#not because of the pointilism but because it actually looks like him

[struno2841]

I love how I cant focus on school work but I can focus completely on drawing fanart for an underrates 2000s ps2 game franchise using the most time consuming technique possible

Crying blood and oil this took so long

[what-even-is-thiss]

Gender has always been a shaky and loose ever changing category. People asking for a strict definition of a man or woman are always going to be unsatisfied with any answer you give them because their definition of man or woman is the only one they want to be true.

Usually men have beards. But not always. Usually women have breasts. But not always. Often in many cultures “men” are the ones who do the fighting. But not always. There are cultures where women fight as well or even form their own warrior or soldier groups. There are men who can’t grow beards. There are women without breasts.

Usually men have a penis. But not always. Usually women have a labia. But not always. Such as it is for every other characteristic associated with one gender or another. And the necessity of one characteristic or another for being considered a man or woman varies greatly between time, culture, and place. Not to mention the vast variety in presentation in physical primary and secondary sex characteristics.

It’s not a thing that can have a solid definition with no exceptions. There are trends in what we perceive in the cultural moment as being necessities for being this or that gender but those general groups of characteristics always have exceptions to them and are prone to change with evolving cultural attitudes from within a society and influence from other outside cultures.

And generally the characteristics that people associate being a “good man” or “good woman” with overlap a significant amount. Like if you ask someone to just sit down and list things there will be something like a 90% overlap or more. Characteristics like caring for others, resilience, being a good listener, intelligence, etc. tend to be valued in people of any gender. The line between being a good man and a good woman is often more aesthetic than any concrete set of actions or physical characteristics.

Why am I a non binary man? There’s a thousand small things I could point to in order to explain it. But none of those reasons fit into a neat one sentence definition. But if you ask a cisgender man why he’s a man like really actually make him explain it, he will likely have a similar level of complexity to his answer if he really thinks about it. If you really grill cisgender people about their own opinions on this stuff they are often surprised to find how many thoughts they actually have about gender and how much more complicated those opinions are than they thought.

Transgender, intersex, queer, and gender nonconforming people are often forced to actually look at gender in a way that cishet people aren’t. It’s easier to see all of the tiny puzzle pieces when none of the ones you were assigned fit in your life and you’ve got to find your own. Gender isn’t one solid mass. It’s a mosaic made out of a lot of tiny tiles that can be swapped out or removed and still generally look like something you recognize.

What’s a woman? Well, that’s a question with a million answers but if you step back you can get a general idea. Kind of like with pointillism. If you stand too close to it and try to pick out one bit that makes a woman a woman you won’t see much. Just a singular splotch of paint. But if you back up a ways you’ll see something there you recognize. And what you see will likely still be up to your own interpretation.

[cowgurrrl]

Dear Arkansas Daughter

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: A truce [2.8k]

Warnings: guilt, Andie being a menace, so much yearning, Ellie has an anxiety attack, comfort, June pushing her Mary Oliver agenda once again

You don't speak to Joel all throughout the winter break. You get so busy with family events, work, and painting that you don't even notice it until a song he recommended comes on while you're working, and you reach for your phone to tell him about it. You stared at his contact for a little too long, debating your options, before you finally sighed and threw your phone on your bed. 

Sarah's home for the break. He's probably busy with the girls. The last thing he needs is to hear from you after you got out of his truck without even saying a proper goodbye. The silence feels like a staring contest or a challenge of wills to see who will break no contact first. It sucks, but thankfully, Ellie is none the wiser and even texts you Merry Christmas with a picture of her and Sarah with reindeer ears on the abnormally cold December morning. You reason this is the best-case scenario for a really shitty situation. No reason for anyone to get more involved than they absolutely have to, right?

Andie's reappearance on Texas soil is a welcome reprieve from the guilt. You pick her up from the airport once she gets back from visiting her parents in Dallas and run into her arms like she's a long-lost lover. "You're here!" You yell as you squeeze her tight.

"You're here!" She mimics. Her dark curls tickle your face, and she laughs loudly in your ear, but you don't care. Just having her within the same zip code again makes you feel like a kid. On the drive to your apartment, you sing along to a playlist she curated specifically for your time together— a perfect mix of Beyonce, ABBA, and Joni Mitchell— and talk about everything from her parents to work to Vienna weather. She takes all of five steps into your apartment before she guns for your newest canvases drying against the wall. 

"Those aren't done!" You scold but you couldn't stop her from fawning over them if you tried.

"Are you kidding? These are amazing." She says, gasping when she sees the corner of another one peeking out behind the stack. "Babe!" 

"Alright, alright, calm down. They're still in the early stages. They probably won't look anything like this when they're done." 

"You're right. I'm sure they'll be even better when they're done," she calls as you walk into your bedroom and drop her suitcase at the foot of the bed. You don't have a guest room, and there's no way you're gonna make her sleep on the couch, so you get to have a good old-fashioned sleepover again. You’re secretly really excited just to sit in bed and do nothing with her. When you walk back into the living room, she's holding an old, reworked painting with a fond smile. "Are you going to submit these for exhibition?" She asks, and you shrug as you lean against the back of the couch.

"I don't know. Maybe? They just don't feel done." 

"That's because the longer you stare at something, the more things you want to change about it." 

"It's not a bad thing to want to make sure something's perfect." 

"If you wait for perfection, you'll never make anything, and you know that." She says, cocking an eyebrow at you, and you roll your eyes at how well she knows you. "Isn't that what you tell your students?"

"Oh, God, please don't pull the teacher card on me right now. I'm supposed to be on vacation." You groan, and she laughs.

"Does it count as vacation if we have to go to the student showcase tonight?" She asks.

"Yes, it does because you're here, and I don't have to lecture a group of thirty teenagers about pointillism," you say. "And you really don't have to come. All I have to do is show up to support the kids for a couple of hours and leave. I'll be home before nine, and then we can go out and actually do something fun." 

"Is Hot Single Dad gonna be there?" She asks, waggling her eyebrows at you, and you give her a look.

"You said you'd stop calling him Hot Single Dad."

"Hot Single Dad is so fun, though," she whines. "Also, you're avoiding the question. Is he gonna be there?"

"Ellie's work is being shown, so yeah, most likely, but there will be lots of people there. I doubt we'll even see him." 

"Oh, I'll see him."

"Andrea Lynn," you scold, and she throws her hands up. "We're gonna go and be professional and not cross any lines that could get us in trouble, right?" You think you're saying it more for your own benefit than hers, but she still puts up three fingers and nods.

"Scouts honor." 

The gallery's atrium is buzzing with conversation and excited kids from all across the district. The winter sun set long ago, but the warm lighting of the space makes it feel a little less oppressive. Small trays of refreshments make their rounds as you talk with other teachers and some parents you know. You introduce Andie to each of them, mostly to sing her praises about being a professional musician in Vienna, and she chatters away with anyone about anything. You easily kill half an hour just mingling with people before the exhibition officially starts.

At the hour, someone on the school board (you don't know their name or position, and honestly, you think it's too late to pretend like you care enough to find out) stands on a makeshift stage and says something about the importance of art in academia. You doubt it's a sentiment he actually shares, considering you've never seen him at any other art-related events, but you clap politely anyway. Halfway through his spiel, you just barely catch the sound of squeaky boots coming through the door and turn to see the source without fully thinking it through. 

There, through the crowd of heads, you lock eyes with Joel. Tommy and Ellie are at his side and wave politely. Sarah must've gone home before the New Year. You think you remember him saying something about her working at a clinic in Boston? You're a little disappointed you won't get to meet her, especially after hearing such amazing things, but you can't focus on that. Joel's eyes don't move from yours, even when Ellie and Tommy turn their attention to the speaker at the front. 

His hair has gotten long since the last time you saw him, the curls defiantly sweeping around his ears after an obvious attempt to tame it, and he looks well-rested. Despite the extra length of his hair, his beard has been recently trimmed and the salt-and-pepper stubble well maintained. He's wearing a nice dark green shirt (a Christmas gift?) and a well-broken-in denim jacket. He looks good. Of course, he does. Andie notices you're not paying attention and bumps your shoulder. 

"'S that Hot Single Dad?" She whispers, and you shake your head. 

"Not here." You beg. She seems to want to question you further about it, but she doesn't. You're sure she'll buy you a drink or two to loosen up after this and spill your guts. You sit through the rest of the speech without any more hiccups before you're finally allowed to view the gallery. 

Everyone is all smiles and excited chatter when you enter the colorful room. Thrilled parents take pictures of their kids next to their work, and proud art teachers point out their student's talents to others. There's a wide array of art. Anything from photography, drawings, paintings, sculptures, and even a video of a performance projected onto the wall. You catch bits of people’s conversations and hear a lot of chatter about the artist from your school. You don’t need any more context to know who they’re talking about. You and Andie walk side-by-side in silence as you look at the different works, only talking when you come across one of your kids' works. She makes you take a picture in front of each one, and you feel a little silly, but you can't fight the pride in your chest. 

Andie has always had the unique ability to celebrate you for things you wouldn't celebrate yourself for. In reality, all you did was push them to make the art and consult them through the process, but she reminds you that they might not even have made anything if it weren't for you. It makes you feel special and seen. It makes you wish she lived closer so you could do the same for her by showing up to performances and taking pictures of her in her element so she can cherish them. It makes you forget about Hot Single Dad until Tommy rushes up to you, calling your name. 

"Mr. Miller, it's good to see you." You greet politely, but he's out of breath and looks stressed as he looks at both of you. He softens when he sees Andie and takes a deep breath to pull himself together.

"I don't believe we've met," he charms and offers his hand to Andie. "I'm Tommy, Ellie's uncle." 

"I'm Andie, the forever teacher's pet," she shakes his hand and gives you a look over her shoulder. "Honey, you didn't tell me how handsome Ellie's uncle is." She says. Tommy smirks and looks flattered, but mentioning Ellie brings him back to the moment. 

"Ellie's askin' for you." He says, and you furrow your brows and look behind him.

"Where is she? Is she okay?" 

"She got real upset bout somethin' but wouldn't say. She just said she wanted to talk to you." Fuck, you think. Did she find out? If so, how? There's no way Joel would've told her, especially tonight of all nights. Is she upset about how her art is being shown? Is she mad at you? Possibilities run through your head and twist your stomach into knots, but you don't hesitate to follow Tommy. If she says she needs you, then you need to be there. 

Andie follows closely behind as you and Tommy weave through the crowd until you come to a stairwell off the side of the gallery, away from overlapping voices and bright colors. When the door creaks open and echoes through the empty space, you see Joel and Ellie sitting on a step, tears staining her face. Andie says something about hanging back, and Tommy agrees to wait with her, but all your focus is on the crying kid in front of you. You wait until the door shuts behind you to settle onto the step under theirs and pull Ellie's hand out of her balled-up fist. Joel watches you carefully but doesn't try to stop you. 

"Hey," you say gently, like she's a scared animal. "What's goin' on? I heard you wanted to talk to me." 

"I," she tries, but her voice catches in her throat, and more tears well in her eyes. You rub your thumb across her knuckles and shush her gently. 

"You're alright. Take a breath, okay?" She does, and Joel reaches out to rub her back soothingly. A few more tears fall down Ellie's face as you wait her out. You catch Joel's eyes over her shoulder, and he gives you a grateful look. All you do is nod. 

"I'm not good enough to be here," she finally gets out. "Everyone's work is so much better than mine, and I... I think they made a mistake. I can't compete." 

"That's not true. That's what your anxiety is telling you. That's not even close to the truth." You say firmly. She shakes her head as she looks at her dad.

"We shouldn't have even come." She says, and he pulls her under his arm, kissing her temple.

"Honey, they took your art for a reason. We're not here by accident. We're here because you worked hard and made somethin' so beautiful that they had to show it." 

"He's right," you say. "Hundreds of students apply for this exhibition every year, and every year, hundreds of students get rejected. But not you. You worked and earned your spot here. How many days did you show up early to my classroom to work on it, huh?" You ask, and she wipes her eyes. She seems to calm down a little at your words but still shrugs like she’s unsure of herself. 

"I don't know."

"Ellie, you were in my room for at least a month straight working on this. Somedays, you were painting before I even had a chance to turn on the lights. You got up early and stayed late, and it shows. You made something so wonderful the district couldn't keep it a secret. Do you know how many people are talking about your yellow painting?" 

"People were talking about it?" She asks, and you nod, squeezing her hand.

"They kept saying they'd be surprised if you didn't win, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your art teacher. I'm saying that because it's true." You say. She chews at her bottom lip and stares at her shoes as she thinks. 

You knew about Ellie's anxiety long before this moment. She's spent many planning periods in your classroom venting or crying about it, and you pointed her to the correct resources. She's in therapy and on medication to help her control it, but it still rears its ugly head every once in a while. With all the teenage emotions and daily battles, you're not surprised that it does. But it does surprise you that she can't see how special she is. She works so fucking hard— sometimes too much— and she gives her all in everything she does. Of course, people are going to recognize that greatness. Of course, she deserves to be here. Of course, she's going to be amazing.

"Every time I look at it, I just see all the bad things about it." She admits, and you sigh. Of course, she treats her work the exact same way you do.

"I do the same thing," you say, and she looks at you with wide eyes like she wasn't expecting you to actually cop to it. "It doesn't matter how much time I spend on it or if I like the concept; I will find a million things wrong with a piece before I can admit that it's a semi-okay piece of work. I have a canvas sitting in my apartment right now that makes me want to throw up every time I look at it." 

"How do you get over it?" 

"I'll let you know the second I figure it out," you say, and she smiles a little now that she knows she's not alone in her internal fight. "You deserve to be here, kid. You are hard-working, creative, and smart. You are going to make so much beautiful art in your life, you won't believe it. And it's true that it won't always be the best, and you won't always love it, but the thing all great artists have, regardless of medium, isn't talent. It's resilience. If you wait for perfection, you'll never make anything, so you have to keep going and making things even when you feel like it's bad because the world needs your art. The world needs you, Ellie." You say, echoing Andie's words from earlier. She takes a deep breath, and the weight on her shoulders seems lighter. Her anxiety rolls away like a wave from the shore. It will be back again and again, but she knows people are going to grab her before she can drown. She knows she's got lighthouses. She knows she's okay. 

"Thank you," she mumbles, and you nod as you squeeze her hand. She relaxes into Joel and looks up at him. "'M sorry."

"You've got nothin' to be sorry for, baby girl. I'm on your team," he says. He looks at you and chews the inside of his cheek. "We're both on your team." It's a peace offering. An end to the challenge. An acknowledgment that you can't ignore each other forever. You take a deep breath and let your free hand squeeze his calf where Ellie can't see, letting him know you know. 

You read a poem once in college about not being afraid of joy and taking advantage of the happiness while it's there. You remember reading the words "Joy is not made to be a crumb" and feeling your chest crack open in that funny way that only art can cause. It couldn't have been longer than two hundred words, and you read it so long ago you're surprised you even remember it, but you're glad you do. You're glad Joel and Ellie came into your life. You're glad you made so many memories with him, and you hope he'll let you in enough to make more as friends. You're glad you called the parent-teacher meeting when you did. 

You decide joy is not made to be a crumb, but neither is affection. In that cold, dingy stairwell in downtown Austin, you think you could paint something about this feeling. You think you could be okay with its imperfections. You think you could even submit it. You think you could win the bet.

TAGLISR: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia

[airiat]

writerly thumbprint challenge~

rules: look back on your work, both past and present, finished and unfinished. what are five (or more!) narrative elements, themes, topics or tropes that continuously pop up in your work?

tagged by the distinguished @mareenavee, tagging @banjotea @mongoose-bite @obsidianshadow & anyone else who sees this and is down--tag me!

in particular order: fate, trauma, romance, figurative language, kurt vonnegut(?)

fate

always, always always. it's all i write about. different shades, different depictions, but that's what it comes down to. i'm obsessed. i'm obsessed with the idea that the world could bend itself to bring people who need each other together. what that looks like, what that means, how it falls apart--that's what i live to write.

2. trauma

everyone has it. why would i not write about it? but maybe that's just the psychologist in me. usually, i keep the actual trauma in the past. i write the recovery. i tend to like to spin the most convoluted, fucked up situation i can possibly think of, then work my way back out of it. what would it take for this character to heal? that's what i write.

3. romance

maybe this is not so unique and too broad. i have this yearning to experience every single manifestation of love, but unless i somehow become immortal, that's impossible. it's even impossible to achieve in writing. so, i just write what's otherworldly and entirely unachievable.

lmnit is about two literal chosen ones falling in love; ap&nd is about two people loving each other for literal hundreds of years and shepherding in a new world together, which becomes folklore; awfw is about someone who was literally created to love this one specific person. i suppose northern sky is the mundane outlier, but that one's more just for me anyway.

maybe i'll eat my words somewhere down the line, but i cannot imagine ever writing anything other than romance.

4. figurative language

"who cares if the curtains are blue? that doesn't mean anything!"

yes, it does. for me, it does. well, maybe not the curtains, but most of everything else. i'm heavy, heavy, heavy on metaphor and symbolism. i've always been detail-oriented. it's fun to me to string together a collection of little, significant details to paint the big picture. i'm pointillism. everything has to serve a purpose, to mean something. maybe things are missed by a reader, sometimes. that's okay. maybe they'll get it in the next read, maybe it infiltrated the quiet, hidden part of their mind and they don't realize except to have a whole understanding. but maybe it's misinterpreted. that's okay, too. i account for that. i encourage that. you'll see what you want to see, and get out of it what you need to. i'm just painting my little dots on a canvas.

5. kurt vonnegut?

this one's a little murky to me. i read a few of his books in high school, which was a while ago. slaughterhouse five and cat's cradle were chiefly among them, but there may have been a third or even a fourth. i'd have to read them to be reminded, but i haven't done that yet except for slaughterhouse five. i was going through a time when i thought i had to read widely lauded authors to be taken seriously as a writer. now, i don't care. every single bit of writing has merit. but, then, i would say that i enjoy reading vonnegut. and i would say it just like that: vonnegut. baby, you were 15 years old. it's not that deep. anyway, i'll call him kurt vonnegut now and i'll say it with this gentle sort of affection like he's my grandfather, my predecessor, because i'm fairly certain--i feel it as flicker of kinship in something i hadn't read in ten years--that many of my more metaphysical concepts were born from his. without even realizing it. but i'll need to do a little more investigating on this one.

[insectsinsects]

The watercolor rothkos are actually so stunning; I went in because it was cold but also because last time I was at the National Gallery, I'd explored the eastern wing just before they completed this one. They had had his big famous ones, though.

You can only enter through a single point because it's meant to be explored chronologically. We begin in the 30s when he was in the Pacific Northwest painting gorgeous scenes of forest and beaches and little towns. He's always had an eye for color. A shed could peek out of the foliage and it was always pleasing to the eye. Just a masterful, finite set of strokes that make me think about the act of creation (I feel the same about the long, dismal process of pointillism and the ache it transmits to my own hand). Then he goes on to make these suuper epic cool religious pieces (OMEN...!). I was just in awe. I had no idea about his experimentation with watercolor. He'd do a basic wash, then strip away some parts by scraping the water off and then he'd inscribe lines with a ballpoint pen?? The results were so cool. The way he did human figure has always been unconventional— I think only one piece had a generally discernible face, and it was in that very first room. In this one, they were tall and uncanny and had lines for limbs and were stuck in their gorgeous, barren universes. Soooo cool. I am looking for high definition images of it because I think it'd be a cool phone wallpaper.

And THEN you get to the things that he's known for. Those drenched canvases with the colorful rectangles in them. Mirrors in mirrors. I found his method so interesting (?), he'd do a lot of them in OIL but on WATERCOLOR PAPER and then he'd nail it to a wooden board. It resulted in extremely vibrant colors and it let him lob on loads of colors to where seemingly black portals were actually ultra-deep blues and purples upon closer inspection. I went in without my glasses so I was ultra weary of the docents just hanging out 😭 I didn't mean to get my whole nose into it (I was never yelled at!). God just a gorgeous set of paintings. They also had a few unveiled pieces next to his HUGE easel, which was awesome. Also a lot of pieces still had masking tape on them!!!! Which was strangely comforting. He was commissioned like all the time in his prime, there were uncharacteristically bright pieces strewn about, and then we arrive at the Untitleds from the late 60s.

These are what I know him for— oft referred to in frivolous internet spaces with morbid fascination: these are among the last things he painted before he killed himself. They are those gray landscapes and the nebulous deep brown skies. A visual for hopelessness. A view from the moon? The very last room had more vibrant pieces and commissions: the blues looked like sea and sky, white partitions for seafoam, vibrant pink squares too. Like the beginning. The last placard in the gallery made me tear up— 1933's Bathers at the Beach behind a looming dune (apprehension or closeness? the gallery asks), compared to the 1969 Untitled (was this an omen? they ask again). And the human condition stuff and the anxiety and my desire for connection just got to me, I guess.

Like the beginning...

[wheeler-beretta-harwood]

Hey sweet tits

Two parter here.

It’s date night with Cash (or any AEW wrestler) and it’s your turn to pick. What are you picking that you really want to do that, they really don’t want to do. (Do they end up enjoying it or just sucking it up)

Second Part Now it’s their turn to pick what are you being dragged to and do you end up having fun?

Well, I totally DID NOT want to write this one for Cash, but since you've specifically asked for him... 🤪

AEW is in Chicago, and Cash knows what that means. Everytime he is there, I get ridiculously jealous. I have been obsessed with the Windy City since I was 13, that's 20 years now!

This time, however, he invited me to join him for the trip, and we even stay a day longer so we can have a sweet date. Today is his day off, so I tell him I want to do what Ferris Bueller did with Cameron and visit the Art Institute of Chicago. Cash immediately grimaces, he isn't one for museums...or art. He argues with me saying this should be fun for the BOTH OF US, and I actually have to beg for him to join me. Even then, he still says he won't come along, until he realizes I am on the brink of tears. "Babygirl, please don't cry. I'll come along with you okay? But I get to choose what we'll do on the next date, yeah?" He says while taking my hands in his. I nod in agreement and we make our way over to the museum.

Once we are inside, I can tell he doesn't enjoy this one bit, so I try to get him involved a bit more. "Have you ever heard of the Spanish term 'duende', love?" When he shakes his head, I explain to him. "It's a term that describes how a piece of art can mysteriously move a person's feelings. Maybe we'll find some artwork today that has that effect on us..." He smiles at me and holds my hand, but I know he thinks I'm just crazy.

When we stand in front of the artwork where Cameron had his 'duende moment', Cash wrinkles his nose. "That's very splotchy, don't you think? The people don't even have real faces."

I look up at him and have to smile. "That's because it is a piece of Impressionism and Pointillism. It's supposed to be like that. Just a glimpse of a moment, unlike a photograph that captures every detail. Imagine standing in a crowded park...no wait. Imagine being in the ring. You look around and see the crowd, you know they're there, but they all blur into one. You can't really see any distinct faces, right?"

He thinks about it for a bit and then hums as response before he turns to look at me and gently pecks my lips. "You're really good at this."

"Good at what, Cash?"

"Explaining things. Making me care."

We walk around and look at artwork for another hour. Cash starts to give me his thoughts on the pieces and honestly, it's the sweetest thing to witness. When we stand in front of a still life, he stares at it. "Babygirl...I'm really hungry." I laugh at his comment, causing the people standing next to us to frown at me and tell me to keep it down. I apologize and tell Cash we can go grab a bite now. We'll get whatever he wants.

When we walk to the exit, he suddenly stops in front of a painting, which causes me to bump into him. He looks at it intently: a couple, the man holding the woman close to his chest, as if he needed to protect her from the world around them.

I turn my gaze to him and when he notices, he softly whispers. "This is it. This is my duende." He then turns to me and pulls me close to his chest, similar to the man in the painting. "I love you so much." He adds before kissing me and I smile into the kiss.

Two weeks later, we are visiting his mom in North Carolina and Cash plans a date for us in between the whole family reunion. Something he hasn't done in years: fishing. "You're doing that on purpose right? That's your way of getting back at me for the museum date."

"Oh come on, babe. I am not that vengeful." He then leans real close to me, and I prepare myself for a sweet kiss. Instead he whispers in my ear. "Or am I?!"

Followed by a vicious laughter.

I try to act unbothered which fuels his intentions of sweet revenge even more. So this is how I end up at the river shore, a fishing rod in my hands while he shows me the right technique to use it. I can already tell he regrets bringing me with him because no matter how hard I try, I can't do it the way he shows me. "I'm sorry, love, I just don't get how you whip it like that."

He chuckles and gives me a side hug. "Don't worry babe, once it's in the water, you don't need to whip it anymore."

Then he walks into the water until he is standing in the river, water up to his thighs.

"What are you doing?! Aren't we supposed to stay out of the water? What about my pants!?!"

He just laughs and says they'll dry in no time. I frown at him and take a few minutes to finally copy him in the water. For a few moments, no one says anything which makes me a bit uncomfortable.

"So, how long does it take to catch some fish?" I ask as I turn to him. He doesn't reply, but puts his index finger on his lips.

I am quiet for some moments before I start again. "What kind of fish could we catch here?" Again, no answer.

This continues a few more times until Cash finally snaps. "Babygirl. I love you with all my heart. But I swear to God, if you don't shut up now, I'll leave you in the forest. WITH ALL THE SPIDERS."

I whisper a soft 'sorry' and remain silent. It's hard at first because, well, I love talking to him, but after a few more minutes, I start to look around. This is actually a nice spot to be in. I listen to the wind rustling the leaves on the trees and to the gurgling of the water around me. The reflection of the sun dancing on the moving surface is mezmerizing, like little crystals floating in the water. When I look up at the sky, I notice a single cloud shaped like a heart and smile to myself before looking at Cash again. He smirks at me, and I now understand why he brought me here and why I needed to be quiet: this place is magical, when you take a closer look.

His focus then shifts on the river and he starts pulling in his rod - my man caught a fish, and for some odd reason, I find it sexy as hell. He proudly looks at me. "Dinner's ready, babe."

"We're going to eat it?"

He laughs at me. "What else would we do with it? You try and find some dry wood for a fire, I'll prepare the fish." He matter-of-factly states before moving out of the water. I follow close behind and do as he told me.

Once the fireplace is set up and the fish is waiting to be cooked, I sit next to Cash as he uses flints to ignite a fire. It takes him a few tries until the sparks are flying, and I can't help but admire him: the way his arms flex with every movement and the determination to use these stones instead of the lighter we also brought along.

When the fish is cooking, he moves closer and wraps his arm around me. I smile at the fire. "Remind me to keep you close in case of an apocalypse." He laughs at my comment and kisses the top of my head. We sit like this for some time, just enjoying each other's company before I have to ask him one more question that's been nagging me. "Cash?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you really leave me in the forest...with the spiders?"

He laughs out loud before moving my head so I look up at him and caresses my cheek. "Never, baby."

[photogirl894]

Bad Batch Headcanons: Favorite Art Medium

My good friend, @oneshot-one-kill , and I were having a discussion on Discord and we got to talking about the Bad Batch doing art because Clones only get to express themselves through haircuts and tattoos. We then determined what we think each Bad Batcher's favorite art form would be!

Hunter: Wood carving

This would be a given. Hunter loves doing things with his vibroblade and so, while having downtime between missions, he would choose to do some whittling on some wood he would find, which would then evolve into actual wood carving. As a gift, he would choose to carve things maybe like the sun and stars for the person he loves or a rendering of their favorite creature.

Echo: Digital Art/Baking

Echo would find digital art/3D art very relaxing and maybe even a stress reliever. He would have a lot of creative ideas, whether it's designs for the squad or just drawing for fun that he would love drawing out on a datapad.

We also thought baking would be good for him because we love picturing him in an apron...and he would have his own whisk attachment for his scomp arm 😅🤣

Wrecker: Pottery

Wrecker, I think would enjoy pottery. He'd love messing with the clay and just squishing it in his hands, but I think he'd also love making fun things out of the clay, especially for Omega. He would be so careful and make sure everything fits and is molded together just right, especially if he's making something for someone else like one of his brothers, Omega or a significant other.

Crosshair: Dancing

You can't look at Crosshair and tell me he wouldn't be a dancer! 😜 His whole physique and physicality just screams dancer! He'd be super embarrassed about it, but he's actually very graceful. It helps clear his head, especially between missions. We think he'd either do ballet or modern or possibly interpretative dancing as his main form.

Tech: Music/Pointillism

Tech would enjoy music, I think, and composing. He finds the science of music intriguing and would have a finite understanding of music and how putting a song together would work.

I could also see him doing some painting, but a certain style of painting: pointilism. He's usually so precise with everything, so I could see him enjoying the art of pointilism because he would be so careful and concise with every dot in the image and he'd create something so spectacular.

[terrainofheartfelt]

which dair moment was the most endearing to you?

ohhh this is a difficult question, because the magic of them is all the little moments, yeah? and how they all come together?

maybe it's bc I was at the museum this weekend - well, actually, I made this note in one of my fic docs weeks ago - that the Dair relationship, if I may broker a pretentious art comparison, it's like pointillism, like a Seurat, small dots of color, all these tiny, seemingly unimportant-on-their-own moments building and accumulating until they make a larger picture that's pretty wonderful, actually.

but if I had to pick one, I think it's the end of 4x16 "While You Weren't Sleeping For Me" - obvious sweetness of Blair conking out on Dan's shoulder aside, it's just...the layers of it are so! I've yelled about it in some tags essays, but to summarize: Blair spends the whole of the episode pushing herself to the mental and physical brink, and when the bottom drops out where does she go? where does she finally let herself rest? DAN (alexa, play "Orpheus” by Sara Bareilles). Also, Blair is always preoccupied with image in a sort of way women are conditioned to always be occupied with how they are looking, but you can see in her physicality of the scene when they're on the couch together that she is less conscious of herself, she tucks up her feet, she slumps into the couch, she falls asleep on Dan's shoulder! she's melting into him and she doesn't even know it! And there's Dan, who in this moment of vulnerability for Blair, doesn't try to fix the problem, he just gives her a place to be. And feeds her. Because he's the mom friend who always tries to feed his friends when they're stressed. anyways yeah that moment makes me very Soft.

anyways. tags.

Oh and an Honorable Mention to this moment in 5x12. drunk!Blair my beloved...

[wishingstarinajar]

Here's a bunch for Faux- Why does he like foxes so much? Does he use the tail to mess with people? What's his favorite milkshake? Would he ever voluntarily lend someone his jacket?

Alright, here comes a big ass post with questions and answers.

These questions are aimed at my boys Faux, Scam(p) and Indi.

Why does Faux like foxes so much? He likes them because of the bedtime stories he'd read to Scam. Instead of a bunny, a fox was the lead. He thinks they are clever and witty (and a bit sassy), which he wouldn't mind to be like. Also, he thinks they look beautiful with their orange fur and bushy tails.

The OOC reason for his like towards foxes is because I myself love them so much but also because there used to be an old webcomic back in the early 2000s called Faux Pas that centered around foxes. It's also where his name comes from!

Does Faux use the tail to mess with people? He does not.

What's Faux's favorite milkshake? He likes strawberry shortcake milkshakes but also and cookie dough!

Would Faux ever voluntarily lend someone his jacket? No, you should have brought your own. It's always autumn at his place, why wouldn't you bring one?? xD

What's Scam(p)'s favorite scam? The one that gives him a lot of G without getting into trouble afterwards. (He isn't going to give out his secrets, come on!)

Is Scam really good at it? Nah and yah. Fake it till you make it!

Is Scam a good liar or bad one? He's actually pretty good at lying and that's concerning.

Scam(p)'s favorite food? Give him a plate of fries with french fry seasoning, ketchup and mayo and he's happy.

Which brother (if either) likes puns? Neither have an affinity for puns. Scam on the other hand is into riddles (instead of puzzles)!

Does the AU have a royal guard? Are they in it? It has a royal guard and neither are in it. Scam never managed to get accepted so he just does his own thing in capturing humans (which he isn't very good at) and Faux is living a double life with his Judge duties (which he has been slacking at. Don't tell the Queen.).

What lead to it being held up by falsehoods? Who rules? Faux's name xD but the reason for it being so in the AU is something I haven't thought of yet. Queen Toriel rules the Underground and I will assume she's also just faking it to do her best in freeing her subjects.

My first and foremost question does Indi like hugs/cuddles cuz I wanna hug him so bad! He looks very cuddly. I wouldn't say he loves them because he doesn't fully grasp the concept of 'loving something' but he doesn't mind them.

Do the binary coding act like pointillism the 0s and 1s blend together to make the cracks? Do they make any type of pattern with the 'cracks'? They don't. The Multiverse's coding that got engraved into Indi's bones is just so so so so soooo small that they look like very fine and thin lines. They don't form a specific or symmetrical pattern.

Does Indi store larger pots of ink in the Scribble Dome and just refill the little ones he wears? He collects the ink in bigger containers and valves and refills the smaller pots once or twice a day.

Does the ink Indi collects come from his original creator or all creators? From all creators except his original creator. Their original creator abandoned him; they don't give a shit anymore.

Does Indi have a favorite ink emotion? He does! It's confidence.

How frequently does Indi need to dip into them (ba dun tis)? Every day but it also depends on which emotion he needs or wants to experience.

Why does Indi treat OCs, Out!code or creators so differently from other characters? Creators give him life through the creation of a timeline and the original cast of said timeline. Indi is very set on everyone playing their planned and expected parts because hey, he's selfish and just wants to live. The intactness of timelines is crucial to his survival. It's like playing a strategy game; you don't quickly treat the pawns as beings with feelings, you have them act on what they should do instead to gain the advantage and win the game. In this case, 'winning' is important to his survival and he wins by making sure everyone does as they are coded to do.

Out!codes are also a Creator's creation so he treats them fairly the same, but they are unpredictable renegades because they don't belong to a particular AU/timeline and can mess things up (like Error-coded characters, the Bad Sanses or whoever else set on destroying things).

Has Indi ever thought to try to refind/recreate the world he was meant for? He doesn't remember it so nope.

If Indi were to go back the void he was left in originally would the fractured remains of his soul still be there? His soul is gone, there's nothing left of it. Theoretically, if there were something left of it, it would be in his original AU instead of the void.

That was a lot of questions xD Thanks though! Hope it answered a few things.

[killian-whump]

Game Night! [Liveblog #3]

Aaaaaaand we’re back! Let’s jump right back into the action with the next drawing in the Drawful game...

Wow. That’s... Wow. I feel like that pen isn’t helping Kat as much as you’d think it might 😂 Is that a foot? A stomach? A stomach-foot? “That looks painful,” Sam says. The players are guessing. Sammy takes this moment to remind everyone that Colin is in the lead. “Pretty significantly,” she adds. Colin is nodding proudly in his little box on the side of the screen. “How many points has he got?” Sam asks. “A lot,” Sammy answers helpfully. Colin is still nodding. Now he’s shrugging it off with a smug grin. I can’t handle him right now.

Sammy: He’s got, I think, 2000. Sam: How many have I got? Sammy: Not 2000.

The guesses come up: “diseased foot” “zombie foot” “smelly footsie” and “athlete’s foot - josh’s foot”. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, SAM. THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T HAVE 2000 POINTS, SAM. Colin’s guess was “zombie foot” and two other players voted for it, so I think he’s gonna do well this round. “I like smelly footsie,” Colin says. “I think that’s a good one.” Yet... he didn’t vote for it. He voted for Sam’s guess with the “josh’s foot” on it 😂

Oooh... Colin’s up to 3000 points now, and Sam’s up to 2500! “It’s getting close now,” Colin says. And it’s time for his drawing...

Remember guys: He went to art school. I have no idea what this is. Actually, that’s a lie. I think I know what it is from seeing other Colin fans’ cryptic comments that didn’t make sense without having watched the video. BUT... were it not for that, I probably would be guessing, like... triple french hammock? XD But the coloring (not pertinent) and the xxx and the hammock also make me wanna guess banana hammock 😂

“I think I saw this one hanging in the Louvre,” Josh says.

The guesses come up and Colin’s grinning again. “artsy fartsy hammock” is my new favorite thing, so thanks whoever did that. The other answers are “french open” “sexy hammock” and “french tennis?” (stop putting question marks, Kat, they’re a dead giveaway). “It is a sexy hammock,” Sam says. “That’s true.”

And it IS... a Sexy Hammock. "Are you kidding?” Sam asks. “There’s no such thing as a sexy hammock,” Josh says. “Well, there is,” Sammy says. “That’s what it is.” “It’s right there,” says Colin.

TIME FOR ROUND 2!! The players are drawing again. “I do not have the skill set for this,” Josh says. “I don’t even understand this game,” Sam says. Colin’s drawing very seriously again. “You’re all artists,” Sammy reminds them all. I’m not sure that’s true, but okay.

Colin finishes drawing and chuckles to himself. “That was a laugh of confidence,” Josh says. “I'm not fully convinced it was, to be honest,” Colin says. “I don’t think that was a laugh of confidence.”

“By the end of this, I’ll be looking for a bottle of Sam’s whiskey to down,” Colin says. “That’s the prize,” Sam says. “You’ll get one.” Sam says he’s halfway through the bottle Colin sent him. I love Colin’s friendships 💗

Okay! Time for the drawings! First is another one from Josh:

Sam says what everyone’s thinking right now: “This is a little X-rated, right?” and then, “What is that? I mean, what is that?” “What is the rating on this game, Josh?” Kat asks. Josh says it’s X, and encourages them to “go for it” with their guesses.

The guesses come in: “cropdusting a party” “Africa” “antebellum south” and “lonely testicle” 😂 I expected four testicle answers, honestly. I’m disappointed in everyone that didn’t put in a testicle answer. It’s clearly the right answer, even if it isn’t the right answer. Josh says it’s funny, because “lonely testicle” was his nickname in high school. “It does look lonely, doesn’t it?” Sam asks.

“Lonely testicle” was Colin’s guess, and I honestly couldn’t be prouder or more assured that I’ve made the right choice in being his fan. Josh missed it on the screen, though, and asks: “Who said lonely testicle?”

“Cropdusting a Party” was the actual prompt! “How do you draw that?” Josh asks. “Well, you definitely don’t draw it like that,” Colin says, and my love for him only grows.

“Colin’s still wildly in the lead,” Sammy announces. And he is. He’s got 4500 points now. Sam and Josh are tied for second place with 3000.

Next up is Sam’s drawing...

I think he’s given up on this game, lol. “I wrote my guess,” Josh laughs. “And it says my guess is too close to the real title.” “I’m pretty pleased with that,” Sam says. I’m now dying to know what the prompt is.

Guesses are in: “Sarcasm” “Sarcasm by Sam” “Sadly not the truth” and “a lie” 😂 THOSE ARE ALL THE SAME DAMN THING Since everybody guessed his drawing correctly, Sam raked in a lot of points. Colin’s still in the lead, though! He’s got 6000 to Sam’s 5000. Time for Kat’s drawing:

“Mmm, that’s beautiful,” Sam says. “That’s just... amazing.” “I-Is that it?” Colin asks. “So judgey,” Josh says. Colin laughs. “Sorry,” he says. “I get competitive. Sorry.” I seriously can’t handle him, you guys, he’s apologizing 😂 Sam asks, “Have you been playing this during lockdown, Colin? Is that why you’re so good at this?” “That’s literally all I’ve been doing,” Colin says.

The guesses are in: “deathbed” “torture device” “a shallow grave” and “pooping on a pinball machine” which is now my new new favorite thing. “Whoever did the pinball machine deserves to win,” Sam declares. It was Josh’s guess, and he wants it on the record that Sam said that. The actual prompt was “a shallow grave”.

Colin didn’t get ANY points this round! He’s still at 6000, but Sam is inching closer with 5500! And it’s time for another Colin drawing...

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I have no idea what this is. It’s hilarious, though. Y-fronts on a TV screen. He clearly got the BEST prompts. “Colin’s Y-fronts on TV,” Sam guesses aloud.

Josh: Yeah, this isn’t fun and games for at least one of us. Colin: I’m in it to win! :D

Okay, the guesses are in... “pointillism” “underpants channel” “underwear advertisement” and “old timey drooling tv” (what?). Again, I say, Colin got the BEST prompts, lol 😂 And the actual prompt was Underpants Channel - and Colin raked in a TON of points for people picking the right answer, guaranteeing he’s won this game 🎉

Sammy: The winner is Colin! Sam: Whaaat the hell? Sammy: And the person who got the most likes, the most brownie points is...

WE STAN A WINNER, YOU GUYS. A WINNER!!! 😂

“Thank you guys, thank you,” Colin says. Josh and Kat are just laughing. Sam is having an all-out existential dilemma in the bottom right corner.

“I’m super depressed,” says Sam.

“Do you guys have time for one more game?” Josh asks. Kat says yeah. Colin says yeah, with a blood-thirsty eager gleam in his eyes. “If I can win,” Sam says.

Will he win? Or will Colin sweep both games? We shall see... in the next installment of Game Night!!!

[idealisticrealism]

So, who wants to hear me gush about something in Blindspot that was almost certainly completely meaningless?

What is it, you (didn’t) ask? 

It’s this. 

So, let me start by saying that this scene was one of my favourite scenes of Blindspot, like ever. I am living for the friendship that is forming between these two, and the way they are helping each other through their individual traumas. The added dimension of former CIA agent Tasha helping Rich recover from his torture at the hands of the CIA is just so perfect, not to mention they have the added connection of knowing what it’s like to be a ‘bad guy’ operating outside the law. 

(I also like to think that Jane and Tasha talked together about how to help Rich, but since Jane was already supporting her hubby as well as carrying the team, Tasha took the reins on this one.)

But even though I totally could gush about that scene (especially that hug omg), that’s not actually what this post is about. This post is about me being a HUGE NERD for IMPRESSIONISM.

(Still sure you want to get into this lol?)

Alright then, here goes: 

So, this absolute classic is probably at least vaguely familiar to a lot of people; it’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat, painted in the mid 1880s, and arguably his most famous work.

(While watching the ep I initially took it for a Monet at first glance, which is super embarrassing for me but also I can’t help that I have this like Pavlovian response to Impressionism that makes me go YO IS THAT MY BOY MONET YOOOO the moment I see any painting even remotely of the style lol)

But let me tell you why I am losing my nerdy marbles over the use of this artwork in the show (even though I am very certain that they probably just used whatever relatively recognisable piece they could find that didn’t have any like copyright stuff attached) because oh boy do I have Thoughts.

So let’s get analytical up in this biz....

First off, there’s the big one: it’s an Impressionist piece. The very foundation of the style is that from afar, all looks normal, but when you actually look closely, everything is blurred and distorted; nothing is distinct. Which is doubly appropriate for this show: firstly, the team is currently pursuing a mission that seems clear-cut (to clear their names and get their lives back, to free the FBI of Madeline’s corruption) but which actually involves a lot of uncertainty and murkiness and blurred lines (are we willing to break multiple laws? to potentially kill people deliberately, not just in self-defense? how far are we willing to go to achieve our mission, and if we succeed, will we still be the same? etc). Secondly, and more relevantly to this particular scene, the style is fitting for Rich himself following his experience in the blacksite. Look from a distance, and he seems alright, still normal (or as normal as Rich could ever be). But look close, and you start to see that everything is actually hazy and muddled, the cracks starting to show. He is not okay.

But wait, there’s more! Because this work isn’t just Impressionist, it’s Neo-Impressionist (specifically, Pointilist) which ol’ boy Georges was one of the pioneers of-- he was literally considered a renegade because of it, a rebel operating against the status quo, which I find very appropriate for our own little band of rebels lol. But the point (lol) of Pointilism is to create scenes filled with vivid colours, ones that almost seem to jump out of the canvas, which is achieved by combining small brushstrokes (points) of different colours which from further away appear to be practically just one bright colour. So again, looking from a distance you see one thing, and from up close you see that it’s actually more complicated than that. Like this team; they’re all individuals, all their own distinct colours, but look at the bigger picture and you see that they blend together to create a balanced, harmonious whole. And that same concept can be applied to them all individually, too-- each one of them is made up by a veritable rainbow of traits. Light, dark, and everything in between; every stroke makes them who they are. 

But that’s just the style, though, which is only the half of it. Look at the actual subject of the painting; at its setting. Art is an escape from one’s own reality, and for someone practically trapped in a concrete box underground, what better choice of escape is there than a scene of people happily enjoying the outdoors, spending time in the midst of sunshine and nature, with no walls or ceilings in sight, no one being hunted or hurt? See, too, how the foreground of the painting is in shadow-- it gives the sense that the viewer is in shadow too, the dimness of the bunker and the shadow of the painting blending together, like if Rich were to stand in front of the painting and step forward, he’d be stepping out onto the grass. It’s a hopeful thought; the team might be in shadow right now, but the light of day isn’t so far away. A little longer, a little further, and they’ll be out there too, enjoying their lives and their freedom just like the people in the painting.  

And speaking of the people in the painting... there’s a few other little things about this painting that makes me love that it was the one they chose. Firstly, I love that Tasha brought Rich a painting which was described with words like ‘bedlam’, ‘scandal’, and ‘hilarity’ when it was first exhibited, which are probably the exact words that would come to mind if you had to describe Rich and his life in three words lol (pre-blacksite, sadly). Though the painting looks very normal and serene to us, when you look closely, there are a couple of pretty weird things, especially for that time. For one, the woman in the foreground has a pet monkey on a leash, which I think is a fairly apt representation of Rich’s role in the team haha, particularly early on. There’s also a lady off to the left who is fishing, and if I remember correctly, she was thought to symbolise a prostitute reeling in her clients down by the docks/waterside lol, an interpretation which I feel like Rich would absolutely love. In a more Blindspot-specific sense, another character of interest is the man lounging right near the front-- I can’t be the only one who thinks he looks just like ‘old’ Weller, right down to the little hat? The fact that his outfit seems out of place for the time, and also the subtle... sexiness (for the lack of a better word lol) of his clothes and pose makes it feel like Rich’s consciousness could have conjured him there (bc lbr, we all know Rich loves some sexy Weller). And lastly, I can’t not mention the little girl in the center, who is famously considered to be staring right at the viewer of the painting, as if fully aware she’s being observed and totally ready to throw down about it. And I know that this one is extra silly and had obviously never crossed the prop-designer’s mind, but, well... this painting is French, and if someone asked me to think of an appropriate name for a little French schoolgirl, I would pick the name of the one I spent many hours of my childhood watching cartoons and reading books about: Madeline.

As a last, final bonus (and yet another totally irrelevant thing that I am ascribing my own meaning to), just look out on the water in the distance-- there’s what appears to be a steamboat. Or is it The Boat, and is it sinking, a plume of smoke rising from it as it goes down in flames? 

But that’s the thing about art, isn’t it; there’s no limit to what we see in it. So when Rich looks at this gift, I hope he sees freedom. Hope. A future in the sun.

Because he’s earned it.

They all have.

[hoseoksactualass]

Hello...dreaming of Taehyung making me submit to him, playing with ropes, spankings and then treats and aftercare once he is finished...if you ever have any interest in helping my fantasy turn into writing...have a nice weekend ❤️

if i ever have any interest? everyday, baby.

warning: dom tae who stays in character

The sting of being told “With your pace, Kim Taehyung, I’d be more than glad to put you up for career advancement” is the same sting Taehyung uses when he tight binds your wrists together. It reverberates in his head— assessing his career potential, surpassing the seniors in his field with his handsome merit and ability; what greater way to manifest the anxiety of a hint at promotion than to make you submit to him after a long day’s work? He tongues at the inside of his cheek. 

“Oh—that’s- tight,” you mumble, arms up and bound to the headboard. He almost hesitates. 

“Safe word.”

“Yellow, I remember,” you smile. Gogh’s favourite colour. You don’t know why the idea was sharp on your tongue, but it was something about appealing to who you were about to submit to. 

There’s a hitachi wand plugged, waiting on the nightstand seconds away from you, so your heart throbs at your chest like it waits just as much. “Don’t move,” his voice is silky, eyes meeting yours when he unclasps your bra. You inhale sharply. He looks at you with more composure than the way you look at him, unperturbed in his ministrations and drags a long finger down the middle of your torso, making a fine stop at the garter of your panties. “Why are you wearing these?” 

“They’re—,” your voice falters when he pulls on the waistband and snaps it back on your skin. “—they’re pink.” 

“You knew I’d like them?,” he has the tenacity to smirk at you. A shit eating grin that shows the sharp of his premolars. Pink frankly never goes out of style. 

“Yeah.”

There’s a small love tap under your chin more so your whole face looks up at him, and you obey. The hair over his eyes gives him a stare that’s more tranquil. Different, evil almost. He pulls his shirt off with the same persona, the fabric bunching up the hair on the back of his head, but it only makes him look more enticing. He smells like lotion. He presses a wet kiss on your lips like he’s ready to betray you. You receive it. 

Your eyes are still on each other when you feel him pull your panties off. He reaches for the nightstand, enjoys the flit of panic in your eyes when the vibrator starts to hum. 

“Spread your legs.”

When you do, Taehyung takes that as no sign to slow everything down even more. He presses the wand where he knows you pulsate for it and blinks up at you in contentment. Your hips kick. “O-Oh—”

“Mm. Stay still,” then it buzzes in a higher setting. What you can’t do with your hips, you tug with your wrists. “I’m gonna let you cum as much as you let me tell you to stay still.”

Although the glory of orgasms is a thought you welcome, the sharp tightening in your stomach is a fast approaching feeling. Just a reminder of how it feels. Stings on your toes. Squiggles in your hips, and waves and waves and waves of climaxes you wouldn’t understand. You try to keep your wrists lax. 

“Do you want that?”

“N-No,” you munch on your lip, eyes squinting when he kicks the wand to the highest setting; it’s loud on the wet of your skin. 

“Then be a good girl and stay still,” he swipes his tongue over his lower lip. Simple habit, but now he does it because he could almost taste you. He watches you struggle, the vibration of the hitachi working its way all up to your wails. You can’t keep your eyes open. “Tell me how it feels.”

You clear your throat, trying to step on the shudder of your voice, because it feels so fucking good. “It— It feels so good—”

Taehyung is too breathless to respond. He revels in the way you try so hard not to writhe. It makes his cock twitch in his slacks. 

You shoot your eyes open. You see him caressing at his own lip, a ringed finger that looks too tempting not to think about. You push your chest out more when you notice his eyes bearing right into it, still a hint of that college crush in his gape. It starts to feel harsh on your pussy. “I think I’m—Tae-I’m gonna—”

“Don’t cum yet,” but he presses the wand harder. “I want it around my cock, not on this toy.”

You throw your head back. Cheeks flush in the health of getting watered by the tears welling up on the corner of your eyes. It’s hot on your tail; your toes are already curling—”I can’t I can’t—I’m gonna-”

He turns off the wand, and the absence of its hum wraps around your ears. It’s ringing, and you throb harder in the places finally left untouched. 

“I’m sorry,” it’s harder to close your thighs back together. Fragile. 

“Sorry for what?,” his jaw flexes, eyes still on you when he unbuttons his slacks. 

“That I couldn’t hold it—ah, fuck-!,” you feel a prick sent straight into the cheek of your ass. He has your hips, obnoxious, lifted in the air so he could let the palm of his hand smack where he felt fit. 

“It’s alright, babe,” he drops you on the foam to unbind your wrists from the headboard, but he still tightens your hands together. He speaks through the grit on his teeth. “As long as I get to feel it on me. Don’t care how many times you cum around me, I’m not stopping until you beg for it, yeah?” 

You convulse at his tone, moaning against the pillows when he flips you stomach down on the bed. 

“Ass up.”

You comply before he pulls on you the way he likes, flush against his clothed crotch; you hiss for it. It’s just your knees and elbows that keep you up. There’s a blood rush to your head when he leaves you bare for seconds to pull his boxers off. Taehyung almost gets swayed into the sweetness of how wet you were smeared all over your pussy. 

He fucks you with his mind shut down. Hard, sharp thrusts against your cunt, and he feasts on it. Sharp hisses in his teeth that string the guttural of his breaths together. 

“F-Fuck, Taehyung—,” you mewl.

He sends another smack on your ass, making you flinch with the impact; it’s enough that he opens his eyes to it. Watches you rock on the bed as he fucks you. Proper filth. “Head down, baby—yeah-,” he groans, tilting his head to look at you. One hand brushes on the red mark of your bum, a loud tint you clench around his cock for. He brings a hand down from the small of your back, makes it slide with the purpose of pinning you down from your nape. He bends lower to hear you bleat. “Can you take it?”

You flutter, an orgasm already approaching, and you moan as if to take some form of control over it. “Y-Yeah—fuck-”

He feels it, the nibble on his lower lip just as tight as your cunt around him. He squeezes on your ass before he smacks again, and it resonates in the corners of the room. Already reeking of sex. You’re cumming, and he feels it. “Fucking cockslut—fuck, yeah,” he keeps his pace collected. It makes his fingers around your nape taut. “Already cumming, hm?”

“Y-Yes, Tae—,” you squeeze your eyes shut. The sensitivity grinds hollow inside you, and you begin to swell inside. 

“Take it until I cum,” he growls at your ear before straightening up again, smack far from a tap of love on the same place he’s placed his mark on already. The pain, the white noise of the sensation inside you catching up again— it makes you quake. “Good fucking girl.”

You’re red in submission, each second food to the pointilism the world spins into. You’re supposed to be nose deep in dinner right now. Taehyung fucks with more purpose, fucks like he’s chasing something; his hips almost skid. 

“Sh-Shit—,” he licks his lips, biting tight after. His chest heaves with no pattern. “So fucking pretty under me, I’m gonna cum,” it doesn’t help that you wriggle in the face of another orgasm again, milking his own out of him. The sweat on your brow stings. You hear traffic from the silence though its miles away, and it rings in your head. “Fucking shit— get on your knees.”

Your cunt feels used. He almost takes pity in the way you quaver when you slip off him, scrambling to the floor on your knees. You look up at him, his cheeks puffed in the growls he keeps to himself, hair carelessly swept from his eyes so he could see you in your natural crimson.

“Wanna cum on those tits,” he jerks himself. Hard. Points it where he wants you stained. “Fuuuuck fuck—there,” he cums in huge spurts that paint across your chest, and he doesn’t stop stroking himself until the pulling feeling is something he gets sick of thinking about. He pants. You whimper with him.

“Please. Drink up.”

“Tae, I’ve had 2 full glasses of water. I’m fine.”

“No, I fucked you too hard, please, you’re hurting.”

“I am not. What do you take me for? A baby?”

“Sort of. Fine. At least let me put band aids on your wrists—”

“My wrists are fine, what the fuck.”

“I didn’t tie you up too tight?”

“You tied me up fine. It was hot. I came hard. Twice.”

“Fuck, that’s hot…”

“Right? You did fine, I don’t need to be nursed; I would’ve said yellow.”

“Okay, okay… but look- they have little monkey prints on them, they’re so cute-”

“Jesus fuck, Taehyung, shut up.”

“Sorry. I’m just scared I hurt you.”

“Don’t be, because you didn’t. I actually like the spanking. And everything you said. I might accidentally call you daddy.”

“Please call me daddy.”

“Shut up, and eat my face, you gumball.”

[fantasynovelwriter85]

Modern Art Satire

I was an art major before I became an English major. In one of my classes, I learned many sculptors come up with an idea and hire someone else to execute it. 

I told my professor, “coming up with an idea doesn't make you an artist. It's coming up with the idea and having the skill to carry out the idea to completion that makes you an artist.” 

I am not even going to start talking about the artist who take other people’s trash, put it in piles and call it art. I think several artists came up with a conspiracy. This is how I imagine it went down: 

Three modern artists were sitting in the living room of a large country manor in England. Marcel Duchamp was standing by the fireplace and he turned to Damien Hirst and said, “Being an artist doesn’t pay well. Can you think of any way we could make more money?” 

Sue Webster jumped out of her chair. “I just had an amazing idea. Why don't you sign your name on the commode sitting in your field, call it art and see if you can get museums to pay you to display it.” 

“Excuse me Sue,” Damien interjected, “Marcel was talking to me. Also, that’s a ridiculous idea. No museum will pay money for something like that.” 

Sue put her hands on her hips, “Fine. If you’re so smart what’s your idea?” 

Damien sat back in his plush leather armchair staring into the fire, “I wasn’t saying I had a better plan just that I didn’t think yours would work.” 

“It would if you put the right spin on it.” Sue sat down on the sectional facing the window.“That commode is such an eyesore. You would be doing yourself a favor by following my advice.” 

“I don’t know,” Marcel replied. “I think Damien may be right about this. I don’t see how any Museum could be convinced a signed commode was art.” 

Sue thought for a moment and then replied. “You could call it a response to the negative impact consumerism’s had on society.” 

Damien sat up abruptly, “I’ve got a brilliant idea. What if I paint dots and call that art?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sue retorted, “painters have been doing that for years. It’s called pointillism.”

 Damien rolled his eyes. “Obviously, that’s not what I meant. I was talking about painting individual circles on the canvas with no discernable picture being made.” 

Sue let out a sarcastic half-laugh. “And you think that idea will have more success than my idea about the commode?” 

Damien stared back at her. “Of course. My idea’s better because I’ll actually be making something. Marcel wouldn’t be making a commode, just signing his name on one.” 

Marcel had wandered over to the window, looking out at the commode. He muttered to himself. “I wonder how it got there. Who leaves a commode in the middle of a field?” 

“Sorry Marcel,” Sue said looking up at him from her seat on the couch, “did you say something?” 

“You know Sue,” Marcel turned to face her, “now that I’ve thought about it for a while, I think your idea has some merit. I’m going to try it. What have I got to lose anyway? It’s not like I can get more broke than I already am. It’s a good thing my parents have money or I would be living on the streets.” 

Damien nodded. “It’s hard being an artist. It’s about time we got some recognition for our struggles. Wait a minute Marcel, we’ve forgotten about Sue. What are you going to do Sue?” 

Sue looked at the ceiling for a minute, thinking. “You know I think I am going to wait and see if my idea for Marcel works. If it does well for him I think I will pile trash on museum floors and call it art.”

Marcel looked at her his eyes wide. “You really are brilliantly diabolical, Sue. It’s almost scary.” 

“What do you mean, I’m diabolical?” she asked, her eyes conveying hurt and confusion. 

“Well, if this works, we will con tons of people and museum curators, into spending money on junk.” Marcel moved to the armchair beside Damien’s.

 “Well don’t think of it as conning then. Think of it as a brilliant and strategic business move.” 

Damien had been deep in thought while the two spoke, working on his own diabolical plan. “You know guys, after thinking about it, I don’t think painting spots is enough. What if I took animal corpses cut them up and suspended them in formaldehyde?” 

Sue pursed her lips, her forehead wrinkling. “Eww. What a gross idea. What led you to such a stunningly grotesque and morbid plan?” 

“Well, did you notice the dead crow in the field as we walked in? I was thinking about your statement that the commode was an eyesore. It made me remember the bird, which got me thinking about death and animals. Then I recalled the horror film I watched as a child where the serial killer kept cuttings from his victims in formaldehyde and that’s what gave me the idea.” 

Marcel looked at him, his head cocked to one side. “If Sue’s idea works I think your plan has merit. But I wouldn’t mention that explanation again because it makes you sound like a nut job. In fact, let’s make a vow that we will never tell anyone this meeting happened. It’s better for all of us if no one knows how this con came about.” 

Marcel, Damien, and Sue each promised to never reveal the conversation to anyone and then they went their separate ways. 

None of them realized how successful their plan to bamboozle the public would be. Artists are still cashing in on the con these three brilliant minds thought up in an unassuming room in England. 

It would have been impossible for the con to succeed so well if millions of people hadn’t bought their lie and come to believe that junk really could be art. I often wonder how much longer their con will be perpetuated or if, even now, some other group of artists has come up with an even better con and is getting ready to put it in motion.      

 Author’s Note: I want to clarify a few things. The artists I mention in this blog are actual people. The works they plan to make in this post are real. However, this post is satire so it stretches and bends the truth.

To cover story issues, I am pretty sure Marcel didn’t find the commode he used in his yard. I also don’t know if he was broke or if his parents were wealthy (although I can’t think of any artists who have had monetary success for their entire career). I made those parts up. If you are looking for facts about these artists you should check out other websites.   

Finally, Sue Weber and Damien Hirst are still alive, but Marcel Duchamp died in 1968. His death occurred three years after Damien’s birth and one year before Sue’s. All three of them couldn’t have been in a room together unless time travel was involved (which is another story altogether). 

Although I do believe Modern art is a scam designed to con people out of their money. I don’t think these three artists are the ones who came up with it. The reason I chose them was because, out of all the modern artists I studied in my art class at Anderson University in South Carolina, I hated their art the most. 

In case my last sentence didn’t make this clear, allow me to clarify: I do not hate Damien, Sue or Marcel, I am sure all three are/were lovely individuals. I hate their art and believe it to be a trick designed to fool people into spending thousands of dollars on junk.

Postscript: While writing this blog I looked up images of each of their art and realized that Damien did create art that could be considered pointillism. I have decided I don’t hate his art, I am now only mildly disgusted by it.  

[clarestrand]

Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation prize Catalogue with text by Orit Gat.

The award will now be announced (virtually) on Sept 14th. For further info on how to join the webcast please consult The Photographers Gallery Website.

Image = Information

Orit Gat

1 A beginning

In Paris, an artist painting in a studio that used to be part of a monastery. She goes out and gets the largest drawing papers she can find. Surrounded by paint pots and brushes, it’s an image that belongs in a tradition of artists painting away in Parisian garrets, only this is not that story. What Clare Strand was painting in her Paris studio during a three-month residency at the Centre Photographique d'Ile-de-France in 2017 was a translation of pre-existing photographs that were ‘read’ to her over the phone by her husband in the UK. From across the English Channel, he would give her directions that would encode an image of his choosing, and she would paint it.

2 Transmission

Strand and her husband were following an existing model. The method they were using to transmit information was described in George H. Eckhardt’s ‘Electronic Television’, from 1936, in which he outlined how a photograph can be transmitted via code over telegraph. In this system, the original image is divided into a grid, with every square being given a value from 1 to 10. 1 is white, 2 has a tinge of grey, 3 is greyer, 4 darker and so on until 10, which is black. The initial source images from which Strand’s husband chose the images he would transmit to her were 10-by-8 inches, which they divided into a grid of forty-nine squares across and sixty down, each about 5 square millimetres. If it’s boring to read, imagine the couple’s phone conversations: he would call and say 24-2; 25-4; 26-5; and so on. Through conversation, with Strand following her husband’s direction, the language would form a representation of the original image. Like a human fax machine.

3 The result

Is a series of ten black-and-white paintings in acrylic on paper. The history of art brings forth associations and relations, from the development of the grid as a foundation for perspective in the Renaissance, to the nineteenth-century illusionism achieved through Pointillism. There are Gerhard Richter’s black-and-white paintings, László Moholy-Nagy’s telephone paintings, Agnes Martin’s feather-light grids. But the connection to the history of art crumbles in front of the actual framed paintings. They’re human, Strand says, as she reasserts that she is not a painter. They’re messy, imperfect. There are hairs that stuck to the paper, dust congealed into the paint. However, in installation shots of the whole series, they look like another kind of work. Photographed, the paintings seem faultless: the black, white and grey hues reminiscent of aestheticized black-and-white photography; the paintings look clean, their edges not frayed, the small mistakes blend into the frame. It’s like they have two lives, as object and as image. When I ask Strand which one matters more, she answers, ‘I don’t know. What I find ironic is that, as much I try to push “photography” into different mediums, I can never escape the camera and how it operates as a tool of representation. With each press or catalogue reproduction, the paintings are represented as photographs, which is somewhat at odds with the concept of the work – photography transposing into painting only then to be represented by photography!’

4 Utility

To talk about the history of art and about installation shots is to ignore how the objecthood of the paintings depends on their creation. This series, titled The Discrete Channel with Noise, is at once the result of and the documentation of communication and its possible failures. Looking at the paintings, I want to say they look pixelated, but that would make them more photo than painting, more final product than process.

5 The first man who saw the first photograph

The relationship between painting and photography always makes me think of Roland Barthes writing in his essay on photography, Camera Lucida, that ‘The first man who saw the first photograph (if we except Niépce, who made it) must have thought it was a painting: same framing, same perspective. Photography has been, and is still, tormented by the ghost of Painting.’  Later in the book, he writes about photography’s relationship to reality, or to the document: ‘No writing can give me this certainty. It is the misfortune (but also perhaps the voluptuous pleasure) of language not to be able to authenticate itself.’ The photo as confirmation of fact. That fact, that reality, is communicated over phone lines in The Discrete Channel with Noise. When we look at a photograph, what we’re looking for, according to Barthes, is knowledge that a thing, an event, happened. He writes about Polish soldiers in a 1915 photo by André Kertész: ‘that they were there; what I see is not a memory, an imagination, a reconstitution, a piece of Maya, such as art lavishes upon us, but reality in a past state: at once the past and the real.’ What we see, in The Discrete Channel with Noise, is a story about reality rather than proof thereof.

6 Whizzing through the air

When I meet Strand, she hands me an assortment of notes. She’s hesitant about it for a minute, as if giving me homework rather than help. Or as if she expects communication can fail, and thinks a list of references may offer a way out of an impasse. The history of Morse code; pigeon post between Paris and England c. 1870–71; Eckhardt; Cybernetics founder Norbert Weiner and American mathematician Claude Shannon’s information theory, which gave The Discrete Channel with Noise its title: Strand’s research does not explain as much as expand the work. And then in the notes is a quote from the 1973 movie Charlie and the Chocolate Factory based on Roald Dahl’s writing, recreating Eckhardt’s transmission of images over radio. Here the character Mike Teavee, the winner of the fourth golden ticket, who loves this technology, explains: “You photograph something then the photograph is split up in to millions of tiny pieces and they go whizzing through the air, then down to your TV set when they are all put together in the right order” 

Mike Teavee, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl (1971).

That it is possible to share an image, and the labyrinthine process of it whizzing through the air is in line with Dahl’s 1971 book, in which the candy factory includes an impenetrable room-sized machine that, when operated, makes a lot of noise, takes a lot of time, and then produces a single bit of chewing gum. Unimpressive until someone chews it and realizes it is as nourishing as a three-course dinner: tomato soup, roast beef with baked potatoes, blueberry pie and ice cream for dessert.

Proof: the overcomplicated can sometimes be amazing. 

A lesson: also worth exploring.

7 Thirty-six images on a journey

The ten images in The Discrete Channel with Noise were chosen from a collection of thirty-six images Strand has compiled for a previous work, The Entropy Pendulum (2015), in which each of these photographs, which were taken from a tabloid newspaper’s archive, was eroded by the weight of a pendulum over the course of one day in an exhibition, then framed. Strand rephotographed the physical photos from the archive, creating a digital output that becomes a dataset ready for reuse. The subject of those images related to what Strand refers to as the subject of her work in general – magic, illusion, the paranormal, communication, transmission, the way people thought communication technologies were magical when they were first introduced, the way Alexander Graham Bell called the telephone a way to ‘talk with electricity’. How to read the transformation of these images through the process in The Discrete Channel with Noise These images are on a journey of losing and gaining information. The project is a metaphor, if not a realization, for what images do anyway: in flux, they move and shift in meaning.

8 Shifting in meaning

Why pay attention to shifts? Because shifts in context can mean that information is lost, or misused. An art historian friend of mine regularly points out that Alexander Nix, the founder and CEO of Cambridge Analytica, studied art history in university. Art matters, images matter, she wants to say. All channels of misinformation need to be decoded. Is there a present and a real, like Barthes thought there was in an only slightly less technological time than the one we occupy, today? Or is the subject of study now how realities are fractured across channels of communication?

9 An entire history of communication

The diagram used to explain Eckhardt’s ‘Electronic Television’ has a man sitting at a table in front of a large black-and-white image divided into a grid of a woman with short, curly hair who looks a bit like an early Hollywood film star. His sleeves are rolled up, his back a bit hunched, he is clearly concentrating. He holds a long pointer stick and taps information onto a device resting on the desk he is sitting at. The cable running from that device spirals into a growing network of telephone poles that reach a window, and from that window to a box on the wall, and straight from the box to a set of headphones that another man wearing a blazer (or is it a lab coat?) standing in front of a large grid, only partially completed with the recognisable top of the short-haired woman’s head. He holds a paint brush at the same spot the other man’s pointer is. Behind him on a table are 10 boxes of paint numbered from 1 (white) to 10 (black) and some paint brushes. The caption reads, ‘Fig. 26. A Simple Method for Sending Pictures by Wire or Radio.’

Visually, it matters that the example is always a woman and the transmitters and receivers are always men. The message is that even in new technologies, even in a new world, some old signals remain. That is what Eckhardt’s diagram exemplifies. An entire history of communication reinforces the idea of who gets to speak across these lines. It is therefore fitting that The Discrete Channel of Noise is structured and executed by a female artist.

10 A piece of Maya

When Barthes writes that ‘no writing can give me this certainty’, he is asserting photography’s relationship to what he calls ‘the real’. But as a writer, he must have known that it is the rest of the above-cited list – ‘a memory, an imagination, a reconstitution, a piece of Maya’ – that is one of the potentials of art: to reconstitute is a way of reimagining the world. After Cambridge Analytica, or in line with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I want to argue that the redefinition or the exploration of that real is the contemporary condition. We come to things with suspicion, some of which is about recognising the failures of the systems around us. But we also come to them with a sense of possibility, a remnant of the Maya or the three-course meal chewing gum: the idea that the world is a story, and it can be shared.

[bionic-penis]

Top 5 ocs and top 5 drawings

Gonna put this under a cut ‘cause I want to talk about them

(5 being least, 1 being most favourite)

TOP FIVE OCS

1. Abe; Throughout the years of their development, they’ve easily changed the most both in looks, identity, and personality. Their design has always been a treat to draw and, though I cringe at their old design, I can appreciate how far they and I have both come. I also find their story to be one of my favourites, especially with the emphasis on their relationship with their sister, Bethnael, and the rest of their family. So, although Sam is definitely a fave, Abe will always find a way to steal first place. 

2. Sam; Perhaps it’s because he’s the protagonist, but I’ve always liked Sam. When I first created him in middle school he was a big step away from my mostly edgy characters. His personality is by far the sexiest thing about him. Always a solid fave.

3. Sebastion; Not only is his design one of the sexiest designs I’ve ever created, but his story is also one of my favourites. His inner struggle of not being ready or thinking he’s good enough is something that I and a lot of other people can relate to. I want to expand more on his relationship with his family as well as the turning point that helps him own up to his destiny as King. All in all, he’s just a sexy character with a sexy background. 

4. Kushiel; I recently rediscovered my love for her when hashing out her design for Artfight hey have i told y’all I’m doing Artfight this year bc I’m doing Artfi. and her design is honestly one of my faves. She and Lelial force me to get better at drawing women, but I’m not complaining since she’s genuinely so fun to draw. She’s also come a long way in terms of what her character was meant to be which is always nice.

5. Azrael; I’ve come to love Azrael more than Lucifer, not gonna lie. They’ve always existed in the Realm as a character, but I’ve never placed them in the role of the current god until recently and honestly? It’s just what their character needed. I’m really glad I made that an element in their story. 

TOP FIVE DRAWINGS (which won’t actually be drawings)

1. Self Portrait #48; I didn’t get a decent photo before sending it off but!!! I owe so much to just this one piece, but especially my involvement with acrylics. It was also the first time that I felt I accurately captured my likeness.

2. we sleep; <- that is what the file is saved as so I’m just gonna call it that lmao but!!! I Am Not Over This Piece. The closeness, the colours, the characters... I love them all! I almost didn’t do this piece because I was worried about how I would fit them all in together, but I’m glad I did. Regardless of it’s faults, this is still a remarkable and solid piece.

3. Untitled (Unfinished); Also not a terribly good picture, but the essence is there. This is one of two BIG acrylic paintings I have situated in my room and I bump into them several times a day while going to the bathroom. I love the colour on this one.

4. Day 20 - April Challenge 2020; I just like the colours and lines of this piece. The atmosphere is absolutely killer. The undergrowth is stellar. I just like it a lot. 

5. Of Theseus and Ariadne; I don’t have a pic of it, but it was a piece I did for Studio art. It’s in the Pointillism style and it’s not very good, but I love it dearly. It was so satisfying watching my sketch slowly fill up with dot upon dot upon dot. I know I’ve said it before but I totally recommend trying out the pointillism style yourself! It’s tough work, but it’s so so so rewarding. 

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Holy Queen | Writing Update

Hey People of Earth!

Y’ALL. Last week I had some insane writing mojo and pumped out this chapter for MOTH WORK. If you missed the previous updates, make sure to check them out in the shiny new Moth Work tag for context! 

This chapter was *a joy* to write. I’ve had this chapter in my head since May, and it’s been one of my most anticipated writes! It’s also the start of part two of the book, which is now split up like this:

As you can see, 1-5 (or part one) belongs to Harrison and is called Eyes, and I’m hoping 6-10 (give or take) will be for Lonan. 

Today’s update is focused on chapter six, aka HOLY QUEEN.

This is the first chapter I’ve written in Lonan’s head, and it was such a fun experience? I actually added his whole POV just for this chapter lol (DO IT FOR THE TEA). Drafting this chapter only took about two days which is WILD. I mostly wrote it over a few writing sprints with @sarahkelsiwrites​ which I don’t often do because I like really taking my time with drafting, however, I think it was super helpful in forcing me to really sit down and write without a break for 20 minutes--something I’ve had trouble doing for a while. 

What’s it about?

This chapter follows Lonan wandering through Vegas, unaware of where he is and who he is. Because of this, the entire thing is written in a super disconnected state of conscious (which made it fun to play around with). The chapter starts when he stumbles into a cathedral during the early hours of the morning and meets Winona, a local woman who strikes a conversation with him. 

The writing bit: 

Like I said, I wrote this chapter almost exclusively during writing sprints! This was the least painful drafting experience for a chapter that I’ve had for this book to date, and I think this is because Lonan’s head is so much more interesting to be in than Harrison’s and that’s the TEA. This is mostly because he sees the world in a really warped way, especially because he’s so disconnected. Harrison has a consciousness to him that’s too immediate (and normal) for me to handle at some times, lol all I want is the “I could be a ghost” vibe POV character and Lonan is definitely fitting that. 

The chapter itself consists of only three scenes that all have a really strong religious element to them. Though Lonan isn’t religious this chapter showcases his struggle with the remnants of his relationship with God (with that said, if that’s sensitive for you, tread carefully with the excerpts).

The chapter itself gets its name from the Catholic prayer Hail Holy Queen. @sarahkelsiwrites​ suggested it to me because it’s a prayer of the rosary (which becomes increasingly more important throughout the chapter). I really wanted a title with a religious context, and after re-reading this one, I felt it worked well for the chapter. I modified it because I only do two-word titles for this project, and I think it works well in the context of the story. This is the prayer if you’re wondering why I chose it (cuz symbolism tho):

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy! our life, our sweetness, and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley, of tears. Turn, then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us; and after this our exile show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus; O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

Excerpts:

Holy Queen is broken into three scenes:

Scene A

Lonan aimlessly wanders Vegas and approaches a cathedral where he meets Winona

Scene B

Lonan gets a ride from Winona back to her place because it’s raining and he’s been wandering through it without realizing

Things get wild 

Scene C

Lonan, finally more lucid than the night before realizes a few things: he’s in a city without a way to get back home, and he’s also! in a random! lady’s! house! He is subsequently beat up by a very angry husband

(I was supposed to enjoy this very much and instead very much pitied him my badddd sorryyyy rip eyeballs)

I’ll share a few paragraphs from the first scene. Here’s the opening paragraph of the chapter ft. Lonan being #dazedandconfused:

Lonan’s heartbeat and the church bells gong in a staccato so identical, he doesn’t notice he’s walked an hour and a half away from the motel. He doesn’t remember why he’s walking or when he started, he doesn’t remember the last time he slept or his mother’s maiden name. He doesn’t remember when it started to rain, or what rain really is, or what the water cycle looks like, or which stage he’s currently in. He doesn’t remember how many sisters he has, or the difference between astronomy and astrology. He only remembers the sequence of how to pray the rosary: ten Hail Marys, one Our Father. Hail Mary. Our Father. Hail Mary. Our Father. This is what guides him to the cathedral. Lonan isn’t Catholic anymore. He maybe never was. He can’t even remember this. He knows he’s a sinner. God will never let him into heaven. 

He’s greeted by no one when he walks up the front steps and into the foyer, and the wall clock reading 2:33AM gives him a vague inclination of why. Lonan can’t remember the last time he went to church, or if his family went to church at all, but he walks toward the pew at the front like it’s natural to him and kneels. The sanctuary lamp dangling from the ceiling flickers above the tabernacle, and the air smells like damp wood. His hands tremble in prayerful submission, but he speaks to no one—no God, no deity, no mythologized woman. The act of religion comes easily. His mother could’ve done this as a teenager. A skirt below her knees. Her blouse precariously pleated and then tucked into the waistband. Lonan knows nothing about Izzy, but she would’ve been a good Catholic. She’s just as unbelieving as he is. 

This next bit is Winona sparking up a conversation with #dazedandconfused Lonan:

The woman crinkles as she moves—it’s because of the fabric, because of her handbag. She sets all of her things down, the handbag first, and then the jacket, loosening it from her shoulders to reveal a tattooed patch of skin just above her chest. He stares because he doesn’t know where else to look—he can’t remember how mass works, so she becomes his surrogate priest.

“Are you new?” she asks. Her voice sounds like a chorus whistling.

To Catholicism? To life? To this church? To Nevada? Lonan doesn’t understand what she’s referring to, so he answers the only way he can think to: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She laughs, but when he doesn’t, her smile fades. “Are you lost?” she asks.

“I’m praying,” he says.

Her hair is curly and chemical red. It bounces at her shoulders, and swishes with the rosary clinging between her breasts. She wears a lace camisole and three rings on one finger, all different stones: amethyst, peridot, sapphire. Her nails match her hair and glimmer in the candlelight like blood. He studies the tattoos lining her chest—the rushed outline of a lion, the smudged glimpse of a koi fish, a star circled and pressed into her skin like a brand.

“You’re a satanist,” Lonan says. He stares at that last tattoo, the wobbly outline like she drew it on herself. 

This is one of my favourite parts of the chapter, particularly the line in the edit:

Lonan doesn’t understand why she’s asking him all these questions. Her eyes are blue, and her roots are growing back in—a dull brown instead of the hot red. She smiles like his mother, and rests her elbow against the edge of the pew. He stares as she adjusts the elastic of her camisole back over her shoulder, and follows his gaze like she’s expected this.

“I can’t remember.”

He can’t feel his tongue. He can’t feel his heartbeat. He can’t remember how he got like this—if it’s all an illusion, or if someone has cast a curse that’s made him this way. He doesn’t remember if this woman is supposed to be good looking—he’s only distracted by her fingernails, her tattoos, the stack of rings on her single index finger. He reminds her of someone but no one in particular—maybe just women, his mother, his ex-girlfriends, his unknown sisters.

The next one has so? much? symbolism? I am English class:

He doesn’t know why he gets up or when, just that he ends up at the altar. A bible sits on a gold mount, and he fingers the pages, smoothing the ink until it transfers onto his thumb. He doesn’t understand how to read the words—he doesn’t remember how literate he is, just that the ink transfers. He brings the blackened thumb to his face and presses it into his cheek, and if it weren’t for the sudden touch at his back, he’d forget about the woman at the pew.

“Are you a journalist?” she asks. Lonan smooths his finger again over the page, erasing words like father, lie, unnatural, flesh. The words don’t move as much as he wants them to—they don’t reorder even when he begs them to. He isn’t religious and never has been, but at the altar he wants nothing more than God’s forgiveness.

“My father is a journalist,” he lies. His father is dead, he means. His father is the Satanist. “Adam.”

“That’s your father?”

“My name.”

He can’t remember why the woman has removed her jacket. He turns to look at her.

“Are you supposed to be here?” He doesn’t know why he asks this. It just tumbles out of his mouth like his fake cover story, his fake name, the fake words smudged under his fingernails.

“We’re all supposed to be here. I’m Winona.”

“What city is this?”

She leans against the altar, closer to him. She smells like jasmine and vanilla. Moonlight pools through the skylight above her and carves out her outline. This is what distracts him from noticing the hand she slides against his shoulder.

“Vegas. I’m a local. Are you sure you aren’t a journalist? All the high school kids keep insisting this place is haunted. You’re trying to get a story?”

“I don’t believe in God.” Lonan stares at the moon from the skylight. The rain blurring it like organic pointillism. Her fingertips bleed through the jacket, not his jacket—Harrison’s jacket. The thought makes him flinch. “Do you believe in God?”

She chews her lip. “Is that a trick question?”

Lonan turns away from her and the Bible, descending the stairs back toward the pew.

“Why did you come to the church?” she says, her voice growing quieter and quieter the closer he gets to the exit. “If you didn’t believe in God?” He hears her shuffle to grab her things and catch up with him, and he lets her, slowing down until she reaches a half step behind him.

“I wanted to make sure,” he says. 

That’s it for this update! Writing this chapter really sparked my love for this project again, and I’m excited to see where it goes from here because I’ve basically run out of pre-planned beats to hit! I’m almost at 25k, which is also very exciting!

Thanks for reading, pals!!

--Rachel