourself can you? That's just how you paint." Taught me something. We can be taught and told and can imitate and follow instructions and still reveal ourselves through a simple unconscious stroke.

CGZ: Where do you hope to be in five years? Ten? (Wrong answers only.)

MJ: I can't even provide a wrong answer. These kinds of questions addle my sick brain.

CGZ: A parting quote for our readers? (I adored, “I can't wait until I'm dead and all my art is at a thrift store or left beside a dumpster.”)

MJ: I'm glad you appreciated that. I do love the MOBA, museumofbadart.org, and would feel no shame being included there, they do important work, I do believe that.

I feel like I've said too much. I was mentally smoking a cigarette this whole time. So I'm stomping it out now. Just imagine me staring into your eyes like performance artist Marina Abramovic and come up with something.

This was really fun and terrifying by the way. Thanks so much Claire 🖤

Communication, 2020 (Acrylic and oil on canvas, 18x24 in)

Hellhound, 2012 (Acrylic on canvas, 16x20 in)

[perotovar]

If he's not taken...

Din Djarin – Heimdall [Heimdallr] (Gatekeeper of Asgard, the gods’ stronghold within Valhalla. God of guardianship, vigilance, and protection.)

🖤🖤🖤Thanks🖤🖤🖤- @djarinmuse (can't send asks from sideblogs still

you're actually the only one to ask for our dear din! it's as if the gods willed it 😌

-

Gatekeeper of Asgard, the gods’ stronghold within Valhalla. God of guardianship, vigilance, and protection. Lives in a dwelling called “Himinbjörg”, or “Sky Cliffs”, which sits at the top of the Bifrost, the rainbow bridge that leads into Asgard.

Requires less sleep than a bird and has eyesight so keen that he can see for hundreds of miles by day or night, and his hearing is so acute that he can hear grass growing on the ground.

He stands guard, watching and listening at the ready, and uses his horn “Gjallarhorn” (“Resounding Horn”) when intruders approach. It’s during Raganrok that the gods will know of their doom when the sound of Heimdallr’s horn pierces the air, signaling the arrival of the Jotun.

Loki is a personal enemy of Heimdallr and when he arrives with the Jotun, they kill each other just as the world burns around them and sinks into the sea.

Like so many of the other gods, we don’t have very much information on Heimdallr since so much of the myths have been lost to time and the forced conversion to Christianity. Because of this, we’ve got an association with rams for Heimdallr, but we’re unclear as to why.

A notoriously enigmatic verse in one Old Norse poem states that Heimdallr’s hljóð is hidden beneath the world tree Yggdrasil and is somehow associated with the eye that Odin sacrificed. The word hljóð has a wide variety of meanings, and could equally plausibly refer to Gjallarhorn, Heimdallr’s hearing in an abstract sense, or his hearing represented in concrete form as an ear. It’s possible Heimdallr sacrificed one of his ears for some great reward, like Odin, but there’s no way to know for sure.

and your moodboard:

[thefrogdalorian]

💐 once you receive this lovely bouquet of flowers you have to mention five things you love, publicly, and send it to 10 of your favorite followers if you want. SPREAD POSITIVITY! ⛅️

(Sending back to ya)

Ahh thanks for sending it back!! ♡

5 things I love:

Din Djarin

The Mandalorian

Officer TK-593

Grogu's father

Brown eyes

This is still the truth heheh, but I posted a serious answer here

[trulybetty]

Get attacked!! ✨🌈SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING🌈✨💖🌸🌸🌸

Thank you lovely! 😘

[galaxyedging]

Javier?!

@yourcoolauntie

[evolnoomym]

This is a Follower Milestone gift the sweet @the-mandawhor1an made for me 🥹🩵🩵🩵 I love you Wolke 🫶🏻🫂

And I want to pass on some MinaMilk to all of you 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

I’ve made some really great friends on here and you all deserve to get a big fat thank you, kisses and hugs !!!

With love, Your Moon Fairy aka MinaMilk 🌙🧚‍♀️🥛

@beefrobeefcal @joelsgreys @penvisions @tightjeansjavi @aurorawritestoescape @strang3lov3 @guiltyasdave @xdaddysprincessxx @mountainsandmayhem @milla-frenchy @joelmillerisapunk @mrsmando @iamasaddie @syd-djarin @studioghibelli @msjarvis @joelsgreenflannel @atinylittlepain @vivian-pascal @noxturnalpascal @sizzlingcloudmentality @yorksgirl @sin-djarin @joelslegalwhre @thundermartini @clawdee @almostfoxglove @joelalorian @morallyinept @ovaryacted @toxicanonymity @luxurychristmaspudding @rivnedell @moonlitbirdie @zloshy @sixhours @smok3r7 @bitchesuntitled @merz-8 @endlessthxxghts @punkshort @beardedjoel @tonysopranosrobe @cavillscurls @pedropeach @ozarkthedog @yourcoolauntie @jksprincess10 @fhatbhabiee

[perotovar]

I heard it's your birthday.

He picked this balloon up at Kmart for you.

omfg kmart??? i haven’t heard that name in years he’s GOOD 😂

thank you both! 😉🥰

[yopossum]

MOOTBOARDS AND MINIFICS TIME!!!!!

What is it?:

A celebration of friends and creativity and freaky internet weirdos and one beautiful 49-year-old man, open to all in the fandom!

How do I do it?:

Send me an ask with ONE Pedro character of your choice (minor roles welcome, no RPF please!) and ONE color number you’ve selected from the provided options:

I will make you a unique moodboard (mootboard!!) featuring that color and P-boy (see above image for an example)

You use the mootboard as inspiration for a minific, as short or as long as you wish — could be a story or just a blurb or a brainworm or whatever feels good to you!

Tag @yopossum and use the hashtag #mootboardsandminifics so we can find each other — I’ll compile everybody’s responses into a single post!

When do I do it?:

Send me an ask any time from today (August 10) to Tuesday (August 13) and I’ll send out mootboards as soon as I finish them! Then you can take as long as you want to write your minifics!! I’ll update the fic list as things come in ☺️ I want this to be as low-stakes and easy to participate in as I can make it. If you want to join but miss the ask window, just reach out and let me know - I’m flexible!

What else should I know?:

Above all, I want this to be inclusive and fun! I love making moodboards and I love doing little challenges and I love interacting with other people in the fandom. I know sometimes it can be intimating if you’re a little guy (like me!) to find your way around here, so I encourage everybody to comment, compliment, hype up, and reblog your fellow participants! Make sure your blog has some reflection of your age and participation so everyone can interact safely and comfortably.

Please be sure to include the appropriate warnings for your fics! If you’re not sure, shoot me a message! If you are looking for feedback, language assistance, tips for inclusive writing, or brainstorming, POP INTO THE COMMENTS HERE! If you’d like to volunteer to be that person for anybody participating, POP INTO THE COMMENTS HERE! If you want to just chat with buddies/potential future buddies, POP INTO THE COMMENTS HERE! I’ll be sharing in there too 😉

Y’all ready???

Let’s do itttttttttt

Tagging pedrito tumblritos who commented/reblogged previous post:

@morallyinept @bitchesuntitled @crowandmousewritingco @punkshort @thebeldroramscal @sweetpascal @mothandpidgeon @sawymredfox @readingiskeepingmegoing @secretelephanttattoo @clawdee @maggiemayhemnj @perotovar @yourcoolauntie @grogusmum @rebel-held @littlemissskuld @oliveksmoked @goodwithcheese @jennaispunk @beefrobeefcal @ghotifishreads @tinytinymenace @whocaresstillthelouvre @quinnnfabrgay-writes @burntheedges @guiltyasdave @sizzlingcloudmentality

[galaxyedging]

@yourcoolauntie made the connection to this interview.

@missredherring @movievillainess721 @goodwithcheese @prolix-yuy @kirsteng42 @thegreenkid2 @scorpio-marionette @your-slutty-gf my mind goes blank when I have to tag. Tagging everyone. Show him some love.

@

[nerdieforpedro]

I love how you write and it makes me so glad you are here.

can I ask what inspired you to start?

signed - a maybe inspired future fic writer

This is such a wonderful ask! 🥰

I'm glad you enjoy my writing. I have ideas and I write them is my short answer and explains nothing I realize.

The long answer:

I've written fanfic before, off and on for maybe the last 10-15 years. Very different fandoms. Started out with anime, dabbled a bit in Yaoi then transitioned to Marvel and now I'm firmly planted in the Pedro Pascal, Oscar Issac, Benny Miller triangle of hotness.

Fanfic for me is an expression of a story, show, movie, video game or pice of media that I enjoyed so much, I just had to make something. I can't draw, no mixing of hot tracks or beats, I've just started dabbling in photo editing this year and am a beginner at that. It's all purely fun for me. I enjoy it and it's fun to share with other people who create and are like, "Hey! You like that? I like it too. Let me see yours and I'll show you mine. Where'd you get the idea for that?" And then hilarious conversations leap from there.

What inspired me to start specifically in the Pedro Pascal fanfic world was The Mandalorian. It was the first time I realized, "that's the man I've seen before!" And then realized I've seen Pedro Pascal in many of my favorite shows, (The Mentalist was watched for the sake of completion. After season 6 and the first episode of season 7, there wasn't a real reason to continue other than spending time with my mom. She's fine, when I tell people that they think she's passed on but the woman is still lifting 50 lbs mulch bags in her mid seventies. She more than fine.) I then became fixated on this man, reset the password on my AO3 account and found Pedro Pascal character fanfics. I was then led back to Tumblr which before I was on years ago for anime and read fics by @secretelephanttattoo ( I shall always sing about Headshots. It inspired the first fic I posted on Tumblr and is just so damn cute. El is also just a sweetheart.) and @morallyinept whose Tendrils fic only deepened my brain rot for that tall beskar bucket, she's also a dear friend who's made me laugh, cry in a good way, inspired me and very time I turn around she's crafting something new. Fics, banners, self-care, doodles, smut, databases, and all sorts of Pedro interviews and dialogue. Because I'm a fangirl of them both and many others actually, I keep 👀 on them.

What keeps me going is the fandom overall and that despite, recent tribulations let's say politely, we're all still here. Geeking out over a goofy, handsome, I know he gives the best hugs, actor who loves what he does and has been working at it for years and it's finally paying off.

I've met wonderful friends and moots who reach out, give me encouragement, tell me I do well (I'm starting to listen to them I swear. I'm not good at taking compliments in person so it's even worse online FYI.

So I hope this answers your ask and I do encourage you to write that weird, funny, smutty, cute, sweet, dark, twisty, angsty fic that you want to write. I do hope whoever you are, you tag me in it so I can read it. 🤭

Special love to the following and if I left anyone off, I'm sorry. It's after work, I rubbed my eyes, wipes my glasses because I got them wet while writing this and it was a lot:

@maggiemayhemnj @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @magpiepills

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @for-a-longlongtime @i-own-loki @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere

@soft-girl-musings @perotovar @julesonrecord @lotusbxtch @604to647

@yorksgirl @pedroshotwifey @fhatbhabiee @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @bitchwitch1981

@jessthebaker @avastrasposts @inept-the-magnificent @lady-bess @grogusmum

@schnarfer @boliv-jenta @iamskyereads @iamasaddie @chaithetics

@tinytinymenace @yourcoolauntie @alltheglitterandtheroar @musings-of-a-rose @rhoorl

@trulybetty @laurfilijames @wannab-urs @legendary-pink-dot @din-cognito

@sin-djarin @beefrobeefcal @spacecowboyhotch

[jjhayhay20]

Making my own game because I'm bored and want to know what everyone likes to listen to.

Pick a playlist that you like the best

Tell me what you called it, and then shuffle (or pick your favorites)

List the first ten songs it gives you (along with the artist)

Then tag 10 people

I'll go first

DISAPPOINTING MY PARENTS

1. Cupid's Chokehold: Gym Class Heroes

2. Austin: Dasha

3. Summer Love: Justin Timberlake

4. Texas Hold 'Em: Beyonce

5. A Little Good News: Anne Murray

6. Wildflowers and Wild Horses: Lainey Wilson

7. 1985: Bowling for Soup

8. Fergalicious: Fergie

9. Hollaback Girl: Gwen Stafani

10. Basket Case: Green Day

And 2 more because I can

Your Love Is My Drug: Ke$ha

Gives You Hell: All-American Rejects

NP tags: @bubble-pop-eclectic @yourcoolauntie @lokisgoodgirl @kpopnstarwars @alwaysmicado @lokischambermaid @goodwithcheese @galentir @dindjarindiaries @punkshort

And whoever else wants to play!

[jolapeno]

Hello!!! Cabin reporting!

@beefrobeefcal is happy and fed!

See!

We’re enjoying beefros company so much, however, that in order to be tempted to give them back, we might need a little something to sweeten the deal…

We were thinking that it would be super fun to camp with Frankie… Maybe if you made us a short little drabble and a cute little edit we could be persuaded to your friend

Bonus points if there’s dad Frankie content

Pleasure doing business!

"pleasure doing business" <- like you're not blackmailing us :'(

Frankie pouts. "So, they took your beef?"

"No. They took our Beefro, big difference. And then we had to do so much more work to get our person back."

"That seems... unfair?"

Shrugs, toasting another marshmallow, Frankie begins petting one of his 78 stray cats. His army of helicopters whirring above the camp, a comforting sound to the nervousness across the camp.

"So, this... camp are joining us?"

"It is the only way."

"Are they allergic to cats?"

Smirking, nibbling on a marshmallow. Making eyes with the rest of the camp as we all nod. "We hope so."

@jennaispunk @neverwheremoonchild @yourcoolauntie @kilamonster ft @beefrobeefcal

[perotovar]

Get attacked!! ✨🌈SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING🌈✨💖🌸🌸🌸

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[pedropascalito]

Secret Springs Body Painting Shop by Marcus Pike is open!

Marcus is an artist as well as an agent, and he has a cozy, private booth set up for body painting, if you desire a little more color in your Secret Springs vacation. Walk-ins welcome! Please feel free to post a picture of your desired body paint work and Marcus will take you as soon as he can!

Some ideas to get you started (credit links on photos)

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[for-a-longlongtime]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for tagging me @lotusbxtch! Well. I'm still editing this monster of an one shot (I know y'all aren't surprised), so have another snippet and this GRapHiC dEsiGN iS mY pAsSIoN thingie I made. I think Javi is onto something. (sorry, I don't recall who made the original whorelist graphic!)

“C’mere”, Tim mumbles, reaching for Javi’s chin to turn his head towards him and claiming Javi’s lips as his. Javi moans as Tim licks his way into his mouth, tongue so eager and warm, not caring one bit about the slightly awkward angle. He pauses for a moment, trying to figure out what’s different than usual - then whimpers when it clicks in his mind, making his cock twitch.  “Goddamnit,” he groans, rocking his hips back, asking wordlessly to get fucked harder as he sucks on Tim’s tongue. The memory of Mai riding Tim’s face is still burned into his brain, and he kisses Tim so deep that he has trouble breathing for a moment. “You taste of pussy,” he gasps when he comes up for air. “Fuck… fuck, that’s… really goddamn hot.” 

NPT (sorry if you've been tagged before or already posted!) @frenchiereading @sin-djarin @qveerthe0ry @perotovar @oliveksmoked

@ghostofaboy @penvisions @seventeenpins @senorabond @demonsandbullets

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