#DRIP NYC MOPS

[sports-drugs-entertainment]

HOODIED UP RATCHETS TUCKED.............

[teaandatale]

Ooh- can you tell us about the personal trainer au?

I have a soft spot for this image in my head of a Steggy meet cute so thanks for asking about it! 😄

The scene lay here: Peggy teaches some fitness classes as a NYC gym, where she also offers her services as a Personal Trainer. It's a side job she started when she first moved to NYC. For Peggy, she wants her clients to find fitness that works for their lives or their personal goals, so she likes to tailor the sessions for their specific needs. And for her personal training clients, she has them develop a specific goal that is outside of just an amount of weight they want to lose, i.e. "I want to be able to run a 5k" or "I want to keep up with my active friends when we go hiking in the fall" etc. And Steve, who had recently had a situation that reminded him of his physical strength, decides to finally push through his goal to start exercising regularly.

He joins what he expects to be an easier fitness class at the gym closest to his work office, only to be reminded just how out of shape he is, but also to meet the most attractive woman who is the instructor of his class. He feels like a disaster in the class, and though he'd like to see Peggy more, he's decidedly ready to crawl under a rock. But she comes to talk to him and offers a free Personal Training session.

He starts showing up regularly to almost all the classes she teaches, so of course, they get to talking and end up fast friends. And once Steve starts to work out regularly, he gains muscle mass quickly, almost surprisingly quickly, particularly in the broadness of his shoulders. He starts to get admirers, but he doesn’t pay attention, not when the only person he wants to impress is Peggy.

Snippet Below The Cut:

It all begins in a gym studio room, with a lot of sweat, and a stationary bike beneath him.

Steve had expected a spin class at the gym closest to his office to be an easy introduction to fitness classes, after all, he knew how to ride a bike and that had to be half the battle.

But there was a lot he didn’t account for. The clip in shoes that he couldn’t get on the pedals for a good five minutes, putting him well behind the rest of the class. The forty-five minute session, about forty minutes longer than any proper exercise he’d done in years. Having a bully in the class, a classic meat heat who introduced himself as Hodge just before the class started, only to call him Tinkerbell when he almost fell off the stationary bike when his leg calf started to cramp up midway through the class.

But the biggest surprise was the mesmerizing instructor, a pretty woman with brown hair tied back from her face, a confident but kind expression and a witty British accent offering encouragement and reminders to hydrate through the cycling. Steve was smitten. And suddenly felt uber self-conscious of his atrocious performance.

After Hodge lodged his parting taunts, Steve, barely able to get his sore butt off the bike, slunk to the bench in the back of the room to change his shoes, mop up the dripping sweat off his face, all slowly and subtly to hide the fact that he could barely move, especially in part due to the leg cramp.

He never anticipated the pretty instructor to come up to him. A wave of shame hit him again and before she could say anything herself, he had to fight off the urge to apologize.

“Hello there. First timer?” Her tone was friendly and open but he felt like an idiot to have wasted space and time in her class, sure someone else could have gotten more use out of it.

“That obvious, huh?”

She shrugged. “We all start somewhere. I’m Peggy.”

He was surprised to see her hold out her hand. He wiped it again on his shorts just in case.

“Steve.”

“Welcome Steve. I hope you won’t let the more… extreme members keep you away. They’d most likely be at Soul Cycle or another one of those super competitive programs, but I’m much more affordable. Anyway, my classes are open to all.” She said this in a way that instantly made Steve feel welcome. He wondered if her charm was part of what made her class so well-attended. “I noticed you were favoring one leg. Did you get a cramp?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she only smiled kindly. “It’s very common, especially for beginners. Think nothing of it. I thought we could do some stretches together to loosen up that muscle.”

“Oh it’s okay. I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble. I’d prefer to know all those in my class leave feeling good rather than miserable.”

Peggy than gestured him up next to her and led him through several motions until he’d finally caught his breath and the cramp had subsided. His heart rate on the other hand was still racing, because Peggy was even more striking from close up and he could hardly keep from staring.

“Maybe sure you keep hydrating. And I highly suggest a post-workout snack. Even a banana would suffice. Some added potassium might help prevent more cramps,” she said to him once they were finally walking out of the room, just as another instructor’s was starting to assemble.

“I will. Thank you. And for the stretching tips. You were a great instructor.”

“Of course. I hope you come back for another class.”

He nodded but Steve was embarrassed and wasn’t in the frame of mind to decide whether or not to try Spin Class again, even if he would very much like to see her again. Steve was ready to awkwardly part ways from a woman way out of his league when he heard her say his name.

Steve watched her reach into her bag and pull out a card before handing it to him.

Complimentary Personal Training Session

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. I also work as a Personal Trainer here. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable learning some more personalized fitness techniques one-on-one. It’s a great way to meet you where you’re currently at and work on your personal goals.” She paused for a moment to gauge his reaction from continuing. “And that promo code will work for any of our personal trainers if you would be more comfortable with another trainer.

Her smile was so warm and genuine, his heart seemed to stop.

“Thank you, that’s really kind. I know I could definitely use something like this.”

She grinned.

“Well Steve, I hope to see you again soon.”

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Something Held | Feeding Habits Update #8

Hi all!

Not me not realizing it’s been 3 months since I posted a Feeding Habits update hahahahahaha. Today let’s chat chapter nine, SOMETHING HELD. This also marks the last chapter in Harrison’s POV so prepare to say goodbye to this icon!  TW: body horror, mental illness, trauma

Just a reminder: This is my original work and plagiarism of any form will not be tolerated.

Scene outline, excerpts & a little reflection on making difficult decisions that my not particularly benefit the book but benefit you as the writer under the cut because this update is GIGANTIC.

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed):

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting​, @aetherwrites​

Scene Breakdown

Scene A:

It has been two weeks since Lonan found Harrison at his shared apartment with Suzanna and things are getting strange. Lonan and Suz are getting closer, Harrison is getting more distant and slowly losing it. One morning, Harrison wakes hearing Lonan and Suz’s laughter, and crawls to the kitchen to investigate. When he reaches them, Suz is evening out Lonan’s hacked haircut and they’re both sobbing.

Scene B:

Shortly after this bizarre encounter, Suzanna steps out of the apartment for a breather because her son is sort of terrifying her! So Lonan and Harrison double-team to clean up Lonan’s hair shavings. Harrison begins eating the hair while Lonan stares and they have a conversation about the state of their friendship.

Scene Ba:

This scene is gross and confusing! More hair is ingested. My god.

Scene Bb:

After the above ordeal, both boys rinse off because they’ve been rolling?? around?? in??? hair?? but also?? things don’t stop being a little gross

Scene C:

An air of calm finally settles over the apartment. Lonan brews earl grey tea for him and Harrison to share and Harrison asks if he abandoned Lonan in the final chapter of Moth Work. Lonan doesn’t really answer this question so Harrison continues on his confused, but finally lucid (one-sided) conversation, admitting he understands he burdens his mother, who still has not returned. They circle back to the question of abandonment and Lonan answers Harrison the way he wants to be answered (yes), and this is a moment of freeing, where he feels some sort of responsibility in this irresponsible new life he’s led in NYC. They sort of agree to be friends again.

Scene D:

The boys head into the city to find Suzanna, heading to a bakery near the Hudson River. Lonan drives in his used car, a strange experience since Harrison has not seen him drive in years. Taking the opportunity, he searches through the car and finds a map in the glove compartment. The map is erratically scribbled over and it takes him to moment to realize this is Lonan’s map and the first indication that Lonan, who he has assumed is this stable, perfect person, is not as unscathed as he seems.

The boys pass the waterfront and Lonan nearly crashes the car into an oncoming truck. Harrison regains control of the vehicle tucking them into a side street. Shaken, Lonan apologizes for the mess he’s created both physically from his nosebleed and between Harrison and his mother, which gets Harrison a little antsy because he doesn’t like the suggestion that he’s going to leave. Lonan clarifies, stating he won’t if that’s what Harrison wants.

Scene E:

Later, everyone is back at home and Harrison wakes up to a Lonan-less bed. He gets up to investigate the strange dripping coming from the bathroom and opens the door to find Lonan precariously teetering over a sink filled with water. Harrison, concerned, moves him away and tries to ask why Lonan is presumably going underwater, but doesn’t push. They both stand on opposite sides of the bathroom until the sun rises.

My process:

Honestly, writing this chapter was a huge up and down. The first half of it came much easier to me, but the rest was a literal hellfire to get through. I think I was incredibly fatigued with writing in Harrison’s POV as I’d been writing it since June (I finished this chapter in either December or January). This book has been a pain in the ass to write despite me liking what it is, and I really think it being the only place I’ve physically “gone” since the pandemic makes it even harder to write. I felt claustrophobic in Harrison’s POV since I’ve been writing it for half a year, and in a lil ~breakdown~ my beautiful sister reminded me of something she’d previously told me, “it's not about what works, it's about what you want”.

Let’s chat about this for a sec! I think I was watching a Harmony Nice video on her “hard-to-swallow” self-care, and she basically outline (I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s critical we care for ourselves in ways that might not necessarily be easy to do. Honestly, leaving Harrison’s POV is one of those hard-to-swallow self-care things I literally had to do because my mental health was not happy with me! Y’all know my boys are very close to me, and I’m not picking favourites but Lonan is 2500 times easier for me to write with at the moment. I think Harrison’s situation and how he deals with it is much too similar to mine but in a way that is difficult to place (Lonan and I are unfortunately similar but in a way that is easier for me to understand about myself!). From the beginning of writing his POV I’ve been in Struggleville, but kept pushing through hoping the next chapter would be “the one”. Not to burst my own bubble but there is no such thing in the state of mind I was in! I was pushing myself to find something that doesn’t exist because my brain was really not equipped to do what I needed it to do. I really, really did not want to quit on Harrison’s POV, but I had to, not because I don’t like him (he’s my baby) but because I needed a moment to myself. I felt way too seen in ways I don’t really know how to address in myself, so writing him was horribly frustrating at all times (my fault, not his).

My characters really do live in my head rent-free lol. They live in there! They take up space! They take up energy! They take up concentration, and resources I need for myself! Empathy is so integral to my process, that I give a little part of myself in everything I write. This is a blessing because I really get to dig my heels into the mind of another person, but a curse because I’m not a machine (and sometimes I forget that). It is a lot of emotional energy and labour to give everything you have to fictional people. I don’t think an artist needs to be tortured to create good art (this is not it!) but I never truly practiced this well? In my attempt to be empathetic, I was torturing myself a little bit, not going to lie!

So to combat this, I decided I needed a change. Hence, this chapter is imperfect and probably needs some stuff added to it, and while I’ve only written little of Lonan’s second POV, I’m feeling a lot better! It’s nice to get “outside” in a different place lmao this is so sad (pandemic writing things).

Excerpts:

I wrote the beginning of this in a livestream I hosted on my YouTube channel! There’s also a shoutout here to my dragon tree Lisa <3 miss u boo

Two weeks go by. Lonan sleeps on the couch. Harrison wakes up at dawn—no earlier, no later. Suzanna buys a plant: a Madagascar dragon tree she names Lisa. June grows into the collar. Lonan plays sudoku in the newspaper. Harrison learns to bake focaccia, gluten-free, whole wheat. Suzanna learns to palm read, tells Lonan he’s experienced great betrayal (they stop the reading immediately; Lonan goes back to the newspapers). Harrison begins burning incense at sunrise—frankincense. The dragon tree nearly dies (Lonan saves it). It rains every weekday that contains the letter T. Lonan shifts stacks of soggy newspapers onto the breakfast table, answers crosswords with the help of Suzanna (four across, nine letters, Something held). Harrison burns a baguette. Suzanna buys a hanging basket of pothos. The power goes out for two days and the icebox floods the kitchen tile (Lonan mops it with old newspapers, the ink running like jellyfish). June barks for the first time. Harrison eats a bundle of dried bay leaves. Suzanna waters the plants with rainwater, icewater, wrung into a coffee tin. Harrison leaves the stove on while sautéing shallots (he eats them whole). Lonan wakes up feverish and fills out four newspaper crosswords, then falls asleep on the coffee table. Suzanna moulds panna cotta in coffee mugs and shares the batch with Lonan when they won’t tip out. Lonan teaches her how to propagate the pothos and soon they have twenty empty cans of cuttings poking from the windowsills. They rearrange the furniture, the couch facing the kitchen instead of the TV, the dining table right outside the bathroom, then put it all back the next day. They birdwatch from the tiny window with binoculars and a magnifying glass. They sort coupons. Whittle soaps. Watch Norwegian films without the subtitles. Discuss cliff diving. Make matching anklets (blue beads, elastic string, the plastic clacking how Harrison knows they’re coming). All of this they do as Harrison lies on his bed for two weeks, counting the corners of his ceiling and trying to determine a way to multiply them telepathically.

This is the very next paragraph!

At first he assumes they’re laughing. The sun nearly rising between other high rises, blotting his room with dawn. This is not a surprise. They are probably making pancakes out of buckwheat and discussing the hilarity of whole grains. They are probably laughing at store-bought cherry preserves. Too sour. Their cheeks puckered. But then the laughs get louder, and the sun rises higher and it’s not laughing at all, but gasping.

Here’s Harrison crawling!! is this straight out of the exorcist probably!

Harrison’s instinct is to crawl. As if his smallness against the ground will stop anyone from hearing him, even before he unlocks his door. On hands and knees he shuffles from his bed to his doorframe, edges the door open with his shoulder. On hands and knees he hikes through the hallway, the gasping getting louder, shuffling until he sees them. Lonan sitting on one of the kitchen stools, a grocery bag wound around his throat. Suzanna clacking scissors in two hands so their blades ping in the sun. Her fingers loped around his hair, knuckle-deep, the blades snipping, the gasps growing, them both sobbing, the hair falling, the sun stalking, their bodies rocking. Harrison takes it in from his crawl. Experiences it all on his knees.

So this excerpt seems really you know, normal:

They clean up the hair. Harrison with the dustpan, Lonan with the broom. Harrison still kneels. Lonan still cries. The only thing that has changed since crawling into the kitchen is that Suzanna is taking a walk around the apartment complex. She needs air. Room. If she cries long enough, a cigarette. So Lonan sweeps. Harrison collects. This repeats.

The kitchen smells of nutmeg. Freshly grated from a whole club over espresso, Harrison imagines. He smells this as he tracks Lonan with the dustpan, hovering its open belly for clippings of hair. And Lonan is so compliant, brushes cuttings of himself onto the plastic surface so Harrison can trash it. As Harrison looks on from his knees, Lonan diffuses in sunlight, the window illuminating only his edges. A body so familiar Harrison knows exactly where it flares with light or absorbs it. A body with skin like mulberry silk. A body he could recreate in charcoal with his eyes closed. His archangel translucent and luminescing.

Skip this excerpt if you don’t want to read about Harrison eating hair!! i’m sorry!

Harrison picks a bundle of fallen hair from the dustpan. It’s airy from being recently shampooed, smells faintly of pear, maybe even ginger. This hair, touched by a woman, or a few women, and cut by one, or a few, in different contexts. Eliza’s hands deveining the roots, and then Suzanna’s, trying to fix them. So Harrison eats it. That bundle like a toothpicked cube of cheese. He puts it in his mouth and swallows.

Lonan watches like he’s unconcerned. He watches this feral animal—Harrison must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. Chewing mouthfuls of hair like that will quell of him of what is missing, if there even is anything missing, something unidentifiable in this bland circuit of New York City, this time-loop of sonhood, this fresh start a dousing of flatness. As Harrison eats, he understands he consumes that something like it’s holy communion, reuniting with that something by absorbing it. And still, that hunger moves him, from finishing the dustpan of hair, and closer to Lonan.

“Do you think I’m a bad friend?” Harrison asks, wringing the corner of his lips clean from loose hairs. From this perspective, Harrison on his knees collecting hair, Lonan’s eyes look bluer. Maybe their saturation has nothing to do with the angle, but Harrison feels this is true; his eyes are so crystalline, they are temptingly edible. Like two plump blueberries. Or a matching set of clear glass marbles. Harrison swallows. He repeats, “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

Lonan swallows, adjusts his grip on the broom. “We’d have to be friends for me to answer that.”

“Aren’t we?”

And here’s the rest of this scene!

“You’re my mother’s friend,” Harrison says. “She trusts you.” He crawls closer to Lonan. “You’ve got secrets. Rituals. Tell me her favourite finger-food and who she wants to marry.”

“I don’t know your mother that well.”

Harrison wraps a handle around Lonan’s ankle. A muscle there jumps like a dolphin breaching the water. He’s memorized this plane of skin, could rebuild it from single grains of sand while blindfolded. He furls his hands across its surface, unfurls.

“You garden with her,” Harrison says. “You share a plate for dessert.”

“She’s kind to me.”

“You cook her breakfast.” Harrison tugs on Lonan’s ankle, knowing it won’t raze him, knowing he’ll come down anyway. “You know the exact temperature she drinks her coffee down to the last digit.”

“I’m trying to be hospitable.”

“You’re trying to be a son.”

Lonan kneels. Crouching so they’re huddled over each other, so it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one body from the other, which one sinks, which one rises.

“My mother’s only got one son to live with,” Harrison says, his voice thin from a clogged throat. He reaches for Lonan’s scalp, scrapes a line down the centre, now an even plane of cropped hair. “And it isn’t me.”

“You’re unstable,” Lonan says, burrowing his face either into a cabinet or Harrison’s shoulder—neither can tell. “You won’t let yourself have friends.”

Farther, toward the tile they go, a pile of hair scattering. “My mother wants me to forgive you by replacing me with you.”

“She’s grieving,” Lonan says.

Harrison loses his hands. He doesn’t know where they disappear to, if he touches skin or tile. “I haven’t died,” he says. Skin or tile. Skin or tile.

Here’s an excerpt from scene C ft. this memoir bit from the time I was shocked that this university I visited had real FANCY teabags:

Lonan brews tea. Earl grey, from a tin. Harrison doesn’t know why he expects it to come from a bag. An individual paper sachet, or if he’s lucky, one of those fancy ones woven from nylon. But it’s from a tin. Two teaspoons into the bottom of a single mug they pass back and forth, wordless at the kitchen table. Strung in the bathroom, Harrison’s t-shirt hang-dries, nearly figure-like, an unfilled phantom. He tugs a throw around his shoulders and stares at his hands. Each crest of cuticle. Each bulb of knuckle. Each maze of fingerprints.

He is material. This is fact. Not just outlines. He’s got skin that goes pinkish when pinched, a pulse that juts from his wrist, two eyes that burn at the scent of lavender, ten fingers. But as he holds his hands up, studying them in the faint moonlight, it is difficult to believe his tangibility. In the city, he has lived as a haze. Fogging over grocery stores, eateries, nondescript. Fresh start has always implied an air of zest, a zing that should have fueled him to plant roots in this restart. But Harrison is rotten, aphid infected, overwatered, underwatered, then not watered at all. He flexes his fingers. He pops the joints. He tries to press his pinkie to the back of his hand. But none of this brings him back to himself. His hands continue feeling like someone else’s. His body invisibly marred in some way he can’t reverse, disconnected in retaliation.

Harrison reflecting on his relationship with his mother:

Suzanna has never left him alone this long, and to her detriment. He imagines her now, living the life she always should’ve lived, the life she lived before he crosscut his way to her most important thing. She’s probably at a salon, having her hair twirled with a round brush, making dinner reservations at some place always too expensive for two (extra points if it has a French name, more if she has to wait a half hour before getting a table). When she talks to her stylist, she doesn’t mention a son, but plans to travel up the west coast, all the way into Canada if she’s feeling adventurous. She’ll buy crime novels she’ll never read at duty-free, reapply a lipstick that cost her a paycheck in the reflection of a hand-dryer. After the salon, she’ll meet a woman at a wine bar, converse about children, and still not mention a son. Suzanna’s singleness will be a celebration.

The boys finally trucing it out <3

When Harrison finally opens his eyes, Lonan is staring at him. His eyes two reels of the Pacific. They cycle in blue. So much of him has changed, and yet he is still the same. Beyond the haircut, Lonan isn’t that much different. He can’t be much different. But as Harrison searches, splaying his palm on the wet table, he knows this is untrue. Lonan is hollower than he was last summer. A little more haunted. They have this in common, then.

“Can we be friends?” Harrison asks. With his pinkie, he finds himself writing against the damp table just as he did Lonan’s scalp not too long ago. Lonan’s gaze follows each loop of each letter, Harrison’s steady left hand.

Lonan is consumed studying what Harrison has written, where each letter connects in near-cursive scrawl. After a moment, he nods, once, twice, and then reverts to staring at the table’s new inscription. On its surface are two words: something held.

The boys in the car like old times <3

Lonan drives. This is strange because Harrison has not seen Lonan drive a car in over a year. Usually, Harrison takes the wheel, but tonight he guides them through the city, in search of Suzanna. His car is clean. This isn’t unexpected. A cherry-coloured hatchback that rattles whenever he makes a left turn. It smells vaguely of cotton air-freshener and the undercurrent of cigarettes.

“You still smoke?” Harrison pokes at the plastic nob for the radio, and it crackles to life. Synth and electric guitar pulse in 4/4 time.

“I bought it used.”

They’ve agreed to get to know one another while they search for Suzanna. Another restart, some attempt at an honest hour. As Lonan changes lanes, Harrison pokes open the car’s glove compartment. A tin of nicotine gum falls on the mat. A hot pink feather pokes from underneath the driver’s manual. Harrison hauls out both, runs the feather along the gum tin, then the back of his hand, and then Lonan’s cheek. When that rouses nothing, he unlocks the tin and removes a slit of gum. Right as he’s about to pop it in his mouth, Lonan says, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Why?” Harrison asks. “Did you lace it?”

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

Harrison puts the gum back, and then the feather. He sticks his hand farther into the glove compartment, feels around until he drags out a map of the state, bilgy and half torn. He unfolds it, careful to avoid the rips, and flattens it against the dashboard. Almost immediately, it wilts against the cold, faded from time in the sun. It’s been marked up. Half with pencil, half with a red ballpoint pen. After a few minutes, Harrison understands the previous owner’s route. Or at least he does at first. Following the red pen arrows, they started at Long Island, then reached Manhattan. Then a much longer arrow takes him from Manhattan to Geneva, and then Buffalo. And then the red pen circles, once, twice, three times, four times, and what is in the centre doesn’t even have a city name. What it does say is HELP, in all-caps, each letter then melting into an illegible scrawl. Harrison sees bits of words: Luke, woe, hands, clay, guard, stray, each wobbly and disappearing into the other, becoming cities of their own, destroying others. He tries to understand the route, but the farther he pours over the map, recircling each line with his finger, the more lost he gets in the ink.

“Is this your map?” Harrison asks. There is no proof that it is. Even the handwriting is all wrong. Ragged. Confused. Desperate. Not like Lonan’s careful, hesitant print.

“Like I said, I bought the car used.”

“But is it your map?” Harrison asks again. Gently, he creases the paper and then slots it back into the glove compartment. Outside, they pass three convenience stores in a row, a flock of couples emerging from a bowling alley, tipsy and cradling leftover deep dish pizzas and mozzarella sticks. They pass two more convenience stores before Lonan finally answers.

“I was confused,” he says.

“This is more than confused,” Harrison says. “It’s disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“But something is wrong with you.”

Lonan slows at a crosswalk. A group of teenaged girls whisk by in glitter and lip gloss.

“Yes,” he says.

This is Harrison trying to stop Lonan’s nosebleed after their bizarre swerve which I think is kind of <3 tendy <3

Harrison reaches for him. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other reared toward the red stream. His touch is tactful, so faint his fingerprints wouldn’t even be left behind, but still, the dabbing with his jacket’s hem is enough to redirect the blood’s flow from Lonan’s upper lip to the cuff of leather. The radio is still on, garbled like an unmassing of crepe paper lanterns.

This is the final excerpt for this update that takes us to the very end of the chapter! Harrison has just found Lonan supposedly head-first in the sink and though he asks at first why he is doing that, takes an alternate approach as the chapter closes:

Harrison gets up, his knees popping like gnawed bubble gum. He decides he will handle Lonan at a distance, if he chooses to handle him at all. Like a timid pet owner trying to tame their suddenly-rabid yorkie. Like a friend not trying to tip the full glass. To let its contents film at its surface, but never spill.

Somewhere in the apartment, Suzanna probably listens to them. If Harrison didn’t know her better, he’d imagine her pressed neatly against the door, waiting to hear the shuffle of their bodies or the tang of an argument. Instead, he imagines her at the kitchen table, gripping a glass of water for so long, half of it evaporates.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harrison says, stepping back until his spine hits the counter’s lip. He curls his fingers under the granite. Looks toward the window, now a faint periwinkle. Lonan heaves. His fingers caging his face, an animal restrained. They stand there until the sun rises.

So that’s it for this gigantic update! I have like four short stories to update you on so I hope to be back soon!

—Rachel

[reidandweep]

I Know Him

Adam Sackler x Reader

A/N- I love Sackler as a character and wanted to write a character more personal to me. I am on the spectrum myself. I know everyone’s autism is different so don’t take this as characteristics or mannerisms of everyone with autism. These are things I have done, or do, or like. Not everyone is the same. I hope you like the story.

Word Count- 4670 words

Warning- Fluff, Angst, mentions of autism, swearing, manipulative behaviour.

If someone had asked Adam how different his life was now to what it was nearly a year ago, he could not explain how much so. He finally felt as though his life was on track. Successfully booking auditions and work, in the past 6 months alone, Adam had worked in two theatre shows, one even being considered to transition onto Broadway. The people around him was different as well. For the better. There was no more Hannah, no more Jessa, or any of their friends. His sister Caroline had arrived back in the picture. With time and patience, Adam and Laird had slowly helped her get back on track. They had all celebrated Sample’s birthday together and Christmas as a mismatched group. 

There were times where he thought he missed Hannah and Jessa, both in different ways, but Adam quickly realised that he missed the physical aspects rather than the relationships he had with them. He was putting himself first for once. It took him a while to get to where he was now, but he had help along the way. Especially from one particular person.

Walking into the diner, Adam gazed over to the empty booth. The diner held patrons here and there. Adam flittered his gaze across the people as he scanned the room. A sudden jerk of movement caught his eye. Turning his gaze to the fourth booth on the right, situated underneath the hand painted letters on the window, Adam saw is usual sight on a Thursday afternoon.  She was what Adam could describe as perfect.

Y/N had no idea of the Adam staring at her. With her headphones on, she faintly rocked back and forth, unaware of the movement she was making. This was an everyday occurrence for her, and the people in the diner. This was her routine every Thursday. Thursday was her favourite day. She wore her favourite colour jumper, her h/c styled in her favourite way, and listened to her favourite music. All whilst sitting in her favourite diner eating her favourite choice of food there. Since moving to NYC, Y/N had followed this routine, only falling out of it when a break occurred. She never referred to them as meltdowns or breakdowns because she did not want it to be viewed as negative. She had been made to feel bad about who she was for a long time; she wasn’t going to let it carry on.

Adam watched on as the woman rocked back and forth, adjusting the large white cabled headphones on her head. Chuckling, he continued to watch until a waitress arrived.

“What can I get you hun?”

Adam pulled his gaze from the woman in the booth before him. Clearing his throat, he quickly scanned the menu. 

“Can I have scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.”

The waitress wrote down Adam’s order.

“Any drinks?”

“A glass of milk.”

The waitress gave Adam a knowing look before writing down his request.

“That’s eggs, bacon, toast, and milk to drink. I’ll bring it right over.”

The waitress walked away from Adam and towards the fourth booth on the right.

Adam continued to watch from his view by the door.

Out the corner of her eye, Y/N saw a manicured hand on the table. Pausing her music, she slowly pulled her headphones off her ears and around her neck.

Quickly glancing up, she smiled at the sight of Paula.

“Good afternoon Y/N.”

“Good afternoon Paula.”

Adam licked his lip at the sound of her voice. He leaned against the pillar; blatantly eavesdropping.

Even though Y/N ordered the same thing every Thursday, Paula still asked her each week. She appreciated that the woman would help with her routine in the smallest ways.

“And what are you having today?”

As always, she looked at the menu to see her order, even though she had ordered it a hundred times before. 

“Can I have the number 16 special please?”

Paula smiled as she wrote down the order in her notebook.

“Coming right up.”

Just as Paula turned to leave, Y/N spoke up once more.

“Is he here yet Paula?”

Paula turned to the young woman and smiled. 

“He’s at the door. Right on time.”

Y/N smiled as she turned in the booth. Her smile growing bigger at the sight of her best friend standing at the door. 

Adam smiled back. Pushing from the pillar, he walked towards the booth and sat across from Y/N.

Her eyes followed him. The grin never once faltered.

Threading his hands through his hair, Adam pushed back his mop of dark locks. 

The pair sat in silence for a moment, choosing to just smile at one another. The silence broke as Y/N couldn’t help but giggle.

“Afternoon Adam.”

“Hi squirt.”

“So, how did your auditions go?”

Y/N leaned forward, placing her head on her clasped hands as she prepared herself to listen to Adam tell her his day. Like everything else on a Thursday, this was part of her routine. It was one of her favourite parts. She didn’t mind how long they spoke for. She didn’t mind if they spoke so long that her other activities were delayed because she was with Adam; her favourite person in the world.

She could remember the day she met Adam clearer than her most vibrant memories. It was the first time in a long time that Y/N had met someone who didn’t see her for her autism, but for herself. She had just moved to NYC after months of explaining to her mother that it was the perfect time for her to venter away from the comforts of home. New York City had been her dream since she was young, but Y/N feared that they would never become a reality because of the fear that held her back and her comfort in her routine at home. 

Meeting new people was difficult for her. Y/N found eye contact hard, sometimes even reading people’s expressions was a struggle. She would often have to ask someone what they were feeling during a conversation because she was unsure. Public transport was another feat to get over. But she knew if she did not try, then she would never know.

So, she moved to NYC alone. Found an apartment that she was happy with and started to make it feel like a home. The apartment was filled with her comforts. Posters from movies decorated the walls of her bedroom and living room. Along shelves sat books upon books of adaptions of her favourite films. DVD’s scattered the sparse spaces, as well as, collectable figures filled her room; never leaving their boxes but ordered in a way she could tell you what row and column each one was placed.

Her apartment felt like a home away from home. But the only problem seemed to be her neighbour above. At often times she would hear a mixture of noises from the room. They would range from the sound of things breaking to the overlapping of music and wood being sawed to the constant rocking of a bed. After a few weeks, she had enough, and built up the courage to knock on the stranger’s door. Their conversation hadn’t gone well at first.

They had bickered back and forth and as Y/N was about to leave, Adam had reached out to touch her arm to cease her from doing so; not happy with how the conversation would’ve ended. Well, it caused Y/N to have a minor breakdown, which resulted in Adam consoling her by bringing her to the diner. It weirdly did calm her down. Unfamiliar environments usually stressed her out, but the calming aura of the diner and Adam’s genuine remorse and caring actions ceased her breakdown all together. 

That night, they had spent 4 hours and 16 minutes in the diner. She explained to him about her autism and why she reacted the way she did to him touching her arm. Adam, being the forward person that he was, asked all sorts of questions. Y/N asked questions back about why he built at such ungodly hours and smashed things up when he wasn’t building. They both answered truthfully, and for the first time in a long time, Y/N and Adam felt something new and exciting.

The tradition of the diner continued. Nothing could’ve ever change that.

“They said I would hear back in about two weeks, but I don’t know.”

Y/N smiled at Adam, leaning back she sipped at her drink that had arrived as he told her his day. 

“Well, no matter what, you did amazing. From when you were practicing the other day, it sounded phenomenal.”

Adam stared at Y/N after her compliment. He wasn’t used to such words directed towards him. Having someone that truly cared. 

Y/N had grown on Adam the minute they met. He liked that she admitted when she was wrong but never backed down when she was right. He had become used to her routine, noticing how it slowly adjusted to fit him into the activities and moments she recited in her days. As Y/N worked from home, Adam often venture downstairs to her apartment, to keep her company when he was free. Using the time to practice his lines, read, or even just be in her presence. She was there through the rejection and anger. He worried of how she would react when he was angry, but he had found just being with her helped it disappear. 

One particular occasion saw Adam storming into Y/N’s apartment as she just emerged from the shower. Wrapped in just a towel, hair dripping wet, Y/N had no time to feel any discomfort when she saw Adam’s clenched fist and red face. She knew the anger wasn’t directed at her and that he was about to blow; desperately trying hard not to. That’s why he had gone to her apartment; letting himself in with the spare key. He paced the front room. A guttural scream ripping from his throat only to suddenly cease when he felt the sudden presence of a force wrap around his waist.  Adam mind instantly cleared from all traces of negative thoughts and his chest had heaved away the rage and anger. Y/N was touching him. She was hugging him. They stood like that for 23 minutes, in complete silence, taking in the moment. Not once did Adam try to touch her back. He respected that she was stepping so far out of her comfort zone to even touch him. Let alone hold him. He was also aware of her lack of clothing and did not want to make her regret her actions by him acting on impulse.

That night brought them closer. It made Y/N more comfortable around Adam. They now hugged each other in greeting and goodbye. They even sometimes held each other when the other was feeling down or had a bad day. Adam always asked before hugging her, even though Y/N had told him he did not need to. The fact he continued to do so made her cheeks blush every time.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

Adam held in his breath. He didn’t want to just blurt anything out. He wanted to think about what he said for once.

“So, we got a number 16 and a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast.”

Paula placed down the plates, smiling at the pair before she wondered away to continue serving.

Y/N smiled in thanks.

Turning back to Adam, she held up a finger.

“Can I wash my hands first? And then you can say what you need.”

Adam nodded her head. He knew if he said no, she would not be comfortable. She always liked to wash them before she touched the utensils.

Y/N thanked him as she walked to the bathroom.

As Adam waited for Y/N, he began to re-arrange her food for her. It had become second nature for him to do this. Taking of the things she didn’t eat and manoeuvring it to his plate, he was unaware of the presence approaching him.

“Adam?”

Adam mumbled under his breath, knowing full well whose voice it was. Putting down his knife and fork, he took in a heavy breath, and turned around.

“The fuck is you doing her Hannah?”

She didn’t look much different from the last time he saw her. Except for the baby bump, which was no longer there. She was alone. No child in sight.

Physically, to Hannah, Adam looked no different either. But there was still something that did not seem the same as before. She just couldn’t figure what.

“I’m here for work. If you’re wondering about the baby-“

“I don’t give a crap.”

“My mother is watching her for me.”

Awkward silence surrounded them. 

“I saw Jessa. She said you guys aren’t together anymore. That she hasn’t seen you in over six months.”

Adam looked down at his food, clenching and unclenching his hands.

He looked back up at Hannah.

“Yeah. I realised that I made bullshit decisions when I was surrounded by bullshit people. Any more questions or is that all? Because I have company.”

Hannah gaped at his words, unsure of how to respond. 

Y/N exited the bathroom, feeling better now that her hands were thoroughly washed. 

Walking up to the table, she saw that Adam was no longer alone. Y/N recognised the woman from pictures she had seen destroyed in Adam’s apartment once. He had been truthful with her. She knew all about Hannah and Jessa. She did not like how they treated Adam. 

Y/N took a deep breath. Seeing that her plate was next to Adam’s, her cheeks warmed up at his thoughtfulness. Y/N began to walk back to her seat.

“Excuse me.”

Hannah flicker her head to the interrupting voice. Y/N flittered her eyes around Hannah, trying to keep calm. Hannah stepped back, thinking the woman would merely walk past her and to another table. Shocked enveloped Hannah when Y/N sat down across from Adam.

As Y/N did with most occasions, she blocked out her surroundings. She didn’t like talking to people if she did not need to; especially strangers. 

“Can I have my plate please?”

Adam re-directed his glare from Hannah. The harsh look softened as he quickly finished swapping their food, passing Y/N her plate once it was done.

“Thanks Adam.”

Hannah watched silently as Y/N grabbed the jug of milk in the middle of the table, and refilled Adam’s cup.

Adam knew Y/N would not eat until Hannah left. It had taken the girl ages before she ate in front of him. The first time they came to the diner, she sipped a glass of Coke the whole time.

“Like I said, I have company.”

Hannah looked at Adam in disbelief. Her gaze flickered over to Y/N seeing that the woman was tense. Hannah was angry. Angry at Adam. At the woman sitting across from him. At the fact that he looked at her with a different intensity that he had looked at even her or Jessa.

“He’s not who he pretends to be. Whatever perfect image he’s made of himself isn’t true.”

Adam sneered at Hannah.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Hannah glared right back at the brooding man. Why the fuck was he allowed to act like this after all he had put her through?

Hannah turned towards Y/N; her arms tightly crossed in front of her. Y/N refused to look Hannah’s way. Her hands tinkering and moving things on the table until she was happy how it looked. It pissed Hannah off that she did not look her way.

“You know he fucked my best friend. Then when he found out I was pregnant with another guys baby; he dropped her and came running back to me to play house.”

Y/N looked towards Adam. She knew everything. Adam was an honest person. He had told her every single detail about his relationship with Hannah and with Jessa. It took her a few days to talk to him again because she felt so overwhelmed by the information. She thought at first it was because she had never had someone tell her so much about themselves; that she could not stomach some of the events that he had been a part of. But Y/N soon realised that it was because she was in some ways jealous that these two women had such an intimate relationship with Adam; one that she wanted in her own way. Hearing Hannah talk about it confirmed the thought even more. It also confirmed the fact the she did not like Hannah. Whilst Adam was not a saint in his actions either, and Y/N had told him this, he did not deserve the crap he had endured.

“He’s just going to make it out like he’s in whatever kind of relationship you have 100% but he’s not. He will drop you the instant he finds something that he thinks is better. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has already found someone else by now.”

Adam slammed his hand on the table and stood up. His face was bright red, surging from anger, as he strode towards Hannah. Pointing his finger in Hannah’s face, Adam had not felt this angry since he had last seen Jessa.

“I said, shut the fuck up Hannah. Why the fuck is you trying to ruin shit for me? I finally have my shit together and you come in here and try to manipulate the past. Trying to make the one person I care about turn against me. You have a new life. So, why the fuck are you trying to ruin mine?”

The diner was silent. Never had any of the regular customers or workers seen Adam in such a state. Paula glanced across the counter at Y/N, noticing that the girl was visibly shaking from the situation. Y/N tried to regulate her breathing, but it was becoming difficult. The young woman began to rock back and forth, her hands pulling furiously at her wristband; the plastic flicking continuously against her wrist. She felt helpless. Paula knew what to do to help.

Just before Hannah could spit anymore venomous words, Paula cut in.

“Adam. She’s closing.”

Hannah looked at Paula in confusion at her words. However, it was soon replaced with shock as in a flash Adam had steered from leering into Hannah to standing in front of Y/N.

Crouching in front of Y/N, Adam instructed her to breathe deeply in and out.

“Come on squirt, move yourself to face me and copy my breathing, alright?”

Y/N did as Adam instructed. Slowly, she moved her body to Adam’s direction.  Adam slowly cupper her face with his hands, looking for any signs that she did not consent to what he was doing. His thumb stroked her cheek as he guided her to slow down her breathing. Y/N focused on his breathes listening to his words of encouragement. The pair were in their own world, unaware of the continuous stares of the patrons and Hannah. The locals of the diner knew Y/N and Adam enough to have seen this happen once or twice before when Y/N felt overwhelmed or stressed or was just not having a good day.

Y/N hated calling the breakdowns or meltdowns; she always referred to them as closing. Because when she felt better, she always opened back up. When Adam first experienced her closing, he felt helpless, and he hated that he had no way to comfort her how she needed. So, with a lot of research and talking to Y/N herself, over the months they had known each other, it had become second nature for Adam to help her out when she was closing. Y/N’s instinct had become to contact Adam if she was alone and felt like she was going to close. He was always there as soon as he could. He had never let her down.

Adam watched as Y/N’s breathing slowed down and the vigorous rocking of her body subsided to being considered a slight sway.

“You’re doing fucking great squirt. Now tell me about our day. What film are we watching tonight?”

Y/N briefly looked up at Adam. In her peripheral vision, she could see Hannah and other people looking. It wasn’t as many as before, but the beading eyes of the woman standing behind Adam made her breathing begin to pick up again. She definitely did not like Hannah.

“Look at me.”

Y/N looked back at Adam. Her eyes flittering across the beauty marks on his face. 

“Our day. What does it look like?”

Adam’s hands travelled from her face to rest palms up on her knees, inviting her to hold his hands to stop the plucking of her wristband. Her wrist was welted and red raw. She accepted the invitation, delicately drawing shapes on his palms.

“We are going to kindly ask Paula to put our food in some containers. We are going to go back home…”

Adam could not help the smile on his face as she referred to the going home instead of naming one of their apartments.

Hannah didn’t miss the look on his face either; or Y/N’s words.

“We have to watch a Marvel movie because your auditions went well. We watched Spiderman Homecoming last time, so Thor Ragnarök is next. Then its your turn to pick what we do to finish our day because I picked the movie.”

Adam chuckled.

“Okay that’s the plan. Let’s go and do that.”

Adam stood up from his crouched position. As he turned to call Paula, he realised that Hannah was still standing there. Behind him, Y/N began to put on her coat. Packing her bag with the things she had laid on the table before Adam came.

Adam slowly walked to stand in front of Hannah, watching as the woman looked towards Y/N in disbelief and anger.

“Why did you never care for me like that? Why her?”

Adam threaded his hand through his hair, keeping down his frustration.

“I did Hannah. You were the one that never cared to notice. You never cared back. Neither did Jessa. I always give 100% no matter what. Even when people only gave 20%. Now I have someone in my life who gives 100% back and were not even fucking together. So, imagine if we were? I’d give her everything and more. And you know what?”

Hannah looked at Adam, tears in her eyes, in silence.

“I know she would give me everything back to.”

Adam stepped around Hannah to grab the takeout boxes from Paula. Thanking the waitress, Adam pulled out his wallet, paying her for the meal and leaving his 50% tip as usual. 

Walking back around Hannah, Adam walked towards Y/N. Seeing that she was ready to go, he hastily packed up their food. Once he was done, Adam allowed Y/N to lead them outside the diner. 

Closing the door behind them, the pair began to walk in silence, in the direction of their apartment. They hadn’t got far before her voice was heard once again.

“You don’t know him like I did. Like I do. Once you found out all the fucked-up shit that he was into and done, you would leave in a second. You’re a fucked-up person Adam. Acting like you care because you helped her out of a panic attack. We all fucking get them. It doesn’t mean you actually care.”

Adam whipped around, ready to give Hannah another mouthful. But before he could step any further, a grip on his arm held him back. 

“I know Adam.”

Adam looked behind him at towards Y/N.

“I know trivial things about him that you and many others probably do. Like his love for milk, or his outlet with carpentry, or that he likes to read. But I also know things about him that he doesn’t realise. Like how he has 26 beauty marks on his face. Or that even though he calls romance movies fabricated and full of bullshit, he will still smile when they get their happy ending. I know his favourite colour, his least favourite colour, how he recites monologues he’s learning under his breathe when he is busy with everyday activities. How he has changed his running times in the morning so he arrives back half an hour after I wake up so we can have breakfast together. I also know that in my entire life, I have never cared about someone as much as I do for Adam Sackler. I might not know what he looks like or sounds like when he cums. Or what kinky shit he likes in bed. Or even all of the little details of the drama between you, him, and Jessa; whilst by the way I do know at least 99% of it.”

Hannah’s mouth opened and closed in silence. Adam looked at Y/N in bewilderment and awe.

“But what I know is that, even if everything you said was true, I don’t care. Because I care about him more.”

Sliding her hand down from Adam’s arm, to his hand, Y/N linked their digits together.

“It was lovely meeting you Hannah; but we have a movie to watch.”

Turning around, Y/N pulled Adam in the direction of their apartments. Their hands held tightly together. Hannah did not follow.

They walked in silence the whole way back. Y/N’s thoughts set on the rest of their day, already pushing the encounter with Hannah into the back of her mind. Adam’s own thoughts clouded with the woman holding his hand. He stared as she ascended the stairs. He stared as she opened the door to her apartment, pulling him inside. He continued to stare as she kicked off her shoes and threw her bag and coat on the sofa, moving around the apartment to set up their movie night. 

“Can you pass me our food Adam so I can reheat them in the microwave?”

Y/N waited for the reply but never got one. Walking back through her apartment, she saw Adam still in the doorway.

“Are you okay?”

Adam shut the door behind him and walked towards her. Handing over the food, he watched as Y/N busied herself in re-heating it up. Moving to the sofa, Adam pulled off his shoes and got comfortable, waiting for Y/N to return before he hit play. Once she arrived back with their plates of food, Y/N situated herself in her area on the floor, where she always sat to eat. Placing a glass of water in front of her and another glass of milk in front of Adam, she smiled as he said thank you. Gesturing to begin the movie, Y/N began to eat. 

As the movie played in the background, Adam looked at the woman in front of him. He knew trivial things about her that many others probably did. Like her love for Dr Pepper, or her love for anything Disney, or that she loves to read. But he also knew things about her that she didn’t realise. Like how she always sat closer to the window because Adam hated the draft it created. Or that even though she loved superhero movies, she still preferred romance because she loves love; even though she had terrible examples of it around her growing up. He knows her favourite colour, her least favourite colour, how she likes her set routine and how it differentiates when he suddenly wants to spend time with her. How she has changed what she makes for breakfast so that Adam is always full after his run. He also knows that he was kidding himself when he thought he had felt strongly for Hannah and Jessa because he feels so much more now. He might not know what she looks like or sounds like when she cums. Or what kinky shit she likes in bed; though he wishes he did. Or even all of the little details of her life before knowing him. But what he does know is that he is in love with her and that she feels something for him too.

[doodlewash]

I can call myself the Nancy Who Drew because (a) my name is Nancy, (b) I draw, and (c) I solved a mystery. Not exactly like my childhood heroine Nancy Drew, but in my own way, through drawing (and painting), and writing about it. The two-volume memoir called The Nancy Who Drew has taken up the last twenty years, but never mind. It’s been worth the effort to paint a picture in the reader’s mind, which opened my own mind to the story my pictures had been telling me all along.

The ones from my imagination anyway. When you have a brush in your hand, you never know what the subconscious will release. But I trusted it because painting, that silent, wordless activity, was my voice when I had no other.

I began with oils, and at first only switched to watercolor when I couldn’t afford a new roll of canvas. Later, I turned to watercolor when the umpteen canvases stacked against the walls began taking up all the floor space. But then something else happened, which I can only describe as a feeling of becoming lighter, and wanting a lighter, less dense medium.

My easel now serves as a clothes rack, and instead of a canvas six feet tall, I’m happy with a six-by-six-inch watercolor sketchbook. When I post an image online no one can tell the difference.

I have three watercolor stories to share with you. One took place at the Art Students League during my first stab at the medium. As I watched the instructor do a demonstration, making it look effortless, I thought he was a magician. I was in despair when he came round to look at my work that day. But he said to me, “Have you done a mile of watercolors yet?”

A mile? I had a flash of watercolor paper stretching into space, on and on for an unimaginable distance. “No,” I said.

He smiled. “Well, wait till you’ve done a mile.”

If that story was about the value of experience, this next one is about power. Power and control. Other than when I was a child and drawing and painting were simply pleasurable activities to engage in, making art has had a lot to do with having some kind of control over my life. In the sense of being in charge of my own interpretation, asserting my own expression. Then, reproducing what was outside of me became a way of taking it in, feeling its energy, connecting me to whatever I happened to be painting.

For those of us who quail at the fleeting nature of time, who miss loved ones before they’ve even left, who find the beauty and pain of existence more easily borne through color and form—because that’s one thing you might have control over—there’s nothing quite like picture-making.

My mile of watercolors picked up speed when I read Burt Silverman’s Breaking the Rules of Watercolor, and realized there was a way to manipulate the medium that put me more in charge, less fearful of making a mistake. With oil, if I didn’t like what I had done, I could come back the next day and paint over it. Or whitewash the whole canvas and start again. Now I learned that I didn’t even have to use watercolor paper! I could use Bristol plate, as long as it was heavy enough, and taped down securely to a board. It buckled, of course, and there were waiting times for it to dry and smooth itself out again, but I used that time for starting another.

I had to buy it by the sheet to get the thick, heavy weight, but I cut it into halves or quarters. The beauty of Silverman’s method was the ability to put color in and take it out again. Take it out with a sponge or a brush, and put it back in to create layers. Or to find that white space you purposely neglected to save because you were encouraged to be reckless and impulsive. I’ve included two examples of this method, the self-portrait and the one of Pegasus, which looks more like a gouache than a watercolor, but it’s not.

The book is out of print, but Amazon has it through third-party sellers. When I went to check its availability and read some of the comments, one man complained there wasn’t enough actual instruction or how-to’s, which came as a surprise to me because wasn’t that the whole point of breaking the rules? To find whatever way works for you and to heck with the rules.

I was off and away then, on paper meant for anything but water. Later, I found certain kinds of paper that could absorb water, yet allow you to lift the color out again. It was all about finding what would give me the result I wanted, whether or not I knew in advance what that would be. It was a dialogue between brush and paper, water and colors, and all I did was watch it unfold.

I began with tubes of Winsor & Newton and have tended to stay with them simply because I knew what I was getting. But if I neglected them too long, the lids sealed themselves shut, and lighting a match under them was the only way to pry them open.

All manner of brushes do the trick for me, because it’s never the brush; it’s the hand that holds it. This is the third story, noticing the importance of touch. At the League, I watched how my drawing instructor used her fountain pen like a divination tool.

How she let it hover a millimeter above the paper before making a mark. Her concentration was fierce, as if her hand was being guided by an unseen force. Or maybe she was just allowing the drawing to direct her next move. She was bent over as if in prayer, oblivious to us, her students, gathered round, watching the dance of her nib with the paper.

You couldn’t help but feel it was more than a drawing class; it was a lesson in Oneness. A lesson in reverence for the medium, letting it do its thing and getting yourself out of the way. I thought about her years later when I had a heavy-handed, beginner student of my own. We were doing a watercolor of tulips. When I saw her charging into the paper like the 1812 Overture, I tried to explain the importance of touch. Strokes can be heavy or light; it’s the sensitivity that counts, much like a violinist applying bow to strings.

My watercolors have become rather miniscule of late, and I doubt that mile will ever be reached. But there was a time when I did watercolors 30×40 or 34×40. The paper was cut from a roll, stretched like a canvas and stapled to wooden stretchers. Thirty years later, they’re still on those stretchers and in pristine condition even without glass and a frame.

Yet how I wrestled to get them on the stretchers. The paper had to be totally immersed in the bath to make it pliable, then taken out to be fastened with staples while it was dripping wet. I was drenched and the floor needed mopping, but the paper dried tight as a drum, and no worrisome buckling to contend with.

Three of the disjointed architectural scenes were painted on stretchers. They were a response to all the ‘normal’ architectural renderings I did throughout most of the 1980s. Before you marvel at my drafting abilities, I confess I took slides as well as prints, and projected the slides onto my paper so I could copy the lines. It was still a lot of work, but I don’t think I would have even attempted it if not for this drafting shortcut.

My rendering business came about through a friend in real estate. One thing led to another, and after a few years I was able to earn my living through commissioned work. (Rents in New York were cheaper in the 1980s—and so were art supplies.) But as others have found, turning your passion into a job has a downside if you end up painting only for other people. I kept my soul intact with work from my imagination, like the bird lady and the figure dancing with the moon. But it was through renderings that I developed the habit of detail.

I prefer working in daylight, but having deadlines caused me to find that special ‘blue-light’ bulb which gave the effect of daylight no matter what time it was. With the onset of scanners at the end of the 80s, commissions became scarce, and with digital photography they dried up completely. Yet my love for painting buildings lived on when I moved to Brooklyn. Thanks to the protection of the Landmarks Preservation Commission of NYC, I live in an area of beautiful historic homes from a bygone age that call out for my pen or pencil or brush.

I take pictures when I’m outside, then do the work indoors. At least in New York City, because the first time I tried sketching on the sidewalk was a spectacular disaster. A story best saved for the memoir as I’m running out of space here. Meanwhile, this January it’s even been too cold for taking pictures, so I’m doing watercolors of food. In the next few months, I’ll have to curtail those as well in order to get Volume Two of The Nancy Who Drew out there. This is the one that tells the whys and wherefores of becoming an artist and how I kept going.

It often comes down to just keeping on, doing the next picture. And the next. That 95% perspiration thing that involves guts more than talent. Or maybe having guts is a talent too. I once found solace in a book called On Not Being Able to Paint, because lying fallow has a purpose too. Robert Henri’s The Art Spirit inspires me.

“What a writer or painter undertakes in each work of art is an experiment whose hoped for outcome is an expanded knowing. Each gesture, each failed or less-than failed attempt to create an experience by language or color and paper, is imagination reaching outward to sieve the world.” ~ Robert Henri

But then social media inspires me too, because having a place to share our work, knowing people will see it, is a great impetus. Thanks Charlie O’Shields, and thanks Doodlewash!

Nancy Wait Website Facebook Fine Art America Instagram Doodlewash

#WorldWatercolorGroup - GUEST ARTIST: "The Nancy Who Drew" by Nancy Wait - #doodlewash I can call myself the Nancy Who Drew because (a) my name is Nancy, (b) I draw, and (c) I solved a mystery.

[yeoldontknow]

Hero: 5

Author’s Note: This chapter is brought to you by delayed NYC subway trains, a bored Kat at a baseball game, lunch breaks at work, and one brief NYC heatwave. I hope you enjoy yet another political, PCY POV chapter. I find I enjoy changing the perspectives and shaking up the writing style slightly. Hope you enjoy! <3 Song for this chapter: XIII - mr. kitty Genre: Vampire!Chanyeol; thriller; horror; suspense; drama; eventual smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating (this chapter): R Warnings (this chapter): graphic depictions of blood; swearing; vomiting Word Count: 4,861

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CHANYEOL

The night always surprises him, how vibrant and electric it is. Even as a human, he preferred the darkness and felt at peace in its cold embrace - much like being held by water. When he feels introspective and bitter, he thinks this is why death eluded him. He'd made a home of the shadows, so all encompassing and whole, that there was nowhere left for him to go - nowhere else his soul could belong; rejected by the afterlife into the arms of night.

It's fitting, he thinks. He died with the sun, during a sunset so violent and red for a moment it appeared his blood had spilled into the sky. The dusk encased him and wrapped him in stars as he withered beneath a tree, soaking the grass beneath him until even the leaves above were dripping with his stain. Sometimes he wishes the tree was his grave, his ashes its roots.

He was ready to die, welcomed it with a smile bordering on ecstatic as he drank the light of the moon like milk, but it refused him. The eyes of his maker greeted him like a ravenous void, with a blackness so full of thirst and chaos for a moment he thought he'd passed through a dying star.

He died, ready for an empty eternity. But then, he lived.

And the galaxies above welcomed him with distant and open arms. He'd wept at the sight, a true vision of all the life gleaming under cover; glimmering and waiting to be touched, kissed, and known. It made him feel small. It made him feel the true meaning of awe. He thought he'd been chosen. He thought he'd become a god. 

Tonight, the skies are anxious. Tonight, the skies are cowering under his hard stare and the sight makes him crack his neck to release a fraction of the tension spreading itself along his spine. He knows it's his reckless indignation tainting his sight. Truthfully, he shouldn't be out. Truthfully, he's being careless. But in times of war, he likes to be one step ahead of the opposition - and even though it hasn't officially been declared, he can smell it on the wind and he finds the stench offensive in its simplicity.

When he reaches Jin-Soo’s club, he waits in the alley around the back and starts to feel damp. His skin becomes moist with anticipation and remembrance - this used to be his office. Pressed against tepid brick and sick with a hunger caressing the lines of savagery, he would linger in alleys just like this. He fed on the weak and the drunk, the drugged and aroused - it didn't matter. They all bled so beautifully. 

The meeting point is stereotypical, he knows this. Forced to wait in the filth and squalor seeping from the trash and into the street, he's aware this is done with purpose. This is regarded as his full potential, this is what Jin-Soo thinks of everyone but himself - everything a worthless nothing, easily forgotten and easily replaced. Some nights, Chanyeol agrees and thinks perhaps the world would be better if everything burned. Tonight, though, it's an insult directed at him and the arrogance of it makes his fangs itch.

The watch on his wrist tells him he's been waiting for five minutes and he impatiently grits his teeth. There was never a set meeting, his presence is uninvited and likely unwelcome, but he knows that it is felt. It looms in the dark, outside the reach of the street lamps and is sensed with a magnetism akin to doom. His presence is felt and it is being ignored.

Chanyeol is many things, many brutal things soaked in blood and dripping in gun smoke, but he is never tardy and finds that waiting, different from the patience of hunting, is a trivial habit singular only to humanity. He fondles the vile in his pocket and his fingers gently slide over the wooden bullets pooled next to it. He allows himself a brief reprieve and imagines putting one between Jin-Soo’s eyes. The inherent satisfaction of it makes him thirsty in a way that causes a smile to pull at his lips. It's not the first time he's allowed himself to wallow in the fantasy, the vision of it forming graphically in his mind more times than he can count. He was always happiest with bodies collected at his feet.

A metal door on the side of the building swings open, revealing a tall, muscular man in a well-tailored black suit. After a quick glance around the alley, he brings his attention to Chanyeol and nods with a heavy grunt.

‘About fucking time,’ Chanyeol hisses. He looks past the bodyguard and sees no other men, no back up.

Gliding towards the door, he gives the man a once over as he passes through with a cocked eyebrow. The guard is dressed in a way he finds completely unnecessary, crisp suit clean and pressed and expensive. He pauses just beyond the threshold and smirks.

‘Big man hooked you up with Tom Ford but couldn't get you backup?’

‘Follow,’ is the curt reply.

Chanyeol rolls his tongue over his teeth at the blatant disrespect, but says nothing. Now is not the time for gutting the help.

They walk silently down a corridor, likely only used by the maintenance staff given the buckets and mops with red stains woven through cloth, and turn a corner that leads to the kitchens. He eyes every single person quickly as they pass, exhaling quietly through his mouth and ignoring the way the smell of human food makes his stomach churn in disgust. The scent is thick and synthetic, the purity of raw muscle soiled by butter, and oil, and wine, as if these things somehow improve the taste. He normally doesn’t feel this way, but the scent of the human and the lack of fresh blood has turned him into a primal thing and he relishes slightly the feeling of being unpredictable.

He counts two concealed weapons, observing the outline of the barrel in the back pocket of one chef and in the apron of the other; possibly Sig Sauer P228 given the size and length, though he can't be sure. To anyone else, they would appear comfortable and careless - giving away their tells like they were inviting bloodshed to their doorstep - but he knows this is all merely an illusion.

Everything is an illusion, and Chanyeol has always been far too perceptive for his kind. They want him to know they are armed, safety off and trigger finger ready without pause. They want him to know they are lethal and that, to them, loss of life is insignificant and happenstance.

He smothers a chuckle in his throat, acknowledging these pretenses with a roll of his eyes. He’d have them outnumbered and overpowered in seconds.

They pass silently through another hallway, yellowed and peeling beneath the harsh fluorescent light, walls lined with stickers of bands and sharpie markings of drunks professing love and loathing.

J <3 A 4E

Marcus is a fucking cunt!

Lives are painted on these walls, smeared into the concrete with haphazard nonchalance, and Chanyeol reaches a hand out to touch them as he passes, grazing each with his sharp nails as though he were grasping at throats.

The guard pushes on a solid black door which opens to the VIP terrace of the club interior, leather chairs and plush couches lined against the wall across from tables pressed tightly along the railing. Immediately, they are assaulted with a throbbing, electronic bassline and the sheer volume of the sound makes Chanyeol’s ears ring slightly as his hearing adjusts. It’s the first thing he notices, before the onslaught of human desire.

It surrounds him, taunts his senses in a come hither whisp beneath his nose, strong enough to make his steps falter from the force of it. The club is in heat and everyone is succumbing to the pull, pawing at one another in dark corners and against the bar. He smells the spit, the sweat, the dripping sex of the women and the strained breathing of the men. His senses are haywire, a thirst rising in his throat so wet and greedy he starts to salivate. He absentmindedly runs his tongue along his lips before gaining control of his synapses and strides blithely across the terrace towards a table nestled in the back.

Jin-Soo is lounging in his chair, legs languidly stretched out and crossed at the side of the table. He presides over the patrons of his club, stoic and immobile, a red straw dangling from his lips as he chews it with a tense jaw. He watches over the dance floor with a detached sort of interest befit for a gargoyle, and for a moment Chanyeol sees him as a monument, a statue to be vandalized and dismantled.

As he approaches, Jin-Soo catches the movement from the corner of his eye and, briefly, a scowl toys with his features before smoothing to a placid, albeit vacant, expression. Waving in an awkward, slightly forced motion, he points to a chair that Chanyeol has no desire to take. He'd rather pull out his collarbone, he'd rather gnaw through the veins in his neck, but instead he stands next to the chair and bows.

His body shudders in protest at the action, a proper greeting being offered when none is given in return breaks a millennia of rules and propriety. There's no room for politeness here, that much is true given how Jin-Soo is looking at him, but Chanyeol has played this game enough to know that everything is a test, a challenge of his willpower. He’s played this game before and he will play it to the end, even if it means burning out what's left of his soul.

‘Chanyeol. What a pleasant surprise,’ Jin-Soo says, glancing back at the floor below and making a point of not looking at him when he speaks.

‘I figured a chat between men was in order,’ Chanyeol says, straightening to stand. His fingers are aching to crack, to claw, to tear at something as pliable as flesh.

Jin-Soo nods to the guard who places a hand on his shoulder and turns him, crude and full of discourtesy. He wonders if this man knows he is a sire. He probably does. He probably doesn't care.

‘Arms up,’ he says, pointedly.

The guard’s hands roam over Chanyeol’s body with purposeful force, rough and indelicate, searching him for weapons, drugs, or money.

‘Does this mean you're buying me dinner?’ Chanyeol asks, feigning innocence with wide eyes.

The guard says nothing but his scowl hardens, apathetic and cold.

His actions are intimate and slow, and Chanyeol clicks his tongue as his hands round and press against his ass. He gives the man a dirty smirk when his fingers find the barrel of the HK USP 45 Match tucked between his trousers and back.

‘Find something you like?’ Chanyeol whispers, puckering his lips and blowing a kiss.

‘You can get this when you leave.’

He tosses the gun onto the table, and it lands with a loud clatter.

‘Be gentle with her. She’s a rarity,’ Chanyeol says, lowly.

Hands move to the front pockets of his coat and he moves his torso at a slight angle to graze his hip bones against wandering fingers, watching the way the man’s mouth settles into a frown of frustration. He stifles a laugh, relishing how uptight and by the book the guard is. He must be new. The bullets are found quickly, and for a moment he can tell the guard considers taking and burning them, but without a magazine to load they are effectively useless.

He drops his hands and nods at Chanyeol before turning to reach for the gun on the table. Chanyeol studies his back and the way his coat awkwardly drapes along his ass, sighing with a roll of his eyes.

‘You should keep your knife in your breast pocket,’ he says casually to the guard as he pulls out his chair. ‘Harder to notice and easier to reach.’ He gives the man a wink as he gracefully settles in his seat, painting an expression of mild-mannered boredom on his face.

‘He’s clean,’ the guard says as he takes the gun and leaves. Chanyeol shakes his head minutely, glad to be rid of him.

‘Do you have your entry fee?’ Jin-Soo asks, finally bringing his eyes to him and addressing him properly.

Chanyeol reaches into his pocket, pulling out the vile and setting it in the table between them. There's a brief pause during which they both stare at the small glass, glistening with liquid. Coloured lights bounce and refract along the glass in rhythm to the music, giving it an otherworldly glow.

Eventually, Jin-Soo reaches to take it, breaking their visual stand off, and thumbs the cap slowly while looking Chanyeol directly in the eye. He brings it to his nose and inhales, deep and erotic, eyelids fluttering as the scent of Chanyeol’s venom settles in his stomach.

He watches with dead eyes and starts to feel violated. He knows this is the point. He knows this is the true meaning of payment, the offering of something not easily parted with.

Jin-Soo caps the vile with a satisfied cough and places it in his breast pocket, right next to his heart. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but my supplies were interrupted,’ he says, implication tarnishing his polite tone.

‘Gin will be fine,’ he announces, sounding almost nice, and he remains impassively calm as he watches Jin-Soo raise his eyebrows in minor surprise.

And it's now that Chanyeol has to force himself to forgive the disrespect and the judgement, looks them over with a casual shrug of his shoulders because now, now is when his resolve matters most. This isn't the time to be petty or playful, this is strategy and an infiltration of defenses so slow and absolute it will be too late before anyone notices the collapse.

As Jin-Soo snaps his fingers, motioning to a bartender, Chanyeol is locking pieces of himself away and pushing his hungry parts into corners made of iron. His focus is becoming narrow and he is silencing all his distractions: his anger, his thirst, the exhaustion, the ache in his joints. He's shutting down and focusing on one thing and one thing only: to swallow and to survive.

A glass of gin on the rocks is placed in front of him, and he forces a grin as he regards the shadows it casts. His fingers idly run along the rim and he brings his eyes to Jin-Soo, who watches him expectantly.

To his right, a woman is dancing with...someone. A stranger. Her boyfriend. It doesn’t really matter, but Chanyeol can smell her. He’s getting whole mouthfuls of her sweat and perfume, the sex of her consuming the atmosphere, and this is what he focuses on as he brings the glass to his lips. Her scent mixes with the alcohol in a bewildering away, the pleasurable aroma souring slightly until neither she nor the gin are recognizable.

He opens his throat and swallows.

All at once his body is at war, tearing and ripping itself apart from the inside and rejecting the gin with such strength he feels his muscles constricting with a visceral quake. He’s being lit on fire, alcohol mixing with bile to become something atomic, and he feels his veins throb in an effort to maintain control.

In his mind he is screaming, a bloodcurdling howl so violent and agonizing his bones resonate with the sound. In his mind he is dying, the last of his strength dissipating under the burn of the drink and he thinks he'd like to sleep and sleep and sleep. In his mind, this is suicide.

He refuses Jin-Soo to the pleasure of witnessing this, his features serene and confident as he purses his lips to feign the smooth warmth of a good drink. Placing the now empty glass gently on the table, he blinks and he smiles.

‘Jinzu,’ he says, tongue taking the excess with a curl in his upper lip. ‘Sweet.’

He has thirty minutes, at most.

Seemingly convinced, Jin-Soo relaxes into the back of his chair and looks out once more at the floor below.

‘You said you wanted to chat?’

‘Yes. If I may, I’d like to get right to it.’ Chanyeol follows Jin-Soo’s gaze and settles on a woman with hair so red and thick it looks as though she is made entirely of blood. ‘I've never been one for...dancing.’ 

Jin-Soo nods almost imperceptibly. ‘It's why I chose to deal with you.’

At this, Chanyeol turns and leans forward across the table. He’s accosted by the smell of Jin-Soo’s cologne, in his nose and his mouth, and it makes him sick, makes him want to cut out his tongue to forget the flavor. ‘I believe I chose to make a deal with you. You understand?’

His tone is menacing and sharp, effectively releasing himself from the shackles of propriety. All his pieces are set delicately on the chessboard and now he’s free to be ruthless.

‘You make it sound as though you had a choice,’ comes Jin-Soo’s arrogant hiss.

‘I don’t deal often. I find the necessity of others to be finite.’

Jin-Soo clenches his jaw and turns slowly to peer at Chanyeol with narrow eyes. ‘Am I meant to be moved?’

‘People lie,’ Chanyeol says, holding his stare and suppressing a gagging cough. ‘They manipulate what is and what was to match their mood, their whim.’

‘I thought you didn’t like dancing, comrade.’

‘The most precious thing a man can have is his word. You gave me your word,’ he whispers, yet he knows Jin-Soo can hear him. ‘You gave me your blood.’

His words are sharp and calloused, fire to the iron of Jin-Soo’s indifference and now Chanyeol can see it. He can see the urge grow from Jin-Soo’s neck and climb into his teeth, settling in his mouth in a white rage, blinding and pure. He wants to show his fangs and he knows he cannot.

‘I think you’ll find, Chanyeol,’ he growls, ‘you gave me the same.’

‘Yes, mine was given freely out of honor and respect.’ He leans back in his chair with a flick of his wrist, partly being dismissive, partly trying to shake the spasms out of his tendons. ‘Yours...well, was I meant to ignore the halfling attempting to chew her way through my gate?’ 

He settles his cold gaze on Jin-Soo and waits. He's being blunt and he's being dangerous, but the bile is rising in his chest and it seems dangerous is the only option left.

Jin-Soo cocks his head, calculating all his options before speaking. Chanyeol half expects to die. ‘You’re making a bold statement, comrade. I hope you’re comfortable with the consequences that come with it.’

Leaning forward, Chanyeol places his hands beneath the table and claws at it, scratching in one long slow movement until his nails are buried deep. He’s cutting away at the wood and the pain helps release some of the anguish, a brief, violent distraction. It's enough for him to focus on speech. ‘I hope you’re comfortable being the man who broke a blood deal.’

‘You have no proof.’ His syllables are cruel, accentuated as though he were speaking to a misbehaved child and filled with disdain.

Chanyeol simply sits and purses his lips into a slight pout, a look he knows to be taunting. Jin-Soo is equally as wrathful as he, conniving and smart and violent, and the only way for Chanyeol to get the truth is to smoke him out: either by patience or by bullet. Jin-Soo assumes there is no proof and, while he is right, Chanyeol is astute enough to plant the seed of doubt. 

They sit this way for several moments and, for a time, Chanyeol thinks the force of his hands might break the table in two. Eventually, slowly like ice frost dusting over grass, Chanyeol sees Jin-Soo question himself, a flash of doubt in his eyes before it retreats and hides itself away. This simple refraction of light is enough for Chanyeol to know he has won.

‘I have your venom.’ Jin-Soo says, breaking the silence.

‘I have your second.’

‘Yes, I imagined he hadn’t wandered far,’ Jin-Soo says, running a finger along his lips. ‘And how is he?’

‘Rotting.’

Jin-Soo pushes himself forward and, to the unaware or ignorant, this would look almost friendly. He comes to lean close to Chanyeol, like he's ready to share something personal and private, offering words only to Chanyeol in confidence. Instead, his voice is ominous and aggressive. ‘Did you come here to threaten me on my territory?’ 

He chuckles. ‘I’m unarmed. I’m hardly threatening.’

‘Did you come to re-negotiate?’ Jin-Soo demands, tapping a finger on the table. 

‘Now, now,’ he says, smoothly, ‘I’m not in the business of negotiating war.’

‘Then you shouldn’t be dealing in blood.’

The words are tossed into the air like steel dice, a harsh gamble on Chanyeol’s reaction. They are nothing but contempt and mockery of his ability to manage his coven, and the oncoming storm of bloodshed.

‘You misunderstand me,’ he retorts, leaning forward with nothing but malice in his chest. ‘I don’t negotiate in war because it is never about business meetings, it’s about men dying. I think you should expect to bleed before you make promises you can’t keep.’

‘I’d watch your tongue,’ he spits. ‘You’re on my territory. I’d have your fangs before sunrise.’

Chanyeol thinks of the new guard and the armed men in the kitchen. He thinks of Jin-Soo’s money and his clean shirts. Everything is pretense, and he doubts Jin-Soo has ever personally bled a man for business before allowing himself to watch their world fall.

He thinks of the melting sensation in his stomach and the way his insides feel as though they are in a state of decay.

Even on the edge of death, Chanyeol would have their jaws ripped clean before they even touched him.

‘But wouldn’t that spoil it, just a little?’ he says, brightly. ‘All the fun we’re having?’ 

Again, Jin-Soo remains silent but he watches Chanyeol in a way that is too calculating to merely be sizing him up. Already, he is plotting and preparing. Already, he is planning the first scar he will leave on Chanyeol’s coven.

‘I think I’ll take my leave, comrade.’ Chanyeol rises from his seat with an airy sigh, and dusts his hands on his trousers. To the naked eye, it appears he is smoothing nonexistent creases. Really, he's wiping the wood out of his nails.

‘A wise idea, yes.’

They regard each other cooly before Chanyeol bows, chewing the insides of his mouth to stop himself from retching as he faces the ground. Coming to rise, he smiles before exiting the way he came.

In the hallway, the guard is waiting for him. He hands Chanyeol his gun and, even though he wants to run and push himself into the night air before his body caves in on itself, he remains nothing but the image of calm.

It takes four minutes for Chanyeol to make it to the dockyard several blocks away.

It takes two more minutes for him to move himself away from any wandering eyes or city lights. 

And then, in the secrecy of night and with only the moon to watch him, he bends over and vomits violently onto the pavement. At full strength, he would have taken the drink with glee. He always loved gin, though prefers it sloe, and for a moment he mourns the rich flavor of the sake mixed drink. But he was hardly at full strength, and this meant that anything other than pure, human blood, would make him feel as though he was being skinned alive.

Forcing the delay of rejection has caused his body to go into overdrive, soul fire turning his bile into an obsidian mess. The force of his heaves sends ripples through his muscles and his chest, and he has to grip the dockyard rails to keep himself from falling.

It’s then that he notices his hands are sweating and blazing red. The poles of the railings are glowing and bending under his hands.

He is a molten core and he is smithing the iron into chaos.

With the black stains of is insides still dripping from his mouth, he runs and runs and runs until the coven gate is in view. Before he is in reach, he can smell her - the human, his hero. He’s still several hundred feet away, but he thinks he could hear her heartbeat for miles, a tether and lure to his dying heart. It’s calm and strong, evenly paced and it’s clear she is either with Yixing or has been fed. There is no fear, just the strong aroma of healthy, human blood coursing vitally through delicious flesh.

When he reaches the gate, he presses his back against it, opting to keep his hands off the first line of defense so as not to damage it. His presence is felt immediately, and it slides open against his shoulder blades in a hard massage.

Hands hold him and touch him, this time reverently, and he’s aware he’s lost consciousness because when he finally opens his eyes, finally becomes cognizant of his surroundings, he’s back in his bunker, but his breathing his shallow.

Jongdae hovers above him, barking orders, and still all he can smell is the human. He’s nothing but a jumble of nerves, the desire to feast on her causing his chest to lift itself from his bed and he roars, miserably and desperately, in a state of true starvation.

Minseok holds him down, and he yelps at the cold rush along his arms. It’s obvious he’s regulating his fever, and he can make out Junmyeon as he sits quietly in a corner, generating a cool mist in the air, although he is blurred and merely a phantasm of tranquility.

After a time, Yixing rushes to his side and Chanyeol can feel him stroking gently at his consciousness. He calls out to him in joy.

Hello, old friend. We have used too much of you these last days.

Yixing is screaming. His eyes are red and dry, and Chanyeol could cry at the sight. He’s burning the very heart out of Yixing and turning him to ash, his mind and heart nothing but an inferno of grief consuming all good intentions.

Realizing that even the supernatural will not heal their sire, Jongdae leaves and almost immediately returns with a plastic sack in his hands. He tears it open with his teeth and thrusts it againsts Chanyeol’s mouth, pulling his lips apart with his thumb.

The blood cascades down Chanyeol’s throat like a balm and he groans in sheer delight. He’s utterly ravenous, starved within an inch of his sanity and he drinks and drinks until all that’s left is the taste of plastic. Another is offered to him and he takes it, greedily, consuming it with all the urgency as though it were a beating heart held between his hands.

When he finishes, he finally has the strength to speak. 

‘They’re mobilising,’ he gasps, tongue wet and heavy in his mouth. ‘The kitchen staff are armed. I imagine it’s the same for the other three clubs. He’s preparing defenses and expecting retaliation - he’s even got new body guards.’

‘Do we know his intent?’ Minseok asks, lips blue from his cold.

‘I imagine it was planned,’ he coughs, referring to the deal. ‘He has something that makes him confident. He was too collected, arrogant but in a different way.’

‘We need a mole. Someone on the inside,’ Jongdae suggests, ripping off part of his shirt and handing the cloth to Chanyeol to wipe his mouth clean. ‘And we need to move Sehun’s initiation forward. He’ll be valuable.’

‘Yes,’ Chanyeol agrees. ‘It will have to be tomorrow. We can’t spare the time.’

Momentarily, he looks at his hands and scowls at the way the pallor of death has turned his flesh to chalk.

Jongdae nods. ‘I’ll inform him. Should we allow volunteers for infiltration?’

‘No,’ Chanyeol says, sharply. ‘No volunteers.’

He’s slaughtered his way through history, and knows that any mole is usually the first to die. His men, his brothers, are too valuable at this moment to send off alone - especially when their blood supply has been reduced so significantly. He needs them all here, even his foot soldiers, their skills perfectly refined for war.

They all have gifts, many supernatural and many more simplistic, but none are as perceptive and human and unassuming as one he has witnessed three times across two days. Only one will be overlooked and underestimated, and now, for the first time, he’s glad to be inconvenienced.

Yes, he thinks he will have use for the hero after all.

[thetopiciscool]

THE TOPIC - “YOU MIGHT JUST DROWN IN THIS DRIP” 💧💦🌊🛳 [Reference Track] (HOOK) U might just drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit U might just drown in this drip I be killing all these fits U might just drown in this drip I’ve been dripping since the rip Mop the floor up, you might slip And sink into like a ship 🛳 U might Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might Drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit I be killing all these fits I’ve been dripping since the rip!” - THE TOPIC #instagood #me #videooftheday #vidoftheday #bestoftheday #talent #cool #style #nice #best #music #twitter #youtube #tumblr #soundcloud #king #icon #bronx #newyork #nyc #ny #ghana #ghanaian #african #rapper #rap #hiphop #artist #THETOPIC #THETOPICisCOOL https://www.instagram.com/p/B3jFQCcnett/?igshid=1nyd3tofrmr9x

[jessicakehoe]

The Evolution of Madonna’s Style: A Look at Some of Her Most Memorable Transformations

The legend that is Madonna turns 61 today and to celebrate, we’re taking a look at some of her most memorable style transformations. One thing’s for sure: the evolution of Madonna’s style has been a wild ride.

The Marilyn Monroe moment in Material Girl

Madonna had only been on the scene for a few years when she recreated Marilyn Monroe’s famous Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend look for her 1985 film clip for Material Girl. Giving an early hint to her unrivalled transformational abilities, the fur stole, fuchsia pink satin gown and drippings of diamonds made for a major moment.

The shaggy pixie crop in Papa Don’t Preach 

It might have been 1986 but Madonna’s bleach blonde pixie crop and thick eyebrows are the stuff Pinterest boards are filled with in 2019. Paired with a Breton stripe, oversized leather jacket and a black belted bustier jumpsuit, the controversial clip (many were enraged as they thought it promoted teen pregnancy) proved that a good crop (and great eyebrows) work in any situation.

The curls, cross and slip dress in Like A Prayer

Although the slip dress has become a street style must-have and mainstay in many wardrobes, Madonna was an early adopter of the look, sporting a body-con version of the item in her 1989 film clip for Like A Prayer. Paired with her mop of black curls and a stained lip, it’s one of the singer’s most iconic looks of all time.

The Gaultier cone bra

Speaking of iconic looks, a round-up of the musician’s style evolution wouldn’t be complete without a look at the Jean Paul Gaultier cone bra of 1990. Madonna unveiled the look on the first stop of her Blonde Ambition tour in Japan and no-one has stopped talking about it since. Interestingly, Gaultier admitted earlier this year in that he actually first designed the bra for a teddy bear he had growing up.

Photograph by Eugene Adebari/Shutterstock

The new era in Ray Of Light

In a huge sartorial turn, Madonna appeared in the music video for her 1998 hit Ray Of Light in a double denim look, soft beach waves and (because it was still the ’90s after all) a sequin belt. The release of the single coincided with her conversion to Kabbalah following the birth of her daughter, Lourdes, in 1996, and is one of her most pared-down to date.

The witchy Frozen era

That look didn’t last long however with Madonna crooning in the desert with long black hair in a flowing maxi dress for her 1998 hit Frozen. Serving up a desert witch vibe, the singer continued the look (albeit with a higher fashion twist) for her VH1 Fashion Awards appearance in the same year when she wore a corseted yellow gown by Olivier Theyskens, essentially putting the Belgian designer on the map.

Photo by Shutterstock

The gangster-cowboy hybrid in Music

Madonna ushered in the new millennium with yet another style shift, this time for her Music film clip. In it she rocked an all-white ensemble finished with an oversized fur jacket, multiple chains and rings and a bejewelled cowboy hat.

The ’70s vibe in Hung Up

Madonna proved age is only a number in 2005 sporting a low-cut fuchsia wrap-front top over a red high-leg bodysuit in her film clip for Music. The ’70s looked was completed with a curled, side-parted bob, 3/4 flesh-coloured tights and a purple sequinned belt.   

The Met Gala moment

Never one to shy away from a theme (see eight previous examples), Madonna is always one-to-watch on the annual Met Gala red carpet. Her first official appearance at the event was in 1997 but 2009’s outfit was the talk of the town. Strictly adhering to the theme ‘The Model As Muse: Embodying Fashion’, the Grammy Award-winning artist rocked a Louis Vuitton mini dress (designed by Marc Jacobs), thigh high black leather boots and custom couture bunny ears for the night. It made worst-dressed lists over the world but it kicked off a yearly countdown to see what she’d wear next.

Photograph by Matt Baron/BEI/Shutterstock

The ultimate transformation to Madame X 

As with many of the aforementioned looks, the transformations were tied to album releases and Madonna’s newest reinvention follows suit. Referring to herself as Madame X (which is also the name of her 14th album released back in June), the 61-year-old is rocking a bejewelled eyepatch on the reg paired with an array of edgy fashion looks from Versace, Prada, Miu Miu, Burberry, Fausto Puglisi and more. There’s elements from some of her previous iterations subtly woven into the new persona, though we’re certain this isn’t her last.

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Madame ❌ is happy to be home. ……………………🗽 🍾🥂#nyc #madamex #waitingforanitta

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The post The Evolution of Madonna’s Style: A Look at Some of Her Most Memorable Transformations appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

The Evolution of Madonna’s Style: A Look at Some of Her Most Memorable Transformations published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

[carriejonesbooks]

I love dogs.

I love my dogs. I mean look at them. I’ve had a great line of awesome rescue dogs that have blessed my life.

Dogs make you stronger

Prom dog

But sometimes? Sometimes horrible things happen. Things that seem like they should not happen in real life. Things that seem like they should only happen in horror movies.

One of those things? Well, once the dog, the big dog, the big dog with the massive bladder let loose the contents of her bladder on hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway.

We discovered this because there was a puddle on the downstairs floor.

“What is that?” the man asked.

“Um… pee?”

“That’s not pee.”

“It smells like pee.”

“It can’t be pee. It’s dripping from the ceiling.”

And I foolishly said, “It really smells like pee.”

The man then unleashed a massive stream of cursing that really belonged in record books. He vaulted up the stairs and cursed more.

“The BAD WORD BAD WORD BAD WORDING BAD WORD dog BAD WORDED AND BAD WORDED up here.”

“It will be okay,” I said.

“It is so not okay,” the man said.

I grabbed paper towels and bleach spray and bleach wipes and headed up the stairs.

The man grabbed a mop and bucket and continued to swear.

“Urine is literally dripping from our ceiling. OUR CEILING!”

The dog went out on the porch, which would have been a much better place for her to unleash the contents of her doggy bladder of Olympian size.

This whole event happened immediately after we came upstairs because the basement had  flooded. Our basement had never flooded before. There had been two inches of rain and I guess it inspired basement flooding and doggy bladders?

Yeah. I’m reaching there.

Anyway, this all happened during a day in which nothing went right, but I totally held it together anyways. This happened during a day where the one thing I was looking forward to for AN ENTIRE YEAR got cancelled because a projector at a movie theater broke.

It happened.

The dog had a massive accident. The accident found a knot in the wood and dripped through it onto the kitchen floor.

It was messy and disgusting and swear worthy.

And we survived. Right?

I love dogs and people and humanity, but man… if we don’t mess things up beautifully sometimes.

But what matters is loving through it, surviving through it, continuing through it.

And also bleach wipes.

Bleach wipes are important.

  One time when I was a emergency dispatcher, I came home and Tala and Scotty, my then-dogs, greeted me at the door, all doggy happy. Scotty, was my new dog and he was a rescue dog from Alabama who was in a kill shelter and for a long time we had thought that he was perhaps a grandpa who likes crawfish and BudLite a lot and was somehow caught in a dog’s body – like he was a shapeshifter who got stuck.  He had a puncture wound in his neck when he got here, two small holes. So, I think a vampire is to blame.

He’d also been shot.

His tongue had also been flayed and had healed, but one side didn’t work.

You know I’m a grandpa in real life – a human grandpa who likes BudLite.

Before that night, I had already witnessed him:

1. Get ice out of the refrigerator. 2. Use his paw on a door handle to open a door.

And now, he did this….

Do you see that? It’s a drawer that was COMPLETELY shut when I left the house. This means he grabbed it with his mouth and got it open at least a little bit and then he either wedged his nose in or something and opened it more.

Why would he do that? Oh, he was probably sick of dog food and bored because I was gone. Which is bored doggy behaviour, I know, but I present more evidence….

This was just part of the mess the dogs made. Notice the bottle of corn syrup was still standing up? Would a dog do that?

“No! A dog would not do that,” said Tala. “A dog would do this! Look at all that powdered sugar mixed with shoe! Yummy! I give it 5 stars!!!”

Side note: Dog saliva combined with powdered sugar on a wood floor creates a glue-like paste that is impossible to vacuum or mop up. It must be attacked with Clorox bleach wipes. I swear. I did not know this that night. And finally, though they ate peanut butter chips and brown sugar and confectioner’s sugar and Crisco shortening and Shepard’s Pix mix and Italian seasoning mix, they did NOT eat this….

Do you know what that is? It is chocolate!!! Chocolate KILLS dogs. And they left it, only tearing open the end. I sort of imagine Scotty holding Tala back and saying, “Baby. It smells good, but it’s poison. It will kill us. Let’s go lick up the sugar.”

See? I swear he was human!

You know it, baby. Now go get me a beer while I lick the sugar off this here rug.

I miss Tala and Scotty and all the dogs I’ve had before. I miss them even though they weren’t perfect. I miss them even though they had flaws. That’s the thing, if the living creatures we love are flawed? That doesn’t mean they aren’t worthy of love. That doesn’t mean they aren’t worthy of our love.

Nobody’s perfect. Not even a dog. But that’s okay. It just means that they are real.

WRITING NEWS

Yep, it’s the part of the blog where I talk about my books and projects because I am a writer for a living, which means I need people to review and buy my books or at least spread the word about them.

I’m super good at public image and marketing for nonprofits but I have a much harder time with marketing myself.

So, please buy one of my books. 🙂 The links about them are all up there in the header on top of the page.  There are young adult series, middle grade fantasy series, stand-alones for young adults and even picture book biographies.

Time Stoppers Front and Back Covers – US versions

Dear Bully

Things We Haven’t Said

Moe Berg

CARRIE’S APPEARANCES

I’ll be at Book Expo America in NYC on June 1 at 11:30 – 12 at the Lerner booth signing copies of the Spy Who Played Baseball. A week before that,

I’ll also be in NYC presenting to the Jewish Book Council . Come hang out with me!

I’ll be at Sherman’s Bookstore in Bar Harbor on April 28 from 1-2.

To find out more about my books, there are links in the header. And if you buy one? Thank you so much. Let me know if you want me to send you a bookplate.

PODCAST

The podcast DOGS ARE SMARTER THAN PEOPLE is still chugging along with over 3,000 listens.

Thanks to all of you who keep listening to our weirdness as we talk about random thoughts, writing advice and life tips.

We’re sorry we laugh so much… sort of. Please share it and subscribe if you can.

  THE CLASS AT THE WRITING BARN

The awesome six-month-long Writing Barn class that they’ve let me be in charge of!? It’s happening again in July. Write! Submit! Support! is a pretty awesome class. It’s a bit like a mini MFA but way more supportive and way less money. We’ll be having a Zoom class to learn more about it and I’ll share the details as soon as they are official.

The Worst Things My Dogs Did I love dogs. I love my dogs. I mean look at them. I've had a great line of awesome rescue dogs that have blessed my life.

[agosnesrerose]

Our Perfect Country Weekend

Last weekend Andrew and I took a whole weekend away. Alone. We have not been away for more than one night from Henry since he was born and it was about time.  We needed to relax and be alone and focus on us as a couple for a little bit. But I didn’t want to be TOO far from Henry quite yet, so we chose to go to a part of Connecticut I had not been to but had read and heard a lot about- Litchfield County near New York.  And we got to stay at The Mayflower Grace, which I had blogged about wanting to go to FOREVER ago (in 2009 to be exact) and is 2.5 hours from Boston and just over an hour from NYC.   The images that caught my eye and heart specifically were of the spa (above, which met every expectation).  I adore how this property mixes old New England charm and modern sensibilities.

We got massages in the spa, which were AMAZING.  Equally amazing was time spent relaxing here looking out at nature with just some magazines to read and tea to sip!

Hands down the most beautiful spa I have ever been to. From top to bottom.

The indoor pool (I forgot my darn bathing suit! ARGH!)

There are great workout classes and yoga and such to really get you all blissed out.

Our room was charming and old school– and since it was 70 degrees out (???) we got to sit on our private patio and open the two sets of french doors to let the breeze in.

Each room looks a bit different…. but all very quintessential New England traditional.

This image is from one of their suites. DROP. DEAD.

The main inn building is wonderful too– fires always going, a great bar and restaurant we ate at both nights (super delicious) and kind, courteous staff.

And a great patio that was enclosed for winter (I swear I took a picture, but guess not so this one is borrowed from Quintessence!)

The exterior in springtime. We’re already planning to go back in the warmer weather!

A few minute drive down the road is a little village called New Preston. Do not be fooled by how tiny it is, every single shop there is INCREDIBLE. Even Andrew was amazed.  I was basically losing my mind.

J. Seitz is an awesome blend of home and fashion, everything with a soulful, cozy vibe. Think leather, wood, bohemian clothing, lots of furniture from Cisco Brothers and some antiques too.

Next door is Pergola, which is exactly how you want your house/greenhouse (hypothetical greenhouse that is) to look like. Gorgeous plants, pots, garden accents, home accessories, art and gifts. I bought a gorgeous pot that I can’t wait to fill in the spring.

And  right down the street is Privet House, a mecca of amazing homewares, furniture, antiques, apothecary items and accents. I was kind of dying (and certain that my life would be vastly improved by dousing everything I own in this room spray that basically smells like good taste, if good taste had a scent).  I want to carry it in my purse and spray it wherever I go, but that would make me look like an insane person.

We then ventured out to Kent, CT to check out a couple other shops- namely RT Facts.  We got there and I knew this was a special spot.  The exterior is piled with incredibly finds from stone figures to outdoor furniture and antique doors.  Unfortunately no one seemed to be there.  So cut to me running around the three buildings absolutely bereft that I couldn’t go in.  And then I found that the doors were unlocked (which was confusing/awesome).  So I popped in to take some pictures and go BANANAS over every inch of the spaces.  Like this nook filled with carved wood pieces. Why would you need them? No reason other than to hang in a group like this for its pure awesomeness!

Huge marble fireplaces, busts and architectural details filled one of the buildings.

This is just a pile of awesome- from the iron doors to the stone remnants and mini greenhouse.

The blue of this antique cabinet was stunning, as were these vintage wood doors!

GAH!  I was literally screaming over the beauty of this place. Andrew can attest to that.

The main shop was locked (booooo) so I had to take snaps through the windows.

Andrew casing the joint

A gorgeous iron bench that would be lovely in a garden!

So many stone doggies. This pair of golden retrievers was INCREDIBLE ( and probably cost more than a Honda!)

GRILLED CHEESE BREAK.

(This was the best grilled cheese I think I have ever had-and I’ve had them all- from 109 Cheese and Wine.)

Ok, back to New Preston. I did not take my own pictures in Plain Goods shop, because I was kind of freaking out over how perfect it was. And how I wanted to burn everything I owned and replace it all with only linen, cashmere, rustic wood, raffia and white paint.  I am pretty sure I blacked out and emerged 30 minutes later with some expensive perfume and a cashmere scarf I absolutely did not need.

They also carry baby stuff. Incredible baby stuff that makes one think “$160 isn’t too bad for a cashmere kimono cardigan, right? I mean, it’s kind of a staple?” (ha) If only Henry could be swatched in fine linen and cashmere and only play with Alpaca fur teddy bears!

Stop it with these bibs.

The women’s, men’s and home selections also make you want to be a better person, basically.  You know, only wear the perfect trench while eating organic soup out of perfect, simple bowls and dabbing your mouth with crisp striped linen napkins (not dripping Cambell’s soup on a ratty sweatshirt and mopping it up with a paper towel a la moi.)

For those who love fine antiques, there are so many places in Woodbury to stop as well.

  One place that is a must visit, if only for appreciating high end woodwork and antiques as well as the GORGEOUS property its on, is Mill House Antiques.  What a spread! My parents have the most beautiful yew wood dining table from here.

This Greek Key mirror was a stunner!

They also have fine rustic antiques too if shiny mahogany isn’t your bag

I highly recommend this area for a weekend visit for those in the area!

The post Our Perfect Country Weekend appeared first on Elements of Style Blog.

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[sports-drugs-entertainment]

SERVIN' CUTTYS GOT DA BLOCK HOT... DAT SHIT IN MY GENES............ 🤲🏾🙏🏾👺📿

[sports-drugs-entertainment]

THE MILLION DOLLAR BABY 🤲🏾

[sports-drugs-entertainment]

HAVE MY OOTERS HIT YOUR BLOCK AND PAINT IT.... MONA LISA. @nterskii

[sports-drugs-entertainment]

DRIP MOPS NYC

[thetopiciscool]

THE TOPIC - “YOU MIGHT JUST DROWN IN THIS DRIP” 💧💦🌊🛳 [Reference Track] ...part 2 (HOOK) U might just drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit U might just drown in this drip I be killing all these fits U might just drown in this drip I’ve been dripping since the rip Mop the floor up, you might slip And sink into like a ship 🛳 U might just Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might just Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might just Drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit I be killing all these fits I’ve been dripping since the rip!” - THE TOPIC #instagood #me #videooftheday #vidoftheday #bestoftheday #talent #cool #style #nice #best #music #twitter #youtube #tumblr #soundcloud #king #icon #bronx #newyork #nyc #ny #ghana #ghanaian #african #rapper #rap #hiphop #artist #THETOPIC #THETOPICisCOOL https://www.instagram.com/p/BwhPtuil3X7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=jk0xip2r7lqw

[thetopiciscool]

THE TOPIC - “YOU MIGHT JUST DROWN IN THIS DRIP” 💧💦🌊🛳 [Reference Track] ...part 1 (HOOK) U might just drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit U might just drown in this drip I be killing all these fits U might just drown in this drip I’ve been dripping since the rip Mop the floor up, you might slip And sink into like a ship 🛳 U might just Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might just Drown in this drip Drown in this drip U might just Drown in this drip Sorry, shorty I’m the shit I be killing all these fits I’ve been dripping since the rip!” - THE TOPIC #instagood #me #videooftheday #vidoftheday #bestoftheday #talent #cool #style #nice #best #music #twitter #youtube #tumblr #soundcloud #king #icon #bronx #newyork #nyc #ny #ghana #ghanaian #african #rapper #rap #hiphop #artist #THETOPIC #THETOPICisCOOL https://www.instagram.com/p/BwhOw87lFRC/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1q6tttyroz4ms