#even artists who use nature to make stuff and then let their pieces deteriorate need to keep documentation photos

[reineyday]

why does being an artist so often mean accumulating stuff 🙃

[merakiui]

Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat. 

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances. 

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?” 

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?” 

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus. 

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?” 

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist. 

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells. 

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary. 

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting. 

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions. 

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color. 

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.” 

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast. 

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

[purkinje-effect]

Asking for Trouble

Cait gets a terrible first impression of Melancholy, my Sole.

This blurb has sat in my drafts for a few years now, and I decided to polish it up and finish the thought. Not sure if the encounter will be canon to Anatomy, but it’s here nonetheless. (For those curious to timeline placement, we’ll say this is roughly after the Park Street Station stuff in Fourth Instar, and sometime after his falling out with Mac.)

TWs: Heavy angst, injury and death, drug use and alcohol, explicit description of drug side effects, and violence-baiting.

Cross-posted on AO3 here if you’d rather. Likes, comments, kudos, etc. are all greatly, greatly appreciated.

_____________________________________

Someone at the Dugout Inn had mentioned this place. ‘Choly had come here with a vague recollection that the Combat Zone had once paraded skin. It only served to live up to its name now without any innuendo. Observing a little violence could be cathartic, too, and damn, if he couldn’t use some catharsis after his myriad missteps in Goodneighbor. All his life a spectator, vicarious in every regard.

He belonged here far before Goodneighbor or Diamond City, regardless of looking the part. Who could say a quavering, grey little man wearing a white three piece suit over head-to-toe leather orthotic braces didn’t fit right in among these earthly, physical misfits? He certainly couldn’t see any hackneyed political messes or territory wars erupting here: only people blowing off steam any way they could find it.

He couldn’t entirely say he minded that Angel’s compulsive cleaning habits almost always nettled the Hister Handy into picking up after social locations like this burlesque theater which now showcased cage fights. The possibility any of these raiders might hack it almost avoided him altogether, since he seemed like the only one with a Pip-Boy with which to do so. Such a worry would stick with him long-term after what he’d seen the Rust Devils do to Lowell.

His mind sang praises that Angel had allowed him to resume adding alkaloids to his meal replacement beverage, the Melancholia. Hubeine gave him negligible trouble compared to other options.

The fight unfolding before him was the billed spectacle for the night: for one hour, plus implicit encores, Cait would take down any body foolish enough to step foot into the cage to fistfight her unarmed. He swirled at some bourbon in a shot glass, from his bar seat to one side of the stage. His cataract eyes raised as he watched her continue through the athletic redhead’s performance. Somehow she managed restraint just shy of lethal blows, despite her precision and brute force. Any composure belied the depth of her murderous and bottomless rage. Glassy and lugubrious, he followed her bared teeth and retracted lips, her unblinking eyes, her adrenaline-wired and overworked musculature, her leaden instinctual footwork.

Despite having knocked out seven opponents in twenty minutes already, she wore more of their blood than they did.

In every mannerism, he recognized his enlisted in her. He stopped sipping at his liquor and threw the glass back, only to refill it.

Cait danced with the eighth opponent for about a minute before things escalated. The burly, hairy man pulled a switchblade on her, and managed to gouge her in the arm. In the physical sense, it didn’t faze her. In the mental sense, it had shattered the sanctity of her performance. She roared at him and lunged to sink her teeth into his face.

The crowd exploded. Her ghoul manager stepped in and attempted to stop the match-up, but he knew better than to get between her and the fool. She refused first aid, intent to fuck the guy up. The man kept his distance from her, knife still drawn, clutching at his gushing cheek. she voiced her displeasure to her manager, and he seemed to walk away and leave her again to her opponent... Only to bring her a baseball bat. A bloodied grin ripped across her face as she choked up on it like a familiar friend.

‘Choly smiled quaintly, head askew. The ghoul knew that the crowd demanded results--and more importantly, he knew that the crowd needed to see the consequences of forsaking what little honor they agreed upon in this dive.

She slugged him in the head. As he fell over, she proceeded to beat the shit out of him. The resultant din deafened much how ‘Choly might imagine Fenway Park during the World Series. Not that baseball had been his druthers. God, he wished that had been him on the receiving end. Between her hair, her leather corset, and the carnage, red was so very much her color. Head to toe, she was rage incarnate.

No one wanted to challenge her after that, especially not if they had to step around the bloody mess she’d splattered across the stage.

Time blurred a bit in ‘Choly’s shot glass. The next he looked up, he realized the champion sat beside him to drown herself in a fifth of vodka straight from the bottle. He straightened as coolly as he could, shifting to watch her. He adjusted his half-moon glasses, but could otherwise not obfuscate his alarm. He couldn’t leave alone the familiarity of the untethered ferocity with which she carried herself.

“Forgive me if this is forward of me, but I will get you any chems you want, if you will swear off cyclomorphine. The Psycho.”

“Bull shit,” came a potent Irish twang. She slammed down the bottle. Beneath the indignity in her glower, a tinge of fear felt more like the pressure of desperation. “You suggestin’ I couldn’t possibly fight as well as I do, weren’t I doped up? Your stupid mug hasn’t been here before. I’d remember. Who the hell do you think you are, to go around insultin’ the talent?”

His heart begged hot for her to retaliate. His gloved fingers tapped gingerly at the barely varnished countertop.

“I mean it. Name it. Med-X. Calmex. Anything but Psycho. I’ll even get dirty and brew you the most potent Jet you’ve ever had, if what you really need is escapism and not a low. CM isn’t a chem. It’s a death sentence. And... even if that’s the desired end result, that’s just about as gruesome and painful as it gets.”

She swiveled on the bar stool, resting both hands squarely on her spread knees. Her dead gaze bored through him.

“The fuck do you care so much about this wild theory of yours? You go around cold readin’ everybody’s vices tryin’ to hock your snake oil? Some salesman you are. You’ve got the Charisma of a Mirelurk egg that’s been in the sun.”

He raised his hands in defense, and then said what he meant sooner than meaning what he said.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything. I keep trying to offer solutions to the people I’ve hurt with my life choices, fix the damage rather than enterprise on it. Please let me get you chasing a different devil. Anything but that.”

“You’ve never met me in your life, and I don’t know your name or face from a Molerat in the floorboards. Don’t you try and bullshit me into believing you’re capable of fixing what ails me--and don’t you dare try to take credit for anyone that’s wronged me.”

“I’m the reason Psycho exists in the quantities it does in the Commonwealth. So yes, your pain IS my fault, at least part--”

His jaw seared. ‘Choly found himself sprawled in the floor. He felt around for his glasses, and as they returned to his face, he smiled up at her imploringly from where she stood over him. She cracked her knuckles sourly.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense. Tryin’ t’say I’m the one’s got a chem problem. What color is the sky for you? Forget you.”

Her hard exterior began to show signs of crumblign, in a series of stifled tics, most noticeably a corner of her mouth and the same ear. He could only begin to speculate to what exactly it was she’d taken exception, but he had to keep her attention, hold her contempt. Charm had never come naturally to him, so instead he had to sound the part of insisting at all costs that he was right.

“--Fine, you don’t want to quit. That’s a choice, too. I’ll make however much Psycho you want. You want to go out like that, I can help you with that. But I want you to know just exactly what that death looks like. Abscessed injection sites. Your gums and cuticles bleed. Your tear ducts bleed. It weakens all your capillaries, the tiniest blood vessels in your body. Internal bleeding. Organ deterioration. The numbness doesn’t turn off the pain--it only makes it so you don’t care. Is the anger easier than the hurt? If that’s how you want to go out, I’m not in any position to question it. But you might as well have an expert supplying you with it.”

Rather than help him up, she bore a heel down on his right hand. With an anxious chuckle, he winced, but welcomed being pinned in place. She glared down at him, seething. She didn’t want to hear another word from him, but she had to. Something about him surely sounded more deranged than intoxicated, and it threatened to haunt her.

“Do you know why cyclomorphine exists?” he continued, breath stuttering all the while. “Do you know what it is? Of course not. It was a prewar chemical--I can’t even comfortably endear it a chem--that the military developed so its soldiers no longer felt injury or fatigue. They endeavored to engineer soldiers who wouldn’t quit when hurt, even fatally. And it was only one of a dozen projects of its kind, to exploit the different aspects of human limits. Nothing human came from refining Psycho. It destroys something fundamental to a sense of humanity. The perfect formula didn’t concern itself with whether the patient came back in one piece, or alive at all. The Deenwood Project wasn’t poetic, wasn’t artistic, didn’t make a single beautiful thing. The fact that CM fell into paramilitary use after my tenure ended with the Army... and the fact it now as a result flows freely throughout the country as holdovers from... from the police attempting to keep the peace through intense and consistent violence... The fact is, I’m one of the chemists responsible for cyclomorphine’s end product. Responsible for it being one of the devices of America’s victory at Anchorage... So yes, yes I am. Responsible for what ails you. You’re civilian collateral of the United States Army.”

Her posture shifted slowly from anger to bitterness. She ground her heel into his palm. He pretended the token of her grief got through the reinforced officer’s glove.

“It’s not my place to question the source of your pain, and it’s not my place to insist that I be the one to take it away. I simply know that no matter how great the pain you’re in... Psycho dissolves parts of you, every time you use it to numb you. It begins physically, then advances to spiritually. It robs you of who you are.”

“That’s just the thing. I can’t handle bein’ me. This is the only part I’m fit to play. Besides, Tommy only cares if his juggernaut brings in the caps. I’m beholden to a contract. And the way I see it, you’re tryin’ to come between a man and his money, pokin’ around where your nose doesn’t belong! You’re lucky we’re out here and not in the cage, creep. Either I’m paid to beat your arse, or you’re askin’ to get blackballed.”

He sighed dreamily up at her, almost regretting that she let up on his hand. She drew her fists when his hand went to the lining pocket of his vest, but he chuckled producing a sack of caps.

“I thought you’d never ask. I admire one who rests their agency in someone else’s hands--or pockets, as it were. Surely, this is to the tune of you doing the honors. Add a black eye to the busted jaw. Tack on whatever you like. Ladies’ choice.”

She snatched the sack from him, frowning incredulously.

“What kind of sick flirting game is this? You tryin’ to buy me into bed? I know I’m easy on the eyes, but this isn’t a brothel these days, in case your damaged brain can’t tell the difference.”

He knew he wouldn’t be getting back the sack, but at least he’d tricked her into accepting some fleck of reparations from him.

“How many caps would it take to break your contract? To get you out of here?”

A broken sarcastic laugh crackled out of her. He’d long since surpassed overstepping, having moved on to stepping on toes.

“You’re insane if you think I’d ever want to leave the Combat Zone, especially not on the arm of the likes of you. I’ve got everything I could want here--except right now, not a place without you. You’re the one who needs to lay off the chems. Get your stupid brain-damaged arse out of here before I ask Tommy what I can do with you.”

He whistled for Angel, then retrieved his cane to stand.

“I suppose if you won’t let me help you, obliging you is the least I can do.”

With his Handy by his side, the two left without further question.

On his walk back to Hotel Rexford, he accepted that he’d probably never know the answer, but still he wondered if he had the same or opposite trouble as Cait: Were the two chasing a perpetual numbness, or were they chasing the futility of trying to feel anything again, at any cost?

[heisenbergchronicles]

APPRECIATION & INTERVIEW

Better Call Saul episode posters by Matt Talbot After 4 nearly years, I thought it was time to catch up with Matt Talbot about his Better Call Saul poster project. The last time we talked during Season 1, Matt was deep in the hustle of making his name as an illustrator: juggling a full-time job, freelance projects, as well as band. Finding time for personal projects like this one can be a significant challenge. (Not to mention surviving the death of your tools: During Season 1 his Mac laptop died, and this season, his Wacom tablet bit the bullet). But despite these challenges, the 43-year-old New Hampshire native has persevered to create a clever and thoughtful series of episode posters that has garnered considerable attention, and brought with it new high-profile clients and art exhibitions. 

First, congratulations on all of your success and recognition with this series of posters. It’s well-deserved. What’s been the most gratifying feedback you’ve received? Thank you! Every interaction I’ve had with anyone from the show has delighted me. I've been surprised by all of the cast and crew members who have said nice things – every note I’ve gotten has meant a lot to me. That being said, Michael McKean randomly tweeting at me that he has my poster for Chicanery hanging in his home blew my mind. I was eating dinner when my phone showed the notification and I literally jumped up from the table. I’ve been a fan of Michael’s since I saw Spinal Tap in the ‘80s and never in a million years would I have guessed I’d make something he valued enough to hang in his home.

Tell me about your contributions to Gallery1988 exhibitions. How does that process work? It's a pretty simple process. They invite me to be part of a show, and I make something to send them. I’m very excited for the opportunity to show there, and I feel like it’s a milestone in my art-making career.

Across the 4 seasons, which BCS posters are your favorites? Which one are you most proud of? I’m particularly fond of Rebecca, Rico, Marco, Switch, Sunk Costs and Something Beautiful. Oh man, it's hard for me to evaluate my own stuff. I tend to like the posters where I find a way to get a different take on something they did in the episode. I would say that “Sunk Costs” is also one of my favorites because I did something differently than how they shot it, and because Mike is so recognizable even from the back. I was also pleased with “Off Brand” because it was when I finally figured out how to draw Bob Odenkirk.

How has your process for creating these posters evolved over 4 seasons? When I started this project I had a vague idea that I would focus on scenes rather than portraits or likenesses, but that didn’t even last half a season! The characters were too good not to include. In that way, the posters have evolved in my willingness to draw characters, and also, hopefully, my ability to draw them. 

My process is now something like: Watch the show on Monday; think about it on Tuesday, figure out what stood out to me and do a thumbnail sketch or two; draw it on Wednesday night; post it Thursday afternoon. I’m a bit faster at drawing these now compared to when I started. And I’m a bit more decisive on choosing which subject matter to depict.

There have been quite a few changes on the visual side of Better Call Saul over the last 2 seasons. New directors (Minkie Spiro, Daniel Sackheim, and Andrew Stanton), a new cinematographer Marshall Adams, even new cameras. What are your thoughts on how the show’s visual grammar has evolved? Has any of this impacted your posters from Seasons 3 & 4? I try not to just redraw literal scenes from the show, and I don’t need to tell you that they shoot the show in an incredibly beautiful way. I mean, they always, always, pick the best angle, the best shot to capture something. For that reason, it’s sometimes hard to to come up with another take on a moment from the show.

That being said, the visual style hasn’t really impacted my posters as much as the evolving subject matter has. The show, I think, is substantially darker than it was in the early going. It was easier to depict Jimmy’s hi-jinx in the first couple seasons. But with Chuck’s deteriorating mental state, the cartel stuff, Mike going deeper into Fring’s world and of course, Jimmy’s loosening sense of morals, the funny moments are harder to spot. That’s lead me to some more somber layouts and color choices.

We didn’t discuss this in our first interview. Which typeface are you using in your posters, or is this custom typography? The main logo and episode titles are set in Sign Painter, from the excellent House Industries.

The Heisenverse is known for it’s color theory and use of color. How has that impacted your color choices in these posters? I’ve kind of adhered to their blue=good/red=bad symbolism, but I also try to balance out colors between episodes and not repeat myself in sequential posters.

Many of your posters (especially ones this season) use a monochromatic, or simple palette of 1-2 colors. Tell me more about why you chose that approach. Is this a signature of your style? I’ve seen this approach in a lot of your work. You know, in the early seasons, I was trying to use simpler color palettes, but I wasn’t very disciplined and I got away from that. I’m trying to stick to a more consistent style in season 4. It is a conscious decision. I also feel like with the week-to-week nature of this project, it helps quickly set apart each poster. And, I really do love limited color palettes. Giving myself color constraints helps me figure out different ways to solve layout problems.

I’ve heard other illustrators say that Bob Odenkirk’s facial features are tricky to capture. Do you share that sentiment? Which characters are more challenging to illustrate? I do agree with that. I had a really hard time with him at first. I kind of think I have a better handle on it now, but I’m always trying to get better. I feel like if you can get his mouth right, it goes a long way.

I found Hector hard to capture both times I drew him. Mike, on the other hand, is just pure fun to draw. Jonathan Banks is so distinctive and iconic.

What’s been the most difficult poster thus far? Why was it challenging? Maybe it’s because a lot of time has gone by, but I can't think of one that stands out as having been really difficult.

Francesco Francavilla did alternate posters for some of his Breaking Bad posters. Inevitably, when artists look back at their work, they consider revising or redoing it because of a variety of reasons – their point of view has changed, their skill/style has evolved, or maybe they were never truly content with the final product. Looking back at 4 seasons worth of posters, are there any that make you want to scratch the revision itch? Yeah, more than I would care to admit. I would really like another crack at Amarillo. I know I could do a better job and that drawing is just super flat. In season two, I decided to to experiment with style and I kind of wish I hadn't. I like Cobbler, but I wish I had drawn it in my normal style. I would redraw Nailed for sure. Oh man, if I start going down this road it's not going to end well, so I'll just stop.

You mentioned earlier this season you were excited to draw Track Suit Jimmy. Who or what haven’t you drawn, that you are eager to illustrate? Howard! It bums me out to no end that I haven't drawn him, but it just hasn't worked out. And I need to include Kim more. It's kind of criminal that her face only appeared for the first time in a poster this season.

What’s your opinion of Season 4? Tell me about your favorites – episode, scene, character. I think season 4 is brilliant so far. The Kim/Jimmy relationship has deepened so much this season, and feels so real, but full of inevitable heartache. Oh, the flash-forward to Breaking Bad’s timeline was amazing. Mike doing his audit in the Madrigal warehouse. Really, anything Michael Mando does on screen. It's hard to pick. I so enjoy the deliberate pace of this show.

Where’s your favorite place to discuss the show? I honestly don’t talk about it too much online, though I lurk in a few places and read a lot. I actually discuss it mostly with my wife!

I know you get this question a lot, so let’s cover it here so folks understand: Do you have plans to sell any of this work online? I really appreciate that people like it enough to want to buy it or hang it, but I don't plan to sell the Better Call Saul posters online. I’m doing this for fun, not to make a buck off the show, and I don’t own the rights to sell it anyway.

What’s next for Matt? Do you have any other poster or illustration projects in the works? Is you band performing soon? I have several more pieces for Gallery1988 shows coming up. I’m pulling together an art show at a local brewery for whom I design all of their labels and stuff. I’m patiently waiting for a t-shirt I designed for one of my all-time favorite movies to be announced. And for the past several Octobers, I spent the month drawing a horror poster per day. I’m not sure if logistically I can do that again this year, but I’ll probably fit at least a few in. We’ll see how it goes. Sadly, with all of my illustration work, I haven’t had any time for music making, but someday I hope to get back to that!

Follow Matt: Web site / Tumblr / Twitter / Dribbble / Instagram / PosterSpy

– Interview by Shayne Bowman, Heisenberg Chronicles

[artificialqueens]

Of oil paints, monologues, and 36 questions (1/3) - Sashea - Silver

A/N: i love sashea, art, and theatre, so i combined them all in to this AU that i hope you enjoy! Summary: Art student Sasha and theatre student Shea both attend the same college. When Sasha’s friend Katya requests that she help out her friend, Shea, the two meet and form an undeniable bond through their shared love of the arts - and questionable psychology experiments.

(Also, the 36 questions experiment mentioned is real and can be found here)

Small tw for recreational drug use

Fingers skidded elegantly. They smoothed and they glided across the blank canvas, spreading bright waves of red and fuchsia in their wake. Sunset yellow and muted ochre followed, lights of elation infiltrating a terrifying and anxious world as midnight black became the final colour. Architectural silhouettes of grand buildings and structures found their way in to the fantastical creation, emblems of existence and ever afters. Lilac and powder blue smudged and amalgamated in the background; a view through rose tinted glass windows.

Sasha took a step back from her easel. Paint smeared up the lengths of her bare arms and her white shirt in greasy markings accompanied the charcoal brushings across her snow legs and down to her feet, nails painted magenta and cold from the breeze of the relaxed summer air entering through the open windows of her studio.

She didn’t smile instantly as her work came into perspective. It was far from the kind of perfect that Sasha strived for in every thing she glanced at or laid her hands on.

Skyscrapers that were meant to stand out and portray individuality and uniqueness faded in to the synonymity of the background, failing to make an impact. Flecks of lemon and cream that were meant to act as flares of light had become tainted with the depth of chocolates and beiges, leaving them seemingly worthless.

Trailing across the room to set her pallet on a rickety, worn table, the sheet she’d set out to prevent paint from splashing on to the wooden floorboards proving to be more of a hinderance than a help, Sasha sighed. Running colour slathered fingertips through the front of her shoulder length, unruly, wavy blonde hair, she acknowledged that she was doing nothing to help her current situation. Murky rainbows of oil were streaked through the front strands, unflattering clumps of irritating white finding its way to the tendrils by her ears.

Frowning, she made her way to the sink, the water repelling and refusing to remove the majority of the stubborn medium from the skin of her hands. Relenting and drying off her hands on an ink stained rag, Sasha began searching for her phone that she’d misplaced hours previously in the midst of her somewhat inspired outburst. The rows of used canvases and rolled up paper stacked on the opposite side of the room reminded her of why - why she’d stepped far outside of her comfort zone, stretching her familiarity too far.

Experimentation.

Sasha found it almost laughable. Encouragement and words of unrestricted advice from outsiders left her in a slump of believing that her art wasn’t up to a non existent standard amongst artists and innovators. She’d become accustomed to producing intricate, detailed portraits using everything from acrylic to gouache, encaustics to watercolour, yet rarely oil and never without her signature fine liner brush.

Landscapes were a ground that she had not trod upon. The grass remained fresh and the buildings were nothing but blueprints when her lecturer and questionably Russian friend Katya suggested trying something new. Sasha was weary about changing her style of art to something unbeknownst to herself. It seemed unnatural, contrived and artificial. Break out of that box. Throughout the recent years of her life, the legitimately Russian girl had been, self admittedly, reckless. Sasha shaved her head bald at sixteen in a sporadic spur of the moment decision, and most recently at twenty she’d bleached her mouse brown hair that had grown in over the duration of the four years to an icy, white blonde. She’d made the cross country move at eighteen from Chicago, Illinois to New York despite her families protests and pleas not for her to depart. When painting, she would wear what ever clothing she was currently wearing, because who cares, she would justify, clothing holds no sentiment.

Art was different. To Sasha, her way of meticulousness when it came to painting and sketching held a sense of pride and achievement; a constant in an ever evolving life, society, world.

Sasha located her phone amongst her numerous boxes of chalks and pastels, the red case that matched the striking lipstick she wore on an almost daily basis covered with constellations of forest green and plum purple, courtesy of an open tray of aforementioned pastels. Flicking away the colourful dust, Sasha unlocked her phone to three messages and one missed call.

Katya: missed call

Katya: are you alive? Katya: did you drown in oil paint? Katya: call me back once you’re out of your creative funk, bitch

Scraping her hair that would undoubtably need a wash and a deep condition later that night in to an elastic, Sasha proceeded to press call followed by loudspeaker. Perching her phone on the worktop whilst she hustled around in a vague, halfhearted attempt at organising the studio she allowed herself a moment to disregard the thought of the impending deadline for her final pieces for the semester.

The monotonous dial tone filled her ears, the definitive sound of waiting and lack of patience as she figuratively sent a telepathic signal to Katya at the other end of the college dormitories to answer her phone. The repetitive beeping continued longer than Sasha ever wished it would before Katya’s overly zealous personality trickled through the phone line.

“Nice to know you’re alive”. Greeted Katya, the distinctive sound of an inhalation of cigarette smoke trailing off of her words. Sasha huffed, throwing herself on to the tattered old couch that she kept in the room, taking her phone with her and switching off the loudspeaker.

“Says you, could you have taken any longer to pick up the phone?”. Sasha retaliated, scraping remnants of what was once a perfected black and white manicure off of her nails.

“Could you have taken any longer to actually call me back?”. Retorted Katya instantly, her quick wit incomparable.

“Touché-”. Sasha quipped, eyes rolling to herself as she heard Katya let out a choked cough, giggles following in the background. Strange, Sasha acknowledged, not knowing Katya as an individual who liked to spend much time around others. At all. An extroverted introvert.

“-anyway, you wanted me to call you because?”. Continued Sasha, time on borrowed hands. Reclining, she leant her head against the back of the couch, stretching out the tense muscles in her neck.

“Right, yeah, ok-”. Hurried Katya, arranging her permanently chaotic thoughts in to something resembling sensical words. “-so, I know you’re really busy with stuff, and like, I get that, but I’m with Trixie and her, you know, theatre friends right now, and they’re looking for somebody to come up with a creative-ish type of contextual buffoonery of a costume for one girls final monologue and I-”.

Katya paused, presumably in order to inhale and allow oxygen in to her lungs, words flowing out of her being at such a rate that she exhausted her breath. Sasha remained as perplexed as she had been initially when Katya had told her to call her back. She’d gathered that Katya was with Trixie, her almost girlfriend, and Trixie’s friends from the theatre strand. She’d also understood that Katya, or rather Trixie and her friends were in need of some form of help. Which form; she knew little of.

“In English?”. Mumbled Sasha, mouth dry and coarse from overworking, worry, and dehydration. Licking at her slightly chapped lips and removing any remnants of lipstick that remained from the day, Sasha listened intently to Katya’s faint whispering to the people surrounding her.

“What I mean is, would you help?, I know you’re best at portraits, and I know that you’ve probably spent the afternoon stressing over being awful at landscapes, but I just know you’ll be perfect for this! I’d do it myself but-”. Katya trailed off without a legitimate excuse, making Sasha chuckle lightheartedly.

Katya wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t right either, Sasha noted, yet she was light years away from being incorrect. Sasha had a firm background in costume design, her first two years at college having been spent studying said subject, gaining high grades throughout and only switching to fine art in order to broaden her portfolio. Unconvinced, Sasha prepared her protests.

“Look, come over to my place and we can all talk it through, maybe?”. Katya threw in to the conversation, adding a tentative tone to her voice even as her significantly boisterous volume bellowed from the opposite end of the phone.

“I-”. Sasha paused, the clock on the wall adjacent to old outlines and sketches of gowns and miscellaneous clothing items garnering her attention. Seven in the evening. “-now?”. Queried Sasha, biting nervously at the corners of her deteriorated nails; a habit that she knew she needed to kick.

“Yes girl!”. Katya screeched, Sasha’s eyes flickering towards the ceiling in an adverse reaction to the shrill sound of the speaker against her ear. Squeezing her eyes shut, Sasha lamented.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”. Sasha questioned, uncertainty interweaving itself with her every word. She trusted Katya, for the most part, yet her generic insecurities and insuppressible self deprecating nature drove her to the instant belief that no, I can’t do this. “I’ve got you, I’m sure! Look, you filthy art whore, if it makes you more comfortable I can make sure it’s just me, Trix, and Shea here when you come over. I know I wouldn’t want to be exploited for my skills around a bunch of people that I-”. Sasha sneered inelegantly and Katya’s speech, an airy giggle following shortly after.

“Is, who did you say? - Shea? - the girl I’ll be working with, designing the costume for?”. Sasha’s eyebrows knitted together at the mention of the unfamiliar name. Shea. Sasha flicked through her memories briskly, unable to remember wether or not herself and Shea had been acquainted at some point during their duration at the college. Probably not, established Sasha. I’d remember a name like Shea.

“Yeah-”. Drawled Katya, mouth curving into a delicate smile. “-she’s in Trixie’s theatre group. Hilarious by the way, oh! - and she brought blunts”. Katya exclaimed, luring Sasha with the proposition of good company and the opportunity to smoke and get high after a stress filled day; or week.

Sasha blinked slowly and chewed on her bottom lip, mulling over Katya’s offer carefully. The sight of the disarranged studio around her alerted her to remember about the pieces she still had yet to complete for the end of the semester, along with the amount of clutter she needed to coordinate. Take a break, she encouraged herself. Take a break, and help somebody else out while you’re at it.

“Alright”. Sasha uttered, cheers and excited squeals meeting her ears. Elongating her legs and relaxing her joints, she stood up, already promptly slipping on her shoes that were sat next to her coat rack. Glancing at her reflection in a cracked mirror hooked on the wall, Sasha grimaced audibly.

“What?”. Katya’s tone dropped, apprehension lacing her question.

“I look like the human embodiment of death-”. Sasha groaned. “-if death had been in a paint factory explosion and hadn’t bathed for seventeen years”. Continuation of over exaggeration. Katya began cackling, Sasha imagining her arms flailing to herself and hands slapping excitedly at her own thighs.

“So, your everyday look?”. Katya teased, laughing to herself manically. Sasha’s jaw fell slack, disbelief encompassing her features. Taking out the elastic from her dishevelled hair and throwing a beanie on in an apathetic attempt to make herself look more presentable, she began grinning.

“You’re an idiot”. Bantered Sasha, her friends wheezing calming and diminishing to a low chuckle. Picking up the keys to her studio which were adorned with countless tchotchkes and key rings from Disneyland to the local art gallery, Sasha slipped on a chunkily knitted sweater, if only to cover the stains on her shirt.

“Yeah, yeah, what else is new. Hurry up and get here, I’ll see ‘ya soon!”. Finished Katya, ending the call with a press of her thumb and a further irritating dial tone that Sasha had always despised.

Sasha shook her head to herself unwittingly, neglecting to close the windows to her studio as she left, locking the doors behind her. Mystical breeze continued to whirl around her being as she walked down the corridor and to the parking lot, a lightness in her step that hadn’t been present during the most recent of times. Walking passed her car decisively with the warm, setting sun beating down on her pale skin and the high rise buildings around her shielding her from the glare of the world, Sasha allowed any residual ounces of stress leave her body.

Breathing in the scent of summer, she began walking down the Main Street to the dormitories. She could get to Katya’s in less than ten minutes.

*****

Katya lived on the fifth and highest floor of her building; a fact which Sasha often forgot and grew to loathe when she recalled. The structure was old, ancient. With its traditional late eighteen hundreds or possibly early nineteen hundreds architecture, featuring floral engravings on the ivory walls and beams along with linear pillars lining the staircases, Sasha almost didn’t mind the lack of elevator present.

Almost.

Climbing the sturdy concrete stairs in the chill of winter was nothing to complain about, yet it became a struggle when summer hit, and the weather outside was scorching with humidity. Sasha regretted her choice of clothing instantly; a knitted sweater, beanie and shorts becoming her nemesis by the time she had reached the third floor.

Her phone buzzed with a message as she ascended the final flight of stairs many torturous minutes later, startling her from her state of focus.

Katya: doors open as always, let yourself in

Anxiety filled her thoughts, worries of unfamiliar people and failing at what she knew she was best at. Art. She didn’t know if Katya had kept to her word and made sure it was just herself, Katya, Trixie and the other girl - Shea - that would be there, yet Sasha found herself praying to unknown deities that it would be.

From the outside, Sasha could hear the faint harmonies of melodic pop songs blaring from Katya’s distrustfully functioning speaker. Voices that Sasha recognised from her car radio flew into her ears, ones that given the option, she would scarcely listen to. Introduce Katya to some half decent music, she prompted herself. The tune switched as her hand encased the door handle, a comforting country ballad taking its place. Trixie’s choice, no doubt.

Stepping inside of the dorm, Sasha was greeted with the unmistakable signature scent that surrounded Katya; cigarette smoke and the cheap floral perfume she often used in an attempt to disguise it. It would have been disgusting at one point in time to the Russian girl, yet as her and Katya’s friendship grew, so did her tolerance and almost enjoyment of the smell. Sasha attributed the fact to familiarity. A sense of comfort and safety.

The room was encompassed in a warm orange glow, emphasised by the attenuating force of the sun streaking through red curtains and candles that Katya had lit across the entirety of the room because mood lighting, Sasha. The music seemed quieter from inside than it had when she had been stood outside the door, barely audible as Katya began excitedly greeting Sasha with an already ignited blunt balancing between her fingertips.

“There you are! I didn’t know if you’d actually come or not”. Teetered the darker blonde, mumbling towards the end of her sentence, slinging an arm loosely around Sasha’s shoulders.

“You had me sold at blunts”. Sasha drawled, sneaking the blunt out of Katya’s grasp and into her own, inhaling the welcomed source of relaxation.

“Works every time-”. Katya paused. “I’ll write a book one day, ’how to lure Sasha Velour’, it’ll be like, a paragraph long and just say ’paint, girls, blunts, red lipstick and an eyebrow pencil’, great idea I’m telling ‘ya”. Giggled Katya, illegible sentences and murmurs rolling off of her tongue like autumn leaves down a freely flowing river.

“How much’ve you had?”. Jived Sasha, releasing the smoke from her lungs slowly, deflating, shimmying passed the other girl and in to the larger section of the room where Trixie and the unacquainted girl - Shea - sat on the antique couch, bowl of popcorn situated between them.

“Too much”. Trixie intercepted, shuffling in order to make room for Sasha on the couch between herself and Shea, pillows scattered haphazardly and a crocheted blanket draped across the arm rest.

“I can tell”. Sniggered Sasha, inhaling and exhaling smoke that travelled elegantly through the air, vanishing in to nothingness.

“Shut your hole”. Katya grinned sarcastically, slotting herself the other side of Trixie. Sasha rolled her eyes fondly, willing herself to ignore Katya’s retorts and laughter.

Twisting her neck around and tilting her head at a minuscule angle, Sasha turned to face Shea, sat confidently with a strong presence despite a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her plump lips - coated in glittering pink lipgloss. Her face seemed to match on first glance, a dusting of periwinkle across her eyelids and a rosé splash defining her cheeks, Sasha observed, her love for coordinated colours drawing her in by a thread of cotton - that hung from the neckline of Shea’s oversized navy shirt.

Sasha’s eyes twinkled, traveling to Shea’s hair, bouncy waves with one side tucked behind her ear, marshmallow pink earrings adorning her exposed lobe. She’s pretty, noted Sasha. Aesthetically pleasing - she mused, though the theatre girl was not a painting, she may have still been a detailed sketch.

“I like your colours”. It was blurted in to the easy atmosphere, sun outside setting in milliseconds as Sasha finished her first joint, throwing the extinguished sword of intoxication in to the nearest empty candle holder; a make shift ashtray. Shea beamed in response, eyes drooped and noticeably blood shot.

“I like yours too-”. Shea shrugged, motioning vaguely to the paint splatters trailing up Sasha’s fingers, presenting another blunt to Sasha in the palm of her hand, lighter in the other. “Sasha, right?”. Clarified Shea, receiving a slow nod in response.

“And you’re Shea?”. The Russian queried, taking the joint gratefully from Shea and kindling it. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

“The one and only, girl”. The exchange was simple. Both girls slightly inebriated and careless, Shea more so than Sasha, left little room for any awkwardness or tentativeness. Consistent smoking since she had arrived saw the bleach blonde nearly disregard and forget the reason Katya had told her to come over in the beginning. Nearly, and yet - not entirely.

Shea reclined further into the couch, posture slouching and demeanour softening. Sasha followed, Katya’s elbow digging irritatingly into her ribcage on one side of her being and Shea reaching over to claim the half smoked joint on the other.

“Designing-”. Sasha stammered. “-Monologue?”. She remembered, discarding her phone on the coffee table in front of her and focusing most of her available attention on Shea, both Trixie and Katya already absorbed in each others presence - in pink and red and green.

“Final monologues for the semester, we get graded-”. Explained Shea, glimmering lips wrapping gracefully around the joint. “-I had some ideas for a costume to go with it, and I asked Katya but she just-”. Shea trailed off, arm outstretching and motioning towards Katya and Trixie, who were giggling in to each other’s necks as if both Sasha and Shea had evaporated, disappeared.

The room was lighter and darker now than when she had first arrived, the ground waltzing beneath her, carting her off into a universe she sometimes wished she could live in for eternity. Where time was a myth and the people she didn’t know became more than known immediately with a flower and a lighter. Where speech was futile in communication and the next day nothing had happened. No otherworldly, deathly hangover to remind you of what, and nothing but fingerprints of ash on clothing to tell you why.

“I’ll help”. Sasha hummed, thumbs brushing across the smooth velvet of the couch, senses heightened, touch enhanced.

“You’d do that?”. Shea arched a sculpted eyebrow, smiling gleefully. Katya turned to look at both girls momentarily, Trixie leaving the couch and stalking towards the door to Katya’s bedroom. Sasha grinned lopsidedly, the lack of subtlety laughable.

“You’ve been talking for five-ish minutes, is it safe to say you don’t hate each other? Can I leave you two? Can I trust you not to destroy the room?”. Katya babbled, disclosing nothing and yet everything, hands twitching. Shea chortled openly, leaning subconsciously into Sasha’s shoulder.

“Bitch, go, we’re fine, go and fuck your girlfriend”. Demanded Shea, ushering Katya away with a sly wink, leaving Katya a flushing, fumbling, radiant mess. Disposing her blunt in the same empty candle holder that Sasha had used, Katya slipped out of the room.

“She’s not my girlfriend-”. Whined Katya over her shoulder, brushing her fingers through her untameable hair. Shea rolled her eyes, Sasha sniggering quietly to herself. “-I swear!”. Finished Katya, voice hoarse and rough, denial evident.

“Use protection!”. Sasha called after her as the door separating the two rooms slammed shut, childlike humour permeating through her serious exterior. Shea shrieked, slapping Sasha’s forearm excitedly, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“You-”. Shea’s attempt at speaking proved to be delusive, giggles overtaking her body, chest heaving and arms flailing aimlessly. Sasha’s head lolled against the backrest of the couch, beanie sliding off and the corners of her mouth upturned in a content smile.

“I thought Katya would be the only person I’d have to deal with flapping like a penguin flying for the first time tonight”. Sasha allowed her eyes to flutter closed in the candle illuminated light, teasing comment racing off of the tip of her smoke dry tongue. Next to her, Shea snorted inelegantly, laughter being cut short.

“I like you-”. Shea deadpanned, turning to face Sasha, whose eyes remained closed. “-when Katya described you as some ’academic serious art nerd’, I thought I’d regret asking for your help”. She finalised, gesticulating wildly with her hands as Sasha’s orbs opened and met hers.

“M'glad I exceeded your expectations?”. Phrased like a question, the Russian girl shrugged, hand retrieving popcorn from the bowl that had been forgotten about. Shea nodded dismissively, blinking away a blur that had settled from focusing on a singular flame for a second too long.

“You’d seriously help me with my costume, though?”. Backtracking. Shea returned to their previous conversation, before Katya and Trixie had left them to their own devices, speaker still playing early country compositions softly in the background.

“Of course-”. Sasha nodded, receiving the joint that Shea handed back to her gratefully and graciously. “-I wasn’t sure at first, but I need a break from my usual work and if I can help you out while doing that then it’s a win win situation”. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

“It means a lot girl, so thank you”. Shea kept her smile hidden, the throw pillow that she’d picked up from the couch nestled against her body tightly. Shaking her head, insistent that helping Shea out wasn’t a burden, Sasha pulled the pillow away only to hit the other girl jokingly with it.

“We should get to know each other a little, I guess, before I even attempt to design you a costume-”. Projected Sasha, subject switched and generic ice-breaker statement released in to the thick air surrounding them, her belief that connection formed the best artwork.

“-We’ll go for a coffee or something next week, I don’t know-”. She continued, deciding it was probably - definitely - for the best that they spoke about costume design concepts and the context behind them when they weren’t both in a state of ecstasy, flying high and giggling through the New York skyscrapers.

“Coffee sounds good-”. Shea smiled innocently, twiddling her thumbs between the threads of her shirt. Sasha nodded once. “-Until then, how do you suggest we get to know each other’?”. Her eyes flickered under her long, curly dark lashes.

Sasha’s mind whirled. Specks of dust floated around her head, reflecting microscopic particles of light. The red curtains looked almost burgundy with no sunlight blasting through them, emulating a luxurious French wine. Walls cluttered with picture frames and polaroids, sketches and ornaments felt claustrophobic, compared to the floor beneath her that could have travelled perpetually. A Grand Canyon, a Mariana Trench. Crossing her legs the opposite way, she turned to face the brown eyed girl, corners of her mouth quirked up.

“Maybe we could-”. Sasha extended her arm to the coffee table in front of her, retrieving her phone that she’d discarded there. “-ok don’t think I’m insane but, Katya does this thing sometimes when she firsts meets people, and I think it’s ‘kinda cool. There’s these questions that you answer, and they’re meant to-”. Sasha halted, Shea’s hand coming into her view and slipping her phone with the list of questions visible on the screen from her grasp.

“Is this the ’36 questions’ thing? Katya did this with me too. I think it definitely breaks the ice, but wether it succeeds in creating love, I’m not sure I believe in that one”. Shea chuckled and queried, to which Sasha hummed her agreement.

“That’s the one. The guy who invented it, Arthur Aron is a-”.

“Psychologist”. Shea intervened, the look of shear surprise on Sasha’s face as she concluded her sentence for her, making her grin smugly. “Don’t act so shocked, I may spend my days singing, dancing and acting but I have a brain too”. Continued Shea, sarcasm lacing her words, a smile remaining present on her face.

Sasha sniffed, embarrassed. Mumbling a quick sorry, the blonde girl threw a handful of popcorn comedically into her mouth, avoiding making eye contact with Shea. Shrugging her shoulders, Shea picked up a stray piece of popcorn that had fallen into Sasha’s lap. Shea, using her pointer finger, acrylic nails painted a shade of amethyst, poked Sasha on the shoulder, sending a reassuring smile her way.

“I wasn’t offended at all, we’re cool”. Shea spoke with a sense of calmness and reservation, fishing out another joint from god knows where, and propositioning it to Sasha with a carefree smile. Opening her palm for Shea to place the joint in along with her violet lighter, Sasha smiled apologetically. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Sasha wired her brain not to overthink or assume.

“Anyway-”. Commenced the dark haired girl, handing Sasha’s phone back to her. The couch felt soft beneath her, pulling her into a warm embrace. “-I highly doubt we’re ‘gonna fall in love with each other, but I guarantee we have at least half an hour before Trixie and Katya join us again, so I’m down if you are”.

Shea’s eyes locked with Sasha’s, her own idea not seeming as grand as it did moments prior. She shrugged, irregardless of the kaleidoscopes flickering in her view and lightness of her head, the way her palms had began sweating nervously and the unwitting twitch of her nose.

“Let’s do it, I’ll start?”.