catalogue of feelings

Men: A Hate Song

I hate Men;
They irritate me.

There are the Serious Thinkers–
There ought to be a law against them.
They see life, as through shell-rimmed glasses, darkly.
They are always drawing their weary hands
Across their wan brows.
They talk about Humanity
As if they had just invented it;
They have to keep helping it along.
They revel in strikes
And they are eternally getting up petitions.
They are doing a wonderful thing for the Great Unwashed–
They are living right down among them.
They can hardly wait
For “The Masses” to appear on the newsstands,
And they read all those Russian novels–
The sex best sellers.

There are the Cave Men–
The Specimens of Red-Blooded Manhood.
They eat everything very rare,
They are scarcely ever out of their cold baths,
And they want everybody to feel their muscles.
They talk in loud voices,
Using short Anglo-Saxon words.
They go around raising windows,
And they slap people on the back,
And tell them what they need is exercise.
They are always just on the point of walking to San Francisco,
Or crossing the ocean in a sailboat,
Or going through Russia on a sled–
I wish to God they would!

And then there are the Sensitive Souls
Who do interior decorating, for Art’s sake.
They always smell faintly of vanilla
And put drops of sandalwood on their cigarettes.
They are continually getting up costume balls
So that they can go
As something out of the “Arabian Nights.”
They give studio teas
Where people sit around on cushions
And wish they hadn’t come.
They look at a woman languorously, through half-closed eyes,
And tell her, in low, passionate tones,
What she ought to wear.
Colour is everything to them–everything;
The wrong shade of purple
Gives them a nervous breakdown.

Then there are the ones
Who are Simply Steeped in Crime.
They tell you how they haven’t been to bed
For four nights.
They frequent those dramas
Where the only good lines
Are those of the chorus.
They stagger from one cabaret to another,
And they give you the exact figures of their gambling debts.
They hint darkly at the terrible part
That alcohol plays in their lives.
And then they shake their heads
And say Heaven must decide what is going to become of them–
I wish I were Heaven!

I hate Men;
They irritate me.

–Dorothy Parker

slytherin!wonwoo x ravenclaw!you au

summary: you understood just about everyone at hogwarts, but you never seemed to be able to understand wonwoo.

genre: fluff (and a little bit of angst?)

pairing: wonwoo/you

warnings: a teeny bit of cursing, but that’s it!

word count: 11.9 k

a/n: LMFAOOOOO this is so long!! i really went in! I’m SO sorry this took so long to write, it took me a while to figure out how i wanted to end it. i hope the length of the fic makes up for how long it took me to write it jsdjkf. enjoy!!!

One of the biggest thrills in your life was when you first sat down in that wobbly wooden chair, and an old hat was placed over your head. The only thing keeping that hat from sliding all the way down your head was your ears. Your heart was beating in your chest, feeling thrill and also a little fear.

           The weight on your chest that you didn’t know was there was lifted when the old hat announced, “RAVENCLAW!”

You had heard stories from your witch mother since you grew up of Hogwarts and all her adventures she had. It sounded like a dream. And the fact that you got to go there and live your own adventures? It was incredible.

           You grinned, hopping out of the chair, and almost dancing over to your new fellow housemates. Your hands were shaking slightly in anticipation for what was to come. In the corner of your eye, a boy named Wonwoo was called up to the chair after you, and was announced to be a Slytherin. It didn’t register much with you, as your new excitement could not be hushed by much anything.

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So… for some reason, I ended up with a rich person’s Christmas catalog in my mailbox. I’m kinda staring at some of this stuff in horror, like who the hell would want a 6′ tall cat clock??

Anyone want to buy a 23 acre Wild West Town Amusement Park for $7,000,000? Why is this in a Christmas catalog??



A $400 razor?? With $150 replacement blades??? (O_O) That’s more than my food budget for the month!

This is just lazy. Why would any self respecting person pay $35 for something that makes and launches snowballs?

A $40 shaving gel warmer. Why. Just put the can in warm water or something. 

I honestly thought this was a thing of jokes, not real. And not $15 each… I actually don’t know how to feel about this.


$2500 Ferrari scooter.

If you couldn’t tell this was a catalog for people with money

I hate that my first thought when I saw this was, “Look, Martha! The kids can pretend to be Mexicans!”

This is a $70 piece of absolute blasphemy.

But, look! The catalog does have redeeming quality! TANKS!

If I were rich, I’d probably by my husband the Abrams. He wants a real one, but we can’t have one, so this is the next best thing.

I’d also be tempted to get this Nightmare Before Christmas clock, except it’s battery operated. They could have at least done gears for that price.

And look, a cute little $160 tabletop fire. Fire for the desk. 

I can imagine some big cat CEO sitting in his leather chair, staring at some n00b sweating in the chair across from him, and the CEO taking the resume and letting the fire take it. Then of course he’d have to press the button that sends the hopeful to the bottomless pit below.

Conference room three is alight with all manner of merriment. Precisely once a month, Jim gathers his senior officers for various team building exercises which, Spock has concluded, is nothing more than a glorified excuse to party well past the midnight hour. This meeting’s theme is Never Have I Ever, an evidently well-known Terran game meant to chastise the inexperienced and praise the thrill seekers.

Under normal circumstances, Spock chooses not to partake in these liquor fueled escapades if he can help it. Of course, the Captain can be very persuasive. This is exactly how Spock finds himself sitting cross-legged in a circle with his fellow crewmen, a drink in one hand and the other barred to his friends. He regards all five outstretched fingers as a perfect display of his untarnished dignity. Surely managing to navigate his life without having encountered sexual experimentation with a harem of women is something to pride himself on. To his left, he catches McCoy fold his index toward his palm whilst looking quite smug.

Now it is Sulu’s turn. He takes a long pause, carefully considering his options. “Never have I ever made out with a girl for longer than five minutes.”

Jim looks particularly exasperated by this new development. “You’re trying to make me lose on purpose!” He complains, curling his pinky inward. “All of you keep saying things you know I’ve done!”

“It’s not anyone else’s fault you’re a manwhore.” McCoy interjects gleefully. “Perhaps you ought to consider keeping your tongue in your mouth whenever you see a pretty girl instead of your usual route.”

“Perhaps you ought to consider shutting your—“

“Spock, you’re good at this game.” Uhura interrupts.

Suddenly all eyes are on Spock, then everyone simultaneously bows their heads to inspects his hand. Spock simply lifts a manicured brow and maintains a level stare.

“That’s because he’s painfully boring,” McCoy says dismissively as he gets up to pour himself another brandy. “You can’t possibly expect the Hobgoblin to have experienced any of these terribly human faults.”

Apparently, Sulu is not intent on accepting that answer. “Spock, surely you’ve kissed a woman?” He asks cautiously, hopefully. The room goes eerily quiet as the officers wait for an answer with baited breath.

“I have.” Spock says simply, not keen on divulging the details of those private encounters.

Encouraged, Sulu presses on. “Okay, you’re not a virgin to kissing. Have you ever made out with anybody?”

Spock decides that this moment is ideal for finishing his own drink.

“I think we all know the answer to that already,” McCoy comments, dropping back into the available space to Spock’s left. “He’s a bad kisser.”

Their petty bantering is commonplace and all of the ship’s officers are well versed in the intricacies of their heated arguing. But this snide comment, for a reason not yet known to Spock, cannot be let alone. Every so often, Spock gets an uncontrollable urge to put McCoy in his place.

“Would you care to test my skills for yourself?” He says to McCoy, who splutters and chokes on a mouthful of alcohol.

“You’re out of your head. I don’t need to kiss you to know I’m better at it than you are.” There is an obvious red tint beginning to color the doctor’s cheeks.  

“You would do well not to underestimate me,” Spock challenges, twisting in his spot to face McCoy properly. The logical, rational part of his brain is telling him to let this go. He actively ignores it. Before McCoy can protest, Spock grabs him by the front of his tunic and jerks him forward, crushing their mouths together.

McCoy grunts in surprise and drops his glass, spilling its contents onto the carpet. Calloused hands rise to fist in the material of Spock’s shirt, but McCoy makes no real attempts at stopping what he’s started. Spock opens his mouth and licks at the seam of tightly closed lips. Not more than a second later they’re opening, inviting Spock’s tongue in to wrestle with his own. The battle is short lived. Spock sucks the breath right from McCoy’s lungs. He presses forward, strong hands moving down to cradle the small of McCoy’s back while the other plants itself on the floor to steady them both. Spock doesn’t stop until he can catalogue the feeling of McCoy’s teeth against his tongue, the flavor of his mouth, the slide of hands into his hair, and commit it to memory for centuries to come. And when they’ve gone as long as they can they break apart to breathe and start again. Spock crowds into McCoy’s space until McCoy has no choice but to shift onto his back and let Spock follow him down.

A loud cough jars Spock back to reality. He presses one last lingering kiss to McCoy’s lips before returning to his previous sitting position, leaving McCoy to stare dazedly up at the ceiling.

“How long was that?” Spock asks, having lost track of the time himself.

Sulu can’t find it within himself to provide an accurate answer, so Jim takes control of the situation. “A little over seven minutes, I’d say.” He supplies helpfully.

Slowly, deliberately, Spock curls his thumb into his palm and waits for Jim to take his turn.  

allsortsoflicorice  asked:

You are my go-to expert on Vincent and Lucretia, so I have a very quick question: did Vincent confront Hojo (and subsequently get shot) before or after Sephiroth was born? Many thanks! Licorice

The very quick answer is that we don’t know for sure, but most likely after. But it’s the very long answer that takes into account why exactly the fandom is so divided on this issue and where the confusion comes from.

In the original game, we see the flashback as a montage of disparate scenes, with little to no dialogue and very little indication of how much time has lapsed between each one. But because of the quick succession of them, each scene only a few seconds long, interspersed with modern-day Vincent’s occasional narration, it comes across as seeming as though there isn’t a whole lot of time that lapses between each scene.

At 1:13, Vincent narrates, “After that, a child was born to Lucrecia… That child’s name was… Sephiroth…” Immediately after this narration, we see Lucrecia (who was already established to be pregnant in an earlier scene) fall down in the inn, then we cut to the scene of Vincent running into Hojo’s lab to yell at him, at which point Hojo shoots him.

This seems to have left most people (myself included) with the impression that Vincent was narrating the birth of Sephiroth, and then the flashback was showing us what he had just told: Lucrecia falls down presumably because she is going into labor, and Vincent freaks out due to complications she’s having in delivery and immediately goes to yell at Hojo about what he’s done to Lucrecia because Vincent believes she’s currently dying (or has already just died) in childbirth.

To be fair, this idea was already seeded much earlier in the game by Sephiroth himself. When questioned about his parents by Cloud/Zack in Nibelheim, he says that his mother was named Jenova and she died giving birth to him. Although we as the player later learn that Sephiroth was mistaken/lied to about the identity of his mother, Vincent’s flashback about Lucrecia and her pregnancy doesn’t seem to discredit the idea that she was believed to have died in childbirth after all, and that perhaps that much was true and Sephiroth was only given a false name. (It’s also worth bearing in mind that the low-poly SD sprites weren’t really high def enough to let us see a pregnant belly even if they meant to convey one, and that such things were routinely forgiven and excused as graphical limitations back then. [See also: Hojo pointing an empty hand at Vincent, a gunshot sound effect, and us all accepting that he pulled a gun out of somewhere and didn’t just shoot bullets of of his hand.])

It also doesn’t posit the idea that Vincent believed her to have died in childbirth, exactly. Nor does Vincent ever say it. He indicates that he believed her to have died, yes (when he says, “Lucrecia…you’re alive,”), but he never suggests she died in childbirth. But the game already put that idea in our heads, and without it ever being denied, we tend to read the rest with confirmation bias.

Now, the idea of Vincent believing Lucrecia to have died in childbirth hinges on two other ideas:

  1. That Vincent never saw Lucrecia again after she gave birth.
  2. That Lucrecia gave birth basically at the same time that Vincent was shot by Hojo.

If either of these ideas are discredited, then the “Vincent believed Lucrecia to have died in childbirth idea” falls apart.

Then Dirge of Cerberus came along with its better graphics and still no visibly pregnant Lucy, and also Vincent catching glimpses of Lucrecia no longer pregnant, and everyone cried retcons and inconsistency because they thought the original game was trying to say that she should have been pregnant in scenes where DoC doesn’t show her as such.

Most notably, there is this one:

Immediately after Hojo has shot Vincent, Lucrecia comes ambling in holding her visibly flat tummy, apparently not pregnant. And then to make matters even muddier, Vincent takes note of her being there and says her name. This dashes both the idea of Lucrecia being in the middle of giving birth at that moment, and the idea that Vincent never saw her again after she had the baby.

If we suppose that Squeenix is no longer trying to get away with implying late-term pregnancy by having a lady sprite hold her stomach instead of actually putting a round belly on her—a tenuous supposition given their antics with Hojo’s sprite, I’ll grant you—then we must conclude that either Lucrecia is still very early in her pregnancy at this point, or that she has already given birth and has more or less gone back to her pre-pregnancy shape. (And the implausibility of a woman going back to size 4 soon after giving birth is where we’ll now grant “graphical limitation” excuses, or least “lazy and idealistic storytelling.” But just because it’s not realistic doesn’t mean they don’t mean for it to be the case.)

“But wait,” I can hear the naysayers naysaying, “obviously Lucrecia couldn’t have had the baby yet, because she never got to hold her baby. That means that Lucrecia had to have ‘died’ when she gave birth, because otherwise how would she have been unable to hold her baby when she’s clearly able to walk around the mansion like that? Can’t she just walk into his nursery and pick him up?”

And the answer is: not if Sephiroth is somewhere else.

Note this scene:

[Lucrecia shakes Hojo by the shoulders. “Give him back! Give my son back!” Hojo seems unfazed. “And how is your experiment proceeding?” he asks coolly, referring to the dead man floating in a tube next to them. “I don’t know!” Lucrecia cries, recoiling from Hojo and running away. “I don’t know, I don’t care!”]

“Let me see him!” she cries off camera, wailing in anguish. “Just once!”

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If Sephiroth was in the manor, Lucrecia wouldn’t need to be shaking Hojo’s shoulders and pleading with him when that physical energy would be better spent breaking down a door. This is not the depiction of a woman who is too polite to see her son in the next room without first obtaining Hojo’s permission; Lucrecia is physically unable to reach Sephiroth, wherever he may be, and Hojo is somehow involved (whether physically, bureaucratically, or in some other capacity) in her being denied access to the baby.

My best guess is that Lucrecia was incapacitated for some time due to a difficult delivery, and Sephiroth was removed from Nibelheim as an infant before she was able to get out of bed. Later, Vincent confronted Hojo about something other than Lucrecia supposedly dying right at that moment. Your guess as to what that was is as good as mine, but something I do love to explore in fanfiction.

“But wait!” say the naysayers again. “Sephiroth says that he remembers Nibelheim. Surely he must have been there at an age old enough to form memories—not as a days-old infant!” To which I’ll simply point out that he also seems to have memories of Gast, and please look at the timeline involving Gast’s escape from ShinRa before you cast doubts on Sephiroth’s ability to have memories from infancy.

Ah yes, the timeline. The timeline, mind you, is a piece of shit when it comes to the events of the Jenova Project and Sephiroth’s age, because it seems to have been created by people whose greatest concern is making sure the frontmen of their boyband aren’t too old to earn teenage girl adoration. By which I mean their decision to place Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal at around age 20 in Crisis Core.

But there’s another thing that we have to (begrudgingly) look at in the timeline when trying to figure out when Lucrecia gave birth to Sephiroth and where that falls in the order of other events depicted.

The “30 years” often attributed to Vincent’s coffin nap is a fanon number. It’s a fanon I’ll cling to until the day I die probably, because it makes way more sense than the actual canon, but it’s fanon nonetheless.

It’s fanon that comes from the OG, when the only insight we had into Sephiroth’s age and how long Vincent had been sleeping was a passing comment made by an NPC in Cosmo Canyon who said he knew Gast, and that Gast discovered Jenova “about 30 years ago.” 30 seemed to be like a sound age for Sephiroth (25 as of the Nibelheim burning), so we all went with it. 30 years in the coffin would put Vincent at a chronological age of 57 as of Meteorfall, since his Turk age is fixed at 27 (at least, his age of “death”).

The 10th Anniversary Ultimania, unfortunately, estimates Vincent’s chronological age at “around 50” as of OG, and estimates that the events he retells in his flashbacks occurred “25~30” years ago. “Around” 50 years old - 27 years old = “around” 23 years in the coffin, which falls a bit short of that “around 25~30 years ago” range. Which either means that his entry in the 10th Anniversary Ultimania boasts a discrepancy in its own math on the same page—or that a few years lapsed between the events in question and when he stopped aging. (Or that they think 23 is “around 25–30.”)

Oh my god I know I’m getting so long winded and way too far into it now, but bear with me.

We also know that Sephiroth was more like “around 25~30” (chronologically) as of Meteorfall rather than “around 23,” mostly because his own character page says that was when he was born. So basically what I’m suggesting is that Vincent was shot and/or ceased aging significantly later than Sephiroth’s birth—like, a year or two later.

And the answer to “But wait then what was everyone doing during that time?” is probably a combination of “recovering from childbirth for a super long time,” “security rounds ad nauseam,” “finding new and interesting ways to genetically manipulate the local fauna,” “avoiding each other,” “being trapped in a horrible loveless marriage,” “wondering if this assignment is ever going to end” and most importantly “being assigned busy work by the higher offices to keep them in Nibelheim as long as possible until eventually they all killed each other and/or themselves at which point ShinRa is no longer held responsible for their fates.”

It’s also possible that Vincent was, say, shot at age 25, continued aging while “in a death-like state” for two years, and then didn’t actually stop aging until Chaos was introduced to his body (two years later, in this case). But that supposes that he was pickling for an awfully long time pre-Chaos.

It’s also possible that Squeenix really was just lazy about their pregnant Lucrecia sprite, that she was pregnant until after Vincent was shot, and that they regularly just fart all over their own timeline. The likelihood of that ever being the real answer is the only reason why I say “we don’t know for sure,” and why we never know anything for sure that isn’t stated outright.

[Overwatch] Someone call a doctor (T, Akande/Lucio, 1.8k)

For @flamefox345​, I’m sorry this is so late!

Someone call a doctor (Can also be read on AO3)

Doomfist | Akande Ogundimu / Lúcio Correia dos Santos (T)

Wherein Akande is seriously injured in battle, alone, and fucked because Talon doesn’t have healers.

Over forty years of training, conditioning his mind, augmenting his body, and it’s a rookie mistake that ends Akande Ogundimu.

Sprawled on the cold concrete of the Lijiang’s warehouse, his gauntlet sparks at his side. Hacked and shorted, his prized possession is reduced to an oppressive dead weight anchoring him to the floor.

Why didn’t he think to upgrade his gauntlet to shield from EMPs when he first recovered it?

He had watched Sombra disable enough enemies under his command. He knew how destructive an EMP could be in the digital, augmented age. He just never considered it would happen to him.

Doomfist was not meant to skulk in shadows, leaping from cover to cover. He had charged ahead of his team, and his pride had been his undoing.

But not from the enemies he expected.

“Vialli sends his regards.”

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Yo. So I don’t usually participate in fandom or meta, but chapter 17 has me shook and I want to get some thoughts out and don’t expect this to be organized but I do hope it’ll be a little bit insightful. 

So, structurally, I think KS is pretty fucking brilliant. I love the disjointed panels. It’s entirely metal and fragmented and it can sometimes be hard to follow and since 90% of the story is through Bum’s perspective, it’s entirely appropriate and smart. Also, Koogi’s storyboards are damn near perfect. Sometimes I have to sit back and just stare at a frame to admire how much she shows with so very little. No detail is unimportant - doesn’t mean there aren’t many things there that aren’t meant to throw off the scent of the narrative, but it makes it fun to figure out what direction she wants to go with this story.

Keep reading

Your Savior - 3

(Link to Chapter 2)

Thanks again to everyone for the appreciation and support that this story has gotten! I am loving writing it and hope to continue it for some time!
Thank you also for dealing with the hassle of my changing to a new blog. I was just tired of the limitations of the old one!

Chapter Three


Swearing, mentions of violence and rape

******Negan’s Perspective*******

“Simon, radio ahead to the doctor, I want him to be fucking ready when we get there.” Simon promptly followed the command, chancing a glance at you and the girl in your arms only after his task was complete.

“You really think Doc’s gonna be able to help her? She looks pretty far gone.”

“Simon, if I wanted your fucking opinion, I’d give it to you.” You grumbled, causing him to fall immediately silent. You looked down at the woman in your lap, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “This one’s a goddamn fighter.”

********Reader’s Perspective*******
Tommy knelt above you, groping hungrily at your body. Bill’s hands were pressing roughly into your upper arms, his breath hot and rapid in your ear. You thrashed and fought, gasping sobs escaping between cries for them to stop.

“Darlin’, hey, it’s ok.” Ok? No! This isn’t ok! Stop, please! “Hey, c'mon doll, you’re safe wake up.” Bill began gently shaking your arms instead of pinning you down. Stop touching me! Get your hands off of me!; “Hey, shh shh, it’s ok, just relax.” Bill’s rough, greedy voice was slowly becoming low and gravely, with a hint of a drawl. Tommy instead of looking ravenous and animalistic, was replaced with dark hair, salt and pepper scruff, and dark, worried eyes. “There you are, hey beautiful. I was wondering when the hell you were going to wake up.” He said with a smile.

Panting, you took a moment to gain your bearings. You weren’t in the dirt in the forest, instead you were laying on a hospital bed in a small clinic-style room. Tommy and Bill were gone, and you were not in a glass box surrounded by walkers slowly bleeding to death. “Where….what…?” You started to say.

“You’re at The Sanctuary, my community, currently residing in our clinic. After my men and I pulled you out of that shitbox you holed yourself up into, I brought you back here and had our fine doctor patch you up.” The man sitting across from you leaned forward in his chair and grinned.

You rubbed a hand across your forehead, trying to clear your head. “How…how long have I been out?”

“Five days.”

“Jesus.” You murmured.

“Yes, we were starting to worry that you weren’t going to wake up. Hello, I’m Dr. Carson.” Said a neatly dressed man upon entering the room. He extended a hand in greeting. “How are you feeling?”

You shook his hand cautiously, and then catalogued the feelings in your body. “Everything hurts.” You started slowly. “My head is pounding, and it’s very…foggy.”

“It appears that you took multiple heavy blows to the head. I would be amazed if your head DIDN’T hurt.” The doctor said gently, sitting on the edge of your bed and laying a hand on your shin. You stiffened slightly, feeling the pressure through the blanket, he noticed, and quickly removed his hand and standing. “I’m sorry, please forgive me…” he began, glancing nervously at the man in the chair.

“No, it’s ok, I just, I’m sorry…” you stuttered, blushing.

“Don’t fucking apologize darlin’.” Interjected the other man. “You have been through the worst type of fucking hell imaginable. You don’t have to apologize for a damn thing.” His grin was gone, replaced with a frighteningly dark scowl. “Now, when you’re good and ready, you finish up telling the doctor here how you feel.”

You were flustered now, proceeding nervously. “Um…my arms are sore, but I guess that’s to be expected after…” Bill’s face swam into you head. Fuck. Don’t cry right now, just get on with it. “And uh…my side is really…tight? I’m not sure that’s the right word.”

“Ah, yes.” Said Dr. Carson, again, glancing at the other man before continuing. “You were very lucky. The knife managed to miss all of your internal organs, stopping just millimeters from a major vessel. I was able to clean and repair the wound without causing much more damage to the area. It required several stitches, that should come out in a little over a week. I’ve been giving you injectable antibiotics to stave off infection, but now that you are awake you can switch to oral.” He hesitated, before going on quietly. “You did also require some sutures to your vaginal area….those are dissolvable and should come out on their own. If they cause you any issues, you are welcome to come see me. I can also offer some creams for discomfort. We don’t have the variety we had before the world fell apart, but we are doing better than most.”

You looked down, closing your eyes to stop the tears that threatened to flow. “Thank you.” You murmured quietly, gaining a few minutes of silence from the room.

“Ok doc, you’ve had your time to do your doctor shit. Now why don’t you run along and let me and this little lady chat.” He watched the doctor leave, turning to focus on you after the door clicked shut. “Now, sweetheart, I’ve got some questions for you, and I’ll try to keep it short. They might not all be easy, but I need you to fucking answer them, alright?” It was phrased as a question, but his tone left little room for argument.

You sighed, “Ok. I’ll do what I can.”

“Good girl.” He replied with a smirk. “Now, I’m sure you recognize this.” He said, showing you Tommy’s knife. Your stomach rolled, and you noted that it was still flaked with your dried blood. “I’d like to know where, exactly, you got it.”

“I told you before, it belonged to the men who attacked me.”

“Yes, but how did YOU get it from them?”

You took a deep breath, letting it out in a huff. You didn’t want to do this, you just wanted to forget, to move on. “One of them stabbed me with it, when I was able to I grabbed it and attacked them with it so I could escape.”

“You took a knife out of your own side…to attack somebody with?” He asked raising an eyebrow. “That is bad-ass! I fucking love that!” He grinned, staring down at you.

“It was what I had to do. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted them to stop…” You couldn’t stop the tears that formed in your eyes this time.

“Awe hell darlin’, I was trying to pay you a compliment, not upset you. I just meant that, well, most people wouldn’t be willing to do that. You’re tough, tougher than most for sure.” He said gently.

You wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Is that it? I’d like to stop talking about this now.”

“Almost doll, almost, I promise. Now, these men, how many of them were there?”

Their faces filled your mind again, making you cringe. “Two.”

“Did you know them long?”

“No. We met on the road leading to the town where you found me.” You were starting to get irritated. Living it once was hard enough, reliving it was agony.

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve got to be shitting me! I thought they were going to be the last two faces I ever saw alive….every time I close my eyes I see them. Unfortunately they will live with me forever. Why does it matter? Why does any of this matter? They’re gone! They got away! They assaulted me, raped me, and almost killed me, and then got to go be dickheads for the rest of their lives! Why do you need to know this? Are you enjoying yourself? Is this fun for you?!” You raged at him, chest heaving, tears now pouring down your face.

He sat back in his chair, looking like you had slapped him. He answered you slowly and sincerely. “Hey now, take it easy doll. No I most certainly am not enjoying myself. To hear the shit you’ve been through…it makes me sick to my fucking stomach. I’m only asking because this knife, the one you took from them? Do you see this symbol carved onto the side?” He asked, standing to bring it closer to you.

"The baseball bat? The one wrapped in what looks like barbed wire? I didn’t have much to look at in that ‘shitbox’, so I’m very familiar with it. Again, what the hell does it have to do with anything?”

“Well, that carving there is a carving of my sweet Lucille here.” He said, grabbing something that was leaning up against the chair he had been sitting in, bringing it up so that you could get a good view. Was that? No. Yes. A baseball bat. Wrapped in fucking barbed wire. You could see bits of dried blood stuck around several of the barbs. Your stomach plummeted and your body filled with fear. Who thinks of this kind of thing? And why the hell is it named Lucille??? “Every weapon at The Sanctuary has my girl Lucille carved into it, so that we know it’s ours. Which means that either A) it was some of my men that attacked you, or B) it was stolen from some of my men. Either way, it’s not fucking cool. ” He stared intently at you for several moments, moving "Lucille” to rest of the shoulder of his leather jacket. “Simon!” He finally shouted, making you jump.

The door opened and the mustached man from the gas station walked in. “Yeah boss?”

“Round everybody up in the courtyard. We’re going to have a fucking meeting.”


Gah!!! Ok! Here it finally is! I promise Chapter 4 won’t take as long to get out as this one! If you want to be added to the tag list let me know! And as always please, please, like, share, comment, or PM me any thoughts you have!!!!

(Chapter 4)


@devilishcreature @backseat-negan

anonymous asked:

Companions react to finding out sole used to be a pinup girl pre war days

I had so much fun with this ask, thanks anon! I assumed it was platonic, but hey let’s just say most companions had a little bit of thing for Sole ;)

After trudging through the ruins that was the Boston Bugle building, Sole and their companion decide to settle down for the night in its basement and scavenge anything they could from the tables and desks that littered the place. The companion Sole was with opened a desk drawer to see an unpublished draft of an article sporting a very busty Sole who was posing as a pinup on top of a car’s open engine bay, dressed in a very revealing pair of dirty mechanic overalls…

Ada – “Ma’am, I believe this is a photo of you.” She quickly hands the photo to Sole, commenting that she was impressed that it had survived the war in such good condition. She didn’t really recognise that it was a…delicate discovery, but she didn’t feel the need to discuss it any further anyway.
Cait – “Ooooh, who have we here?” Cait purrs mischievously with a large, shit-eating grin on her face. “She’s got a nice rack if ya ask me. Whatcha think, Sole?” She refuses to let Sole grab it from her and instead stashes in in her bra, knowing all too well Sole won’t dare to try and get it out from there but would be silently hoping they’d try. Cait never uses it for her own personal enjoyment…well, not much anyway…but loves the fact that she has a little bit of leverage on them. Not that she’d pass it around or anything, but maybe she’d trade them it for a shag one of these days.
Curie – “Oh mon dieu, this is you, yes? You have a marvellous physique, mademoiselle Sole. Is there any more of these?” Curie flushes bright red whilst studying the picture closely and trying to catalogue the feelings it produces within her body. ‘Envy? Arousal? Oh so many emotions, how do zey do this?’. She would appear so enraptured with the photo that Sole wouldn’t have it in their heart to try and take it away from her, so instead they made her promise not to show anyone although knowing Curie was absolutely terrible at keeping secrets.
Codsworth – “Mum? I don’t recall you ever telling Sir about this, or was he the one who took the photo?” The Mr Handy dutifully passes the photo over to his mistress and awaits her explanation despite his surprise that she had agreed to such a thing in the first place. After all, his mistress did seem to take the privacy of her own body very seriously, especially those few times when Codsworth accidentally floated on into the bathroom as she was taking a shower. If he could’ve felt embarrassment, he would have then.
Danse – He freezes as soon as he recognised Sole posing with her breasts barely covered, also noticing a cheeky smile as she gazed at the camera. “Uh…soldier, what is this?” Blushing, Danse holds up the photo for Sole to inspect, fighting everything he had in him not to look down her partially unzipped vault suit or at her eyes. He’d never speak of his discovery again, partially because he respected Sole’s privacy and also because he’d become a blushing, fidgeting mess. ‘Propaganda like this would increase Brotherhood morale back at camp, though…’
Deacon – When Deacon realises just who was gazing cheekily back at him in the photo, he gasps exaggeratedly before chuckling to himself. “Ohohoo, I am so showing this to Dez when we get back.” He waves the photo excitedly to Sole and promptly runs away laughing when they try and snatch it from him. “Oh I have an idea! You can be the new poster girl for the Railroad! ‘Enlist to save your fellow synths today!’ That my friend, will totally boost our recruitment numbers.” He waggles his eyebrows with a smirk, the photo then being lost in his seemingly endless chasm that was a costume bag and only to ever be seen again in tense moments. Dez is giving everyone a dressing down? – Deacon flashes the photo behind her back with a grin. Going undercover in the Brotherhood? – Deacon flashes the photo with a cheeky waggle of his eyebrows when Elder Maxson isn’t looking.
Hancock – He wolf whistles as he sees the smokin’ hot babe, but it dies on his tongue when he recognises just who the babe was. “Damn Sole, is this you or did you have a twin I don’t know about?” Like a gentlemen, Hancock would pass the photo to Sole – not before taking one more little glance that is – and suggests Sole do something similar dressed as the Silver Shroud. “All I’m sayin’ is it’ll give Kent something to smile about again, you know? After what happened a while back…”
MacCready – As soon as he saw who was in the photo, he almost choked on his own spit laughing. “What is that?” he’d ask, holding the photo just out of Sole’s reach and when they’d try and take it from him, MacCready would run away giggling like a kid again. “Oh I am so showing everyone this when we get home.” He did and would persist in bringing it up during the most inappropriate times almost as much as Deacon would, though it’s mostly when he and Sole are in a not so serious battle out in the wastes.
Nick Valentine – Nick just knew he recognised Sole from somewhere, but couldn’t piece it together until he saw that photo. With all his circuits firing, he turned to Sole with the photo in his hand and grinned – or tried to anyway. “Hey kid, how come this dame looks so familiar?” Mortified, Sole would try to take it from him but would fail miserably. Good ol’ Nick would keep it in his jacket pocket to show Ellie and Piper when he got back home, but secretly he didn’t like the thought of some other person coming along and drooling all over it, so the photo probably went straight into his desk safely under lock and key.
Old Longfellow – He gives a throaty laugh and turns to Sole, intent on being serious but starts laughing again. “You know, I thought I had seen everything but this just takes the cake, Captain.” Longfellow retrieves a whiskey from his satchel and pours one for the both of them, chuckling to himself despite Sole’s embarrassment. He’d never let them live it down.
Piper – The reporter stifled a gasp, her face flushing beetroot red as soon as she recognised who it was. Quickly, Piper tried to hide her discovery but ended up breaking the drawer and sending the rest of its contents tumbling to the ground, leaving her standing in the middle of the mess clutching the criminal photograph to her chest. “What is that?” Sole asked, to which Piper replied with a vehement shake of her head. “Nothing!” With narrowed eyes, Sole turned around and continued searching the place, with Piper trailing behind and the photo safely secured in her coat’s breast pocket. “Sooo,” she begins, an innocently curious look on her face. “When did you pose as a pinup, Blue?”
Preston – As soon as Preston opened the drawer and recognised what the photo was of, he was blushing. But when he actually recognised the woman, his jaw would drop and any words he’d try and form would end up stuttering. In the end he would just be forced to close the drawer and try not to look a Sole for a little while as they set up camp. He might bring it up with them later, depending on if he could actually speak.
Strong – Didn’t even recognise the picture and probably ended up tearing out the drawer by accident.
X6-88 – “Ma’am, I believe this photograph is of you.” X6 would hand it to Sole, never commenting on the odd sensation seeing it provoked in him and instead pinned it on some defect that he’ll have to get checked out once they return to the Institute.

Btw I’m still trying to find my groove with the tenses here (e.g. past, present or future tense etc.) so just bear with me folks!

anonymous asked:

Can we request some straight up hockey boy porn? You're such an inspiration. How about: Sid/Geno - one of them gets into an on-ice fight and the other one gets like instantly aroused and is like: 'oh? This feeling? I guess I want to fuck my teammate now rather hard and dirty. Are they hurt? Lost any teeth? Hope not. They need to get fucked.' Cue intense fucking neither of them knew they needed, huzzah happy soft hockey boys snuggle.

no longer stressin bout commissions, time to catch up on prompts. this ended up as more sex less “oh no he’s hot when he fights”. but. whatever.

Geno pushes Sid roughly against the door of his hotel room, palm flat against his chest, holding him there. Sid’s looking at him with wide eyes, not sure what’s going on, why Geno’s looking at him with such a fucking intense look.

“I know. I shouldn’t have gone after Marchand. but he went after Jake and-” and the rest of his sentence is muffled by Geno’s hot mouth on his own. 

It takes him a few seconds of confusion before he’s kissing back, revelling in the aggressive press of Geno’s mouth, the click of teeth as Geno bites and almost chews at Sid’s lips. When he pulls away, his pupils are dilated and he looks like he fucking wants to eat Sid where he stands- devour him completely.

“Wha-” Sid’s floundering like a fish out of water. this. this isn’t a thing that they do. Geno’s kissing him with passion and fire and Sid is so fucking confused and also more than a little turned on.

“Look so fucking hot.” Geno presses their foreheads together, breath hot against Sid’s tingling lips “When break his nose, I’m so turned on. See you skate to bench, angry and cover in blood. Think Sid never look better.”

Sid’s breath leaves him in a strangled gasp and Geno steps into him, knee pressing between his thick thighs, encouraging Sid to grind into him.

“Think; want to see if you have same face in bed. If you look at me like that when fuck.” Geno noses against his cheek, bites at his jaw, the hand on Sid’s chest sliding low, down to rest on the shelf of his belt buckle. “Sid want?”

It takes Sid a second to understand he’s being asked a question, another to actually catalogue what he’s feeling, make a decision about what Geno’s offering. Yes. Sid wants.

Instead of answering, he surges forward and latches on the Geno’s lips, licking into his mouth happily. He can feel Geno’s grin against him, feels those clever clever fingers fiddling with his belt, undoing the buckle and sliding it free of the loops. 

Sid’s hands find Geno’s shoulders and shove him back in the direction of the bed. It takes them a few minutes to actually make it over there, shedding articles of clothing as they go- Sid knows he’ll probably be annoyed about his suit jacket getting wrinkled in the morning (They’re in the middle of a four game roadie) but right now he’s more interested in getting Geno as naked as possible.

It’s a constant fight, a struggle for dominance; Geno’s strong arms contending with Sid’s thick thighs. Geno gets him sprawled open on his back,leg thrown over one wide shoulder, fingering him open roughly as he takes Sid’s cock in his mouth. Sid’s a writhing, whining mess as Geno seems to hone in on that spot inside him that sends electric shivers up and down his spine- the tongue flicking against his slit in counterpoint rhythm. Sid’s on the edge of coming when Geno pulls off, finger slipping free of his hole smoothly, leaving him feeling empty and wanting.

Geno lowers Sid’s leg and slithers up his body, nipping and sucking at the soft skin under his belly button, his nipple, his collar bone. He captures Sid’s lips in another almost bruising kiss, and Sid clutches at Geno’s shoulders to keep him close. Sid’s legs wrap around Geno’s thin hips and he rolls them over, enjoying the look of surprise on the Russian’s face as he finds himself on his back with a determined Sid straddling him.

“‘m gonna ride you.” His fingers wander Geno’s wide chest, feeling the bones beginning to become more prominent as they get further into the season. He tweaks at perky, rosy nipples and is rewarded with an arching back, bucking hips and a strung out moan. “Ride you so hard I can feel it tomorrow.”

Big hands grip at his ass cheeks and pull them apart, allowing room for a long, thick cock to slot between them. Geno thrusts along the crease, catching against Sid’s rim, making them both pant in need.

“Sid, please.” Geno’s flushed deliciously and he’s looking up at Sid like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen, all strung out and desperate with kiss stung lips and eyes that can’t seem to look away from Sid’s.

Sid grabs the lube where Geno had dropped it on the sheets, is quick and efficient in slicking up that beautiful cock, and lines it up with his much too empty hole. Sid sinks down slow and easy, feels that first delicious stretch as his rim tries to accommodate the blunt head. Geno tries to thrust up into him, but Sid holds him down with hands spread across his pelvis and his powerful thighs tight against his hips.

Seated fully on Geno’s cock, Sid holds his gaze as he grinds his ass down against the cradle of his hips, biting his lip at the sensation of being so full, of having Geno inside him. He lifts himself up from Geno’s cock, thighs straining, and lets himself drop harshly down, drawing a startled yelp from Geno.

“Feel so fucking good inside me. Splitting me so wide.” Sid starts riding Geno slowly, letting himself get used to the stretch and slide, picking up pace until it’s a punishing burn, his hips and thighs being pushed to their limits in the wake of a long, hard game. Geno’s fingers are still holding his cheeks apart, supporting his ass and forcing him to bottom out with a loud slap of skin-on-skin with each bounce.

It doesn’t take long for Geno to almost curl in on himself, arching up off the bed as he comes hard in Sid’s hole with a series of stuttering thrusts. Sid rides him through it, even after Geno’s flopped back against the mattress bonelessly, staring up at Sid with a fucked out gaze. His cock is still hard inside Sid’s stretched hole, and Sid uses him; grasping his own erection and stripping it furiously as he grinds desperately down onto Geno, searching out his own release.

The head of Geno’s cock presses against his prostate, and Sid clenches down on him hard, coming across his flat stomach and abs as Geno whimpers at the overstimulation of his spent cock. Sid falls forwards onto him, head resting on Geno’s clavicle, as Geno finally slips free, a trickle of warm lube and come following behind and painting Sid’s soft thighs.

“Fuck, Sid, so good.” Geno’s hands are stroking his back clumsily, and Sid can’t manage the energy to move- he can feel his thighs and calves starting to cramp up from the position, but the ability to unfurl them escapes him. Geno’s pressing soft kisses to his hair, nudging his shoulder to slide him onto his side, still mostly sprawled over his long, lean body.

“Yeah. good. so, so, so good” He presses his own sloppy kisses to Geno’s skin wherever he can reach- which is mainly a small patch of chest and shoulder- and cuddles happily into the Russian’s side. “Better than breaking Marchand’s nose.”

He can feel Geno’s laugh more than he can hear it, the rumble in his chest reverberating through Sid’s bones.

“Sid should fight more often. Look so good. like angry mama bear, protect baby.” Sid pinches one of Geno’s nipples at that, making him jump and laugh at Sid’s indignation.


Smiling April (Season 2)

pinwheel premonitions

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger
Prompt: Day 4: Traditions for @dhrfaves

Notes: Modern, non-magical college AU because apparently, I’m trash? Also, it was never a thing I thought I’d ever be into, but HA HA HA we have the best writers ever. [hangs head] Deck me.

Hermione Granger has always lived a highlighter-and-ruler, bullet-point and color-coding life. She’s an excellent record-keeper, has an A+ memory - she’s her own awesome executive assistant, basically; Donna Paulsen would be proud. Anal-retentive has been tossed around both as a pat-on-the-head, condescending endearment (Ron and Harry) and as an insult (everyone else), but, like - so what? 

Summa cum laude takes effort, and like - she enjoys it, to be honest, the proverbial “stick” up her behind. Enjoys the text-book print of her planner, the neatness, the aesthetic. And besides, it’s not like, a disorder or anything, it’s not something that she had to sit across a couch to figure out. And, occasionally, she throws her plans up in the air, so. It’s all well and good, do come off it, Harry

If anything, this passionate attempt to keep to her plans and schedules, this regimented state of being, it helps her keep with tradition - like the pre-game vodka-and-ketchup ritual for the boys, and the spring break pursuit of “protecting ladies from Broodingly Soulful Young Men” drunk-blogging with Fleur, and, for tonight, the anticipated New Year’s Eve pinwheel tournament. 

She’s had it penciled in for months.

Tonight, she’s letting loose. 

Keep reading


Decluttered empty basegame children’s bookcase, requested by Merry927 at S4S forums. I made edits to the texture to remove drawn shadows so it’s nice and clean. There’s a bunch of slots but you’ll need to use the moveobjects cheat to place things in all of them, see examples in the preview above. 


Comes in the original 6 swatches and is in the same catalogue category. Feel free to recolour (read my ToU here). Contact me if there’s any problems.


AO3 link


Cas tries to ignore the drumming of Dean’s fingers so close to the back of his neck as he rests his arm easily along the edge of the couch. He resolutely feigns indifference when Dean’s knee brushes against his, or Dean’s hand knocks against his own when he reaches for the bag of popcorn wedged between them; the leaning in with his other hand that isn’t dangerously close to Cas’ neck means that he feels the heat of Dean’s shoulder pushed against him often.

Cas wills his heart to silence, and wipes the palms of his hands down his pant legs for what feels like the hundredth time.

Dean is apparently engrossed in what they’re watching, but Cas can’t honestly even remember what they’d started marathoning hours ago. He’s been too busy, caught in a tortuous loop of cataloguing the feel of Dean beside him and mentally cursing himself for it.

It’s happened too much lately. Cas has let his mind wander, his thoughts taking him places he knew he could never go. He might, he acknowledges to himself, have some sort of feelings for Dean. But there’s no way he needs to disgust him, or discuss them, with Dean.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

(sorry idk if prompts r open if not totally just delete this) but could u do more about andreil adopting a ray of sunshine child? Thanks! ( Ur great btw )

Aww thank you! You don’t know how much it means to me that people care about sunshine child. For context: Her name is McKenna and they adopted her when she was 4. She lived in a home where she was kept locked in a dark room for long periods of time, hence the nightmare in this fic, though it’s not addressed specifically in this fic. She’s about 8 here. I hope you enjoy!

Andrew awoke to the sound of small feet padding up to the bed. He catalogued the feeling of both the cats already in bed, so he steadied his breathing and quickly rationalized that it must be McKenna.

Sure enough, he heard a quiet, “Daddy? Are you awake?” from the foot of the bed. She knew not to touch either of them to wake them up; they would hear her come in.

He sat up and scanned her face as best he could in the dark for any injuries. Finding none, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

She sniffed before saying, “I had a bad dream.”

Andrew stilled. From any other child, a bad dream would mean nonsense monster to be chased away under beds, but Andrew knew too well that her nightmares came from real-life monsters that stuck around long past their welcome. He clenched his fists against the rush of anger at the fact that she had to deal with this, that she, like him, couldn’t get a night of rest because of the people who were supposed to take care of her.

He quieted Neil when he started to stir and motioned for McKenna to follow him.

Once they were in the light of the kitchen, he hoisted her onto the kitchen counter as he got two mugs out and started warming milk for hot chocolate. After a moment of hesitation, he started heating up water for tea too, since he knew Neil wouldn’t stay asleep for long.

As it heated up, he stood by her at the counter, noting that in the position that they were of about equal height. He hovered his hand by her face and when she nodded he brushed the tears away with his thumb. He put two ice cubes in her drink so she wouldn’t burn herself and held the cup up to her mouth.

“Better?” he asked after a few sips. She nodded and he noted that she’d stopped crying.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before sure enough he heard Neil come into the room. Andrew handed him his mug and took comfort in the soft brush of fingers as their hands exchanged the cup.

Neil walked up to McKenna and said, “Hey ladybug. Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Bad dream.”

Neil grimaced sympathetically. “But Daddy’s always here to protect you, right?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Chocolate always beats the bad guys! Like in Harry Potter!”

Neil chuckled and said, “That’s right.”

For Andrew, hope was still a brittle feeling inside his chest, but he hoped with everything he had left that she’d always be able to grow up believing that.

Eventually, she started to nod off, so Andrew picked her up to carry her into the room. He kissed her forehead as he laid her down, knowing he’d never hear the end of it if Neil happened to see.

Neil had rinsed the mugs in his absence and they headed back to bed together, Neil getting in bed first so Andrew wouldn’t have to adjust to his weight.

Once they were settled, Neil said, “You have quite the gift for chasing away monsters.”

Andrew turned Neil’s staring face away with two fingers so he wouldn’t have to see it. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

He fell back asleep to the feeling of Neil chuckling against his throat.


I started writing fanfiction again in December 2015 after more than 13 years. Since then, I have written in three fandoms - London Spy, James Bond, and The Musketeers.

I have written series, AUs, many different pairings, and many different takes on the canons. I feel I have shown my love of The Musketeers, at least, pretty thoroughly. My love affair shows no sign of waning :)

However, I need a break from writing, while I explore some other creative endeavours (some fannish). So I’m letting you know I’m on hiatus until February at the latest. I will still be here, I may make more GIFs - I hope so! - and maybe some fanart too.

In the meantime, you have  44 stories and 882277 words of mine to explore, such as it is, so please, go read the back catalogue, feel free to comment, ask for more, give me ideas, and generally make me feel good :)

Have a Tom pic while I’m at it :)

“[Marlene Dumas’] best works are erotic displays of mental confusions (with intrusions of irrelevant information)….”

“I am the third person

observing the bad marriage

between art and life

watching the pose and the slip

seeing the end in the beginning.”

Marlene Dumas, Couples, 1990

Marlene Dumas:  The Image as Burden @ Tate Modern until May 10th 2015.

Review by Alison Humphrey

The contested site, of pleasure, pain, eroticism, pathos, mortality; Marlene Dumas is concerned with body. This retrospective exhibition, The Image as Burden, on show at Tate Modern this spring, is testament to Dumas’ enduring faith in the power of her medium (painting), which she uses to communicate complex psychological realities; ultimately chronicling aspects of the human condition in its broadest definition.

Marlene Dumas The Image as Burden 1993 Private collection, Belgium © Marlene Dumas Photo: Peter Cox

Personally, I fell in love with the way each room of this exhibition is introduced. In Marlene’s words, in Marlene’s prose, in Marlene’s poetry. For me this exposed Dumas’ entire creative practice as a hybrid of visual and literal output, on separate plains, fornicating to formulate “the intoxication of rhythmic rhetorical arousal”!

I found the lack of historical and/or contextual text panels not unwelcome, unmissed or undesirable. Instead, I felt it was refreshing to experience an exhibition so intimate and uninterfered with curatorially, where the images and words of a female artist are given the reverence to speak to their audience in tandem and in conversation. I didn’t miss the dates or the history, although the exhibition is vaguely chronological, the works were timeless enough that I was lost in the current of the show, and Dumas’ unfettered obsession with painting. In fact, I must admit, I found I was often more captivated by her words than her images, not that the artworks were/are not striking, just the elegiac potency of the text was more compelling.  

Marlene Dumas Hierarchy 1992

I cannot assert that the paintings in this exhibition, or their subjects are real, they don’t feel real, not to me, as the title suggests ‘The Image is Burden’. Some are famous and recognizable, their image: infamous. All Dumas subjects are subjected to the proportions of movie stars, exposed to the lens, then exposed to the brush. As Barthes asserts “the photograph surreptitiously induces belief that [the subject] is alive … but by shifting this reality to the past (‘this-has-been’), the photograph suggests that [the subject] is already dead,” and thus through the act of painting this photographic image, Dumas’ subject is doubly dead.

There is a darkness. In mood. In shade. There is intensity. There is popularity, sexuality and carnality. There is a frequent indirectness, an obviousness that cannot hide the fact Dumas never paints directly from life, and her penchant for pre-existing source images somehow negotiates reality, given reverence by her textual aphorisms. I relish the substance of the written words which accompany the images; “I write to participate in the writing of my own history” asserts Dumas, though anomalously they seldom provide any riposte, preserving the ambiguity of the artwork, allocating a precious scope for myriad of meanings.

Marlene Dumas Losing (her meaning) 1988

In Losing (her meaning), an Ophelia figure floats face down in the water. A figure, outlined in black, stripped bare of meaning, is bathed in suggested interpretation. Her pose, conscious or un, suggests sensuality and vulnerability. Dumas paints in porno blues, subtle nuances of shade derived from blue movies. “Pornography assumes everything can be shown, art prefers the veiling of things” (Marlene Dumas. Phaidon. 81). Nudity, represented throughout, as a cultural construction, contends no image is more minimalistic than one considered pornographic. Genitals, however exciting to the eye are rarely judged as beautiful, the unashamed confrontational attitude and elements of humor allow Dumas and thus her spectators, to avoid pornographic fixation.

Dumas asserts that “art always fails to be naked”… and I tend to agree, for nakedness is in the eyes of the viewers, their vulnerability indicated by their awkward eyes and guilty giggles as they peep around the corner of the room, pointing, at Dumas painting, a female derrière points skywards. “Pornography ordinarily represents the sexual organs, the erotic image, takes the spectator outside its frame, and it is there that I animate this photograph and that it animates me.” (Barthes, again!)

Perhaps Dumas’ desire for nakedness over nudity transforms her paintings into pornography? “I want to make more desires possible” (Marlene Dumas. Phaidon. 23)

Or in negotiating her relationship with reality, by painting a photograph, does Dumas have the power to transform the pornographic into the erotic, like water into wine?  I think it unnecessary to be bogged down by demarcation, their classification doesn’t alter their appeal. The curator has ushered these dubiously pono-paintings into a small section of the exhibition, an area which can so easily be missed, to the detriment of the visitor! The walls are grey, potentially to subdue the colours, the subjects and the artistic intentions? Each panel, different in size and scale, effortlessly conveys the “weight of the body”, they are not tense or offensive, though they cannot be confused for anatomically educational diagrams. I find this series of works the most ‘photographic’, if I may use that word to unconventionally describe painting, collectively they form brief snap shots. Fluidity and lightness of touch, perhaps down to the use of thin mediums. These images depict, what might widely be considered a most intimate revelation, they seem distant. As Dumas herself points out, there is tension in the tease, not the revelation.

Marlene Dumas ‘Mandy’ 1998 and ‘Dorothy’ 1998, ink wash and watercolour on paper.

Conversely, there is an intimacy, or at least the illusion of it in much of her other work. Compositionally distance is forsaken, most of Dumas’ paintings have a subject stretching edge to edge or beyond, there is little background, no unnecessary information, which one might expect from the output of a painter working in the digitally dominated day. In the portraits, where heads are presented at a huge scale, Dumas creates a sense of intense proximity, we know these faces inwardly. She demonstrates the physicality of her medium, the potency of what first hand painting does to the second hand image, the image she has collected, selected and affected.

Marlene Dumas Amy - Blue 2011, National Portrait Gallery, London

© Marlene Dumas, Photo: Peter Cox.

I suppose I am searching for surface, not that Dumas’ paintings are devoid of texture, but here paper seems like skin. Although everything is flat, on the plain of the wall, her painted contours, so life like in their depiction of feeling, could be studies for statues, sculptures of masks. I have read reviews staking Amy as the ‘low-point’ of the exhibition. Of course I disagree, though she might be the mid-point, she glows blue, more vivid and alive than her neighbor Naomi and her acquaintance Diana, at less than a quarter of their size and cropped close; the focus on her familiar heartbroken expression, the antithical idol, tragic Madonna.  

Throughout childhood drawing had two functions for Dumas, facilitating the retreat into her own private world, and also as a means to entertain others. The paintings and drawings displayed here do not induct us into her private fantasy world but expose to us a real one. These vacuous, expansive, emotionally empty exhibition rooms are filled with exquisite facades. Figures rarely meeting the gaze of their viewer. Other reviews indicate that although Dumas paints death, her work is full of life. I cannot concur, these paintings do not live or breath, they represent a static human condition, more about erring circumstance. “I am interested in the spaces between people and the love and death stories of the human race. I am interested in the images we create of each other.” Suggesting perhaps Dumas intends to create a collection of images cataloguing feelings rather than figures, preferring the universal over the personal, each painting depicts a relationship.

I’m rarely fanatic about ‘show stoppers’ (although the ‘strippers’ are captivating), usually more affected by notions of intimate or romantic censorship. ‘Don’t talk to strangers’ (1977) illustrates Dumas desire to create “sentences with sex appeal”, this work is erotic, romantically pertaining to love. Ceremonially, Dumas has torn opening and closing lines from both formal and intimate letters, replacing their content with faint lines of oil paint, senders names removed; anonymity preserved. ‘We’, anonymous viewers of redacted texts, are posited to ponder the innermost confidential, undisclosed details committed to Dumas’ memory. Painterly expanses left to our imagination. Briefly, I wonder what might happen if Marlene Dumas, Sophie Calle and Annette Messager formed a detective art threesome, all preoccupied with private lives and private writing, an art world Charlie’s Angels. Astride notions of public and private, this work is one of the few faceless, figureless pieces, though ironically perhaps it the most altruistic, compassionate and devoted.

Marlene Dumas, ‘Don’t talk to strangers’, 1977

Dumas paints with sympathy, her titles act as a lens through which we view her works, demonstrating an investigation into interrelationships; the spaces connecting, the spaces between. Painting/text, Painterly gestures/subject matter, the photographic image/the painted image, viewer/artwork, the private/the public, first hand/second hand, paint/paper, slow/fast (“I like my medium slow and my gestures fast.” (Tate Magazine))

Marlene Dumas Drunken Mermaid 1993

Dumas’ paintings feign reality without even bearing witness. She does not paint people or portraits, Dumas paints images, photographs. She does not capture the feelings or emotions of the person in the painting, she captures the feelings that have already been caught in the photograph, by the photographer, Dumas is a translator, Dumas paints a distance, Dumas documents the complexities of voyeurism. There is a false directness, because we are seeing these images second hand, Dumas depicts her impression of an image, a void which I found physically palpable throughout the exhibition. She looks at her works in third person with us. In interviews Dumas speaks of secrets, she claims Tracey Emin has none, but Emin paints portraits from real life and Dumas paints still lives of pre-existing images, the comparison is unfair. Dumas is impresario.

“A single image is often not enough, therefore you need to see an exhibition. Or at least a group of works together. Relationships ‘between’ are important,” Marlene Dumas

bookslovebuxton  asked:

Hello, I love your blog. Before I ask the question, I want you to know that I googled it beforehand and couldn't find an answer, which is why I decided to come to tumblr. So, I'm writing a novel set at a university. I want to include academic aspects of this experience but I don't quite know how to do this without it being stiff and boring. Any advise whatsoever would be appreciated. Thank you.

Well, define academic aspects. Universities, and the overall academic experience, are shaped by a ton of different factors. Here’s some for you to consider:

  • Which area is this being set in? The academic experience in the United States is not the same as in say, the United Kingdom or China. I earned my Bachelor’s degree in the United States, did a term at Oxford, and earned my Masters in London. Yes, there were some similarities (I wrote papers and took exams), but overall the experiences were wildly different. One such difference between the US and the UK, exams. The US, you typically take your exams in your classroom. You may have your professor or a TA proctor your exam. At both Oxford and the University of London, you sit in examination halls and there are invigilators. At Oxford, I had to wear academic regalia while I took my exams. Not to mention, is the school in a rural, suburban, or urban setting. Going to school in say, New York City, is very different than Lincoln, Nebraska.
  • Is this a public university or a private? A secular school or one with a religious affiliation? What size is student body? I went to a small, private liberal arts college. My lectures never had more than 45 students in them and most of my classes were under 15 in size. I have friends who sat in lecture halls of 500 and the professor had to wear a mic, and their image was projected on 2 screens so people in the back could hear and see them. Those are wildly different experiences.
  • What are the characters studying? Someone who is earning a Bachelor of Fine Arts and focusing on sculpture will not have the same experience as someone majoring in, say, Economics. Yes, finals and midterms are stressful for everyone, but that stress manifests in different ways.

My best advice to you would be to figure out the answers to some of those questions, then search for universities that fit those criteria. Once you’ve got that, read through their materials online–student life, faculty biographies, online course catalogue– and get a feel for what life is like on that campus.


cas loving the feel of dean’s body

cas wanting to rub himself against dean any time he can, cas draping himself over dean when dean is cooking, cas plastering his face against dean’s shoulderblades when dean is cleaning his guns and cas thinks he can get away with it

cas snaking his head into the hem of dean’s shirt and resting his cheek against dean’s belly when he catches dean reading or listening to music on his bed, and both just snoozing there comfortably, and cas just loving the warmth and feel of dean’s flesh, of the skin on his ribs against cas’ fingertips and even the slightly sour smelling dip of dean’s armpits when cas pushes his face into it after sex

just cas and his love of dean and dean’s coziness, cas greedy for dean’s kindness and doing everything short of melding with him to hoard as much contanct as he possibly can