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pollylynn · 10 months

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Title: Misdeem WC: 950

“I don’t see it going anywhere.” —Richard Castle, Food to Die For (2 x 22)

There are times when he’d like to be a liar. This probably does not exactly set him apart from the masses. Who is out there walking around, drawing breath and sighing it back out again who hasn’t wished they’d been a liar at one time or another? Who hasn’t had a friend solicit reactions a truly hideous new outfit and desperately tried to sell a sincere It’s fantastic! only to have their own stupid, truth-telling face nuke the little white lie from orbit? Doesn’t he—day in and day out—sit across the table from self-tattling morons who’d like nothing more than to lie their way right out of the interrogation room? He might be—he clearly is—in bad company, but he would very much like to be a liar right now.

Beckett didn’t seem to mind.

His mother thinks he’s lying. His daughter probably would think he was lying if she had any attention to spare. And it’s not even that he wants to be lying. It should be a lie. That’s the agony of it.

She should mind. That’s the way of things. This whole Richard Castle: Moral Support for Hire gambit should be one in a long line of his fool-proof plans to get her goat—to make her mind.

But she doesn’t mind. It’s not a problem. He’s telling the truth, and he’s not even getting credit for it. Not from his mother, who is pursing her lips and shaking her head as she sourly reminds him that he should be getting ready for his date.

He doesn’t want credit, though, not in this instance, and certainly not for this truth. He wants to be the rogue his mother thinks he is—the one his daughter would think he is, if she weren’t, herself, so torn between duty and desire. He wants to be the Hamptons, the seductive allure of fun in the sun that makes Beckett forget all about the microscope-requiring AP exam that is Tom Demming. But he’s not the Hamptons. Or Beckett is not tempted by the beach. Or something.

It’s a cavalcade of lousy metaphors, so he doffs his gloves and goggles. He extracts a spare watch from somewhere and he picks out a shirt in a color that she likes on him. Or a week ago he’d have said it was a color she liked on him, but apparently he’s no judge at all of what Kate Beckett likes or doesn’t like. That is the only explanation for the fact that she’ll be toting her microscope and slides all over town tonight, completely unperturbed by the thought that he will be out on the town, raconteuring his way through the celebrity chef world with one of her high school gang.

There’s a moment when she bursts on the five-star dinner scene that he thinks she’s come to make a liar out of him. He very nearly chokes on whatever it is he’s eating at the moment and weakly, hopefully demands to know: Beckett, what are you doing here?

He has the answer. He’d happily write it for her. He’d set her up with anything from cue cards to index cards to a state-of-the-art teleprompter, if she’d only read the lines with conviction: I’m here for you. I’m here because I couldn’t stand the thought of this. I’m here because it is a problem, and I do mind.

But that isn’t the answer, of course. She is not interested in cue cards, index cards, or his writing services in any medium. She is not there for him or because she minds or it’s a problem. She’s there for case-related purposes, because the only struggle for her is the one between duty and more duty.

He tries to work himself up to play the part everyone expects—the one she expects. He makes a respectable showing of it. He whines at length about the food of which she has cruelly deprived him and her good friend Madison. He accuses her of being uncivilized. He has another nanosecond’s worth of a thrill when she bans him from the interrogation. He parses the words giggling over the risotto with our suspect up, down, and sideways, searching for vindication—for the indisputable evidence that he’s been a liar after all, but it isn’t there.

She’s hissing, red-faced, and thoroughly embarrassed by Madison’s Castle baby fantasy, but it’s . . . generic embarrassment. Or worse, it’s embarrassment for his sake—that he’d play a role in such an outlandish fantasy, or maybe that he’ll get the wrong idea? She’s avoidant when he tries to get her goat with a reprise of the Castle baby fantasy, but it’s . . . impersonal. She wants to get on with the case and back to her date with duty. There isn’t a shred of evidence that she hopped in the Fun Police Wagon and drove it down to Rocco DiSpirito’s place because she’s bothered by the fact that he was out with Madison.

He wonders how it’s come to this. He wonders when, because he could have sworn that she minded when he had his ten-second fling with Ellie Monroe, when he was on the radar of Bachelorette Number 3. He would have laid money on it being a problem when Rina scrawled her digits across his palm, when Lee Waxman wanted to trade favors, and when Meredith and the Crazy-Sex Train blew through town. He’s positive that she has minded virtually every woman who has so much as given him a second glance over the last year or so.

But Madison? She doesn’t mind. It’s not a problem, because she, herself, has ‘Something’.

That’s the truth and he’d so much rather be a liar.

A/N: Oof. This was ornery; and I didn't think this was the lie that would drive the story. Blegh.

images via homeofthenutty

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tofupixel · 5 months

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pixel studies for level up

#pixel art #pixelart #artists on tumblr #art #8bit #pixel #illustration #16bit #art study #teeth #fabric study #hands #anatomy

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ilikeit-art · 11 months

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LEEAH JOO

Korean-American painter Leeah Joo’s work is inspired by the enigmatic and hidden. In her illusionist paintings, she teases our predisposition to probe and uncover. Intriguing parcels in her Pojagi series are enveloped by a lavish, traditional Korean wrapping cloth and beckon to be unpacked. The richly detailed paintings of lacey drapery in her Parrhasius series present an open-ended narrative, inviting us to question what lies behind the curtain. Joo studied painting and art history at Indiana University in Bloomington and received her MFA in painting from the Yale School of Art, Her paintings have been exhibited widely in the U.S. and South Korea. She is the recipient of notable awards from the Pollock-Krasner Foundation, George Sugarman Foundation, Connecticut Commission on Arts and the Puffin Foundation. Currently, Leeah Joo lives and paints in Middlebury, Connecticut and teaches at Southern CT State University and Paier College.

#painting art #insane #beautiful paintings #artwork #leeah joo #creative #curtains #textiles #fabrics

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biggest-gaudiest-patronuses · 5 months

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the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

#due to the Great Data Decay academics write viciously argumentative articles on which episodes aired in what order #at conferences professors have known to engage in physically violent altercations whilst debating the air date number of household viewers #90% of the couch gags have been lost and there is a billion dollar trade in counterfeit “lost copies”#serious note: i'll be honest i always assumed it was english imperialism that made shakespeare so inescapable in the 19th/20th cent #like his writing should have become obscure at the same level of his contemporaries #but british imperialists needed an ENGLISH LANGUAGE (and BRITISH) writer to venerate #and shakespeare wrote so many damn things that there was a humongous body of work just sitting there waiting to be culturally exploited...#i know it didn't happen like this but i imagine a English Parliament House Committee Member For The Education Of The Masses or something #cartoonishly stumbling over a dusty cobwebbed crate labelled the Complete Works of Shakespeare #and going 'Eureka! this shall make excellent propoganda for fabricating a national identity in a time of great social unrest.#it will be a cornerstone of our elitist educational institutions for centuries to come! long live our decaying empire!'#'what good fortune that this used to be accessible and entertaining to mainstream illiterate audience members...#..but now we can strip that away and make it a difficult & alienating foundation of a Classical Education! just like the latin language :)'#anyway maybe there's no such thing as the 'greatest writer of x language' in ANY language?#maybe there are just different styles and yes levels of expertise and skill but also a high degree of subjectivity #and variance in the way that we as individuals and members of different cultures/time periods experience any work of media #and that's okay! and should be acknowledged!!! and allow us to give ourselves permission to broaden our horizons #and explore the stories of marginalized/underappreciated creators #instead of worshiping the List of Top 10 Best (aka Most Famous) Whatevers Of All Time/A Certain Time Period #anyways things are famous for a reason and that reason has little to do with innate “value”#and much more to do with how it plays into the interests of powerful institutions motivated to influence our shared cultural narratives #so i'm not saying 'stop teaching shakespeare'. but like...maybe classrooms should stop using it as busy work that (by accident or designs)#happens to alienate a large number of students who could otherwise be engaging critically with works that feel more relevant to their world #(by merit of not being 4 centuries old or lacking necessary historical context or requiring untaught translation skills)#and yeah...MAYBE our educational institutions could spend less time/money on shakespeare critical analysis and more on...#...any of thousands of underfunded areas of literary research i literally (pun!) don't know where to begin #oh and p.s. the modern publishing world is in shambles and it would be neat if schoolwork could include modern works?#beautiful complicated socially relevant works of literature are published every year. it's not just the 'classics' that have value #and actually modern publications are probably an easier way for students to learn the basics. since lesson plans don't have to include the #important historical/cultural context many teens need for 20+ year old media (which is older than their entire lived experience fyi)

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yocholol · 9 months

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night terror

#tapestry #furry #furry art #artists on tumblr #illustration #fine art #woven mesh fabric #woven

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immaculatasknight · 23 days

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Deceit and deflection

#Gaza genocide #Netanyahu #Biden #hasbara #propaganda #fabrications #fictions #Israel

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bornagainkustoms · 4 months

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Automotive Fabrication Services in Jacksonville

Born Again Kustoms, provides expert automotive fabricators services in Jacksonville, Florida, specializing in custom designs and flawless finishes. We offer our best automotive services at affordable prices. To know more information, you can easily call us at +1-904 374 6939.

#Automotive #Fabrications #AutomotiveFabrications #AutomotiveFabricationsServices #AutomotiveFabricationsServicesinJacksonville

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aluhnim · 10 months

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Fabric Obsessed Witch

#witch #singer #sewing machine #fabric #sewing #clip studio paint #illustration #illustrators on tumblr

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energizrbunni-blog · 4 months

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Last night was my company Holiday Party, and we're doing really well, so it was held at the Museum of Fine Arts (Boston)

I was so happy that also included the Styled by Sargent exhibit, of John Singer Sargent paintings and the actual articles of clothing alongside them.

Now, you have probably seen this painting of Lady Macbeth

But have you seen the costume she's wearing??

It's gorgeous, obviously.

But that texture! It's *crochet*

And some knitting

Really simple crochet too; just a chain and single crochet lattice with beads and metallic thread added for this chain mail effect.

Despite John Singer Sargent being an expert painter of fabric (no, really, just look at it), I never knew Lady Macbeth's costume had to be *hand crocheted* for that texture in the painting.

Anyway I'm gonna be making myself some faux-chainmail by crocheting it for the next Renn Faire

#art #not my art #john singer sargent #lady macbeth #costume #costuming #shakespeare #macbeth #crochet #knitting #painting #fabric

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salamispots · 5 months

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more wips

#wip #fabrication #rug hooking #fiber art #artists on tumblr #yarn's pretty uniform at least so far compared to bg #or like not a combo of a bunch of different yarns #plus I think it's sock weight? dk? so how the overall texture/actual loops look together is interesting #I guess for comparison the white yarn is bulky #like from a farther view they kinda blend together #also might take me longer than the other two since the yarn is thinner hshjfg

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sleepnoises · 11 months

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due to factors such as "time pressure" and "tulle is of the devil" my expectations for this shirt are not high. but i spent a lot of time imagining these button bands and they turned out pretty nice

#tulle is from etsy opaque fabrics r from fabmo in sunnyvale. love you fabmo #sew tag #going to french seam this guy right to hell

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pollylynn · 1 year

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Title: Potent Potable WC: 1000

“I can’t miss what I didn’t have.”

— Richard Castle, The Suicide Squeeze (2 x 15)

She should never have let him talk her into going out for a drink. She certainly should never have let him talk her into an appletini. But he’d badgered. She’d caved. And now she’s sitting with him in the kind of bar she never, ever goes to, sipping an appletini.

“It’s disgusting,” she says for what is either the fourth or the fortieth time. “Gross.”

“Well if you’d finish it, I could get us real drinks.” He takes another sip of his own decidedly unfinished, radioactive atrocity. He tries and fails to disguise his grimace. “Mmm. Celebratory.”

“No real drinks.” She snatches at the stem and takes an ill-advisedly large swallow. “A drink, I said. A. Drink.” She gives him an irritated salute with her glass and nearly baptizes herself. As she pitches forward to save her lap, she wonders somewhat muzzily if the stuff is more or less corrosive than anti-freeze.

“More,” he says as he scowls down into the green depths. “Has to be more.”

For a moment, she’s startled by what seems to be a manifestation of his familial talent for mind reading, but it’s worse than that. She’s apparently musing aloud under the influence, and what the hell is in these things anyway. It’s not like she’s a lightweight or something.

“Excuse me.” She shoves the drink pointedly away from her as she waves one hand to get the bartender’s attention. With the other, she’s fishing in her jacket pocket for cash. “Can I get a water and settle up?”

“Settle up? No!” He sounds devastated. Even for someone with his tendency toward melodrama, it’s more than a bit much. It's the appletinis. It has to be the appletinis.

He catches the bartender’s attention first. Of course he does. He provides an assist in whisking away the sticky, spurious martini glasses and mutters something in a low voice as he gestures to the tippy top shelf. A pair of rocks glasses appears with no rocks in them. What is in them is a bare finger of whisky that smells absolutely divine—that clings to the glass when she tilts the amber liquid for the sheer pleasure of seeing the way it catches the light.

“The appletinis,” he says in somber tones as he hoists his new glass, “were not celebratory.”

She frowns at him a minute, just long enough to make sure that he understands that she has not agreed to the drink she very definitely about to have. She lets the frown loosen the tiniest bit and brings her glass into solid, satisfying contact with his, “Not the least bit celebratory."

They lapse into silence, properly celebratory drinks notwithstanding. It’s not awkward. It certainly should be—she keeps expecting it to be, but it keeps on not being awkward.

It’s not exactly comfortable, either. She still has the strong sense that she shouldn’t have let him talk her into this. She is fairly certain, in fact, that when Esposito had peeled off at the font gate of Cano Vega’s property, she should have done the same, But she’d let him talk her into more than appletinis.

If it had just been appletinis, she could have laughed it off as one of his wiseass jokes. But she has known since Esposito peeled off and she didn’t, since he initiated the appletini challenge and started talking about real drinks being the prize for finishing the sub–cough syrup concoction. she’s known the whole time that real drinks would follow unreal drinks.

In the not-uncomfortable silence, she wonders what that’s about. The whisky is remarkable. It sets right in her mouth every thing the appletini had put wrong. It returns her to herself. It’s a relief after descending into whatever weird, beyond-drunk place they’d both been sent by their poor choices in life, but it’s unnerving, too. The silence and the internal reset leave her with time to ponder the why of it—this place, these two barstools, his elbow brushing hers as they reach for their drinks in perfect synchrony.

She’d like to stop at the why not? She needs a drink from time to time. They’ve done a nice thing for Maggie Vega and Lara. Why not celebrate? Why not stick around for the real drink, the one that does not, as it turns out, say “I’m grieving” in quite the same way an appletini apparently does.

But when she steps up and contemplates the why, she thinks they might be grieving. Or he might be and she’s along for the ride.

She doesn’t know she’s going to ask until she’s already asking. In her halting, fumbling way, she’s asking, “What do you know about him? I mean . . . what has your mom . . . said?”

She trails off into awkwardness and there it is—the much-anticipated uncomfortable-ness. She can’t imagine what possessed her. She flashes immediately to the on-the-fly tragedy he’d created when’s he’d had the gall to ask how he got so interested in death. She thinks of the three or four or six obviously fictional stories—all completely different from one another—that she’s heard him deflect with on talk shows and behind a table piled high with his books at a signing.

She clenches the rocks glass in her hand hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She squirms internally and holds herself rigid to keep it from becoming external. Literal. She curses herself for very definitely not having enough cash on her to cover however much this top-shelf whisky costs, otherwise she’d be tossing that down and beating a path to the door.

The silence stretches and stretches and stretches out. He breaks it.

“Love child,” he says with a lop-sided smile into the depths of his glass. “Just like Lara. She’s always told me I was a love child.”

It’s an honest answer when she expected utter flippancy. It’s an answer that exists nowhere among the many myths she’s heard him peddle.

It is, apparently, a product of the power of the appletini.

A/N: I'm so sorry this series has been far more erratic than I anticipated; the dog is wanting to walk upwards of 5 miles/2 hours per day, and teaching is a wreck. I will try to get back to at least 2 or 3 per week soon. Thanks to those who are sticking with me. Appleton's on me. Ew. That would be sticky.